2 Spirit of Denial (6 page)

"Indeed," replied Wesley.  "Did we get the address correct?  Perhaps he lives at one of these other homes." He wishfully motioned to the other stately Victorian and Georgians on the street as he rechecked the number.

"I suppose there is only one way to find out," said Clara.  She pushed on the swinging gate and it gave out a grating screech.  The sound startled a raven that cried and took to the air.  "Well, he hasn't frightened the wildlife away.  He cannot be all bad," she noted.

They picked their way up the stone path, stepping over branches and unswept leaves.  Finally, they reached the door with its large brass knocker.  Clara reached up and pounded it soundly.

They both waited in silence.  The air around them seemed heavy, as if a pillow pressed down upon them and invited them not to breathe.

Finally, the door swung open.  Standing there was a hulking man with hands the size of dinner plates.

Clara swallowed, then held out her calling card.  "Please let Mr. Phineas Stokeman know Mrs. Clara O'Hare and Mr. Wesley Lowenherz are here to see him."  She paused, swallowing under the scrutiny of the butler's stare, and finished feebly, "We have an appointment."

The butler shut the door, leaving them waiting on the sagging porch as he went to fetch his master.

"Promise me you will not go wandering about, Clara," Wesley said out of the blue.

"And why, in heavens name, would I ever consider even doing such a thing?" Clara asked.  "This place is quite unpleasant and I shall be glad when we secure the heart and are able to return to our quiet lives."

The door opened again and the butler stepped aside to usher them indoors.  He did not say anything, but held his hands out to take their cloaks and hats.  He then waved a long arm towards a parlor.

The home was darkly furnished.  The wallpaper was burgundy and black.  The floors were covered in Persian carpets.  The furniture was heavily carved and stained so dark, the brown almost seemed black.  Old, faded drapes hung from the windows blocking out the sun.  Clara wondered if perhaps Mr. Phineas Stokeman should invest in a better housekeeper before he spent any more time unearthing ancient ruins.  He seemed to be on the brink of living in one.

"Come in!  Come in!" came a voice from the room.

Clara and Wesley turned the corner to find a slender man with a long, pale face.  His straight black hair hung to his shoulders.  He wore all black and Clara wondered if perhaps he might be in mourning.  His spirit did not seem dampened.

"Come in," he said, motioning to the seats next to the cold fireplace.  "You must forgive me for not shaking your hand.  I suffer from a rare skin condition in which the slightest touch leaves me bruised.  Light is uncomfortable and even the warmth of a fireplace can prove too trying.  I do hope you will excuse my odd peculiarities and know that you are welcomed most gratefully to my home."

"Thank you, Mr. Stokeman," said Wesley, trying to set their host at ease.  "I promise we know how important your time is and we shall not take any more than necessary."

"No!  Stay!  Indeed, stay.  It has been too long since I have had company."

"We are acquainted with several of your partners in Egyptology.  Dr. Mallfeld and Dr. Van Flemming.  And... the late Lord Horace Oroberg."

"Ah, that was a tragic end," said Phineas.  "Such a dear friend and then to go in such a way most foul."

"Indeed, it was.  We were led to believe that there was an Egyptian urn which passed from one man to the next," said Clara.  She suddenly stopped herself, noticing a young photograph of a familiar lady on the table.  "What a lovely picture of Lord Oroberg’s daughter-in-law, Violet."

"Isn't it?  She was only twelve when that photo was taken.  Her father, Peter Nero, was a great friend of mine," Phineas said, his tone taking a sad turn.  "When he was lost in the desert..."

"Lost in the desert?  I was not aware that was his end."

"It is true," said Phineas.  "He received an urn from Drs. Mallfeld and Van Flemming, and wanted to see where it came from.  He was on an expedition to see the dig site when he disappeared.  Fortunately, he left the urn here, and it was not lost with him.  It is, in fact, the very urn that was passed along to me after Horace's death.  Seems the thing is cursed," he sadly joked.

Clara and Wesley looked at one another, wondering if this was the moment in which they should tell him the truth about such suspicions.

But before they could speak up, Phineas continued.  "We lost Peter just six months ago.  I tried to be as much a second father to Violet as possible, but her mother made it clear she had things well in hand."

"Her mother was quite an... opinionated woman," Clara replied.

"That is one way to put it," said Phineas ruefully.  "Lord Oroberg, Peter Nero, and I had been philanthropic partners for so long, we were more family than business acquaintances and dear, sweet Violet felt almost like a niece."  He looked at the picture with great sorrow.  "With her passing, that photograph is all the more precious."

Clara paused before broaching the subject.  "I fear that we were there that terrible night, and it is for that reason that we come to see you."

"Oh my dear madam!  What an ordeal you have been through.  Of course!  Of course, I would be most happy to aid you however I can."

"That is good news indeed," said Clara.  She leaned forward.  "It is imperative that we gain ownership of this urn.  I was told that it was in your possession."

Phineas shook his head sadly, but wore the emotion as awkwardly as a child playacting.  "I am afraid, dear lady, that this is outside of my ability."

"Truly it is not," she insisted.

"No, you see, it is no longer in my possession."

"What?" Clara and Wesley spoke in unison.

"Yes, you see... there was a lovely young lady... erm... woman... who was... taken with Egypt," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

Clara noticed another photograph on the table, one of a girl dressed in an Egyptian looking headdress.  "Is this her?"

Phineas nodded.  "Indeed.  She agreed to act as my model for some more... whimsical... photo sessions."

"Wherever did you find such a fetching model?  She seems quite perfect in that costume," Clara commented politely, trying to flatter him.

It seemed to make him more uncomfortable.  "We met one evening while she was playing Cleopatra in a theatrical production..."

"I am familiar with many vaudeville players, sir.  Just give me her name and we will trouble you no more!" said Wesley.

"Oh, I am afraid it was more... of a gentleman's interpretation of Cleopatra..." he said with a meaningful glance at Clara, "than anything you would find in vaudeville."

"At the burlesque house, you mean?" Clara stated, challenging him to dismiss such squeamishness in her presence.

"Yes, indeed, the burlesque houses," Phineas said, apologizing.  "You see, with my condition, I find myself the victim of frequent spells of loneliness..."

"Say no more," said Clara, seeing the direction the conversation was headed.  "How a gentleman cares to spend his leisure time is not our place to investigate or scrutinize.  We are concerned merely with the retrieval of the urn—"

"But what makes it so special?" Phineas interrupted.

Now it was Clara's turn to be uncomfortable.  "There are certain properties to it that have proven to be slightly... deadly."

Phineas leaned forward in concern.  "Is it something inside?  A poison?"

"Oh, it is something inside, but not exactly... poison."  She found herself unable to complete the thought and turned to Wesley for help.

He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.  "Now, Mr. Stokeman, I am sure that what I am about to tell you will seem strange, but I swear upon all that is holy what I say is true.  We believe there is a curse upon that urn, and that the unfriendly spirit inside requires to be set to rest."

Phineas started laughing.  "You are quite mad!"

"I promise you that I am speaking in all earnestness.  I am a medium, brought to the manor of Lord Oroberg on that unfortunate night to communicate with those beyond the grave, and we discovered a spirit most foul who was responsible for all the death which took place."

"We are willing to compensate you," said Clara, urgently.  "I realize this must seem unbelievable, but you have no idea the urgency of this matter."

Phineas stood, indicating that their discussion was over.  "Well, I must wish you well in your search, but I am afraid that I am unable to aid you.  It is gone, and no Egyptian mummy curse can possibly equal the wrath of my fair Pauline if I should ask for it back.  Between you and me, I would rather face a dozen curses than her temper.  So, if you will excuse me now, I am afraid I must rest.  As pleasant as this has been, my constitution is not yet strong enough for such friendly stimulation."

"Of course," said Wesley rising.  "We understand completely.  If you change your mind, please do not hesitate to contact us."

Phineas looked down at the calling card Clara had passed along when the two had first arrived.  "A medium, did you say?"

"Indeed," replied Wesley.  "And one of the best."

A strange shadow passed over Phineas’ face, but it was gone as soon as it was there.  "Perhaps we shall be meeting sooner than you think.  I thank you for your trouble coming by and I am sorry I was not of greater assistance."

"We apologize for troubling you," said Clara, "but will look forward to speaking with you soon."

And with that, the butler was opening the door and ushering them out of the room and out of the front door and onto the porch with such swiftness, it might have seemed rude except for the lack of malice.

"What a strange man," Clara said, looking at the house.  "There is something about this place I find highly unsettling."

"I do not believe you have to be a medium to feel the wrongness of it all," Wesley confirmed.

T
he doorbell rang in the middle of breakfast the next morning.  Clara looked at Willard with some surprise.

"Were you expecting someone, ma'am?"

"No, Willard," she replied.  "This is most strange."

"I shall see who it is."

She sat nervously, a sense of foreboding washing over her.  She heard Wesley's voice and she sprang up from her seat and rushed out into the hallway.

His face showed that her concerns were not unfounded.  Something was terribly wrong.

"Wesley?" Clara said, placing her hand upon her chest to calm her breathing.

"I do hope that I am not intruding," Wesley replied.

Clara shook her head and steered Wesley into the parlor and shut the door behind them.  "What brings you here this early?  What has happened?"

Wesley took a folded newspaper from his pocket and laid it upon the table so that Clara could read the headlines:  "
Mass Murderer on the Loose!
"

"Oh dear," she said, and then read the story aloud. "
The slaughter of five innocents in the house of Lord Horace Oroberg has been followed by the death of another of his associates: Dr. George Mallfeld.  Is this random violence?  Or a revenge-crazed lunatic hunting down Lord Oroberg's acquaintances? When asked for a comment, Marguerite Matson, who is convalescing at St. Matthew's Hospital, stated she had nothing to share and informed the News Post they were grasping at straws.  But when the safety of the population is at risk, this paper never sleeps, and you may trust our reporters will not rest until they learn the truth...
"

"And it goes on," said Wesley.

"How kind of them to inform the lunatic where he can find Lord Oroberg's associates," she reflected as she folded it and put it down on the table.

"You know as well as I, this is no lunatic," said Wesley.  "It is clear that a new vassal has been found for this cursed creature."

Clara sighed.  "What shall we do?  We do not even know how to stop it besides trap it in a basement and lop off its host's head, but that seems to only slow it for a few days, not stop it."

"Violet was allowed to go on a fifteen year rampage," said Wesley.  "This creature will do the same with whomever it has currently possessed.  We have a responsibility to stop this before it progresses any further, even if no one else will help us."

"You are absolutely right," Clara agreed.  "Well, we know that Pauline is currently in possession of the mummy's heart."

"I propose we go meet Phineas Stokeman's friend and inform her that her patron may have placed her life at great risk."

"And if she
is
possessed," said Clara, looking at the newspaper, "let us pray that she still retains enough humanity to care that she may be killing people."

T
he street was dark, lit only by the light spilling out of the bars and music halls.  This was not the neighborhood of Wesley's vaudeville.  A seedier clientele walked down the streets.  There were the beggars and whores expected in such an area, but also the well-dressed men who found the entertainment offerings of high society not titillating enough for their taste. The burlesque house was a beacon in the neighborhood, a glass of ale to a thirsty drunk, a lure of vices unwanted and yet desired.

Clara clung to Wesley's arm as she sidestepped a sodden drunk vomiting in the gutter.  Wesley murmured, "This may not be a place you would like yourself to be seen."

"I cannot stay out here unescorted," she replied as a harlot looked her over from head-to-toe.  Clara lifted her chin.  "Anyone I might know who made the unfortunate decision to frequent this establishment would be as aware of the delicateness of their own reputation.  Besides, we go inside to save, not to savor."

Wesley squeezed her hand bracingly and then led her around to the rear of the theater.  A sleepy man sat guard, nodding off in his chair by the stage door.  From the smell of his breath, he was a friend of spirits, too, but of a different sort.

"Excuse me," said Wesley cheerfully.  "We have been invited backstage to meet with Pauline."

The guard gave him an uninterested look.  "She didn't say nothing to me about her havin' guests."