The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) (16 page)

"Just
around the corner." He eyed me carefully. "Are you all right, Emily? I
say, that was a nasty business to witness just now. I daresay you're not used
to such scenes."

"Not
really, no." I'd never thought of the area in which Celia and I lived as
being particularly modern or fashionable but walking through Clerkenwell made
me realize how safe it was, and how we were far better off there than anyone
living here. Exhausted faces watched us from doorways which appeared to be
mostly swept clean, something which surprised me. Even here the folk had some
pride in their homes and wanted to offer a welcoming entrance. It was a
reminder that this wasn't the worst place in London. Poor certainly, but not
the most degraded or depraved. That label surely belonged to Whitechapel where
the shape-shifting demon had attacked its first victim. Clerkenwell was mostly
working class where men, women and sometimes children squeezed out a living doing
whatever work they could find. If the child-thief was any indication, that work
wasn't always honest.

We found the
North London School for Domestic Service easily enough. Whereas most of the
buildings on the street were a motley mixture of timber and brick and barely
one room in width, the school was grand in appearance with its solid red brick
façade, tall windows and at least three times as wide as its neighbors.

George turned to
me before knocking on the door. "If I might be so bold as to suggest I ask
the questions." He had the good sense to look sheepish about his
suggestion. It didn't stop me from giving him a withering glare.

"I may be
only
a girl but I assure you I am used to dealing with men older than myself." I
was used to no such thing but I wasn't going to tell him that. I'd lived in an
adult world ever since Mama had died and I was used to speaking and thinking
for myself, not have someone else do it for me.

"Yes, of
course." He tugged on his necktie and cleared his throat. "But, well,
perhaps the master
might
be more inclined to speak to me. It's merely a
thought." He pulled so hard on the necktie knot I thought it would unravel.
"We'll see, shall we?"

He lifted a hand
to knock when Jacob suddenly appeared, leaning against the door, and I gave a
little gasp of alarm.

George's fist
hesitated. It was inches from the door and Jacob's face. "What is it?"
he asked at the same time as Jacob said, "What are you doing here?"

"This is
not Whitechapel," I said, answering Jacob.

George dropped
his hand. "Pardon?"

"I'm
speaking to Jacob."

"It's not
exactly Belgrave Square either," Jacob said, referring to the exclusive
area where his family kept a house. He jerked his head towards George. "What's
your puppy doing here?"

"Protecting
me. Aren't you George?"

George puffed
out his chest and looked pleased with himself.

"Protecting
you?" Jacob snorted and crossed his arms. "From what? The newspapers
fluttering down the street? Because that's all he's capable of defending you
against." He sounded annoyed. I couldn't think why.

"He's an
effective deterrent against a thief thinking of taking advantage of me."

Jacob's nostrils
flared. It was the only movement on his otherwise still person. "You're
right. A visible deterrent works better than an invisible one."

My heart plunged
into my stomach. "That's not what I meant." Stupid girl! It was
precisely what I'd meant and now I’d made Jacob feel useless and less...human. "Jacob,
I'm sorry."

"Forget it.
Come on, knock."

"What's
going on?" George asked. "What's he saying?"

"Well,
he...uh...he thinks I should have brought some...more protection to walk though
these streets. But he seems to be forgetting that this isn't Whitechapel."

Jacob gave me a
lazy smile, my slight seemingly forgotten. "If this area is so safe then
why do you need to bring him along for protection at all?"

Darn. Foiled by
my own logic. "Stop being so...male!"

"Male?"
Jacob and George both said.

I lifted a hand
and knocked.

Jacob leaned
down so that his nose almost touched my cheek. "Well?" he said in a
quiet, ominous voice that spread across my skin like warm sunshine.

My face heated. I
adore sunshine. "You're being overbearing. It's a very irritating manly
habit that...men have." I knocked again. Why wasn't someone answering the
door?

"You're
such an expert on men, are you?" Jacob asked, straightening. I looked at
him out of the corner of my eye but I couldn't determine if he was teasing me
or if it was a serious question.

"I know a
few. Now, either be quiet so I can concentrate or go away."

"Yes,"
George said, fiddling with his necktie again. "Let us handle this."

"I'm not
leaving you alone in this place," Jacob said. "And I'll not allow you
to walk home alone either."

"I am not
alone," I muttered although I think George heard me anyway if his wince
was any indication.

"You might
as well be," Jacob said. He looked skyward as if he'd find some patience
there, or some way of convincing me I was being a fool. "Bloody hell,
Emily, coming here is dangerous. Do you understand?"

The door opened
at that moment and I smiled at the maid in relief. We introduced ourselves and
George asked to speak to someone in authority.

"Mr. Blunt
the master's gone out," she said, "but Mrs. White'll receive you."
She showed us into a room that appeared to be either an office or a drawing
room or perhaps acted as both. It had a small, unlit fireplace, a large desk
with hard, unpadded chairs on either side of it, a sofa and two armchairs, none
of which matched, and a threadbare green rug on the floor. There were no decorative
items on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls and not even a bookshelf
near the desk. On second thought the room couldn't possibly function as an
office as there wasn’t a scrap of paper in sight and the inkwell appeared empty.
It must be entirely for the use of visitors then.

The maid left,
leaving George, Jacob and I in awkward silence. Having a three-way conversation
when only one of us can speak to the other two is difficult at best. It's
absolutely awful when we're quarrelling. George and I seated ourselves on the
sofa, a respectable distance between us, while Jacob remained standing by the
door, arms crossed, glaring at me. It was most disconcerting. My face felt hot
and a thousand things ran through my mind. Of course I voiced none of them. In
fact, I tried not to look at him at all. I failed.

Thankfully Mrs.
White didn’t take long to arrive. She wasn't as old as I expected, only a
little older than Celia I'd guess, but more homely. Her soft brown eyes crinkled
at the corners and a series of lines bracketed her mouth as she smiled at us. Her
dark hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a loose knot and her black gown
could have been worn for mourning a loved one or simply because she liked the
color. It did suit her although the large bustle at the back didn't flatter her
dumpy figure.

"Now, what
may I do for you?" she asked after introducing herself.

"I'm George
Culvert," George said before I could answer.

Her eyebrows
rose. "Mr. Culvert? You took on one of our girls, didn't you?"

He nodded but
didn't explain what had happened to Maree Finch. He indicated me. "This is
Miss Emily Chambers."

Mrs. White
paled. "Chambers? Miss
Emily
Chambers?"

George's eyes
twinkled behind his glasses. "You know her?"

It would seem my
reputation as a medium had preceded me. It was happening more and more lately. Over
the last month or two, the mere mention of my name was enough to cause
strangers to ogle me, or walk quickly in the opposite direction. I suppose it
meant Celia and I were garnering a good reputation for our work, which in turn
would generate more appointments for our séances. But I couldn't be as happy as
her about the increase in our trade, not if it meant more reactions like that
of Mrs. White.

"I would
say she knows
of
me, is that right, Mrs. White?" I asked, trying to
allay any fears she might have with a warm smile.

Her hand
fluttered to her chest and she gave a nervous little laugh. "Forgive me,
yes, I have heard of you, Miss Chambers. Indeed, only this morning the master
of our little school, Mr. Blunt, was telling me he was going to contact you."
She pursed her lips. "He was very insistent."

"Oh? He
wishes to communicate with the dead?"

"I believe
so but you'd have to discuss the particulars with him." She clicked her
tongue and sighed. "I don't know what's got into him. He's never been
interested in the supernatural before."

I glanced at Jacob.
He grinned. It was breathtaking, quite literally—the air
whooshed
out of
my lungs and my throat went dry. It was rather a relief to see he'd snapped out
of his bad temper too.

I smiled back at
him.

"The Misses
Chambers have an excellent reputation." George smiled too but I suspect
not for the same reasons as us. I hadn't told him about Jacob's haunting of Mr.
Blunt. "I highly recommend them. Emily really can communicate with spirits."

Jacob snorted
and came to stand beside me. "It seems you have an admirer."

"Indeed,
she was just speaking to one outside," George went on. He sounded like a
proud older brother. It was rather sweet.

Jacob groaned. "If
he tells her my name I might have to throw something."

"Thank you,
George," I said quickly. "I'm sure Mrs. White isn't interested."

He opened his
mouth to say something but must have caught my don't-you-dare expression
because he shut it again.

Mrs. White didn’t
appear to notice our exchange, or she was too polite to let us think she had. "Your
sister left a calling card when she collected Lucy yesterday, you see,"
she said. I knew the ones. Celia had a habit of leaving them wherever she went
so that it acted as a form of advertising. "Mr. Blunt was going to call on
you today. I can't think why there's such an urgency." She shrugged.

"Perhaps
he's being haunted," George said.

I choked but
managed to turn it into a cough. Jacob patted my back and I continued to cough
although the need had gone. I simply liked his touch. A lot.

"Are you
all right, Emily?" George asked, shifting along the sofa towards me.

Mrs. White
stood. "I'll get some water."

I stopped
coughing and Jacob stopped patting. "I'm fine, thank you." I refrained
from looking at him for about two seconds then couldn't help myself. Unfortunately
he had his back to me, striding towards the door. Avoiding me again. He was making
quite a habit of it.

Mrs. White sat
down. "How is Lucy getting along?"

"Very well,"
I said. "I think she's a little perturbed to be working in the house of
someone who can see ghosts, but she doesn't seem too afraid." She'd got
through the night at least, which was more than I could say for one of our
previous maids.

"Good, good.
And how is Maree?" she asked George.

"Ah,"
he said. "She is the reason we've come here. She's disappeared—."

"Disappeared!"
Mrs. White shook her head. "No, no, no, not Maree. She's such a good girl.
We never had any problems with her here."

"She also
stole a book from me."

Mrs. White stifled
a gasp with her hand. "Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."
George told her about our interview with Maree Finch and the reasons for our
suspicions. "The odd thing is," he said in finishing, "is that
she can't read. So why steal a book of all things?"

"A very
good question," Mrs. White said. She frowned and shook her head slowly. "I
simply can't believe Maree would do such a thing. And a book too when she can't
read, as you say. What was it about?"

"Demonology,"
George said before I could deflect the question. I thought it was one we should
avoid answering truthfully. I didn't want to alarm the lady.

But Mrs. White
didn't seem as disturbed as I thought she would be. I'd expected a vehement
denial of Maree's interest in demonology, or a little gasp or some show of
distress over the book's subject matter. As it was, she simply paled. It was a
considerable paling but nevertheless it wasn't a fierce reaction. "I see. Well,
that's an...interesting topic for a young girl."

"Particularly
for a young girl who can't read," Jacob said. "It's not the sort of
book that will help her learn."

I agreed
wholeheartedly. "We think she might have stolen it for someone else,"
I said.

"For her
brother," George added.

"Her
brother! You mean Tommy Finch?"

"I suppose
we do," he said. "He attended this school for a while, didn't he?"

Mrs. White
flicked imaginary fluff off her skirts, her attention on the task and not us. "He
was but only briefly and that was some time ago. I don't know why he left. I’m
not privileged to everything that occurs with the boy pupils. You'd have to ask
Mr. Blunt."