Page 7 of The Prestley Ghost
“At least talk to me.” John did not move to take the cane. “Please.”
“No, I’m not hurt. I said Ididn’tfall into the river. You didn’t answer me; did you eat anything?”
“I didn’t know when you’d be back—ifyou’d be back,since you’re hunting ghosts without me—so Mrs Davies put out cold meat and potatoes and carrots and a pear tart. Charles—”
Both their general man-of-all-work and the housekeeper-cook would’ve gone home for the night, then; neither lived in, though there was room. They both had families, and Charles and John had each other. More or less, in any case; certainly he himself wasn’t doing enough, if John had ended up alone and pacing the house. “I’m sorry I was late. I went for a walk. I didn’t plan to meet the ghost, but he found me. Food?”
John narrowed both eyes at him. “Food. And you’re going to tell me everything.”
Not everything, no. Not about laughter and searching teasing glances at Charles’s body and unexpected brightness like waking up. “Fine. After you.” He hovered, just in case the walk to the dining room was difficult. The floor was not new, and not entirely even.
John listened in silence to the first encounter, right up until Charles admitted to attempting a quick on-the-spot banishment, and then nearly knocked over the wineglass he’d reached for. “You what? By yourself? Without any research, without knowing exactly what he wanted—without me there, if you’d got lost or opened yourself up to possession or collapsed and fallen into the river—”
“None of that happened, and if it’d worked, I could’ve solved your problem on the spot and been done with it. And he said he’d’ve tried to pull me out.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part.
“He said…” John’s face was tight: with fear, with concern, with dismay. “Charles, you can’t trust a spirit. They always need something. They can be harmful. You—”
“I know that.” Charles set his own fork down. With precision, because it was that or throw the utensil. “As you should know. Better than anyone. How many times do you wantme to apologize?”
“I didn’t mean that!”
“Well, you should have meant it.” He got up. “I’ll be in the library. Unless you want the room.”
“I meant,” John retorted, “I was worried aboutyou. Iamworried about you. You’re talking to the ghosts now, you trusted this one—you take more and more risks, every time, and I thought settling here would help, it’s so quiet, a country village—but I don’t know how to help you—”
“That’s not your job.” The straight solid line of John’s cane, propped against the table, underlined the bitterness in Charles’s mouth. “You’re the respectable one of us. Responsible. Worry about charity collections and marriage licenses. You wanted to accept this position, when Uncle Owen offered it.”
“I thought it would be good for us. Having a home.” John actually got to his feet. They were almost the same height, standing. Charles wanted to flee, even more so when his brother said quietly, “I’m a Hayward, the same as you, even if I don’t have your gifts, and I still want to do what we can to help people. It’s who we are. It’s who I want to be.”
“I know that,” Charles muttered. “I know. I just…all right. I’m sorry.” Again. Never enough.
“And I’m still your brother. And I’m afraid that you’re throwing yourself into deep water, possibly literally, without me.” John sighed. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening,” Charles said, eventually. That had hurt, in a way he couldn’t explain. “I do listen to you. Even when you worry too much. I know what I’m doing. And if somethinghadgone terribly wrong, at least Prestley would’ve had a more recent and fashionable ghost to lure visitors, as an attraction.”
“Don’t even joke about that.” John’s face was more pale. “Charles…”
“I’m sorry.” At this rate he’d be apologizing for the nextthousand years, not that he didn’t deserve it. He glanced at the cane, which said nothing, accusatorily. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Yes, well…not like that.” John essayed a step, found the cane. “Speaking of the library, I was doing some research while waiting for you. Unexplained or violent deaths, missing persons, in the parish records, that sort of thing. From around the right time period, assuming fifty years ago is correct. I found a few candidates, and you won’t like any of them.”
“He told me his name,” Charles said, though for some reason the admission felt oddly like a betrayal: information to be used to make Alex move on. “Though not the date.”
“Good,” John said, “that’ll help.”
* * * *
In the library, surrounded by stacks of books and records—the rectory’s, and their own, what they’d boxed up and brought from the rented townhouse in London, what had been salvaged from the traveling carriage after the disaster—Charles and John got to work, together.
This part had always been easy. They knew each other’s strengths, John’s reading speed and Charles’s medium’s gifts. They’d both been trained by the best and most celebrated folklorists and occultists in the country; they knew about ghosts and spirits and black dogs and White Ladies, about revenants and poltergeists and residual hauntings and vortices. Of course Eliza and James Hayward had only documented, chased, obsessed over, the legends, and never had proof.
Never, until their youngest son had proudly told them that he could indeed see ghosts, and speak to them. And the line led directly from that moment to a vicious manifestation in a churning river, and a collapsed bridge, and two bodies, andJohn’s terribly broken leg, so badly the doctors had considered removal, though they’d escaped that, at least.
Charles swallowed hard, in the lamplight. His brother had evidently been making careful tidy notes, sitting at the table by the window; a stack of records also occupied the table. John’s handwriting was elegant and clear, perfectly gentlemanly. Good for record-keeping, for writing, for meticulous research. Unlike Charles’ own messier hand, too fast and careless.
“Here.” John handed over the list. “These five are all around the right time period for the description, and the right age to be a young man, more or less. Are any of those names right? Not that he couldn’t’ve lied to you.”
Charles read down the list. Josiah Smithfield, having drowned in that twisting frothy river. Ellis Rookwood, from the manor, some sort of hunting accident. William Thatcher, reportedly having murdered his own brother, his brother’s wife, and then himself. He paused to say, “Good Lord.”
