Hellbound Hearts by Marie O'Regan, Paul Kane Page A

capital and board the rescheduled train this morning. But the old woman’s disapproving tone and baleful gaze discouraged any explanation. Let her think what she wished.
    â€œI came as quickly as possible,” he said, carrying his case into the foyer, where he set it down as Grandmother Abigail closed the door.
    They faced each other in the elaborate foyer, surrounded by the odd religious icons that had been his father’s passion and then peculiarity over the years.
    â€œI suppose it’s too much to hope that he’s turned up,” Colin said.
    Grandmother Abigail shook her head, her lips quivering slightly, a tiny yet startling concession to her fear for her son.
    â€œNot a trace, Collie. Not a trace,” the old woman said, and then the familiar, hard mask he knew so well returned. “Word has spread throughout the city for people to be on the lookout for him, but there’s been no word. The grounds have been searched and every room in the house, from attic to cellar, but the only thing down there is Edgar’s mechanism.”
    Colin frowned. “Mechanism?”
    His grandmother fluttered her hand in a way that revealed a new delicacy in her, one that he had never seen before, brought on now by fear or advancing age or some combination of the two.

    â€œA strange contraption of metal and wood, with no purpose I ever saw or he ever shared,” she said, her disdain obvious despite her concern for her son.
    â€œI never imagined Father as much of an inventor,” Colin said, mystified.
    â€œHe began building it last year, not long after an argument he had with that ugly Irish spiritualist.”
    Colin shivered. Finnegan had been a charlatan, no doubt, but his father had always seemed somehow to enjoy the man’s company.The birdlike man with his small eyes and misshapen nose had always tried to get Colin to call him “Uncle Charlie,” but as a boy he had only managed it once or twice, and as a young man, Colin had wanted nothing to do with him.
    But he’d been away at university for more than a year, home only for brief visits in the summer and at Christmas, and had never thought to inquire about Finnegan. He had not even been aware that his father and the ugly Irishman had had a falling-out.
    Perhaps Sir Edgar Radford had finally realized that, no matter what he claimed or what sort of show he put on, Finnegan’s mediumship was a sham. The Irishman had been trying to help Sir Edgar contact his dead wife for more than a decade.
    â€œDo you want to see it?” Grandmother Abigail asked.
    Colin frowned. “See what?”
    â€œWhy, your father’s mechanism. The very thing we were just discussing.”
    â€œI’d think my time better spent in joining the search, wouldn’t you?”
    Grandmother Abigail dropped her eyes, as though worried what he might see in them. “Perhaps.”
    â€œAnd yet?” Colin prodded.
    The old woman lifted her gaze. “The infernal thing troubles me, that’s all. In the past few weeks, your father spent so much of his time down there, and he grew increasingly irritated at any intrusion. Fervent in his efforts and . . . hostile, yes, toward anyone who might question them. But you see, I had no desire to linger in the cellar. The thing makes me uneasy, even if it doesn’t . . .”
    Dread climbed his spine on skittery spider legs. “Doesn’t what?”
    Again she glanced downward. “It doesn’t work, of course.”
    â€œWhat is it you’re keeping from me, Grandmother?”
    With that, she shook her head and waved him toward the stairs. “Go on. Put your things away. Martha has seen to your room, and I’ll have a meal prepared for you. I imagine you’ll wish to speak to Thomas Church, who is organizing the search.”
    Grandmother Abigail turned away, bent with age, and began to retreat along the corridor that led to the kitchens. “Perhaps it’s