The Bandalore Page 8

  Chapter 7

  After a short while, he quickly ran out of nonsensical utterances, never mind feeling the greatest of fools. Silas sat in the whisper quiet room, with his hands spread upon the table, his gaze lowered, and at an utter loss as to what might come next.

  ‘I…I call upon any spirit that may be in residence.’

  A sound came, but it was not remotely ghostly. He eased one eye open, staring through his own lashes. Tobias held hands with no one, sitting back with his legs crossed, regarding his fingernails. Silas would wager the sound he heard was Mr Astaroth scoffing. With a scowl, Silas regathered himself and began again. All at once quite irritated by the man’s brazen disregard for manners.

  ‘Spirits that surround us, show yourself.’ He raised his voice, shoulders back. ‘I command you. Speak to me, and show reason for the trouble you bring upon those who live in this home.’

  He was rewarded with a shiver from several of the guests, a dour-faced woman glancing nervously about the room, and the spindly gentleman with a monocle swallowing so hard his adam’s apple did a jig. Gilmore was right in that at lease. They were indeed lapping it up.

  The tingling in his fingers sharpened, and Silas winced. Rather than fading with time it seemed the affliction grew worse. At the far end of the table Mr Astaroth appeared not the least bit interested in proceedings. He tugged at the lace adorning Victoria’s gown, earning him dainty, half-hearted slaps to desist. Truly the man was more child than adult.

  Silas closed his eyes and hastened the end of the show. ‘I call on you once more. Show yourselves. Face me.’

  The heat of the fire at his back rose sharply, and small cries came from his audience. Silas opened his eyes to behold a most curious sight. The candle at the centre of the table, previously unlit, now sported a strong, steady flame. The fire at his back let out a sharp crack. Brenton jumped, thumping his knee beneath the table and releasing the Baron’s hand. He was quick to chuckle off his fright and reach for his glass. Silas held back from doing the exact same thing. If only to try and numb the bothersome pain in his fingers. It were as though tiny mites burrowed beneath the skin, seeking to escape.

  ‘Please, do not release your grasp,’ Silas warned.

  ‘Is the spirit with us?’ The Baron, and his companion, were quite breathless and pale. He took hold of Brenton’s hand once more.

  ‘I believe so.’ Silas eyed the still-distracted Mr Astaroth. Surely this was his doing. Silas could not say how he had lit the candle but he was supernatural was he not? If Jane could cause a man to sleep from a floor away, why could a candle not be brought to life?

  The man in question stifled a yawn behind slender fingers, and rose from his seat.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Mr Mercer,’ he whispered in a voice that could hardly be ignored. ‘I have somewhere to be.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Victoria pouted.

  ‘I very much am. We’ll speak soon.’ Tobias gave her a light peck on the check, and the Baron a nod. ‘A pleasure as always, Bertie.’

  ‘Off you trot then, Pitch.’ The Baron appeared non-plussed with the interruption. Tobias Astaroth bid them all good night with an extravagant bow and sauntered from the room, glass still in hand.

  Silas stared at the departing man’s back, flummoxed by his utter disregard for those around him, but more than a little relieved at his departure. At least now no one would toy with him. Surely only a few more minutes were required and he could be done. The air was certainly lighter without Tobias Asteroth.

  ‘A pound says he’s at the Lieutenant’s residence in an hour,’ the piano player of earlier remarked.

  ‘I’d not bet against you,’ the Baron returned.

  Silas was still staring at now-empty doorway when Brenton nudged him. ‘Never mind Pitch, the silly fop isn’t happy unless he’s at the centre of attention. I dare say you stole his limelight and he’s none too pleased. This won’t be the first time he’s abandoned us for another pleasure.’

  ‘Yes, do go on, Mr Mercer,’ Victoria still remained wide-eyed with fright. ‘Has it frightened off our visitor? Can you still see the spirit?’

  Gathering himself, Silas placed his hands palms up on the table. The flame still stood bright and unwavering in its ornate silver holder. And everyone still sat with hands entwined.

  ‘Thankfully, the spirit is still present, the flame tells us so.’ Right on cue the fire expelled another sharp crack, Silas’s back blazing with its heat. ‘This moment is of the utmost importance, so I beseech you, whatever occurs, do you not let go of your neighbour’s hand.’

  The blatant falsehoods flowed from him rather too easily, and he had to admit there was something to be enjoyed in the theatrics. The audience too appeared thrilled, rustling with whispered excitement.

  ‘Come hither, show yourself,’ Silas said. ‘Come hither, show yourself. Come hither, show yourself.’ Repetition had a dramatic effect, he decided. ‘Come hither, show yourself.’

  The fire at his back grew ever stronger, now barely tolerable where he sat. Was someone feeding it without his notice? Perspiration gathered at his temples. ‘Come hither, show yourself.’ He was devoid of notion as to how long this should continue. ‘Come hither, show yourself.’ Should he attempt to lift the table with a clandestine raise of his knee? Perhaps he should have more thought to his decision to plant his hands so visibly upon the table, giving him no chance to rap at its underside. ‘Come hither, show—’

  The petite glass on the Ouija board toppled onto its side and rolled across the table. Straight towards Silas. At the same moment the candlestick wobbled dangerously, wax dripping onto the wood. Cries of alarm went up from the group. Silas almost joined them, catching himself only barely.

  ‘We are not alone,’ he declared, and hoped they did not hear the waver in his voice. ‘Reveal yourself to…’

  Silas jerked, a sudden warmth spreading at the top of his thigh, as though someone pressed a warm stone there.

  ‘What is it?’ the Baron hissed. ‘Are we in peril?’

  ‘No, no.’ Silas replied absently. He reached into his pocket, and his tingling fingers met with a familiar solidness. The curve of boxwood. The bandalore rested in his trouser pocket. ‘How is that possible?’ he muttered, quite certain the device remained where he’d left it. On the bedside table in his cottage.

  The shocking heat of the fire extinguished, so sudden it were as though the flames had been doused all at once. Silas swivelled in his seat. The flames still swayed and licked in the hearth, the blaze well and truly alight. He returned to the bandalore, quite at a loss to its sudden appearance.

  ‘What is it?’ Brenton demanded, the disbeliever was quite perturbed now. ‘Mr Mercer you look most alarmed. Are we in danger?’

  Silas pulled his attention from the bandalore. Lifting his head to a far more astonishing sight. A gasp escaped him. There, by the grand piano, an apparition drifted as easily as the kite he had flown with Jane so recently.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Brenton demanded.

  Silas could no sooner force a word clear than he could tear his eyes from the apparition. The spirit held only the barest of definition, but considerably more than the one that had shown itself at the library. Here there was a flow of darkness around the head that had him imagining long flowing locks of hair, and the smudge of grey suggested a frock of some kind, a simple dress that did not reveal anything of the figure beneath. Of the face there was nothing to speak of save a deep darkness where it should have existed. Silas struggled to remain even remotely composed. The fire snapped and cracked behind him, but not a lick of its warmth reached his skin. Silas had moved from desperately hot to shiver inducing cold in the merest of moments. Everywhere except for the hand that held the bandalore that is. Warm as though it were a cake fresh out of the oven.

  ‘Mr Mercer?’ The Baron spoke in a loud whisper. ‘I must insist you speak.’

  Silas was not certain that was possible. His throat quite dry at the notion that none of those arou
nd him saw as he did. The spirit was revealed to him alone.

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ Someone whispered.

  ‘Is he possessed?’ Came another anxious question.

  Silas enclosed the bandalore in shaking hands. The prickling in his fingertips quite dreadful. ‘Stand fast. The spirit is indeed among us.’

  Simply hovering there. Like a ghostly piece of clothing upon a line.

  ‘What happens next, Mr Mercer? Will we be able to bear it?’ Brenton laughed shortly, a tremour in his voice. He was effected by the fire’s great heat, a sheen of sweet upon his face. Silas envied him that now. For him the room might as well have been situated in the North Pole.

  ‘Now, I shall rid us of this entity, sir. As I have promised.’ Silas’s underclothes were soaked with cooling sweat and he was racked with strengthening shivers. His heart was thundering in his chest. He’d succeeded in frightening everyone but none more so than himself. And what did happen now? Gilmore had no spoken of this.

  The spirit hung still, the blur of its feet just above the rug, the barest outline of the piano visible through its form. Silas had no more idea of how to exorcise an unwelcome spirit than he did to conduct a seance.

  Clare pressed in tight against her baron, her chest rising in heavy shudders. A bearded gentleman further down the table looked set to burst into tears.

  ‘What does it look like?’ The Baron threw a fear-soaked glance towards the piano.

  ‘She,’ Silas replied. ‘It is a woman, I believe.’

  Barely. Her essence leaked into the world around her, a painting caught in an invisible downpour. The spirit moved with sudden purpose. Towards the gathered guests. Silas pressed back into his chair, and his host mimicked him, though with far greater theatrics.

  ‘Does it come for me?’ The baron threw off Clare’s grasp to reach for Silas’s hand.

  Ankou, release me. The apparition’s words ground like stones against one another, but no one at the table started at the sound. The words for Silas alone.

  ‘No, no. It does not come for you, sir.’ Silas shook off the panicked man’s hold. The bandalore warm and secure in his grasp, the only weapon at his disposal should the spirit draw any nearer. What strange word had it uttered? Ankou?

  Silas swallowed against his desperately tight throat. ‘What name do you cast upon me?’

  Release me.

  The candle’s flame fluttered, and at once a new sensation descended upon Silas. A hum of sound, a vibrancy throughout his body. As though he stood too close to a cathedral’s organ as it’s notes vibrated the air. It was not entirely unpleasant.

  ‘Release you?’ Silas stood but did not leave the table. The sharpness abandoned his fingertips, a gentle tingling replacing it.

  ‘She speaks to you?’ The Baron’s voice was hoarse, a wildness in his gaze. ‘Tell me where she stands. Why does she plague me so? I demand an answer.’

  Release me.

  The apparition drifted to the far end of the table, and passed right through Victoria, eliciting a ferocious shiver from the woman.

  ‘Oh by the devil, I feel her!’ she exclaimed, sending her fingers into a maddened sign of the cross across her chest. ‘Banish it, Mr Mercer. Banish it!’

  But he wished to do no such thing. The spirit, delicate as gossamer, drew herself through the table, and all the while the melodious, distant hum pulsed through Silas. A note which murmured beneath his skull, as miraculous as it was strange. He lost sight of the apparition’s lower half, hidden beneath the wood of the table, but still she moved on, reaching the place where the candle stood. The flame reacted to her passing, jumping madly against the tethering wick. Startled cries flew from the table.

  ‘Why does she haunt me?’ The Baron rose to his feet once again clutching Clare’s hand. The poor woman appeared ready to faint, her face pale as the mist that formed the apparition itself.

  Not I.

  The candle at the centre of the table extinguished. The women, and no few of the men, screamed. Several pushing back in their chairs. The monocled chap chap whimpered. ‘We must leave.’

  All the calamity came from a distance, the vibration that had taken a hold of Silas far louder than the frightened men and woman in their fine silks and beautifully cut suits.

  ‘Stay where you are, hold fast.’ Silas cried. To change any aspect may well see this spirit disappear from his sight, and that he could not bear. Her presence and her song were as exquisite as they were perplexing. In his hand, the bandalore remained warm as a cup of fresh poured tea.

  ‘Hold your nerve,’ he declared, as much to himself as the restless audience.

  The Baron abandoned any pretence of enjoying the spectacle. The man was shuddering with terror. ‘Be gone, foul spirit. I’ve battled you this long, I’ll not be subdued this day. Let me sleep, sicken me no more.’

  Not I. Know this. Come so you might release me.

  The spirit rushed at him, and the vibrating melody grew hard and fast, shaking the very teeth in his head. Her course altered at the very last instant and the apparition dashed against the wall, disappearing. Silas pushed back his seat with such vigour it tipped entirely, crashing close to where the flames roared within the hearth. But he’d halt for nothing.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted, having no care whether his directions were followed or not.

  Silas rushed into the corridor, eliciting a startled cry from a maid, and the stern scowl of the ever present butler.

  ‘Can I assist you, sir?’

  Silas had no time for an answer, spotting the apparition where she hovered halfway up the stairs. Waiting on him. He brushed past the servants wordlessly, following behind the spirit who moved like a soft cloud towards the second floor. He took two of the wide stairs at a time, tripping on the very top, barely preventing himself from colliding into a potted plant that stood there in a gleaming brass pot. The bandalore’s temperature shifted from soothing to rather less so. And if Silas were not so single-minded about maintaining contact with the spirit, he might have cast it back into his pocket. But he’d grown rather intoxicated by the sensation that filled him, and dared not risk unhanding the bandalore, less the marvellous song that drenched him ended. His hands tingled entirely, alive with a strange but alluring energy.

  The spirit swept into a room further along another luxuriously appointed hall. Gas lights perched in etched glass coverings along the wall made his progress trouble free. Silas’s heavy footfalls echoed off the wood panelling, the hall runner too thin to muffle his weight. Silas reached the room where the spirit had withdrawn, and found himself inside a bedroom.

  Startling gold wallpaper, embellished with a mesh of grape vines and autumn leaves, covered the walls, the light catching against reflective specks within the paper. A grand bed stood between two French windows, its canopy a deep crimson, its coverings, patterned yellows and reds, all expertly fitted and not a cushion out of place. The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke. The Baron’s room perhaps? A small fire had been lit in a white marble fireplace, spreading warmth through the room. But the spirit had not lingered in this main room. Silas moved with caution towards the water closet, its oak door ajar. That she waited for him in there, Silas had no doubt. She was a musical note in his body’s song, and he simply followed the tune. But should he? What if this were not a spirit at all, but some kind of evil doer? A daemon perhaps?

  The bandalore shifted in his grasp, a sudden enough jolt that Silas uttered a startled cry. The sound of footsteps reached him. His audience had not heeded his instruction. Soon, he would not be alone. Silas took a purposeful step forward but before he could reach for the water closet’s door it swung open on creaky hinges.

  Silas stared in wonder. The spirit stood before him. Far more defined than before. There was no doubt now of her sex, and he’d been correct about what he suspected was the flow of long hair. She bore a slender neck and a petite face whose features were still a little blurred. Not a woman but a girl.

  A distant
sadness tugged at him.

  She lifted her arms, drifting them towards the walls around her. Here the wallpaper was even more elaborate, swirls of blue and white at floor level, meant to mimic the curl of waves. Birds with long pink legs and flouncy white feathers stood amongst them, their elongated necks reaching for the dangling brilliance of the green plants that consumed most of the pattern. The vibrant colour brought to mind Tobias’s emerald eyes.

  Here is his ghost.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ For he did not.

  Release me.

  Her longing distorted their song, changing it into something mournful, and devastating. Silas hunched beneath the weight of it, a half formed sob escaping him. His innards ached, his belly unsettled by something untoward. He must release her. It was as certain as the sun. The tune changed its chord, reaching higher. More urgent. The bandalore stung his palm, such was its heat. Silas clenched his teeth, holding fast, and the song rose higher still. Louder. Drowning all but itself. He must release this poor soul, he would rather burn than fail at the task. At once the string unwound from the wooden disc, and found his finger. Anchoring there.

  Silas drew back his hand, and with the song soaring to a crescendo he struck forward. The disc flew from his grasp, unfurling down the length of the dirty string. Reaching, reaching, for the spirit that awaited it. She flung her arms wide, unafraid.

  The disc struck right at her core, piercing through her ethereal form. But she did not cry out. She did not recoil.

  And in that instant she was stunning in her clarity. Silas stared into the soft brown eyes of a young girl. Her face was gaunt, eyes sunken, speaking of the troubles of her life, but she smiled at him.

  And vanished.

  The song stopped. A sudden silence that shuddered through his bones.

  The disc reached as far as it could travel along its anchoring string and whipped back into Silas’s grasp. Slamming into his waiting palm. His hands were steady, unbothered by the tingling, all pain removed. He stood there, breathing in short gasps. Seeking to absorb what had just happened.