The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (5 page)

“Why don’t we have a seat, Dr. Larch,” Evelina said mildly, helping the rector up from the floor.

“Thank you, Miss Cooper, but this is a most unsuitable time for a visit. I am working. I
was
reading.” His tone made it clear that she had interrupted.

“My apologies, Dr. Larch, but these are extreme circumstances. I just saw a dead man
walk.”

The room was small and lined with tall shelves of books. Two chairs flanked the hearth. She settled Larch in the only one with a seat free of books. After shifting a stack of leather-bound quarto volumes, she sat in the other, edging as close to the fire as she could get. The heat felt good after a walk in the chill December night.

Larch frowned. “You should not be involved in this matter, Miss Cooper. Tom Cannon is out there, and he is dangerous.”

“Tom wanted to get into the academy. He wanted to get to someone or something.” She pulled a pistol out of her coat pocket and set it on her lap. She’d taken it from the groundskeeper’s cottage—a simple matter when no one in Wollaston bothered to lock his door. The Webley was large for her hand, but at least it was less conspicuous than the huge fowling piece that was her only other choice. “He might succeed next time. Nothing is going to get any safer if I hide under my bed.”

Dr. Larch muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Then he considered her, his gaze keen and assessing, more the soldier he had once been than the old churchman he was now. “You are an unusual and somewhat disturbing young woman. Even so, I don’t think your gun will stop a dead man.”

“Most things slow down if you shoot them through the eye.”

“I concede the point.” Larch nodded, seeming much steadier. Maybe her disturbing qualities were helping.

“Tom—he—it—was at the school, trying to get in. And eating another arm.” She couldn’t help a moue of disgust from wrinkling her mouth. She suddenly felt hot, as if she might be sick again just from thinking about what she’d seen.

“The dead appear to have unforgiveable manners.”

She wiped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Where is he getting these corpses?”

“From family graves. Several have been disturbed.” Larch nodded at the heavy tome on the floor. “Since I discovered the wreckage, I’ve been reading about the habits of the walking dead.”

Evelina wrinkled her brow. “There’s a book about it?”

Mary chose that moment to enter, rolling a tea trolley. It was one of the new steam-powered models that chugged along with only the lightest touch. She poured and left, muttering to herself about the explosion of paper on the floor. Evelina took the opportunity to move the large book to the safety of the desk. It smelled old and musty, the pages foxed and spotted with damp. A quick glance at the frontispiece told her that it was not Hester Barnes’s spell book as she had first thought, but a history.

“I found that among the oldest volumes kept in the collection of the rectory,” said Dr. Larch. “I’ve been doing what research I can. It’s all I can do, until someone else accepts what is happening.”

Hope, tiny and tentative, made her caress the faded brown writing. Hope that his research would help her. Hope that she had the power to help him.

The penmanship of the history was so old-fashioned, she could barely read it. “What does it say?”

“It is from the time of the Great Fire, so the prose is rather antique. They seem to have had a positive plague of the walking dead until much of London burned. They called them the Risen. Fire seems to be the one reliable method of destroying the creatures.”

Evelina put a mental tick against the first item she had come there to learn. “Why were
there so many?”

Larch watched as she resumed her seat, still watchful. She was probably the only other person who believed that Tom Cannon had left his grave, but she was still, in his eyes, little more than a child. She could see him weighing his words.

“Sorcery was rampant among the cognoscenti of the time,” he said. “It fell out of fashion along with the Stuart kings … or at least that seems to be the case. I had just reached that part when you arrived.”

Evelina moved on to something more useful. “Do the dead eat living flesh?”

He frowned unhappily.

Evelina cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for my bluntness, but this is not a case that encourages ladylike decorum, as my uncle Sherlock would say.” She hated trading on her uncle’s name, but on this occasion she was willing to use every tool in her box. Still, she flushed.

His lips twitched, almost smiling. “That’s right. Your uncle is the consulting detective.”

“I am in no way as accomplished as he is, but we do share a sense of practicality. I am not easily shocked.”

“Very well.” Larch made a face and took a bracing swallow of tea. “The Risen begin by eating carrion. They are attracted to the graves of their own family members at first. Eventually, they move on to living flesh, usually animals to begin with. Then other living men.”

“The Cannon stables?”

“I’m afraid so. Three of the carriage horses were torn to pieces. The Risen are unnaturally strong.”

She shuddered. A silence filled the room, broken only by coals shifting in the grate.

“The spell book from the school,” she said softly. “Did one of the girls at Wollaston raise
Tom?”

Dr. Larch looked unspeakably old and worn. “I suspect that’s the case. There is a page missing from the book, and it looks freshly torn away.”

“But who would it be?” Evelina mused, more to herself than to the rector.

“Who at the school is arrogant enough to command someone back from the dead?” asked Dr. Larch.

Arrogant?
Violet
. The idea made her start, then flood with certainty. Personalities mattered when it came to magic. The more force of will someone had, the more likely it was that his or her spell would work—and Violet had will to spare.

But why would she summon Tom? Evelina had seen them flirt, but was there more between the two than she knew about?
Violet crept out her window at night at least twice last autumn. Was it to see him? Would the most vile girl in the school turn to putty in the hands of a rake?

That image staggered the imagination, so Evelina focused on less disturbing question. “Is there a counterspell in the book?”

“If one exists, it was written on the missing page.” He frowned. “You appear to know something about the subject of spells.”

Her mouth went dry. She wanted to tell him that she had learned her magic—real magic—at her Gran Cooper’s knee. She had the Blood. She was clever and talented enough to put down anyone with the sheer bad taste to raise the local rake from the dead. But she couldn’t. That was the quick route to prison—and not even her pride was worth that. She would have to go cautiously.

“I only know what the fairy tales say.” Evelina gazed at her hands in her lap. They were
grimy from climbing, the nails ragged.
You’re still just an urchin from the circus
. No matter how long she stayed away from her old life, she still ended up getting her hands dirty. It seemed an indelible part of who she was.

“We have to work with what little information we possess.” He set his cup down slowly. “How would you propose we undo the magic that has been done? Hypothetically, of course.”

Fire
. If the Risen died by fire, it was just a matter of setting Tom alight. The question was how to do it without getting close to the shambling horror.
Air deva
. Devas could fly, but they were no good at lifting.
A deva can steer, but you need propulsion
. Her mind scrambled, pulling bits and pieces from her study of mechanics. Unbidden, a smile curved her lips. She had an idea that was daring but might still work.

“Miss Cooper?” Dr. Larch said softly. “Should you have any secrets, please know that they are entirely safe in my keeping. This is, as you say, an extreme circumstance. I am quite prepared to turn a blind eye if there is a solution at hand.”

She believed his pledge. More important, she believed he was the one person who had been trying to warn Wollaston from the start. “If I trust you, will you trust me to carry this out? No talk about young ladies and proper behavior?”

His face wrinkled into a rueful smile. “Miss Cooper, who else do we have in this but each other?”

Evelina rose, slipping the pistol back into her pocket. “Good enough. I might have a plan, but I’ll need a few things. Do any of your clockwork toys fly?”

Dr. Larch’s expression furrowed with bemusement, and then twinkled with wry humor. “I don’t know what you’re thinking of, but I suspect it shall be most original.”
As the night wore on, plans were made and books consulted, and Evelina spent a long time gathering and testing what she needed. The Risen avoided sunlight, and this was her one chance to prepare. She didn’t return to the academy until much later, and then only long enough to change her clothes. With the chaos of preparation for the ball, it was not hard to come and go unnoticed.

She found Imogen—who was never robust—nursing a sniffle from her walk in the rain. Her friend’s plan was to rest in bed right up until she had to dress for the dance. Evelina brought her a lunch of hot broth, tucked the blankets around her, and left without elaborating on her plans, in case Imogen would be tempted to risk a more serious illness by joining in.

That left Evelina without her most obvious support, but she was also relieved. Even if Imogen knew a tiny bit about her magic, there was no reason to drag her deeper into what could be a dangerous secret. And, if things went wrong, Evelina was only putting herself on the line. Imogen was too dear to her to take chances, and there were some ugly tasks left to cross off Evelina’s list.

The first was confirming her suspicions about Violet. Had she been the one who had summoned Tom Cannon from the grave? Whatever the answer, Evelina wanted to talk to her nemesis alone. There was still the matter of the dress.

An hour before the ball, she lingered in the corridor just outside Violet’s room, waiting for her prey to emerge. The faint sounds of the tuning orchestra were floating through the frost-edged window along with the purpling dusk. Lights engulfed the academy in a twinkling blaze, inside and out. Carriages crammed the drive, and the entire building smelled of the midnight feast to come. The ball would start within the hour, and everyone else had already gone downstairs.

Violet’s door opened, and she stepped into the corridor. Evelina caught Violet by one bare arm. The girl whirled, auburn ringlets flying like a living crown of autumn flame. Her eyebrows drew in, then rose in an expression of hauteur.

Evelina could smell Violet’s expensive scent, a sharp contrast to the smell of dirt and grass clinging to her own clothes. Rather than silks and ribbons, she was wearing her shabbiest outfit. Violet took it in with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t a costume ball, Cooper. There’s no need to dress like a Gypsy.”

In contrast, Violet’s gorgeous ball gown was the exact color of the one that had belonged to Evelina’s mother. However, it was not quite as fine—and there was no way that Violet would have allowed Evelina to outshine her.
So she destroyed my one chance to waltz with Tobias
.

“The ball can wait.” Evelina’s voice was cold, even if her gut flamed with anger. “And be very, very grateful that I have something more to worry about right now than dresses.”

“Let go of me.” Violet pulled her arm from Evelina’s grasp.

Quick as a cat, Evelina shoved her. Violet’s back hit the wall with a thump, her eyes flying wide with shock. Good. Evelina wanted her focused. She closed in, giving Violet no room to get away. “What spell did you use?”

The color fled from Violet’s face, leaving a faint dusting of freckles stark against her cheeks. “What?”

The single word was more surprise than denial.

Evelina pushed closer, feeling bloody satisfaction. “We’ll have a long talk about the dress later.”

Violet went paler still, the corners of her mouth pulling down. It looked like guilty fear.

Evelina trembled with anger. “I’ve been out since last night chasing over hill and dale.
I’ve had no sleep and almost no food and I am in no mood for nonsense.”

Violet’s defenses fell away, leaving confusion in her eyes. “What are you saying?”

Downstairs, a choir of girls began “Adeste Fideles.”

“I’ve been following Tom Cannon. I think he wants to talk to you. That’s what happens when you use a summoning spell.”

“Oh, dear God.” Violet clapped a hand over her mouth. “No. That’s a lie. He’s dead.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears and something like panic. She’d been found out, and much, much worse. “Are you sure? Tell me!”

Evelina’s stomach twisted with astonishment as she suddenly understood far too much. As much as she wanted to loathe Violet, she heard the longing in her voice. “You loved him.”

Violet looked away, her lips twisting in a snarl. “That’s not your affair. And it was never that simple.”

“I wonder what it was, then?” Violet and Tom had been two of a kind—passionate, fierce, and bothersome to be around—but there had been feeling between them. But then, even wolverines had mates.

Tears slipped down Violet’s face. Now that she was looking closely, Evelina saw red-rimmed eyes that had done a lot of crying. No wonder she’d been in a devil of a mood. She was grieving.

Pity softened Evelina enough that she stepped back. She didn’t have to like Violet, or even forgive her, but she knew anguish when she saw it. “Why you chose to cast that spell is your business. I just want to know how you did it.”

“Why?”

“I need to stop him before someone gets hurt.”

Violet darted her a frightened look. “Hurt?”

Evelina struggled for words. “Tom’s not himself.”

Violet’s lips pursed into a thin line, making her look much older. “I didn’t believe it would work. I went to the graveyard on the full moon. I took three birds, like the book said.”

So the russet-haired girl was the fox who’d been in the dovecot. Evelina nodded, offering no further comment. A silence stretched between the two young women, long enough for the sharp angle to leave Violet’s shoulders.