The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) (26 page)

"No."

"You should
be." He shoved my hands away, setting me unceremoniously back on my
haunches, and stood up. "I'll stay away from you unless it becomes
absolutely necessary." And then he was gone.

CHAPTER 12

I sat on the rug
and stared at the chair where Jacob had been sitting. The cushion, embroidered
with a vine pattern by my mother, hadn't yet sprung back to its full plump
shape. I lowered my head and would have cried—I
wanted
to cry—but the
tears wouldn't come. Perhaps I had none left. I felt empty.

After a while I
climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. But I didn't sleep. I
couldn't. Jacob might come back. He might explain the meaning of his final
words to me.

You should
be.

I should be
afraid of him. But I wasn't. Not of Jacob. He was gentle and considerate and
protective. He would never hurt me, nor would he harm someone who didn't
deserve it, I was certain. Frederick had hit him first and he'd been dogging Jacob
for some time if his visits to the Beaufort's house were an indication. Jacob
wasn't to blame for his death.

But Frederick
was the key to Jacob's.

I knew that as
well as I knew my own name. The events leading up to Jacob's murder were too coincidental
for it not to be linked to Frederick and the incident in the alley. But if Jacob
had killed Frederick in the fight, who had killed Jacob later?

The answer to
that lay in what might have happened after Jacob felled Frederick. I couldn't
believe he'd leave the boy lying there, dying. Jacob was no coward. He would
have faced up to his actions and I doubt he simply walked away.

So what had
happened next?

And who on earth
was Frederick?

These questions
and a thousand others swirled around my head until, drained, I finally drifted
to sleep.

I awoke with a
start the next morning to knocking on my door. I jumped out of bed. "Jacob!"
I opened the door but Celia stood there alone.

"No," she
said with suspicion. "Why would you think I was he?" Her already
narrowed eyes became slits. "Has he been visiting you?"

"Occasionally."

Her lips
puckered. "Please don't tell me he's been in your room."

If Celia wanted
to make it easy for me then she'd just given me the perfect opportunity. "Of
course not."
Of course not, I won't tell you.
It wasn't exactly a
lie...

"Because if
I learn that he has—."

"Celia,
stop questioning me." I stood with my hands on my hips blocking the
doorway but she still managed to slip past me into my room.

"It's most
improper," she said from my wardrobe where she contemplated my gowns.

"I doubt my
reputation will be ruined by the irregular visits of a ghost."

She turned to
fix me with a withering glare. "Don't be so sure. Anyway, I'm worried
about more than your reputation."

More than...? Oh.
"Jacob has been the perfect gentleman, Sis, don't worry." I bit the
inside of my cheek. He’d kissed me. Perhaps perfect was too strong a word.

"Emily..."
She shook her head but I could tell she was bursting to ask me something. I had
a feeling I would regret prompting her but I did anyway.

"Ye-es?"

"Well, do
you think ghosts can...you know?"

Oh dear, regret
wasn't a strong enough word for how I felt about this conversation. It was
heading into very murky waters. "I have no idea what you're talking about and
I don't think I want to."

"I know you
know what I'm suggesting because we had that little chat only last year."

"Oh,
that
,"
I said, feigning nonchalance. "You're asking me if ghosts can have marital
relations?" It was the phrase Celia had used during our talk on how babies
were made. Even though most unwed girls my age were quite ignorant about what happened
between men and women, my sister had insisted I be made aware. I'd thought it
very progressive of her, particularly since she was essentially a prude. Not
even I had seen her without her clothes on. Still, discussing it with her now
was no less embarrassing than it had been then.

"Yes,"
she said. "Well, what do you think? Can they...you know?"

"I don't
know. Would you like me to ask Jacob for you?"

"No!" She
turned back to the wardrobe and studied the clothes with extra intensity.

I think I won
that little battle.

"Why have
you been crying?" she asked suddenly.

Oh dear, I was
losing the war. I rubbed my eyes and yawned dramatically, putting my arms above
my head and twisting my body for effect. "I slept poorly. I've a lot on my
mind."

She seemed to believe
me this time. She patted my arm and sighed. "So have I. What are you going
to do today?"

"About the
demon?" I padded across the floor to my dressing table and peered into the
mirror. Good lord, I really did look awful. My eyes were rimmed red, my nose had
swelled up and the dark shadows made it look like someone had punched me. Not
even a strong cup of tea would help me look like myself again. "I think
I'll go and see if George has contacted Leviticus Price," I said, frowning
at me reflection. Hopefully a dose of cool air would help my complexion.

"Good idea."
She laid the dress on the bed and whipped her palm down the skirt to flatten
it. Satisfied, she made for the door. "If there's anything I can do, let
me know." She left, her back not quite as straight as usual. She must
still be blaming herself for letting the demon loose.

What she hadn't
asked me was if there'd been another victim and burglary overnight. Of course I
didn't know because Jacob had not appeared that morning.

My heart dove
violently into my stomach as I realized he may not appear at all, ever again.

***

George was home,
as was his mother unfortunately. When Mrs. Culvert saw us together in the
drawing room, she turned her nose up at me and said, "You again," as
if I was the plague. "George, a word."

"Yes,
Mother." But he didn’t move.

"In
private."

With a loud sigh,
he joined his mother outside the drawing room. A few moments later, I heard him
say, "This is my house and I can entertain any sort of guest I want. Emily
is an outstanding girl and—."

His mother's
voice cut him off but I couldn't quite make out what she said. The click-clack
of her footsteps retreating on the tiles was a welcome sound to my ears.

"Sorry,"
George said with a sympathetic smile when he returned. "Mothers."

I smiled too
even though I didn't necessarily understand his meaning. My mother had never
dictated who I could be friends with, but then I'd had so few friends growing
up she'd probably have encouraged me to speak to the poor little girl who sold
matches on the street corner.

"Now, where
were we?" he said, sitting down opposite me once more. "Ah yes,
Leviticus Price. I sent him a message requesting to see him."

"A message?
Requesting
to see him? George, you are being much too polite."

He looked
slightly taken aback at that. "Emily, there is no such thing as too
polite."

I refrained from
retorting that he might as well live in a prison with all the society rules he
and the people of his station had to live by. I suddenly felt an immeasurable
amount of freedom, as I had done after speaking to Adelaide Beaufort the day
before. My life, while complicated, was at least my own. "Come on, let's
pay him a visit now."

I stood. After a
moment, George stood too. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said
slowly. "Price isn't the sort of man who likes insolence, particularly in
youngsters."

"You're
nineteen!" The urge to click my tongue, roll my eyes and generally make
him see how immature he was behaving was very strong.

"You're
right. Let's go." He tugged on his coat lapels and stretched his neck. "Greggs!"
he called as he strode to the drawing room door. "Send word to the stables
for the carriage."

***

Leviticus Price rented
a few rooms in a brick terrace house in one of the newer suburbs on London's
outskirts where street upon street was lined with identical brick terrace
houses. The only distinguishing feature between them seemed to be the color of
the door, but even there the palette was limited to blue, white and green.

Price's landlady
showed us up to the tiny parlor where a thin man with short white hair and a
long white beard sat eating breakfast.
The Times
was open on the table
beside him and several books and journals were piled or scattered around the
small space. Oddly, the mantelpiece was empty except for a smoking pipe on a
wooden stand. The walls too were bare. It was almost as if he'd just unpacked
after moving in.

Although it was
almost noon, Price didn't seem concerned that he'd been caught eating at such a
late hour, or that he'd been caught eating at all. He kept right on shoveling eggs
and bacon into his mouth as if it was his first meal in a week. By the thinness
of him, it might very well have been.

He greeted
George with a nod of his long, horse-y head but hardly acknowledged me at all
until George introduced us. My name did, however, catch his attention.

"Emily
Chambers," he said, pausing in chewing to look me over properly. "Well,
well, well." He had eyes of the palest blue, like a frozen lake, which
left me shivering in the wake of his bald scrutiny.

"You've
heard of her," George said, sounding pleased.

Price wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, all the while watching me. It was most
unnerving. "I have indeed. She's the spirit medium. Quite a good one, I
hear."

I did not like
the way he spoke about me as if I wasn't there, or as if I was an object
without the capability of thought or speech. "Mr. Price, if you would stop
staring, I would be most grateful." I gave him a tight smile. "I'm
not at my best today you see." It was a light-hearted attempt to cut
through the awkwardness I felt in his presence but it was also a grim reminder
of why I wasn't looking my best—I'd been up half the night crying over Jacob.

I shoved all
thoughts of my ghost away. I needed to concentrate and I couldn't do that if I
let sadness consume me.

Price snorted a
laugh and sat back in his chair. The move made his smoking jacket gape open,
revealing a plain linen shirt underneath. "Sit, sit, both of you." I
sat on the only spare chair, a hard-backed, unpadded affair that looked as old
as the white-haired man himself. George removed a stack of books from another
chair and, not finding anywhere to deposit them, piled them up on the floor
near the unlit fireplace. He sat too and offered me a small shrug. Price
wouldn't have noticed since he was still staring at me. I felt like an exotic
bird at the zoo, a feeling that wasn't entirely foreign but definitely not
welcome.

"Can you
really see ghosts, Miss Chambers?"

"Yes."
I saw no reason to lie to him, or indeed to anyone. Once upon a time I would
have been considered a witch but this was an enlightened age. Society had come
a long way since the days when my kind was burned at the stake.

Price rested his
elbows on the arms of his chair and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. "Interesting."

Usually at this
point people ask me to demonstrate my abilities by summoning a loved one. Sometimes
I oblige them but most of the time—because Celia is with me and insists upon it—I
agree to come back for a séance. Price didn't ask and I didn't offer, although
he undoubtedly was intrigued. He couldn't stop staring.

I tried not to
let him see how unsettled his scrutiny made me. It wasn't easy.

"We've come
to ask you about a Mr. Blunt from the North London School for Domestic Service,"
George said. He offered no preliminaries, no how-do-you-do's or idle chatter
and I sensed that was the best way to deal with Price. He didn't seem like the
sort of man who liked to discuss the weather. George may not be the most socially
adept person but he knew enough about Price to keep to the point. Was that
because they were so alike in their obsession with the Otherworld?

"Blunt?"
Price turned to George and I let out a relieved breath. I'd had enough of being
viewed as a museum piece. "I'm on the board of his school. What of it?"

"He told us
you and he had a discussion about demons, mentioning myself as an authority on
the subject."

"We might
have. What of it?" he asked again.

George cleared
his throat. "I was burgled recently.
The Complete Handbook of Shape-shifting
Demons and Weres
was stolen from my library."

I think Price
squeezed his lips together but it was difficult to tell with his untrimmed
moustache hanging over his mouth like a hedge in need of pruning. "A good
general primer on the subject, suitable for a newcomer to the art of
demonology."