Calista

by Laura Rahme

  “Are you telling me Vera Nightingale was troubled by a presence she had seen in the house previously?”

  “I don’t just think it, Mr. Leroux. I know it. She was afraid.”

  “Why was she not in her room on the night she died?”

  “Well, she was at the start. I’d brought her a bed warmer to heat up her sheets and she told me she’d not stay in her room that night. She preferred to remain in the parlour. I didn’t think it was a good idea but she looked so frightened, and she claimed she couldn’t remain a moment longer in that bedroom.”

  Maurice took note. “Anyone else aside from you know that she was in the parlour that night?”

  “I don’t think so.” She paused. Her voice darkened, “I say, Mr. Leroux, it astounds me you’ve not noticed a thing yourself. Don’t you feel even a tad disturbed by the sound of that fountain at night?”

  “I hadn’t noticed the sound.”

  “It drove Miss Vera crazy. Earlier in the year, she asked for it to be turned off but Mr. Nightingale said no. He wanted it on all the time.”

  “It’s never been turned off?”

  “Never. For as long as I’ve been here, Alfred feeds the boiler with coal.” She was dreamy for a moment. “A real shame,” she added. “Nobody else gets to visit Alexandra Hall to admire it. There’s really no point to it at all.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Nightingale ordered this fountain as a gift to his wife,” dismissed Maurice.

  “Not that I remember. It was Mr. Nightingale who was awfully pleased with it. Like I said, he wanted it on at all times.”

  Maurice reflected on those words, then shifted the conversation back to his case. “Is there anything else you think I should know, Miss O’Sullivan? About the murders in this house.”

  Shannon glanced back nervously at the study door. “I’m not sure I should tell you this… I wouldn’t want, you know, Mrs. Cleary to hear,” she whispered.

  “I’m certain that no one will hear. The door is shut. Please go on.”

  “Well to be perfectly frank, Mr. Leroux, I’ve had a bad feeling in this house long before anything happened to Sophie Murphy or Miss Vera Nightingale. Take Mrs. Nightingale for instance…” She lowered her voice. “She was mostly quietly spoken and a demure sort of lady. But around two years before she passed away, she changed an awful lot. I’d never seen her like that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, mostly temper. Like I couldn’t do nothing right. She never complained about me to Mrs. Cleary, thank goodness, but she was bitter and unhappy with everything.”

  “What exactly did she die of?” asked Maurice, wanting to hear it from Shannon’s lips.

  “Didn’t they tell you? She had a fever. And…” she bit her lip. “Months before, I’d seen her brooding at Mr. Nightingale at dinner and I’m not deaf, I knew there was something off between them. She used to smile a lot when they first got married. She gave us kindly encouragements and often we’d hop on the carriage with her and she’d buy us ribbons and girlie things in Reading Town. But in the last year or so, I noticed that she’d become cold with everyone.”

  “How would you know this?”

  “Well… She no longer went out to the boutiques in town. She’d lock herself up in her room and see no one for days. And I caught her many times at dinner avoiding Mr. Nightingale’s eyes, like…I don’t know… I suppose, almost like she was afraid of him, or something.”

  “Married couples argue and fall at odds with each other at times. Perhaps the Nightingales had a disagreement.”

  “Well yes, and no,” cut in Shannon, raising her voice. “If they had a disagreement, it would have ended. But no, it’s not quite the same. She was, I’m quite sure, afraid of him. I don’t see why. He was so nice.”

  A long shadow passed underneath the study door. Maurice paused. Was Mrs. Cleary listening in? He waited until the shadow faded away.

  Maurice cleared his throat. “Afraid of her husband? Well, that’s a hasty judgment, mademoiselle. Perhaps she was upset at him. It happens.”

  Miss O’Sullivan scowled and shook her head.

  “But they worked together, didn’t they?” insisted Maurice, conscious of the impatience on Shannon’s face. For an instant, he wondered if the maid’s temper could have led her to commit murder. “Husband and wife,” he continued. “Quite an unusual pairing. They were working on some project. So surely they must have remained on cordial terms. That’s what Mrs. Cleary told me. An important project of some kind…”

  “Oh, yes. That they did. Disappear into the cellar almost every day… Such a long day. When she’d come out she was always tired. I don’t think she fancied working very much. Come to think of it, maybe that’s what did it.” Her voice had trailed off and she fell silent.

  Maurice caught her distant gaze.

  “What’s that you were saying, Miss O’Sullivan?”

  “Well I can’t be sure,” she shrugged. “But my honest feeling is she dreaded going down there…you know, into the cellar.”

  Maurice leaned forward in his chair. He tried to suppress the excitement in his voice. “What’s in the cellar?”

  Shannon’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’ve never been there myself. Mr. Nightingale was very strict that none of us should go down there.”

  Maurice nodded. “Then I shall ask Mrs. Cleary to take me there,” he said. He jotted down a few notes. He had to ascertain the nature of Aaron Nightingale’s work. “Was there anything else you wanted to share, Miss O’Sullivan? Something you think will add to my investigation.” He had just noted a jagged scar on her right hand. It was recent, perhaps only a few years old.

  She looked suddenly uncomfortable and concealed her hands. She stared at him. “I’m surprised you’ve not noticed the haunting in Alexandra Hall,” she confided. Her voice was thick with warning.

  Maurice suspected that Miss O’Sullivan belonged to that class of impressionable unmarried women who derived a certain mystical pride from her intimacy with supernatural happenings.

  “No, nothing of the kind. The idea that in some shape or form, Calista Nightingale haunts this house, is to me highly implausible.”

  Shannon had grown quite pale. She shook her head violently. “I’ve seen it, Mr. Leroux. You should ask Ellen. Like me, she will not forget what she saw.”

  “Thank you, Miss O’Sullivan. I will call on you if I need anything else. You may go, now. Please call in Ellen.”

  Ellen

  ELLEN was a short brunette with equally brown eyes and a quiet manner. Hanging round her neck was a tiny Christian cross which she often clutched nervously.

  She was eighteen but appeared younger due to her frail and slightly malnourished frame. Never mind the colour of her eyes, thought Maurice, so unlike those he had glimpsed through the keyhole. He was disappointed. Whose eye had he seen last night?

  He retrieved a case from his pocket, found a cigar and lit it. This promised to be a long day.

  “Would you like some biscuits, Ellen?” Maurice pushed the plate of rich shortbreads in front of the young maid.

  She blushed and reached for the buttery treat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Leroux.”

  “I had Gerard make these. There’s a glass of milk here also if you feel like something to drink.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He watched as Ellen took tiny bites of her buttery biscuit and tried instantly to brush away any stray crumbs. The girl was highly self-conscious. He wondered at first whether it might be an act.

  “What do you remember of Sophie Murphy before she died?”

  “I think…she was fine, sir.”

  “Did she seem upset to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did she seem on good terms with everyone?”

  “Yes. She was cheerful. She showed us her new hat.”

  “A new hat?”

  “Yes. She bought it from Reading Town. An expensive one, sir. Shannon even said she was surprised Sophie could afford that sort
of hat.”

  “I see. Thank you, Ellen. Let’s talk about Miss Vera Nightingale now. Did you see or hear anything on the night of Vera Nightingale’s murder?”

  Ellen shook her head.

  “Nothing, sir. I was in bed. Shannon took care of Miss Nightingale that night. The rest of us were asleep.”

  “Did she see any friends or anyone else the day she died?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where was Mrs. Cleary on that day?” He wanted to know whether Ellen would confirm what Gerard had told him.

  “Mrs. Cleary had gone, sir.”

  “Where to?”

  “I saw her take the spare carriage and ride off herself. To London, I think it was.”

  Maurice nodded. The vision of the thin housekeeper travelling alone and manning horses startled him somewhat. Perhaps Mrs. Cleary was stronger than he had assumed. “So Mrs. Cleary returned the next morning, is that right?”

  “No, much later. She was gone for two whole days. She was back in the evening after we’d found Miss Vera.”

  “What about the gardener? Shannon said Miss Vera disliked the noise from the fountain. Perhaps she spoke to the gardener the day before she died. Think back. Try to remember.”

  “She might have, sir. Alfred came in that day.”

  Maurice blinked. “Alfred was inside the house?”

  Ellen blushed profusely.

  “Yes, sir. He came in through the servant quarters. He wasn’t inside the house for long. Shannon saw him waiting for Miss Vera. She pestered him to leave.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He said he only wanted to talk to Miss Vera. He argued a bit and got cross.”

  “He got cross, did he?”

  Ellen lowered her gaze and nodded.

  She had now finished her biscuit. She clutched her hands so hard together that the white of her knuckles showed.

  Maurice knew he had to make the young maid feel more at ease.

  “How long have you been at Alexandra Hall, Ellen?”

  “Two years sir. I came not long after the famine began.”

  Maurice tilted his head. “The famine?”

  “Oh yes, sir. In Ireland.”

  “The famine in Ireland, I see. That’s disheartening. I’ve learnt it has carried on for quite some time now. You must be so glad you are here in Alexandra Hall, then.”

  Ellen smiled timidly. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nightingale was awfully nice to take me in. He was a kind man. So sad to have him pass. And so quickly after his wife.”

  “So you like it here, in Alexandra Hall?” asked Maurice, watching keenly for her reaction.

  Ellen’s eyes looked sideways.

  “I do an awful lot. Except that…”

  “Except what? Do you girls argue with Alfred often?”

  Ellen shook her head. She reached for the glass of milk before her and drank.

  “Does Alfred come into the house often? What about that delivery boy?”

  “He’s fine, sir. It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Sometimes…I am afraid,” she said at last, still holding the glass in both hands as though it were a shield and she felt safer with the object in her hands. “I only told Shannon of it. I’ve not told Mrs. Cleary, sir. I wouldn’t want to sound silly and lose my job. You see, I can’t go back home because of the famine. My parents can’t take me.”

  The look of distress in her eyes reminded Maurice of the poverty he had seen in the streets of Paris. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise. What are you afraid of?”

  “Oh dear, no. It is too ungodly for me to speak of it. I cannot. I fear that I might go to hell if I even think of it.”

  In saying this, she clutched tight at her cross as though it might protect her.

  Maurice was unsettled. A cloud of smoke thickened around him as he puffed at his cigar.

  Whenever he interrogated people, silence was his ally. Most people were discomforted by silence and with little coercion, they spoke up to fill it. Sometimes they said irrelevant things and Maurice would then edge them in the right direction until they disclosed useful information. With the quietly spoken Ellen though, silence had no effect.

  “Have you seen a ghost, Ellen?” he blurted.

  Ellen stared back at him. A flash of recognition stamped upon her face.

  “I…I don’t know,” she said. “I saw something, yes.”

  “Is it a person?” asked Maurice, more and more dubious.

  “I don’t know. I’ve had it enter my room once. I was so afraid that I closed my eyes.”

  “When was this?”

  “The night after Sophie Murphy passed away.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I was lying still in my bed. Mary, the girl I sleep with, was fast asleep. But Willy, her little dog began to bark. It woke me. So I opened my eyes and…it was too dark, I couldn’t see anything. But something grabbed my arm…”

  “Did you have a look at it?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t. Please sir, I don’t want Mrs. Cleary to find out what I said. I don’t want to make a fuss. I know what happens to us if we make a fuss. The government, they sent my brother to an Australian penal colony. I’ve no one else in London, now.”

  Maurice had heard of Irish outlaws being transported on British convict ships. Some of these poor souls were sent away for the pettiest crimes.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your brother. It must have been hard for you.”

  “He didn’t mean to steal. He only wanted to get a warm coat for me. We’d no money. We’re not bad people, Mr. Leroux. He just didn’t want to see me cold. But they called him a thief and sent him to Australia.”

  Ellen was on the verge of tears.

  “That’s quite alright. I don’t think for a moment that you’re a bad person, Ellen. I’m sorry to hear of your brother’s fate. Listen, you’ve done nothing wrong. We don’t need to tell Mrs. Cleary anything you’ve shared with me. I promise you. Now tell me again. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone in the room that night? It might have been someone else that grabbed your arm. Perhaps it was Alfred? Or even Gerard?”

  “Oh no, sir. Mr. O’Malley wouldn’t. And it was not Alfred. It felt… repulsive and so cold and… At first, I struggled but it kept holding on to my arm. It wouldn’t let go. I shut my eyes, wishing it to go away. I thought perhaps it would kill me. And then all of a sudden, Willy stopped barking. Then everything went quiet. I felt it slide off my arm and then…”

  “What?”

  “I heard the door shut. When I opened my eyes, it had gone.”

  “And you didn’t see anything?”

  “Not this time.”

  “There was another time?”

  Ellen’s lips were quivering.

  Maurice felt far from France. How deeply he seemed to have sunken into the superstitious English countryside. Ellen was so malnourished that she had reached a state of hysteria. He’d often seen delusions of the sort back home.

  “I’m sure it was nothing, then,” waved Maurice, hoping she would reveal more. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

  Ellen looked pale. Her voice was hoarse as she spoke up. “There was, sir. About a month ago. I’d taken Willy for a walk by the road. I returned to the house. I looked up and…”

  “And what?”

  “I saw a greyish face by the window. It was in Mrs. Nightingale’s bedroom. It was…horrible.”

  Maurice frowned. “You saw a face? Well, it might have been Mrs. Cleary’s.”

  “Oh no, sir. Mr. Nightingale had that room locked up since his wife died. Besides, it was not that kind of face.”

  “Well what sort of face was it, then?”

  “Something quite evil. Wrinkled and dark. It was too far so I couldn’t see it very well. I mean, yes, it had eyes but… it looked nothing like you or me. I can’t… I can’t describe it…”

  She reached for the glass of milk and gulped it down.

  Maurice had been
frustrated up to the point where Ellen described the face in Calista’s bedroom. He thought back to Mrs. Cleary’s own admission. Two women in the house, who seemingly had never revealed their fears to each other, had each confided having seen a ghostly apparition in the house.

  Maurice crushed the last of his cigar in the ashtray and stared at his notes. Something about Ellen’s account had drained him.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Ellen. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Can I go, sir?”

  “Yes, you may. Please send Mary through.”

  Mary

  MAURICE sat alone in the study, drinking tea. He was perplexed to realise that none of the staff he had so far spoken to and who slept at Alexandra Hall possessed the large black and blue eye he had seen through the keyhole overnight. This left Mary and the new maid. Though he could not imagine that the new girl would have dared to come knocking at his door in the middle of the night.

  The study door opened and Mrs. Cleary marched in.

  “Mr. Leroux,” she began. “There is something else I should have mentioned.”

  “What is it?” said Maurice, looking up.

  “It’s about Mary, the maid you’ve asked to speak to.”

  “Yes, please bring her in.”

  “Well I think you ought to know a little bit about her.”

  Maurice took out a file he’d been given by Mr. Wilson and summarised it as he read. “Mary is an orphan. She arrived at Alexandra Hall shortly after your appointment. From the information I’ve been given, the young girl has a sleep condition and the presence of the dog ensures she does not harm herself while sleepwalking. I believe it says here that she’s also a far removed cousin under your charge. Was there anything else Mrs. Cleary?”

  The housekeeper eyed him sternly.

  “You’re well informed,” she replied. “But that is not why I wished to speak with you.”

  She neared the desk and lowered her voice. “She’s a simpleton. Do please be careful how you speak with her. And don’t let the girl lead you astray. Mary is easily impressed. She confuses everything and makes things up.”

  Mrs. Cleary went on to describe Mary’s limitations. At fifteen, Mary’s tasks consisted in folding clothes and collecting dirty linen, sweeping and mopping the floors, and running errands around the house for Mrs. Cleary.