Ghost Talkers (5 page)

“Ah well. Another time, Miss Stuyvesant.”

“I hope so, Captain Harford.” Ginger looked around the crowded tent, spying the girls from her circle. “Over there … do you see the brunette in the blue dress? That's Edna Newbold. Ask her to dance. Joanne, the girl next to her, will want to, but she'll step on your feet.”

Reginald winked at her. “I appreciate the warning.”

“Reg—” Ben took him by the arm. “Edna is a nice young woman. Don't do anything I wouldn't.”

“But that so limits my opportunities.” He gave a little bow and, with a wink, made his way into the crowd.

The dancers quickly swallowed him, but Ginger still waited a moment before leaning in to whisper in Ben's ear. “What was that about?”

“I told you I was not good at suppressing my jealousy.” Ben offered her his arm and led her through the tent to the outside. “Besides, he had a … certain reputation at university that I cannot be altogether easy with.”

Alarmed, Ginger looked back toward the tent. “But I just sent him to Edna.”

“For one dance, in a crowded tent full of servicemen. She will be fine.” Ben frowned. “Unless she has a habit of going home with any man she meets.”

Ginger smacked his arm. “Don't be vulgar.”

“Ow!”

“Edna is a respectable young lady, and so are the other girls in my circle.”

“Good.” He rubbed his arm. “Truly though, she's only in danger if she's an heiress. He's perpetually short of funds.”

“Her father is a shepherd.”

“Then she is definitely safe from him.”

“Well … next time, say something anyway.”

“I did! I told him to behave.”

“I mean to me.”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘Ginger—this is my cousin. He's a cad. Don't trust him with your friends, horses, or money.'”

“I wouldn't object.” She regarded him with some concern. “You have never said a bad word about him before.”

He sighed. “I have to be pleasant to him, or my father will have my head.”

“And what of me?”

“You … you make me be a better man than I am naturally inclined to be.”

“You do say the sweetest things.”

He offered her his arm. “Walk you home, Miss Stuyvesant?”

“I would be delighted.” She settled her hand in the crook of his arm, and leaned close to feel the warmth of his body.

The streets of Le Havre were dark, save for the moonlight and, in the distance, the flash of guns. Outside the hospitality tent, the constant crackle and bang reasserted itself. It was strange what one could get used to hearing. It sounded so different in the memories of the dead.

“Are you all right?” Ben put his free hand over hers.

“Only tired, but that is true for everyone, I think.” She leaned her head upon his shoulder as they walked. It was a delicious intimacy to be out together, unchaperoned, for a stroll at night. Before the war, it would have been unthinkable. “Must you really go away tomorrow?”

“Alas, yes. It won't be a long trip, though.” He steered her to the side to avoid a refugee sleeping in the doorway of a building. “Ginger … have you—I was thinking about lucid dreaming.”

“It isn't reliable for spy work, dear. The dreamer is too likely to shape the dream into what they want to see.”

“No—no, I know that. I was thinking more … for us.” Ben cleared his throat, looking at the moon. “If we both tried at the same time. While I was away, I mean.”

In theory, they could share a dream, though Ginger had never tried it outside of her training as a medium. “I suppose, though I already dream about you every night.”

“Do you? Really?”

“Well…”

Ben cupped her cheek with one hand. His thumb left a trail of warmth as he caressed her cheek. “May I steal a kiss, Miss Stuyvesant?”

In answer, Ginger smiled and tilted her head up, lips parting. Who cared for proprieties? Ben grinned back at her and bent—

A sharp whistle cut through the night. “Nicely done, Captain. Is her hair red all over?”

Ben turned from Ginger, his hands bunching into fists. A man with the pips and crown of a captain sat in a doorway, collar undone and hair hanging into his eyes. Ben took a single step toward him. “Apologize to the lady.”

“For what? Asking you a question? I didn't ask her, now did I?” He leaned to the side to look around Ben. “Hey, lady. Are you red all the way down?”

Ginger's mouth hung open a little in astonishment. She had heard cruder language in some of the memories, but none addressed directly to her. Her heart speeding a little, she put her hand on Ben's arm. “Let's go.”

“How much is she? Maybe after you finish, I can have a turn.”

A flare of red exploded through Ben's aura, wiping out every other colour. With a guttural cry, Ben rushed at the man, who rose to meet him. Their breath huffed out so she couldn't tell which of them had cried out at the impact. With scuffling sounds, they staggered across the sidewalk. In the moonlight, it was almost possible to think they were dancing the foxtrot.

“Ben! Stop.” Ginger darted closer. “Stop! It doesn't matter.”

Without a doubt, neither man heard her. A dull series of thumps accompanied an exhalation and a groan. The other man staggered back, one hand clutching his nose. “Jesus. We're supposed to be on the same side.”

Ben growled. “Apologize to her.”

“Fine. Fine! Lady, I'm sorry your fellow is a prick.”

Ben lurched forward, but Ginger caught him by the arm. “Stop it, Ben. Do you want to get called up on charges?”

He stood, tense and panting, then spat at the man. Without saying anything else, he turned and put his hand at the small of Ginger's back. The pressure guided her away from the encounter, but Ben stayed stiff and silent as they walked several streets away. He walked with one hand pressed against his ribs, while his aura roiled around him in angry reds and blacks. Flashes of deep brick red sparked through the maelstrom of emotion.

“Ben?”

They walked past a few more buildings. Ginger's heart was still racing. That flash of temper was so unlike him. Before the war, Ben had been the most even-tempered man she'd ever met. Now … and what had been the point? If they had just continued on their way, the fight would not have occurred.

“Ben? What was that?”

He slowed and then came to a stop, staring at the paving stones. After a moment, he shook himself. “Sorry.” He raised a hand to run it through his hair and stopped with a wince. “That was … I wish you hadn't heard that.”

“I've heard worse.”

His eyes widened, and then he gave a crooked grin of recognition. “Right. I forgot who reports to you.”

She shook her head. “I meant, why did you attack him?”

“He was—well, I couldn't let that stand.”

“Actually, you could have. If we had continued walking, the man would have been behind us in no time at all. And…” She laid her hand over his where it pressed against his ribs. “You would not be injured.”

“This? I'm not—” He glanced at her and grimaced. “You're looking at my aura, aren't you.”

She nodded.

“That's not fair.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “He landed a good punch, but nothing is broken.”

“Still. The point remains that you don't even need to be bruised.”

“I couldn't very well let that sort of comment—I mean, what if you had been alone?”

“Ben.” She sighed, exasperated with him for bringing up unlikely scenarios. “The fact that I am out with you, without a chaperone, is not a sign of my usual behaviour.”

“But if I hadn't said anything, that fellow would have thought that his comment was acceptable and might have escalated with another woman.” He rubbed his face. “It's conduct unbecoming an officer.”

That might be the case, but neither was brawling. What worried her more than either was Ben's aura. The anger had evaporated and left behind the grey of despair and the deep purple of grief.

“What is the matter? Ben—I mean … what, truly, is the matter?”

He looked at her, and for a moment the grief was visible on his face as well. He gave her a lopsided grin, making his dimples flash. “Let a man have some mystery, what?”

“Not too much.” She took his arm again. “Or I shall feel I don't know you.”

“Some days, my dear, I don't feel that I know myself. So we're on even footing.”

 

Chapter Four

17
J
ULY
1916

Ginger walked onto the floor of Potter's Field, shivering as she stepped over the line of salt. Most of the team had assembled already. They were only missing Mrs. Richardson and Mr. Haden. Ginger's shoulders relaxed a trifle when she spotted Edna, none the worse for wear and with a satisfied amber haze to her aura.

Helen looked up and smiled at her. “How was dancing last night?”

“Mostly lovely.” Ginger took her seat in one of the armchairs, grateful that the mediums rated padding.

“Mostly?”

Ginger thought of the fight Ben had had and shook her head. “He left on a mission this morning.”

Helen
tsk
ed. “That means I'm going to have to listen to you mooning over his letters, aren't I?”

“He's suggesting lucid dreaming as being more reliable than the post.”

“Ha!” Helen shook her head and then sobered. “You serious?”

Ginger shrugged. “Well, I don't think it will actually—”

“No, no.” Helen shook her finger at Ginger. “No. You are that tired. Already your soul is loose in your skin, same as mine. Don't do nothing that will loosen it more. You hear me?”

“I … yes. Of course. You're right.” After half the sessions, she had to remind herself why returning to her body was important.

The simultaneous arrival of Mrs. Richardson and Mr. Haden made Ginger's brows rise. They both had auras that were even deeper in amber than Edna's, and … was that a pink haze of embarrassment? Ginger glanced across the circle at Helen, whose eyes were round with surprise. Covering a smile, she met Ginger's gaze and raised her brows. Ginger had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It did, indeed, look as if the flirtation between the two elder members of their team might have been taken to a new level.

Joanne cleared her throat. “That's a very nice jumper, Mr. Haden.”

She giggled, nudging Edna, as Mr. Haden brushed the soft brown wool of the sweater he wore under his jacket. He beamed at Mrs. Richardson. “Aye. I needed sommat for the cold, and look here.” He pulled the fabric a little away from his body so they could see the green twined through it. “See how fine a stitch it's got? Master craftsmanship, that is.”

“It's just Fair Isle knitting, only a simple knit stitch.” The silver glow of pride in Mrs. Richardson's aura said the stitch was anything but simple. She patted the tight grey bun at the back of her head.

With a wink at Mrs. Richardson, Joanne leaned over to Mr. Haden. “Well. It brings out the colour of your eyes. I had not noticed what fine hazel eyes you have until this very moment.”

“Is that a fact?” He blushed, rather charmingly.

Across the circle, Lt. Plumber said, “I may need a jumper like that.”

“But you'd need one in blue or grey, because your eyes are like the sky.” Edna suddenly coloured.

The gong sounded, its low single tone rolling across the warehouse. Time for their shift to begin in earnest. Ginger held out her hands to either side. Mrs. Richardson took her right hand and Lt. Plumber took her left. Closing her eyes, Ginger felt the links in the circle form, leading from her to Mrs. Richardson to Mr. Haden to Helen on the other side. And then back from that medium through Joanne to Lt. Plumber and then Ginger herself.

In the spirit realm, hosts of soldiers billowed, waiting to report. It was Helen's turn to lead, so Ginger acted solely as one of the anchors in the group. The other medium stretched her soul out of her body in a coruscating wave. It bore her form and figure, but with a delicate translucence.

The dead soldier in front of her seemed perversely more solid, being fully in the spirit world. He could not be more than twenty, and held his cap in his hand. “Oh—a lady medium? I thought—”

Likely he'd thought he'd meet Houdini. Helen gave no sign of noticing his confusion, which was fairly common. “May I have your name, rank, and how you died?”

“Private William McIndoe, 12th Battalion, Gloucester Regiment. I was carrying orders to the listening post off of Whitehall and a sniper got me.” He held out his hands helplessly. “I didn't even see him. I got nothing useful to report. I'm so sorry.”

Helen soothed him. “Of course you do. We'll let your commanding officer know to send the orders again. Do you know what time you died?”

In the centre of the circle, Edna wrote the message for their runner and passed the note to the lad. He would drop it in the communications room and they would relay it to Pvt. McIndoe's commanding officer.

“I left at quarter till six, just as it was getting light.”

“Good. And do you remember the direction you were facing or where you were hit?”

He shook his head, grey with misery. “I was crawling, and then I was dead.”

“That means a head wound. See? You do have useful information. Have you a message for home?”

“Yes, please. Tell my da that I died doing my duty and that I didn't mind it. I just didn't mean to die so young. That'll do.” He hesitated and then turned back to her. “Wait—tell my brother that I hid his knife in the leg of my bed. I only meant to tease, and thought I'd be home to fish it out for him at Christmas.”

“I will.”

“Thank you. Oh? Is that the…” He faded before the sentence finished.