by Laura Rahme
Maurice sensed John’s guilt. “Aaron was certainly a visionary,” he said, hoping to uncover more.
“Oh, yes. When he wasn’t hiring stray cats to buy their loyalty, he also liked to surround himself with great minds. Always did. You know, he invited a notable scientist at his wedding in the year after he returned from Greece. And blasted, she was a clever woman. I forget her name. Aaron was all over her, manner of speaking of course. He didn’t remain a moment with his new wife. And the two discussed something for hours over cake and champagne.”
“What were they talking about? It might give us a hint about his work.”
“Well, funny you ask. Their conversation actually began about the fountain and... it digressed. But I remember Aaron questioning her about some device, a contraption of some kind.”
“What device?”
“I’m sorry, it escapes me. I dismissed it as some Frankenstein fancy of his and at the time, I had taken on the role of entertaining the guests. But he did take her down there.”
“Where?”
“In the cellar. They excused themselves for half an hour.”
“Who was this woman?”
“I honestly cannot remember. But like you, she was French. She’d just returned from a long stay in the Mediterranean. I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask Mrs. Cleary. She remembers names, that one.”
“Your brother had many secrets, Mr. Nightingale,” said Maurice darkly. “I’ll be honest with you. It would not surprise me if the deaths in this house are linked to him.”
John nodded. “You know that’s just the thing about Aaron. Here you are, believing you are investigating two sudden deaths but you’re beginning to understand that Aaron, himself, is his own mystery waiting to be solved. Is that not the case, Mr. Leroux? Do you not see what this house is? I’ve learnt over the years that possessions are a reflection of their owner. But knowing Aaron, he didn’t just fashion Alexandra Hall as his trophy home, it’s likely much more than that. Look at these portraits. Better still, at all the animals. You must learn to interpret them a little more. I’ve tried and I can’t. Anyway, maybe you’ll soon be able to answer this question for me: with a brilliant mind such as his, why did my brother kill himself?”
Maurice was taken aback. “What do you mean? He killed himself?”
“A family secret. No one knows of it and no one is to know. The coroner found traces of poison in Aaron’s body.”
“I did not know this,” was all Maurice could reply. His mind raced. He had fixated on the notion that whoever had caused Sophie and Vera’s deaths, might have also killed Aaron. But poison was in no way the work of a spirit. “How do we know someone did not poison your brother?” he asked, eyeing John with suspicion.
“I know what you are implying by this, Inspector Leroux, but you are misled. My brother took that poison himself. He knew he was dying. He had the time to change his will, right before expiring. He’d locked himself in his bedroom the whole time. There was no one with him when Mrs. Cleary summoned a locksmith to force open the door.”
“I see.” Maurice fell silent.
“Alas, if only you could see.” John appeared to drown his fear in another mouthful of brandy.
Maurice remembered the cellar and peeked sideways at the clock. Gerard would soon be preparing dinner. It might be the only time he could re-enter the underground chamber, unseen. Already a chill worked down his spine at the thought of descending that narrow stairwell.
“Is there anything else you might know about Aaron’s work, Mr. Nightingale? I find it impossible to rule out that whatever occupied your brother may be related to these deaths. And, I suppose now, to his own.”
John seemed to recollect something. “Aaron would often ask me to collect things for him from London over the years.” He paused. He looked grim and stared down at his empty crystal glass.
“What kind of things?”
“Well. Let’s see…” John stood and poured himself another brandy. “Are you sure you don’t want one, Mr. Leroux?”
Maurice saw exactly what had driven John up to now, and why he remained so evasive. It was guilt. The Nightingales’ instinct for preserving their reputation was undeniable. “I don’t like alcohol,” he replied.
“Why, Inspector, that’s unheard of for a Frenchman. Why is that?”
Maurice waved away the question. “It…disagrees with me,” he mumbled.
“Suit yourself.” John replaced the liquor into the cabinet and swirled his glass before sitting back down. “Look around you. All those faces. You can see his obsession can’t you? He’d see something and he just had to have it. It didn’t matter if he had something of the kind already, he desired it in another colour or another shape. He was a collector of things. And when those things bored him, he looked elsewhere. Aaron liked to import exotic shipments.”
Maurice thought back to the numerous stacked boxes in the cellar. “How did you help your brother?”
“I helped supervise the shipments. I signed with my name because he was very clever that way. And in that period there were packages by the dozen.”
“You mean, all those masks, the ivory tusks, the antique books in the library, the Abyssinian artefacts? The scimitars in the rooms upstairs?”
“Those? God, no. I mean illegal shipments. Consignments that needed to somehow evade customs unless of course someone bribed custom officials. If you’d forced open a box, who knows, you might have found a dead African’s teeth or perhaps a skull, and I’m afraid that would only be the start. But to be quite frank, Maurice, I still have no idea what Aaron was up to. I’m sure it was harmless in the scheme of things. It’s not like Aaron murdered anyone.”
Maurice reflected on those words. Something John had said bothered him. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Perhaps they were gifts,” suggested John, catching Maurice’s frown.
He was filling the silence now, thought Maurice. It was the guilt again.
“I recall that on three occasions,” continued John, “a shipment arrived with some mysterious lettering. It was a small package. If my memory is correct, there were three of those over the years. Each time, Aaron assured me they were for Calista.”
“Do you know what it might have contained?” asked Maurice, attempting to hide his agitation. He had just looked at the clock and was running out of time.
“No. I really can’t say. It was a fragile consignment. We had to be especially careful transporting it from the ship to here. And we had to do so in a timely fashion.”
“You never looked inside it, yet you seem to vividly recall that particular package. Why is that?”
“Well, it was Aaron who behaved strangely those times. He sent me letters daily. He was anxious to find out if it had arrived. I was to bring it to Alexandra Hall the minute I learnt of its arrival. That’s Aaron for you. I was his little page boy.” John swallowed the last of his brandy and stared at a portrait on the wall. “My God, those are frightening.”
“One more thing, Mr. Nightingale,” began Maurice.
“What would you like to know?”
“Did your brother ever speak about his wife? I mean, Calista. Did he ever… I mean, did he confide in you about anything?”
“How do you mean? About her illness?”
“No. I mean. Just in general… about their marriage. Did they…argue often? Did he say anything at all?”
“Only that she was cursed.”
John blurted out the words before biting his lip. He stared silently at Maurice who had gone pale. Taking a deep breath, John revised what he had said.
“She could not have children. That’s what I meant.”
Return to the cellar
JOHN Nightingale was content to linger in the parlour with another drink in hand while awaiting dinner. Maurice excused himself. He quietly crept towards the empty corridor by the staircase. Aside from echoes of female voices in the commons, not a soul stirred. The maids tended to their chores and would likely not intercept him. H
e glimpsed Gerard’s busy silhouette through the French doors of the kitchen, then looked at his watch. He had exactly half an hour.
The presence he had seen last night, on his first visit to the cellar, filled him with fear. Would Calista’s spirit reveal itself once more? He dreaded another encounter.
Lamp in hand, Maurice leaned quietly against the cellar door and worked at the lock. A flurry of white hair dashed across the checkered tiles. Before he knew it, Willy bounced at his feet, more playful than ever, its tiny pink tongue searching for his hands. As the dog gave a sharp bark, Maurice felt a jolt of panic. He lowered himself to Willy.
“Hush, you!” He pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head. Willy made joyful leaps to lick Maurice’s hand. “No. No more playing for today,” whispered Maurice. He gestured frantically towards the commons. “Go,” he ordered gently. “Go find Mary.”
The dog hesitated. It looked up at Maurice, wagging its woolly tail and panting loudly.
“Go find Mary,” encouraged Maurice. To his relief, Willy darted out to the washing room.
Without a second to lose, Maurice tore open the cellar door and rushed inside. He ceased thinking. He all but ran through the dark passage and down the stairs. As always, the confined spaces tormented him, but he fought off the sensation. He focused on the steps, paying no attention to the cloying walls or memories. He could hear the sound of his own frightened breath down the passage and the clatter of the lamp as it shook with each step.
Maurice had reached the chamber. He paused, hands on his knees, to recover from his manic race. As he looked down, he noted how wet the ground seemed. While the chamber was a humid place, more so than the rest of the house, this was not what he remembered. The floor’s surface glistened under the lamp’s glow. He shone the light across. Moisture, which had been absent on his first visit, now ran across the floor, all the way to the disturbed boxes. Feeling a chill inch down his spine, Maurice neared the trunks, fearing the worse.
Nothing stirred. The presence that had so frightened him last night was nowhere in sight. Relieved, he rearranged the empty trunks, peering behind them in passing. Nothing. Maurice shone the lamp around the cellar, weary of seeing a rising shadow. Again, nothing.
Nothing except… His eyes were drawn to the table, then to Aaron’s medical case. They caught the shape of several metal objects that should not have been there. Maurice raised his lamp, in disbelief.
The missing spoons from the kitchen cabinet. Seven of them. Maurice was certain they were not present yesterday. Someone had placed them on the table overnight.
Had Mrs. Cleary been right all along? Had Calista’s ghost taken spoons from the kitchen and now returned them? But why? And how? He recalled that several spoons had been found near Vera’s body. Whoever had taken these had likely used them to cause Vera’s fall, even if she had later died of suffocation. Maurice was wary. In the event Calista had never taken those objects, then who had? And who had entered the cellar after him?
He was running out of time. Upstairs, the corridor by the cellar would only remain clear for a few minutes. Maurice turned to the oriental cabinet and pulled open the third drawer. All of Aaron’s work was recorded here. At least, he hoped. Retrieving the remaining two large leather-bound journals, Maurice secured them under his coat.
A sly creaking sound rose from the stairwell behind him. Maurice whipped his head round. He had left the door to the basement unlocked. He hoped Willy had not lured any of the maids to it. His pulse raced as he wondered what he’d heard. Was it Mrs. Cleary? He drew nearer to the stairs and waited. After a few minutes, he shone his lamp within, but there was no one there.
He was about to return upstairs, when he remembered the pipes John had described, and which linked the fountain to the cellar. Curious, Maurice neared the unusual glass furniture he had bumped into the night before, and which he knew to be nearest the fountain outside. The water-filled case was larger than he remembered: ten feet in length and three feet wide. Maurice flashed his lamp around it and searched across the back wall. At last, he found it. Above, jutting out from the stone wall and immersed into the water, were two steel pipes.
Maurice stared at those pipes, more and more confused. He only hoped the journals would reveal all.
Mrs. Cleary Sleeps
JOHN stayed for dinner, a little perplexed that Mrs. Cleary was still confined to her room. Eager to curry favour with a potential employer, Shannon, who had steadfastly waited on the entire meal, used that opportunity to assure him they were managing quite well in Mrs. Cleary’s absence. John downed his seventh drink before announcing he was taking his leave. He promised he would return early in the next week to speak with the housekeeper.
Maurice accompanied him to the entrance hall, worried that in his drunken state, the Englishman might fall and hurt himself. As they stood by the glass doors, John leaned against the wall to steady himself. He seemed to remember something. He turned abruptly to the detective.
“Jeannette Power,” he slurred.
“Pardon?”
“The name of that French woman, the scientist… the one who came to Aaron’s wedding. She’s married to an Irishman. That’s why I couldn’t remember her last name. I forgot it wasn’t French.”
“I see. Is this woman still in England?”
“No, she’s long returned to her native France.” John teetered onto the veranda. “Well, best of luck with your investigation, Inspector. Hopefully by next month, you’ll all still be alive.”
There was, in John’s last words, a dark humour reflecting an unsettled mind. The Englishman had lost three members of his family in the space of barely a year.
Maurice watched him totter along the path toward the awaiting coach, then closed the doors.
He longed to read Aaron’s journals but he had to find Madeleine and give her the cellar key.
As he passed the commons, he could not help overhear an agitated conversation between the maids.
“We have to help. She is still ill,” insisted Shannon. “I just came by her room with a tisane but she was sound asleep.”
“How would you know for sure?” asked Ellen.
“I waved my hand across her eyes,” insisted Shannon.
“She’s an addict, no doubt,” volunteered Madeleine.
“Mind your manners,” warned Shannon in a senior tone.
Madeleine pressed her tongue against her cheek, stifling an urge to speak her mind with a less diplomatic tone. “I’m only saying that she’s taken those pills again,” she said.
“She needs her rest,” snapped Shannon. “This month has been difficult for all of us. You, miss, were not here all year, so you have not a clue what she’s been through since Mrs. Nightingale passed away.”
The maids fell silent just as Maurice walked past.
He managed a nod towards Madeleine and hid himself into the kitchen to wait for her. She came in afterward, armed with a broom as though to sweep the kitchen floor.
“What are those pills you mentioned?” questioned Maurice, keeping his voice low.
Madeleine kept her eyes on her broom and whispered back. “You can’t miss them. They were by her bed when I entered the room. She’s been taking them for as long as I’ve been here. At this rate, they’ll only make her terrors worse.” She turned to him. “Mr. Leroux, did you go down there?”
Maurice nodded.
“And what did you see?” She studied the recent wounds on his face.
“I am not sure yet.”
Sensing his reserve, Madeleine did not insist. “I’m afraid I can’t return the key this evening,” she said. “Shannon has given us more chores. She’s been watching me closely all day. Knowing her, she’ll report anything odd to Mrs. Cleary. You must do it yourself. Do it while Mrs. Cleary is still asleep. Slip it in the hidden right pocket of her black dress. It is hanging on the chair by the bed. Be quick about it.” Madeleine resumed her sweeping, actress all the way.
Maurice left the kitchen. He climbed
the stairs to Mrs. Cleary’s room. The door was slightly ajar. He slipped in.
The sound of Mrs. Cleary’s restful breathing rose like a murmur. Her face was turned towards the door. Beneath the bulge of her white bonnet, were loose tuffs of black and grey, framing a creased forehead. Her lips were perpetually pinched, even in sleep. Her eyes were wide open.
Maurice shuddered. He expected the housekeeper to startle awake but Shannon was right. Mrs. Cleary was fast asleep.
By the dim glow of a candle on the bedside table, Maurice quickly saw that Mrs. Cleary’s room, while Spartan, was nowhere near as tidy as he had imagined it. By the bedside table nearest the housekeeper’s face, he glimpsed the pills Madeleine had described. There was a tiny jar that for an instant seemed familiar. It lay opened, upon its side, its contents, half-spilled. The little yellow capsules had rolled, their fall averted by the coils of a silver necklace bearing a large Christian cross.
Maurice sought for the chair. His gaze fell on an oak table of Napoleonic style by the window. Upon it, were writing implements and sheets of paper. A crystal vase, filled with brown wilted flowers, held tainted water that lent the air an oaky odour. Finding the chair, Maurice approached. He had not noticed the shawl laying upon the floor, and his foot found itself entangled between it and the rug. Wary of tripping, he gripped the bed post. There was a thud. Maurice froze.
He stared at Mrs. Cleary. Her light snoring had diminished. He watched her eyes. They remained transfixed, staring ahead. Was she still asleep? He waited. Mrs. Cleary’s breathing steadied.
Maurice held his breath. He reached for the chair and felt the black fabric, seeking the hidden slit. There was a slight rustling of taffeta but Mrs. Cleary did not stir. Finding the opening at last, Maurice pushed the cellar key into the skirt pocket.
