by Laura Rahme
He sighed. In France as in England, it was the same. Unless one committed infanticide or aborted an unborn, one could get away with terrible crimes against a child, thought Maurice. Abandonment, malnourishment and beatings, everyone turned a blind eye. To Maurice, the thought of a child being mistreated was gut-wrenching. Hearing their pain awoke his memories. It made him feel like someone had ripped out his insides.
He turned to Madeleine as though she’d been privy to his thoughts. “Did you hear anything, mademoiselle? I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Those shrieks could scarcely be ignored.”
Madeleine clutched at her broom, barely meeting Maurice’s gaze. There was a quiet look of guilt in her expression. “I was hoping this would not happen with you here,” was all she said. Maurice gratefully noted that the playful manner she had sported last night had vanished.
“Mrs. Cleary beats her, doesn’t she?” he asked.
Madeleine nodded, self-conscious. “She has formerly adopted Mary. She is her guardian.”
Maurice shook his head, more outraged than ever. “How often does this happen?” His voice vibrated in anger.
“Once a week…maybe. Sometimes more. On my first week here, she beat her frightfully with a leather thong. I tried to comfort Mary afterwards. I offered to take her with me to London when I leave. But she was unwilling to speak of it. I think she lives in her own world half the time.”
“And so no one does anything about it...” Maurice was barely audible. He took another puff and stared out onto the road.
Madeleine examined him thoughtfully until a knowing light shone in her eyes.
The case of Vera Nightingale’s body
IN the late afternoon, Maurice received a visit from Dr Hart. Under the supervision of the local coroner, Dr Hart had performed both autopsies and inspected the bodies of Sophie Murphy and Vera Nightingale. He was a man in his mid-sixties. His broad beard and long white hair gave him the appearance of a bespectacled lion. He’d heard from Mr. Wilson that Maurice was French and seemed more enthusiastic about meeting him than discussing the case.
He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, as he greeted Maurice. “Monsieur Leroux, jay swee enchantay,” he said with the joyful mirth of someone who enjoyed practicing his French.
Maurice shook his hand. “Thank you for coming, Dr Hart.”
“My pleasure. That’s the extent of what I remember, I’m afraid,” replied the doctor in self-derision. He laughed.
“You used to speak French?”
“Peninsular War,” said Hart, proudly. “I was in Portugal and then Spain when Wellington led the British against your countrymen. I picked up a few phrases. Oh, it’s a long time ago, now. Back then I was only a young lad and the sight of blood scared me. But I befriended the French prisoners. All good men.”
“I might have been seven at most at the time. I’ve since heard we didn’t treat the Spaniards very well.”
“Wars are always so messy. You French had a hard time, Monsieur Leroux. Still, there’s nothing like peaceful times, ay?”
“Indeed.”
“And your English is marvellous. Marvellous. You put me to shame.”
They moved inside the parlour where Ellen brought in some tea. She placed the platter on a low table before leaving the two men alone.
“Now, doctor,” said Maurice, “I’ve only been given a brief report of the manner in which these two unfortunate women died. I would appreciate it if you could supplement with what you know.”
Dr Hart retrieved papers from a leather case.
“Yes. Where shall we start? You’re absolutely right. The first victim was only twenty. Such a shame. Let’s see.” He studied his notes and recollected the details. “Sophie Murphy bore a severe wound to her head, a wound caused by a blunt object,” he began. “If we are to assume her death was an accident, which, I am told is the official story Mr. Wilson gave her parents, then she must have hit her head upon the balustrade as she fell. She seemed otherwise to be a perfectly healthy young woman. I found no signs of trauma on her body.”
“No bruises on the rest of her body?”
“That’s right. And certainly not the bruises one would expect to find had she truly tumbled from the top of the stairs.” He gave Maurice a complicit look. “But I’m unfortunately not at liberty to say this to her parents. On the other hand, she might have fallen straight down and then bore the full impact upon her skull. You see the skull showed signs of fracture to one side only.”
Maurice reflected on this.
“Dr Hart, could you rule out that someone might have fatally struck Sophie Murphy and that she did not fall off the staircase at all?”
The doctor nodded emphatically. “It is highly possible, monsieur. I do not rule it out.”
“Thank you. What of Miss Vera Nightingale?”
“Ah. Vera Nightingale.” The doctor removed his glasses and sighed. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful fashion as though deliberating on what he might say and how to say it.
“The report I was given indicates she died of asphyxiation,” reminded Maurice. “No wounds.”
“Yes. The report is still valid. What I’ve not mentioned, and perhaps it is because I am unable to draw conclusions, is the curious condition in which I found Vera Nightingale’s body.” His cheerfulness had left him and he now appeared wary.
“Curious? What do you mean?” asked Maurice.
“It sounds perplexing, I know.” Dr Hart gulped his tea. He took a deep breath. “I am afraid I can offer no hypothesis as to the meaning of my findings. But in the spirit of professionalism, I should share with you what I’ve discovered. Mon cher Leroux, the one thing that astounded me upon inspecting Vera Nightingale, was the thin aqueous film which covered her entire neck and face. An unusual substance.”
A knowing glint shone in Maurice’s eyes, but he bit his lip. He thought back to the wet trail he had wiped off the floorboards upstairs and the moisture across his sheets. He had to remain discreet. “Where had it come from?” he asked.
The doctor shook his head gravely. “I’m unfortunately unable to explain its origin. It was colourless, of remarkable cohesiveness, slippery and…wet.”
“Wet? You mean, like a liquid? A glistening liquid?” Maurice could scarcely repress the agitation in his voice.
Dr Hart almost looked frightened. “I would say so,” he whispered back. “But there is more to this, Monsieur Leroux. This same film covered the membranes inside her nose. And…if you will excuse me…” He lowered his voice. “There were traces of it in her lungs also.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. “You believe this film played a part in Vera Nightingale’s death?”
“Ah, it is most confounding. You see, Miss Vera most certainly died of lack of air,” insisted Dr Hart, shaking his head. “As for the presence of that film, what it could be, and how it came to find itself on her face, let alone in her lungs, I am afraid I am much in the dark.”
These last words plunged Maurice into a deep introspection. Dr Hart was quick to notice this.
“Monsieur Leroux, please don’t take too much to heart. I can see this case is taking its toll upon your health. Enjoy this life. We only have one. You look so burdened.”
“I’m not sleeping very well here,” confided Maurice.
“Yes. I can see that,” nodded the doctor. “Take care of yourself, Monsieur Leroux.”
Long after Dr Hart had mounted his carriage and returned to Reading Town, Maurice remained in a daze, perplexed by the curious events in the house. When it came to Vera Nightingale’s death, nothing made sense. He was left confused by the doctor’s revelations.
The foreign liquid he’d found on his sheets this morning, the black and blue eye he could not match with any person inside the house, and now, this curious film on Vera Nightingale’s body – all these details puzzled Maurice. He wondered whether the maids had partly spoken true, and if there was something uncanny about Alexandra Hall.
Yet he refused to enterta
in the superstitions of Irish women. He could imagine the impressionable maid, Ellen, asserting that Calista’s spirit roamed at night, and that her wet spectral form left a trail wherever it passed. Maurice shook his head. Such an idea was far removed from everything he knew. French enlightened society had long evolved. It no longer held such beliefs.
His ponderings drew him halfway up the grand staircase, very near Calista’s portrait, just as Madeleine trotted down with a bundle of dirty linen.
“What colour are those eyes?” he asked, facing the oil painting.
“Well good evening to you, too, Mr. Leroux,” replied Madeleine.
Maurice pointed to the portrait with a startling urgency.
“Take a look at them. Please. What colour are those eyes?”
Madeleine pouted. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned her body forward and squinted to better take in the delicate brush strokes.
“It’s hard to make out…” she began. “But I would say…black with a little blue.”
And upon her words, Maurice’s jaw tensed and he fell silent. He gripped the balustrade tight, deep in thoughts.
Madeleine looked satisfied. “Yes, most certainly a blend of black and blue. A pretty lady, ain’t she? So sad.” She turned to Maurice and gasped. “What is the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stared at him, slightly mocking.
Maurice inched closer to her. “I will take your offer,” he whispered into her ear. “I need to get inside that cellar.”
Madeleine laughed. “Is that a new trick to pull me close and kiss me?”
“I am serious. Can you fetch me the key?”
Madeleine blinked. “Are you asking me a favour, Mr. Leroux?” she teased, still rolling the r of his name.
“When can you get it?”
“Hmm… that will depend. What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you later!” she chimed, suddenly withdrawing and dashing down the steps. Maurice looked up and saw Mrs. Cleary staring at them from atop the stairs.
How long had she stood there, he wondered. Maurice acknowledged her with a nod then stepped downstairs, affecting a casual air. As he returned to the parlour, he was quietly excited about outsmarting the housekeeper. He wondered what he would find in the cellar.
The closet
HER foreign traits, those large melancholic eyes and even the expression on her face – Calista’s portrait haunted Maurice. He could not find rest, let alone sleep.
As he ran his mind through all he had witnessed and learnt, he could not escape the vision of that portrait by the grand staircase. The more Maurice pondered, the more Calista’s eyes returned to haunt him. Black and blue. Yet he knew nothing of the Greek woman who had arrived in England ten years ago prior to her death. Except…
He closed his eyes, recalling Ellen’s testimony. The maid had revealed how in full daylight, she had once seen a hideous face staring at her from Calista’s locked bedroom. Yet when he had entered this very room on Tuesday morning, he had seen nothing out of the ordinary.
Except those stained dresses, thought Maurice. Yes, what about those stained dresses?
As in all households, he assumed the maids soaked clothes in a steaming tub in the washroom near the commons kitchen. For the more delicate clothing, he’d seen Mrs. Cleary bundle up linen and send it off to a laundress in Reading Town.
Why would a woman who lived in such refined surroundings choose to put away numerous stained dresses and leave them to rot in her closet? Maurice’s eyes sprung open.
Because she was hiding the stain. Or perhaps…the origin of the stains. Think, Maurice. This project inside the cellar, whatever its nature, it must have caused those stains. Calista would have climbed upstairs as soon as she emerged from the cellar. If so, perhaps she regularly washed those dresses herself.
Of course, thought Maurice. Calista had been ill, unable to tend to her own laundry for weeks. Then following her death, no one had washed her clothing. The dresses had been left untouched.
There was a secret to Calista Nightingale after all.
It was not yet midnight when Maurice crept out of his room, lamp in hand. The night’s chill clung to his robe as he turned the corridor and followed the stair balustrade to Calista’s bedroom. In his free hand, he clutched at the large eighteenth century key. Trembling slightly, he inserted it.
Taking a deep breath, Maurice turned the key.
He stepped inside.
There was a furtive movement to his left, behind the drapes. He hefted his lantern high towards the window. Nothing moved. In the distance, he heard a crow’s caw. It must have been a bird flapping its wings outside, thought Maurice. At least, there was no spirit staring out the window.
Stepping towards the bed, he was made aware of an unpleasant odour. It was strange. He recalled that the room had been perfumed with jasmine on his first visit. All around him now, were hints of the sea breeze…no, something else. Maurice often walked the long beaches of his native Normandy, and whenever the algae washed up along the shore, a strong salty tang lingered in the air.
That’s what it was. As though death had clothed itself in algae, then reached out from the sea to stain this bedroom, dragging it into the ocean’s depths. At first he could not explain why the scent filled him with such dread, but then, he knew. He had smelt it before. Last night, in my room.
Maurice’s heartbeat quickened. No. He would not succumb to the same hysteria as the Irish housemaids. Ellen was awfully malnourished. It was no wonder she was delirious and prone to follies, no wonder she invented. As for Mrs. Cleary’s visions, he now suspected they resulted from drug taking.
His light caught the coloured pieces glowing on the baroque bedside table. Maurice neared the table and flashed his lamp above it. He’d not seen the shattered porcelain figures the first time. He brought the light to each broken piece and guessed what had been a young shepherdess, then a couple of sheep, and last, a well-dressed gentleman.
Maurice recalled Shannon’s concerns for the Nightingale couple. She had been persuaded that Calista resented her husband at least a year before her death. Had Aaron and Calista fought in this room?
Maurice imagined Aaron in a sudden fury, smashing the porcelain figures. But then Ellen’s voice echoed in his mind. Such a nice man, Aaron was. So kind. The vision vanished.
The floorboards creaked behind him. Maurice turned, flashing his lamp onto the wall opposite the window, searching. Scattered by the lace drapes, the moonlight drew random dancing spots along the flowered wallpaper.
The timber moaned once more and Maurice knew – there was a presence here, right here, in this room. Whatever it was, it had visited him on previous nights and brought with it this smell that so resembled the ocean.
I know it is you, thought Maurice, despite his will to deny superstition. No, he would not drift into madness. He would not say her name.
His eye travelled to the tall closet by the vanity table. If he could seize one of Calista’s dresses, perhaps Madeleine might deduce the origin of the stain?
Maurice flinched. Something was wrong.
He remembered closing both panels during his first visit. There was no doubt that he had shut them for he had been horrified by the stench of the soiled fabric.
Now, as he approached, he could see that one of the doors was ajar. Maurice felt a chill down his spine.
“Calista…” he whispered.
It was foolish to expect her to respond but he believed that by calling out her name, he could show her that he knew who she was. He could acknowledge her presence.
Maurice trembled.
“Calista, is that you?”
Right before his eyes, the left closet door slowly opened. Maurice blinked. How was this possible? Had he lost his mind? But he knew the answer was there, all along. Why did he not choose to accept it? Perhaps Aaron Nightingale had died, not of the grief that followed his wife’s death, but of a similar cause as Sophie Murphy and hi
s sister, Vera. Perhaps a supernatural force played a part in all three deaths…
Calista was here. He felt it, though a shadow of doubt clouded his mind.
He raised his waning lamp, peering into the gloom. The dim light flickered over the hanging fabric, causing a shimmer of silks and taffetas, in red, blue, and black. Maurice breathed fast. He could see nothing.
Until the other closet door swung open on its own. It made a malignant creaking noise. In that instant, all Maurice’s doubts vanished.
He stepped back, shaking with fright. He flung himself outside, fumbled for the key, and closed the door. Behind him, he heard both closet panels slam shut. There was a thumping sound inside the bedroom, and then the floorboards groaned as though something moved towards the door just as he locked it. A shadow of himself, Maurice fled to his room.
Chapter 8
Friday
MAURICE could hear singing outside his room. Lulled by the soothing voice, he rose from his sleep. Dark images of algae, the beach on a starless night, and the murky ocean – they faded from his mind. His eyes blinked open and daylight brought him back to Alexandra Hall. He lay there, recalling what he had seen in Calista’s room. He reached out a hand and felt for the water glass he usually placed on the bedside table. Finding nothing, Maurice lifted his head.
The near empty glass sat near the table’s edge. Water had collected in pools across the table and the rug was sodden with it.
A jolt saw him spring to his feet. Clad in his nightrobe, he pushed his feet into his shoes and threw open the bedroom door. He found Madeleine humming a melody as she polished each of the staircase banisters.
“Were you in my room this morning, mademoiselle?” asked Maurice.
Madeleine looked amused. “Why, Mr. Leroux. Who do you take me for?”
“I… My water glass. It was moved. Somebody…somebody came into my room last night. Was it you, mademoiselle?”
Madeleine erupted into light laughter. “Had I visited your room, you certainly would have known,” she said cheekily.
