The Case of the Spellbound Child Page 3

  And without waiting for an answer, he drifted down to the ground and sauntered off, trying not to look as if he was hurrying.

  2

  “. . . AND if there’s anyone you want to send a message to, they can do it.”

  Alf had only been listening to Hughs natter on about “mediums” with half his attention, but he nodded. “On’y bloke I wants ter send a message to is th’ one what did me,” he replied, a bit bitterly. “An’ that message’d be with a cosh loike ’e did me with.”

  Hughs grimaced.

  But Alf ignored his expression, because the idea of actually being able to communicate with the living had sparked something in Alf’s mind. “I wunner,” he mused. “Mebbe I could get ’im to go somewhere’s he’d get coshed regardless.” If he could find a medium who could somehow get a message to Reg that he’d hidden some money or valuables somewhere . . . wait, not just Reg, but Reg and a couple of other chancy blokes he knew . . . if they all converged on the same spot at the same time, someone was going to end up very dead. Granted, that would not give Alf the same satisfaction as doing the blighter in himself, but it would be revenge.

  “So how d’yew find a medium?” he asked.

  “Oh, if one’s anywhere about, you’ll know,” Hughs assured him. “You can feel it, here.” He tapped his head. “It’s like they’re costers, calling out in the street, but only we can hear them. There is absolutely no doubt when there’s a genuine medium somewhere near enough that you can reach her.”

  Alf brightened, but only for a moment. “Ah, wut’s the chance uv that?” he asked, as his initial excitement faded into the usual dull apathy. “Nobody respek’table’d come ’ere.”

  “Well, if you keep haunting that cookshop keeper’s wife, she might become desperate enough to send for one, and I expect she’d have the money for it,” Hughs pointed out, then stood up. “Keep your hopes up, Alf. I’m going to go back to my cellar for the day.”

  Alf waited until Hughs was out of sight before dropping down to the ground and making his way to the pub’s cellar. It was a good place to spend the day, especially when he wanted to think. About the only time someone came down there was when one of the barrels upstairs was about to run dry. There was wine down there as well, but not a lot of call for it; beer and gin were the usual tipples in this part of town, and the barkeep liked to have the gin where he could keep an eye on it.

  Alf settled down among the kegs in the corner furthest from the door. He didn’t actually need to sit, but he found sitting let him concentrate. He kept turning the idea of talking with one of those “mediums” over and over in his mind. The first problem he could see was how to get the message to Reg in the first place. He didn’t imagine that these women—Hughs had said they were mostly women—did anything out of the goodness of their hearts. So there would be the matter of finding some way to pay her to get the message to Reg. And if that could be surmounted, there was the question of how she would find Reg to deliver the message, since he hadn’t been back to this part of town since he’d murdered Alf.

  Then there was the matter of getting him to believe the message. Though that was about the easiest of all the problems to solve. There were quite a number of things only he and Reg knew, not the least of which was that Reg had been his murderer. Better not bring that up, though, or Reg might get the wind up and vanish.

  On further thought, he discarded the notion of getting a couple more chancy lads involved as far too complicated. How would he make sure they all arrived at the supposed cache at the same time? Obviously he couldn’t give them a time to be there!

  So it would have to be a place where Reg would be sure to run into fatal opposition. Now . . . how could he manage that?

  Then it struck him, and he grinned, because the idea solved all of his problems at once. He’d tell the medium to get her pay from Reg. So she had a motive to find Reg and deliver, first the bona fides, then when she’d got her pay, the message. And the message would send good old Reg after money Alf had supposedly cached—straight into the hideout of a gang that Alf had stumbled on quite by accident—and stumbled right out of again once he realized what he’d found.

  Now he just had to frame the message in such a way that Reg would believe that he, Alf, had no idea it was Reg who’d done him in. That gave him something to mull over and cogitate on until sunset.

  He felt so good about his plans that he took the time to waylay the cookshop woman in a particularly artistic fashion, floating up near the ceiling of the bedroom so that she didn’t spot him until she was already in bed. He’d never done that to her before, and she fainted again. Her husband took her faint as sleep, grumbled when he couldn’t rouse her, and turned his back to her, disgusted with her lack of response to his efforts at what passed with him as seduction.

  And then it occurred to him—terrifying her into fainting was hilarious, but as Hughs had said, if there was anyone that would have both the “respectability” and the money to bring a real medium to this neighborhood, it would be her. So he needed to do more than just frighten her into unconsciousness. He had to frighten her into acting.

  Wait . . . no, what he needed to do was convince the cookshop owner that his wife wasn’t just being hysterical. The owner was the man holding the purse strings. He was the one who had to be convinced that there was a ghost haunting the place.

  Fortunately, now he thought he knew how to do just that.

  Lessee . . . I gotter notion. . . .

  He floated down from the ceiling and right over—and then into—both of the unconscious figures. And as he had with the Dago nippers, he concentrated on both of them, on making himself stronger at their expense.

  And to his glee, it began to work. They both began to shiver, and both woke up at the same time.

  And then something new happened.

  As the woman stared at Alf’s face, mere inches from hers, her breath puffed out in visible clouds, and so did her husband’s. The iron bedstead rimed over with frost.

  And then her husband’s eyes flew open and stared into his in horror.

  “Sweet Jesus!” the man howled, starting back.

  With a cackle, Alf dropped through them and came to rest just under their bed. He had never felt so strong, so powerful. It was absolutely intoxicating. He had no idea he could do anything like this!

  He listened to the woman sob, but this time, the man was very nearly as hysterical, begging her forgiveness for not believing her. The bed creaked as they both sat up, and he could only imagine what was going through the man’s mind at this point.

  Finally incoherent babbling on both their parts gave way to silence.

  “Wut d’ye s’pose ’e wants?” the man asked, into the darkness. “’E’s gotter want something, don’t ’e?”

  The wife just continued to sob, softly. The man cursed. “’Ang it all,” he said decisively. “Wutever ’tis, I’ll foind out.”

  Alf smiled to himself, and sank through the floor. Now to see if the madame of the whorehouse was receptive enough to see him tonight. For tonight, he’d concentrate on the victims with money. And find out just how strong he could get.

  Oi’d niver hev guessed how innerestin’ this was gonna be.

  * * *

  “Well, you’ve managed to raise a ruckus,” Hughs said, as they met, as usual, outside the pub about two days later.

  “’Oo? Me?” Alf chuckled. “Oi dunno wutcher mean.”

  “Oh, you are the talk of the supernatural neighborhood,” Hughs retorted. “You have managed some fairly clever tricks so far, and there are bets on whether you’ll learn how to become strong enough to actually affect the physical world.”

  Alf had not expected that, and his jaw dropped. “Yer meanter say we c’n do that?” he gasped.

  “You already are,” Hughs pointed out, lofting himself up into the air, and picking out a rooftop to settle on, as Alf followe
d him. “You’re pulling energy out of your victims and the air around them. That’s what’s making things cold when you touch them.”

  Alf resisted the urge to blurt “I am?” and just nodded. “I didn’ know we c’ld do more’n that, though.” He sat down on the roof ledge overlooking the street where the little music hall was. Oddly, since learning how much fun it was to torment his victims, he hadn’t gone back there. Mebbe Oi should. Ain’t there s’posed to be theater ’aunts?

  “The stronger you become, the more you can do, but there are limits,” Hughs said casually. “In general, you can’t fling anything heavier than a plate about. But it certainly makes a fine show when you break a teacup or two against the wall.” He raised an eyebrow at Alf, who felt a surge of great satisfaction. Now, there was a thought, indeed. What would the cookshop owner think if he flung a saucer across the room? Or better still, a knife?

  Then his eyes widened at another thought. If his plot to get Reg murdered by proxy didn’t work out . . . could he possibly lure Reg here and get the job done himself?

  Wait—wouldn’t that be far more satisfactory?

  Well, it clearly would. And a lot less complicated. He’d still need the medium to get a message to bring Reg here, but the rest would be up to him. Much more the way he liked it.

  Hughs gazed at him speculatively. Alf grinned a little. “Reckon Oi might just get things lively ’ere.”

  “Well, if you want to lure people to come gawk at the spectacle, regardless of the reputation of this area, that will do it,” Hughs replied. “And one or more of them is bound to bring a medium around, if that’s what you wanted. Personally I prefer things quieter.”

  “Wut fun’s quiet?” he asked rhetorically. “On’y prollem Oi c’n see’s most folks ’round ’ere ain’t got a lot uv stuff t’fling.”

  Hughs laughed as if he had made the best joke in the world. He felt rather proud of his quip.

  Well, if he was going to get a lot of attention, he was going to have to make a spectacle of things where more people than just one or two could see it. And the Dagos weren’t in the least interested in drawing attention to themselves. Besides, they’d probably just run off to their heathen priest if he began lobbing bits of their property about.

  No, after due consideration, he decided that what he needed to do was concentrate on the cookshop. But this time, before it closed, or after it opened.

  But he’d need strength, so time to draw on those Dago brats as the easiest source of it.

  “Oi’m gonna cause me a bit uv ruckus,” he told Hughs, and without a farewell, headed for the Dagos’ room.

  He had left them alone for quite a few nights while he concentrated on the cookshop, and he could tell by the relatively relaxed atmosphere in the room that once again they had allowed themselves to believe he was gone. He also realized, given that the parents were half clothed, and the nippers less than that, that it must be a very hot night tonight. Well then! He’d be doing them a favor. . . .

  By the time he left, he was bursting with strength, and they’d thrown every stitch they owned over their bodies and were huddled in blankets while frost rimed everything metal in the room, and even some of the wood. He’d decided to let them off easy this time; he hadn’t actually shown himself. Not that this had lessened their terror. If anything, it had probably made things worse, which was good for him.

  The cookshop was just about to close for the night; there was always a last-minute rush of business, as the owner sold the things he couldn’t manage to revive the next day at heavily discounted prices. So the stage was perfectly set, as he shoved his way in through the wall and surveyed the little room for things small and light.

  He wasn’t quite sure where or how to start. Hughs hadn’t given him any instructions, and he was damned if he was going to ask for any. But there was a picture of the Queen on the wall, cut from an old newspaper and inexpertly framed with a few sticks of wood. It looked light enough, and hopefully it wasn’t nailed to the wall rather than hung on it. He drifted over to it, put both hands on the frame, and concentrated with all his might on pushing against it, rather than through it.

  With a thrill of delight, he saw it move!

  Now alight with energy and encouragement, he continued pushing at it, trying to rock it to and fro. The gargantuan effort it took made him feel as if he were trying to push an elephant uphill against its will, but not only did it move, he was able to get it swinging.

  And about the time it was rocking back and forth merrily on its nail, and clattering as it did so, he heard, faintly, from the living world, words that warmed his soul.

  “Bloody ’Ell—lookit thet!”

  He glanced at the rest of the room. The half dozen or so shadowy customers crowded in here to bargain for sandwiches of three-day-old bread and stale cheese had turned to stare at the wildly swinging portrait of Her Majesty.

  Someone screamed just as he managed to shove the picture hard enough to send it clattering to the floor.

  Silence, as everyone in the cookshop froze. He took the opportunity to rush through them all, sending their temperature, and that of the shop, plummeting.

  That did it. Everyone who was not behind the counter ran for the entrance, jamming it in their panic. More screams. Now bursting with energy, he tried lifting a stale bun left on the counter. And succeeded!

  Now nearly blind with elation, he tried throwing it. It bounced off the back of someone’s head.

  The cookshop owner’s wife fainted dead away again. The clot at the door unjammed, and the would-be customers fled into the night.

  Alf lifted the bun from the floor, and held it. To the cook-shop owner, it must have looked as if it were floating in mid-air. The man stared at it, paralyzed and numb, his face frozen in an expression of bewildered terror.

  Alf flung the bun again.

  His aim was perfect.

  It struck the cookshop owner right between the eyes, and the man dropped to the ground like a poleaxed steer, although Alf hadn’t thrown the thing with any force to speak of.

  Cackling with glee, he left the shop, and spent the rest of the night experimenting with pebbles from the street, throwing them at windows to make a racket, and leaving many of the residents of the neighborhood suffering the worst night of their lives.

  * * *

  Hughs’ head came up like a rat terrier’s on a scent. “Do you feel that?”

  It was just after sunset, and they were both sitting on the roof of the whorehouse. Alf had been playing his ghost tricks with increasing success for the last week or more. For the past three days, total strangers had been thronging the neighborhood, hoping to catch a glimpse of the goings-on, but of course they were too timid to venture here by night, and by day the only things that were to be seen were crooked pictures, a single pane of glass he’d allegedly broken, and the actual scenes of his shenanigans. He’d heard that street brats were doing a brisk business in pebbles he’d supposedly thrown—certainly by last night so many of them had been sold to the curious and gullible that he’d been unable to find any to hurl at windows. He’d been forced to look for bits of broken tiles on the roofs.

  Alf cocked his head to the side, and consulted his insides—and yes, he did feel something. Not like that tugging that the hole to Hell had made on him. More like—more like there was something out there waiting for him, quietly calling out things only he could hear. As if he’d made an appointment, and the other party was patiently biding his time until Alf got there.

  Wait—

  Not him. Her. He was sure of it, although he couldn’t have said how he knew.

  “Well, you got your wish, Alf. Someone’s brought in a medium. A real one.” Hughs blinked slowly, and looked down the street, in the direction of—the cookshop. “A good one, too.” He glanced over at Alf. “Shall we go see?”

  Alf felt a mingled thrill of uncertain emotions.
Part fear, part hope, part he couldn’t identify. This was what he’d been working toward, wasn’t it? Now he’d find out if he could lure Reg here and murder the bastard and get his revenge. But suddenly, and briefly, he wasn’t so sure. . . .

  But Hughs was already drifting down toward the street. Halfway down the young man looked back over his shoulder at Alf. “Coming?” he asked.

  Don’t be a bloody coward, he growled at himself, and followed.

  There was a small crowd around the cookshop door—all locals, all shabby, so whoever this medium was, she hadn’t brought any outsiders along, at least none he could see. Grinning maliciously, he shoved his way through the crowd at the door and window and made a point of passing through them all, drinking in their energy, so they cried out at the cold and some of them scattered. Only then did he enter the shop to find a single person sitting on one of the rickety chairs at the lone table there.

  He examined her critically. She wasn’t much, in his opinion. Pretty, oh yes, pretty enough—but not impressive. Blond, slim. Dressed in some plain but odd fashion, and with, of all damn things, a parrot on one shoulder. She didn’t look nearly as old as he would have thought a “medium” would be, and while her dress was “odd,” it wasn’t “odd” in the ways he would have expected. She should have been draped in shawls, or done up like a heathen Chinee or Hindoo.

  And it was only after he’d been standing there studying her for a good long while that he gradually realized that she had been staring straight at him ever since he’d entered the shop, her expression appraising and critical.

  “So,” she said aloud, her voice somehow echoing strongly in his world. “You’re the clever lad that’s been up to tricks around here.”

  He felt immediately put on the defensive. “And wut if Oi am?” he demanded. “Yew gonna stop me?”