The Stolen Ghosts Page 9

  The cold gaze wavered and disappeared. Fowlis shuddered, shaking off the echo of the stare, and crossed the room. He examined the frame of the mirror and ran a finger across the glass. A squeak near his feet interrupted his train of thought.

  “Why hello, dear Brie. Yes, this is the second time I have found myself investigating this room. It is most peculiar and this mirror would appear to be at the centre of it all.”

  Fowlis drew his elaborate sigil on the glass, and waited for Handle to appear. The mirror remained closed, simply reflecting the library behind him. Fowlis took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and drew the sigil again. He opened his eyes, expecting to see HQ. The mirror flickered twice and fell silent. He noticed the strange thumbprint in the corner of the mirror and scowled.

  “The dratted thing appears to be blocked. This will require an investigation. I must inform Handle at once,” said Fowlis.

  “Will he know what to do?” asked Brie.

  “I sincerely hope so,” replied Fowlis.

  “There’s another mirror outside, if that helps,” said Brie.

  She led Fowlis across the library, squeezing under the door as he walked through it. The little mouse pointed out a small mirror further down the hall. Fowlis straightened his hat, drew his sigil on the glass, and waited.

  A sheen of fog ran across the mirror, clearing to reveal HQ. Handle sat at his desk, poring over unfurled charts. His eyes roved across the scrolls and his quill scratched across a scrap of parchment. Fowlis coughed. Handle’s pen skittered across the paper in a jagged line, and he looked up, clutching his chest in surprise.

  “Sir! I didn’t see you there, sorry, sir.”

  “Quite all right, Handle. It is soothing to know that you are hard at work. Have you made any enquiries?”

  “Er, sorry sir, you only mentioned it a little while ago, and I’ve only just started checking the records,” said Handle.

  “Not to worry. I have investigated the library, and I have an additional route of enquiry for you.”

  Fowlis explained about the mirror and added snippets of information gleaned from the squeaking Brie at his feet. Handle tapped the tip of his quill against his bottom lip.

  “So nothing happened when you tried your sigil? That’s odd, sir, very odd.”

  “I am aware of that, Handle. Is there anything you can do at your end to investigate? As you can appreciate, my resources are somewhat limited on this plane.”

  “Let me just check the house chart, sir.” Handle rifled through the pile of scrolls on his desk and pulled out a yellow length of moth-eaten parchment that he gently unrolled.

  “And that should mark all of the mirrors in the house?” Fowlis peered through the mirror and tried to see the upside-down map.

  “Well it should do, sir, but look here, see this one, sir, someone’s crossed it out.”

  Handle held up the chart. Fowlis spotted his elaborate glowing symbol beside a small mirror in an inner corridor. A black cross blotted out a mirror in a room in the older section of the house, not far from the glowing symbol. Slanted letters spelled out the word Bibliothece within the drawn boundaries of the room.

  “The library. I might have guessed it. But why would someone block a mirror? I am quite sure that someone was using it to view the room, and that very same someone left after I challenged them,” said Fowlis.

  “I don’t know, sir. It can’t just be the problems we’ve been having with the Veil, if someone’s actually altered the chart. Apart from the assistant handling it, only the council, the associates and the Managing Director have access to the charts.” Handle turned to look at the other assistants behind him, bent over their desks and shuffling through scrolls of their own on behalf of their haunters.

  “I cannot see the Managing Director troubling herself with something at this level. It would appear that someone is not using the Veil to communicate through, as we are doing now, but they are using it to cloak the mirror entirely, to prevent its use. The mirror in the library must be linked to a specific mirror at HQ. If I were a betting man, I’d say the owner of the thumbprint on the glass is our culprit,” said Fowlis.

  “Do you think someone is spying on you, sir?” asked Handle.

  “I would have considered Charlie, but he would be unlikely to have access to the charts before they were issued to you, and this does seem somewhat beyond his means.”

  “I can try to talk to the Sisters, see if I can find out what’s going on with the Veil. Maybe they’ll know something about blocking mirrors.”

  “If you could do that, Handle, it would be greatly appreciated. Any enquiries into Bonnie Prince Charlie could not hurt, although I stress the need for extreme discretion at all times where he is concerned,” replied Fowlis.

  “Oh definitely, sir.”

  “In that case, I shall leave this in your more-than-capable hands, Handle, and bid you goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  The mirror fogged, and Fowlis was left alone in the corridor with Brie.

  “Well, Brie, here is a fine to-do! Never have I experienced such subterfuge during an assignment. Still, I am confident that if anyone can uncover the truth, it will be Handle. It is at this juncture that I bid you goodnight. I shall see you on the morrow, my little friend.”

  Fowlis bowed to the mouse, who squeaked her goodnight. She watched him drift upwards, turning to disappear into her mouse hole once his boots passed through the ceiling.

  Chapter 13

  Sarah woke with a start. Her eyes struggled to focus in the early morning sunlight creeping beneath her curtains. She wore the same clothes as the day before and she couldn’t feel her left arm, which was numb from the shoulder where she’d been lying with it stretched over the side of her bed.

  Sarah had passed out on her bed the night before and she had dreamed about the cavalier. She couldn’t remember his name, but he had a kind face and gorgeous hair. She thought she’d talked to him, and he’d explained things, but the details faded in the bright morning.

  Sarah struggled to remember the specifics. She’d found something in her jeans, and then he’d appeared. She just couldn’t remember what that something was. Sarah looked on the floor, but she couldn’t see anything.

  It would help if I knew what I was looking for.

  A knock at her door made Sarah jump. She gripped the edge of her bed until her knuckles went white.

  “He-hello?”

  “Sarah? Are you awake?”

  Sarah relaxed at the sound of her father’s voice.

  “Yeah, Dad. What time is it?”

  “Just after eight. I’m doing some breakfast. Would you like some?”

  “Sure, Dad,” replied Sarah.

  His footsteps died away, and she slithered off the bed. Sarah patted the rug and sent tiny clouds of dust into the air. Snippets of the conversation drifted through her mind. It couldn’t have been just a dream; it was too vivid. What was he called? Frederick? Francis? Fowlis. Fowlis Westerby.

  Sarah reached under the bed and her fingers brushed cold metal. She let out a triumphant cry when her hand fastened around ornate curlicues and smooth ivory. She opened her fist and laid eyes on the cameo necklace.

  “I had rather hoped you had forgotten that.”

  Sarah started at the sound of the voice and looked up to see the cavalier standing over her. The outlines of her furniture showed through him. He gazed down at her with a mixture of exasperation and curiosity. She recognised the expression from her mother.

  “It was real!” said Sarah.

  “Yes, indeed it was. And yet you remain unafraid of me. Curious.”

  “Why would I be scared of you?” asked Sarah.

  “Fear is the accepted reaction towards seeing a ghost. Indeed, we count on it.”

  “You like scaring people?”

  “It comes with the territory. I neither enjoy it nor dislike it. I am simply skilled at creating the requisite response within a set location and a given period of time. I believe tha
t to be the definition of a successful haunting.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow and pushed herself upwards so she could perch on the edge of the mattress. The cavalier watched her with an impassive eye.

  “You’re Fowlis, right?” she asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “And you’re trying to tell me that haunting is, what, your job?” Sarah turned the cameo over in her hand and traced its elegant patterns with her fingers. The cavalier’s mouth twitched at the corners.

  “It is both an occupation and a vocation. Has been for over four centuries.”

  “I don’t get it. I thought that ghosts haunted where they died. You know, you have to wander around for eternity until someone helps you to the light, or until you finish whatever it is keeping you here.”

  “A cruel fairytale perpetuated by popular culture, and one that has become so entrenched in the consciousness of the living that it resounds throughout Time itself.” The cavalier struck a dramatic pose and rolled his eyes.

  “Well if that’s all rubbish, then what actually happens?”

  “Unfortunately, I would rather not divulge such information. Naturally, you may rest assured that you shall know everything once the time is right, and I am pleased to inform you that the time will not be for many years yet. However, I have some business to which I must attend, and therefore I would ask with the utmost respect that you put the pendant back, and allow me to resume my duties,” replied the cavalier.

  “Not until you explain what’s going on! Why do you keep asking me about that pendant? How are you going to haunt me if I know you’re real? It’s not exactly scary if I know it’s just you running around shouting ‘Boo’, is it?”

  “I would never be so crass as to run around shouting ‘Boo’, you impertinent girl,” replied the cavalier. He scowled.

  Sarah shivered as the temperature dropped. The cold swept through the room and dusted the furniture with a coating of frost. A protesting scream bubbled up in her throat but it hit the icy air and died away. Fowlis’s expression softened and the cold dissipated, leaving goose bumps on her skin and a chill in her chattering teeth.

  “I apologise, my dear, but as you can see, I have many weapons in my arsenal.”

  Sarah wrapped her arms around her chest and struggled to shiver warmth back into herself.

  “I have had many years to perfect my technique.” Fowlis smiled, his features shaped by pride in his work.

  Sarah couldn’t resist returning the smile. She’d been right—he did have a kind face. “I still don’t get what you’re doing here. You said last night that you’d been assigned the house—what did you mean by that?”

  “What exactly makes you think that I shall tell you?” asked Fowlis.

  “Because I’ve got this. The more you tell me to put it back, the more I think it’s something important. Besides, I’ve got all day to annoy you. But you seem like you’re in a hurry.” Sarah held up the pendant and grinned.

  “Oh, you rotter!”

  “Go on then, explain things to me. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. Who’d even believe me?”

  Fowlis cocked his head to one side and regarded her through narrowed eyes. He sighed after a few moments.

  “Very well. At the most basic level, it comes down to this. Ghosts are assigned hauntings according to both their areas of expertise and the level of difficulty involved. The better the result, the better hauntings we get in future. We like to move up the league tables, so to speak,” replied Fowlis.

  “League tables?”

  “Indeed. Even the dead prize a sense of organisation and recognition for one’s talents. However, I am severely limiting my chances of performing well in this assignment the longer that I speak to you. So, if you would be so kind…”

  “I’m not putting this back until you’ve answered my questions. Unless you count empty suits of armour or grimy old paintings, it’s not like I’ve got anyone else to talk to around here.” Sarah choked on the bitterness in her tone, and tears pricked the back of her eyes. She looked at the floor, feigning fascination in the pattern on the rug.

  “Well…several anomalies of a somewhat alarming nature have already blighted this assignment, and I do not believe it would do a great deal of harm for me to remain for a few more minutes,” said Fowlis. A friendly warmth coloured his tone.

  Sarah looked up. The cavalier smiled at her. The idea of kindness from a ghost almost prompted Sarah to burst into tears, but she swallowed hard and blinked away the sadness.

  “Okay, so…how come I can see you now? I could only see you before because you were in the painting.”

  Fowlis looked down at the pendant in Sarah’s hands.

  “You’re holding my anchor.”

  “Your what?”

  “My anchor. All spirits have anchors that bind them to a particular place for the duration of their time on the physical plane. If the anchor is removed, the ghost goes with it.”

  “I thought exorcists got rid of ghosts? Don’t they…drive them out, or something?” Sarah remembered a horror film she had technically been too young to see. An old priest had battled with a demon inside a young girl. Sarah wished she could forget it. That was a slumber party she regretted—she had suffered nightmares for weeks afterward.

  “Again, another popular misconception. Exorcists do not drive out a spirit—they do not have the ability, or the means. No, they search the house for the anchor and then remove it, and they hide the mundane explanation behind smoke and mirrors. I have known some particularly nasty exorcists to drop anchors in the ocean.” Fowlis wrinkled his nose.

  “What happens to the ghosts? Do they have to stay there?”

  “HQ recall the spirits, but they cannot re-assign them until a new anchor has been found. Don’t worry, there are no legions of ghosts sitting twiddling their thumbs at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.” Fowlis softened at the look of concern on Sarah’s face. “No, it is not pleasant to be recalled and then reassigned since you tend to end up getting the dross that no one else wanted to do until you can climb back up the rankings.”

  “So for as long as I hold this pendant, I can see you? And if I took a bus to town, you’d come with me?”

  “That is correct. Unless you put the pendant back where you found it and let me continue with my work.” Fowlis looked hopeful about this possibility, but Sarah couldn’t put the pendant back and pretend nothing had happened. Here she was, sitting in her room talking to someone who had been dead for centuries. She was having an actual conversation, instead of being talked at, or over. Better still, she held the proof that ghosts were real. Surely, if anything would remind her old friends of her existence, it was this.

  “Can you be recalled while I’ve got this?” Sarah glanced down at the pendant and fought off a yawn. She couldn’t be tired so soon after waking up.

  “No. I cannot be recalled if my anchor is in the possession of the living. Do not ask me why this would be so as I do not know myself. Sometimes it is best not to question everything.”

  “Do you show up in photos?” asked Sarah. The potential comments she’d get on a spirit photograph posted online drifted in front of her eyes.

  “Of course I do. I believe you have already seen a spirit photograph and, before you ask, yes, that was me. However, if you are considering asking to take a self-portrait with me, then I shall have to decline,” replied Fowlis.

  He strode across the room and sat down on the wooden stool beside the dressing table. The mirror showed through him—only he cast no reflection. She wanted to ask why when the truth of his words finally hit her.

  “It’s called a selfie, actually. And hang on, you know about that spirit photograph? On Tim’s laptop? How could you know about that?” she asked.

  “I was in the room the entire time,” replied Fowlis.

  “But he said there was nothing in the house!”

  “He said as much simply because I avoided those rooms he chose to frequent. I cared little for his arrogan
t manner. It is a policy at HQ to work well with investigators, and many of them are intelligent and polite company, but that man was a dreadful bore,” said Fowlis. “I chose to visit your father instead.”

  “Why? He doesn’t believe in ghosts.” She struggled to fight the sudden heaviness in her eyelids.

  “I preferred his company to that of your investigator. Besides, his work is truly fascinating, and his office is most impressive. But then science has always held a strong interest for me. Back in my day, scientists still believed they could turn lead into gold, and they thought women could turn men into toads. Of course, young Newton turned up in 1642, and he was a bright young spark. Such a shame to see him now.”

  “Why?” asked Sarah.

  “He specialises in haunted fairground rides. It hardly befits a man of his status and intellect.”

  “Wait a second—you know Sir Isaac Newton?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Whoa.” Sarah couldn’t imagine knowing anyone famous.

  “Quite. Now, if you don’t mind…” Fowlis gestured to the pendant.

  “Are you going to haunt my dad again? He spends a lot of time in his office. Mum wants to turn this place into a luxury B&B and I think he just wants to stay out of the way. Did he know you were there?” Sarah couldn’t stop the questions from tumbling out of her mouth.

  “No. I kept myself to myself. I have encountered him since, although he is resolute in disbelieving in the supernatural, despite proof to the contrary.” Fowlis removed his hat, straightened the feather, and put his hat back on again.

  “Well, how about if I introduce you? He’ll have to believe in you if he can see you and talk to you, like me,” said Sarah. Her online friends would have to believe she’d met a ghost if her father supported her story. She tried to compose a status update that would convey the right mixture of nonchalance and excitement, but tiredness pawed at her mind.

  “I would concur, but however, sadly I cannot meet your father. As it happens, I should not even be talking to you.”

  “So why are you?” Sarah stifled a yawn. Why was she so tired? This wasn’t like her at all.