A Hymn in the Silence Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTYONE

  TWENTYTWO

  TWENTYTHREE

  TWENTYFOUR

  TWENTYFIVE

  TWENTYSIX

  EPILOGUE

  FROM THE AUTHORS

  Also in the DARK IS THE NIGHT series

  A LIGHT AMONGST SHADOWS

  Also by Kelley York and Rowan Altwood

  OTHER BREAKABLE THINGS

  Also by Kelley York

  HUSHED

  HOLLOWED

  SUICIDE WATCH

  MADE OF STARS

  DIRTY LONDON

  MODERN MONSTERS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Kelley York and Rowan Altwood. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the authors.

  www.kelley-york.com

  Edited by Jamie Manning

  Cover design by x-potion designs

  Interior Design by x-potion designs

  First Edition October 2018

  A HYMN IN THE SILENCE

  The darkness of death is like the evening twilight;

  it makes all objects appear more lovely to the dying.

  —Jean Paul

  I hadn’t expected a brothel to be so tidy. In all fairness, I hadn’t given much thought at all to what a brothel might look like from the inside; they look like any other building from the outside, save for the occasional flash of flesh from women leaning out the windows attempting to draw attention from male passers-by. Certainly, I had never thought I would have cause to actually be inside of one to find out.

  “The Spirit Slayers?” James skirts cautiously down the edge of the hall before me. He speaks soft and low, but his deep voice reverberates off the walls.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter.

  “You’re making this quite difficult, dear William.”

  “You’re making this a headache. I keep telling you, we don’t need some silly name for ourselves like we’re some sort of twopenny-ha’penny mountebanks—”

  He silences me by raising a hand and coming to an abrupt halt. I follow his gaze to the door we’ve stopped in front of, which stands half-open, and I catch what he must have caught: the sound of repeated, shallow thumping coming from within, like someone rapping upon a solid surface.

  We exchange looks. One would think after having done this professionally for the last six months I would be used to it, that my stomach would no longer twist itself into knots, and the heavy feeling of dread would have stopped wedging itself between my lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

  Of course, James grins, because this work energises him as much as it utterly petrifies me. I want nothing more than to march right back outside where Madam Florence and her girls are waiting.

  But that’s the thing about a job: when you take one on, you commit yourself to it and you finish it. My own work ethic would never allow me to walk away.

  Besides, who else is going to assist a house full of strumpets who are being terrorized by an unruly spirit? The police would laugh them out of town. For many of these women, this place is the only home they’ve ever known, and I’m not inclined to leave them huddling in fear. I know all too well how that feels.

  James places his fingertips against the door, prepared to push it the rest of the way open. He lingers long enough to cast me an expectant glance. I procure a bottle of holy water from my coat pocket and hold it up with a nod. Useful stuff. I had my concerns when Miss Bennett first instructed us to utilise it, given I’m hardly a Christian man, but my lack of faith doesn’t appear to dampen its effect. Perhaps James’ faith is enough for us both.

  With a gentle shove, the door creaks open. I follow James inside, our steps cautious and quiet. We’ve entered a bedroom belonging to one of the girls, where they both live and entertain guests. It’s an unremarkable room, the only suggestion that it’s been lived in being a single framed photograph beside a hairbrush and mirror on a wash table near the window. I step over to pick up the frame, studying the woman in the portrait. It’s been taken post-mortem, and I suspect it to be the mother of the girl who lives here.

  Or lived here, I suppose. Past-tense. Before she had the misfortune of encountering a client with entirely too much drink in his body who saw fit to strangle her to death. He’s off in a rodent-infested cell somewhere, and her ghost has been screaming bloody murder ever since.

  James poises himself in the centre of the room and turns around once, full-circle. “Thomasina Beauport?” he calls. “We’re here to speak with you.”

  A low, rumbling growl reverberates through the air. The fastens holding back the curtains fall loose, and the heavy fabric heaves shut, plunging the room into moderate darkness. I take a slow step toward James until we’re back to back. He lets out a displeased huff.

  “You try. They like you better.”

  “Like is such a subjective term,” I mutter. But I give it a go anyway. “Miss Thomasina Beauport, please let us have a word.”

  The growling intensifies. James reaches back and touches my hand. I turn.

  Thomasina has decided to join us after all, her naked form standing in the opposite, darkest corner of the room. Her back is to us. Long, frizzy waves cascade forward over her shoulders and give us the barest glimpse of the purpled, mottled bruising about her throat.

  I step around James to approach slowly, uncorking the bottle as quietly as I can. “Miss Beauport. Thomasina. I know you’ve suffered a terrible tragedy, but you’re frightening your friends here.”

  “Get out.” Low, rough, gravelly, like a dirt road grinding beneath carriage wheels.

  Here’s the thing we’ve discovered about ghost hunting: spirits fall into a few different categories. If we’re lucky, they’re merely confused and distressed. Gentle prodding is sometimes all they need to pass over to wherever it is they go. If we’re unlucky—well…

  Let’s just say that we are rarely lucky.

  Thomasina whirls with an open-mouthed shriek that paralyses my heart for a beat, long enough for her to rush at me. Her cold, bony hands connect with my chest and slam me back into the nearest wall with enough force that the bottle of holy water is knocked clear out of my grasp to spill uselessly upon the floor.

  James shouts my name, and I cannot seem to get a breath in to respond to him. For that matter, I can’t move. Instead I find myself losing contact with the floor as the pressure against my chest steadily increases. My ribs creak in protest. Thomasina’s thin lips pull back from her teeth in something resembling a hideous, skeletal smile, mere inches from my face.

  “No more. All of you… All of you are pigs. No more.”

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the immaculate virgin Mary…”

  Snarling, Thomasina whips toward the sound of James’ voice. The weight on
my chest vanishes and I slide a solid foot down the wall before I catch myself, gasping for breath. Thomasina’s full attention is now on James, who has slid the crucifix from his pocket as he speaks the verses he’s memorised and could now say in his sleep.

  “…of blessed Michael the Archangel, of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints…” James’ recitation does not falter, but he makes the mistake of flicking his gaze to me to ensure I’m all right, and Thomasina uses that precious second of hesitation to lunge. The same force that smashed into me moments ago now sends James clear off his feet, crashing into the dresser. He ends on his side on the floor, wincing in pain.

  Before she can reach him and inflict any lasting damage, I snatch the bottle from the floor. Most of it has spilled, but there’s just enough left to coat my fingers. I pitch myself forward, between Thomasina and James, and as she opens her mouth to let out another blood-curdling scream, I make the mark of the cross upon her forehead. “His enemies are scattered, and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is…is—”

  “As smoke is driven away, so are they driven,” James picks up, voice rough as he crawls to all-fours.

  Our combined efforts have Thomasina wrenching away, hands to her face as her body contorts in distress. She sinks to her knees, and the hollow sound of her screams ebbs and flows into a soft, helpless sobbing.

  “Thomasina Beauport,” I say, as James continues to recite without a hitch, “you’ve been grievously wronged, the man who did this has been put to justice, and it’s time for you to rest.”

  She lowers her hands and turns her tear-streaked face to me. The very room around us trembles, furniture quaking and drawers rattling, and then…

  Thomasina vanishes.

  Everything goes silent save for the sound of our laboured breathing. I collapse to the floor and James slumps down as well. I’m almost too afraid to lift my head out of fear of discovering it hasn’t worked, but I can’t feel her presence here anymore. She’s gone.

  After a spell, James reaches out, letting his hand thump tiredly against my side. “All right, darling?”

  “All right,” I reply, finally allowing myself to sit up. The room is a disaster, but we aren’t being paid to concern ourselves with that. We’re here to remove the ghost and remove the ghost we have. “There must be an easier way to do this.”

  James lets out a short laugh. “That was easy, wasn’t it? Compared to some of our other jobs.” He hauls himself to his feet and extends a hand to help me to mine, which I take with the utmost gratefulness. Rather than release me when I stand, James draws me to him and ducks his head to press his mouth to mine. Sometimes, I think he does that to reward me for putting up with another merciless day of work. I never argue it because it does soothe my frazzled nerves a little.

  We fetch our greatcoats where we left them hanging just inside the front door. The dreary London afternoon had seen fit not to open the sky and drench us on the way here, and that luck appears to be holding when we emerge to greet Madam Florence and the other women, and those who are dressed as women but I’m fairly certain are not. Given that this place caters to some of the city’s elite, I suspect those who sell themselves here are prepared to service a broad range of customers with different appetites and hefty bank accounts who wish to engage with the utmost discretion.

  The brothel’s procuress, Madam Florence, is a steadfast woman, not easily ruffled, and commands respect with her stature and steely-eyed stare, which she levels at us as the door swings closed at our heels. “Well?”

  James shoves a hand back through his ruffled hair with a brilliant grin and descends the steps. “I believe you will find your establishment to be in order, Madam. Would you like to have a look?”

  The other girls let out relieved sighs and gasps. Several of them duck past the two of us to hurry inside. Madam Florence even twitches her mouth up into the barest hint of a smile.

  “We really owe you, boys.” One of the girls—Margaret, if I recall her name correctly—sidles up to us. “Workin’ the streets because we’ve been chased outta our home has been miserable. Not to mention dangerous.”

  “Happy to help,” I offer, bowing my head, making it a point to politely keep my gaze from dropping to the swoop of her neckline, which is where I suspect she wants me to look. “Should you have any further complications, please let us know.”

  “This one’s precious,” Margaret says to her companions. Before I can ask what that means, she catches my face in her soft hands, and rises on tip-toe to plant a kiss on my mouth. It’s a mere second of contact, but one that leaves a blush creeping up my face even as she laughs and hurries inside with her friends. James chuckles beside me and I shoot him an embarrassed glare.

  Madam Florence rolls her eyes and steps closer. “Well done, gentlemen. I appreciate the hard work.” She procures a coin purse from a pocket of her dress, although she hesitates before offering it out. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in trade rather than coin?” she asks, taking a moment to rake her gaze over us both. “Handsome gents like you, I suspect any one of my girls would be happy to offer their services in exchange for yours.”

  James tips his head, rocking back on his heels and giving me a sidelong grin. “What do you think, William?”

  If my face grows any warmer, I’m going to burst into flames. I manage a strained smile nonetheless and say, “As kind of an offer as that is, the coin will suit us very well, thank you.”

  The Madam shrugs and places the purse into James’ outstretched hand, thanks us again, and excuses herself to head inside. James lets out a sharp, barking laugh once she’s gone, and I have half a mind to shove him to the ground.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Just you,” he titters, pocketing the money and briefly touching a hand to my lower back. “The girls always love your pretty face, darling. I can’t keep them off you.”

  “Not that you ever try,” I mutter. James takes great joy in watching me squirm under the attention of others. My discomfort may not be overly noticeable to most, but he knows me. He knows the twitch of my mouth and the slant of my brows and what it means. What a shame he is utterly oblivious when similar attention is lavished upon him, too.

  We walk the few miles back to Miss Bennett’s. Her small apartment serves as both her living quarters and her place of business. In the six months since we arrived at Miss Bennett’s doorstep to work under her guidance, we’ve come to think of this place as a second home to us, as well. We certainly spend enough time here. James and I have grown quite accustomed to crowding together on a small, lumpy cot in the corner of the kitchen, fully clothed, exhausted after a long day’s work.

  The main room is the largest, lit by oil lamps placed on every available surface because the single window at the front does little for lighting and few homes in this part of Whitechapel have been fitted with gas. One wall is completely occupied by a hanging drapery used as a photography backdrop, and several chairs are pushed together before a camera on a tripod. It’s there that Miss Bennett does her spirit photography and her séances, a profession that gets her scoffed at daily on the street by the same people who eventually come to see her after the passing of a loved one. A medium, I suspect, only matters to those desperate enough to realise they need one.

  When we step inside, those chairs are empty. Surprising for this time of day. However, I hear voices from elsewhere in the flat. Upon the coat rack is an unfamiliar overcoat, next to which we hang our own. I follow James into the kitchen, where Miss Bennett is seated across from an unfamiliar man; he’s squirrelly, slight, with thinning hair and spectacles thicker than my own, and with a moustache far too thick and wide for his narrow face.

  Upon our entrance, both the stranger and Miss Bennett’s attention flicks to us in a manner that suggests we were previously the topic of their conversation.

  Miss Bennett rises. “There they are. James,
William, meet Mr. Albert Foss. He’s here from Buckinghamshire on behalf of Lord Claude Wakefield to request our assistance.”

  Miss Bennett never leaves the area for work. In fact, one of the reasons she chose to take us on as her pupils was so that she could step back from jobs outside her home. Most of those sorts of cases are given to James and me, so it works out quite nicely. However, receiving a guest from several hours outside of Whitechapel is…different.

  All smiles, James steps forward and extends a hand as Foss stands and does the same. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Foss.”

  Foss bobs his head into a nod and turns to me. I accept his hand because it’s only polite to do so. He squeezes a bit too hard, as though he’s trying to make a point, although I’m not certain what that point might be. “Gentlemen. Miss Bennett has been telling me of your exploits.”

  I steal a glance at Miss Bennett, who catches my eye and cocks a brow as though to convey, you’ll want to hear what he has to say. Which is rather like the look she gives me any time someone drops a new job at our feet, because she knows I’m the one who needs convincing to take it.

  “Buckinghamshire,” I say. “Not often we have clientele from such a distance.”

  The small man clears his throat. “Yes, well, my employer felt we were running low on options.”

  James beckons for our guest to have a seat again and pulls out one of the other chairs to sink into it himself. “Perhaps you could fill us in on your situation?”

  Foss drops back into his chair. “Murder. A family in our community was found butchered a few days past.”

  My eyebrows lift slowly, and I exchange a cursory glance with James, wondering if I’m missing something. Last I checked, we were not in the business of investigating murders. “Would that not be a job more appropriate for the authorities?”

  Foss scoffs. “Oh, detectives have come and gone already, and an inquest was held. Not a trace to be found of the killer. My Lord is convinced it was no human who did the deed, anyway.”