by Laura Rahme
“Eat it now, Maurice,” came his mother’s menacing voice. Maurice dared not look at her. He clutched at his spoon and stared, against his wishes, at the ghastly bowl.
But now, the wooden table seemed infinite, like a creature with a mind of its own. How it stretched and stretched, how its timber planks seemed to elongate to astounding proportions, taking the shape it wished. And down the far end of this unimaginably long table, there was she. Therese.
Maurice shook his head violently and pushed the bowl away. “Maman. I can’t…” he sobbed.
A mistake. A mean glint lit Therese’s eyes. She seemed to suddenly awaken. The long strands of dull hair which hung about her face, lifted, flying all about her. She stared at him with a vicious snarl. Tears ran down Maurice’s cheeks. Then he blinked. For in an instant, his mother’s traits had mingled with those of Mrs. Cleary’s. The resulting monster was at once austere and seething, distant and deranged, the eyes, both blue and black. He blinked again, unsure of what he was seeing.
“Eat it!” hissed Therese from the other end of the table. The candle light flickered, and before Maurice knew it, her hands and bony knees were upon the table, and on all fours, she crawled towards him. She was all beast. Each of her movements was a violent thump against the wood that sent vibrations down the entire table. Thump, thump, thump.
She called out to him, “I will take you to the guillotine, if you are bad, Maurice!” She gave a terrifying laugh, and the words she spoke became inhumane sounds in her mouth. “The guillotine!” she sang. “The guillotine!” That word seemed to vibrate endlessly in her throat just as Therese galloped across the table like a vengeful demon.
As she drew near, little Maurice was crippled by such a dread that he dropped his spoon. Therese’s triumphant laughter was an inhuman shriek. She was going to reach him very soon, and when she did...
By enchantment, the table lengthened and lengthened again, increasing the distance between Maurice and his hateful mother. How far it seemed to stretch as Therese’s angular limbs crept forth, faster and faster still. Thump, thump, thump, against the wood. He could do it forever; he could make the table stretch so that she would never reach him.
In his bed, Maurice’s entire body sweated and writhed. His head shook frantically on his pillow. Thump, thump, thump. Again, Therese drew closer, but he would not let her. He would not.
Thump, thump, thump. A noise rose from beneath Alexandra Hall like a deep echo of the thumping in Maurice’s dream. For underneath the stairs, below the ground, where no light shone, a restless presence stirred in the dark.
Chapter 5
Wednesday
“Mrs. Cleary, I must remind you not to lock my bedroom door,” began Maurice the following day as he sat on the veranda for breakfast.
He was struck by her response.
“I am merely protecting you,” she snapped, with that self-righteous tone she employed for effect. “What should happen if you were to roam around and suffer some accident?”
He had not imagined that Gerard might be right about the housekeeper’s questionable sanity. For a moment he stared back at her, lost for words.
“I understand you do not mean disrespect, Mrs. Cleary. However I feel that your fears are misplaced. I can take splendid care of myself. I do not need to have my door locked for me like a child. Please, if you could leave it alone. I would much prefer to sleep in a room where I can go outside at my own whim. Imagine if I were to accidentally set the room on fire. You would be grieved to find my body set ablaze before anyone could open the door.”
As he spoke to the housekeeper, Maurice became aware, even before she responded, of his increasing heart rate. He had felt the same agitation in the past whenever his mother was angered and was about to speak. He instantly pushed away the memory.
Mrs. Cleary flashed him an angry look whose sudden energy startled him further.
“Have it your way,” she said. “Whatever was I thinking?” Then no sooner had she uttered those words than her eyes took on a dark glow. “You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? You believe I am imagining things? Mrs. Cleary is a raving fool. That poor woman.” She recollected herself, but Maurice saw that she shook.
“What exactly are you protecting me from, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked, adding sugar to his tea.
“Sooner or later, Mr. Leroux, you shall see,” she breathed, her voice lowered. “Don’t say I did not warn you.”
“Warn me about what? That Calista Nightingale has returned to Alexandra Hall as a ghost?” asked Maurice in a mocking tone.
She was startled. “Who…who told you this?”
“I am not at liberty to say. But your fears have not gone unnoticed by the rest of the staff.”
“I’ll not have the staff gossip about me,” she muttered, visibly insulted.
“I would not go so far as to call it gossip. Needless to say, this notion of hauntings is far-fetched.”
Mrs. Cleary glowered at him but said no more.
He ignored her outburst, content that from now on, that bedroom door would remain unlocked.
As he drank his tea, he noticed with a certain dismay that Mrs. Cleary’s eyes were not only far too small, but also black. There was not a trace of the mingled blue he had glimpsed last night through the keyhole.
So then, if it were not the prying housekeeper, whose eye had he seen? Maurice concealed his confusion and continued to eat breakfast.
In the meantime, a transformation had taken place in Mrs. Cleary and the distress she had revealed earlier seemed to have gone. She now smiled at him in a manner she thought sweet and conciliatory. Maurice shuddered, for reasons he could not explain, save perhaps that Mrs. Cleary behaved like his mother. For a moment he was reminded of his dream.
“You must forgive me,” said Mrs. Cleary, as though nothing had happened. She sat quietly, looking newly composed. Save for the pulsating jugular on her throat, there was no trace of an earlier outburst.
At last, having poured her tea, she declared, mouthing each word slowly:
“Things go…awry around here. You must remain watchful.” She nodded to herself. “Very watchful.”
She averted her eyes and sipped her tea.
Maurice buttered another slice of fresh bread and tried to bring the conversation to something concrete that was nearer to the purpose of his visit.
“Well it certainly appears that death follows this house. Is that what you meant when you spoke of awry things?” he asked.
“No. You don’t understand.” Her voice was cold, almost aloof. “When Mrs. Nightingale passed away, and while her husband still lived, that’s when it all began. Things would go missing.”
“What kind of things?” Maurice bit into his buttered bread.
“All sorts. Bobby pins, my brooch, sugar cubes… teaspoons. I used to have quite a collection in the kitchen closet. Now they are mostly gone.”
Maurice drank his tea. He was ready to wave it all away as the ramblings of a lunatic.
A glint flashed in her eyes. “I’ll show you now, if you like.” She stood firmly. “Come with me.”
He stood, a little reluctantly. They walked across the veranda, stepped silently through the house and towards the kitchen.
Gerard was absent. He had left the French doors wide open. Maurice intuited he might have gone out to smoke.
Mrs. Cleary led Maurice to a large glass and mahogany closet at the back of the kitchen. “See for yourself,” she said, gesturing to the bottom shelf.
Maurice inspected the cabinet. Behind the glass panel, a collection of silver spoons hung upon a wooden board. But where there should have been others, the slots remained empty.
“Yes,” he nodded, still not convinced. “I do see that half these silver spoons have gone missing.”
“They did not just go missing. It was her. She took them!”
“Why would any…ghost… wish to possess these spoons? Mrs. Cleary, I don’t see…”
“Because she’s playing
with us. When Gerard found Miss Vera after she died, he said there were spoons scattered along the staircase and in the entrance hall. Don’t you see?” She eyed him intensely with those black pupils, waiting for him to see what to her was all too evident.
Maurice sighed. “No, Mrs. Cleary, I do not see. If anybody took these spoons it was a person of flesh and blood. Did you report these missing objects to Mr. Nightingale?”
She stifled a mocking laugh and stood upright. “One must never, never disturb Mr. Nightingale. And after his wife passed away, well, he was a changed man. I mean, why would I bother him with spoons? Of all things. He was an awfully busy man. He fixated on whatever project obsessed him. Nothing else mattered.”
“What about the other maids?”
“I already searched their things. It was not the maids.”
“Perhaps Mr. Nightingale himself took away those spoons,” offered Maurice, tired of her games.
“He would not…”
“What about Alfred? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. He is not permitted inside the house.”
“Don’t believe a word that man says. If he were so inclined to come inside, there’d be no one to stop him.”
Maurice was intrigued. Here was Mrs. Cleary insinuating that Alfred could not be trusted. As he pondered over this, a loud clamour of pots and pans rose from the front end of the kitchen. Mrs. Cleary was violently startled by this noise. Her eyes doubled in size and she gasped. Maurice heard the sound of a door slamming shut. The housekeeper wailed and clutched at her throat. She appeared to swoon, before suddenly gripping the back of a chair, trembling, her face ashen, her lips blue.
Maurice dashed to the front of the kitchen. Gerard was nowhere in sight. Seeing that the French doors were still opened, he wondered what door he had heard slam shut. Had someone been eavesdropping their conversation? He stepped out. The passage was clear, yet the small white Bolognese growled by the stairs.
“Willy! What are you doing here?” cried a young voice.
A maid emerged from the corridor. She reached for the dog and swept it up in her arms. “You know you are not supposed to be here,” she chided, burying her face into its belly. Conscious of Maurice’s gaze, she shuffled away.
Maurice studied the empty staircase and wondered why the dog had growled at it. He re-entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Cleary slumped on a chair.
“Would you like a glass of water, Mrs. Cleary?”
“Could you please?”
Maurice grabbed the pitcher on the table and poured her a drink.
Her voice rose behind him. “Do you believe in Greek mythology, Mr. Leroux?”
It was an odd question. He walked to the pump and refilled the pitcher. “I studied a little of it during my years at the Sorbonne,” he answered. “I remember that I enjoyed it.”
“Did you, now.” She nodded to herself, as an unconvincing smile twisted her lips. “So you would know all about the story of Medusa?”
Maurice startled. “Medusa. Well, I remember some of it, yes.”
She sipped her water, still gazing up at him with her little black eyes.
Maurice tried to remember. “Medusa… Well, let’s see. She was a gorgon. Wasn’t she? Why are you asking about Medusa?”
“Perhaps you should return to your native France before you find yourself face to face with something you might regret.”
“Is that a warning, Mrs. Cleary?”
She did not reply. She finished drinking her water.
Maurice drew out a cigar from a case in his pocket. He lit it impatiently. “You’re wasting my time, Mrs. Cleary.”
“All I know, Mr. Leroux, is that there is something in this house.” She stood upright. “I feel better now. As I said, things go awry around here. But we won’t need to put up with it for much longer. Once John Nightingale moves in, I’m sure he’ll set things straight.”
She made towards the doors.
Maurice reflected upon her grasp of Greek mythology.
“Wait a moment, please. Would you know a little Greek?” he asked.
Mrs. Cleary turned. Her face had softened.
“Only a little,” she said, regretfully. “It was Mrs. Nightingale who taught me. We use to…speak a little. Why are you asking?”
Maurice thought back to the words on the tombstone.
“What does… panta rhei mean?”
A sly smile drew itself on her face.
“So you’ve seen her grave.”
“Yes, I strolled past. I studied some Greek decades ago but forgot most of it. I thought you might know.”
“Everything flows. Panta rhei…. It means, everything flows. It was Calista’s favorite saying. In her first years in Alexandra Hall, she liked to read Greek philosophy in the library upstairs. There is a longer version. Let’s see… Pánta khôreî kaì oudèn ménei.”
“Which means…”
“Everything flows, and nothing stands still.”
Shannon
MAURICE looked forward to questioning three of the maids. The fourth had been appointed in the week after Sophie Murphy’s death and it was his opinion that she would be too new to be of any help.
On Maurice’s request, Gerard had prepared biscuits. He thrust a heaped platter into Maurice’s hands.
“It’s a traditional recipe. All homemade, with real butter. Not like those horrible things from Mr. Joseph Huntley’s factory.”
Maurice smiled. On his way to Alexandra Hall, he had spotted the new biscuit factory in Reading Town. “Thank you, Gerard. This is perfect.”
“Mrs. Cleary has already brought the drinks upstairs.”
Maurice nodded. As he headed up to the study, passing the maids in the entrance hall, he sensed their fearful glances upon him.
Seated in Aaron’s study, he began his first interview with the blue-eyed redhead whom Mrs. Cleary had introduced as Shannon O’Sullivan. As she sat down, the first thing Maurice noticed was her eyes, and he knew Shannon had not rapped at his door.
In her mid-twenties, she had been here as long as Alexandra Hall stood, and had even waited on guests at the Nightingales’ wedding.
She answered without fuss while Maurice took notes. No, she’d not seen anything suspect on the night of Sophie Murphy’s death. She was asleep. Mrs. Cleary had found Sophie lying by the stairs. Weeks later, she’d heard Gerard shout out upon discovering Miss Nightingale’s body. In both cases, Shannon had run to the grand staircase like everyone else.
Had Vera Nightingale welcomed any guests during her stay? No. Was there any signs of an intruder at Alexandra Hall on that night? No. It was a night as ordinary as the one before it and the one previous to that.
“And did you get along with Sophie?” asked Maurice.
“I suppose so. As I told the police, she was the sort of girl to get along with everyone. She was lively. She could make you feel like you were her best friend.”
“Everyone’s best friend. I see. So…no arguments?”
“I overheard something but…it was nothing.” Shannon shrugged.
Maurice sensed her reticence. He had already sensed that Shannon was keen to remain on good terms with the housekeeper at any cost. “Miss O’Sullivan, what you heard might be important. And be assured that nothing you tell me will leave this room. You have my word.”
“Well, I heard Sophie and Mrs. Cleary one day. It sounded like they were having a row.”
“When was this?”
“Maybe two months before Sophie died. It was to be expected, really. Mrs. Cleary was awfully upset when Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale passed away. Sophie was her usual self. She often left work unfinished and we all had to pick up after her.”
“What were they arguing about on that occasion?”
“I couldn’t hear. I do remember Sophie shouting at Mrs. Cleary. She was saying something like, ‘you won’t get away with it, Louise.’ But I must not have heard properly.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mrs. Cleary’s name is Jane, not Louise
. Besides, I can’t say Sophie was bothered by that argument at all. Much to the contrary. She was very happy. Right up until she died.”
“You’re telling me she was in high spirits before she died? Why? Did she tell you anything?”
“Did she ever! We were all treated to her airs. She was mighty proud of herself, prancing around like a queen. She gloated about having come upon some money and said she was going to leave Berkshire to live in London. She’d given her notice, you know.”
“I see. I did not know that.” He had noted Shannon’s fondness for gossip and the envy in her voice. And something else: Shannon was ambitious.
“Tell me, Miss O’Sullivan. Why do you think Mrs. Cleary would believe this house to be haunted? Don’t you find this odd?”
Shannon looked uncertain. She squirmed in her chair.
“Why would it be odd?” she asked.
“Come now, don’t you find it convenient?” He knew Mrs. Cleary had been in London at the time of Vera Nightingale’s murder and was less of a suspect. But he wondered if Shannon might take the bait, and turn against the housekeeper.
He was surprised by her response. A frown marred Shannon’s freckled forehead.
“There is something in this house, Mr. Leroux,” she warned. “Everyone, save for Mary and Gerard has felt it. Well, the new girl hasn’t, given she’s only new. But it won’t take much longer for her to see it. Even Miss Vera was afraid.”
“How would you know what Vera Nightingale felt?”
“I attended to her room on the nights before she died. I’m quite sure she sensed something in the house.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Well the nights before, she kept asking questions. Things like, are you certain the doors are properly locked? Then she made me go downstairs near the servant quarters and she’d tug at the bell cordons in her room to ensure I could hear her ring. She was terrified the bell might not work. It wasn’t just her incessant questions. I caught her staring around her room like she might find something hiding there.”
