Page 31 of Giving Up The Ghost
Heinrich’s silence was heavy and complete. So much so that I checked to make sure the call hadn’t been dropped. When he spoke again, it was without a trace of the effete character he tried to maintain in public. “He knew about Cora and David. And he knew about the ones who died outside of the circle. The three in York. Two in Newcastle. Four in London.”
“All this year.”
He sighed and something clinked, ceramic against ceramic. “Year and a half,” he corrected. “Since summer before last.”
“Were they all the same? Did they all get contacted by someone seeking a private reading?”
Heinrich’s sharp, indrawn breath was followed by a wet cough as his coffee made the return journey the hard way. “How the hell would I know about that?” he demanded, his Brummie accent slipping through. “We all received requests for private readings fairly often, especially from the nobs. Few of them loved to have a pet medium they could trot out at Halloween and Christmas.” He sniffed, slipping back into his protective shell. “And you’ve been talking to Mick. I can tell. He’s the one who took that to the police.”
“You don’t think there’s a connection?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Because I’m not going to put myself back in that situation again. There’s a reason why you’re talking to me over the phone from an ocean away and not over tea at Essie’s.” He hesitated, then, with a note of concern masked beneath a thin layer of false nonchalance, asked, “Where is Oscar, anyway? He’s awful quiet.”
“He’s at the house. The one in Avesford.”
“Julian… Be a dear and do not leave him alone. Not while you’re in England. Do you understand me? Do not leave Oscar alone.”
“Why?”
“You’re a smart boy. You can sort that out yourself.”
* * *
Ezra assuredme that he wouldn’t get pulled over for speeding. “They’d have to catch us first.”
“That’s it. I’m cutting you off from those Vin Diesel movies.” I clutched the oh-shit handle as he took a swooping curve downhill with a sort of devil-may-care insouciance one does not typically like to see in one’s driver.
He laughed. “Nah, I’m more of a Jason Statham man myself.”
“Not as reassuring as you’d expect.”
He grinned, the smile not quite reaching his eyes as we merged into the very light traffic between Avesdale and Avesford. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
I’m not a praying man but I seriously considered it as Ezra maneuvered around slow-moving SUVs he referred to as Chelsea tractors and neatly moved between an actual tractor and an impatient sportscar as we neared the house. He waved cheerfully when the sportscar’s driver flipped us off, honking and shouting as he zoomed past when we turned into the drive leading to the house. “Looks like Charlotte’s gone,” he noted, slowing to park in front of the portico.
“He still didn’t answer his phone,” I reminded him. “If he’d been out, he’d have at least sent back a text telling us he’d call back. You know Oscar. He’d never put either of us on ignore.” As much as I’d like to tease Oscar about how he was the only person I knew under fifty who actually answered his phone, I’d always appreciated that he’d at least let me know he couldn’t talk or send a quick text if he was in the middle of something. For him to be radio silent so long… Something was wrong. And after our talk with Heinrich, I was having horrible visions of what it could be.
Ezra jogged ahead of me up the steps, a look of annoyance blooming on his face as I stumped up behind him. “She’s locked the door,” he growled. “And of course, we don’t have a key.”
“Check the back door?”
“There’s a gate. What do you want to bet that’s locked too?” he muttered but set off at a jog to check while I called Oscar again. After a minute or so, Ezra was back, the set look on his face telling me we’d been right.
“Still no answer,” I said. “These front windows are leaded and not the sort you can open.”
Ezra’s brows crept up slowly. “No, but the cellar window is. Unless someone’s boarded over it since we were teenagers. I remember the very last visit we were here, moving stuff down for Violet and noticing the window had been left open. Come on.”
We hurried around the side of the house to find the ground-level window, a long and narrow rectangle that reminded me of a camper van window, the sort that slides open with a simple latch. “Oh, that looks easy enough,” Ezra mumbled, getting onto his knees. “Oh, shit! Oscar!” Smacking his hand against the window, he glanced back at me, panic clear on his face. “I see him. He’s on the floor. Looks like he’s passed out or something. Oscar! Oi!”
“Here, let me?—”
“Your leg!”
“Fuck my leg,” I growled, getting down with some difficulty and no small amount of pain. It didn’t matter—I’d deal with it later. Oscar was sprawled just at the edge of the line of sight provided by the window, face-up on the floor. His limbs were splayed wide, and his chin tilted back, neck cranked in what would be a painful position when he regained consciousness.A rag doll thrown to the floor.
A horrible little voice whisperedif, if he did.
“Ezra—”
