11. Wise Old Eyes

Before they could go to anyone else for help, they had to report what Edith decided to call an accident. She insisted that they went to Doctor Pilgrim first, not because she believed that he could by some miracle save Father Christopher, but because he was more likely to listen. In the end, he told them to stay in the village while he went back up to the manor with the police. He visited them the next day, looking exhausted. Until his arrival, Thomas couldn't quite get rid of the mental image Lucille had created in him. He didn't want to die. To a point, he believed that he deserved a death sentence, but he was definitely not prepared to go. He had been, before. He hadn't expected his sister to stab him, but she had planted the conviction that he would be killed for his participation in her crimes so firmly in his head that nothing else had seemed possible if their secret should ever come to the light. Of course, the only thing that had stopped this from happening were Edith and apparently Alan's account of what had happened. Edith. His salvation indeed. She had saved his soul and his life.

Doctor Pilgrim had barely hung his coat when he inspected Thomas closely. 'You don't look good,' he said. 'Are you quite well?'

Thomas waved him away. This wasn't something a physician could heal. 'As well as is to be expected. Please, tell us. If I am to be sentenced to die, I fully intend to run away.'

'Maybe telling me that isn't wise.'

'I'm not telling you where I'd run.'

'And you?' Pilgrim asked, looking at Edith. 'Would you run with your husband?'

She stood close to Thomas, one hand on his back. 'Yes.'

Pilgrim shook his head. 'Thought so. Well, there won't be a need. You couldn't have killed him with that elevator.'

'No. I couldn't.'

'You do realise that you're lucky he died the way he did. If he'd had an accident that wasn't impossible to fabricate, you would be very likely to go to the gallows.'

Thomas's face felt cold. Edith's touch was the only thing that kept him somewhat composed. 'I find it difficult to consider myself lucky. Someone died in my home. You'd think I should be used to it, but I'm not. And no matter how clearly innocent I am to the police this time, this isn't looking good at all.'

Pilgrim chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 'It's not. But here's the thing. Father Christopher was known as an eccentric fellow. He was so convinced that demonic possession was a true threat that people half expected him to meet a gruesome end by finally invoking the monsters he tried to expel. If it had been anyone else, they'd talk more about you than the victim, but as it is … you are lucky indeed. But of course, your very name inspires caution.'

Thomas remembered his father screaming at a worker for wanting help for injured children – injured in the mines his father had owned – and for speaking dialect, of all things. As if he'd been better than these men. 'Small wonder,' was the answer Thomas finally came up with. 'I am not my father, Doctor.'

'Indeed you're not. And as for the priest … I have no idea what possessed him to stick his head out of a moving elevator.' Pilgrim frowned. 'So I simply wanted to tell you that the police might want a statement from you what the priest was doing in the manor, but you're in no danger to be found guilty of anything. I'm still not sure if I like you, Sir Thomas, and veering towards no. But it looks like your wife does, and she seems reasonable.' Pilgrim put his coat back on. 'Take care of that house of yours. It feels … wrong. I am a scientist, but I'll have you know I felt watched. I wanted nothing more than to get out again as soon as I set foot in it.'

'We're on it.'

'Very well.' Pilgrim walked back to the door. 'Good evening.'

Ϡ

Edith had expected a rumoured witch to live in the outskirts of the village, maybe even half in a forest, but certainly not on the main square in a perfectly normal house. Her sense of normalcy vanished quickly when Thomas raised his hand to knock the door but never got to do so because it opened a few inches before he could touch it. An ancient head appeared and glared at them. 'You are late.'

They looked at each other. 'I-I'm sorry, I …' Thomas faltered. The door was opened fully and they were ushered inside.

Deirdre laughed. 'You couldn't keep your hands off each other and left later than you meant to. Tea?'

'Yes, please,' Thomas said, his face flushed.

'Thank you, I'll pass,' Edith said at the same time. Deirdre scuttled away, leaving them standing in her living room. 'Did you tell her we're coming?'

Thomas shook his head. 'No. Maybe the Reverend did, but he couldn't know when we'd come. How does she know that we …'

Edith shrugged. 'Well.' She tucked a few strands of his hair into place. 'You're a bit ruffled, but it's windy. I don't even want to know.' She took the time to look around. The fireplace was cold despite the still very low temperatures, but every surface was clean. The entire room was incredibly tidy. Soon enough, Deirdre reappeared with a tray and two cups of tea. 'Sit, sit, it costs the same.' She looked at Edith. 'You're not getting any,' she told her as if that was her punishment. For what, she wasn't sure. 'I'll have a small cup myself, but you, boy should drink your fill. So. What brings you to the witch?'

Thomas accepted his cup with a nod of thanks. 'I don't believe you're a witch.'

'Ask the boys in the village. They shout it all the time.'

'Ma'am …'

'Deirdre will do. Ma'am makes me sound old.' She cackled, and Edith found that she understood why children would call her a witch.

'Deirdre,' Thomas said, 'we need help, and as far as I know, you're the only person who can offer it.'

'You asked the priest first, didn't you? He's dead now, stupid brat. I don't plan to share his fate.'

Thomas took a sip of his tea. Edith could see him struggle to keep his expression even. She wanted to knock the cup out of his hand but refrained. 'Nor would I want you to,' Thomas said. 'We have a problem. Allerdale Hall is haunted.'

'I bet it is. What kind of ghost is it?'

Edith blinked. 'There's more than one sort?'

Deirdre's eyes bored into hers. 'I thought you would know this. Wait here.' She left them again, and Edith snatched the cup from Thomas's hands.

'She's not Lucille, Edith.'

'No.' Edith sniffed and tried the tea. 'Not whatever it was that you gave me. I suppose you wouldn't know what it tasted like.'

'No. I would not.'

'This tastes odd.'

'No. Odd isn't the right word. Atrocious would come to mind. I think there's butter in there. Who puts butter into tea?'

Edith looked at her husband and felt a smile tugging at her lips. 'Who puts tea into tea to start with?' She took another sip. 'I like it, though. I think. It's not half bad. Doesn't taste so much like tea.' By the time Deirdre returned, she had drained Thomas's cup and returned it to him. Deirdre promptly refilled it for him and gave Edith a lingering look.

She had brought a dusty book with her. 'I had to look for this. Not often that I need it, you see. Look here.' She opened it about in the middle. 'Draugs. Walking corpses, mostly, and I for one have never met one. Spirits. They have a task and aren't a problem. Ghosts. They have no rest. Those are easy, if mildly disconcerting. More interesting are projections. You see, here. They are not ghosts.' Her eyes went to Thomas. 'They are the souls of living people. Living people who desperately want to be elsewhere but are unable to go there. They crave to be in a specific place so much their spirit breaks from them, leaving behind a husk. A few people can learn it, to wander in their sleep. Some do this often. Some only once, in the most unbearable moment of their life.' She reached out and pressed a finger against Thomas's scar. 'It leaves a mark, not unlike this one, but harder to notice. Deep, under your skin.'

'I told you, I saw you,' Edith said quietly. 'You came to me when you were almost dying. You wanted to help me, to the end. I wasn't imagining that.'

'No, child, if you saw your man, you saw your man.' Deirdre leaned closer, eyes narrowed. 'And you should not drink his tea. You do not need it. You are not fearful like he is.'

Thomas opened his mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it. With visible hesitance, he drank before he spoke again. 'Deirdre, if this ghost of ours is one of the kinds you listed, it's one with a task, and her task is to drive me to take my own life.'

'She's something else entirely.' Deirdre turned the page. 'The last kind. Rarely visible. Imprints, some call them. This book names them spectres. And they are trouble.' She sat back. 'I need to know the full truth. Who is this ghost?'

'My sister. Lucille.'

'Why should she want your death?'

'I don't know.'

'Boy, be honest. I can only help you if I know all there is.'

'She's jealous. Of Edith. Lucille and I …' He fell silent and Edith took his hand and held it. He squeezed back in a gesture of gratitude.

Deirdre laughed softly. 'Two children, the only company they know. She between you and the cane, but not for free. You, always in her debt. And you gave her what you owed her, anything she asked. Until this woman gave her love for free. You didn't have to vie for it, but it came as a gift, true and deep. I hope you treasure her.'

Thomas looked at Edith. In the dim light, his pupils were wide, his gaze intense even by his standards. 'With all my heart.'

'So. Your sister now believes you owe her your death? For betraying her? Perhaps. But you cannot think of a ghost as you would of a living being. They are single-minded, you see. Not as complex. She has one goal. Your death, you believe. But she wouldn't profit from that alone. No. She doesn't mean for you to die, I don't think. She wants you to join her. You need to die for that, of course, but her goal is you being with her, not you dying.'

'The question is, can you help us?' Edith asked. Thomas, next to her, was unusually relaxed. It was the first time since Father Christopher's death that he could look at their situation without his face going white. Lucille frightened him. Maybe, she always had, in a way.

'Oh, I cannot get rid of your ghost,' Deirdre told them.

Edith felt a wave of frustration. 'You can't? But … who can, then?'

Deirdre tutted. 'Your husband, of course, child. The ghost is his responsibility, but you may want to help him. You need to know how, first. I will go to the manor with you. I will need to speak to her.'

'Father Christopher tried that,' Thomas said. 'Or … whatever he tried. It didn't work that well. Unless he planned to turn himself into a ghost and talk sense into her. And even then, he failed badly.'

Deirdre smirked at his words. 'The troubled young man has a sense of humour. Unbelievable. Your priest was a young fool. I will need to sleep in your house, but you will keep vigil. I have no intention to die any time soon and certainly not in such a miserable place.'

Edith stood, understanding the dismissal. 'We will organise a carriage.'

'You will do no such thing. I will ride my own horse. We set out the day after tomorrow. I need to prepare for this.' She frowned. 'A ghost like this is not to be trifled with. She will be yours to deal with. Do you think you can do this, boy? Can you, when it comes to it, choose the wife who loves you over the sister who believes you owe her everything?'

Thomas leaned forwards, the cup still firmly in his hands. 'I owe her nothing anymore. I had no idea what love is when I met Edith. But I've learned it since and I will not forget how I came by that knowledge when the time comes. What Lucille feels, even what you feel, my love, will not change the outcome. What I feel matters. And about that, you need not be concerned, Deirdre. There is only one question I have: How do I fight a ghost?'

Deirdre shook her head. 'You do not. Every spectre has one thing that can convince it to leave for good or trick it into letting go of the world it clings to. What that is, I will attempt to find out. Now get lost, you two. Oh, but girl. Your fear. It is unfounded.'

Edith shook her head. 'My fear? I trust Thomas completely.'

'Ah. You misunderstand. Be cautious on your path. Take care of yourself and of your man. He is a treasure. But you know this, of course. You saw the heart of gold even under the rotting, uncured hide. Now he wears it on his sleeve, in every look he gives you.' She plucked the cup from Thomas's unresisting hands and ruffled his hair. 'Do not look so surprised, boy. I recognise a fine fellow when I see one. Now go. I need to prepare.'