Aftersight (23 page)

A short time later, a pair of men from the gardening staff arrived with blankets. They helped me to my feet and together everyone walked to the infirmary, where Nurse Carter examined me as the others dried off.

"What happened?" Sir Alex asked, opening a medical file at the end of my bed.

"I believe she may have had a seizure," Nurse Carter answered.

Sir Alex, a former physician, examined the chart with a doctor's practiced eye. He hummed pensively. "Tell me, Becky, what do you remember about what happened to you?"

"I don't remember anything. It's like I passed out."

The girls explained that I'd been drawing in my sketchbook when my eyes had rolled back into my head. I started shaking and moaning, swaying back and forth as if in a trance. No one knew what to do until Sara received a message from Sam, Sir Alex's foxhound.
"Get her across the water,"
he'd said and, not having a better plan, they grabbed my arms and dragged me through the creek. Once on the other side, the trembling stopped and I came out of it.

Sir Alex asked Sara and Nicole to show him the spot where it happened and they left, leaving me alone in the infirmary with Cali and Nurse Carter. I was still damp, wrapped in blankets up to my ears. I couldn't stop trembling.

Cali sat on the edge of my bed, biting her lip ring, watching me with wide eyes.

"You okay?"

I shuddered, shaking my head. "I'm scared. I'm so scared." I pulled my ponytail between my teeth and started chomping on it.

Cali gently pulled the hair out of my mouth, then reached under the covers and took my hand. I looked straight into her dark brown eyes. Whatever enmity had lingered between us seemed gone now. Gradually, I started to settle down. I could almost feel the fear sloughing off my shoulders and draining away, as if Cali was somehow vacuuming the nervous energy out of me and taking it on herself. By the time Sir Alex returned, I was reclining comfortably, sipping hot tea. Cali had brought me fresh towels and a change of clothes. I was warm again, but still shivered slightly.

"Feeling better?" Sir Alex asked.

"I am. Much better."

The old man sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at me kindly. "I've had a chance to survey the location where your little episode took place. I'm quite convinced that what happened to you was not physiological. But after your trouble at the garden party the other day and now this, I think it prudent to have you sent to town to be looked over by a physician, just to be safe. You'll agree?"

"Oh, boy, doctors," I said flatly, shaking my head. "Count me in."

To my great relief, Sara went with me on what turned out to be an overnight hospital stay. After the usual tedious onslaught of tests, which I had become accustomed to during my countless medical visits since the car accident, the doctors proclaimed me physically fit and mentally sound. If I'd had a seizure there was no evidence of it now. By the next afternoon, Sara and I were back at Waltham, happy to be home.

We were treated to an amazing Indian dinner provided by a chef visiting from New Delhi. It was full of flavors both fiery and soothing and by the time we returned to our rooms that evening I felt full, rested, and restored. The girls and I had gotten along well and even Cali had been friendly and full of concern. The dark and heavy energy that had lately settled over our rooms seemed completely gone now. Nicole and Cali had aired out the place that afternoon and there was a light, spring breeze wafting through open windows, moving the curtains back and forth in slow, lazy spirals.

Someone had recovered my sketchbook from the picnic and set it on the table next to my bed. It was partly smeared with dirt and a little warped from where it had gotten wet. I was paging through it to inspect the damage to my artwork when I saw it, the picture I'd been sketching when I'd lost consciousness.

It was of Sara and my bedroom at Waltham. In the picture I was lying in bed, asleep. A dark figure stood next to me, bending over my pillow as if preparing to give me a goodnight kiss. It was an old man dressed completely in black. I recognized him instantly. He was the man from my oil painting of the four girls, the one I called
Inn
o
cence Accused
. He had longish white hair tucked partially into a black skullcap. It draped down over his shoulders like spider webs. He looked exactly as he did in my painting, but in this sketch he wore a crucifix.

The room turned completely cold. All the wind leaked out of my lungs and for a few seconds I couldn't catch my breath.

Unable to move, I shouted for the girls, who rushed in, either sensing my distress or hearing it in my voice. They were each as stunned as I was when they saw the sketch and for a long moment they stared at it, perfect expressions of horror frozen on their faces.

"That's the man," said Sara, "the man from my riding accident. I remember it all now. He was standing on the side of the riding path just before my fall. He was the one who spooked my horse."

"I think I've seen this guy, too," Cali added, "during an out-of-body experience. It was in an old-fashion kitchen and he was making out with this young girl. I mean, they were really going at it."

I told the girls about my oil painting, the courtroom scene with the four young girls with shaved heads. They stared at me with the same dazed expressions, unable to speak.

Finally Nicole said, "Oh, my… I know this man, too." She pressed her fingers to the sketch, covering the man's mouth so that only his nose and eyes were visible. "This is the man, or a bearded version of him, who used to appear to me as a child. The man that used to tell me that he was Santa Claus."

Tyson

Northern London

April 24

I was sitting on the wrong side of the car, driving on the wrong side of the road, and the whole setup was making me carsick. It'd been a long flight and I was dog tired. My driver, Brooks, who was sitting where the passenger ought to be, weaved through traffic like we was still on the highway. But this was the suburbs, and a nice part of town, unless I missed my guess.

The houses here were either old-fashion Tudors or boxy Georgians, all freshly painted and well cared for, with neatly trimmed front gardens. But it wasn't the extravagant architecture or the large, leafy trees that gave off the smell of money. It was the luxury cars parked along the street, all freshly washed and gleaming in the sun.

Brooks took the corner too sharp and we clipped a forest green sedan parked along the curb, sheering off its left side-view mirror in a spectacular hail of diamond-size glass. Nice.

I saw Tommy up ahead, standing on the side of the road. Checking to see that his watch still worked, I guess. I don't know, maybe we was a little late.

Brooks zoomed past him, screeched to a halt, and reversed until we was right next to him. Tommy looked up and down the street, checking to see if we'd been seen. He was a little paranoid about the press getting wind of this. Whoever we was paying a visit to wasn't so keen on being seen with a couple of known ghost hunters... That is to say, paranormal investigators.

"Is this your idea of inconspicuous, Brooks?" Tommy asked when the driver rolled down his window.

"Sorry, Boss. We were held up at the airport and traffic through Wembley was murder."

"Well, at least you're here in one piece, which is more than I can say for that car back there. You'll leave a note?"

"You read my mind, Boss."

I heaved my shoulder into the passenger side door to get it open. Brooks' own car had seen better days. When I was free of the tiny interior, I ran my hand through my shoulder-length hair and tugged my black cowboy hat down over my head. "Howdy, Tommy. Good to see ya. Sorry we're late. Customs thought I looked suspicious."

"I hope you were thoroughly examined, including a full cavity search."

I grinned. "That was the best part."

Tommy banged his hand three times on the car roof. "Take his luggage back to the flat and let everyone know he's arrived."

I grabbed Tommy's hand and pumped it twice. "I'm still not quite right from the flight. That lasagna I had ain't settin' right."

"Now you know how I felt when I was in your country. How are things? Any luck getting another look at the Pendleton Plantation?"

"I think I might have had enough of that place the first time."

Tommy grinned. "Well, they'll be plenty of time to reminisce tonight, in a pub with a pint. For now we have to get to work. Sorry we had to hold this meeting so quickly, but Lord Humphreys is a busy man and our only way to be absolutely sure we'd catch him at home was to meet on a Sunday."

"So this is the scene of the crime?" I asked, gawking up at the two-story stone house. It was tall and symmetrical, with bay windows on either side of the bright red front door. The second floor featured window boxes with a cascade of white flowers. Dormer windows winked from the tall rooftop like a set of triple eyes, implying a sizable attic tucked under the roofline. A stoutly columned overhang above the front door supported a small veranda for the upstairs.

"This is it."

"It don't look that old," I observed.

"It isn't. It's only about a hundred and fifty years old."

"Well, where I come from that's downright ancient. Let's check it out."

"No, not that way. In back. Lord Humphreys doesn't want anyone seeing us go through his front door."

"Oh, please. This for real?"

"Vocal members of Parliament like Lord Humphreys don't take these things lightly. He's in a bit of a spot if the press were to nab us anywhere near him. He's a bit desperate at the moment, which is one of the reasons why I called you in. He's relying on our discretion."

"As soon as you told me there was a kid involved," I said, "I had to come. I know what it's like havin' issues like this and not havin' any adult help. We'll get to the bottom of it. This where we'll set up the van?"

"No equipment on this one. Only what we can carry with us. And just you and me. No other staff. This has to be handled quietly."

"On the QT. Got it. You can count on me."

Tommy tapped on the back door. The door's window was covered with a web of curtains, showing the lacey outline of a kitchen. A mountain of a man immediately filled the view, a round head with a rounder body. He opened the door and welcomed us in, looking this way and that before closing the door behind us.

"Thomas Banks?"

"I'm Thomas. This is my associate from America, Mr. Tyson Allard."

"You weren't followed?"

"My man took extra precautions to see that Tyson here arrived quietly and with great dispatch," Tommy assured him.

Lord Humphreys shook my hand. It made me think of the time I fondled a starfish at the Tampa Aquarium. "Come this way," he said.

He led us into a book-lined study in the back of the house with its wood blinds drawn. Humphreys was a large man made larger by an imposing brown tweed suit. He wore a thin, very short mustache that was so narrow it might have been penciled on. He took a seat behind an intricately carved mahogany desk, smothering the chair, and gestured for us to sit. "I want to thank you for coming on such short notice. We have a mutual friend, I think."

"Mr. Laremy," Tommy responded.

"Yes. James. He told me you were able to eliminate his little problem quickly and discreetly. I'm hoping you can do the very same for mine."

"We'll try. I've briefed Tyson here about the situation, but I wonder if you couldn't run through it for him in your own words."

Lord Humphreys sighed deeply, skewing his jaw. His gaze grew kind of distant and for a while it seemed like he wasn't going to answer. "It started about three months ago, sometime in early February. My daughter's friends were over—"

"That would be Emily," Tommy explained.

"Just so," Lord Humphreys went on. "Emily, yes. Right. Emily had a few friends here for a sleepover and they were playing with those whats-it boards."

"A spirit board," Tommy said.

"Okay, you lost me there, Tex."

"It's like a game board," Tommy explained. "There are a row of letters from A to Z, a row of numbers from one to zero, and the word
Yes
in one corner and
No
in the other. A little pointer contraption called a plancette lays on the board. The idea is that a small group puts their fingers lightly on the plancette and asks questions, inviting unseen spirits to move the plancette to make the answers."

"Got it," I said. "We call it something different in the States, but I got the picture."

"Right, a spirit board." Lord Humphreys went on. "Well, apparently they had some success getting it to work. Someone came through named Gotfrid. A German chap, apparently, and after that the problems began. That's when Emily started having nightmares."

"How old's Emily?" I asked.

"Twelve," Tommy answered.

"Twelve," Humphreys parroted. "Right, then. She started having nightmares. Night terrors, it seems more to me. Waking up in the middle of the night, screaming for us, perspiring profusely. Said someone's shaken her awake."

"Emily's an only child?" I asked.

Tommy nodded.

"This has been going on since February, but recently it's gotten worse. Lately, she's claiming to be scratched and smacked. I've seen the welts, bruises, and marks myself. One night Emily's mother and I ran into her room after she'd started screaming and there was a big red mark across her cheek, as if she'd been given a good hard striking."

Tommy and I traded significant looks.

"I know what you're thinking," Lord Humphreys interrupted. "Neither I nor my wife has ever laid a hand on the child. Not even a spanking."

"And you're sure she's not makin' these marks herself?"

"No, I can't be sure," Humphreys shot back testily. "But I think it unlikely."

"Why?"

"Because some of the marks... some of the more significant scratch marks have appeared on her back. They look like someone's taken their fingernails and dragged them across her skin with enough pressure to draw blood. Even if she wanted to, Emily wouldn't be able to do that to herself. It's just not physically possible. She wouldn't be able to reach."