The Complete H-Series of The Eulalie Park Mysteries

by Fiona Snyckers

  The men on either side of Brother Sebastian marched him forward to stand at the base of the steps that would lift him up to the level of the noose.

  “Brother Sebastian!” thundered Brother Francis. “Do you have anything to say – any last words – before you go to meet your Maker?”

  “I do.” Brother Sebastian looked from side to side until the brutes holding his elbows released him and stood aside. “I will mount these stairs myself. I need no coercion. What is happening today flies in the face of both God and man. Our God is merciful and grieves to see this murder being done in His name. But the Lord is infinitely forgiving, infinitely merciful. I am not. I have served this community for more than thirty years, contributing to the noble scholarship and enlightenment that has emerged from our studies. If you go ahead with this execution, my loyalty is at an end. I place a curse on this monastery, on this brotherhood, on this island, and most particularly on our abbot, Brother Francis. No more will this community thrive. No more will distinguished scholarship emerge from its hallowed walls. There will be pain and fear and dispersal. There will be an end to all we hold dear in this place. Our community, our brotherhood will be finished forever. The very rocks of this place will be filled with vengeance and evil. All who come here will feel its effect. So say I - Brother Sebastian the Woeful.”

  The community of Monk’s Cay drew in their breath at these words, but Brother Francis was not to be deterred.

  Brother Sebastian was forced to mount the blocks leading up to the gibbet. The black hood was placed over his head, followed by the stout noose.

  The stairs were kicked away from his feet so that his body fell and fell and jerked as his neck snapped under the weight.

  In a small apartment, a few nautical miles and a hundred and fifty years away, a woman stopped breathing.

  Chapter 17

  Eulalie felt as though she were at the bottom of a well. The water had closed over her face and she was sinking into the icy, black depths.

  She couldn’t take a breath, or her lungs would fill with brackish water. The light from above faded the further she sank. She knew that if she hit bottom it would be too late. She would never come up again. And still, she kept on sinking.

  Something brushed against her cheek. Her skin contracted at the touch. Then it happened again. And again.

  Something was tapping her cheek urgently, refusing to let her sink. She felt a tiny pinprick of pain, and more tapping.

  Eulalie’s eyes snapped open and air rushed into her lungs. She gasped and coughed, trying to get rid of that feeling of icy well-water filling up her chest.

  Her eyes wheeled around the room. She wasn’t in bed. She was lying on her couch fully dressed, with a half-empty glass of wine on the table next to her.

  A cat was sitting on her chest. It was the same cat as yesterday and it stared at her intently, its paw against her cheek. If a cat could look worried, this one did.

  Eulalie’s hands came up to clasp it. A subterranean rumble started up somewhere in the cat’s chest. It squeezed its eyes together and opened them again.

  All Eulalie could do was pull air into her lungs and push it out again. Her racing heart was slowing down and her breathing evening out. She clung to the cat because it helped somehow. The warm weight on her chest, the thick fur threaded between her fingers, the rumbling purr of its chest against hers – it all helped to smooth her out and calm her down.

  When she felt strong enough, she sat up. The cat bounded off her chest onto the floor. Then it turned and jumped back onto her lap. She looked down at it – at her own hand stroking it automatically. She didn’t know cats. She had never had a cat because Angel was allergic to them. All she knew was that the warmth of it was comforting, and that its paw tapping on her face had brought her back from the dream. She let out a rush of breath.

  “I need to stop dreaming about dead people.”

  Now she felt as though she owed the cat something, which was a nuisance. How did you pay back a cat?

  “Do you want some breakfast?”

  The cat jumped off her lap onto the floor and made a rusty meowing sound.

  “Oh, you know that word, do you?”

  She went to the fridge and looked at its meagre contents. She reached for the milk, before remembering that she had read somewhere that milk wasn’t good for cats. The only meaty things she had in the fridge were some sliced ham and chicken sausages.

  “Now, which?”

  The chicken sausages made more sense. Birds were the kind of things cats might catch and eat naturally, while pigs weren’t.

  “Chicken sausage it is.”

  She set out a bowl of water and a bowl of sausage meat that she had squeezed out of its skin and warmed slightly in the microwave to take off the chill from the fridge. The fact that she had even thought to do such a thing told her that she was sinking fast. She needed to get this cat out of here.

  While the cat ate and drank, she went to her bedroom to write down everything she could remember from the dream. Then she showered away the lingering feeling of icy well-water.

  When she emerged from the bedroom, the cat was gone. Eulalie breathed a sigh of relief. It had probably gone out the kitchen window – and come in that way too, come to think of it. She had remembered to keep her bedroom window shut but had forgotten about the kitchen.

  She poured herself a bowl of Froot Loops and added extra cream. Then she downed two cups of coffee. There was nothing like sugar and caffeine to banish the ghosts of one of her nightmares.

  By the time her second cup of coffee was half empty, she felt able to think about the day.

  Before she thought about re-interviewing anyone, she needed to speak to Chuck Weston. He was the missing piece in the puzzle and witnesses agreed that he had been an important piece. It was unlikely that Eulalie would get to speak to him before mid-afternoon because of the time difference. It was midnight in the USA right now. She would have to give him a good eight hours from now to wake up and start functioning.

  In the meantime, she could try to find out what was happening on Monk’s Cay. The people who ran the tearoom and gift shop would be worth speaking to.

  Eulalie went down to her office to find Mrs. Belfast ensconced behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Belfast. Did you enjoy the parade?”

  “Morning, dear!” the secretary said cheerfully. “I did indeed, although I ate too many Cajun-spiced fries and seem to have put on two pounds overnight.”

  “I have a terrible weakness for those. I ate so many yesterday I couldn’t manage any dinner. That’s the trouble with food you only eat once a year. It’s hard to know when to stop.”

  As Eulalie turned to go into her office, Mrs. Belfast tutted.

  “You have a hairy butt.”

  “I… what?”

  “You need to brush the seat of your pants, dear. What is that, anyway? Is it… cat hair?”

  Eulalie brushed her black jeans. “A cat sneaked in my kitchen window yesterday and spent the night on my couch. I must have sat in a furry patch. It was one of those… what do you call it? Those cats with the black face and tail.”

  “A Siamese.”

  “Yes, that’s it. But not one of the skinny ones you sometimes see. This one is huge. He just helped himself to my couch.”

  Eulalie failed to mention that she had been occupying the couch at the time. And she definitely wasn’t going to mention the breakfast she had provided. She felt like enough of a fool already.

  She went into her office and caught up on her e-mails. The routine nature of the work helped focus her mind on the day ahead.

  “How are you coming along with the flashing lights, Mrs. B.?”

  “I’m still inputting the data. There are several years’ worth of it, and it was all recorded by hand. I’ll only be able to start collating it meaningfully when I finish that.”

  “Okay, put that on the backburner for now. You can work on it when you have free moments. In the meanti
me, I need you to find Chuck Weston, the third boy who was there when Jessica disappeared. You can find out more about him from the news reports at the time. He came from Maine and went to Columbia University. His first name was probably Charles. If you manage to track him down, please let him know I would appreciate a Skype or Facetime interview this afternoon. If you manage to find him and pin him down to a time, please text me.”

  “On it.” Mrs. Belfast made notes on her computer.

  “And the other thing is pellet guns - BB guns.”

  “You mean those guns little boys used to play with when I was young?”

  “That’s it. They are quite tightly regulated now. You don’t need a license to own or buy one, but you do need to register it at the point of sale. I need a list of all the registered owners of pellet guns living on Prince William Island. I’m more interested in adults than children, and I’m particularly interested to know whether Damien Hodge or any member of his family is registered as the owner of one.”

  As Mrs. Belfast typed away busily, there was a frown between her brows. “May I ask why you want to know this?”

  “Someone fired at me twice with a pellet gun yesterday while I was stationed on top of city hall. It was a pellet gun that had been modified to fire shot rather than individual pellets.”

  “Good heavens. I do hope it missed you.”

  “It did, thanks. I managed to duck.”

  “Why do you think it was Damien Hodge? Isn’t he a respected businessman these days?”

  “I don’t know about respected, but he’s a businessman, all right. Two things make me wonder about him. He was the last person I spoke to before I went to City hall to start my shift. And he’s addicted to toys, especially those involving some kind of marksmanship. I’m not saying it was him. I’m just saying I’d be very interested to hear whether there is a pellet gun registered in his name.”

  “Got it. And where will you be this morning?”

  “On Monk’s Cay, hanging out at the gift shop and tearoom. I’ll probably be out of cellphone range a lot of the time, but I’ll check my phone every time I get a signal.”

  “That’s fine, dear. Leave everything to me.”

  Eulalie left the office and roared off in the direction of the docks on her Vespa. Mrs. Belfast took out a can opener and began to open a can of Tuna Delite.

  As Eulalie found herself on yet another ferry heading to Monk’s Cay, the details of her dream came back to her with increasing vividness.

  For a second, the modern ferry she was standing on seemed to be replaced by an old-fashioned steamboat.

  She blinked and shook her head.

  Daytime hallucinations were a new thing and she wasn’t sure she liked them.

  There was no tour group visiting the cay today, just families and individual tourists. Eulalie had never really thought about what an asset the ruined monastery was to the Prince William Island tourism board. It was a dependable source of income all year round as tourists seemed to enjoy going out there in all weathers. And the thing about this chain of islands was that the weather was nearly always good.

  She shivered as she remembered the chilly sea breeze blowing across the cay in her dream. It must have been the middle of winter, July perhaps. It was certainly very early in the morning when the sky was just starting to lighten to grey.

  There was no part of her mind that wondered whether the events she had seen in her dream had actually occurred or were just a product of her overactive imagination. Much as she might scoff at her gift in public, when one of those dreams hit, she knew it to be true.

  The scandal that had closed down the monastery in the eighteen-seventies had been the summary execution of the monk known as Brother Sebastian after a sting operation had revealed him to be gay. The sting had been put in place by the abbot, Brother Francis.

  Everything had fallen apart after that. The remaining monks had scattered to the four winds, either leaving the order or being redeployed all over the world.

  She wondered what had happened to Brother Francis.

  A gentle bump told her that the ferry had docked. She pulled her mind back into the twenty-first century. She wasn’t there to chase ghosts, but to look into a possible smuggling racket.

  Eulalie followed the straggling crowd of tourists up the path that led to the gift shop and tearoom. She had used her phone on the ferry ride to research the names of the owners, but it wasn’t clear. The gift shop seemed to be owned by a couple called Wong who were normally resident at an address in China Town. There was no information on who owned the tearoom, so she decided to stop in there first.

  The tearoom looked pretty and inviting with gingham café curtains in the window, a white wooden door, and a general air of quaintness.

  Some of the tourists went straight in to fortify themselves with coffee before exploring the ruins. Eulalie followed them, taking in every detail of the restaurant as she went.

  She waited until all the tourists had been served and were either sitting at tables or heading out again with go-cups. Then she went up to the counter and introduced herself, placing one of her business cards face-up on the counter. “I’d like to speak to the owner, if that’s possible,” she said.

  The young man behind the counter blinked at her. “That’s definitely not me. It’s not my manager either. I’m not actually sure who owns this place.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “That was my manager. Excuse me, I should call her. She’ll be able to answer your questions.”

  As Eulalie waited, the smells from the pastry display lured her into selecting a tarte aux fruits. She popped it into one of the white paper bags put out for that purpose and placed it on the counter next to the cash register.

  The woman who came through from the back wiping her hands on an apron was slightly older than Eulalie – early thirties, possibly. She introduced herself as Gabrielle and spoke with such a pronounced French accent that Eulalie switched to that language.

  She ordered a café au lait to go with her fruit tart, and then got down to business.

  “I believe you’re the person to ask about who owns this restaurant?”

  “I don’t think it’s a who exactly. It’s more of a what. As far as I know, it is owned by the tourism board. They hired me to manage the place about eighteen months ago. I hired the kid you just spoke to – Luca. Between us and a couple of weekend staff, we keep the tearoom going.”

  “But the gift shop is privately owned?”

  “That’s right. It’s owned by the Wongs. They’ve been there for years.”

  Eulalie bit into the fruit tart, appreciating the lightness of the pastry and the freshness of the fruit.

  “I’ll talk to them, thanks. What can you tell me about working on Monk’s Cay? Do you enjoy your job?”

  “I suppose it’s not too bad. It’s more money and responsibility than my last position, so it’s definitely a stepping stone to better things.”

  “You wouldn’t want to stay here long-term, then? Not like the Wongs?”

  Gabrielle pulled a face. “Definitely not. The commute is a pain for one thing, and there’s nowhere to go in my lunch hour.”

  “I’ve never understood why they don’t build an apartment onto the back of the restaurant, so the manager can stay overnight instead of having to go back and forth to Prince William Island all the time.”

  Eulalie could have sworn that Gabrielle’s face lost color. “I’d resign immediately. The first person who tries to make me spend the night here will have to fight me first.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Have you not heard the rumors? You sound like a local girl. You must know what they say about Monk’s Cay.”

  “You mean that it’s haunted? I didn’t think anyone really believed that.”

  “Believe it. You’d have to be crazy to spend the night here.”

  “Why, what have you seen?”

  “I’ve seen and heard plenty. Things disappearing, things showing up where t
hey shouldn’t be, strange noises. You name it, we’ve had it here on Monk’s Cay. Why do you think no one ever stays in this job long?”

  “You have a high turnover of staff?”

  “Do we ever. Two years is the absolute maximum people are prepared to work here, and even that is rare. The moment I get a better offer, I’m out of here.”

  “What kind of objects have gone missing?”

  “All kinds of supplies. At first, we thought the Wongs must be taking them, but their things go missing too. It’s crazy. When you put something down, you just can’t count on it still being there when you come back. No, there’s not enough money in the world that you could offer me to spend the night here. No, and no again.”

  “But apart from things disappearing, and strange noises, there hasn’t been anything else that you’ve noticed?”

  “Isn’t that enough? I don’t need any more proof that this place is creepy.”

  Eulalie toasted her with her coffee. “Thanks for your time, and for the fruit tart. It was excellent.”

  Gabrielle smiled for the first time. “Thanks. I made it.”

  Chapter 18

  Eulalie remembered having been charmed by the gift shop as a child. It had a wide range of stock that was cleverly designed to appeal to just about anyone who might visit. For children, there were board games, puzzles, and books about the island, as well as soft toy representations of a flightless bird that had become extinct on Prince William Island three hundred years earlier.

  For adults who were looking for something classy, there were sets of monogrammed linen and coffee table books. For those who wanted a fun gift, there were bobblehead monks and helium balloons in the shape of ghosts. Some of the tourists were already wandering through the gift shop and looking at things, but the biggest influx would come later when the ferry was due to depart.

  Eulalie saw a man of Chinese descent working behind the till, while a white woman assisted tourists on the floor. She wondered if they were Mr. and Mrs. Wong. She waited until there was no one at the till before going up to speak to the man.