by Laura Rahme
Chapter 10
Saturday
MAURICE was disheartened. The journal found in Aaron’s cabinet contained only bookkeeping records.
Shannon had not overstated Aaron’s orderly streak. He had devised a register for all medications in his oriental cabinet. It allowed him to efficiently identify products on which he ran low and have these restocked as required. Each month, he would jot down the date and the number of pills left for each medical product at that time.
As thorough as it seemed, the journal told Maurice nothing of what he wished to discover. He had no choice. He would need to re-enter the cellar to retrieve the remaining documents. He would have to do this soon, then return the cellar key before Mrs. Cleary awoke. He dreaded her awakening at any moment. If the housekeeper discovered her key missing, she might question the maids, and Shannon would no doubt suspect what Madeleine had been up to in the housekeeper’s bedroom. Maurice had no wish to jeopardise Madeleine’s references.
The cellar door lay in the busy corridor nearest to the kitchen and grand staircase. The maids and the cook often circulated past. It was a huge gamble. Visiting the cellar in full daylight meant there was a high chance someone might see him. Maurice reflected on the maids’ daily tasks, thinking back to all he had observed over the week.
There was a slim period during the afternoon when the corridor was certain to be clear. It was the thirty minutes, just before dinner, when Gerard busied himself in the kitchen while the maids were either in the washing room or upstairs. He only hoped Mrs. Cleary would remain asleep during that time. He would take that risk.
John Nightingale was calling in to Alexandra Hall after lunch and Maurice hoped Aaron’s brother might know the meaning of the cryptic word left in his journal, Ovee.
Jarred by his frightening experience in the cellar, he wandered outside to stretch his legs in the garden. He pondered over the uncanny incidents he had so far witnessed since his arrival. Had he encountered Calista’s spirit in the cellar or was someone in the house playing tricks on him?
He saw things with a different eye since last night. The living took on a surreal aspect, with every line on their skin more salient, every trait more pronounced. Lost in thought, his footsteps drew him in the direction of Calista’s grave.
As he neared the herb garden, he glimpsed a movement behind the hedgerow. With caution, Maurice approached, wary of another encounter with the axe-wielding groundsman. He peered slowly behind the foliage. Alfred’s menacing figure surged from behind the leafy wall.
Maurice shrank back, his pulse racing.
“Alfred?”
“Inspector Leroux.”
The gardener remained near the hedge as though he did not wish to be seen. He held a small parcel in his hands. “Inspector Leroux. I thought I might have a word with you, sir.”
His tone surprised Maurice.
“Certainly.”
Maurice eased past the hedgerow and the two men were soon out of view.
Alfred stared at Maurice for a few seconds.
“That’s a nasty bruise on your eye, sir.”
“Ah, yes. I was a little clumsy last night. Nothing I’m proud of.”
“My, and your temple. You got yourself in a fine shape.”
“I’m afraid it comes with the job.”
Alfred nodded. Then his gaze darkened. “I hear from the young Ellen that Mrs. Cleary isn’t well,” he began.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid she’s ill.”
“Well she won’t know what I’m up to then.”
“What do you mean?”
“See, I meant to tell Miss Vera something before she died.”
“I see. Is that why you entered the house? The day Shannon asked you to leave?”
Alfred nodded.
“See, Miss Sophie and I…we… We had something going on. I thought she was keen on me. She’d send me love notes and leave them in the garden. She was a sweet girl. I never touched her though. I swear it. I’d take the carriage and drive her to town often and we had a fine time together.”
“Did Mrs. Cleary know of this?”
“She didn’t much like it. Kept a sharp eye on Sophie. She’s got eyes everywhere.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Maurice.
Alfred glowered back at him.
“My heart wasn’t in it,” he answered at last. “A few weeks before she died, Sophie let me know she was planning to leave me, see. She was off to London. I was sour for weeks. I hadn’t seen it coming.”
Maurice eyed Alfred suspiciously. In past cases, he’d often found that jilted lovers committed violent crimes. He wondered if the gardener might have murdered Sophie after all. Un crime passionnel?
Alfred interrupted his thoughts.
“Like I said, I was sour about it. I kept to myself for weeks. But the night after Sophie died, Mrs. Cleary tossed away some old things for me to burn.”
Maurice eyed the paper envelope Alfred held in one hand.
“Now I normally don’t pry into people’s things, see, but I recognised some of Sophie’s things,” said the groundsman. “And I wanted to see if there was anything for safekeeping.” He opened the parcel. “I found those.” He held out burnt letters to Maurice. They were charred, save for the dated letterheads.
Maurice held the letters up close. “Did Mrs. Cleary write these?”
“No sir, this ain’t Mrs. Cleary’s writing. It’s Sophie’s writing. The main thing is, you can see the letters are addressed to a Louise March.”
Maurice flinched. Shannon had once alluded to an argument in which Sophie had called Mrs. Cleary, Louise. Why would Sophie choose to write to her own housekeeper? There was only one possibility…
Maurice cleared his throat, conscious of not revealing what he knew. “I see. Judging from the date, they were written a few weeks before Sophie died.”
“Do you know who Louise March is, sir?” asked Alfred. “I guess she never got her letters.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Leave it with me, Alfred. I am sure we can find out who Louise March is.” A glint shone in Maurice’s eye. “Thank you for coming forward. Not a word about these. I appreciate your discretion.”
“Oh, I ain’t speaking of this with anyone, sir. See, I’m the type that says nothing, and before you know it, I have people speak on my behalf. Happens all the time.”
Maurice understood that Alfred had once gone to jail unfairly.
“Why didn’t you speak to Miss Vera about these letters?”
“I tried. But Shannon got in my way. I would have told Miss Vera, but the lady died. And I’m not keen on John Nightingale knowing I was sweet on one of the maids.”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you, Alfred.”
“Have a good day, Inspector.”
After slipping the letters inside his vest, Maurice made his way back to the house. His heart beat fast. He had a growing presentiment about Mrs. Cleary. He would have to confirm it later.
As he neared the front veranda, he saw John Nightingale alighting from his coach. Maurice waited for him by the entrance. While not as dandy as the portraits he had seen of Aaron, John nevertheless cut a dashing figure, even in his late forties. He was well-heeled and his suit was expensive.
“Inspector Leroux,” he called out as the two men found each other by the colonnades. “I’m pleased to finally meet you. I’ve heard only good things about you. And how was your journey from…from…where is it again?”
“Normandy. I’m from Normandy. Delighted.” Maurice shook John’s hand.
“Normandy, of course! What a week! Should we move into the parlour? It’s like a Russian winter out here.”
Maurice sensed that the Englishman’s exuberance was a mere attempt to hide his nervousness. As the two men stepped inside the house and towards the parlour, they continued to exchange civilities.
Maurice was quick to note that Shannon, who until then had been avidly peering out from the entrance hall, found the perfect moment,
in full view of John Nightingale, for ordering Madeleine to bring out a platter of sandwiches.
Maurice had no sooner settled by the chimney, than he was burdened by the house’s cloying atmosphere. The walls oppressed him. He was haunted by his encounter in the cellar, the mysterious scrawl in his journal, and the notion that someone, whoever it was, had entered his room multiple times as he slept.
He eyed the imposing portraits hanging upon the parlour walls. All these faces, how demonic they seemed now, as they stared down at him. He no longer felt at ease in Alexandra Hall. A lingering evil clung to the house. He was suddenly seized by an urge to flee to his room, pack his bags, and travel far away from Alexandra Hall.
He now understood why Mrs. Cleary’s nerves were so shot, or why Ellen remained a pitiful waif despite Gerard’s hearty meals. It was not the famine she had known in past years which kept her thin. It was fear. Fear, ruined her appetite.
John Nightingale drew him out of his dark thoughts.
“Why, Mr. Leroux, you look like you’ve had no rest.”
“That might be true, yes.”
“Well that’s not good. Not good at all. And where is the ever chirpy Mrs. Cleary?” He pronounced the word chirpy to convey that it was entirely unlike Mrs. Cleary.
Maurice attempted to smile.
“I’m afraid she is unwell. She took to bed early yesterday and hasn’t been seen since.”
And I hope she stays asleep for a while, thought Maurice as he anticipated his visit to the cellar.
“Oh. Well that’s unfortunate. I was hoping to speak with her about terms of appointment.”
“The shock of the last months, I suppose,” lied Maurice.
“I was told she’s rarely ill. Solid nerves. The only time was after my sister-in-law passed away. Mrs. Cleary doted on Calista. In one of his letters, Aaron told me she was inconsolable and kept to her room for days.”
“Speaking of your brother, tell me, Mr. Nightingale, do you think it not peculiar he would amend his will to ensure you wouldn’t be permitted here for another six months? I remain sincerely baffled by this. It is a rather odd number, isn’t it? I mean why six months? Are you not concerned about this?”
Though he fought to conceal his anxiety, Maurice’s mind raced. For a man as organised as Aaron to suddenly adjust his will moments before his death, puzzled him. What had he been hiding?
“Honestly, I am not,” said John. “My brother was quite the eccentric. Vera and I remained in the dark about his business. What I do know, is that he had marvellous taste in women.”
Maurice reflected.
“Did he ever mention something about Ovee?”
John shook his head. “I’m sorry, did you say, Ovee?”
“Yes, does it remind you of anything?”
“No. I’ve never heard of that. What is it?”
“I was hoping you might know.”
“I can’t say that I do.”
Maurice was disappointed.
John stood, seemingly aloof. He faced an antique cabinet and opened the front panels.
“Now, I believe…” he said, searching for something. “Mind you, I’ve not been to Alexandra Hall since the wedding. Now where was it? Aha! I knew he had some!”
He pulled out a tray of crystal glasses then helped himself out of a decanter of brandy.
Madeleine had since breezed in, carrying a tray of fresh brioche buns filled with salmon and cream cheese. She placed the tray on the coffee table. Before leaving, she eyed Maurice insistently as though to enquire if he had finished with the cellar key. She seemed anxious to return it.
“You seem to know this place quite well, Mr. Nightingale,” observed Maurice. Glancing back at Madeleine, he quietly shook his head and mouthed a ‘no’.
The maid walked out just as John sat back down.
“Call me John, please. Yes. Yes, you might say so. I helped build it, you see. It was a challenge to say the least. Aaron and his ideas.” He leaned forward. “Now Mr. Leroux, how is your investigation progressing? Are you as dumbfounded as we all are? I myself have given up. I wish only to believe that my sister fell, just like the poor maid. No point delving into it. Nature takes its course as Aaron would say. I’m far too tired to grieve all over again. Bless her, she didn’t have much of a life, my sister. There’s a point where marriage is an altogether forgotten prospect. And when you’ve not married, well… It’s a man’s world out there. If you ask me, she is in a happier place, now.”
“This investigation is not progressing much, I’m afraid,” lied Maurice, concealing his secret visit to the cellar. “I feel I’ve only been scratching at the surface. I’m beginning to think that…”
Say it. You think Vera’s death defies the laws of nature. You think Calista killed her. Say it!
No. He wasn’t ready. He still had to ascertain what Aaron had been working on in the cellar. “Mr. Nightingale, I wanted to ask you what you knew of your brother’s work. According to Mrs. Cleary, he was involved in quite an important project with his wife. Right up to his own death. Did you ever go in his cellar?”
John drank another mouthful of brandy. He emitted a sigh and reclined in his armchair. “And here I was hoping you’d ask me about the house’s architecture. Blasted Aaron, even when he’s no longer among us, he still manages to attract all the attention.”
“I’m sorry,” said Maurice, detecting the envy in John’s voice.
“Don’t be. I’m only joking.” John’s face turned grave. “I’ve never been down in that cellar. It was out of bounds for professional reasons.”
“Tell me more about your brother.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything. Your memories of his personality. Who he was as a man. What he did. Surely you must know something.”
John reflected. “As a child, Aaron was easily fascinated. Never knew anyone so enthused by how things worked, so entirely obsessed with ideas. He wouldn’t leave it alone.”
“We all have our obsessions. Why was his any different?” asked Maurice.
“Yes, that’s quite the truth, isn’t it? But Aaron was frighteningly intense. I still have a letter he sent me while he attended medical lectures in France. He carried on about a book he’d read. Franken… Franken something…”
“Frankenstein?”
“That’s the one. He was utterly enthralled by the idea… And he would not leave it alone for months. And long before that, when we were children, if something caught his imagination, he’d be unstoppable. What else? He’d try to teach our dogs some tricks. Poor creatures. He’d pester them, alright…”
“I see,” said Maurice, recalling the medical cabinet and the disturbing jars in the cellar. “He was a doctor, I understand?”
“You could call it that,” replied John. “And you know, I’d always known he’d become one. I just could not guess what sort of doctor. For a man of science, you see, he had this enormous faith in the mystical. It bordered on professional heresy. And it worsened over the years. Ever heard of animal magnetism?”
Maurice shook his head. “I don’t know. Vaguely. I think we had an Austrian in France once who was an expert on the subject. Or was he German? I don’t remember.”
“Precisely. His name was Mesmer. Aaron read everything about him, about this animal magnetism. And then… he never let it go. He believed in the inner powers within each one of us. Anyway, I digress. Forgive me. But you get a sense of things, don’t you? Aaron and his interests.”
Maurice began to wonder whether John knew more of Aaron’s work than he chose to say. “And over the years, then, what did he get up to, your brother? What was he working on?”
“Well, I’m afraid that when he graduated, I was no longer privy to his activities. If there’s one thing I learnt over the years it’s that there was no use prying into Aaron’s business. He’d be more than generous, he’d come to my aid, and as a brother he was as supportive as they come, but if he ever dealt with the devil, then I sure wouldn’t
know it. Manner of speaking of course.” He interrupted himself and stared grimly at the walls.
“Mr. Nightingale, why was your brother so secretive about this cellar? Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you? I mean why go to such pains to hide what is in it?”
“I do not know.” There was a new tremor in John’s voice. Maurice wondered whether John feared what he might eventually discover about his brother. It seemed he deliberately shunned the truth.
“Surely you must recall something of it,” insisted Maurice. “Anything. A man with such strong obsessions permits certain words and ideas to slip out of his lips at times.”
John thought for a moment. “The only thing I do remember is that when we built this house, Aaron was adamant that the fountain be connected to the cellar.”
“The fountain outside?”
“Yes. You see, there is a system of pipes running down the fountain and into the cellar. That, I remember. Is anything the matter?”
“No, nothing. Nothing at all. Please continue.”
“It was Aaron’s vision; inexplicable to me, of course. But in the grand scheme of things, I’m only the engineer and Aaron was the eldest so there was no point arguing. We ordered that gorgeous custom made fountain from Italy. And once he’d moved in, Aaron wanted the water pump to operate at all times. That stone fish you see leaping above the fountain has always had water pouring out of its mouth for as long as I remember.” He laughed nervously. “I admit, there’s nothing ingenious about it. After all, for centuries, numerous French chateaux have possessed similar fixtures in their gardens. But it took a certain know-how.”
“I fail to understand, Mr. Nightingale. As an engineer, is it not pertinent of you to ask questions? Why do you think Aaron wished it done that way?”
John looked piqued. “Isn’t it curious how one can feel proud of one’s achievements and yet have not a clue what they’ve been used for? That’s a dangerous idea, right there.” He gave a half-smile.
“It sounds to me like you didn’t want to know,” cut in Maurice.
“Well, what would you have me do? Interrogate my own brother? For Pete’s sake, it was only a fountain.” John had dropped the easy going façade. He now seemed irritated. “I always suspected he had it built for Calista,” he said at last. “She loved the ocean. I’m sure that pretty tiled work reminded her of her home in Greece.”
