1910, Eastern Massachusetts

--------------------------------------------

A prominent occult scholar once wrote, rather fancifully, "Ghosts crowd the shores of the living world, like rapacious immigrants looking to colonize."

It had been, for several years, my job to turn them away, to send them back to wherever they came from. No return ticket.

The austere old widow, my client, looked on nervously as I held the locket by the chain in my gloved hand. It dangled above the jar of neutralizing salts, giving no indication at all that it was a haunted object. I had, however, discerned the truth. Just as it touched the salts, cold blue sparks flew and the woman gasped and recoiled in surprise. I quickly let go of the chain and used my gloved finger to stuff the cursed jewelry into the jar, where the salts enveloped it like quicksand. The ectoplasmic gas made an audible hiss as I hurriedly sealed the container. 

"Is... is that it?" the woman stammered, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

"Yes," I assured her, as I nestled the jar in my black satchel, pleased at another successful solution to a case.

"But... what will you do with... that?" She gestured toward my bag, which was already slung upon my shoulder.

"No need to worry, I assure you. My Employers will handle it."

"But... my husband?" Her eyes glistened.

"That ghost was not your husband," I said, explaining it once again. "It was a shade, a remnant, nothing more. It didn't belong here." I put on my hat. "Your haunting is quite finished. I'll let myself out."

"Oh thank you, dear, thank you," she gushed as she followed me through the ornately decorated foyer and to the great oaken front door. "I cannot tell you the toll this has taken on my nerves!"

A few rappings on the wall, some broken dishes, a ghostly shadow in the mirror but once. Mere trifles compared to what I've witnessed, yet undoubtedly disturbing to the average person, not versed in the esoteric sciences. "I'm sure," I agreed absently, as I opened the door to a sunny sky and a late-summer shower just beginning.

"You can send my Employers the check," I said, and walked out into the rain.

**********

"Good morn-ing!" Gertrude sang cheerfully as I entered our office. I re-shut the door behind me, as it has a tendency to pop back open on its own, and muttered a hello. I was in desperate need of a cup of tea. The morning air held quite a chill after the night's long rain.

It is a tiny office really, on the second floor of a nondescript building, rather dark, with one small window overlooking the street, but it is ours and that is something. Two women in business together is rare enough, but two women with an office of their own—no matter how tiny—is practically unheard of. And it is certainly talked about, in certain social circles. Having the backing of our Employers, however, affords us much freedom to do as we please. 

As I headed for my desk, I noticed that a pot of tea was already steeping on the side table. My co-worker knows my habits well.

"How did it go yesterday?" she asked.

"Nothing to remark upon. I'm bored just thinking of typing up my notes," I said. "Haunted locket. Quite an open and shut case, really."

Gertrude turned away from her typewriter and snickered at me.

"What?" I asked innocently, raising an eyebrow.

"Locket. Open and shut. I get it." She shook her head. "Your jokes are truly terrible." She laughed.

I feigned indignation and was about to make a clever reply, when my attention was drawn elsewhere.

A brown envelope lay on my desk, addressed to me, Miss Amelia Holte, at our agency's address. "What is this?" I asked, removing my long grey coat and hanging it upon the back of my chair.

"It came for you this morning. It was waiting when I arrived."

There was no indication of the sender. It was written in a small, sharp hand that I did not recognize. I am very good at recognizing handwriting.

I tore it open carefully at the edge and procured one folded sheet of paper, covered in the same hand. "To the Honorable Miss Holte," the letter began. How very formal.

Gertrude had turned back to her typewriter with that clack-clack-clack, clack that has become the musical accompaniment to my daily musings and work.

"As I am unable to come to your office, I am writing to request your visit at Pendelton's House for Orphans and Unfortunates tomorrow evening at 6 o'clock. Your services come highly recommended. This is a matter of some delicacy for us, I'm sure you understand." In other words, do not let this reach the public, I interpreted. "Please send a response via courier if you cannot come, as we do not have a telephone, and we will make other arrangements for you to visit as soon as possible. Otherwise, we will heartily look forward to your visit tomorrow evening, during which further details will be put forward for your consideration. Sincerely, Mr. Mortimer J. Pendelton."

"Hmph." This sounded much more like a summons than a request. And I was not agreeable to being summoned by anyone, least of all by potential clients, out of the blue. Our highly specialized services are highly in demand, in certain circles, and we receive most of our jobs though our Employers' considerable private network. Not from presumptuous brown paper letters in the post.

There was a pause in the steady clacking of the typewriter. "Anything interesting?" Gertrude called over her shoulder.

I set the letter on my desk and went to fill my teacup. "It's an invitation to an orphanage," I answered. "A potential job, it seems to imply."

"In the post?" she asked curiously. "That's a bit odd."

"And presumptuous," I added, taking a seat at my desk and uncovering my typewriter.

"Will you accept?" I heard her move across the room to refill her own cup, as I leaned back in my chair and sipped from mine. She then appeared in my line of sight to gaze out the window, down at the street below. The morning sounds of horns and hooves and hawkers were just barely audible. She absentmindedly twirled her fingers in her blond curls as she watched the bustle outside. I instinctively felt my own dark hair, pinned back neatly as always, to make sure no strands had fallen out of place.

"Maybe you should go," I replied dryly, as I bent down to remove my wet boots, and traded them for my comfortable office shoes. "I'm not terribly fond of overbearing, pompous headmasters." I imagined a gaunt, smileless Pendelton lording it over a sea of equally smileless children, forcing them to sit up straight and recite their scriptures.

"Well," she said, leaning against the windowsill, "it was addressed specifically to you. Perhaps our Employers recommended you. You never know... I mean they are rather mysterious at times."

"Quite," I agreed. I pulled out my notes from the previous day's case and prepared for the dull task of typing up my report.

"Maybe it will be a more interesting case than the last few," Gertrude suggested, always willing to look on the bright side. "A real challenge this time. At the very least, maybe you can put that pompous headmaster in his place. A man like that, scared of a little ghost!" She laughed gaily.

I smiled a little. I honestly had no excuse not to go. A job is a job. "Perhaps," I said.