Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(22)

“Let’s go.” Clarence’s voice was rough and quiet over the rapid clatter of the corpse’s jaw.

I could only grunt my agreement. My eyes were still locked on the bony wrists and empty eyes. Clarence gripped me by the waist and twisted me around. My mind resumed thought, and I needed no more urging to flee.

We galloped down the road, back to our carriage and skittering horses.

“We should tell someone,” I said. “About this.”

“I will.” He hoisted me into the carriage. “You should keep quiet, though.”

“Why?”

“We shouldn’t be here.” His words were sharp, and his hands shook as he lifted the reins. He was scared. “I don’t want anyone—especially our mothers—finding out.” He gave me a slit-eyed glance. “Can you please keep quiet, Miss Fitt?”

I gulped and nodded. Though I didn’t understand Clarence’s panic or his secrets, I knew he would tell no one what we’d seen. Yet someone needed to know—at the very least the Spirit-Hunters. It was their job to deal with such horrors.

I could keep quiet. But that didn’t mean I would.

CHAPTER EIGHT

First thing the next morning, before Mama was even awake, I trekked to the Exhibition to give Joseph the letter from Elijah and tell him of the rabid corpse at Laurel Hill.

Other than some questionable streaks on Machinery Hall’s floor, I could see no signs of the recent Dead attack. All those corpses—where were they now? And how had the hall been cleaned up so quickly?

Perhaps with so much money spent on the event, the city could afford to keep it running like clockwork no matter the interruption. Or perhaps it was the other way around: the city couldn’t afford any interruptions when thousands of international visitors were clamoring to get in every day.

I made my way through Machinery Hall to the Spirit-Hunters’ laboratory. Except the Spirit-Hunters weren’t there. Their door was shut, and this time no note was on it. I hesitantly tried the handle, but it didn’t budge.

After considering my options—Come back later? Leave Elijah’s letter?—I crouched in an awkward mass of skirts and bustle and slipped the note through a crack between the door and floor.

Wait—will they even know the letter was mine? Did I mention Elijah’s name to them? Well, too late now. I’d have to sort it out tomorrow. Besides, I wanted to go home and read through all of Elijah’s letters. In light of everything that had happened, his words might contain a critical clue.

Yes, I could come back tomorrow and offer everything I knew about my brother’s predicament. I rose stiffly, my dress rustling back to its full expanse.

“Won’t help you, will they?” said a man’s voice in an affected Cockney accent.

I whirled around to see the speaker exiting the men’s water closet.

He was a short man, no taller than me, but barrel-chested and solid with muscle. Beneath his derby hat gleamed blond curls that matched his broad, wax-tipped mustache. Something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t place where I knew him from.

“They never seem to be around when people need them,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“They”—he jerked his thumb toward the Spirit-Hunters’ door—“can’t help you. I’ve seen you here before, and I suppose they have refused to do their job. They’ve done that with everyone so far.”

He sauntered toward me, inspecting his tan coat cuffs. “What excuse did they give you? Too busy? Not enough money?” He flicked his gaze to mine. “Or is there a new reason I’ve yet to hear?”

I hesitated, intrigued by his accurate prediction. Joseph did say he would look at my letter, but where was Joseph now?

The man brushed his cuffs and then folded his arms over his chest. “I thought as much. These Spirit-Hunters are here to help, but aren’t actually helping anyone.”

I squinted. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well, Mr. Boyer and his team have been here since May twenty-fifth; but rather than solve the Dead problems, the problems have been getting worse.” He lifted a hand and fingered the tip of his mustache. “Seems to me they could march into Laurel Hill and end the whole situation once and for all—but they don’t. Why?”

I gulped nervously and glanced around to check for listeners. I hoped the din of the hall drowned out our conversation. “I thought it was because they had no means. No one to help them.”

“Perhaps.” He lifted his shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Curious, and quite a coincidence, though, don’t you think? These Spirit-Hunters leave New York, and the trouble ends. They show up here, and the trouble begins. Maybe there’s a valid reason the Exhibition board is unwilling to hand over men or money.”

I blinked. That was a different spin on the same tale Joseph had given me. “Who are you?”

He swooped off his hat and swung into a bow. “Nicholas Peger, with the Philadelphia Bulletin.”

Now I remembered where I’d seen him. He had cornered Joseph after the Dead attack. “A reporter,” I said blandly.

“Investigative journalist,” he corrected. “And in charge of all stories pertaining to the Dead.” He popped his hat firmly atop his head. “Also an occasional detective, and also at your service.”