The cart was blue, brightly painted. It was decorated with what looked like extreme whimsy, with fine swirls of lighter paint weaving along every flat surface. In between the painted ribbons, shapes were cut in the wood – diamonds, crosses, ovals. To add to the spectacle, irregular shards of mirror were glued to the sides of the cart and flashed in the sun.
Just to add an auditory note to the bizarre display, hundreds of tiny bells were tied to the spokes of the wheels. Silent while the cart was stationary, Aubrey quickly decided they rendered the cart useless for night-time smuggling runs.
Fromm beamed with pride. ‘Is beautiful, no?’
Aubrey nodded, slowly. ‘It’s distinctive.’
‘Traditional ghost-hunting cart,’ Fromm said as he stroked the muzzle of the gelding. It looked at them with wise eyes. Aubrey wondered what it had seen in its time. ‘We decorate, all of us, in our own ways.’
‘The ghosts will hear us coming,’ George pointed out.
‘Ghosts are hard of hearing,’ Fromm said. ‘Now, ready? Bruno Fromm is a busy man.’
Fromm insisted that Caroline sit next to him on the driver’s seat. Aubrey, George and von Stralick took the benches that ran on each side of the cart, behind Fromm. Aubrey felt absurd, as if he were going to a picnic rather than chasing a soul fragment that belonged to the sister of the greatest enemy of Albion. He took some comfort, however, in seeing that von Stralick looked even more uncomfortable than he felt. If it was possible to squirm while sitting absolutely still, that’s what the well-dressed Holmlander was doing.
George, on the other hand, was completely relaxed, draping an arm over the sideboard of the cart, as if he were on his way to a country fair.
Fromm kept up a commentary as they rolled alongside the river. He pointed out the many barges and riverboats that were plying their trade, coming from long distances, with exotic cargoes and with raw materials for the hungry Holmland industries: iron ore, coal and – Aubrey noticed with interest – a large open barge that they could smell from where they were.
‘Guano,’ George said knowledgeably at the eyewatering reek. ‘For fertilizer. And explosives.’
They skirted the Academy, which was abuzz. Aubrey noted dozens of carpenters’ wagons and was impressed by the extent of the setting-up activity. He felt a little guilty at having left his mother, but Quentin Hollows had promised a squad of embassy staff to tote crates for her.
Soon, they left the heart of the city behind and climbed the gentle rise that led to more residential parts of Fisherberg – Liseburg, and Gret overlooking the river. Aubrey could make out the imposing bulk of Baron von Grolman’s castle on its hilltop a few miles away and again appreciated its defensive position, so useful in days of offensive neighbours.
In a neighbourhood of discreet wealth – signalled by the size of the detached houses, the utilitarian nature of the walls and gates, and the sort of abundant greenery in gardens that only came from decades of good tending – Fromm slowed his horse at the top of a cul-de-sac that sloped down to a dead end. The sun was warm and the breeze was half-hearted, wafting a little and then giving up and resting for a while.
‘Down there.’ Fromm pointed. ‘Yesterday, after leaving you, Fromm did his work. Fromm found it wandering around.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Here.’
With an expression of distaste, Fromm dropped the Tremaine pearl into Aubrey’s palm and then wiped his hand on his jacket.
‘Are you sure it’s still there?’
Fromm climbed down from the cart. He held out his hand to help Caroline, and she surprised Aubrey by taking it. ‘Yes. It’s a lingerer.’
Aubrey joined them on the pavement, as did von Stralick and George. ‘Lingerer?’ von Stralick asked Fromm.
‘Some of these soul fragments roam about, lost, nothing to hold them anywhere. They’re hardest to find. Others mope around a place, anchored to it. That’s a lingerer.’
‘And why do they linger?’ Caroline asked.
‘Sometimes it’s a place that meant something to them in their past. Sometimes it’s just a place that catches their attention. They get stuck to it, like flies to flypaper.’ He flexed his shoulders, then pushed his hands out in front of himself, stretching his arms. ‘We go now.’
Aubrey felt exposed as they walked along the pavement, following the burly Fromm. He would have preferred some sort of disguise, perhaps tradesmen, or merchants delivering goods, but Fromm wasn’t fazed at all. He marched along, assessing the houses on either side with an appraising eye.
Aubrey imagined the good folk in the houses peering past the curtains. The ghost hunter’s garb was unmistakeable. Would they see him as bringing shame to the neighbourhood, as the presence of a ratcatcher announces an infestation of vermin? Or would he be seen as a godsend, bringing relief?
He glanced at von Stralick, looking for an answer, but the Holmlander’s appearance surprised him. He was pale, his face tense and strained. He wiped his face with a hand and frowned at Aubrey’s regard, but before Aubrey could question him, Fromm stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. The end of the street was thirty or forty yards away. For a moment, Aubrey caught von Stralick’s tension. The air felt still, the breeze having died away completely. The houses on either side of the street took on a brooding aspect, silent and watchful. No birds sang, no dogs barked, no sound of gardeners at work with hedge shears or lawn edgers. Uneasy urban silence had enveloped them.
Look for fear and you will find it, the Scholar Tan had written, but Aubrey felt a moment’s irritation with the ancient sage. Although his words were wise, they weren’t much practical help at the moment, apart from prodding his uneasiness toward outright nervousness.
Fromm hissed unhappily, then he edged along until he stood right underneath an oak that overhung a formidable garden wall. Cautiously, he tilted his head back and stretched up on tiptoes. He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, his hands at his side making tiny grasping motions. ‘She is still there.’
Aubrey sniffed, following Fromm’s lead. All he could smell was a faint hint of lilac, from a tree cascading its purple blossoms over a wall on the other side of the street.
‘No?’ Fromm’s gaze was bright on Aubrey.
Aubrey shrugged.
‘You let plumbers do your plumbing,’ Fromm said. ‘Let ghost hunters do your ghost hunting.’
He went to set off again, but George grabbed his arm. ‘Someone’s down there.’
With impressive speed, Fromm faded back under the branches of the oak. Shielded by the shadows, all five of them waited in a line, backs to the wall.
Fromm shrugged. ‘Intruders. It’s not unusual in such places.’
‘You’ve been here before?’ Aubrey said.
‘No.’
‘I have,’ von Stralick said. ‘On the night of the fire. Most of Fisherberg was here, watching.’
‘Fire?’ Aubrey said. Enough is enough. ‘What do you know, von Stralick?’
Von Stralick touched a hand to his forehead. ‘Down there is all that remains of Tremaine’s residence. The one he took up after he fled your country. It burned down last year.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Fromm seemed to be enjoying von Stralick’s discomfort. ‘Your ghost? The person it came from grew up here. That’s why it lingers.’
Aubrey stared, and put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He added this information to Kiefer’s revelation that Dr Tremaine was born in Holmland. He tried to picture Dr Tremaine as a little boy, but had difficulty imagining the manipulator of whole nations in short pants. ‘So this could be the Tremaine family home.’
‘Ah.’ Von Stralick rallied. He adjusted his cuffs. ‘Then we should prepare. It may be Tremaine himself who is down there.’