Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [149]
“Shame related to what she became in life?”
“You need not mince words. She was a whore and died a whore’s death.”
“Shame is a predictable human reaction, not at all what I’d expect of a ghost.”
“I told you it was a guess. Whether or not it is correct . . .” He spread his hands. “However, do not think that she is other than human, that she holds some supernatural charge. A ghost is but a human relic, a shred of the soul torn, caught, and left to flutter upon a metaphysical nail. Nor should you hope to communicate with her. You may be able to stimulate a verbal response, but that is a twitch, a reflex, nothing more. It is my hope, a faint one, that your presence here will stimulate a response that will provide me with a clue.”
Feeling overtaxed, I sat at one of the benches. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in order to still my mind; a thought occurred to me. “You joined the Inventors’ Club three years ago, did you not? Would I be wrong in assuming that you applied for membership shortly after your sister’s demise?”
He glowered at me, but said nothing.
“Might the two events be connected?” I asked. “Did you suspect one of our fellows prior to the appearance of Christine’s ghost?”
He withdrew a pocket watch and flicked open the case. “I prefer not to color your opinion with my own.”
I objected to this, saying I needed every bit of information he had gathered in order to carry out an exacting investigation, but he deflected my arguments.
“It’s late and I am weary,” he said. “Let us go down. If you wish, I can offer you a bed and all the amenities. That prospect may have greater appeal than does a lengthy coach ride.”
MY ROOM ON the second floor was staid by contrast to the salon, having sensible oak furniture, a bed with a carved headboard and pineapple posts, logs in the fireplace, and only a pair of erotic lithographs on the wall to remind of the house’s former occupation. Recalling Richmond’s assertion that little had been changed, this led me to hypothesize that while Englishmen might relish an exotic façade, most preferred to take their pleasure in an atmosphere redolent of hearth and home. I had no means of lighting a fire, but just when it seemed I would have to sleep in a cold bed, there came a tapping at the door and Jane entered bearing a small bundle of kindling. Speaking in a northern accent partially scrubbed away by life in London, she said that she had been sent to prepare my room. Once the fire was going, filling the air with the aromatic scent of burning cedar, throwing shadows onto the wall, lending the room the atmosphere of a cozy cave, I sat by the hearth and watched her turn down the sheets, puzzling over the resemblance she and Richmond’s other assistant bore to Christine. This likeness, I realized, was not limited to her face, but extended to her body as well—long of limb, lissome yet full-breasted. Once she had finished with the bedding, she began to unbutton her tunic, doing so as though it were the most ordinary and expectable of actions. She had the garment halfway off before I regained my equilibrium and told her forcefully to desist. She covered herself and, with an air of bewilderment, asked if I would prefer that she send up Dorothea to entertain me.
“Entertainment of any sort will not be necessary,” I said. “But I should like a few words with you, if you please.”
She sat primly in the chair facing mine, hands clasped in her lap.
“My name is Samuel Prothero,” I said. “Your employer has asked that I assist him in an inquiry regarding the death of his sister.”
“So he told us.”
The fire popped and she gave a start.
“Prior to Christine’s death, how long were you in the house?”
“Roughly four years. I had my sixteenth birthday shortly after I arrived.”
“You knew her well, then?”
“As well as any. She was always lovely to us girls. Honest and kind. She had her peculiar ways, though. And her secrets.”
“I’m sure you learned some of them, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Well . . . ?”