Calista

by Laura Rahme

  But a disquiet of another nature haunted Maurice: aside from her bedroom, there was a near absence of Calista Nightingale’s feminine touch, as though she had never existed.

  For wherever he looked, whether it was the billiard room or the numerous chambers filled with exotic art, or even the parlour with its heavy empire furniture and its grand yet zoo-like portraits, there was no evidence a woman had lived here, nor that her personality had been permitted to make its mark.

  Alfred and the gardens

  IT was almost lunchtime, when Maurice returned to his room with a flash of inspiration. He wrote it down in his journal.

  I keep thinking about something I saw that, to most, would appear innocuous – a ceramic bust in Aaron’s office and which I’ve now identified. Aaron Nightingale was once fond of Aristotle it seems.

  There are those instances when you can’t bear to face a person – be it from shame, or even fear, and when you naturally wish never to have their eyes fall upon you.

  This is the impression I have of Mr. Nightingale and his relationship with the Greek philosopher, Aristotle. Aaron owned two ceramic busts whose faces he turned away. I wonder why.

  Then turning to the stationary provided at his desk, he wrote the following letter.

  Mr. Wilson,

  I arrived yesterday and all is well. I shall remain in Alexandra Hall for a few more nights at least. Aside from some expected hostility towards an inspector, and a few odd superstitious beliefs, I’ve so far encountered nothing out of the ordinary.

  It appears that aside from the cook, the gardener, the four housemaids, and Mrs. Cleary, we are quite alone on this estate.

  I plan to interview the housemaids tomorrow.

  I shall also endeavour to learn what I can about Aaron and his activities in the event it bears on this case.

  I shall keep you informed of my discoveries.

  Inspector Leroux

  Maurice slid the letter in an envelope to which he affixed a Penny Black.

  He went downstairs, opened the front glass doors and walked up to the pathway towards the road. He handed over his stamped envelope to the errand boy awaiting by the carriage.

  “Inspector Leroux,” he said, introducing himself as he shook the young man’s hand. “How long does it take to deliver letters to London?”

  “For London, sir? Delivery by the next day. I hand mail over to a postal boy in Reading Town while I busy myself with buying provisions.”

  “Once delivered, when shall I expect my response?”

  “Depends on how quickly that person wants to reply. But if they reply straight away, you might get your response in a day, two at most, sir. As for me, I’m here in the mornings every day, even on Sundays, sir.”

  “And when do you usually leave?”

  “Once I have Mrs. Cleary’s shopping list. Usually by noon.”

  Maurice thanked the delivery boy and walked off, seeking the gardener.

  As he neared the house, he glimpsed the young maid he’d seen earlier, with her dog in tow. She’d wandered off on the veranda. He imagined she might have been on a lunch break from her chores. He was about to wave in her direction when a flurry of black fabric stormed out of the double glass doors. He realised it was Mrs. Cleary striding outside towards the girl.

  Maurice flinched, astounded by the housekeeper’s face. She bore a rageful expression and her features were frightfully deformed. He saw the young maid turn and instantly startle as Mrs. Cleary yelled at her. Maurice could not make out her words, but he watched in fascination as the housekeeper yanked at the girl’s sleeve and dragged her forcefully back into the house. For a moment, Maurice was uncertain about what he’d witnessed. Perhaps Gerard was right and Mrs. Cleary had all the manner of a tyrant. Feeling sorry for the girl, he shook his head and continued on.

  Venturing towards the back of the house, he crossed a spacious lawn. In the spring and summer, it might have been lined with patches of continental flowers and scented rose bushes, but with the approach of winter, the stripped plants inspired something akin to despair. To his left was a fountain, and a little to the right, by the creek, he noticed a herb garden encircled by a tall hedgerow.

  Maurice crossed the arched entrance of the hedgerow. Here, the garden was reduced to a dismal state where nothing worthy sprouted. In their original form, the leafy basil, the coriander, mint, chives, and thyme might have been Calista’s joy. Now almost a year had passed and these plants had fallen into decrepitude.

  Beneath an old cypress by the creek, Maurice noticed an abandoned grave covered with leaves and other debris from fallen branches. Brambles had grown across it, smothering the stone. He was appalled by this sight. What was so important for Aaron to have neglected the love of his life? Had they quarrelled prior to her death?

  The brambles’ sharp pins cut through his fingers as he forced apart the entangled branches. After multiple efforts, he was better able to see the stone beneath.

  Maurice knelt. He read the inscription on the arched headstone.

  Calista Nightingale

  née Argyros

  December 1814 – January 1848

  πάντα ῥεῖ

  She had turned thirty-three just prior to her death. Maurice was moved. There was a sea shell engraved beneath the Greek words and then nothing else. The tombstone was bare.

  Maurice had never entertained the idea of travelling to the Mediterranean but he imagined how liberating it would have been for a child to swim in aquamarine waters under a generous sun. Calista had known a different life before arriving in England.

  What had it been like for her to live with Aaron Nightingale, so far from home, without children to keep her occupied? To be buried here, a place so removed from the coastal village she had known, isolated in this dreary rural setting, seemed entirely unfair. And why was her tomb kept apart? There was no sign that her husband was buried nearby. Maurice guessed that Aaron’s tomb might be found in a proper cemetery, perhaps in a family crypt. It only saddened him further.

  The rustling of leaves drew him out of his reverie. He gave the lonely grave one last look, then stood.

  Deep in thought, Maurice paced through the garden lawns where weeds seemed to have taken over. The only tended part of the grounds was the area near the fountain, right below the guestroom where he slept.

  As he approached the fountain, he noticed a burly man in his mid-thirties emerging from a flight of stairs below ground, axe in hand.

  His swarthy face and rippling forearms were streaked with soot. The rough cotton of his dark trousers hinted to his work as a groundsman. He must have been refuelling the boiler which controlled the fountain’s steam pump.

  “Good afternoon,” called out Maurice as he neared the gardener.

  “So you’re that inspector,” said the man who towered over Maurice. “The Frenchman,” he added, a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “My name’s Inspector Leroux. I’m here to investigate the deaths in this house. You must be Alfred.”

  The gardener’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. He gave Maurice’s hand a brutal squeeze. “I wonder why you were brought in and not some English lad. The Nightingales likely don’t want no countrymen snooping in their business. Smart lads.” He grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

  “I’m a private investigator, Alfred. I’ve worked on cases in Germany and Spain in the past.”

  Alfred eyed Maurice from head to toe. In a provocative swing intended to intimidate, he hoisted the axe to rest across his shoulder. Maurice was made painfully conscious of the man’s size and strength.

  “Well it’s nice to meet you, sir,” said Alfred. He seemed eager to get away.

  “One moment, Alfred,” cut in Maurice. “I’d like to ask you some questions about these two murders. Just getting acquainted with everyone.”

  Alfred stopped in his tracks. He didn’t look pleased. “That right? Just speaking with everyone like the police did.” He stood upright, flexing his muscles.

&nbs
p; Maurice held his gaze.

  “That’s exactly right. So you spoke with the police?”

  “Sure did. Twice already. And I can’t say I was any help. No chance I killed anybody. I’m not even allowed inside, see. Mrs. Cleary would die of fright if she saw my filthy boots plodding along on her tiles. Still, who knows, maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for. Sorry, I can’t help you.” He made a start.

  “Be sensible, Alfred. I’m sure you don’t want John Nightingale finding out you’ve made this investigation harder than it is. Two murders are not dismissed so easily. And so close in the space of time. Surely somebody has to take the blame for that,” reminded Maurice.

  The groundsman turned abruptly. His axe changed hands, much to Maurice’s alarm. A mocking smile drew itself on the gardener’s lips. “Accidents do happen,” he said. “I’m told the two women were very near the staircase. And as I’ve told you, I’ve already given my statement to the police.”

  “Nonsense,” insisted Maurice. “I’m hearing far too many fanciful statements. Mrs. Cleary thinks this place might be haunted. Now, here you are, evoking accidents. Too convenient for my liking.”

  The gardener’s weathered face looked suddenly weary and he emitted a nervous laughter. “Blimey, how many times do I have to tell you? I ain’t so sure myself what happened to those women. Never seen the inside of that house.” He paused. “I tell you what, maybe what you ought to be looking into is family secrets.”

  Maurice startled. “Now why would I do that?”

  Alfred glowered at him. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “Explain what you mean or I shall report you to John Nightingale for obstructing my investigation.”

  In response, Alfred fixed him. Maurice watched the gardener’s thick fingers tighten around the axe handle but he stood his ground. “Now tell me, did you see something?” he repeated.

  Alfred shook his head. “A feeling, that’s all. Some folk you know just by looking at them that they don’t belong here. Mrs. Nightingale never belonged in Alexandra Hall. And that’s the truth.”

  “That may be, but it was her home. What makes you say all this?”

  “In all the years I’ve worked here that lady never looked happy to me.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “My little cottage, see, is not far behind the creek and a few times, months before she passed away, I’d see her come out of the house at night. Now I’m a big fellow, but it still gave me the shivers. That’s all I know.”

  “You often peer at the women of the house, Alfred? Watched any of the maids recently?”

  “I ain’t saying that,” thundered Alfred. “What I mean is I saw a lamp in the dark. So of course, I got curious. I looked through my window. There she was. Barefoot, like some wanton creature. She’d be dressed in a white nightrobe with her long black hair all loose down her shoulders. I was looking, you know, like any man would but, you know, minding my own business. I was curious, is all.”

  “Sure, you were. I know all about your past jail time. So you followed her, then? Did you touch her?”

  Alfred’s jaw twitched in anger. “I never touched anyone!”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Like I said, I stayed out of her way. The first time it happened, I asked myself what business this lady had with going out like that, and in the middle of the night. And so I watched her. She crossed the garden and found the creek. She knew what she was looking for. Now, I’m not made of stone. It was a pretty sight, this foreign lady. But to me, she looked much like some weeping ghost. Yes, sir. So that’s all I meant, see. If you’re looking for your ghost, it’s her.”

  “I don’t believe in spirits, Alfred.”

  “Neither do I. But there’s ways of haunting, see. I’m not speaking of some raving Scottish ghost with a sword and that. I’m talking another sort, the wronged kind. If anyone haunts this place, then that would be Mrs. Nightingale.”

  “That’s a convenient tale,” said Maurice. “You sure it was her and not one of the maids?”

  “Oh no, it was her, alright. Scared me a few times. She’d just sit there, by the creek. I told myself she must like being near the water.” Alfred reflected on that memory and shook his head. “That lady, I can tell you right now, there was something not quite right about her.”

  Maurice reflected on the groundsman’s words. He had felt for Calista ever since discovering her grave.

  “Plenty of unsavoury characters in these parts, Inspector Leroux,” volunteered Alfred. “I’ll tell you what, if anyone broke into the house to murder those other ladies, they most likely came from Reading Goal.”

  “An escaped convict? I considered that already but no theft has been reported. I find it doubtful.”

  “Well, I’d best be going. That firewood ain’t chopping itself.”

  Alfred picked up the tools he’d left by the side of the fountain and walked away to his cottage.

  Maurice felt bemused by all he’d heard from the staff today. Had they all struck an agreement with one another to speak of nothing but hauntings?

  He became drawn to the fountain’s sounds. Water poured out of an enormous fish sculpture which seemed to leap over a shell-shaped pond. How was it, Maurice wondered, that only a hundred feet away, Calista’s grave remained unattended while, here, was an entirely different story?

  Maurice leaned over the large pool, the water’s rush filling his ear. Beneath the water, the pond’s surface glistened, set alight by tiny alabaster mosaics. Maurice had seen nothing like it before, not even at the Louvre. It was so beautiful that for an instant, he became oblivious to the grim deaths at Alexandra Hall.

  The fountain was an astonishing work of art. Its bottom surface was a coloured mosaic of fish life with myriads of indescribable sea creatures shimmering under the light. Creatures that he could not name, and even the crest of blue waves appeared beneath the translucent pool, as though an entire ocean was depicted there.

  No bugs. Not even a fallen reed. Not a leaf from the autumn-stripped trees that lined the garden. The pool’s surface gleamed, exceptionally well-tended. One could almost forget there was a pump underneath, functioning perfectly. It all seemed magical, this clear water gushing out from the large fish’s open mouth, flowing into the pond, the sea world beneath it coming alive.

  Black and blue

  THREE hours upon falling asleep, Maurice heard rapping at his bedroom door. He rose. Reaching for the handle, he was stunned to learn Mrs. Cleary had once again locked him in. It unsettled him. It brought up memories he wished long gone. He took in deep breaths and worked at calming himself down, focusing on what might be her reasons. It could not be due to distrust. She had given him a set of the house keys, after all.

  A loud knock startled him.

  Maurice lowered himself to the door handle. He inched himself close to peer into the keyhole. Into this shaft of light, he could make out the stair landing ahead. Who had struck his door? His heart beating fast, his eye pressed against the keyhole, Maurice waited.

  He became aware of an unnatural odour. A long blackened face flashed into view, obscuring the corridor. With the light blocked, the figure became indistinct even as it drew closer and closer still. Before Maurice could discern any shape or form, a large eye was thrust before him, at the opposite end of the keyhole. A jolt passed through him. He held his breath. The eye, a glittering orb of black and blue, with a swollen pupil, stared back at him. It was grotesque. It might have been an illusion brought upon by the darkness, but it gave the impression its owner was ill or had ingested a nefarious substance.

  The rapping at the door resumed with vengeance. Maurice recoiled in fear. He knew not whether to feel terror or outrage. He dared not peer again through the keyhole.

  Now the door shook on its hinges. He stepped back, confused. It sounded as if multiple beings stood on the other side, and together they hammered at the panel from different angles. It was infernal. It seemed to scream,
“I have seen you. I know you are here.”

  Horror-stricken, Maurice fled to his bed. He covered his head with the sheets, and shut his eyes tight. The sensation of being locked in and the uncanny feeling the noise stirred within him brought back memories of his Paris home. He wanted to yell out but when he finally found his voice, it was choked with fear, childlike. “Be gone! I shall speak to you in the morning!”

  The noise ceased.

  Maurice opened his eyes. He heard a heavy mass drag itself away. Then all fell quiet. He could not imagine who had visited him or why they would wish to do so. The bedside clock told him it was past midnight. He recalled that it had been about this time when he’d heard the rap at his door the night before. He settled into bed but for some time, his heart raced and he could not sleep.

  He thought of the eye and the curious shape and form it had. It was a rare colour but he could pinpoint it with ease if he were to see it again. Tomorrow while he questioned the maids, he would be sure to match the eye with one of the residents of Alexandra Hall.

  At long last, Maurice found sleep but it was far from restful. For when the dream came, it rose from a place of despair and brought him back to Paris. He found himself, sitting in his childhood home. There, he lived with a woman whose eyes he feared most of all. For hers were cruel and when he looked into them, he saw only that she wished to tear him apart.

  Under the glow of a single candle whose weak flame only enhanced the misery in the room, Maurice the child sat upon a wooden stool, one tiny hand upon the kitchen table while the other held a spoon. His tear-filled eyes were riveted on the ceramic bowl in front of him.

  In the bowl, in that cold soup, that opaque milky stew, he watched the numerous maggots crawl, and the bobbing flesh of a bloodshot eyeball.