‘I do not joke.’ Kiefer looked thoughtful. ‘Not that I know of.’
Von Stralick nodded. ‘That’s right. Totally devoid of humour is Otto.’
‘But ghost hunters? It sounds like something from a fairytale.’
‘Holmland has always had ghost hunters,’ Kiefer said. ‘They’re part of our history.’
‘A bit of an embarrassment in this day and age,’ said von Stralick. ‘But they seem to have had a resurgence recently. Especially here in Fisherberg, where people are complaining that ghosts have been harassing them.’
Aubrey had the itchy uneasiness of a mystery presenting itself, but he wanted to throw up his hands. His plate was currently full of mysteries drenched in mystery sauce, with a mystery side salad. Enough was enough. ‘And where have these ghost hunters come from?’
Von Stralick spread his hands. ‘Rural areas, I expect. Until recently, I didn’t think we had any left. I thought they went the way of the fletcher and the reeve.’
‘Ghosts.’ Aubrey shook his head. ‘What exactly are ghosts?’
‘Are you unwell, Fitzwilliam?’ von Stralick said. ‘Ghosts are not real. They are fairy stories, something to scare children.’
‘A fairytale that’s given rise to an occupation dedicated to finding them.’
‘Charlatans.’ Von Stralick snorted. ‘Like fortune tellers, they prey on the gullible.’
‘Most likely,’ Aubrey said, ‘but what if they aren’t? What if they really can find ghosts? Or something they call ghosts, anyway.’
Kiefer frowned. ‘My friends say that people are reporting transparent figures wandering about, passing through walls, things like that. They sound like ghosts.’
‘Wait,’ Aubrey said. ‘Haven’t we recently seen transparent figures wandering about, passing through each other?’
‘So you told me,’ Kiefer said. He touched his spectacles and added to the tapestry of smears Aubrey could see on the lenses. ‘In Dr Tremaine’s pearl.’ He smiled. ‘So it could be that the ghost hunters are detecting the same sort of thing: fragments, splintered souls.’
In that instant, Aubrey saw it. ‘That piece of his sister’s soul. It’s out there.’
‘And someone might be hunting it as we speak,’ von Stralick said.
‘Perhaps we need to talk to some of these ghost hunters,’ Aubrey said.
Von Stralick sighed. ‘You can’t trust them. They will tell you what you want to hear.’
Kiefer put a hand on his cousin’s arm. ‘It can’t hurt to talk to them. They gather at the Blue Dog, do they not?’
‘They do.’ Von Stralick glanced at Aubrey. ‘You are free tomorrow, Fitzwilliam?’
Aubrey winced. He’d been hoping to find where Caroline was staying. ‘I’ll see what George is up to.’
‘Splendid,’ von Stralick said. ‘That way we’ll be well prepared if we need someone to act as a sack of potatoes.’
Eighteen
The next morning, Aubrey decided that the Blue Dog was well named, because the sign hanging out the front of the tavern was as blue a dog as he’d ever seen. Not grey, not a delicate seal colour, but an eye-watering, startling blue, the sort of blue that tropical fish adopted as a warning of their extreme toxicity.
The tavern lurked in an old district of Fisherberg that rejoiced in the attractive name of Thart, near the river. At first, as they made their way down the hill towards the bridge that bisected the tiny locale, it appeared to Aubrey as if Thart was composed entirely of taverns, inns, hotels and grog shops. When they drew closer, however, he was able to make out that a few eateries had squeezed in between the rowdy, low-slung bars, and a pawnbroker had a prominent position on the crossroads, ready to buy, sell and loan day and night.
From the top of the hill, Aubrey had seen how Thart was turned inward, resisting the tide of modernising that had enveloped the rest of the city. Its buildings were all low – none more than two storeys – and built in a combination of wood and stone that reeked not just of age but of smoke, dirt, grease, oil and other, mostly inflammable, substances. It was only a few city blocks, perhaps two or three streets wide and the same again across.
Kiefer gestured vaguely at the bridge. ‘Many of the ghost hunters sleep under there, when they’re in the city.’
‘They come from the countryside?’ Aubrey asked as George surveyed the scene.
‘Hmm?’
Aubrey sighed. Kiefer had been even more absentminded than usual this morning, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. Aubrey had never realised that catalytic magic was so fascinating.
Von Stralick snorted. ‘Usually, the people in the city are not näive enough for the ghosthunters’ business. In the country, though, they can ply their trade, make their money by preying on the peasants.’
Aubrey had no time for frauds who deliberately preyed on the insecurities of people – hopes, fears, losses – but he didn’t like the way that von Stralick lumped all country dwellers as simple-minded dullards who were just as culpable as the shysters.
Aubrey understood how von Stralick could be sceptical about the ghost hunters, but he wasn’t about to leap to that conclusion. While great strides had been taken in rational magic in the past few decades, most of that was the result of work done in universities and other academic institutions. The results had found their way into industry and life in general, but this didn’t mean that all traditional folk practices had ended overnight. Many had been shown to be worthless but others had demonstrable results that kept them in circulation. At the farm on Prince Albert’s estate – Penhurst – Aubrey knew of a worker who could reliably cast a spell that would lead him to a lost lamb. As Aubrey’s own magical talents had developed, he could sense the man’s magic and he had no doubt that it was real, not just some combination of luck and local knowledge. It was the only spell the man could cast, and it was an erratic, fugitive talent, so it was fortunate that he was a cheery fellow with a broad back and an almost unlimited ability to work hard.
Aubrey wasn’t willing to discount the ghost hunters. If they had any insights into what was happening in Fisherberg, he was happy to glean what he could.
The Blue Dog’s entrance was below street level. He and George followed the two Holmlanders, and together they found themselves in a place that looked as if it was designed to deter strangers.
Whatever light the windows let into the tavern – and it wasn’t a great deal – was instantly turned grey and tired by the build-up of noxious exhalations and fumings from the patrons and the huge open blazes that filled the fireplaces on either side of the single large room. The air, thus, took on a character of its own and became a feature of the place. Aubrey, accustomed as he was to air that was mostly transparent, was intrigued by the smoky indistinctness. For a moment, it was as if he were looking through gauze.
The room was entirely constructed of dark wood, grimed and blackened by the same miasmas that had done the job on the windows, lack of diligent cleaning apparently being a prerequisite for owning the Blue Dog over the centuries. Directly in front of him was the bar, a long counter that looked solid enough to withstand a siege. On reflection, Aubrey decided that this was probably a good thing. Behind the bar were empty shelves where, in a more genteel establishment, bottles may have stood.
Two mighty wooden pillars held up the ceiling. They were scarred, slashed, carved and burned but looked as if they wore these marks as trophies.
Long tables and benches, arranged with almost military precision, filled the room. Aubrey had trouble seeing this array at first, because the benches were packed with customers. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder, a solid lattice of squat, silent, broad, fur-clad people.