Behind the Veil Page 5

  Mr. Barkley was easy. There were only a few articles, and all that was said was that his eleven-year-old daughter, Maisie, had been walking the five blocks from school to the Barkley house and never arrived.

  What Mr. Barkley hadn’t expanded on was that this was the third girl to go missing under such circumstances in twelve months. The paper was known for being wildly speculative, but the police dismissed any connection owing to the nature of each one. Different times, different ages, and a flagrant quote from a detective regarding young women trying to make it onto the silver screen.

  Not appropriate for their ages, but there were no other articles on the subject.

  Letitia looked at Maisie’s photograph. Taken two years earlier, the family portrait was simple as they came. A fidgeting child made to hold still and smile. Maisie had a cherubic face, blonde curls tied into pigtails, and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  Letitia knew she was dead.

  Photographs didn’t speak well to her, but there was an emptiness in the girl’s eyes when Letitia looked at the picture.

  She didn’t want to embroil herself in a police investigation should she be able to see more in a vision. Even pointing Mr. Barkley toward Maisie’s body would make the police want to know the source of information.

  Witchcraft was still considered a crime in England, and most assumed the current occultism was a con. There were enough grieving widows and family left after the war that such people were easy marks. It had been difficult in London to prove her talent was not trickery and shadow play. The delicate balance between what she did and what others offered tipped over. Letitia received invitations to attend parties and to display her ability as though she were a circus act. She had refused.

  Thinking it wouldn’t affect her, Letitia continued to offer her services, and her reputation had grown.

  The proverbial straw had been when a detective came by asking about her sessions.

  It was time to move on from London’s streets too full of fakes and on to new horizons.

  Given the sensationalism abounding over séances and the like, Letitia wanted to flee to less satirized cities. She was not a charlatan, and the respect she paid her craft was not false or something to show off.

  She helped people past their grief. She helped them regain their lives.

  Returning the articles on Mr. Barkley and the missing girls, Letitia moved on in search of the Driscoll family heritage. She had already read the article detailing the death of Mr. Quinn when Mrs. Quinn had first approached her. It had noted the attachment to the Irish American Driscoll family, but it hadn’t interested her at the time.

  Now she read about it the papers, intent on noting anything she could learn about the family. There were articles about the court cases for the business, many to do with real estate, including an article about a property further to the north that was once a retreat and had fallen into disrepair. She was reminded of the deed on Mr. Driscoll’s desk, the transaction he hadn’t wanted there with the papers he cast aside. But there was no address listed for her to check and she hadn’t paid it any mind in his office.

  Unsatisfied with the level of information, Letitia packed up her things and went to the catalog for the books.

  “What are you looking for?” the desk clerk asked when Letitia sighed, finding nothing under the Driscoll name.

  “I’m looking for a local family history,” she said, careful not to give a reason for her search. “There is a firm for lawyers here under the name of Driscoll.”

  Recognition lit up the librarian’s features. “A small family, but there is a book that may help.”

  She went to another section for history, handing Letitia a card for Irish American families. Letitia thanked the clerk and looked through the shelves of books until she found the hefty volume. The tome weighty in her hands, she took it to a nearby table and sat to search for the Driscoll name.

  The family had come out to America in the early 1700s, before the initial wave of Irishmen. Like most, they started out in New York, but then they moved west for the gold and cattle and became successful enough after a few generations that a branch of the family could afford to move out to Los Angeles in the 1850s. The eldest son used part of his income to attend university in Boston before coming back to Los Angeles and setting up the law firm. It had been a family-owned business since then.

  There was nothing specific about Mr. Driscoll.

  Closing the tome, Letitia thought back to his grim face, ignoring the tremor of fear crawling up her spine at the memory of the shadow behind him. The man was…angry. The spirit possibly more so.

  It hadn’t translated well, but the visit the following day had only worsened her disposition to Mr. Driscoll. Despite his desperation, he appeared used to getting his way, and Letitia took a dim view of people who thought they controlled the world in such a way.

  Letitia had only accepted Mrs. Quinn’s invitation to tea because Letitia feared if she did not, Mr. Driscoll would find a way to interrupt her life again.

  She didn’t want to know what other means he would use to ensure that she did as he asked, and the concept of upsetting a lawyer hadn’t sat well.

  Letitia didn’t even know what he wanted, and Mrs. Quinn would at least give her all the information to decide for herself rather than just assuming Letitia would do it for money.

  That was not why Letitia helped people.

  Her motivation was penance for her guilt.

  When her husband had died in the war, she’d had dreams of him drowning at sea, and she was unable to save him. When she’d sought help from the church, the promise of prayer did little to still the dreams that left her exhausted and weary to her soul. Her growing stomach carried her grief—the babe of her lost husband.

  She’d sought out help, for someone who could reach beyond, to tell Daniel a part of him still existed. What was supposed to be a moment of love and consolation became a nightmare, and tangled in its web, she’d struggled for years to be free from it.

  Letitia offered the same help she’d never found.

  The book tumbled out of her hands, banging on the floor of the quiet library. A few heads turned to her, and she retrieved the book, apologizing to those nearby. Face aflame and heartbeat fast as a rabbit fleeing a trap, she gathered her things in haste, shoving them into her case before placing the book on the returns shelf and leaving.

  Outside the cool air swept the heat from her cheeks and chased away the dark corridor of her past. Letitia let the drizzling rain fall on her for a moment before opening her umbrella. She’d walked all the way to the library but would need to catch a streetcar if she wanted to meet Mrs. Quinn on time. She also wanted to be early and to have the matter over and done with.

  She would leave their family to its own troubles. Mr. Driscoll had arisen an uncharitable nature in her that did not often come to the surface.

  It made Letitia uncomfortable, for she knew that she should be kinder, but self-preservation was a stronger force, fear of the past bending her to its will.

  Upon the streetcar’s arrival, Letitia climbed aboard and paid her fee, not bothering to sit on the crowded service. The sway of the vehicle reminded her of the voyage across the ocean, and she’d tried in vain not to imagine Daniel there or how the ocean had swallowed him. What he’d endured before the end.

  Her grip on the railing tightened.

  It haunted her thoughts ever since she saw that shadow over Mr. Driscoll’s shoulder.

  Letitia wanted to stay as far as she could, but she’d seen a figure in Joseph’s final moments, something that shouldn’t have been there.

  Yet for all its disturbing presence in her vision, it didn’t exude the same vindictiveness she’d first witnessed looming over Mr. Driscoll’s shoulder.

  Death wasn’t a phantom that haunted victims.

  Letitia had come to America to escape her
past, to hide in a burgeoning city of odd souls, and to make a small corner to hide in…alone.

  She didn’t need the Driscolls’ ghosts. She had enough of her own.

  Getting off at her stop and reaffirming to herself that she would hear Mrs. Quinn out but still say no, Letitia didn’t like the hollow feeling in her stomach. When she saw Mrs. Quinn had already arrived at Monsieur Pierre’s, the sensation grew.

  The little café was an embodiment of Paris, offering French pastries, coffee, and Swedish chocolates kept in a glass display, with little boxes allowing people to take them home. Letitia didn’t like chocolate much, but she saw above the display case jars of biscuits, including butterscotch. An indulgence during her meeting would be acceptable, given she would not get time for lunch.

  Round metal tables were full of people finishing a midmorning repast, people talked in French and English, the tone pleasant on the ear. The warm lights overhead contrasted with the dim day outside, casting shadows across the room and leaving an intimate setting despite the full café.

  Mrs. Quinn had taken a table near the back and was being seated by a waiter when she spied Letitia in the doorway and raised her hand in greeting.

  Letitia threaded between the tables, stopping before Mrs. Quinn, who rose with a smile.

  “Ms. Hawking,” she said, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia answered, holding out her hand, which Mrs. Quinn shook. The similarity to Mr. Driscoll was elusive, but there in the faint bone structure was a determined jawline that did not bode for a dissimilar personality. Mr. Driscoll was tall with loose curls of graying auburn, while Mrs. Quinn was a strawberry blonde, far younger than him, and a little plump. She was a far cry from the broad-shouldered mountain that was Mr. Driscoll.

  “What do you fancy?” Mrs. Quinn said, gesturing to the chair opposite as she sat.

  “Earl Grey tea,” Letitia told the still hovering waiter, “and the butterscotch biscuit in the jar on the counter.”

  “Madam does not wish to see the menu?” he clarified, holding it out for her to inspect.

  “No, thank you.”

  When he’d gone, Mrs. Quinn took a deep breath, smiling at Letitia, who braced herself.

  “I’m so sorry about my brother,” Mrs. Quinn began in a rush. Letitia held her tongue but returned the smile with a smaller one of her own, prepared to let Mrs. Quinn ramble until she said something useful.

  “You see,” Mrs. Quinn went on, “Alasdair and my husband were close, and there was trouble just before his death. My brother feels terrible about it, but our concern is not, in fact, Mr. Quinn.”

  “You said on the phone that this was regarding your daughter?” Letitia prompted, hoping Mrs. Quinn would get to the point. The evasion on the subject from Mr. Driscoll bespoke a serious matter, but not why it should concern Letitia. It was annoying.

  “Yes, my Finola,” Mrs. Quinn said, lowering her voice. “She’s sick.”

  “Have you summoned a doctor?” Letitia said, holding onto her patience.

  “We have…and it’s not a physical condition,” Mrs. Quinn said. “She had an awful turn a while back, when she was with Alasdair—I mean, Mr. Driscoll.”

  Letitia stared at her, the overeager woman cagey, her gaze darting about the crowded restaurant rather than resting on Letitia’s face.

  “Please forgive me, Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia said, “but this affects me how?”

  Mrs. Quinn was silent for a moment, clasping her hands and wedging them between her body and the table, almost as though she were praying. Letitia had a foreboding Mrs. Quinn would not call to an unresponsive god but plead to Letitia instead.

  “You are a very gifted woman, Ms. Hawking,” Mrs. Quinn said, her voice hushed and wary of nearby tables listening in, “but I wonder, have you ever met anyone else like yourself? Able to…contact the dead, I mean? And the other things—I can only assume that’s why you wear the gloves and veil, so you can hide.”

  Letitia flushed at the slight, aware now the woman was far more like her brother than she’d realized. The schooling of her features slipped and she eyed Mrs. Quinn with distaste. Mrs. Quinn waved her hands before her, mouth open as she gasped for words.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “it didn’t occur to me that would be such a rude thing to say.”

  Biting words wanted to snap along Letitia’s tongue, but the order arrived and she remained silent. The waiter placed tea and two small biscuits before her, asking if there was anything else before leaving.

  Mrs. Quinn had a black coffee and that was all. Letitia was a little surprised at her choice. It was enough to make her pause when Mrs. Quinn dumped three spoons of sugar in her cup.

  Letitia studied her.

  Mrs. Quinn’s lips were bright and tinted red, her face powdered, hair in neat curls.

  At first, Letitia hadn’t noticed the makeup that covered the swelling of sleepless nights under Mrs. Quinn’s eyes or the fine tremble in her hands she’d hidden with gestures. Her lips weren’t just crimson from an application of tint—she’d been biting them. Little tears in the flesh peppered her skin.

  “Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia intoned as Mrs. Quinn stirred her sugar in, “what is it about your daughter you think I can help with?”

  The gentle tone Letitia used caused Mrs. Quinn to whisper as though it were a last confession.

  “She’s being haunted by a phantom that attacks her in her sleep,” Mrs. Quinn said with despair, “and if you don’t help her, she must go to an asylum.”

  Chapter 5

  Letitia’s throat constricted. A python of terror wreathed around her neck, squeezing the breath out of her. Her thoughts narrowed on the desperate plea of Mrs. Quinn as she struggled to regain her composure. Her fingers twisted, clutching the first thing they touched, the teaspoon for her tea, and she bent the metal with her fingers, willing back the memories.

  Gurneys and straps, white jackets and buckles, and always the screaming.

  The spoon snapped.

  Mrs. Quinn gasped, and Letitia shut her eyes to block her out.

  Wresting control from her fears took labored breaths, but she heard Old Mother Borrows in her mind.

  “You control just one thing; your breath. Breathe through it.”

  Several heartbeats later, Letitia could open her eyes, and she swallowed. Her throat was dry and scratchy. Helping herself to the brewed tea as though nothing had happened, she dropped in a wedge of lemon and left it black, sipping it to soothe herself. When her self-possession had returned, she glanced at Mrs. Quinn. The other woman sat motionless except for darting eyes flicking between the rest of the café and Letitia, and then down at her own lap.

  Her averted eyes bespoke her shame and fear, but Letitia didn’t care.

  She could not—no, would not—allow herself to be embroiled in whatever was happening with Mrs. Quinn’s daughter.

  Even now, on the edge of hearing, she caught the echoes of doctors’ voices. They’d prescribed bizarre and unnecessary treatment for Letitia’s hysterical condition. Ice baths and isolation, cold food and confinement, drugs and dismissal.

  With no family to care about her, Letitia survived because of an empathetic nurse.

  The nurse had whisked Letitia to a solitary sanctuary far from the darkened halls of the asylum. They’d arrived in Scotland where Old Mother Borrows had welcomed Letitia, and together they began a journey through the difficult pathways of Letitia’s uncontrollable gift.

  Because her nightmare had not ended. She’d trapped herself in her own dark power.

  An edge of guilt prompted Letitia to ask at least a few questions. That wouldn’t hurt, and she might help guide Mrs. Quinn into a kinder action than those of Letitia’s experience.

  “Why haven’t you taken her to a physician?” Letitia murmured, focusing on the girl.

  “We did
.” Mrs. Quinn took her cup but set it aside in an instant. “We even thought to take her to the seaside after she…after the incident. But travel more than a day away is hard when she has such night terrors. You wouldn’t believe the noise she makes.”

  Letitia would. The echoes were still there when she woke.

  “A prescription of sedatives perhaps.” Letitia was loath to suggest drugs, but it was an easy way to distance herself.

  “It doesn’t help.” Mrs. Quinn shook her head, curls in a disarray. “I shouldn’t even be speaking to you on this as Alasdair wants it to remain in the family. He doesn’t want anyone to think—”

  Letitia rose a brow at the hesitation. “What? That his niece is insane?”

  “He is reaching out to anyone he thinks can help,” Mrs. Quinn said. “We’ve even seen a priest who suggested an exorcism. Alasdair would not allow him into the house.”

  For a brief moment, Letitia thought better of the arrogant lawyer.

  “A nurse gives her laudanum every night.” Mrs. Quinn bit out the words. “And yet she can wake up in spite of it. The doctors say she’s just a growing girl with hysteria, but I know something is wrong with her soul. She’s very…special. If you would just come and meet her.”

  A part of Letitia longed to find this girl and discover what was wrong. But Letitia was not Old Mother Borrows, and she could not fix a broken soul. She couldn’t even guess why both Mr. Driscoll and Mrs. Quinn were convinced only she could help.

  But most of all, she didn’t have it within her to fight the darkness that had cost her so much.

  “What you are asking is not something I can provide,” Letitia said, being careful in her words, “but I can write to a friend of mine in Scotland where you may take your daughter―”

  “No,” Mrs. Quinn shook her head, the emphatic gesture undoing a pin in her hair, letting a curl fall. “Finola can’t travel. Forgetting the fact she can’t sleep, it wouldn’t be safe.”