Chapter Three, A Professor Haunted

James sighed; his head still buried in his pillow. It had been three nights since

he’d tested his spirit camera, since he’d met Anne, and he had suffered nightmares ever

since. That, in and of itself, was likely not unusual but it was more about being in her

shoes, trapped in one place for eternity with no one able to speak to or even see him. By

definition that was a special kind of hell, and one he would wish on nobody.

He decided, finally, that he would keep his promise and travel to Whitechapel to

visit her that very night, but had found himself putting it off when the sun set again the

next evening. He didn’t really know why he found himself reluctant, other than the fact

that he was sure she’d keep on about his going to the constables about her death.

He knew, in his heart of hearts, she’d eventually talk him into going in spite of the

high likelihood of being labeled a madman. Still, it was unworthy of him to refuse to at

least visit her, from time to time.

“That’s it. I’ll do it.” He declared, rolling over and finally opening his eyes on a

new day.

“Do what?” Anne Campbell, in her true transparent glory, asked him from her

perch on his bedside table.

“Good lord!” James cried out, scrambling to the opposite side of the bed. He misjudged the distance, and tumbled headfirst to the ground, nearly knocking himself insensate. “Ouch.”

He wrestled with trying to reposition his body, wedged as it was between the wall

of his small bedchambers and the large oak bed in the most awkward position of feet

waving in the air, with back and head wedged against the plaster. The feminine laughter

of the ghost responsible for his predicament drifted over the bed to his ears.

“You could help, you know.” He grunted, wiggling about and cursing the

undignified position he was in. His nightshirt was drifting down his legs, but he chose to

ignore it. If the wretched woman could startle him in his own bed, she could suffer seeing

unpleasant sights.

“Oh I would, were it not so very funny.” She commented, wry mirth filling her

tone. “That would be ignoring, of course, the small fact that I’m dead.”

“Why do I see that becoming your convenient excuse for everything that vexes

me?” James inquired, with equal sarcasm, as he finally managed to slide his feet down to

the floor and pull himself back up to a more respectable manner of conversing with a

young woman.

“Most likely, considering it is the truth.” Anne admitted.

James rolled his eyes and walked around the bed, and past her. Pouring a pitcher

of clear water into a basin, he set about washing his face, pointedly ignoring the woman.

His hopes of her just going away, or at least being quiet for a few moments, were

promptly dashed. “I had expected a scientifically minded fellow like you to have been

asking me all manner of questions by now!” Anne commented, her tone teasing.

“What questions were you expecting, madam?”

He jumped when her answer came from right next to him. “How I got here, of

course!”

He spun, coming face to face with the dead, all be it lovely, woman. “I had

imagined you had chosen to begin haunting me in revenge for my refusal to make a

laughingstock of myself.”

“As a matter of fact… that does appear to be the case.” Anne admitted. “Not,

admittedly, that I had intended to but once I recovered from… let us say learning to move

shall we… I found myself next to your bed. As you were sleeping quite peacefully at the

time, and I am not a total harridan, I decided to leave your bedchambers and leave you in

peace.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Well…” At this point she looked embarrassed. “I can’t seem to travel more then

thirteen paces from you, and your apartment is somewhat Spartan, except for that

charming parrot.”

James closed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. “Thirteen paces from

me, or from the bedroom?” He dearly hoped the answer was the room.

“From you.”

James St. Cloud was not a man who cursed frequently. He considered it the path

of a less educated man to resort to such vulgarities. At the moment he very sincerely

wanted to rail like a sailor, however. Unfortunately for him, he was a proper English

gentleman and would not inflict such speech upon a woman. Even if she was dead. “Can’t you, I don’t know, go back to your stoop?” James winced. “I’m sorry. That was rather heartless of me. I apologize.”

“I’m not much for mornings either, Mr. St. Cloud.” Anne assured him. “Or at

least, I wasn’t when I was alive. Either way, I did try to return and couldn’t. Apparently

I… well, I am haunting you.” She smiled weakly. “I do apologize, for what it’s worth.”

“I can hardly hold you following me against you. I did rush off in a dreadful

hurry. Although…” His look grew more firm. “I will still not rush off to the constables

and tell them a ghost is whispering in my ear about her murder.”

“Why not?” Anne demanded, stamping her foot like an angry girl. Both she and

James looked down when the stomp made no sound. “Bugger. Not only was that an

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

undignified action, it doesn’t even work anymore!” She lamented.

James shrugged, then turned and walked to the bedchamber door. Opening it he

looked at Anne. After a few minutes he coughed.

“What, pray tell, are you doing?” Anne asked.

James sighed; frustration obvious on his face. “You are not a… soiled dove from

what you told me three nights ago, correct?”

“Yes.” She growled.

“Thus, you are a respectable woman of quality.” James was speaking slowly, as if

pointing out something obvious.

“Some of my detractors might have argued that point, but I preferred to think of

myself as such.” Anne agreed.

James looked down at his nightshirt, then at his wardrobe. Finally, he pointed out

the door. “Then perhaps, as a woman of repute, you should wait outside as I dress for the

day.”

Anne blushed, surprising James both by her ability to do so and with the fact that

he could notice it, and without another word she hurried out. He, for his part, managed to

not laugh.

“I do not see why you will not at least try.” Anne stated when he exited his

bedchambers a few minutes later, fully clothed.

“Try what?” James asked, as he walked to the glinting metal of his parrot. Made

of brass, mother of pearl, and a few colored segments of glass he looked to be a statue, art

crafted simply to be admired. In many ways, that was even the truth. “Oh, poor

Benjamin, did I forget to wind you last night?”

“Wind him? What the hell are you on about?” Anne asked. “And you know full

well what I mean! I want you to go to the police, and stop a murderer!”

James sighed, even as he opened a plate in the metal parrot’s breast revealing a

brass key. He turned the key several times, before pushing it into the metal bird’s chest.

With a click the metal bird began to move.”

“Sqwak! It’s about time you ruddy moron!” The bird cried out, causing both man

and ghost to jump. “I’ve been bloody frozen all the night long and you finally bother to

notice? You filthy…” The bird slumped as James pulled the key out of his breast.

Anne couldn’t help but giggle at the put upon expression on his face. “You own a

mechanical parrot that insults you?” She asked.

“No, well yes, but he normally doesn’t act that way.” James grumbled, using the key to open the birds

head. Reaching in, he plucked out a wax cylinder. Opening the drawer on the perch the

parrot claimed for its home he slid it into an empty cubby, surrounded by a half dozen

other such tubes and claimed a different one. “This is more appropriate.”

Dropping the cylinder into place he closed the birds head, and pushed the key

back into his breast, which he promptly closed.

“For the record, that is rather disturbing.” Anne observed, receiving an

incredulous look from the inventor. “What?”

James shook his head. “You’re a ghost, Ms. Campbell. I do not believe you get to

judge how disturbing a topic is, at least not in relation to a clockwork pet.”

“Sqwak… Thank you, sir. That wicked little slip of a girl from next door changed

my cylinder again… Sqwak!” The parrot commented, finally spinning back to life. “Who

are you talking too? Sqwak!”

“It… it’s aware?” Anne stuttered out.

James chuckled, and patted the animals head, receiving a butting from its head

against his hand in return. “Yes, he is. I’m quite proud of him.”

Anne walked closer, tilting her head this way and that, almost receiving a chuckle

from James who thought she looked rather like the bird. Indeed, the mechanical creature

in question was peering about between short bouts of peering at him.

“Sqwak… there is no one there, sir…” The bird chirped.

“How the devil does it work?” the ghost woman demanded.

“A difference engine, all be it a touch more compact than anything built by

Charles Babbage, or in use by universities or banks. I grant, it’s also far more limited, but

there are always trade offs in engineering.”

“Limited? It’s a thinking machine!”

“No, he’s not.” James chuckled. “Though I admit Benjamin does a very good job

duplicating the effects. My lad here runs off the wax cylinder, which controls his…

verbalization if you will, and a series of brass which holds the responses for certain

stimuli. He’s basically a self propelled puppet, though he can do quick mathematic

calculations for me.”

“Sqwak… Thank you for saying that sir.” The bird chirped. “There’s still no one

here, sir. Sqwak.”

Anne shrugged. “I admit you engineers always perplex me, but he is a charming

fellow all the same.”

“He is… and much more advanced than any of those more primitive clockwork

pet’s you’ll find among the aristocracy.” He stated proudly.

Anne nodded, though she had very little to base her agreement on. “Do you sell

these?”

“Um…” James blushed. “No…”

“Why ever not?”

The scientist shrugged. “It would take me… well… quite some time to create

another Benjamin.”

“It couldn’t take that long.”

“Um…” James sighed. “I started building my fellow here my first term in

Cambridge. I only finished building him last month.”

Anne blinked, doing the math in her mind. “That would have been at least four

years!”

“Five, actually.” He admitted.

“My word, you are a dedicated soul.” She commented, and then smiled. “Meaning

you are just the man to convince the police you know who my killer is!”

“Oh for… You’re back to that?” James exclaimed, turning and walking towards

the front door of his shop, gathering his wallet and ring of keys as he strode towards it.

“Do you imagine I’m likely to forget? I’m dead because of him!” Anne yelled

back.

“Yes, yes… Build a spirit camera, fame and fortune.” James muttered to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He replied, lifting his bicycle off the wall where it leaned, and pushing

it out the door. He waited for Anne, who didn’t deign to acknowledge his gentlemanly

holding of the door for her, before he locked the shop up.

“You know you can’t just run away from me on a bicycle, right?” She challenged.

James shook his head. “I can try.”

He threw a leg over the long seat, and bounced hard, up and down, on the leather

pad. Anne looked on with consternation. “What ever was that for?”

“This!” James grinned, and threw a small lever mounted on the frame of the

handlebars. A whirring sound rose from the leather saddlebags of the vehicle and it began

rushing down the London cobblestones.

Anne, staring in surprise, realized he wasn’t peddling. Then, with a cry of

indignation she was pulled after him. “This is unpleasant!” She yelled, running to catch

up to him.”

“Try being haunted by an annoyingly insistent ghost with no concern for your

good name.” He countered. “The authorities will just see me as a lunatic, and if I’m

extremely fortunate they will leave it at that. If I’m less lucky, my bosses at Guildhall will find out,

and I’ll find myself without an employer. While I am sympathetic to your plight, Ms.

Campbell, and might be willing to mail an anonymous description of the killer to the

police, why would you expect me to hazard destroying my life, doing more?”

Anne struggled to come up with an argument, but admitted to herself she could

see his point. She wouldn’t admit it to him, of course. “There’s nothing I could say?”

James opened his mouth, but the cry of a paperboy standing on a corner cut him

off. “A new killing in Whitechapel! Second victim of Jack the Ripper’s new reign?” The

boy cried out, innocently trying to sell his wares.

James squeezed firmly on the clockwork bicycles handbrake to look at the lad,

and the paper he held above his head. The lurid headline sent a chill into his bones. He

sighed. “Climb onto the seat, so you can at least preserve your dignity.”

She opened her mouth, to make a scathing comment, but instead just nodded and

did as he instructed.

James shivered, but decided the chill of a ghost touching him wasn’t completely

unpleasant in the heat of an August morning. He turned the bike around, and released the

hand break, taking off in a new direction.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“Scotland Yard.” James replied. “It seems you didn’t have to say anything at all,

Ms. Campbell.”