In the past, Ghost Talkers ate the eyes of the dead to receive visions. Thankfully, in these enlightened times, there are better methods to know what the dead last saw.
Setting a coal in a brazier, I waited until the edges became white with heat before sprinkling tree resin on top. As it smoked, I used my left hand to wave the cloud into my nostrils before doing the same to the corpse.
Like alternating women and men in a séance circle, this was a traditional ritual, but it was one that worked. Air is the medium of communication, and this plant resin was effective in calling back the soul to its physical body.
Finished, I placed the bowl safely out of the way. From my bag, I took a vial of Eyesbright and placed several drops in my eyes. The room blurred, and I blinked rapidly, letting the liquid settle. My vision became tinted with a hazy purple-silver, letting me know I would now see the unseen.
Between the drops and the smoke, I was feeling light-headed, ready to step into the spiritual plane.
“Let’s see what we have here.”
Being in the water hadn’t helped his appearance. I placed three drops of Eyesbright into each of his eye sockets and carefully stoppered the bottle before slipping it into the dress pocket that didn’t hold my man-stopper.
After my father’s death, I spent five years training with the Society. While my younger self had struggled to learn the proper trance state, now I slipped into it easily. Holding the palms of my hand over his face, I centered my spirit before sending out a silent call. It took only moments before I found the spirit belonging to the flesh laying on the table.
“Come to me,” I bid it.
The air grew heavy and thick, like the atmosphere before a rainstorm; it was a signal of the corpse’s spirit drawing closer. Around me, I heard indrawn breaths from the others; he must have materialized. It surprises many to discover that ghosts appear as firm and real as the living. But they cannot hold that form for long and the man’s mental acuity was already slipping away without a living body to anchor it.
“Give us your name and the title you held in life,” I asked, pulling gently on that spiritual string that anchored us temporarily together.
“Giles Monet.”
Behind me, the duke shifted, letting out an involuntary curse under his breath. So someone knew the name but not the face. How interesting.
“Tell us about the last hours of your life, Giles Monet.”
From Monet’s mind, I projected his knowledge into a physical existence. The images solidified as if it was a play on stage, and he carried out his last movements for us all to see.
The duke asked, “Is she using a magic lantern?”
“It’s more like those new moving pictures,” said the inspector.
Monet eats alone in a shabby room that combines bed, sofa, and a washstand in a cramped space. Then he leaves, going down two flights of stairs, and out a door into the street. Turning right, he walks two blocks and enters a corner store—a place selling news sheets and necessary household goods. I made note of the name, though I did not recognize it.
After making a small purchase, he takes a quick-cab to a nightclub (not in the best side of town, my guess it was in the Hells). There, he walks through a group of toughs at the entrance who recognize him. Inside, he finds a seat close to the stage. A three-man band plays while a woman with blond hair sings a catchy musical number; it was the same tune as the rooster song the students had sung.
Suddenly, images started breaking apart as Monet’s spirit frayed. That surprised me; though recently dead, Monet should have given us more, but his essence was weaker than it should have been. Why?
With no time for discussion, I asked quickly, “What person did you see last?”
A woman’s face, a round face with enormous eyes and blond hair, formed before the image blew away, snuffed out like a candle’s flame.
I opened my eyes, working hard to smother a yawn as my stomach growled. After rubbing my hands together briskly to bring life to them, I started cleaning up and packing my bag.
Across the surgery, the duke de Archambeau was at the doorway talking with Barbier. The last thing he said before leaving was, “Bring that woman to the station.”
That is why I was sitting on a hard wooden chair in an office at the gendarme, waiting for the dawn to break, instead of in my soft bed at the Crown hotel. Inspector Barbier apologized again, but his words were as weak as the tea he had given me.
“What does His Grace want with me?” I asked, irritated, my head and neck aching.
“When he finishes questioning Madame Nyght, he will come and release you.” Barbier promised me, but he avoided my gaze as he edged towards the door. “My wife, you understand—” he gabbled hastily before making his escape.
Alone, I brought out the bottle of Eyesbright from my pocket and fitted it into my satchel. I removed the bullets from my small pistol and placed both into a false bottom of my bag.
Standing, I put my hands over my head and gave a deep stretch. I took a tour around the office, examining what hung on the walls and what items were on the desk in plain view. It only took moments to scan the room, and bored, I returned to my chair.
My corset was the only thing keeping me upright; my chin nodded down, touching my chest. Asleep, I started a dream of my father. He was polishing a deep red stone the size of his thumb. He held it under the bright lamp he used when working on jewelry, his fingers moving it so it glowed, refracting the light.
“Rubies are the heart-blood of dragons, Elinor.”
A door slammed, jerking me awake. Mysir de Duke de Archambeau demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Exhausted, I did not answer in the kindest manner. “You told me to wait here. Remember?”
“Yes, yes I did. I forgot about you. The inspector told me about you - the daughter of a master jeweler.” He wiped a hand across his forehead, disarranging his black, wavy hair. It seemed I wasn’t the only one not fully awake in the early hours of the morning, but while his gesture might make him appear human, I would not let my guard down.
He gave me a long puzzled look, asking abruptly, “Why do you wear black? It doesn’t suit your pale coloring. When I first saw you, I took you for much older.”
“Too kind, sir! And what color do you recommend for a trip to the morgue?” I asked sarcastically.
“A dark satin blue, with perhaps a black velvet jacket. That would go well with your sandy blond hair and pale complexion.” Ignoring my outraged look, he called out loudly, “Guardia!” In a moment, an officer I did not know entered the room, saluting Archambeau. From his coat pocket, the duke pulled out a leather wallet and handed several folded notes to her.
“A pot of coffee from across the street, strong and black, with a pot of cream. And pastries. Fruit if they have any this late in the year.”
After a salute, the officer left, closing the door behind her.
“You left me here to starve for hours, so I hope you plan on sharing that.”
“Of course.” He waved me to the chair sitting in front of his desk. “This one is more comfortable.”
“Perhaps you can explain why you have an office here? You are not a member of the gendarme.” I spoke with confidence, having worked with the inspector since my graduation from the Society.
“You are correct. I work for the Crown. But sometimes it is good to have a place to interview subjects in a more, shall we say, neutral place?”
“And that it happens to be close to the jail, I'm sure is a benefit?”
He didn’t respond, and since we both looked foolish standing, I took the seat he offered while the took the other chair behind the desk. He was still wearing evening wear, so had not returned home either, which only reminded me of my grievance.
“Will you tell me why I’m here and when I can go home?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Not really,” I countered. “Giles Monet gave you what information he could, but there’s nothing more I can do. He’s gone.”
He looked down at his hands, the long fingers splayed out across the desktop.
“You heard things you should not have.”
“I can forget whatever it was just as fast.”
The corners of his mouth gave a closed-mouth twitch.
“Like I said, things are not simple. Exposing Madame Nyght ended a yearlong investigation. She is part of a confidence scheme that traces all the way to the capital.”
“How did you know she was a fraud?”
“That would require divulging private information.”
“Well, I already know too much, according to you, so knowing more won’t hurt me.”
“I didn’t say it would hurt you,” he said, giving a slight emphasis to the last word.
Others often describe my face as a friendly one that encourages confidences. I get told about illicit affairs while on the train and at the market hear the latest gossip about wayward sons who marry the wrong types. My face did not fail me now, for after a sigh, mysir de duke began his tale.
“Against my wishes, my in-laws had Nyght conduct a séance, trying to reach my wife. During it, Nyght revealed details of an intimate nature, known only between Minette and myself. I could see no way she would know such information, and it made me curious about her.”
Because I was tired, I was more blunt than diplomatic.
“These con artists worm out information. A man thinks his wife keeps their secrets, but there is always a confidant, a close friend or relation, that she discusses heart matters with. Or letters exist. A journal. Servants.”
“I found no such leak,” he stated firmly. His eyes gained a bit of fire at my suggestion.
“If Madam Nyght had access to any of your friends or family, she would have learned even more than I have in the few hours I have known you. It is doubtful that your household servants would keep the knowledge of a quarrel between their master and mistress private. Servants are a notorious fountain of information about their employers.”
“No one talked,” he insisted.
“Conjecture can reveal more than you think. I imagine Madame Nyght had a dossier filled with facts about your family before that séance took place. The rest she fished out of you.”
“I told her nothing—” he began, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
“Logic, mysir de duke! Logic! I have never met you, but I know you and your wife to be estranged. That you hold ill feelings about her. Perhaps even hate her?”
“How dare you!” He rose from his seat, slamming his fist on the desk. I also stood, just as furious.
“Your Grace, you have run through my patience. You state Madame Nyght is a fraud. I agree! Now, I show you how she does it and you dare to snap and bite at me?”
A ligament in his jaw jerked as he regained control of himself. He sat down again, gesturing for me to do the same. “You have not explained how you know this.”
Refusing to sit, I walked a tight circle around the room, gesturing as I schooled him. “You admit this is your office for interrogation, so one would not expect personal items. However, still the room reveals you. It is sterile. Not even awards or boring art graces the walls. The drawers only hold a lone pencil rolling about. You do not see this as a personal office, but somewhere you pass through. This implies your actual office is elsewhere.”
As I continued, his expression changed to one more thoughtful than angry.
“But your appearance is where I find the real clues. Your emerald cuff links are in excellent condition, your shoes and clothes perfection— the sign of an excellent tailor and valet, but there is no presence of a wife. For a wife of your station would have made sure you had a boutonniere before leaving the house for an evening’s entertainment.
“Yet you wear a gold wedding band. So there is a wife, somewhere. Your lack of a flower shows she is missing. Called away this evening? Dead or estranged? The pupils of your eye just constricted— so she is dead. Not recently because you attended a social function tonight. Not dead long ago, because you still wear the wedding band.
“Unlike the cufflinks, your watch, your starched collar, which are all pristine and correct, your gold band is scratched and dull. Uncared for. What could this mean but that you attach no importance to it? Yet, still feel some obligation to wear it. Why? We have choices: because society demands it? You are not the type. Out of respect? Ah, I see by your smirk that is not the reason. Perhaps, guilt, Your Grace?”
He cut me short. “So my ring gave me away?”
“That and how your mood changed when I mentioned my findings. A fraud like Nyght deciphers every expression, every word said, as well as what is not. It is how the confidence medium works, Your Grace.”
He gave a slow, strange smile. “But not you.”
“No, not me.”
He returned to the arrest of Madame Nyght.
“I do not believe my ghostly wife gave any information to Nyght, but I couldn’t decipher how she knew what she did. My curiosity focused my attention on her activities and associates. Our investigation revealed Nyght headed a ring of spiritualists who defrauded their victims of thousands, but worse, they cruelly used people’s hopes to steal the dignity of their loved ones. In the last four hours, my team has apprehended over eleven members of her gang in Alenbonné alone.”
“I am surprised to learn she had such a large organization. You should inform the Morpheus Society, Your Grace. They will want to let our members know. While the Society isn't affiliated with the government or law enforcement, they do investigate fraudulent mediums to expose them. I have brought Madame Nyght to their attention several times.”
“They provided me some information, Madame Chalamet, though, like you state, they are not law enforcement and have no jurisdiction to prosecute in Sarnesse.”
At this moment, the coffee and breakfast tray arrived. The guardia placed the tray on the desk before leaving. The duke poured out, letting me decide on how much cream I wanted. Over strong coffee and a glazed bun, he said, “While you may not be part of their enterprise, Madame Chalamet, you are still alarming. Quite alarming.”
“How so?”
“Inspector Barbier tells me you do not request or receive any financial compensation for the work you do for the gendarme.”
“That is true. I do it out of civic duty, as I am financially independent. Though I have private clients from time to time.”
“Yes, I’ve confirmed that with your bank manager.”
Taken aback, my second bun paused on the way to my mouth. I asked, “In the middle of the night? Do take pity on my bank balance and remember, I am only a single woman who is making her way in the world, not a titled lady with a large inheritance.”
“Duly noted. Also, that you are the daughter of a jeweler who did work for His Majesty according to Barbier. How much do you remember of your father’s work?”
“I have kept his papers and his memories.”
“Can you authenticate gems?”
“Yes. I don’t use those skills any more, but yes, my father trained me when I was young.
There was a speculative gleam in his eyes that did not bode well for me. He switched tactics. “What is most pressing is you are not a fake, which presents me with a dilemma.”
“How so?”
“Remember Giles Monet? Our dead body?”
“Of course.”
“He’s a bastard relation of the royal house. Until we sign the peace treaty next week, I shall keep all the information about Giles Monet and his doings locked down.”
“Fine, I’ll keep quiet about it,” I assured him.
He shook his head sadly.
“No, Madame Chalamet, you misunderstand me. This is a Crown matter now. The police and the coroner I can rely upon, but you? You, I do not know.”
“I promise not to utter a word about it!” I crossed my heart twice, making an X.
“No, madame, there is only one answer.”
“You can’t lock me up!” I rose to my full height of five feet, two inches.
“To protect the king, we all must make sacrifices.”