The Bandalore Page 9

  ‘What have I done?’ he whispered.

  From a far corner of the room came a soft sound. A shuffle of feet. Silas whirled around, almost stumbling over his own feet to find the room fairly crammed with people. Everyone from the table, and the butler who now hovered at the door. All adorned with various expressions of wonderment. The Baron crossed his arms tight across his chest, his face pale. Clare at his side.

  ‘It is done, isn’t it? What you did, just there—’ he flicked his fingers at the bandalore in Silas’s grasp. ‘You got rid of that thing, didn’t you?’

  Silas scowled at the man’s choice of words. ‘She was a girl, not a thing. And she had lived a harsh life.’ He paused, struck by the depth of emptiness that filled him. ‘And yes. She has been moved on. And will trouble you no more.’

  ‘Quite the show, dear boy.’ A portly man removed a cigar from his vest pocket with trembling hands. ‘Quite the show. Who needs a whisky?’

  There was a mumble of agreement, but Brenton frowned and moved closer to the water closet, keeping some distance between himself and Silas. He peered into the smaller room.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bertie.’ He shook his head. ‘Haven’t you heard about this blasted wallpaper? You need to rid yourself of it.’

  The Baron didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on Silas.

  ‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Clare touched the back of her hand to the distracted Baron’s cheek. ‘Bertie does so adore that print.’

  Silas recalled the spirits outstretched arms. Here is his ghost.

  ‘All the harm in the world,’Brenton declared. ‘Scheele’s green, your wallpaper is filled with it. William Morris is poisoning us all with his damned arsenic so he can keep his bloody mines going. If you don’t believe me, ask the Swedes. They’ve banned it over there, they have. Get rid of it, Bertie for god’s sake.’ He pursed his lips, turning on Silas. ‘You knew of this, didn’t you? There’s no haunting here at all. The Baron Feversham is simply suffering the effects of this dastardly wallpaper. The Swedes say it brings on hallucinations, fever, stomach upsets. Blast it man, I believe you’ve hoodwinked us all. The Order must have had a spy at one of your parties, Bertie.’ He adjusted his spectacles, and sniffed. ‘Granted, it was a fine display you put on there Mr Mercer. Had us all quite abuzz. I’ll admit I was taken. I suppose that makes it worth the fee. Shall we move to the parlour for a celebratory drink?’

  Silas was far to exhausted to contradict the man, and what did it matter anyway? She was at rest. He was not sure he’d ever felt so contented.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Silas slid the bandalore into his pocket. ‘I’ll be taking my leave. My work here is done.’

  Brenton inclined his head, and then left the room at some pace.

  The Baron stared into the water closet, lost in thought. Clare tugged at his sleeve, urging him back to the parlour, but the man shook his head.

  ‘Was there truly nothing, Mr Mercer? I felt so certain…that I was not alone here. But is Brenton right?’

  Silas considered his answer. Brenton’s reasoning made sense, and seemed far more likely than a lost soul seeking to help the living. But Silas did not enjoy the idea of leaving the girl’s act of generosity unknown. The echo of her notes still played through him at a distance, not yet faded as she was.

  ‘I would take your friend’s advice if I were you, and see to it that you remove that wallpaper. I believe you will find your slumber is most restful once it is done, and you’ll be haunted no more. But I can assure you most unreservedly that the spirit was not of your imaginations. And not only were you visited, but I believe you may have been saved. She led me here, she showed me what brought on your distress. Whether you choose to believe my tale, or your friend’s, is entirely up to you. Good evening, sir. Good evening, my lady.’

  Without waiting for a reply from the dazed Baron and his clinging companion, Silas took his leave with far more buoyancy than he had arrived.

  Chapter 8

  Isaac drew the bay to a halt in his usual jerking style. The sudden calamity of motion nudged Silas from his contemplation of the device he held. A toy, essentially. A trinket. And yet, the bandalore could not be further from either of these things. Silas noted the tremble still evident in his hands. The tingling had ceased the moment the ghostly young woman met his bandalore, but the echo of that most marvellous song still filled him. The breathy notes as much a part of him as his own ribs. Even now, Silas could barely catch his breath at the memory of it. He longed to hear it again, as one might wish to listen once more to the notes of a lover’s melody. The bay shifted, the animal restless in its harness, drawing Silas fully to the world.

  Beyond the smudged glass of the carriage window lay an unfamiliar sight. Not the Holly Village gates, as he’d expected, but somewhere rather different. Their destination appeared to be a public house. A sign dangled above the door, yellow painted wood with black writing that no doubt declared the name of the place but appeared no better than a chicken’s scratches in sand to Silas’s uneducated eye.

  The pub’s exterior was painted a charming claret. Great hanging baskets, green foliage spilling from their thick weaves, jutted out over latticed windows, charming with their quarrelled panes. The establishment sat snug in a row of near identical buildings, each three levels high. Silas craned his neck to peer skyward. Ivy covered the upper walls extensively reaching near to the very top of the building. As he took it all in, Silas found himself wondering if he might be required to use the bandalore here once more. And the idea rather gave him a delicious shiver of anticipation. Oh to hear that tune once more. He opened his hand, the bandalore resting against his palm. But the trinket showed no sign of stirring. Warmed by his own skin and nothing more. The air filled only with the clatter of passing carriages.

  ‘Are you going to get out?’ Isaac was quite suddenly, and very unexpectedly at the carriage door. Silas started, and the bandalore fell from his hand, hitting the cabin floor with a light thud, and rolling into the darkness beneath the seat opposite.

  ‘Blast.’ Silas edged his broad frame off the seat and moved with a decided lack of grace onto his knees in the cramped quarters. ‘Yes, yes of course. One moment.’

  Isaac did not open the carriage door, nor move to assist Silas. He just stood there, the wrap of his muffler covering his mouth entirely, his eyes dark coals. The solitary gaslight nearby was weak and did little to illuminate him.

  ‘Hurry it up, Mr Ahari is waiting on you.’

  Silas sat back on his heels. ‘I’m..I’m sorry, did you say Mr Ahari? He is here?’

  Isaac surprised Silas with a chuckle, a not altogether unpleasant sound. ‘Course he’s here, he lives here a good part of the time. I thought it best you relay your night’s experience to the man direct.’

  ‘My experience?’ Silas stared at him, perplexed.

  The coachman heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, Mr Mercer. Or did nothing of the evening strike you as unusual? You go about reaping lost souls on a regular basis do you?’

  ‘No. No, I do not. But how on earth did you—’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about that. Best you get inside and tell the boss how it all went.’

  ‘I must find the bandalore first.’ To Silas’s mind it was quite impossible that he could consider stepping foot out of the carriage without it. The very thought of leaving it behind caused an odd tightness to come to his stomach. ‘I really must find it.’ He really must. Though he might have no clue where it had come from to begin with, or from who, Silas now readied himself for argument, prepared to remain where he was no matter what the coachman might threaten. But Isaac simply shrugged.

  ‘I think you’ll find that trinket of yours quite hard to lose, Mr Mercer.’ He turned on his heels, and without offering any assistance, stepped away. Silas stared at the empty space beyond the window. The carriage wobbled as the driver took his seat upfront.

  ‘Must everyone speak in riddles?’ Silas muttered to himself.

  He puffed his cheeks,
and lowered himself back into the dark space between the seats. His hair brushed the floor as he attempted to peer beneath the bench. There was an unpleasant odour down low, horse dung, and another fouler smell Silas did not wish to contemplate, but no sign of the bandalore. A trill of nerves struck him, a thin sheen of sweat upon his palms. He simply must find the bandalore.

  Silas shifted and his buttocks caused the carriage door to rattle in its lock.

  ‘For mercy’s sake,’ he hissed through gritted teeth, unsettled by his cramped quarters but growing ever more fervent in his efforts to reunite with the bandalore.

  Silas grasped about in the shadows. What light came from the gaslight was too weak to infiltrate the darkness of the carriage. He patted at the floor, wincing as his hand came into contact with clumps of soft dampness. Clumps he hoped was no more than dirt. Silas pressed his lips tight. His heart had taken up quite the tempo, far greater than such efforts required. The thought of a moment’s more separation from the bandalore left him quite breathless. Shaken, even. He simply must have it upon his person again. Silas focused his attentions through the threatening wave of panic. He was being quite ludicrous. The device was but a reach away, and with some level-headed control he’d retrieve it and soon be enjoying an ale, thinking himself quite the fool for such desperation. He closed his eyes, sinking into a deeper darkness. Attempting to ignore how his thighs burned.

  ‘Come on now,’ he whispered. He’d lost leave of his senses. He was speaking to a piece of wood as though it were a house cat. ‘Come back to me, now.’ But it felt the utterly right thing to do.

  A light touch brushed his seeking fingers. Silas held perfectly still, and his shoulders protested at the sudden strange angle. Another brush of something light, soft, caressed his middle finger. Silas’s smile shoved at his cheeks. There came the gentle scrape of movement against the floor, a tap of wood against his fingertips. Silas opened his hand, and the bandalore slipped into his palm. He released a triumph cry, and the terrible tension that gripped him slid away. He laughed, somewhat giddy with it all.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Silas held the device aloft, admiring it as though it were the most perfect diamond. ‘That is much better.’ It was astounding, and strange, and entirely as it should be, that he held the bandalore once more. A piece of him no longer missing.

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ came a raspy voice thick with the drawl of the Irish. ‘You found your toy.’ A stocky woman with a mass of tangled red hair and pale skin covered with light brown freckles stood alongside the carriage. The swell of her chest left no doubt of her sex, but she wore trousers and a shirt that appeared a size too big, and clearly intended for a man of the country fields. She had a rather wide mouth in contrast to small, close set eyes that watched him carefully.

  With a clearing of his throat, Silas shoved the bandalore into his pocket, and pushed up from his knees. The cab rocked, and the woman released a sharp laugh through flared nostrils.

  ‘Careful there, Mr Mercer, you’ll topple your fine carriage right over.’

  ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’ he frowned.

  ‘I ‘aven’t ad the pleasure, sweetness.’ She smiled wide. ‘Been visiting Holyhead these past few weeks on account of my work, but there’s lots of talk about the new lad. Not much luck involved in working out you’re the one they spoke of. You’re rather hard to mistake, being the strapping lad you are.’

  ‘Are you…from the Order?’ Silas remained in the safety of the carriage but was quite certain a growl to depart would soon come from Isaac.

  ‘The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.’ The woman planted her hands upon her hips, and nodded with great enthusiasm. ‘You bet your firm chin I am. You’re in the company of the Order’s premier soothsayer, the Hag of Beara, though I’ll let ya call me Tyvain. That’s me name.’ He saw now that she had rather brilliant amber coloured eyes. Tyvain had remarkably good teeth too, considering her title of hag and her dishevelled appearance. Silas was quite certain a tiny bird’s feather jutted from her hair at her left temple.

  ‘You coming from a job?’she asked.

  Silas nodded slowly.

  ‘Same for me. Let me tell you, I was not the bearer of good news for that bloated old fool I saw. Man’ll eat himself to death before the year’s out and didn’t need me bones to tell me that. Death is waiting for him, plain as day.’ She paused, staring up at Silas. The brightness of her eyes dulled. ‘Plain as day,’ she muttered, before dislodging a lump of sputum upon the cobblestones. ‘But he sure didn’t like being told death was coming for him sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Silas said, for he could think of nothing more substantial to say, and was quite discomforted by the intent way she peered at him.

  ‘Come on man, are you just gonna huddle there like a giant bloody lump? Or shall we go and get ourselves nice and tanked on some so-so ale?’ The woman shrugged at her shirt where the wide collar had slipped over a shoulder awash with freckling. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love Mr Ahari with all me ‘art. He’s a good enough boss, I’ll admit, but his stout doesn’t ‘old up to the one at the Black Lion. Been down Chelsea way?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t say I have,’ Silas said. ‘So, Mr Ahari runs this establishment?’

  ‘Smart one, ain’t ya?’ Tyvain said. ‘He not only runs the Atlas, he owns it and preens over it like a mother hen with a bloated chick.’

  Talk of ale reminded Silas of quite how parched and hungry he was. He adjusted his coat, brushed dirt from his knees, and clambered from the carriage. Barely had he closed the door behind him before Isaac flicked the bay into action and trotted away without a word. The air had chilled considerably, catching at the back of Silas’s neck. He followed Tyvain towards the double-doors that would give them entry. She walked with a limp, favouring her right leg. He wondered how the woman stood the cold with such thin layers upon her.

  ‘So what ‘ave they got you doing then? They should ‘ave you as a debt collector,’ Tyvain laughed, or rather cackled, like some strange bird. ‘I’d piss in my pantaloons if you turned up on my humble doorstep, my friend.’

  ‘I am not a debt collector, no.’ Silas wrinkled his nose at her declaration. ‘I am a spiritualist, at least that is what I’m told.’

  She did not seem the right person at all to divulge what the ghost had called him.

  Tyvain snorted. ‘Nay, you ‘ain’t. No such bloody thing. If you don’t wanna tell me your true nature, I won’t pry. It don’t matter none to me. What does matter is ale and food. Come on then, let’s see if they have enough of either to fill your britches. Gods man, make sure you don’t step on me. Damn you’re a big tall one.’

  There was no arguing that observation. The top of her head barely met his chest, and where he was solid as a barrel, she was slight to the point of appearing undernourished. But he wondered if Tyvain was half as vulnerable as she might appear, for the Hag of Beara had no shadow at her feet.

  Silas’s stomach growled with some ferocity, and Tyvain’s eyes widened.

  ‘By the chaplain’s balls, you’re hungry then. Best get you fed before you decide you have an appetite for red headed hags.’

  She pushed the doors open and the warmth of the interior battled valiantly against the external cold. Silas hurried into the heat, eager to be out of the elements, and was met by the heady scent of ale and the pleasing waft of a kitchen.

  ‘Fish and chips good enough for ya?’ Tyvain called as she limped towards the bar.

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’ Silas was not about to argue, quite ravenous with hunger now. As eager as he was to speak with Mr Ahari, past experience had shown him that answers were so rarely forthcoming from anyone in authority a rush hardly seemed warranted. And it would be far wiser, surely, to face the man on a full stomach.

  The large mahogany clad room was warmly lit with an array of etched glass gaslamps set into diamond-shaped mirrors hung upon the walls at regular interval. An enormous fire roared at the centre of a black marble mantlepiece
. The two armchairs set before it were occupied by two gentlemen who halted their conversation to stare at him. Both bore shadows, Silas noted with some surprise, flickering with the dancing light of the fire. The men were human. Further back in the room, three women sat at a raised table, and he was soon made aware of their none-to-subtle stares and whispers. They were friendly enough he supposed, one of them offering a bold wave which he returned with a polite nod of his head. He stood too far from them to make out any shadows they might have borne (or not) and with Tyvain calling on him to hurry up in no uncertain terms, Silas abandoned his observance of the greater part of the room to join her at the bar.

  A sole patron sat there, a reedy man with a mop of blonde curls, stared at Silas over the rim of his golden liquid filled glass He took a slow sip which Silas could hear from where he stood. The only one who did not pay him much mind was the bartender, occupied as he was with Tyvain’s order. He was a full-faced bald man who appeared to be of similar Oriental extraction as Mr Ahari himself. This man though suffered unfortunate pockmarks decorating his cheeks. He pressed a pint glass beneath a tap, pouring a rich dark ale. Silas’s mouth fairly watered at the sight.

  ‘I’ll ‘ave my usual, make sure you fill it to the rim this time, won’t you?’ Tyvain didn’t bother waiting for a reply and the bartender didn’t offer one. ‘What’ll you have, Mercer?’

  Silas hesitated, conscious of the lack of money upon his person. He’d had no need of it these past few weeks and had forgotten about it entirely. His face warmed and he pressed in close to her side, so not all in the room might hear him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at a whisper. ‘But I do not have any money with which to pay for a meal, or drink.’

  ‘Guess he’s going hungry and thirsty then, eh Benedict?’ She nudged the loud-sipping patron seated at her other side. He lowered his glass, considering Silas. He was a bony man, his cheekbones intent on piercing the skin, and his shoulders hunched forward even when he raised his elbows from the bar to sit up straight. His skin was touched by the sun, suggesting he might have travelled in the recent past, though Silas struggled to imagine the man upon an adventure.