Alexander
Alexander had always felt like he belonged in Wellington’s office, partly because everyone said Wellington was grooming him to take over one day (which meant Alexander should practice being comfortable in this room), and mostly because he never got in trouble. He was the star agent after all.
At least, he had been.
Alexander tried not to slouch as he approached the duke, who stood at his desk with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders set in a thoughtful manner. “What’s on your mind, Alexander?”
What wasn’t on his mind? His chest still ached with the cruel way he’d treated Miss Brontë as they parted. He should have been kinder. Her questions had been fair. Why hadn’t Wellington told him everything about Beacons, or that he’d been acquainted with Rochester? There’d been plenty of time. The note he’d sent telling Alexander not to stay at Thornfield could have mentioned that fact.
He should have been kinder to Miss Brontë, though, and as it wasn’t proper for a single man to write letters (let alone visit!) to a single young lady, this might very well be the way she remembered him for the rest of her life.
Alexander touched the letter in his pocket. “Sir, it’s about Rochester.”
Wellington nodded. “What about him?”
“I believe Edward Rochester is the man who murdered my father.” Alexander pulled the letter from his pocket, careful not to rumple the paper even more.
Wellington took the letter and read through it twice before folding it and offering it back to Alexander. “This is your evidence?”
Alexander nodded and tucked the letter away again.
“It proves nothing.”
“I remember seeing him that night.”
“You were four years old.” Wellington placed a hand over Alexander’s shoulder. “I believe you. I do. But this won’t be enough proof to do anything about it.”
Alexander closed his eyes and exhaled. He knew that. He did. But he’d waited so long to learn the killer’s identity and now it seemed he may have waited too long. “The letter makes it appear as though they were friends,” he muttered. “And when I was introduced to Rochester in Thornfield Hall, he seemed familiar, as though we’d met before. But he didn’t know me.”
Wellington nodded. “They were friends. Here, sit down a moment.” He motioned Alexander to the nearest chair, and together they sat. “You may not know this, though the records are public, but Rochester used to be a member of the Society. His wife, too.”
“Is that how you know him?” Alexander guessed.
“Yes,” Wellington said. “Mrs. Rochester was our Beacon at the time, and the best agent the Society had ever seen. Mr. Rochester joined us because of her. Although their marriage had been arranged, they seemed to feel real affection for each other.”
“What happened to her?”
“The stress of the job became too much for her. Women have such delicate faculties.”
That made no sense. Granted, Alexander had little experience with the fairer sex, but Miss Brontë and Miss Eyre were two of the strongest people he knew. “That hasn’t been my experience, sir.”
Wellington frowned, only for a moment. “Well, it was true for Bertha Rochester. She did very well until one day, the stress of this job wore her down. To put it bluntly, she went mad, and shortly after died.”
“That’s very sad.”
“The loss of Bertha Rochester affected the entire Society. As I said, she was a Beacon, and her death dealt a great blow to our productivity. We still feel her loss today.” Wellington leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m afraid her death is what drove Mr. Rochester to abandon the Society.”
“Where does my father fit into this?”
“He was killed—” Wellington’s voice caught. He paused, then tried again. “I’ve always believed that his death was one of the events that pushed Mrs. Rochester over the edge. They were friends, as you know. He died. She went mad and died. And then Rochester left.”
“Why would Rochester kill my father, though? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” Wellington shook his head. “Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
“In that letter”—Wellington motioned toward Alexander’s pocket—“Nicholas wrote about the ‘travesty’ in the Society, and that I—for I’m most certainly the ‘AW’ mentioned—must be stopped.”
Alexander sat very still. He’d been curious, of course, but unsure how to bring it up.
“I’m afraid the travesty was that I had sent Mrs. Rochester back to Thornfield to rest. She’d been working so much that the stress was beginning to get to her. I wanted her to have time to recover, then come back, but perhaps I hadn’t been clear in my intentions. The three of them—both Rochesters and your father—believed I’d fired her because she was a woman. Your father wanted to confront me, while Mr. Rochester wanted to permanently leave the Society. I cannot fathom how that disagreement led to your father’s death, though. I’m as shocked as anyone. And now our new Beacon is with him. . . .”
Alexander’s head was reeling with all the information. And really, look how forthcoming Wellington had been. Miss Brontë had worried him for nothing.
“I’ll write to Rochester,” Wellington said. “We’ll get our Beacon. Now, take a few moments to collect yourself, and then I need you on this assignment. It’s time-sensitive.”
“It can’t wait? I’d like to pursue more evidence against Rochester.” Alexander didn’t usually resist Wellington’s directives (that time he completely ignored the letter telling him to come home notwithstanding), but surely the Lord President still understood that this was a special case, one he’d been working on since he was four years old. He had leads. He had a suspect. This wasn’t the time for random ghost jobs.
Wellington crossed his arms. “This won’t take you long. And it is your duty. Your purpose.”
Alexander sighed. Wellington was right. Of course he was. It was just so hard to be taken from the revenge business when the revenge that had evaded him for so long finally felt within his grasp.
“It’s my privilege to obey your commands, sir.” Alexander stood and waited for his orders.
“I’m glad you think so.” Wellington opened a drawer in the massive desk and removed a large envelope. “As I said, this won’t take you long. All the work is already done, except of course capturing the ghost. We have an address. We have a key. We even have the talisman. We only need the seer to see the ghost and capture it.”
That did sound rather simple. Most jobs were not nearly so well prepared, and left him to do much of the investigation.
“I’ll send a note to Branwell and have him meet me at the location.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Wellington said quickly. Perhaps too quickly? “You don’t need to bother him with this. Branwell has other things on his mind right now, I’m sure.”
Guilt needled at Alexander. He should have tried harder to make his case for Branwell, but at least the boy hadn’t been dismissed.
Wellington cleared his throat.
“I’ll capture the ghost immediately, sir.”
“I expect the talisman returned by the end of the day.” Wellington slid the envelope across his desk, which Alexander took. “And, oh, by the way,” Wellington said as Alexander began retreating from the office.
“Yes?”
“We’ll get Rochester. It will just take time.”
Alexander nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” said Wellington, “fetch me that ghost.”
Here was the strange thing.
The talisman.
Oh, true to Wellington’s words, the envelope did contain everything that Alexander needed, including a list of grievances against the ghost, which ranged from loosening the cobblestones to trip people walking down the road, to making branches tap against windows they wouldn’t normally reach, and generally creating a lot of noise.
But the talisman was a strange thing, because it was a ring. And not just any ring, but a heavy gold band with the King of England’s crest engraved on top.
It was the king’s signet ring.
That truly begged the question of why.
Generally, talismans were objects that had taken a part in murder (like the teacup), or items of importance to the ghost (the pocket watch), so this was unusual to say the least.
Perhaps it was a mistake.
Or a copy.
But no, Alexander had seen signet rings before, and this one had the weight and heft of real gold, and the details on the crest were correct. Though he was no expert, Alexander was reasonably certain this ring was authentic.
Though the information in the dossier had given him no insight, perhaps the ghost would be willing to offer answers. Alexander had dealt with more than a few ghosts who wanted to go on (and on and on) about their lives. Miss Brontë would say perhaps they simply wanted someone to listen, and if he did, they might be more willing to get bopped on the head.
This ghost was recently deceased, apparently, and the family could not sell the house until the bothersome spirit was gone. Which was where the Society came in.
Knowing that, and guessing that the ghost would be furious to realize his family was more concerned about selling the house, Alexander might be able to offer himself as a friendly listener and get a few answers, satisfying his curiosity.
The house in question was a modest dwelling not far from the heart of London, on a tree-lined street filled with children playing and flowers blooming. It was quite lovely, if one didn’t know there was a rude ghost in residence.
Alexander approached the house with caution, taking stock of the exits, the number of people around, and even the angle of the sun relative to the windows, so that if the ghost tried to fight him, he wouldn’t risk being blinded by sunlight with the wrong move.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolled his shoulders, and after a few deep breaths, he marched into the house.
The ghost was sitting on the sheet-covered sofa, waiting for him.
“Hello.” He was a mousy chap, with limp brown hair and a permanent squint, and with trousers that didn’t quite reach long enough down his legs, and jacket sleeves that didn’t fit down his arms. . . . It wasn’t even that he was a large man; rather, it was simply because he hadn’t known how to dress himself well in life, and so he was trapped like this until the end of his afterlife.
Though he was the most unassuming ghost to cause such a ruckus, that was hardly the most surprising thing about him.
No, the most interesting part of all this was that Alexander knew this ghost. “David Mitten?”
The ghost nodded. “How are you, dear boy? You look well. Just like your father.”
“You’re a ghost.”
Mr. Mitten nodded again. “Quite put out about it, as you can imagine.”
“You seem to be handling it well.” Alexander took the ring in his gloved hand.
“Surely you’ve heard the noise complaints,” said Mr. Mitten. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
Alexander shrugged. “Mr. Mitten, why are you a ghost?”
“Because I died.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“How?”
“Slipped and hit my head.”
Alexander scowled. “That seems unlike you, sir.”
Mr. Mitten shrugged, and behind him, some sort of green sludge slid down the wall.
“What’s that?” Alexander asked.
“What’s what?”
“That slime behind you.”
“There’s no slime behind me.” Mr. Mitten didn’t even turn around. “What’s that slime behind you?”
Alexander looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the green goop dripped over the door. It was everywhere now. How unsanitary.
All right. So David Mitten was the ghost he was supposed to bring in. And Mr. Mitten was in a chatty mood. But this raised even more questions than before, because Mr. Mitten worked for the Society . . . and the king. He had been, in fact, the liaison and the king’s secretary, which explained (maybe) his connection with the signet ring. He’d probably handled the thing more than the king himself.
So that meant the king might have given the ring to the Society, but wouldn’t he expect it back? How would that work, what with a ghost trapped in it?
And why hadn’t Wellington said it was only Mr. Mitten?
And why was Mr. Mitten behaving so badly (allegedly)?
And what was the deal with the slime?
“Well,” said Mr. Mitten. “Get on with it. I’m ready.”
“To go in here?” Alexander held the ring between his index finger and thumb.
Mr. Mitten nodded transparently.
“All right.” But Alexander hesitated, because this was all so strange and he’d really have liked answers, but the clock chimed six and he knew Wellington was surely waiting. Plus, the slime was gross. “Well,” Alexander said. “Hold still.”
Cautiously, he approached the ghost, half expecting some sort of fight. But Mr. Mitten held perfectly still while Alexander tapped the signet ring on his head.
Immediately, the ghost was sucked in. The gold trembled and glowed, and that was that. David Mitten was trapped in the ring, ready to deliver to Wellington.
“Good work, as always.” The duke placed the signet ring on his desk, then put the handkerchief he’d used while inspecting the ring back into his pocket. “You’ve done England a great service.”
It had hardly seemed like anything at all. Capturing Mr. Mitten had been easy. “You didn’t tell me it was Mr. Mitten, sir.”
Wellington gasped. “Mr. Mitten. Dead.” He shook his head, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware of the ghost’s identity. If I’d known, I would have told you. Of course, I’m as sorry to hear about David Mitten’s demise as anyone. It’s a real tragedy what happened to him.”
“He said he slipped and fell.”
“It’s just awful, isn’t it? Life is so brief. It can end in an instant. You never know when your time is up, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Alexander frowned. Members of the Society were dropping at an alarming rate. “What about the king?”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t give the ring back to the king. Not with Mr. Mitten trapped inside it.
“You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t be safe. The king is aware of the issue, and he’s already commissioned a new ring. It should be ready by Thursday.”
“How nice that His Majesty could put aside his dislike of the Society to help us with Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. Maybe the king did (sort of) believe in ghosts after all? Or, more likely, he didn’t want to cause a huge public fuss with the Society, figuring it would be on its way out shortly and this was as good an excuse as any to get a new ring.
Alexander would have to ask to know for sure, but he wasn’t the type of agent to question his superior. Asking nosy questions was Miss Brontë’s job. She wouldn’t have hesitated to ask why the king was suddenly so cooperative. Or why the signet ring was the talisman, or . . .
Wellington crossed his arms. “What is it?”
“It’s just . . . you seemed in such a rush to get the ghost.”
Wellington folded his hands together. “The family of the deceased—”
Mr. Mitten.
“—wanted to sell the house immediately. They couldn’t afford to wait.”
“But he worked for both the Society and the king. Surely he left them plenty of money. Why not wait until Thursday when the king’s new signet ring arrived?” Alexander slipped his hands behind his back and dug his fingernails into his palms.
“You’re very curious tonight, Alexander.”
“It was Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. “It feels personal. We all cared about him.”
“Of course we did,” Wellington agreed.
(Never mind that Alexander—and most people—regularly forgot that David Mitten existed. He was practically invisible in life, already ghostlike. It seemed like it was only in death that anyone cared about him at all. A true tragedy.)
“So why not wait?” Blast Miss Brontë’s influence, her contagious questions.
“You’ve always been a solid agent,” Wellington said. “The star agent.”
Alexander sensed a but.
“But that’s because of your willingness to do your job without asking too many questions. We who can’t see ghosts can only put our minds to work. We rely on you to take action, to investigate and capture because we cannot. You’re so busy with the work you’ve been dealt. I wish you trusted that we all have thought of every possibility and that we make the best plans we can make. We are the mind, Alexander. You are the sword.”
“I see. I’m sorry if I caused you any upset, sir.”
Wellington waved him toward the door. “Get some rest. You’ve had an eventful month, and I’m sure you’d like some time alone after the constant company you’ve kept.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alexander headed out of the Society headquarters and walked toward his flat. Was this what it felt like to be reprimanded? The sensation was so unfamiliar he wasn’t quite sure if it was disappointment in himself, or confusion over Wellington’s words, or something else entirely.
But the duke was right. Maybe it would do him good to finally have some time to himself, some space to stretch his legs without worrying about the others, some freedom to walk around his home with his tie loosened, so to speak.
So he went home. Alone.
And he made tea. Alone.
And he sat in his parlor. Alone.
Just days ago, Miss Brontë had perched on that uncomfortable chair, and Branwell had sulked by the door. He hadn’t minded their company.
But now he was alone.
He liked being alone.
Tea for one.
His flat was just . . . so quiet. There were no ghosts around tonight. And there wasn’t even the sound of a pencil scratching on paper as Miss Brontë recorded everything that happened. Not that there was anything to record here, because nothing was happening.
“Hello?” He tested his voice to make sure it still had substance.
Not even an echo answered.
Yes, he was definitely alone. And, for the first time ever, maybe he was lonely, too. No one had ever been so lonely.