by Laura Rahme
Up to now, Mrs. Cleary eyed him intensely. He had even sensed her distress when he had picked up the bust ornament.
“Anything wrong, Mr. Leroux?”
“Has anyone entered this room since Mr. Nightingale passed away?”
“Miss Vera came in briefly to look for correspondence. Other than that, the girls dust the shelves once a week but I assure you they do not touch anything else.”
“And what about this week, or just today?”
“No one has entered this room since Miss Vera Nightingale passed away, Mr. Leroux.”
Maurice eyed the spilt ink once more but kept his thoughts to himself. He studied the rest of the room.
“What sort of correspondence do you think Miss Vera was looking for?”
“That is why you are here, Mr. Leroux. I am afraid I cannot help you,” replied Mrs. Cleary drily.
As the housekeeper spoke, Maurice’s eye was drawn to the glass cabinet, opposite the window. On the top shelf, he could make out maps, weighted down by another ceramic bust. The sculpture’s face was turned away, facing the wall.
Maurice walked to the cabinet and tugged at the latch to open the glass panel. The panel resisted.
Mrs. Cleary’s eyes grew sharp.
“What are you doing? This cabinet is locked.”
“Do you have the key?”
“Mr. Nightingale may have kept it in his first drawer.”
Maurice returned to the desk and rummaged through the first drawer. He stood back, a little startled at the numerous glass vials inside it. The tiny bottles were filled with a curious liquid. Maurice reached past them, then carefully felt towards the back of the compartment.
“I think I’ve found the key.”
“What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Leroux?”
“I want to see those maps,” he lied. She would have to learn to trust him while he performed his work. Her manner was suffocating.
He inserted the matching key and opened the glass pane. He had no interest in the maps. The ceramic bust troubled him. Why was its face turned away, exactly like the bust on the desk?
He reached for it and recognised the features. The same man. Maurice searched through his memory. Handsome, broad cheeks, profuse beard, wavy locks…
“That will be all, Mrs. Cleary. I shall be delighted to work here from time to time.”
Her jaw tightened as she nodded.
“Then I shall ask Gerard, our cook, to prepare dinner.”
But as Mrs. Cleary spoke these words, she no longer looked at Maurice and her gaze lingered instead to the back of the room.
Sensing the housekeeper’s uneasiness, Maurice followed the direction of her eyes. In the last instants, the sun had set and Aaron’s books were cast in darkness. Yet aside from the advancing night, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. When Maurice turned around, Mrs. Cleary had left.
Dismissing her odd behaviour, he retrieved the topmost map and studied it as though he were peering into Aaron Nightingale’s secrets. He recognised the land formations. It was an antique map of the Mediterranean, nothing more.
Maurice replaced the map in the cabinet and weighted it down with the bust, this time with the face turned outwards.
The infernal
MAURICE longed to rest after his day’s journey but the night saw him stir and awaken at ten o’clock. Staring up at the high ceilings, then at the oil portrait on the wall across his bed, he met the stern face of a black-clad conquistador gazing down upon him.
In this bearded Spaniard’s gloved hands, the tropical parrot seemed to come alive. Its large eyes circled before glancing back at Maurice. Maurice blinked, still half-asleep. The parrot looked to the window as it always had.
Outside, wispy clouds occluded all but a sliver of the full moon. An eerie glow poured through the veiled window, casting its blue rays on a frayed rug.
It was always a struggle to fall asleep in odd surrounds, breathing in musty odors. It all worsened when he suffered nightmares. Maurice cocked an ear and understood what had disturbed his sleep. There was a dull mechanical noise emanating from his bedroom door.
Where this door had been ajar at the time he had fallen asleep – for Maurice feared closed in spaces – now it was shut. He could hear the engaging clicks of a metallic lock. Once. Then twice. For reasons he could not imagine, Mrs. Cleary had locked him inside his own bedroom.
It had to be Mrs. Cleary. No one else in Alexandra Hall possessed a set of keys to the rooms. Did she not trust a Frenchman?
“Mrs. Cleary?” he called out. Alarm seized him as he stared in disbelief at the locked door. Confused, Maurice pondered over the housekeeper’s strange behaviour, until at last, overcome by the day’s efforts, he succumbed to sleep with the welcomed afterthought that he might solve this mystery in the morrow.
Stillness enveloped the room. The door remained shut. Night clouds rolled across the sky, unveiling the moon whose light soon bathed Maurice’s face. Close to midnight, a persistent rattling at the door’s hinges stirred Maurice. He opened his eyes. He could see that the brass handle had shifted from its resting position. Someone was attempting to pry open his bedroom door. He held his breath, wondering why Mrs. Cleary would seek to open a door she had locked herself, hours earlier. Forceful, but in vain, the furious grip worked at the handle until at last, it gave up.
The room fell silent once more. Maurice pulled the coverlet up to his chin and turned to his side, determined to sleep. Alexandra Hall plunged once more into silence. The portraits in the parlour lay motionless. The clock on the parlour mantelpiece ticked on. The embers in the fire blackened to cinders. Nothing stirred on the grand staircase.
Fewer than ten minutes had elapsed since the attempt on Maurice’s door, when out of the darkness, the clank and clatter of copper and brass pieces resonated from the kitchen. Tentative at first, then in violent outbursts, the sound intensified, rising to thunderous proportions.
The sound of shattered glass reached Mrs. Cleary’s bedroom. The housekeeper’s eyes snapped open, dull and bloodshot. She awoke in gasps. A look of dread distorted her features as she heard the malignant presence downstairs. She had guessed its nature long ago.
She leapt from the bed. Her eyes were wild with fright, and her lips moved as though in a trance as she uttered a prayer beneath her breath. There was no order, or resolve in her movements as she felt for her robe in the dark. The haggard housekeeper resembled nothing of the well-do-do figure she cast in daylight. Trembling with fear, she wrapped the robe round her thin shoulders and pushed her feet into slippers.
Under her claw like fingers, the door swung open and Mrs. Cleary stepped outside, lamp in hand. She stared at Maurice’s door across the stairs. It lay shut. She hoped dearly that he remained fast asleep and heard nothing.
The sound…she had to make it stop. A shrewd expression lit her eyes which were so inflamed that it seemed she might weep blood. Yanking her robe tight around her, she descended the staircase, a thin figure, propelled by a devilish force that belied her sixty years.
She’d reached the landing but the sound, far from ceasing, seemed louder and more menacing. Mrs. Cleary felt faint. She crept towards the kitchen, her heart pounding in her chest. Then, fearful of what lay within, she stopped short, three feet from the entrance. She could not bear to see what might be inside the room. And as the malevolent clamour continued, Mrs. Cleary reduced to a pitiful state. A terrifying notion that she had been right all along, robbed her of her breath.
Behind the kitchen’s French doors, an unstoppable being smashed pots against the windows. It hurled utensils overhead and they flew across the room in all directions. Mrs. Cleary clasped her mouth, suppressing a desire to scream. At last, unable to bear it any longer, she let out an agonising plea.
“Stop it, please! Please, leave us alone!”
And then all at once, the noise ceased.
In disbelief, Mrs. Cleary dared a horrified glance inside. She could make out nothing. Her lamp shone through the
French doors and onto the back wall. She caught a movement, both monstrous and inhumane. A shadow and nothing more, but its demonic shape unfolded and grew in size as the figure came forth.
Mrs. Cleary’s courage failed her. She gave a horrified yelp and dropped her lamp. Within seconds, she had fled upstairs. Behind her, the French doors burst open. But Mrs. Cleary had reached her room and bolted herself inside.
Chapter 4
Tuesday
“I THOUGHT we might give you breakfast outside today,” voiced Mrs. Cleary. Behind her, an attractive maid carried a tray of freshly baked oat scones.
Despite her cheerful disposition, Mrs. Cleary looked as though she had not slept. Maurice observed ghastly dark circles beneath her eyes while her delicate complexion seemed ruddy even under the gentle autumn sun.
The maid lay the platter before him, together with strawberry jam, a little butter from the ice cellar, and a pitcher of heated milk. She sported an audacious smile on her lips and seemed to linger a while, as she arranged cutlery along the porcelain cup and saucer.
“That will be all, thank you Madeleine,” cut in Mrs. Cleary. A touch of cynicism flitted across the maid’s face but she nodded and hurried off. Mrs. Cleary began to serve Maurice and he noted with surprise that her hand shook as she poured the milk.
He still brooded over why he’d been so rudely locked up during the night. At eight this morning, he had found the door sensibly unlocked. Maurice cleared his throat, preparing to confront Mrs. Cleary but instead, seeing her in such fragile state, he changed the conversation.
“What are those? They look delicious.”
“Have you not had scones, Mr. Leroux?”
“Scones. No, I don’t believe I have. Are they an English delicacy?”
“Hardly. They are the talk of town ever since her Majesty Queen Victoria adopted them for afternoon tea. But they are from Scotland, I believe. Something of the sort. I would normally ask Gerard, our cook, to whip up some cream but we’ve had an accident overnight. Gerard rose early to busy himself with… something in the kitchen.”
“Oh, is that what it was? I overheard strange noises last night.”
“Noises? I’m sorry to hear that. It was likely Alfred and his rusty wheelbarrow,” dismissed Mrs. Cleary.
“I’m relieved. At least it’s not like those rats in Paris,” he chuckled, hoping to cheer her up.
Mrs. Cleary laughed and to Maurice’s surprise, it sounded forced, almost hysterical. Maurice watched her regain her composure.
“Rats!” she repeated. “Fancy that. Dear God. No, nothing of the sort. Gerard would certainly know how to deal with those. Would you believe, Mr. Leroux that Alexandra Hall has not had rats in the last year.”
Maurice munched into the buttery scone which he had slathered with jam.
“No rats. Really. That’s splendid news. I am glad to hear it. In that case, I shall need no chaperoning as I visit every room of this house today. You have been most kind to show me Mr. Nightingale’s study, and I intend to further my investigation by sifting through all remaining rooms and see if I might uncover anything unusual.” He eyed her keenly, certain that her reticence would show. She had made her distrust clear by locking him in so ruthlessly.
But Mrs. Cleary only nodded. She lifted the heavy set of keys that hung from her chatelaine and after artfully removing an old copper key, she handed the rest of the set to Maurice.
“Please let me know if you require anything else,” she said. Maurice stared at the lone key in her hand. Larger than the others, it appeared to have been crafted a century ago.
Mrs. Cleary slipped the key into a little pouch.
Maurice cleared his throat. “Won’t you have a scone, Mrs. Cleary? I feel awkward eating these alone. They are a little dry but I could almost get used to living away from France.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I insist. I’d be delighted if you could join me. At least have some tea.”
With pursed lips, she sat across him and reached for the porcelain teapot.
“So the kitchen I understand is out of bounds today.”
Mrs. Cleary replaced the tea pot abruptly.
“I think that would be best,” she uttered drily.
Maurice gazed at the garden and the gentle yellowing on the leaves. “What was she like? Calista Nightingale…”
Mrs. Cleary’s stern expression faded away. “You must have noticed her portrait along the staircase,” she replied.
“The portrait? Oh, you mean the one you were dusting yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“It is charming. But what was she like as a person?”
“Well, she wasn’t from here. I mean, England. Mr. Nightingale liked to receive exotic parcels from all over the world and I imagine in his romantic inclinations he searched for that rare pearl. His adventures led him to Greece. And that’s where he found her.”
“How remarkable.”
“Yes, I think so.”
Mrs. Cleary sipped her tea. A dreamy expression painted itself on her previously tense face. Maurice intuited that she had been fond of Calista Nightingale and missed her. Her reticence had eased the moment she had begun speaking of her.
“What did she do all day?” asked Maurice. “It’s frightfully dreary here without children. I imagine she pined for her family in Greece.”
“I know what you mean. She was certainly a different sort of woman. Mrs. Nightingale always used to say she had grown up in a village by the sea and that she missed it. It was on an island that he first met her. I forget its name. But there are so many of those islands, you know. I mean I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard it said.”
“She told you that? She must have trusted you,” said Maurice. He had seen from Mrs. Cleary’s eyes that she seemed to be revisiting kindly memories and hoped she would share more.
“Oh, yes. She told me once that she swam often as a young girl. She described the sea and her eyes would light up. ‘You see this aquamarine, Mrs. Cleary,’ she said to me one day. She was showing me her engagement ring. ‘You see this blue colour? In my village, that is the colour of the water,’ she said.”
Mrs. Cleary had now forgotten her tea. She gnawed at her lip. “I daresay, if I had been in her place and lived nearby to a pool of water of that colour, I would have done my best to remain there and never come to England.” The housekeeper sounded almost bitter. As she spoke those last words, Maurice detected that her Irish accent had grown more pronounced.
Mrs. Cleary rose. She seemed agitated as though the idea of drinking tea with the French inspector tarnished her efficient image. “Well, I should call on Shannon to clean up, now,” she said.
“Already? But madame, you’ve not finished your tea. Mrs. Cleary, in France, we like to take our time with our meals. As for me, I’m going to have a second scone. Please, won’t you sit back down?”
The housekeeper dusted off imaginary breadcrumbs from her taffeta dress, then resumed her seat. She sat upright as Maurice piled on strawberry jam onto his scone. The red of the jam, its resemblance to blood, reminded him of a question he’d long wanted to ask.
“Pardon me, what did she die of?” he asked, perplexed by Calista’s death earlier in the year.
A darkness passed over Mrs. Cleary’s face.
“The winter. She fell gravely ill one evening and didn’t leave her bed for weeks. Her cough worsened over Christmas. We all believed she had caught a cold. She had done so many times before. She didn’t wish to see a doctor at first. She asked to see Miss Vera. It was… odd.”
“How would this be odd?”
“Well she’d never seen Miss Vera since the wedding ten years ago. The two never got off to a proper start. In France you may speak of equality, but here, in England, one should know one’s place. Respectable Englishmen do not marry peasant girls. And certainly not from the Greek countryside.”
“I see, now. Do you think Miss Vera didn’t think much of her brother’s wife th
en?”
“Well, it’s not for me to say. All I know is she remained a spinster due to local gossip. If she resented her sister-in-law, I wouldn’t know. Yet, as Mrs. Nightingale’s illness worsened, I know for a fact that she dispatched a letter, and confessed to me that she hoped Miss Vera would come quickly to Alexandra Hall.”
“I can understand that Calista might have wished to speak with another woman. It’s quite lonely here at Alexandra Hall. So what happened? Did Vera come?”
“She did. For a while, Mrs. Nightingale regained her appetite. Miss Vera spent time with her in her room and I think her presence did much good. But then her cough worsened. She had much difficulty breathing. Before Mr. Nightingale could fetch a doctor, he found her dead one morning. It was dreadful.”
Mrs. Cleary’s tea had grown cold.
“Was she buried in her home village, back in Greece?”
Mrs. Cleary attempted to hide her discomfort. “Sadly, no. Mr. Nightingale was in no way inclined to make that journey. Imagine, setting off to France to board a ship from Marseilles and sailing all the way to Athens. Then yet another ship to her island home. Oh, no. Mr. Nightingale was adamant that he had an important project to attend to, and could not absent himself from Alexandra Hall, not even for two weeks.” Resentment tinted Mrs. Cleary’s voice. “Even his sister who had visited him for the first time in years failed to part him from his work. I remember it well. We were in mourning. Miss Vera entered his study and they talked for hours. He lashed out at her and told her to mind her own business. Then he sent her packing. A day later, we buried Calista in the garden.”
“I see. Now that you have mentioned Mr. Nightingale, I must tell you this. It is out of character for a man of learning, one so passionate about his work, to give up on his desire to live. I am alluding to his sudden death in August. Rather odd, don’t you think? Do you think he felt guilty when his wife died? And that he let himself die?”
