Page 71 of Beyond the Grave
"Do you recall the name of a seer in the journal?" I asked. "Leah, I think Harcourt said."
"Lela. It appeared in the first few pages."
"You have a good memory."
"Yes."
I suppressed a smile. He wasn't shy about his many abilities. "Can a seer really predict which horse will win a race?"
"It doesn't work like that, as far as I am aware."
"Buchanan will be disappointed when he discovers it. So how does it work?"
"Since I am the only seer I know, and my talent is limited, I cannot be entirely sure. I have vague feelings, impressions if you like, and only about people I am close to. You, Seth and Gus, for example. I know when you are about to seek me out, and occasionally the gist of what you are about to say, if not the exact words. I can also predict when you are about to slap me, for instance."
Was he trying to make a joke? Yes, I think so. His eyes danced merrily and his features lifted a little. "That's because it usually comes immediately after you've admitted doing something worthy of a slap. I hardly call that a fine example of your talent."
"Granted, your temper is easy to predict."
I laughed. "What's put you in such a fine mood? I feel positively wretched after spending time with that family. They aren't particularly supportive of one another. There is even an undercurrent of dislike between Lord and Lady Harcourt, although outwardly he seems to dote on her and she depend on him."
"I hadn't noticed."
"For a seer, you're quite blind at times. Don't you think it's odd that you are aware when I am not in the house, yet you don't understand other people at all?"
He shifted on the seat, and I wondered if my observation had made him feel inadequate. He was so used to being competent that this failing might bother him. "As I said, my talent is limited. I couldn't tell you if we were about to have an accident, for example, or who will win a boxing match."
"I wonder if this Lela can."
"We'll find out tomorrow, when we visit her."
"Where will we find her? We should have asked the dowager if we could look through the archives too, like Buchanan did."
"No need. I've made copies of them and stored them in the attic at Lichfield. The records are catalogued by name and cross-referenced to an index of supernatural talents. There are not many seers listed. It won't take long to find Lela."
"Why am I not surprised that you're so organized?"
"We'll check the records together. It's time you became familiar with them. Once you are, you can create a new entry for Estelle Pearson, and update the one about yourself."
Oh. Of course I would be listed in his catalogue. I wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disconcerted, however. Perhaps a little of both. It was, after all, nice to be worthy of being catalogued yet troubling for the same reason.
Lela livedin a van on Mitcham Common on the southern edge of the city. She was a gypsy, and we were fortunate that it was coming up to winter or she and her family would have been traveling through the countryside, picking fruit. The cold weather brought the Romany gypsies back to London, and its numerous commons, where they squeezed what small fortune they could from selling their crafts or pushing grinding barrows through the streets to sharpen scissors, saws and knives.
I'd never been to Mitcham. My haunts were north of the river, in the familiar territory of my childhood. It took us some time to drive from Highgate to the city's south, but at least the weather was fine. It would have been difficult going if the unmade roads near the common had been muddy. As it was, Seth had a devil of a time avoiding potholes, much to Gus's annoyance.
"You think you can do better?" I heard Seth growl when Gus once again swore at him for not maneuvering around a rough patch that caused me to almost bounce off the seat. "The landau's not as nimble as the brougham."
Thankfully we soon reached the common and the jolting came to an abrupt stop. There was only a rough track ahead, so we would have to walk through the gypsy camp to inquire after Lela. The common really was little more than a campsite. Tents and vans huddled around smoky fires, their flaps and awnings fluttering in the breeze. Horses grazed on the open grass and several dogs lazed beneath the carts and vans. Some fifty or so dirty faces watched us through eyes the same deep black as Lincoln's. If I'd not known he was part gypsy already, I would have guessed now.
Seth and Gus jumped down from the driver's seat. Gus's jacket flipped open, revealing the bone handle of a gun tucked into his trousers.
"We'll wait here," Seth said, keeping a watchful eye on an advancing group of children.
"Oi, get back," Gus growled at him.
"They're only looking at the horses and rig," I told them.
"Don't be so sure, Charlie. They're thieves, the lot of 'em."
