Clockwork Chaos (19 page)

The mourners all described Ernesto as a generous man, and Josephine began to wonder if the Aperador family had handed out a list of recommended adjectives for the eulogists. She wished Ernesto had been more generous with her, but that had not been the case. If the—

Lost in thought, Josephine missed that the last eulogist had stepped down from the podium, and Father O’Connell had risen to conclude the proceedings with a prayer.

“Fiddle faddle!” uttered Josephine under her breath.

After the amen, the priest called for the pallbearers to come forward and issued directions for meeting at the cemetery. The large, Colombian pallbearers, many of whom had holstered Colt revolvers, joined Father O’Connell beside the coffin. He was ushering them closer, giving them instructions, and guiding them to positions around Ernesto.

“Looks like you missed your chance,” whispered Elijah at her side.

Josephine had no choice but to concur, though it galled her. She watched the burly Colombians place the lid on the coffin. She sighed and wondered how hard it would be to dig him up later, and what the prison sentence was for grave robbing.

People began to rise and make their way to the exit. Elijah stepped forward and offered his hand to help her to her feet.

Josephine took it and stood. “Some you win,” she said, “and some you lose. It would seem Ernesto has had the last word.” But, she was wrong. There was someone else who was quite insistent upon having the final word.

The commotion started with a rash of murmured conversation at the back of the church. It escalated when a woman with golden hair, skirts in hand, erupted from the crowd and stumbled up the main aisle. She cried, “Wait! I will have my say!” Dressed in a faded blue dress, she stood out starkly against the background of black, as if she were a rift in the midnight sky, a glimpse into another layer of reality.

Hands reached for her, clawed at her dress and hair, trying to hold her back. She batted and shoved the Aperadors, head bent like a bull, pushing her way to the altar. She made steady progress until she hit a brick wall of Colombian stubbornness. She slammed into the man, and he grabbed her arm. He nearly lifted her off her feet as he turned her back toward the exit.

Josephine clutched Elijah’s arm without realizing it, sensing opportunity. She watched as the woman hunkered down and refused to budge. She noted the woman’s reddened eyes and slurred speech. To Josephine, she looked more truly grief-stricken than anyone else in the church.

“Who is that?” Josephine whispered to Elijah.

He shook his head, attention fixed on the woman.

The woman squirmed and called, “I will have my say! Father! Tell them!”

Josephine looked over at Father O’Connell. His face had gone as white as his robes, whiter even than his soul. His mouth flapped like that of a fish out of water, and he seemed at a loss for words.

Finding no succor with him, the woman took the only avenue she had left to her. She kicked her captor in the shin with the pointed toe of her boot, then bunched like a spring, and shoved him as hard as she could. He went back on his heels and was caught on the edge of imbalance. When he tipped, he nearly dragged her down with him. She stumbled, caught herself, and only by virtue of a small miracle, she broke free of him. She lurched the rest of the way up the aisle, using the pews for support as she went. She stopped in the circle of flickering candles, one hand on the closed coffin.

The Colombian pallbearers were looking around for instructions, but couldn’t find anyone willing to tell them what to do. The Aperador matriarch had stood and turned her back on the altar and the woman. With assistance, she had begun to creep back out of the church. People got out of her way or offered a hand to her elbow as she passed them.

No one approached the woman in blue. After a brief prayer, she crossed herself, then turned to face the mourners.

Questions and answers rippled down the pews: “Who is she?” and “She’s the American harlot.” This was invariably followed by understanding nods. Apparently, everyone knew about “the American harlot.”

The pallbearers made a half-hearted attempt to approach her. She warned each one with her index finger and said with a drunken slur to her voice, “You think you knew Ernie, but you didn’t. None of you did. I was...the only one who understood how sweet he was. I was the only one who—” For a moment, it seemed as if she would break down and sob, so strong was her emotion, but then, she did something no one ever could have predicted.

She opened her mouth, and she belched, loud and long. It roiled up from deep inside her as if she were a well-fed sailor.

Gasps sounded throughout the gathering, and many people sent shocked looks in the woman’s direction. Their surprise was further inflated when her exhalation turned into a great plume of fire. The fire leapt to her from all directions, from the candles upon their candelabras, into her hair. After the initial flare died down, it seemed as if everything would be all right, but then, flames began licking around the woman’s head. It took her a second, maybe two, before she realized what was happening and began to scream.

“Dear lord!” cried Elijah, and he was moving before Josephine had even twitched.

Josephine stood in place, in shock, and watched as the pallbearers backed away from the woman. She noted the entire crowd backing away, everyone but Elijah, who was vaulting over pews to get to her.

The American harlot’s head was ablaze, and the smell of burning hair reached Josephine’s nose. It startled her out of her fascination, and her mind rejoined her. She opened her mouth and screamed, “Fire! Get out! Fire!”

Few things motivated a crowd faster than a cry of “Fire!” Josephine’s shout awakened others who had also been frozen, caught by a morbid inability to look away. They began screaming, shoving others out of the pews or out of the way, lunging toward the back of the church.

The woman patted her hair, and the flames took to her sleeves. The fire was spreading down the woman’s dress. It latched onto anything she brushed. The altar cloth and the eulogy platform ignited. The woman lost all reason, grasping blindly for help.

Aside from Elijah and the woman, Josephine saw only backs, backs dressed in black, backs pressing to get out of the church. Even the priest had disappeared. She herself turned toward the altar. Elijah couldn’t get near the woman. Her hair had stopped burning, having exposed her red and smoking scalp, but the flames were devouring her skirts.

Smoke was assaulting Josephine’s lungs, making her cough. Her eyes were watering and stinging, but she hurried to the dais. Ernesto’s coffin sat in a clearing, surrounded by burning curtains. If she could get to it, she’d have her chance. She rushed toward the altar and—

Her foot came down on the spot that had tripped her earlier. She caught herself up, to avoid stumbling again, and in that moment of caution, she registered what it was that had snagged her heel. The cover on the baptismal well was in place. Beneath it, there would be a pool of water. If they could get the woman into it, they could perhaps save her life.

Josephine peered through the smoke at the coffin, then down at the iron loop embedded in the floor. She didn’t know the woman. This was the perfect distraction. She could lift the coffin lid and have the cameo in her hand in no time. But, the woman didn’t have that kind of time. Josephine called, “Eli!” She bent and grabbed the iron loop. “Here!” She hefted with all her might, and the cover swung open on hinges, revealing a small tile-lined pool fed by cherubs holding pitchers.

Elijah understood. He made a run at the woman. He caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, hauling her with him toward the baptismal pool. The flames licked over him, hungry for a new victim.

The woman’s screams filled the church. She and Elijah crashed down the steps into the pool and landed in the water with a splash. The water wasn’t deep, but it did the trick. Elijah sat up and turned the woman onto her back, keeping her face out of the water so she could breathe.

Josephine glanced over her shoulder at the altar. The curtains had fallen onto the coffin, and ignited the drape that covered it. Her window had closed—again.

She bent to help Eli out of the pool. He carried the woman in his arms.

The bells of the fire brigade sounded in the distance. Before long, firemen came rushing in with hoses and axes.

Josephine gave one last, mournful look back, and whispered, “Hasta la vista, Ernesto.”

Upon her return to Ipswich, Josephine was greeted at home with clean clothes, hot tea, and a late lunch. Elijah arrived several hours later, having stayed behind to tend to “the American harlot.” He brought news that the woman had a good chance of survival, although she would be scarred. He was dressed in a smart tweed suit, having changed before calling.

“Thank God for stone churches,” said Josephine. She and Eli had just finished recounting the story—a second time—to Josephine’s Aunt Hettie.

Hettie replied with her gentle French accent, “
Mon dieu.
Truer words were never spoken. You two are lucky to be alive.”

Elijah shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Hettie. It wasn’t so bad for us. Jo’s quick thinking saved the woman’s life. Jo suffered no worse than a singed dress, and I have a few minor burns.”

Josephine sipped her tea, eyeing the bandages on Elijah’s hands.

Hettie shook her head in amazement. “What could have caused such an eruption?
La pauvre!
”

Josephine said, “It was the Candileja, of course.”

“The Colombian legend?” Elijah laughed. “Jo, don’t be ridiculous. Are you sure your mechanical bug didn’t trigger a trap or cause a chemical reaction?”

Josephine shook her head. “No. I know what I saw, and that woman was nowhere near the coffin when she ignited. Besides, the coffin was closed. No, it was definitely the Candileja. Maybe because Ernesto had the cameo on him, it summoned them, three balls of fire doomed to roam the earth forever. Stranger things have happened.”

Elijah leaned toward Josephine, eyes twinkling, and said, “I am sorry to spoil the magic for you, my dear girl, but the truth is much more down to earth. The woman was an etheromaniac. We found a bottle on her.”

“Ahhh,” said Josephine, brow furrowing. “That would explain the intoxication...and the eructation.”

Elijah nodded. “The belch, yes. That was my first indication.”

Hettie said, “I’m afraid you must explain this to me. I am not a member of your scientist club.”

Josephine gave the explanation over to Elijah with a wave of her hand.

He said, “There are people, Miss Hettie, terribly misguided people, who drink ether as one would drink liquor. Its effects are faster, though they don’t last nearly as long. Furthermore, at body temperature, ether turns to a gas. Most people chase it with cold water to keep it in liquid form longer, so it has time to be absorbed. If the ether turns to gas in the stomach, the imbiber often belches it out. This can be dangerous, especially near open flame, as ether is highly flammable.”

Hettie’s china blue eyes had grown enormous.
“Oh mon dieu,”
she muttered.

Elijah looked over at Josephine and said, “I’m just sorry you weren’t able to acquire the cameo. I know how much you wanted it.”

Josephine sighed and looked down into her teacup. “It is a shame, indeed,” she said.

Elijah’s hand slid across the settee. He turned it face up and opened his fingers. Inside, lay the metallic bug, its legs and body clutching its carnelian prize.

Josephine didn’t see it right away, lost as she was in thoughts of grave-digging.

Elijah cleared his throat, and when she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, he nodded down at his hand.

She saw it then, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Eli!” She looked at him, then at the cameo, then at him again, and said, “However did you do it?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. He took her hand and placed the device in it. He said, “After you left, I insisted that they allow me back into the church to investigate. It was a minor abuse of my coroner’s badge.”

A smile dawned across Josephine’s lips. She pushed a button behind the head of the bug, and it clicked. Its legs spread wide with one clacking stretch, and it released its cargo into Josephine’s hand. She studied the cameo for a long moment, then raised her emerald eyes to Elijah and gave him a look of such utter slyness that he burst out laughing.

A middle-aged lawyer arrived at the bedside of Amanda Jane Maguire. He wore a long black overcoat, satin vest, and gentleman’s silk cravat. He carried his derby in his hands. His immediate reaction to the stench of scorched flesh was to recoil and cover his nose, but he lowered his hand and straightened his spine. He studied the burned young woman with more of an evaluating eye than a sympathetic one. He did not sit, nor did he stay long. He had a message to impart, and he imparted it.

“Miss Maguire,” he began. “My name is Marius Keeling, and you will be encountering me regularly as I am a representative of your new benefactor. Your medical bills will be paid, and an income has been established for you once you leave the hospital.”

Within the slits of her bandages, Amanda’s eyes shifted toward Keeling. The rest of her remained perfectly still.

Keeling continued, “If you are so inclined, when you’re well enough, your benefactor will fund your education so that you may establish a trade. I won’t burden you with further details at this time. Suffice it to say that you need not worry about your care or its cost. You have fallen into the hands of an angel.” Keeling looked down at his hat, and his mouth pinched. After a moment, he cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and asked, “Do you have any questions?”

A breathy, pained whisper rose from the bed. “Who?”

It was, of course, the first question Keeling had anticipated. He said, “Your benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. Put this question out of your mind.”

“Why?”

Despite the fact that Keeling had been expecting the question and that he’d asked it himself when sitting across the table from Josephine Winterdove, he found himself at a loss for words. He said, “I cannot presume to understand the nuances of your benefactor’s motives, however it is my understanding that the money is a debt owed, and the original beneficiary is no longer available to make use of it. Therefore, it is being transferred to you.”