Tom sat on the couch with Sue joining him. Sanders in the accent chair, the laptop sitting on a stack of books on the coffee table to elevate it enough for the camera not to be looking up at them.
As he opened the Skype connection and added Hansen as a contact, Tom couldn’t help also checking for London’s location. She was sprawled on her side, stretched out on the window ledge cat hammock which Tom had installed for her in the most brilliant patch of sunlight the living room had to offer.
“Should—?” Tom started to ask Sue, but his call was already being picked up.
The man facing them in the screen apparently sat at a desk or table to one side of an office or living space. It was hard to see much of the room beyond him, a bookshelf and the top of some kind of sofa or futon. The light was dull compared to the blinding sunlight here, but what really distracted Tom, and darkened that room, was what appeared to be either a simply vast painting or a tapestry taking up all of the opposite wall that could be seen in the screen.
It depicted human figures in some kind of grove or natural setting: a man with enormous antlers, and what looked like three women holding a silver sphere and double crescents.
Tom found the imagery so distracting he wanted to lean into the screen and ask the man to move out of the way so he could see it all.
They exchanged greetings and introductions, turning the laptop for a moment to include Sanders, Sue thanking him for doing this for them.
Hansen smiled serenely at that. “Anytime, Sue. Gemma’s always delighted to hear from you, and I’m glad to help if I can.”
“How are you all? I haven’t seen you since last summer. I can’t believe it’s been a year.”
“In good fettle. Gemma’s doing more work for the Cumbrian police department lately. I’ve been working the dogs all day. They’re tidying well. How’re you and Amanda?”
“We’re fine, Hansen. I hope you’ll come down to London soon to see us.”
Hansen chuckled. “Not my cup of tea, but Gemma’s mentioned it. Sure she’ll be in touch.”
While they finished the pleasantries, Tom puzzled over that accent and wished he could see the wall. Hansen did seem to be English. Yet his broad, rich, sometimes hard to understand tones sounded about as much like Sanders as an eagle sounded like a lion.
He seemed to be a tall man, broad-shouldered, accustomed to hard work. His rough, blue-gray shirt was collarless, the sleeves pushed up. Hard to tell about his age or too many details in this image and light. The weathered complexion meant he might have been either side of forty, but Tom could not say.
After a moment, Sue brought up London and the purpose for the call and Tom remembered to ask his question.
“Should we get her? She’s asleep in the window.”
“Nay, that’s all right. I got her photo from you and we’d a barie yatter. Right bonny sort.”
Tom sat for a second with his mouth open. Apparently something wrong with the connection. Or Hansen’s mic.
Sue was chuckling. Sanders, sitting back in his chair and not visible to Hansen was also smiling.
“I’m, uh, sorry,” Tom said. “What did you say? There might be a connection problem.”
“Ah!” Hansen sat forward, eyebrows jumping. “Are you Canadian? Gemma?” Calling the last over his shoulder.
“I wish,” Tom muttered. “No, sadly. American.”
“Oh, right, sorry. Gem, it’s nowt.” He looked around as the light shifted in the room, someone walking over to him. “Thought our kit’s human was Canadian.”
A woman appeared in the screen beside him, leaning into Hansen’s shoulder to smile at them. She looked surprisingly pulled together compared to the man—stylish haircut and ruffled summer blouse.
“Afternoon, Sue. It was good to hear from you.”
“I was just telling Hansen to come down to see us,” Sue said happily.
As more pleasantries were exchanged, again way off track from cats or ghosts, Tom realized she, Gemma, was the Canadian. This was getting complicated.
After chatting with Sue, Sue explained that they’d had a bit of bother understanding Hansen.
Gemma swatted his shoulder. “Stop it.” Back to Sue and Tom. “He’s perfectly capable of good English. He’s been out all morning with his old shepherding mates and he starts to sound like his father. All ‘lowpin yats’ and ‘tidy work with yon tups.’” Shaking her head vigorously while Hansen laughed. “Speak to the people normally, Hansen. Not like you’re out with your ‘cous.’”
“These old dialects should be preserved, Gem—”
“Not on a conference call.”
He was still laughing.
“Where are you from?” Tom asked.
“I’m from Vancouver, BC,” Gemma said. “He’s from the Lake District.” Elbowing Hansen. “Where we are currently speaking to you from. Our other third is from London. It’s quite a mix.” Lifting her eyebrows as if to indicate it was not always an easy mix.
Tom glanced at Sanders. He had heard “other half” before. Other third?
“Go on and tell them about her—in English,” Gemma prompted as she stepped back. Then to the screen. “He loves your cat.”
He did? He’d had no more contact than seeing a digital photo. Not that that wasn’t enough to fall for London, but, still...
Sue and Gemma promised to keep in touch, maybe see one another in October, then back to just Hansen, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.
“So, I’ll tell you how this works,” Hansen said. Still the broad accent very different from either Sanders or Sue, but Tom could understand every word. “I’ll pass along to you what I got from her, so take notes if you like, then, if there’s anything more that you’re trying to get, I can ask while I’m on the line, right? It won’t take long.”
“Okay.” Tom glanced at Sanders, who, with clear resignation, got up to find a notepad in the kitchen. “Go ahead.”
“First of all—” He was grinning again. “London’s got a great sense of humor.”
Tom bit his lip. “Does she? Well ... it’s what I always wanted in a cat.”
Sue nudged Tom’s knee with her own and he managed to sober up his expression.
“Yeah,” Hansen said dreamily. “It’s a pleasure to spend some time with a cat like her.”
“Yes, it is,” Tom said.
His composure almost broke when Sanders sat back down, writing carefully on the notebook, Good sense of humour, then twice underlining it.
“She has a couple of things she needs you to know about,” Hansen continued. “Most important first. Can you change her food back from the fish to the duck?”
A shiver went down Tom’s spine. “What?”
“She doesn’t like fish. She only gets the fish food late in the day, is that right? And she’s hungry and she eats it, but she doesn’t like it. She liked the duck best, and she likes to eat in the kitchen. I don’t know if that’s practical for you, but she says that’s a good space and she gets the best treats in there.”
“Uh...” Tom glanced nervously at Sanders, who was not taking notes, but frowning at him. “We don’t feed her table scraps.”
“Someone is,” Hansen said cheerfully. “Bites of meat? Some kind of sausages? She likes sharing things on the counter with you. I’m pretty sure it’s you.” Squinting now at Tom’s image on his screen.
“I don’t ... really...”
“You feed the cat on the kitchen counter?” Sanders asked, voice sharp.
“Um ... not ... when...”—Tom bit his lip—“...you’re home.” He swallowed. “I never really thought ... she’d...”
“Tell anyone?” Sanders was making notes.
Tom regarded his own hands in his lap. “I’ll get her the duck again. I thought cats were supposed to like fish.”
Hansen smiled at that also. “Men are supposed to like bacon, yet I’m a vegan. Another thing she’d like, while you’re at it, one of you has a soap or deodorant that she doesn’t enjoy.”
“She doesn’t?”
“There’s some kind of laundry pile or laundry basket, somewhere she sleeps on clothes?” Hansen asked.
“His.” Tom glanced at Sanders. “She never sleeps on my clothes. We thought it was because she knew the shedding bothered him and it didn’t bother me.”
Hansen sighed. “Humans are quick to put cats’ behavior down to malicious intent. Not that a cat can’t be devious, but, honestly, it’s not common. It’s a ... orange or grapefruit smell. I’d recommend you switch to vanilla if you can, or anything unscented.”
“Okay,” Tom repeated, beginning to feel disoriented. His mind was starting to speed with all the things London had ever witnessed or experienced. What all kinds of things?
“Are you the one who calls her leopard?” Hansen asked.
Another shiver. Tom nodded.
“She likes that. And there’s something that slides on the floor ... a toy?”
“I slide socks across the wood floor for her to chase.”
“She appreciates that also. Have you ever tried her with paper?”
“Paper?”
“Sheets of tissue paper? Maybe a string wiggling below it? I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”
“Okay.” Tom nodded again.
“There’s one other thing she wishes you wouldn’t do, but I’m not clear on that one. Is she sometimes trapped in a very small room? Or closed in a box?”
“I put her in a crate and drove her around in the car last Friday. It was kind of an accident. I don’t normally unless it’s for the vet.”
“She didn’t fancy that. Otherwise ... she’s a real bright one. You must give her a good life if her biggest complaint is changing fish back to duck.”
“Yeah...” Tom said vaguely, looking between his cat, still sleeping in the sun, and the man on the screen.
“Hansen?” Sue said. “This is very interesting, but we were actually contacting you because of a specific situation here.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot about that. Your house is haunted? We got so carried away about the laundry, I never asked her. You just have to go with what comes up in cats, you know. Lots of compliments, no rush, and they’ll work with you. There are few creatures more patient and I’ve never met a cat who was anything less than entirely certain of their own physical perfection. Give me a moment.”
Hansen looked away from the camera into something lower down and off to one side. Tom had a feeling he was looking at London’s photo in the lower corner of his screen.
Silence.
Sanders still taking notes. London still sleeping.
Tom looked at Sue and she smiled at him.
Hansen stared at an unknown something. Through the screen, Tom could not tell if his eyes were focused or vague. Then he shut them and sat motionless for another minute or two while the other three waited.
At length, Hansen opened his eyes and rubbed his chin with one bent finger. He still looked thoughtfully at the screen before returning his attention to the top.
“It’s ... hard to say. You must realize that telepathic communication can vary widely, even within one conversation. One thing may be solid; duck, not fish. But another may be vague, only an image; closed in a small space.” Hansen shrugged. “This one is a mite...” He lapsed into silence, still seeming to look at them, but Tom was sure his eyes were unfocused now. “Do you often have a lot of people in the house? Parties, meetings, guests?”
“No,” Tom said. “Rarely. Only myself and Sanders live in the house. We have a chef and occasional people over in small numbers. That’s it.”
“Ah, see this could be the missing link. London is not communicating these spirits as spirits to me, but as human men who come and go without warning and make her nervous.”
“Only men?” Sue asked.
“It seems so. Men in uniforms. I couldn’t tell you what type, only that they all dress the same. Your house wasn’t an asylum, was it?”
Tom shook his head. “But it was an inn. Anyone could have been in here.”
“I don’t know how that might fit, but I can tell you everything I got and perhaps some of it will make sense for you. The house is full of these men.”
“Full?” Tom looked uneasily at Sue while Sanders made notes.
“Crowded, I’d say. They’re waiting for something. I get a sense of her seeing rows of men looking out windows, waiting for something to appear, or something to happen.”
Hair was standing up on the back of Tom’s neck as Hansen spoke.
“They’re not all the same. That’s what made me think there were actual living people involved in these images. There are distinct energies here, perhaps waiting for different things? And deep emotional connections between them. Mostly, though, a sense of being trapped in that house, imprisoned without chains or bars. Is there a room that always smells of tea?”
Tom’s mouth was dry.
“No,” Sue answered for him. “But there is a tea association in one of the rooms.”
“To London, it always smells like tea. And there’s another room where the man stays right in the middle and never moves. That one scares her most. Always the same spot, just off the ground. She won’t go near him.”
“That’s the spare bedroom she won’t enter,” Tom managed.
“There’s a larger room with a man in bed. Or she only sees him when she’s in bed with you? Perhaps one or two others around him, although this particular figure is a strong presence. He shows up often and frightens her—a young man with a dark mustache.”
Tom looked at Sanders again and Sanders met his eyes.
Hansen sat still, then shook his head. “That’s all I can translate for you. It’s tough to sort out these details because I’m mostly getting a sense of busyness. The way London tells it, it feels like Waterloo Station around there. I’m not sure how much that helps, but I can certainly assure you your house is extraordinarily haunted. And you’re lucky to have a cat. There are few animals so psychic.”
Tom was still having a hard time getting words and thoughts sorted out, glancing repeatedly over at the sleeping cat.
“Thank you for your time, Hansen,” Sue said. “You really have been a help. Send me your bill?”
Hansen smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Tell you what you can do for us, Sue. Put up Gemma, or the two of us, next time we’re in London? Perhaps we’ll see you this autumn?” He reached absently off to the side and down. Tom suspected he was petting a dog.
“Absolutely.” Sue grinned. “What about Ty?”
“I’m not sure you could drag Ty back to London if his life depended on it. We’ll try not to overcrowd you.”
“Looking forward to seeing you and Gemma soon then.”
“Thanks for your help.” Tom had to clear his throat. “It’s, uh ... yeah. Thanks.”
“Let me know how things turn out there,” Hansen said. “I’ll be wondering. Should be right enough though. Sue’s a dab hand with spirits. You can trust her. And the cat.”
Tom nodded.
Gemma called something from another room and Hansen called back for her to come say goodbye. Another round of thanks and see you soons from Sue and Gemma, then they hung up with a parting something from Hansen: “Happen thou’s neet scopped too fine a scrow, cous. Fair jousey t’ya.”
Gemma was once more hitting his shoulder and reprimanding him as Hansen, laughing, leaned forward to cut the call.
Tom went on staring at the screen. “Was that English?”
“I think he said he hopes we’ve not stumbled into too big a mess here, and good luck to us,” Sue said. “But he might have been insulting us. I’ve never spent much time up there, and not many people speak the real old Cumbrian dialects anymore. It’s a beautiful area. They live right in the heart of the Lake District. Well...” She looked around at them expectantly.
“I can feel my mind being lost already,” Tom muttered to Sanders.
“I, for one, thought that was rather interesting,” Sue said.
“As did I.” Sanders checked his notes and back to Tom. “Care to explain your feeding the cat on the kitchen counters when my back is turned, after it was one of the only specific requests I made about her management when she arrived? No live animals on eating or food preparation surfaces?”
Tom chewed his tongue and rubbed a seam on his jeans with one thumb. “An accident? Maybe ... you should ask London?”