Ghost Talkers Read online

“Ow!”

  “Edna is a respectable young lady, and so are the other girls in my circle.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his arm. “Truly though, she’s only in danger if she’s an heiress. He’s perpetually short of funds.”

  “Her father is a shepherd.”

  “Then she is definitely safe from him.”

  “Well … next time, say something anyway.”

  “I did! I told him to behave.”

  “I mean to me.”

  “What am I supposed to say? ‘Ginger—this is my cousin. He’s a cad. Don’t trust him with your friends, horses, or money.’”

  “I wouldn’t object.” She regarded him with some concern. “You have never said a bad word about him before.”

  He sighed. “I have to be pleasant to him, or my father will have my head.”

  “And what of me?”

  “You … you make me be a better man than I am naturally inclined to be.”

  “You do say the sweetest things.”

  He offered her his arm. “Walk you home, Miss Stuyvesant?”

  “I would be delighted.” She settled her hand in the crook of his arm, and leaned close to feel the warmth of his body.

  The streets of Le Havre were dark, save for the moonlight and, in the distance, the flash of guns. Outside the hospitality tent, the constant crackle and bang reasserted itself. It was strange what one could get used to hearing. It sounded so different in the memories of the dead.

  “Are you all right?” Ben put his free hand over hers.

  “Only tired, but that is true for everyone, I think.” She leaned her head upon his shoulder as they walked. It was a delicious intimacy to be out together, unchaperoned, for a stroll at night. Before the war, it would have been unthinkable. “Must you really go away tomorrow?”

  “Alas, yes. It won’t be a long trip, though.” He steered her to the side to avoid a refugee sleeping in the doorway of a building. “Ginger … have you—I was thinking about lucid dreaming.”

  “It isn’t reliable for spy work, dear. The dreamer is too likely to shape the dream into what they want to see.”

  “No—no, I know that. I was thinking more … for us.” Ben cleared his throat, looking at the moon. “If we both tried at the same time. While I was away, I mean.”

  In theory, they could share a dream, though Ginger had never tried it outside of her training as a medium. “I suppose, though I already dream about you every night.”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “Well…”

  Ben cupped her cheek with one hand. His thumb left a trail of warmth as he caressed her cheek. “May I steal a kiss, Miss Stuyvesant?”

  In answer, Ginger smiled and tilted her head up, lips parting. Who cared for proprieties? Ben grinned back at her and bent—

  A sharp whistle cut through the night. “Nicely done, Captain. Is her hair red all over?”

  Ben turned from Ginger, his hands bunching into fists. A man with the pips and crown of a captain sat in a doorway, collar undone and hair hanging into his eyes. Ben took a single step toward him. “Apologize to the lady.”

  “For what? Asking you a question? I didn’t ask her, now did I?” He leaned to the side to look around Ben. “Hey, lady. Are you red all the way down?”

  Ginger’s mouth hung open a little in astonishment. She had heard cruder language in some of the memories, but none addressed directly to her. Her heart speeding a little, she put her hand on Ben’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “How much is she? Maybe after you finish, I can have a turn.”

  A flare of red exploded through Ben’s aura, wiping out every other colour. With a guttural cry, Ben rushed at the man, who rose to meet him. Their breath huffed out so she couldn’t tell which of them had cried out at the impact. With scuffling sounds, they staggered across the sidewalk. In the moonlight, it was almost possible to think they were dancing the foxtrot.

  “Ben! Stop.” Ginger darted closer. “Stop! It doesn’t matter.”

  Without a doubt, neither man heard her. A dull series of thumps accompanied an exhalation and a groan. The other man staggered back, one hand clutching his nose. “Jesus. We’re supposed to be on the same side.”

  Ben growled. “Apologize to her.”

  “Fine. Fine! Lady, I’m sorry your fellow is a prick.”

  Ben lurched forward, but Ginger caught him by the arm. “Stop it, Ben. Do you want to get called up on charges?”

  He stood, tense and panting, then spat at the man. Without saying anything else, he turned and put his hand at the small of Ginger’s back. The pressure guided her away from the encounter, but Ben stayed stiff and silent as they walked several streets away. He walked with one hand pressed against his ribs, while his aura roiled around him in angry reds and blacks. Flashes of deep brick red sparked through the maelstrom of emotion.

  “Ben?”

  They walked past a few more buildings. Ginger’s heart was still racing. That flash of temper was so unlike him. Before the war, Ben had been the most even-tempered man she’d ever met. Now … and what had been the point? If they had just continued on their way, the fight would not have occurred.

  “Ben? What was that?”

  He slowed and then came to a stop, staring at the paving stones. After a moment, he shook himself. “Sorry.” He raised a hand to run it through his hair and stopped with a wince. “That was … I wish you hadn’t heard that.”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  His eyes widened, and then he gave a crooked grin of recognition. “Right. I forgot who reports to you.”

  She shook her head. “I meant, why did you attack him?”

  “He was—well, I couldn’t let that stand.”

  “Actually, you could have. If we had continued walking, the man would have been behind us in no time at all. And…” She laid her hand over his where it pressed against his ribs. “You would not be injured.”

  “This? I’m not—” He glanced at her and grimaced. “You’re looking at my aura, aren’t you.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s not fair.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “He landed a good punch, but nothing is broken.”

  “Still. The point remains that you don’t even need to be bruised.”

  “I couldn’t very well let that sort of comment—I mean, what if you had been alone?”

  “Ben.” She sighed, exasperated with him for bringing up unlikely scenarios. “The fact that I am out with you, without a chaperone, is not a sign of my usual behaviour.”

  “But if I hadn’t said anything, that fellow would have thought that his comment was acceptable and might have escalated with another woman.” He rubbed his face. “It’s conduct unbecoming an officer.”

  That might be the case, but neither was brawling. What worried her more than either was Ben’s aura. The anger had evaporated and left behind the grey of despair and the deep purple of grief.

  “What is the matter? Ben—I mean … what, truly, is the matter?”

  He looked at her, and for a moment the grief was visible on his face as well. He gave her a lopsided grin, making his dimples flash. “Let a man have some mystery, what?”

  “Not too much.” She took his arm again. “Or I shall feel I don’t know you.”

  “Some days, my dear, I don’t feel that I know myself. So we’re on even footing.”

  Chapter Four

  17 JULY 1916

  Ginger walked onto the floor of Potter’s Field, shivering as she stepped over the line of salt. Most of the team had assembled already. They were only missing Mrs. Richardson and Mr. Haden. Ginger’s shoulders relaxed a trifle when she spotted Edna, none the worse for wear and with a satisfied amber haze to her aura.

  Helen looked up and smiled at her. “How was dancing last night?”

  “Mostly lovely.” Ginger took her seat in one of the armchairs, grateful that the mediums rated padding.

  “Mostly?”

  Ginger thought of the fight Ben had had and shook her head. �
��He left on a mission this morning.”

  Helen tsked. “That means I’m going to have to listen to you mooning over his letters, aren’t I?”

  “He’s suggesting lucid dreaming as being more reliable than the post.”

  “Ha!” Helen shook her head and then sobered. “You serious?”

  Ginger shrugged. “Well, I don’t think it will actually—”

  “No, no.” Helen shook her finger at Ginger. “No. You are that tired. Already your soul is loose in your skin, same as mine. Don’t do nothing that will loosen it more. You hear me?”

  “I … yes. Of course. You’re right.” After half the sessions, she had to remind herself why returning to her body was important.

  The simultaneous arrival of Mrs. Richardson and Mr. Haden made Ginger’s brows rise. They both had auras that were even deeper in amber than Edna’s, and … was that a pink haze of embarrassment? Ginger glanced across the circle at Helen, whose eyes were round with surprise. Covering a smile, she met Ginger’s gaze and raised her brows. Ginger had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It did, indeed, look as if the flirtation between the two elder members of their team might have been taken to a new level.

  Joanne cleared her throat. “That’s a very nice jumper, Mr. Haden.”

  She giggled, nudging Edna, as Mr. Haden brushed the soft brown wool of the sweater he wore under his jacket. He beamed at Mrs. Richardson. “Aye. I needed sommat for the cold, and look here.” He pulled the fabric a little away from his body so they could see the green twined through it. “See how fine a stitch it’s got? Master craftsmanship, that is.”

  “It’s just Fair Isle knitting, only a simple knit stitch.” The silver glow of pride in Mrs. Richardson’s aura said the stitch was anything but simple. She patted the tight grey bun at the back of her head.

  With a wink at Mrs. Richardson, Joanne leaned over to Mr. Haden. “Well. It brings out the colour of your eyes. I had not noticed what fine hazel eyes you have until this very moment.”

  “Is that a fact?” He blushed, rather charmingly.

  Across the circle, Lt. Plumber said, “I may need a jumper like that.”

  “But you’d need one in blue or grey, because your eyes are like the sky.” Edna suddenly coloured.

  The gong sounded, its low single tone rolling across the warehouse. Time for their shift to begin in earnest. Ginger held out her hands to either side. Mrs. Richardson took her right hand and Lt. Plumber took her left. Closing her eyes, Ginger felt the links in the circle form, leading from her to Mrs. Richardson to Mr. Haden to Helen on the other side. And then back from that medium through Joanne to Lt. Plumber and then Ginger herself.

  In the spirit realm, hosts of soldiers billowed, waiting to report. It was Helen’s turn to lead, so Ginger acted solely as one of the anchors in the group. The other medium stretched her soul out of her body in a coruscating wave. It bore her form and figure, but with a delicate translucence.

  The dead soldier in front of her seemed perversely more solid, being fully in the spirit world. He could not be more than twenty, and held his cap in his hand. “Oh—a lady medium? I thought—”

  Likely he’d thought he’d meet Houdini. Helen gave no sign of noticing his confusion, which was fairly common. “May I have your name, rank, and how you died?”

  “Private William McIndoe, 12th Battalion, Gloucester Regiment. I was carrying orders to the listening post off of Whitehall and a sniper got me.” He held out his hands helplessly. “I didn’t even see him. I got nothing useful to report. I’m so sorry.”

  Helen soothed him. “Of course you do. We’ll let your commanding officer know to send the orders again. Do you know what time you died?”

  In the centre of the circle, Edna wrote the message for their runner and passed the note to the lad. He would drop it in the communications room and they would relay it to Pvt. McIndoe’s commanding officer.

  “I left at quarter till six, just as it was getting light.”

  “Good. And do you remember the direction you were facing or where you were hit?”

  He shook his head, grey with misery. “I was crawling, and then I was dead.”

  “That means a head wound. See? You do have useful information. Have you a message for home?”

  “Yes, please. Tell my da that I died doing my duty and that I didn’t mind it. I just didn’t mean to die so young. That’ll do.” He hesitated and then turned back to her. “Wait—tell my brother that I hid his knife in the leg of my bed. I only meant to tease, and thought I’d be home to fish it out for him at Christmas.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you. Oh? Is that the…” He faded before the sentence finished.

  Helen rippled in his wake and Ginger bore down to keep her anchored. When Helen was settled, the circle balanced for a moment, with each of them supporting the others. And then Ginger took the lead as their attention shifted to her. She lifted out of her body, reveling in the loosening of her bonds. The colours of the auras mixed with a crackle of scents as spirits swirled around them. The bright cinnamon red of attraction lay between Lt. Plumber and Edna, which was a new thing. Perhaps the young woman should ask Mrs. Richardson how to knit.

  Ginger steadied herself and had her body take a deep, filling breath. She turned to the soldier in front of her.

  It was the officer from last night. His eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a—aw, geez. I’m real sorry, ma’am. I thought you were a—”

  “That was obvious.” Ginger smoothed her soul. She felt Helen’s query through the circle, but it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to process two souls in a row. “And it doesn’t matter now.”

  “So … wait. We’re in Le Havre? I thought the Army Corps of Mediums was in London. With Conan Doyle and Houdini and the lot.”

  “You were meant to, so I’m glad to hear that you did.”

  He hit his head. “Spirit Corps … all you hospitality ladies in the WAC’s Spirit Corps. You’re mediums—God. I feel like a prize idiot.”

  That was not the epithet Ginger would have chosen to call him, but at the moment she had a job to do. “May I have your name, rank, and how you died?”

  “Right. Right … Captain Harold Norris, D Company, Heavy Branch, Machine Gun Corps. Pretty sure I was murdered.”

  He had been in Le Havre last night. There wasn’t time for him to have gone to the front. Lt. Plumber squeezed her left hand, tugging on her awareness. Why was he bothering her? Lt. Plumber shook her hand again and—

  Ginger realized that she had stopped breathing. She inhaled, and even in the spirit realm she could feel the burn of air rushing into her lungs. She focused on Capt. Norris. “Did you anger another boyfriend?”

  “No. Look—I was drunk. All right? As if it weren’t clear. So after your fellow roughed me up, I went to the baths. Which, yes, were closed, but I’m good with locks. So I’m in there soaking and I hear these guys talking, and then one of them drowned me. So. Spies. In Le Havre.”

  Given that Capt. Norris had been drunk and that he did not appear to have the steadiest of characters, there was no telling how reliable his testimony was. She should pass control of the circle to Helen and ask her to relive the man’s memories, but—but after all Ginger’s complaints to Ben about being allowed to do her duty, it would make her the worst sort of hypocrite not to do this herself.

  Ginger reached out a tendril of thought and brushed the soldier’s soul.

  He is soaking in the giant vats they use for bathing the soldiers who are fresh out of the trenches. Big steaming things, kept hot all day round because it would take too long to warm up that much water. Used to be for making wine in, before the war. He can slide all the way down to his neck, and the weightlessness is enough to almost make him forget the past three days. Shell, after shell, after shell, till he was the only one left of his company. He ducks his head under the water, scrubbing at his hair. Keeps thinking he feels bits of stuff stuck to his scalp, but he’s bathed enough that it can’t still be pieces of br
ain.

  The water stings his split lip. Couldn’t really blame the guy who’d slugged him. Not when he was trying to pick a fight.

  He lifts his head above the water and just lies there. It’d be so easy to slip under the water and not come back up.

  He must’ve dozed off some, which was a mercy, because someone is talking. A man. Sounds posh.

  “The key is the skirts. You understand? The skirts.”

  “I have the list right here.”

  “Good. Start with an—”

  He lifts his head from the water. “Speaking of skirts … you know a place where I can get a quick tumble?”

  There are two men, one of them in a British Army uniform, but the only light is from the window behind them, and he doesn’t see much more than that before the officer is on him. Has him by the shoulders and pushes him down under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but in the big tub there is no leverage, and he is still too drunk to be coordinated. Dammit. He didn’t survive the shelling to die like this. His lungs burn and he coughs, sucking in water.

  Ginger yanked herself out of his memory, shaking and cold. Skirts … that had to be related to the mediums.

  Capt. Norris eyed her, wariness circling him in leaf green and silver grey. “So?”

  “You were murdered. Forgive me for doubting you.”

  He shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I’d doubt me too. You find those guys, you hear? That one in the uniform … he’s a traitor.”

  “I will. I’ll report this at once.” Her circle steadied her, and Ginger took another breath. “Have you a last message?”

  “Yeah. Ask Paddy McIntyre to take a cricket bat to my kid brother’s knee. I’d rather him crippled than in this damn war.” He hesitated and then grinned. “And are you red all over?”

  “Really? That’s your unfinished business?”

  He shrugged. “I was always the nosy type. Would’ve made me a good spy.”

  “And an unsubtle one.”

  He held out his hands. “No … no. I’m sorry. My mum raised me better than that. It’s just the war … not a real good excuse, is it? We’re all in it. So. I’m sorry I asked. It was rude.”

  “In that case, you’re forgiven.”