Before I could reach the Alenbonné morgue, I was lucky enough to spot my target: Dr. Charlotte LaRue. I rapped the roof and asked the cab driver to stop.
“Charlotte! I was just heading your way for a visit.”
Dr. LaRue greeted my hail and stepped over to the curb. She wore a dark blue check pattern in trousers, vest, and coat, with a carelessly tied stock around her neck, and a derby hat. In her hand, she held her cane. Not that she needed it for support or style, but because it held a sword stick she wasn’t reluctant to use.
Dr. LaRue’s outfit might have stood out as bizarre on Glamour Row, but in the student section of town, she blended into the strange artistic rabble found in the district.
“To meet me? Then it must be about Giles Monet. You only visit me because of my bodies.”
“Not true!” I said, stepping out of the cab. “I saw you on your birthday.”
“You do realize, Elinor, that was two months ago?”
To the quick-cab driver, I handed up a five-royal bill. “Would you take my things to Mysir de Archambeau’s town home on Lunea Street? Do you know where that is?”
“I do indeed, madame.” He touched the crown of his hat before turning his horse in the middle of the street. The u-turn earned him a shouted string of curses from a young student wearing a black scholastic robe whose cycle almost collided with him. The driver only gave him a backward wave over his head, his trotting horse quickly away.
Ready for a chat, I wrapped my arm around Dr. LaRue’s.
“Well, I want to know more about our dead body. Can we do it over lunch? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Dr. LaRue’s eye gained a speculative glint.
“I know the perfect place. My treat. Come, it’s further down the street.”
The wan blue sky had that texture when winter replaces the halcyon fall. The breeze was brisk, and my new attire made me feel quite cozy and stylish even among the avant-garde residents of the student quarter.
“Nice outfit, by the way. You look younger.”
“I’ve been shopping.”
“Looks good on you. Better than all that black.”
“Why does everyone feel a need to comment on my clothes?”
“Who’s been commenting?”
I didn’t answer her as Dr. LaRue had stopped to survey the front of a café. It didn’t look out of the ordinary, with its two bay windows facing the boulevard and a black door between them. Inside, the crowd seemed thin, but I assumed that was due to it being past the prime lunch hour.
Dr. LaRue patted my arm. “Come along, I’m friends with the owner. They have a haunt they need your help with. The situation is ruining my best lunch spot, and that can’t continue. Think of my stomach!”
When the staff saw Dr. LaRue enter, the man behind the bar greeted her and a server stopped washing glasses to rush over. Wiping his wet hands on the towel at his belt, he showed us to a clean table. A short man with a round, firm drum of a belly and white curly hair that was thin on top, showing shiny pink skin, came from the back room to our table. His round eyes were dark as polished nuts.
“Is this her?” he asked my companion.
“It is indeed,” said Dr. LaRue.
“Good, good,” he said, smiling wider. “Whatever the two of you want is on the house.”
The older man bowed to us and left, chiding the staff, who had stopped their work to gaze at us. After we gave our food order to the server, I asked my companion, “Are you going to fill me in, or is keeping me in the dark part of the fun?”
Dr. LaRue broke apart the rustic loaf in the basket at our table and started heavily buttering a piece. “About a year ago, there was an argument out on the boulevard, right in front, and a man died. Two students fighting over the same woman is not anything extraordinary on the surface of it, but a few months later, this place started experiencing activity.”
“Sudden death can cause unrest. If the spirit died with a grudge, that could cause problems for the living.”
“Exactly.” Dr. LaRue pointed at me with her buttered bread before taking a bite from it. “Unfortunately, the disturbances are getting worse.”
“Is the owner doing any renovation?”
“Not that I know of.”
Our soup arrived and Dr. LaRue dived in. She had a system of scooping and holding her spoon to blow on it while she talked, before hastily swallowing and dipping for another spoonful. It was fast and efficient and held a rough beauty to its rhythm.
“They want the ghost gone.”
I grimaced. That was always the first thought from the living.
“I can’t guarantee that. If the haunt has intensified, it is being triggered by something. Remove that and things may calm down, but getting rid of a ghost completely? That rarely can be done, no matter what a gutter-medium will tell you. Besides I prefer not to vanquish ghosts; that is the last of their soul. I feel it’s a better idea that they decide to leave on their own.”
“What would trigger a ghost?”
“Oh, there are a dozen of things it could be. Construction and remodeling. Maybe they’ve hired a new person who disturbs the haunt. Someone here could be a sensitive, unknowingly feeding it energy.”
“Like another Ghost Talker?”
“More like someone who has the potential, but no training. It might surprise you, but there are people sensitive to spirits who never develop it into anything more than an odd feeling or an awareness when something unnatural is nearby.”
Our main meal arrived, and I quickly forgave the doctor’s deception in bringing me here. The braised chicken thighs in a cream sauce flavored with mushrooms and onions were delicious. I almost asked the server if they had a bottle of Chambaux, but figured it would be too expensive for a place of this type to carry.
“What happened to the other man in the duel?”
“Arrested and hung. Dueling’s been illegal for over two decades; Alenbonné doesn’t want that pastime coming back into style. It’s exactly something these idealistic fools would take into their head to make popular given a chance. Noble love and broken hearts. Stuff and nonsense that appeals to these idealist young fools.”
“The woman?”
“She was in court, but I couldn’t understand one word of her testimony through the blubbering. Pretty thing, but clueless. What did she think would happen when her husband found out she was going to elope with her lover?”
“When does the activity usually start, and where?”
She checked the watch pinned to her coat lapel.
“In about an hour.”
“Fine. Time enough to discuss Giles Monet over a coffee and dessert.”
Dr. LaRue chuckled and waved for a server. They had several interesting choices for dessert, and I selected the one I knew the least about to broaden my horizons. When we were alone again, Dr. LaRue gave me the details of the autopsy.
“Overall, a pretty straightforward business. Got conked on the back of the head with something hard and smooth. I’m thinking it was a rock. He hit the water still breathing, so the official cause of death is drowning.”
“Boring for you, I imagine.”
“It would have been, except I also ran some blood tests, which made it more interesting.”
She took her time, wiping her mouth first, and then making a performance of lighting one of her pencil-thin cigarettos. I think she enjoyed increasing my anticipation by waiting.
“Monet was a zhimo addict. Zhimo addiction changes the skin, making the dermis thinner. Plenty of bruising and marks not caused by being dumped in the canal. Long-term addicts lose their hair and the nails get a yellow color before they peel away.”
“He was living in a boarding house. How could he afford zhimo!?”
Dr. LaRue gave another throaty chuckle, blowing smoke off to the side. “Once it gets a hold of you, you find a way to pay for it, trust me. From looking at his big toe, and calculating the slow growth rate of the nail, I’d say he’s had a full-on habit for at least three months.”
“You know how long it takes to grow a toenail?” I asked.
“Of course I do. We scientists measure everything. It gives us something to argue about at our clubs.”
“Scientists have social clubs?”
“You do! Why shouldn’t I have a place to retreat too? Where else can I talk shop? You don’t think I have intellectual discussions with my students, do you? Ha! All students want to do is lecture their professors!”
Our attentive waiter took our plates and replaced them with a brass pot filled with black coffee. That was another benefit from our trade agreement with Perino; Sarnesse would riot if they lost this magical brew.
We were the last diners in the café when the owner reappeared. His smile was uncertain. “Has madame agreed to help us?”
I pulled on my ear, thinking. There was no reason not to help, but some things needed to be understood first. “I will investigate the matter and then we shall talk over my findings. I make no guarantees about what I can do.”
He was quick to agree; a tendency I’ve seen plenty of times in the desperate.
“Tell me what this haunt does? Does it manifest? Become embodied, or is it just a mist?”
He came closer and spoke in a low voice, as if he feared being overheard. “It is a man. A young man with dark hair tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. He does not speak but sits at that table.”
Ah, that was why no one had sat there, even though it had a lovely view of the boulevard. A haunted space. I went over and took a seat at the table and, closing my eyes, spread out my inner senses.
At our table, I heard Dr. LaRue say, “Don’t worry, Madame Chalamet is a professional. I let her talk with my dead bodies all the time.”
Yes, the temperature here was colder. There was also that special wet feeling in the air that a sensitive person would detect. I regretted not having my bag with me. Well, I would have to improvise. Opening the door of my third eye, I connected, and then fed power to the spirit to help it materialize.
“That’s him,” I heard fear coarsen the café owner’s voice.
A handsome young man sat across from me. He wore a long linen frock coat over a festive plaid vest with matching pants. Rather a dandy.
The haunt had a well-groomed mustache with long hair pulled back into a tidy bun at the nape of his neck. His mouth was full, what a woman might call sensual, and his eyes were large and prominent. A woman married to a tyrant and looking for love might describe them as soulful.
Overall, I had the impression of an artistic, mercurial personality that would feel things intensely, and who might take affront easily. Provoking a haunt was not a good idea, so I proceeded cautiously. I asked gently, “Who are you waiting for?”
“She will be here. She promised to come. To leave him.”
“She didn’t?”
“She will be here. She promised to come. To leave him.”
It seemed my ghostly companion was a bit stuck. I noticed what was under his hand, resting on the table, its petals limp.
“Is that her favorite flower?”
“It is our signal. For a meeting. When I saw her in class, if I carried a red rose, she knew to meet me later. She will be here. She promised to come. To leave him.”
The problem with the dead is they are not very intelligent; they are really rather dumb. After all, powerful emotions powered repeat actions that to the living could seem meaningless. What the Society called a Ghost Dance.
Unfortunately, mostly those feelings were of a darker nature: greed, anger, jealousy, and loss. I haven’t met a ghost yet bursting with joy and happiness.
In the background, I heard a few arguing voices which I ignored. It was not a good thing to break your focus when speaking with spirits.
“What are you doing here? With this man?” Archambeau’s demands surprised me as I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings, only to the haunt sitting across from me, who appeared as solid as a living being. It slowly turned his head towards the duke.
“How dare you speak to her like that?” The ghost stood, but Archambeau gave it one of his dismissive looks. “Sit down, sprout. I was talking to Madame Chalamet.”
“You will not speak to her like that. She has had enough of your cruelty.”
“What in the devil are you talking about?”
“Your Grace—”
Archambeau cut me off. “When I was told your packages had arrived without you, I knew you’d escaped. Ran off. Just like a woman, not listening or caring if you put yourself in danger. If anyone knew you were in that morgue Ghost Talking they might think you knew who had killed—” He stopped revealing Monet’s name just in time, but he wasn’t finished being angry. “I’m trying to protect you, you fool.”
“Protect her? You keep her in a cage and won’t let her be free. You are not worthy to kiss the train of her dress, monster!”
If he was a living man, I’m sure the haunt would have slapped the duke and challenged him to a duel. Instead, it did something worse: it stepped into Archambeau’s body and possessed him.