Friday Fiction: From the Ashes (A Bureau of Shadows Tale)

From the Ashes

 

     "It's damn cold," Chase Bellamy said, stamping his feet. He looked around the room they were investigating. Although the furnishings of the place were of the finest quality, there was something bleak and sterile, almost stark about it. "Hard to imagine anyone actually sitting in this sitting room," he muttered, tucking his hands under his arms.

     "Doubtless it's slightly more cheery when the fire's lit." Mr. Samuel Frobisher, head of the Department of Extranatural Affairs, sniffed and bent down to examine the cold debris on the hearth. He ran his fingers lightly over the mound. "Yes, there's definitely been a disturbance among the ashes here." He penciled a note in his pocketbook.

     "Mr. Williams," Chase said, "was telling me just the other day that that's the traditional way to get evidence about these noisy ghosts - these poltergeists, as he calls them. You strew ashes or flour on the floor and look for their tracks afterwards." He grinned. "Apparently, whatever they are, there's a material element in their make-up. They leave tracks, some like hoofs, but some remarkably like chicken feet."

     Frobisher sighed.

     "Do not tell Mr. Nelson that. I have the distinct impression that he particularly wishes us to detect some kind of fraud. He would be most unhappy if we presented him with a more outlandish solution." He flipped his pocketbook shut and tucked it away. He frowned, unsatisfied. "Now, Bellamy, see if you get any kind of reading on that fancy new instrument of yours."

     "You really don't trust them much, do you?" Chase tugged carefully at his watch chain and drew out a silvery round object. He opened its fancy case gingerly to reveal an unusual, compass-like contraption inside. "I've found them to be quite useful." He began walking around the room, watching the wooden needle quaking atop the pool of glass-encased mercury inside.

     "Feh." Frobisher sat down on the hard horsehair sofa and cradled his hands on the gold knob of his cane, watching the younger agent's progress. "What does it really tell us? That something is happening. Does it tell us what it is? No. What it all comes right down to, is the skill and wits of the operator who interprets it, which is all we ever had in the first place!"

     "You must admit, though," Chase said drily, ending his perambulations by sticking the watcher right down under the hood of the chimney. "It does make a fine scientific show for the clients."

     "There is that aspect," Frobisher chuckled quietly. He leaned forward, raising his craggy eyebrows. "Well, anything?"

     "Colder than a mackerel," Chase said, shaking his head. He shivered. "And almost as cold as this room."

     "Hm," said Frobisher. "Thought not. Well, call Mr. Nelson in, and let's see about getting a fire going to get the chill out of here. If we're going to get any more investigating done, we might as well do it in the warm."

     Chase went to the parlour door, and a low word in the hall brought in Mr. Waterhouse Nelson, master of the house, coffee broker extraordinaire, and certainly a great name in the state. He was taller than Chase and more precise in his clothing than even Frobisher, and he walked in as if he were condescending to enter his own sitting room with them.

     "Well, sir?" he asked.

     "We have finished our initial examination," Frobisher said, rising to his feet. He made a small bow of deference. "Now we would like to do a few interviews with the inmates of your house."

     "You have not determined the cause yet?" Nelson's voice was disappointed. He reached for his snuffbox on the side table, and took an irritated pinch.

     "These cases can be complicated, sir," Frobisher said, a hint of grumble on the edges of his voice. "It is not like calling in the ratcatcher when something's been nibbling at your bacon."

     "I do not eat bacon," Nelson said. "Nasty, unhealthy stuff."

     "Ah," said Frobisher, as if confirming something in his mind. "Anyway, you can go ahead and have them build the fire now. I shall do my interviews in this room, and Mr. Bellamy will interrogate the lower servants and so on in the kitchen."

     "Very well," said Nelson. He marched over to the chimney and gave one tug on the bellpull there in the corner. Far-off they could hear the distant answering clang.

     "I should like to interview your son first, Mr. Nelson. Master Charles, did you say? How old is the boy? And how long since you were widowed?"

     "The boy is nine, Mr. Frobisher; and it has been nine years," the man sniffed. "I don't know what you can possibly get from him; he's quiet as a clam. However, I shall try to force what little sense he has out for you."

     "Oh, no, Mr. Nelson. I want to talk to the boy alone, please. It is departmental procedure, you see."

     "What? Whatever for? I am the boy's father," he said indignantly. "I should be present to hear what he says!"

     "And you shall hear, Mr. Nelson, you shall," Frobisher soothed, but his tone was firm. "As soon as he tells me. And for that, I fear, our interview must be private. I have a special line of questioning, you see, that must not be interrupted or interfered with, and I fear a father's stern eye might ... well, inhibit confidences somewhat."

     Nelson's eyes burned balefully, but he seemed to unbend a bit.

     "But you would inform me afterward?"

     "Of course, sir," Frobisher said smoothly. "This is your investigation. Everything you should know will be reported to you."

     "Well. Very well, then." The door opened, and the butler bent a quizzical head inside. "Show Mr. Bellamy to the kitchen," Nelson commanded. "And instruct everyone to follow his orders. He will question the staff. Send Nick to build a fire in here. And have Mrs. Murdock bring Charles immediately." Chase followed the butler out, managing to flash the older agent a quickly raised eyebrow. Frobisher's face was stony in response. Nelson was watching him closely.

     "While we wait, is there anything more you would like to tell me? Anything, no matter how tenuous, may be of importance to the case."

     "What more do you need to know?" The tall man shrugged and adjusted his already immaculate cuffs irritably. "Some ... some thing has invaded my house, it has done so on a regular basis for many years, and this time it is the final straw. It has targeted my one and only heir, and I will not have its ... its influence warping my child at this tender stage of his life. I wish it banished, and I call upon my government to do it!"

     His tone had risen, and the end of his speech had left two hectic red spots coloring his pallid cheeks.

     "And you may rest assured, sir, that your government shall do everything in its power to bring this incident to a successful conclusion. Ah! I expect this is the lad now."

They sat quietly, uneasily, while a young man came in and built up the fire. The fellow was obviously torn between curiosity at the strange visitors and fear that his master would disapprove of his inquisitiveness. He scuttled out and they sat a few moments without a word as the warmth grew. 

     The door clicked open and a boy of about nine or ten stepped stiffly into the room, ushered in by the butler whose hands hovered an inch from the lad's back but seemed to have the power of an opposing magnet to push the child forward. Mr. Nelson frowned down at him.

     "Charles," he said. "This gentleman is going to ask you about this strange case that has centered upon you. You will tell him everything about these happenings, do you hear? These happenings. That is all." He turned to face Frobisher. "I shall await the outcome in the hall." He cast one last stern glance at his son, then left with a precise but decided slam of the door.

     Frobisher looked at the boy a second, then gestured at the chairs on either side of the fireplace. "Have a seat, young man," he rumbled. He sat down himself, steepling his fingers, and examined Charles under scowling brows. He suddenly realized that the boy was looking at him like a stricken deer that didn't know which way to run. The old man tried to relax his face into an unfamiliar, avuncular expression. "Please," he said. The word felt rusty in his mouth.

     Charles sat down, eyes still wide, and Frobisher looked him over. A rather plump boy, curly chestnut hair, clothes almost unnaturally tidy, and a high white collar cutting into the fat under his neck. He gazed back wordlessly at the old agent with rather watery blue eyes.

     "Well, Charles," Frobisher started. "Or is it Charlie?" He tried to grin.

     "It's Charles Montmorency Waterhouse, Junior, sir," he answered owlishly. "How do you do, sir?"

     "Well, I'm fine, just fine, son," said Frobisher. "Now, your daddy's been telling me there's been some strange doings going on around here, and that they seem to be centered on you. You aren't scared, are you?"

     "Oh, no, sir. Not at all."

     "Ah. And why not?"

     The boy smiled. "'Cause it's nice."

     "I see." Frobisher sat back a little. "It seems to have upset your Daddy a bit. Why do you say what's going on is nice?"

     Charles looked puzzled. "'Cause it is. It's just ... you know ... nice."

     "Nice," the old man repeated flatly. "How do you mean, nice?"

     "When he's been here, I feel good."

     "'He'? And who is he?"

     "You know," Charles sounded desperate. "Him. Him who comes. Papa doesn't like me to talk about him. Papa takes away the stuff he leaves behind. He says it's wicked." He frowned. "The only bad time is when Papa yells about him."

     "This ... er, person, leaves something behind him, then?"

     "Papa says it's bad."

     "But you think it's 'nice'?"

     "Papa says it's a ghost. If it is, it's a nice ghost, I think." He looked Frobisher right in the face, his blue eyes round and frank. "If people can be good or bad, their ghosts can be, don't you think?"

     "I imagine so." Frobisher leaned forward. "Tell me, Charlie, have you ever seen this visitor?"

     "N-no. He always comes in the night, when everybody's asleep, but when I wake up, I know he's been here, 'cause there's a feeling in the air."

     "What sort of feeling?"

     "Just kind of warm, but exciting, not a sleepy warm, and the air seems ... I don't know, fresh. You know how stuffy things get in winter? There’s something fresh and green, like a forest ... spicy, I guess. Then I run down and hope to see him, but he's never here. But he leaves ... things behind."

     "Things?"

     Charles frowned.

     "Poppa takes them away."

     "What sort of things?"

     The boy told him.

     Frobisher looked shocked for a moment. Then he faked a cough and smoothed his face out as blandly as he could.

     "And what does your father do with them?"

     Charles looked stricken. "He burns them, sir."

 

     After a few more questions, Frobisher dismissed the boy and called the father back in. Nelson looked at him askance, but the agent only told him to send in the butler. A quick interview, in which the questions were general and the real object was to observe what kind of man this upper servant was, convinced Frobisher that he was a perfect match for his master, not given to whimsy or sentiment, and a domestic tyrant in his own right. He dismissed the man and sent him to bring back Chase as soon as he was done with his questioning.

     When Chase returned Nelson leaned in impatiently, but Frobisher shook his head 'not yet' and the younger agent closed the door on the businessman's growingly disgruntled face.

     "Well?" Frobisher murmured, in tones too low to carry beyond the door. "What of the servants?"

     "Not a one as afraid of this phenomenon as they are of their employer," Chase murmured back. "I would say the chances of this being a case of 'the maid done it' is very low. Something extranatural is going on here, I'd say, but I'm blessed if I can figure out what."

     "Really?" Frobisher smiled sourly. "Does nothing suggest itself to you? Nothing at all?" He leaned back and sighed. "The cold season? The secret visitation? The lonely child? No-one sees 'him' come, and no-one knows how the clues of his visit appear?"

     Chase crossed his hands, fingers enlaced, the tumble of clues racing in his head. He suddenly unfocused his mind, and the thoughts, released, fell into a pattern.

     "Oh," he said. "Oh, no. Certainly not ..."

     "Why not?" said Frobisher. "Is it any more improbable than any of the other cases you have observed for yourself?"

     "But the implications ..."

     Frobisher put up his hand and stopped Chase from going any farther.

     "The implications are none of our concern and are indeed unprovable; the existence of the phenomenon, and its impact on our physical world, is." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, singed object. "Before they built the fire again, I found this. And the boy's story confirms my suspicions." He handed it to Chase.

     The younger agent took it gingerly and examined it as it lay in his hand. It was a small wooden soldier, painted bright red, with the bayonet in its hand burnt off to a black stump.

     "And this is what the father objects to?" he asked in wonderment.

     "Indeed. The child told me, and I'm sure a search would confirm it, that there is not another toy in the house. Mr. Nelson will not allow such foolish vanities. There has only been ... what HE brings the boy."

     "But ... but if this is so, why isn't it happening everywhere? Over the whole world? God damn it, why didn't it happen to me when I was a child?"

     "Did you have two parents?" Frobisher asked sardonically. "Two parents who loved you?"

     "Well ... of course I did."

     "Then I would venture that HIS spirit did visit you, expressed by means of a benign possession, diffused throughout the world at this time of the year. The fact that this child had no such expression, and perhaps - who can say? - solicited by his absent mother, may have evoked a more straightforward response." The old agent stood up and dusted his hands briskly. "In any case, I think our investigation has reached its termination."  He reached out and tugged the bellpull.

     Mr. Nelson popped into the room as if he had been waiting outside the very door. He raised an eyebrow.

     "Well?" he said.

     "Our work here is finished, Mr. Nelson," Frobisher announced crustily. "Our conclusion is that this is a harmless, even a benevolent manifestation, and that nothing can be done to stop it. We know what it is, and that there is no danger here from it. My advice to you would be to accept it, perhaps even encourage it, and it will no longer be a problem."

     "What! Is that all?" Nelson said angrily. "Our tax dollars at work!" he sneered. "If you know what this thing is, I demand that you explain it to me at once!"

     "Oh, I wish I could, Mr. Nelson, I wish I could. Do you know the difference between a secret and a mystery?"

     "The difference between ... " Nelson began incredulously, then stopped, baffled. Frobisher began walking towards the front door, Chase behind him, the stiff uncomprehending merchant in their wake. The agents took up their hats from the rack in the hall. Frobisher turned back to Mr. Nelson.

     "The difference between a secret and a mystery, Mr. Nelson, is that a secret can be told, whereas one can gaze and gaze upon a mystery in the plain open air, and it will still be beyond comprehension; unless there is something in the heart that responds to it.

     "I'm afraid that this case, to you, shall remain forever a mystery, no matter how much I should try to explain it." Frobisher put on his hat.

     "Merry Christmas, sir."

Notes

My notes of the time declare this was begun on December 24, 2019 and that the first draft was finished on January 8, 2020. I'm glad I had started to take some notes about such things, so I can pinpoint exact times. The year 2019 was a productive year for me. I was baptized after Easter and my book was published in July on my birthday. I had taken off with a slew of creativity, producing more short stories than I had in the past twenty years. 

In this tale Mr. Frobisher shows much of his human side and his insights into human nature; also it allows for his opinions on the watcher; a little innovation at the Bureau that would become a necessary fixture in time. This is, of course (I think), a bit of retrofitting, as I believe I had written about watchers in earlier stories.

I trust I do not have to explain, at this time of year, who the 'good haunting' was.