Calista

by Laura Rahme

  Calloused hands reached under the table. They grabbed at him. He smelled the strong ale on her breath, the sweat of her armpits.

  “Open your eyes Maurice!” she barked.

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t face her. He had to do it: he had to disappear, now.

  Until the blow to his head startled him. His jaw slackened but he was tongue-tied. He blinked, then stared breathless at her flashing eyes between two chair legs. She made a triumphant snarl that promised more cruelty. She was all teeth and eyes and she roared, dragging him with force to his feet. A splinter dug deep into his knee.

  In her high-pitched honey voice, the voice he dreaded, she launched into her fury.

  “I told you I’d find you, didn’t I? What did I promise you? A good belting. Yes, that’s right.”

  With one hand she clutched onto his locks, her grip, fierce and unyielding. With the other, she felt against the hearth and found a long metal rod.

  Over the years, he had discovered ways to grow numb when she struck. Blow after blow, he’d learnt to leave his body. One. That’s how he did it. Oh it hurt, but he was long detached from his own skin. Therese’s long entangled hair danced savagely around her head as she struck him. In her eyes, malicious sparks were set alight. Two. Three. While she gripped his arm and he watched her fly into her mad dance in which he was but a prop, he would wonder at the curious blend of rage and pleasure in her eyes. Four. Five. The froth bubbled at the corners of her mouth and he would feel only repulsion. But as horrifying as she was, once she had found him, the images moved so fast that for all his tears, Maurice no longer heard, no longer feared. Six, seven, eight… countless blows. He was numb to them all. For the chase is what he feared most. Always the chase.

  And the neighbours heard, how could they not? For their street was narrow and each home abutted the wall of the other. And when the Parisian rain did not wash away the slurry of household waste, each home swam in the refuse of the other. The blank faces he’d see the next day told him that no help was coming, for Therese was all he had, all he could expect. And the look in their eyes as they stared – at his bruises, at his blackened eyes – then turned their faces away, brought him only shame.

  “Inspector Maurice Leroux,” began the lawyer, “I’m delighted to meet you.” Maurice’s memories vanished. He reached out to shake Mr. Wilson’s hand.

  He had been standing in the stuffy office for some time, watching the rain pelting against the window, when scenes of his childhood had entered his thoughts.

  Unfamiliar places, new experiences, new faces — they brought back these unsettling incidents. He felt proud to gain courage from his past, to reflect on what he had endured and overcome, despite feeling entirely alone with his memories. For some things were not spoken.

  “I am in a delicate situation, Mr. Leroux,” began Mr. Wilson as they sat in his study. “Before he died, my client appended stringent stipulations to his will and I am bound to abide to them. Did you read what I sent you?”

  Maurice launched into his college-level English with only a rare touch of a French accent. “I understand Mr. Nightingale was an eccentric,” he said.

  “As eccentric as they come.”

  “Why me?”

  “For the utmost discretion. We felt it best to invite a French national to work on the case. You have a fine reputation in Normandy and one of Mr. Nightingale’s medical colleagues, a man he met in France on several occasions, recommended you.”

  “Do I know this Frenchman?”

  “It hardly matters, does it? He knew you and your work in private investigations. I shan’t reveal his identity. We would like to work quietly, as you’ll appreciate. While you remain here, in England, I will hold on to your passport. It will be returned to you when you wish to journey back to France.”

  “I can assure you my work ethics are exemplary.”

  “It is a simple formality. Mr. Leroux, if it wasn’t for Mr. Nightingale’s secretive nature, you would not be here. There’s no reason for me to distrust you. I am in your debt. Few French inspectors speak English as well as you do and I can’t see them being much inclined to brave the Channel with all the upheaval back home. Uncertain times in France.”

  “I acknowledge that we have had an interesting revolution. But it is largely over, now, since June.”

  Mr. Wilson smiled. “That’s quite an understatement. This is the second time you depose of your monarchy. Napoleon Bonaparte must be laughing in his grave. But let’s return to the facts. After her brother’s death in August, Aaron Nightingale’s sister approached me. She told me she wished to visit the estate and settle some matter. Due to the family ties, I did not see a problem. I gave her a set of keys and notified Mrs. Jane Cleary, the housekeeper.”

  “Is Mrs. Cleary also a suspect of this investigation?”

  “Everyone at Alexandra Hall is a potential suspect. Aside from Mrs. Cleary, there is a cook, a gardener and four maidservants. Since Aaron Nightingale’s passing, they remain at Alexandra Hall. When six months have elapsed, Aaron’s younger brother, John, will be permitted to move into the estate with his family. He will either re-appoint the staff or dispose of it.”

  “Why the six months delay?”

  Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “The deceased willed it,” he replied with an evasive gesture. “Perhaps Mr. Nightingale wished to leave his home empty for a period. My role as his lawyer is to respect his wishes. Nothing is to change for half a year. Alas, he could not have foreseen the murders. One of these took place last month and the other, two weeks later – both of them after Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale passed away earlier this year.”

  Maurice winced. “Are we then speaking of four deaths having taken place under the one roof over the course of a single year?”

  Mr. Wilson nodded. “Unsettling, wouldn’t you say? Following the death of Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale, there were two murders. The first victim was a maid, Sophie Murphy. The other victim was Vera Nightingale. As you can imagine, John Nightingale fears for his wife and children. He summoned me to have someone investigate before he moves in next year. Now you understand my position. How do I come to John’s aid while respecting the wishes of his deceased brother? During this six months period, I am entrusted to protect the Nightingale estate and safeguard the owner’s reputation. That’s where you, Mr. Leroux, discrete Frenchman with no ties in England, are a godsend. I’ve written to Mrs. Cleary to let her know you’re to have free run of the house. And I’ve provided you with the details of each staff, here.”

  Maurice opened the leather folder. He leaned over several files describing the members of the household and the circumstances of each murder. Wilson found himself a cigar from his top drawer and lit up. “What do you think, Mr. Leroux?” he asked, blowing a puff of smoke.

  “Was anything reported missing or lost?”

  “No theft seems to have taken place.”

  “Do any of the staff have a criminal record?”

  “I await further information, however Alfred Fitzpatrick, the gardener, did spend some time in a local jail in his youth.”

  “I see. Something else comes to mind, Mr. Wilson. For Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale to have both passed away in a matter of a few months would have been distressing for Miss Vera Nightingale. A house of mourning is not a pleasurable prospect for a lone woman. Why would she choose to return to the house? I find it perplexing.”

  “As do I, Mr. Leroux. At the time, I honestly believed she was sorting through her finances and wished to see those items Aaron had passed on to her.”

  Maurice reflected on Wilson’s words.

  “Aside from you, who knows of these murders?” he asked.

  “Local Berkshire police were sent. They are well acquainted with the family. Post-mortem operations were performed. Nothing else.”

  “What were the results of the post-mortems?”

  “I am glad you asked. I have organised for the physician who performed the autopsies to visit Alexandra Hall so that you may ask questions
. He believes he should have some time on Thursday to discuss the details of the inquest. What we do know is that the maid bore a fatal head injury. As we hoped to avoid a scandal, her family has been handsomely compensated and discouraged from disclosing the details of this sad affair. That being said, the official explanation for these deaths is that both women fell down the staircase.”

  Maurice raised an eyebrow. “And what is the truth?”

  “Sophie Murphy did die of a head injury. The cause is unknown. Vera Nightingale was found at the bottom of the staircase, yes. But a fall is not what killed her. She suffocated.”

  Chapter 3

  Monday

  NO marks on Vera Nightingale’s body. No sign of loss of blood, concussion or struggle. Strangulation was ruled out. How then, had she died?

  Maurice contemplated this mystery during the four-hour coach ride from London into Berkshire. The journey was pleasant enough, though any hopes of admiring the countryside had been stifled by a thick fog that only lifted once they were past Reading.

  As the stagecoach reached the grounds of Alexandra Hall, swollen clouds smothered the last of the timid afternoon sun. Sweeping grey skies stretched above the estate as far as the eye could see, adding to the desolation. In the distance, the Nightingale house rose from the mist.

  Swaying poplars lined each side of the road, all the way to the mansion’s gate. After hours of being tossed and jerked around in a carriage, Maurice welcomed the smooth path. His weariness dissipated the moment his eye fell on the four majestic Doric columns gracing the house’s entrance.

  A fierce autumn wind blew as they drew near, and when Maurice tilted his head through the carriage window, he saw how violently the trees shook.

  By the time the horses came to a halt, Maurice felt the November chill deep in his bones. He regretted that his larger coat remained in his trunk, which was tied to the back of the carriage. Shivering, he stared ahead. Two glass doors opened wide. A group of women stepped out, holding their bonnets in place as the wind flapped through their long skirts. A few meters away, a man in his sixties followed behind them along the narrow path towards the road.

  As Maurice dismounted the carriage, these staff members aligned themselves along the side of the road to greet him. Leading the group, was a tall wiry woman who looked to be in her late fifties. Hers was the face of disdain and quiet resignation all blended into one, such that the onlooker knew not whether to dread or pity her. This austere being whose sunken eyes were so tiny they seemed like little black holes, was flanked on either side by four women clad in black.

  Much younger, they each wore a full-body white apron of cotton and lace over a black dress. Their hair, piled high above their necks, lay tucked underneath white bonnets. The tallest was a fair redhead who seemed to mimic the dignified airs of her housekeeper. By her side and glowing with confidence, a brunette peered with curiosity at Maurice. The third maid, a sickly looking waif, shivered so intensely that Maurice could hear her teeth chatter from where he stood. Beside her, what appeared to be the youngest maid, stared absent-mindedly as though absorbed in a daydream. These young women stood at the ready while the housekeeper studied Maurice with an unflinching expression.

  She dressed in a similar attire as the other maids but unlike them, wore no apron. All that black taffeta lent her a severe appearance and failed to conceal her bony shoulders and elbows. Her long puffed sleeves billowed under the wind, yet not a hair moved on that grey bob sitting high over her brow.

  Affixed to her leather belt was a chatelaine where hung keys of all manner of shapes and sizes. Upon sighting the numerous dangling keys, Maurice guessed at once who she was.

  “Mrs. Cleary, is it?” he asked, meeting her stern glare.

  She nodded. “Welcome to Alexandra Hall, Mr. Leroux. I trust you had a safe journey.”

  The women by her side curtsied, then clasped their hands primly together.

  “You find this house in deep mourning,” said Mrs. Cleary, ever slowly, as though she wished to impress a sullen mood to the visitor. “In the last year, we bore witness to the passing of four people. Indeed, nothing has been the same since Mrs. Nightingale suffered an unfortunate illness in January this year...”

  As she finished speaking, a cold gust shook the nearby trees and nature’s moans rose above Maurice’s kindly response. Mrs. Cleary shirked back and stared ahead. To Maurice, she appeared horror-stricken.

  He watched Mrs. Cleary cast a furtive glance at the house then rub her arms as though unsettled. She turned back to him and inhaled deeply.

  “I shall show you your room. Please, follow me.”

  The housekeeper’s accent might have been Irish, pondered Maurice, but she did her best to disguise it. Maurice followed the women in silence.

  The case of the ceramic bust

  ALEXANDRA Hall was stately. Wherever Maurice’s eye fell, Georgian perfection greeted him: lofty ceilings, majestic windows, elaborate mirror fixtures, flowers painted upon wallpapers, and expensive portraits. From the checkered tiles in the entrance hall, to the gold acanthus mouldings on the ceilings’ edges, it was the sort of house where echoes graced the rooms as one spoke, and where one might not glimpse another soul throughout the day. He ascended the magnificent staircase and followed Mrs. Cleary to his room at the far right of the landing.

  He dropped his bag by the door and gave the guestroom a quick glance. A large window to his left gave an excellent view of the gardens. A lacquered ebony desk stood by the window and in the closet to its right, were water amenities and a porcelain basin.

  “Ellen has filled the water pitcher for you. She’ll come by to empty your basin twice daily.”

  “That will be perfect.”

  “There are bell cordons on the side of your bed, should you require anything to be sent upstairs.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cleary. Is there a room where I might conduct interviews for my investigation?”

  “You are welcome to carry on your work in this room,” replied Mrs. Cleary. It sounded more like an order than an invitation. Maurice sensed her protectiveness over the late owners’ home. She seemed like the sort of person with a strong need for control.

  “That will not do unfortunately,” he insisted, conscious of the tightening in her jaw. “I much prefer a separate room where I might question the staff members in private. Perhaps a study?”

  “I suppose…there is Mr. Nightingale’s study.”

  “Splendid. Please take me to it.” He hoped she would grow more cooperative over the coming days.

  “Quite. Whatever is more agreeable to you, Mr. Leroux. Please follow me,” she replied in an icy manner. She gestured to a room three doors from his, and Maurice followed.

  “This is where Mr. Nightingale wrote at night when he was still with us. His sister spent some time here before she died, but everything should be in the place he left it.”

  As Maurice stepped into the study, thick oriental rugs absorbed the sound of his footsteps. Scarce light penetrated the narrow stained-glass windows. The heavy oak furniture and the wine wallpaper absorbed any rays that dared reach this room.

  To Maurice, who lived alone in a stone cottage and who, since his escape from Paris to Normandy, enjoyed long walks along the beach, this study felt stuffy and oppressive. It gave him the impression that Aaron Nightingale preferred whiling the hours of the day in near darkness. The Englishman had jealously guarded his privacy.

  The tiredness that had overwhelmed him during his journey to Alexandra Hall soon vanished as Maurice’s curiosity took over. His eye fell on scattered documents across the desk, where dust had settled. Drippings of hardened wax had grown fat round the remnants of a candle. It seemed as if only yesterday, Aaron Nightingale had sat there and poured over his notes and his books. The tall-back regency chair seemed to await its owner.

  A bookkeeping journal lay open on the desk and Maurice glimpsed the headline of August 1848, the month of Aaron’s passing. A disordered pile of books towered beside this
register, and atop the heap, a thick volume remained open. Maurice’s gaze flitted across a chemistry passage. He sensed Mrs. Cleary’s watchful eyes upon his back.

  A small ink bottle had tipped over, staining the journal’s right edge. Maurice felt the paper and frowned. The ink had barely dried. The remaining writing implements were laid out on the left of the desk.

  “Was Mr. Nightingale left-handed?” he asked, wondering if anyone had re-arranged the objects on the desk since Aaron’s death which would surely account for the spilt ink.

  “Yes, he was. He used to say that boarding school had taught him otherwise, but he preferred to write with his left hand. So did she.”

  “She? You mean, his wife?”

  “Yes, Mr. Leroux. Mrs. Nightingale learnt to keep accounts over time. Mr. Nightingale had a tutor come by during her first years in England. For years afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale worked together.”

  Discarding the stained journal, Maurice sighted a white ceramic bust sitting upon the raised portion of the desk. He had not noticed the statue until now because it seemed partly hidden, its face turned away against a pot of dried plants. He reached for the bust, his sense of details stirred by the odd feeling it had given him.

  The generous bearded locks had gathered dust. Maurice stared avidly into the face. He noted the wavy fringe, the broad, handsome features with two horizontal lines on the forehead. The bridge of the nose seemed narrow between the man’s small eyes, and the mouth appeared to clamp shut. A thinker, the owner of that face was in his late forties at most.

  Where have I seen that man before, he wondered, as he replaced the ceramic bust. His eyes shifted to the back of the room.

  Bookshelves filled the entire wall behind Mr. Nightingale’s desk. On each row, expensive science and medical volumes with gilded leather spines were arranged in alphabetical order. An entire row dealt with the animal kingdom. He glimpsed a volume by a certain Georges Cuvier, another by a Professor Edward Forbes. Maurice ran a finger across the top of one shelf, then brought it to his eyes. No dust.