Uncanny Times, page 5
Suddenly, Rosemary didn’t mind letting Aaron handle the police. She glanced at the chair off to the side, where the other woman’s hat had rested, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow in question.
“Please,” Miss Baker said, gesturing to it. “I may not be able to help much, but I will do what I can.”
Rosemary hooked her fingers around the arm of the chair, dragging it carefully toward the desk, wincing a little when the legs squeaked against the polished wood of the floor. They must have just finished this building for the wood to be that unscuffed. Or perhaps the building simply didn’t see much use. A pity, if so.
The librarian waited until she had settled herself, then lifted a pen from the blotter and pulled a pad of paper toward her. “If you have already collected our Bessie, what else might you be looking for? There are a number of ghost ships reputed to haunt these waters, though none locally. Or perhaps the Dragon of Lake Superior?” She pursed her lips in thought. “There are fewer stories about him than Bessie, but they date back to the local Indian tribes across the border in Canada. Although they call him the Great Water Cat, not a dragon, and say he’s a shape-shifter demon of some sort. Whenever a boat disappears without a trace, the old-timers say the Water Cat ate them.”
That sounded… like something she and Aaron should likely follow up on, but not just then. One hunt at a time.
“Something a little more local, ideally.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees and leaned forward, clasping her hands and resting them in her lap. They were looking for something that hunted on land, and hunted viciously. “Relevant to the town itself, perhaps?”
If Dr. Lovelace had been killed by an uncanny, it was likely the creature had been here for some time. Rovin’ Marys aside, few uncanny traveled far from their dens or lairs, and damned few of the large ones could be in any place for long without leaving a mark. If there was something in the woods around town, someone would have encountered it before now, and hopefully lived to tell the tale. Even if they didn’t know what it was they were telling.
“Oh dear.” Miss Baker turned the pen in her hands. A simple silver bangle glinted on her wrist, a marked difference from the flashy garnet bobs in her ears. “I’m afraid that the town has not been around long enough to gather any truly interesting legends. Our ghosts tend to congregate at Old Fort, and of course, Holy Sepulchre, closer to Rochester.” For a moment, Rosemary thought the woman would cross herself, but a hand remained busy with the pen, the other resting in her lap. “Such a terrible thought, that souls remain trapped here, rather than being freed to heaven.”
“Yes. Quite.” Rosemary had never seen a ghost herself, but from what she had been taught, they were less lost souls than lingering energies of every festering resentment and deep-rooted grudge ever held. There was a reason folk were shriven before death, after all. If the town had ghosts, they would certainly know of it.
She needed to keep the woman on track. “I suppose I was hoping for something of a more… physical nature?”
The woman’s hands froze on the pen, a little hiccup of movement, then began turning it again. “How so?”
Rosemary wasn’t so charmed by the woman that she didn’t notice the hesitation, but chalked it up to surprise.
“Less ghosts, more… solid? For instance, my mother told me stories of the whip-poor-will men. They are said to be onionskin wraiths, frail but powerful, with the ability to grant a man a wish—or ruin his life, if he disrespected them.”
The librarian now looked amused rather than worried. “I admit such a thing would be more interesting than ordinary ghosts haunting the cupboard or schoolhouse. But no, there are no such stories told here. And no elves, either. It would certainly be useful to have someone shelve the books and order my papers for me overnight!” She had dimples, did Miss Baker, and knew how to use them. “Perhaps I should leave a bowl of cream out overnight, and see what happens?”
“Likely you would have a clowder of cats rather than anything useful,” Rosemary said. Inwardly, she was wincing; people were often such fools, foolish enough to in fact try such a thing. At best, they might end up with brownies, seeking to trade skills for shelter. At worst…
At worst the fey would arrive.
She would not wish that on anyone, much less this librarian with the soft brown eyes and dimples.
“Of course, with recent events, we may have our own ghosts soon enough.” Miss Baker shuddered, but if Rosemary was any judge of people, and she prided herself that she was, there was something other than fear or distress behind that shudder. She had the look of a woman who knew she knew more than anyone else and was desperate to prove it. The look of a woman in need of a confidante.
Rosemary schooled her own features, showing a hint more than polite surprise and curiosity as a baited lure. “Oh?”
Some situations, it was better to lead people sideways into indiscretion, implying a shared knowledge so that they need not fear spilling secrets they should not have. That was Rosemary’s strength, and why she was usually the one to speak with possible witnesses. But she thought that this woman would rather be the dispenser of gossip than the sharer of same. Power, for a woman who might not otherwise have any past the walls of this library.
Rosemary felt a twinge of regret at using the woman so, but did not let that stop her.
There was a moment where it seemed as though Miss Baker would not speak. Then Rosemary could swear she saw something break behind the other woman’s eyes. “An older gentleman was found dead in the road a few mornings back. Terrible tragedy, of course. His poor wife. The police are saying that it was a cougar, and some folk swear they heard it scream in the night. But…” Her voice dropped, the woman readying to impart a secret, and Rosemary leaned in, just a touch. “But cats don’t leave their food in the middle of a road. Trust me, they don’t. And even if once it might have been startled away by a car approaching, or another animal, what about the others?”
Rosemary sat up, all pretense of idle curiosity abandoned. “Others?”
Miss Baker nodded her head, and her voice dropped again, almost to a whisper, so that Rosemary could barely hear. “There were two bodies found, before his. James Underwood, and poor Todd Ottering. And now with the doctor, three in a single month!”
The Widow Lovelace had said nothing of any of this, might not have known. She had not seemed the sort to gossip. But as a doctor, even retired, would he have known about the two before him? Was that what had kept him awake and worried at night?
“That is truly awful,” Rosemary said with absolute sincerity. “They died in the same manner? Do the police think a cougar is stalking the town?”
If they did, they were worse than fools. No, she was reasonably sure they thought they were dealing with a human predator. But was this why they were pretending otherwise, to prevent rumors from spreading?
“Not the same way, no. Mr. Underwood worked at the mill,” Miss Baker said. “They said it was a terrible accident, and heaven knows it’s terribly dangerous work, being around such large machinery. And poor Mr. Ottering was beaten to death. They said it must have been a hobo come on him and become violent. It simply seems hard to believe, here in Brunson. We’re not Rochester, after all.”
“Indeed.”
Miss Baker’s face softened. “But I cannot imagine Mr. Ottering being seen as a threat to anyone, even the most benighted of souls. And poor Dr. Lovelace? He’d be more likely to bring the poor man home and feed him. They were both good men.” There was something in her voice, as though she was begging Rosemary to say that the deaths were merely rotten chance, that there was no connection, no evil in the world.
“Alas, there are some who will attack for their own meanness or hurt, rather than any cause or insult given. The wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose.”
It was a platitude, but something in her words made Miss Baker’s eyes widen, as though shocked. Surely she was not so innocent as to think all men kind and good?
“Oh. Oh dear.”
Rosemary felt a moment of guilt for worrying the woman, who was clearly taking her words to heart. “I would not worry overmuch about ghosts; I’m sure that their spirits were laid to rest with a proper burial, and their families given peace.” And if not, ghosts were simple to dispel. Whatever was lurking here, which might have killed three people now, would be more difficult.
“Oh. Of course, yes.” Miss Baker placed her pen down on the paper, fussily precise, her dimples gone now. “I am sorry that I was unable to help you more with your search. If you would like, I could read through some of our older books and see if the local folklore has anything I might have overlooked? Perhaps another town might suit your needs better?”
Rosemary tilted her head, taken by surprise by the other woman’s sudden change of tone. Rather than upset, or frightened, she sounded almost… angry? Her training told her to dig further. But to continue, after being told quite clearly that this conversation was at an end, would raise suspicions.
“Yes. Perhaps. I do thank you for your time, and your patience. Perhaps I will have a chance to return and browse for myself, before we leave. But for now I must rejoin my brother, before he wonders where I’ve gotten myself to.”
Miss Baker did not stand to see her out, but Rosemary felt the woman’s gaze on her as she walked to the door. And yet, when she turned back to wave farewell, the librarian had turned her attention to the papers in front of her, pen working furiously.
* * *
Outside the library, Rosemary paused, frowning at a spot of dirt that had attached itself to the palm of her right glove. She could not remember touching anything that had been dirty, but perhaps when she moved the chair. The action allowed her time to wait, counting off the seconds under her breath. Sure enough, after a moment the delicate curtains in a window of the library fluttered slightly, as though someone stood behind, twitching them aside to see the road. Or, perhaps, whoever was standing in the road.
Miss Baker was watching her. To make sure she left? To catch one last glimpse? Rosemary was not unaware of the impression she left, and the librarian, a modern young woman of limited opportunity, had seemed gratified to have an attractive new audience.
“But not at the end,” she said to her glove. “At the end, she wanted me gone. Why?”
There was no way to tell. Rosemary could only go with what her intuition told her, and that was that Miss Baker, town librarian, had told her everything she knew, and now feared that her indiscretion might be used against her.
“Never fear,” she told the woman as she began to walk away from the building, to every appearance a young lady with nothing more on her mind than a soiled glove and an engagement for tea. “I would not do that to another woman. Not without reason, at least.”
She was no radical or suffragette to wave banners and risk arrest for a Cause, but as Aaron would say, she wasn’t not, either. And gossip, certainly, was a right both sexes should exercise as they saw fit.
Particularly when it was so useful to her needs.
Rosemary nodded at the pair walking toward her, a young man and an older gentleman, who nodded in return as they passed. They were clearly taking a constitutional for the older man’s health, as he was bundled in a heavier jacket than even the winter chill could justify, and the younger man held his arm in such a way as to indicate that he feared his companion might fall.
The elderly died easily, of so many causes. But the other two victims had been younger men, one of them still hale enough to work in a factory.
“Three deaths in a single month.” It was hardly unheard of in a town this size, particularly if it was indeed growing quickly. And certainly, an accident and a death by misadventure, although terrible, were not things unexpected in this day and age. Factories could be dangerous places, and murders… well, despite what most people wanted to believe, they could and did happen everywhere, even without uncanny influences.
But Dr. Lovelace had been worried about something before his death. He had instructed his widow to contact them. Every instinct Rosemary had told her something was here. Something violent, and uncanny. But were the other deaths in truth connected to Dr. Lovelace’s, or were they purely coincidence?
Rosemary exhaled, willing her nerves to settle. With luck, Aaron had been able to learn more from the police. Miss Baker would likely not welcome a second visit.
She checked the hour on her wristlet, surprised to see that very little time had passed. It was unlikely that Aaron was done yet, as it would inevitably take him longer to find someone official who could and would speak with him. But instead of heading to the tea room where they’d agreed to meet, Rosemary turned back toward the boarding house. She had not wanted to bring Botheration with them originally, for good and valid reasons, but if she had time, there was no reason not to give the hound a chance to sniff around. If he found nothing, that would be useful to know. And if he did find something…
Well, that would also be useful to know.
* * *
Rosemary was late. Aaron checked his watch yet again, then clicked the cover closed and dropped it into his vest pocket, frowning. An hour and a little more past when they had split up. It was not like his sister to dawdle; they had both been raised to be punctual.
“She’s likely just having better luck than you,” he told the tea steeping on the table in front of him, the cream-colored pot gleaming under the soft lights of the tea room. “If you go in search of her, she’ll only be annoyed with you.”
It might be that she had found something worth following up on, or merely gotten tangled in a conversation she could not gracefully excuse herself from, and would be here any moment, her face flushed and eyes gleaming, and with a notebook full of information.
He had his own notebook, tucked away in his pocket, and information to share as well. The police station had been surprisingly useful, although not intentionally. Aaron drummed his fingers on the table, the white cloth muffling the sound and turning it into an exercise of frustration. He could do with a cup of coffee, not tea, or better yet a belt of brandy. But that would have to wait. He did not drink while he was on a hunt; he could not afford to have his instincts dulled. One drawback of Huntsmen blood: they did not handle alcohol well.
He poured the tea, then shifted in his chair, aware that he was being watched. He was one of only two men in the place this early in the afternoon, the other an older gentleman there with his young daughters, neither of them old enough to put up their hair, playing very seriously at pouring the tea for their father. The rest of the guests were women in groups of two and five, and they were all eyeing him with varying levels of interest and suspicion.
Aaron was not particularly vain: the Harker line was a handsome one, making up in good bone structure what they lacked in finances or, according to his maternal grandfather, common sense. Young women, and some not so young, often eyed him as though he were a porterhouse steak, and this was the domain of women, and he the intruder. But even if he were interested, there was no place in his life for marriage, nor any particular interest at this time.
Not that it mattered. Being Huntsmen limited your social reach considerably, and he knew others thought him too much a throwback, too fey in his mind and manners, to be considered an appropriate match. Rosemary would have had better luck, save for the number of young men gone overseas.
It didn’t bother him, despite what his sister thought. His parents had understood, had never tried to force him to be other than what he was. Huntsmen blood was tainted blood, that was what made them Huntsmen. There was no shame in it.
Freed from the usual worries another young man of eligible age might have, the habitués of such tea rooms amused Aaron. Particularly the older women, solemn, firm-faced ladies who drank their tea and spoke to each other in low, serious voices, their chins tucked in and their hands full of meaning. Rosemary might deny interest in the suffragette cause, but he thought them fascinating, and he enjoyed watching the fluttering of feathers among the hens gathered here, knowing that underneath their lace and flowers they held claws equal to any cockerel in the yard. Let men have their taverns and coffeehouses: a revolution of equal force could be built under tea cozies and corsets, and he wished them well with it.
But politics itself did not interest him, and what-might-be was not his concern. Not today, at least. He was here to discover what uncanny had overstepped its place, and end it. Nothing less, nothing more.
He’d just taken another sip of his tea when he saw his sister through the plate-glass storefront, Botheration’s brindle hide visible at her knee. She must have gone back to the boarding house, then. From habit, he did a quick assessment: she did not seem distressed, her attire was perfectly in place, and while the beast was at her side, it was not pressed against her the way it would be if she were upset, nor alert as it would be if she needed protection. But something was wrong.
He waited until she turned and caught his eye, then lifted his left hand slightly, asking if she planned to join him.
Rosemary shook her head once, then tilted her head toward the street, inviting him to join her outside instead.
He nodded once in return, then lifted two fingers politely to signal to a passing waitress, indicating that he was done with his tea.
“Nothing to eat, then?” The woman was twice his age, round-faced and yellow-skinned, with black curls puffed around her face unbecomingly. He resisted the urge to pull at one, the way he might have tugged at Rosemary’s ringlets when they were children.
“Afraid not,” he said, folding his napkin neatly on the table and leaving money for his tab, then picking up his hat and coat. “Perhaps another time.”
* * *
There were more people on the street now than when he had entered the tea room, although it was still nothing to New Haven, where there might be more people downtown on an afternoon than lived in this entire town. He nodded politely at two young girls who entered the tea room as he was leaving, hearing their giggles mesh with the gentle chime of the bell overhead. Rosemary had not waited for him but rather strolled on, and he hurried to catch up with her.
