Fogging Over (12 page)

Charlotte flinched, obviously fearing she would lose her job, but Minerva just settled herself comfortably into a chair.

“Now listen to me, dear,” she said. “I will not deny that I have occasionally contrived a few atmospheric effects to further my own ends.”

“You cheated people.” Georgie was so upset that she had totally forgotten to be polite to her elders and betters.

“Yes, I cheated people,” Minerva admitted with a sigh. “Maybe I should have trusted the spirit world to take care of me, but I was afraid of - well, never mind what I was afraid of. But you must believe me, child. The spirits have been talking to me ever since I can remember, and they are insisting that someone intends to harm you and Charlotte. And stop pretending you’re not listening, Ivy,” she added calmly. “We’re going to hold a little private seance for these two girls.”

Georgie sounded frightened. “Why did you call me that? I’m not a girl.”

Minerva clicked her tongue. “It’s not like the spirits to slip up about something like that!” She smiled into Georgie’s eyes. “I know this must be upsetting, dearie. But I think we should know what kind of villain we’re dealing with.”

I could see that Georgie still doubted Minerva’s psychic abilities, but she was too exhausted to argue.

All the humans sat at the kitchen table and held hands, slightly awkwardly because of the table being square. All the invisible beings stood around them, with our angel contingent standing close to Georgie.

With our help, Minerva described the big house where the Hannays used to live, and how they used to go flying kites on Hampstead Heath, until Georgie’s dad’s nerves got so bad he stopped going out at all.

“Charlotte could have told you that,” Georgie growled.

“That’s true,” Minerva agreed.

“Ask Georgie why she was looking at that silver locket in the lamp light,” I said impulsively. I felt a zing of cosmic electricity as Minerva heard my words.

“But she didn’t tell me about you standing under the street lamp last night, gazing at that silver locket,” Minerva said smoothly. She smiled at the stunned Georgie. “Thought you were all alone in the world, didn’t you? Well, you aren’t, you see.”

Georgie was making little gasping sounds as if she might be crying.

“You think I’m talking about my spirits, don’t you?” said Minerva. “But I’m not.”

“Who then?” whispered Georgie.

”
Angels
, lovie,” Minerva told her. “You’ve got three angels standing behind you now. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there.”

Tears spilled down Georgie’s face. “I want to believe you,” she wept, ” But I don’t know if I can!”

“Do you need a tissue?” Lola whispered.

“No, I’m fine,” I sniffled.

My plan was succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. After we hit Georgie with the locket message, she became a total believer. She was naturally distressed to hear that a dark-haired male relative, with the initials N.S., intended to harm her and her sister. But as it sank in, Georgie seemed strangely relieved, as if pieces of a confusing puzzle were finally coming together.

“Some nights, I’d be trying to sleep in a doorway, and I’d tell myself stories to help myself drift off. I’d imagine how Uncle Noel would come riding up in a hansom cab, telling me he didn’t care what Aunt Agnes said, he was going to have us to live with him.” The memory made Georgie turn red with shame. “But when I was actually with him, he made me feel all mixed up inside. He’d seem so kind, but then he’d deliberately say things to hurt me, as if he wanted to punish me for some reason.” She clutched at her sister. “What is he going to do to us, Charlie? I’m really scared.”

This was our cue to tell Minerva about Alfred Lilly. The spirits relayed the relevant info, and at first everything went like a dream. Then Georgie said eagerly, “So where can we find this old forger?”

I saw Minerva’s eyes cloud over. “I’m not sure,” she said in an anxious voice. “The spirits seem to be fading away.”

The spirits turned to each other in a panic, like: well, I’m sure I’m not fading. Are you fading?

“She’s blocking,” hissed Brice.

Omigosh, I thought, what are we going to do if she won’t give Georgie the message?

And then I remembered. Minerva Temple, the successful medium, had once been Minnie Turtle, a defenceless workhouse child whose experiences had scarred her so deeply that she couldn’t even hear a message that had the word ‘workhouse’ in it. Without thinking I moved round to Minerva’s side of the table and put my arms around her.

“Don’t be scared,” I whispered. “Those workhouse people hurt you because they were bigger than you and you were young and helpless, but now it’s these little girls who need help.”

I hadn’t actually given any thought to the effect an angelic hug might have on a gifted psychic, but let me tell you, it was pure dynamite! Minerva shot out of her trance like a rocket.

“Charlotte, fetch your coat and bonnet,” she said briskly. “It’s bitterly cold out. I don’t want you setting off that cough.”

Charlotte was bewildered. “But you didn’t tell us where the old man lives?”

Minerva had started rummaging on the kitchen dresser. “The worst place this side of Hell, lovie,” she told her.

I heard the dread in Georgie’s voice. “You mean the Union Workhouse.”

“I vowed I’d never go back,” said Minerva, still rummaging among the bottles and jars. “But the spirit world has other plans.” She found a green bottle, uncorked it and took a good swig.

“Dutch courage,” she said bravely. “Now I’m ready to meet this old rascal. And if he has any breath left in his body, he’s going to tell me everything he knows!”

Chapter Nine

T
he Union Workhouse was actually several grim small-windowed buildings, set behind tall iron gates like an army garrison. On the other side of the gates, I glimpsed drab figures listlessly sweeping paths in the drizzle.

“They make them wear uniform,” I whispered. “Like prison.”

Brice’s tone was savage. “This is a prison, for people found guilty of being poor. Can you believe husbands and wives have to live in separate parts of the workhouse? The authorities let them meet up on Sundays if they’re good.”

I understood now why Minerva hadn’t dared to rely on the spirit world to keep the money rolling in. She was terrified of falling back into the grey Hell dimension of the workhouse.

An expressionless porter let us in through the gates. We had collected a police constable on the way, a stout fatherly man, and seeing Minerva falter, he immediately took charge and asked where they could find the matron.

The porter silently pointed out a path leading to one of the staff cottages.

A scared little maid in a badly-fitting workhouse gown showed us in. The matron had been having her elevenses: cold roast beef, pickled onions and a pint of porter to wash it down. She listened with growing astonishment as the constable explained that they needed to talk to one of the workhouse inmates. “We have reason to believe Mr Lilly has vital information about a serious miscarriage of justice,” he said solemnly.

She gave an outraged snort. ” My inmates follow an orderly routine and I can’t allow them to be disrupted.”

But the policeman stoutly stood his ground, telling her that if she didn’t cooperate, he would have to charge her with obstructing the due process of the law, and eventually the matron gave in. “Though how a senile old man can help you with your inquiries, I don’t know!” she said spitefully. “He hardly knows what day of the week it is, most of the time.”

We were so proud of Minerva. As she walked into the dreadful institution she’d vowed never to enter again, she looked totally composed. No, she looked better than composed. She looked like a queen. The echoing corridors (they were painted a hideous bilious green) filled with nauseating whiffs from the workhouse kitchens must have seemed like a bad recurring dream, yet her face showed no trace of the childhood terrors churning underneath. “We’ll just be a few minutes,” she told the girls reassuringly. “We’ll be outside in the fresh air in no time.”

“We will if that matron woman’s got anything to with it,” muttered Brice.

Keen to finish her morning snack, the matron was rushing her visitors through the wards.

One room still stands out in my memory. It had a smell I always associate with shipyards, and you could hardly see the inmates at first because the air was bewilderingly full of tiny floating fibres. Men in skimpy workhouse coats and trousers were sitting around a vast table, patiently teasing apart strands from apparently endless coils of industrial-type rope. All the wards were unheated and their fingers, already raw and blistered from the ropes, were blue with cold.

“It’s called ‘picking oakum’,” Brice whispered. “The idea is that people aren’t supposed to get something for nothing. They have to earn their bowl of watered-down gruel, otherwise everyone will want to come here. Joke,” he added quickly.

You’ll think I’m dense but until then I genuinely hadn’t realised why they called it a ‘work house’.

We never saw the children’s ward and I was grateful. Georgie and Charlotte totally didn’t need to go through that.

At the far end of the very last ward was the door to the infirmary. I saw Minerva and the policeman both brace themselves just before they entered, so I knew to expect the worst.

There are seriously no words which adequately describe the horror of that ward. It was a place of pure despair. Inmates were only brought to the infirmary when they were so ill that it was pointless trying to squeeze any more work out of them, like when they were basically on the brink of death. Many were so ravaged by illness that if it wasn’t for their clothes, you couldn’t have said if they were male or female. You could hardly even tell they were human.

I was grateful to Mr Allbright for teaching us a new technique ideal for use in these types of harrowing situations where you can’t stop to help each human individually. You connect with your cosmic energy source and command, “Stream!” and immediately uplifting celestial vibes stream out of you to everyone who needs it. OK, so it’s not much, but like Reuben always says, better to light one candle than to curse the dark.

The matron stopped beside an iron bedstead. “Well, here he is,” she announced. “And much good may it do you,” she muttered as she bustled away.

We all looked down at the shrunken old man under the faded quilt.

Brice shook his head. “Damn. Too late.”

“I felt it as soon as we came in,” Lola sighed.

When a human is getting ready to leave the Earth, there is an unmistakable vibe; an almost unbearable, sweetness.

“Mr Lilly,” the policeman was saying doggedly. “We need to ask you a few questions. Have you ever had any connection with a gentlemen called Noel Scrivener?”

Minerva shook her head. “He’s dying, he can’t hear you.”

The policeman sounded offended. “He heard me, all right.”

The old man’s watery unfocused eyes had widened with surprise. He broke into a tremulous smile, and we heard his thoughts:. I can die happy now. I’ll never get to Heaven, old sinner that I am, but now I’ve seen the angels, I can die happy.

Brice’s expression was unreadable. “This is just incredible.”

“I know,” I said sympathetically. “I hate how they teach humans those lies about having to be good to get into Heaven.”

“I was talking about Agency timing,” Brice explained. “Here’s an old man dying alone, scared he’s too wicked to get to Heaven. Now suddenly there are three angels in the vicinity. How
do
they do it?”

Lola was stroking the old man’s knobbly hand. “Forget about the past, my friend,” she whispered. “Just focus on what’s happening now.” Lola trusts her instincts more than any angel I know, and she’d instantly recognised what we had to do.

We were just about to lose our one witness to Noel Scrivener’s crime, but that seemed suddenly irrelevant. Like getting born, dying is super intense for everyone involved. There’s just no room to think about anything else.

There was a beautiful moment when the forgotten angel inside Alfred Lilly finally slipped free and stood beside the old man’s worn-out body. And suddenly the room filled with luminous figures that had come to guide him to the next world.

“I’m glad we could help him die in peace,” Lola whispered.

“Me too,” I whispered back. “I just wish we’d got there sooner so we could have talked to him. Then those poor girls could have got what’s rightfully theirs.”

Minerva gently closed the old man’s eyes. “He’s gone,” she told the girls and her voice was full ofgenuine sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

I was sorry too, but I was also mesmerised by what was happening to the spirit of Alfred Lilly, who seemed to be getting younger every minute. His face lit up with joy as he recognised the old friends and relations who were thronging into the infirmary to meet him.

“I hope you really enjoy Heaven, Mr Lilly,” I whispered.

The forger turned to smile at me. “Lovelace,” he said clearly, and he touched his chest. “The letter’s in his pocket.”

Next moment he’d gone, leaving me in a blur of astonishment.