The Seven Whistlers (16 page)

Tamara rose from her chair and went to the window, letting
the sun warm her, seep down into her bones. There was a chill in her always, of
late. She turned and smiled wanly at Martha.

“If that shocked her, I’d hate to think what might have
happened if she’d heard the sorts of things Byron says to the new stable boy.”

The gray-haired maid blinked but made an obvious effort not
to react to this latest bit of knowledge about the goings on at Ludlow House. After
a moment, when Tamara did not go on, she let her shoulders sag.

“You’ll want me to find a replacement, Miss?”

“Of course,” Tamara replied. “And another girl besides. Not
to mention a groundskeeper. Thank goodness the cook doesn’t seem bothered by
the presence of the . . . less tangible residents of the house. Let alone my
father’s lunatic ravings.”

The household staff might be willing to put up with a
haunting now and again, particularly if the ghosts were not especially
aggressive. But Tamara and William were not fools. They were the only living
residents of Ludlow House who knew that their father’s affliction — the
madness that caused them to keep him shackled inside a locked room — had
nothing to do with true lunacy, and everything to do with the demon possessing
his soul.

Martha cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you’ve
need of at the moment, Miss?”

Tamara assured her there was not and the maid took her
leave, closing the door once more behind her. When she returned her attention
once more to the page upon the desk it took several moments for her to find her
place in the narrative again, for her to imagine herself in the dire
circumstances of her protagonist. Then she nodded once and reached for her pen.

Once again, she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Yes?” she called, allowing her annoyance to sneak into her
tone.

She fully expected to see Martha again, returning with some
additional bit of bad news that had slipped her mind the first time. Instead,
the door swung open and Bertram Farris entered. Farris was broad-shouldered and
stocky, far less elegant than the slender and particular men Tamara had always
encountered in his position. But he was an excellent butler, a gentleman’s
gentleman who came from a family with a proud history as household domestics.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tamara,” the butler said, executing a
small bow.

“And to you, Farris. You’ll pardon my brusqueness, but I
hope you’re not here with further tales of woe.”

The butler stood as though at attention, more grimly proper
than any military man. “Not at all, Miss. It’s only that Master William had not
yet returned and there is a visitor at the door. I made it clear to him that
Ludlow House is not in the habit of receiving strange visitors unannounced
—”

“Would that we weren’t,” Tamara muttered.

“I also informed him that Master William was not at home,
but he then insisted upon seeing you. Shall I send him away, Miss?”

Tamara ruminated on the question. She glanced longingly at
her manuscript and then out the window at the golden afternoon sunlight, which
would soon grow dim. Once William had returned home, dinner would be imminent. If
she left the room now she knew that she would be abandoning her writing for the
day.

At length she sighed and rose from her chair again. “No,
Farris. I’ll speak with him. Where have you left him?”

“In the drawing room, Miss.”

Farris stepped aside so that Tamara could exit her
grandfather’s chambers. Sir Ludlow was dead, but no matter how much time passed
she would always think of the rooms as his. The shadows were deeper there in
the corridor but Tamara paid them no attention at all. Shadows and light were
constant companions. Without the darkness one would be unable to recognize, to
appreciate, the purity of the light.

She made her way through the house and down the grand
staircase at its heart, into the foyer. Farris kept pace with her as though he
were her personal guardian, and she knew that in a way he was. Without William
in the house it would have been entirely inappropriate for her to meet behind
closed doors with a male visitor, stranger or not.

The doors to the drawing room had been left open and as her
skirts whispered across the floor her mysterious visitor glanced up from his
perch upon the settee and caught sight of her. He was an old man with only
wisps of white hair and skin rough and weathered, and his eyes narrowed with
determination when she strode into the room. Tea had been brought to him, but
now he set the cup back upon the tray and stood quickly.

“Miss Swift, thank you so much for agreeing to speak with
me,” he said, and by his accent she took him for a Welshman. Or, if not from
Wales, she would have guessed the borderlands, perhaps Shropshire.

Farris took up a place just inside the drawing room and she
could not shake the sudden image that came into her mind, that she was a Sister
of Charity come to visit a prisoner on the day of his execution. Certainly the
desperation and sorrow in her visitor’s expression did nothing to dissuade her
of the illusion.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” Tamara said. “I am,
indeed, Tamara Swift. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to introduce yourself.”

The old man paled and cast a glance downward. “My apologies,
Miss. I’m not usually so rude. It’s only that I came a long way to see you
— you and your brother — and when I was told he was not at home I
feared you were also not in residence. It is a great relief to see you.

“My name is Nichols, Miss. Dr. John Nichols, of Blackbriar,
Herefordshire.”

Tamara extended her hand and allowed him to take it. Dr.
Nichols respectfully inclined his head.

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Though I gather by your manner
and the abruptness of your appearance here that the circumstances of your visit
are hardly pleasant.”

The elderly man gazed at her a moment, as though he wanted
desperately to reveal to her the pain in his heart but was ashamed to do so. Then
he clasped his hands in front of him.

“No, miss. Not at all pleasant. Would you mind terribly if I
sat?”

Tamara gestured toward the settee. “Of course, Doctor. I’m
sorry, please do.”

Dr. Nichols returned to the settee, still perched upon its
edge as though afraid he might have to lurch from it at any moment. Tamara sat
in a delicate chair just across from him and though she was tempted to snatch
up one of the biscuits that had been set out for him with the tea tray, she
refrained. Her gaze shifted toward Farris, still and silent as a statue by the
door, then back to the despondent wretch who had appeared upon her doorstep.

“Well, Doctor, you certainly have my attention.”

The old man nodded. He glanced anxiously about the room
several times and when he spoke he could not meet her gaze. “Here in the city
it might be different, Miss. Where I come from, we still hold onto more than a
little superstition. Legend. Tales we tell the children.”

He stole a glance at her and she saw that he was trying to
gauge her response. His despair had been replaced now with a gravity of
purpose.

“Of course there’s some truth to all of those tales, isn’t
there, Miss Swift?”

Tamara nodded slowly. “Yes, Dr. Nichols. Yes, there is.”

In that moment it was as though the afternoon shadows
quickened their rush toward evening. The room darkened. Tamara narrowed her
eyes and studied Dr. Nichols more closely. The man hung his head for several
seconds and when he looked up it was with such relief in his features that
Tamara wanted to weep for him.

“For those of us who still believe in such things, whispers
go around. New stories arise. When something as terrible as what happened
earlier this year in London takes place there are still so many who will deny
it, who will try to invent other explanations for the death, for the horror,
for what people have seen with their own eyes. Most will accept these
inventions because they do not want to believe the truth. But I have heard a
great many stories about what happened in the city, and I believe them.

“Some of the stories, Miss Swift, speak of you and your
brother.”

Tamara felt a chill go through her but she kept her gaze
firm. “Go on, Doctor.”

Once more the old man glanced about the room as if mustering
the fortitude to continue. At last he turned to meet her gaze and beneath his
pain Tamara saw a strength in his eyes she had not noticed there before.

“Blackbriar is a small village, Miss Swift. I am its only
doctor and chief benefactor, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. Several years
ago I lost my son when a horse threw him. He broke his neck but did not die
instantly. I reached him before he passed and could do nothing but wait for the
moment. A cruel irony that a doctor should have to watch helplessly as the
light goes out of his son’s eyes.”

Tamara’s throat felt dry and she gazed at Dr. Nichols with
new sympathy, but the old man did not notice. His eyes were far away, reliving
events now distant both in place and time.

“His wife Julia and their daughter Sarah came to live with
me and I have cared for them as best I could. My own sweet Elizabeth passed
many, many years ago. We have made a life together, my daughter-in-law, my
granddaughter and I. We all have suffered losses. The sun goes down at the end
of every day. Darkness enters all our lives.”

This statement was similar enough to her own earlier
ruminations as to cause Tamara to shiver again, but she did not interrupt.

A fierce pride burned in the old man’s eyes as he continued.
“Earlier this year, my granddaughter became pregnant, as foolish young village
girls sometimes do. Still, Julia and I did not send her away, but cared for her
throughout her time. It was a difficult birth. I delivered the baby myself. When
it was over, Sarah . . . something was wrong with her. Most of the time she is
in a state of strange trancelike state, rigid as though paralyzed, eyes wide
open but unseeing. In infrequent bursts, she seems to become aware of her
surroundings, but then she only . . .”

Dr. Nichols closed his eyes and put one hand over his chest.
His lips pressed together as though he were holding back a scream. “Then she
only laughs. This wild, maniacal giggling. And then she slips back into her
paralytic state again. I am a doctor, Miss Swift. A good one, I like to think. I’ve
seen nothing like this before, nor even heard of anything like it.”

For several moments she waited for him to continue, but Dr.
Nichols only stared at her expectantly. Tamara grimaced, her heart aching for
the man.

“That’s terrible, Doctor. Truly. I am sorry for your
hardship, for what’s happened to Sarah. But I’m afraid I’m not sure why you’ve
come to me. To us. There’s obviously some medical phenomenon at work here. What
is it you think my brother and I can do to help?” An idea suddenly occurred to
her, against all of her expectations. “Is it a bank issue? Do you need funds
for research?”

But the doctor was shaking his head.

“No, Miss Swift. I’m sorry, I haven’t been clear. Haven’t
told you the entire story. You see, my granddaughter is not the only one this
has happened to. There are six other girls, all within Blackbriar village. I .
. . I delivered most of their babies.”

Tamara tilted her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I still don’t
see —”

“The babies, Miss Swift. The child in my house . . . the
other babies born in the village recently . . . they are not the children I
delivered. Someone has replaced them, you see. Taken the babies and in their
place, left others.”

She could not mask her disbelief and knew he would be
insulted, but she could not help it.

“Why?” Tamara asked. “Why would anyone do that? And how
could you tell, if someone is swapping newborn babies for other infants?”

The smile on Dr. Nichols’ face turned her stomach, for there
was hysteria in it, not humor. “It isn’t difficult to tell the difference,” the
doctor said. “Sarah’s baby, all of the others. Well, they’re not human, Miss. Not
human at all.”

All the breath went out of her and Tamara stared at him,
eyes wide.

“What do you mean, not human? How can you tell?”

“If you saw them, you would know. Something like this cannot
possibly be —”

There came the sound of the front door closing loudly and
then footsteps in the foyer. Belatedly, as though it had taken too long for the
sounds to reach her, she glanced over to see William coming into the drawing
room. Though Farris had heard everything Dr. Nichols had said, the butler
remained remarkably poised.

Curiosity and confusion played across her brother’s features
as he entered the room. Tamara and Dr. Nichols rose from their places.

“Hello, Tamara,” William said. “I see we have a guest.”

These words were said pleasantly and laden with the
expectation of imminent introductions. Tamara was constantly amazed that
William seemed to have none of the instincts that she felt developing within
herself. He clearly had not an inkling that their visitor was not paying a
social call, or here on any sort of legitimate business linked to the family.

With a roll of her eyes she strode across the room.

“Pack a bag, William. We’re going on a trip,” she said, as
she went past him and out into the foyer.

“A trip?” he asked, with a mix of amusement and annoyance in
his tone. “I cannot simply depart on a whim, Tam. We’ve agreed —”

“There’s nothing to be done about it. We must go.”

William sighed. “Go where?”

Tamara paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Herefordshire. A
village called Blackbriar.”

William glanced back into the drawing room at Dr. Nichols,
whose acquaintance he still had not made, and then looked at his sister again. “Herefordshire?
What’s in Herefordshire?”

Tamara narrowed her eyes. “Something terrible,” she said,
and then she started up the steps to begin preparing for their trip. Even as
she ascended she could hear her brother’s voice drifting up after her.