Calista

by Laura Rahme

  Dear Vera,

  What is done, is done. I have forgiven you.

  Lay your mind at rest, for you are lucky. Mary could have ruined everything for all of us. However, all is well.

  Aaron

  Forgiven? For what? Why would Aaron place a stamp on this envelope only to take his own life without posting it? It made no sense.

  Maurice re-read the letter until he knew it by heart. He tried to understand what Aaron meant about Mary. In his 1845 journal entries, Aaron had described how her little dog had broken into the cellar and ingested medication that rendered it aggressive. Maurice thought back to Shannon’s scar. Willy must have shocked the entire household.

  Perhaps Mary ranted about the dog’s behaviour long afterwards. As Maurice had discovered while questioning her, she was fixated on this event and the cellar. Was this what Aaron meant by, ruin everything?

  Downstairs, the clock struck ten. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. He wondered if Mrs. Cleary might stride in to enquire why he had not come to breakfast. Maurice hastily put away the journal. The footsteps faded away.

  He worked for another half an hour, perusing the scientific volumes Madeleine had found about Jeannette Power. He read all he could about the mysterious Power cage.

  It now became clear why Aaron had insisted on linking the fountain to the Power cage. He needed oxygen inside the cage. For Ovee!

  John Nightingale believed the fountain was a gift, a means to soothe Calista’s homesick heart, and satisfy her longing for the ocean. But he was wrong. Aaron had built it for his own selfish reasons.

  “The fountain was only a front, a disguise,” murmured Maurice. Aaron could order the boiler be fed with coal at all times. To everyone’s eyes, the steam pump governed the fountain’s water flow. They ignored its other purpose: it blew air into the Power cage. Aaron had employed the fountain to conceal his underground secret. It was no wonder nobody was ever invited to witness its beauty. Such a pity. Shannon had been right all along.

  Aaron had researched this well, going as far as questioning Mrs. Jeannette Power on his own wedding day!

  Maurice felt a knot in his throat as he retraced the sequence of events. Well before wedding Calista in April 1837, Aaron had spared no efforts to link the Power cage with the fountain during Alexandra Hall’s construction. It was only in 1845, eight years after they were married, that Aaron and Calista began experimenting on Ovee One.

  Aaron’s long term designs awed Maurice. It was no longer a question of what Aaron had done, however cruel, but rather, how early he had planned it. It drew such a malignant portrait of Aaron Nightingale that Maurice stood. He began to pace, seized with dread, yet unable to pinpoint the true nature of his fear.

  At last, he glimpsed it. The curious void in Alexandra Hall’s decor. The absence of Calista Nightingale’s touch everywhere inside this home. She’d had no voice. Had she only ever been an instrument of Aaron’s scheming and nothing more? Had Aaron loved Calista at all? No. He loved only her gift, and the use he could make of it to further his own ambitions.

  Maurice thought of the stamped yet unposted letter to Vera and he was now certain Aaron had not taken his own life. Why would he? He did not love Calista. Only his own obsession had ever driven him.

  A distinct rumbling stirred in his stomach and he could no longer ignore his hunger pangs. Peering through the study window, he saw the swaying of the trees. Blustery weather swept through the valley and grey clouds cast the estate in near darkness. Dressed in their Sunday best, their hair braided down their backs, the four maids of Alexandra Hall stepped towards Alfred’s awaiting coach.

  Shannon, Ellen, followed by Madeleine had mounted the carriage, but as it came to Mary’s turn to climb aboard, a raven silhouette sprung up the path. Maurice recognised Mrs. Cleary. The wind’s might came alive through her black dress. The housekeeper was fast by the roadside and she held Mary back with a vile grip. Maurice felt a twist to his heart. He watched the young maid shake her head in protest then bury her face in her hands.

  As the coach made its way to Reading, Mrs. Cleary dragged a sobbing Mary back to the house.

  Now only the delivery coach waited along the muddy road.

  Colours and shapes, all illusion

  Maurice suddenly regretted sending the maids away. The house felt eerily empty.

  In the kitchen, he found Gerard O’Malley, arranging a plate of roast beef and butter sandwiches. After reading of Aaron’s dark work, the sight of cold meat was not as pleasant as it would otherwise have been, but Maurice resigned himself, wary of collapsing.

  “Why do I go to such trouble, eh?” asked Gerard. “Nobody tells me anything. Now, who is going to eat all of that? All the girls have gone to Reading Town.” He turned to Maurice as though to confide in him. “All of them except Mary, I should say. Poor thing wasn’t allowed to go to town.” Then shaking his head, “That’s Mrs. Cleary, right there for you. If you ask me, she’s looking a bit unhinged today. Puts on those grand airs, but you dig a little deeper past the surface, and that’s what you get.”

  Maurice eyed Gerard sharply but kept his thoughts to himself.

  “Mind you,” said Gerard, “they say women know best how to raise a child so I’d hate to say anything.”

  Maurice nodded coldly. He picked up a roast beef and gherkin sandwich from the platter.

  “You’ll tell me what you think of those,” chirped Gerard. “Mrs. Nightingale used to love them at first. Another thing about women is their stubborn dislike of a good roast and steak. Mrs. Nightingale didn’t much like the sight of meat over the years.”

  Maurice nearly choked. He coughed, then ran his tongue across his cheek in an attempt to swallow each bite without chewing the meat.

  “Would you like some water, Mr. Leroux?”

  “No, I’m alright,” said Maurice, raising a hand to ease the cook. “I was a little hungry and forgot to chew.”

  “You should try the corned-beef sandwich. Less chewing. Corned-beef, Mrs. Nightingale could still eat,” said Gerard. “She’d often ask for them sandwiches to be sent upstairs when she was too tired to come down. Poor woman. She’d work so hard. I’d prepare a plate and hoist it up.”

  Maurice eyed the hallway nervously then peeked at his watch.

  “Where is Mrs. Cleary now?” he asked.

  “She said she was off to the gardener’s shed. Something about burning leaves and fallen trees, and composting kitchen waste. I wasn’t paying much attention. The less I hear of her these days, the better I feel.”

  “Splendid, thank you. Gerard, what did you mean by ‘hoist it up?’ Would you not bring the sandwiches upstairs to Mrs. Nightingale, yourself?”

  “Oh, no. I am never permitted upstairs. No need to, though. Mrs. Nightingale’s room is the one with the dumbwaiter, see. We didn’t have one initially, but Mr. John Nightingale made it for her. Simple steel plate that we hoist up and down a shaft with some pulleys.”

  Maurice stared. He recalled no dumbwaiter inside Calista’s bedroom.

  “A clever thing, really,” continued Gerard, “considering it was a last minute modification. Or so I’m told. Do you want me to show you? It’s near the commons kitchen. We don’t use it now, of course, so the plate is stuck down there. Hasn’t been up since she passed. Might not work any longer.”

  “No, no, I’m a little busy right now. Thank you for the sandwiches, Gerard. They were fabulous.”

  “Nice to be appreciated. Thank you, Mr. Leroux. Have yourself a good afternoon.”

  Maurice glanced nervously at his watch before stepping out of the kitchen and into the entrance hall.

  There was no sign of the housekeeper. He pushed open the glass doors. An icy gust unsettled the leaves at his feet, and stirred the poplar trees. Feeling the chill, Maurice hurried down to the road where the delivery boy waited, his boots drenched in mud. Coming as close as he could to the young man, he slipped the first letter into his hand.

  “Please deliver this urgently to Mr.
Wilson at Waileys Brothers in London. Once he receives it, he will need to come to Alexandra Hall in person, right away. As for this one,” he said, presenting the letter addressed to the police, “you must deliver it in person in Reading Town. Be discreet. And make haste.”

  The young man tilted his head.

  “As you wish, sir. I should be getting on pretty soon, now. Just waiting on one last order from Mrs. Cleary.”

  “Mrs. Cleary? Really…” Maurice looked at his watch. “It’s a little late for house orders…”

  “I thought so too. She said she’d forgotten a few things and would return with a list. She’s been a bit sick, you know. Hasn’t had time to get organised.”

  Maurice nodded, a frown upon his face. “Of course, yes. Well, good afternoon to you.” He retraced his steps along the path to the house. As he reached the grand staircase, a figure suddenly sprung up in front of him.

  Maurice reeled back, jerked from his thoughts.

  “I’m going to retire for the rest of the afternoon, sir,” said the cook. “Mrs. Cleary’s kindly allowed me to leave an hour earlier.”

  Maurice tried to control the iciness in his voice. “How kind of her.”

  “Blasted woman’s never given me an hour off since I’ve worked here. I’d best run off before she changes her mind.”

  “That’s a sensible idea.”

  “I thought I’d let you know I’ve left a roast dish for your supper, Mr. Leroux. There’s potatoes and butternut pumpkins there, too. I made some gravy.” He looked pleased with himself.

  “Thank you kindly, Gerard.”

  “Well if there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll see you on Monday. Mary and Mrs. Cleary are the only persons here.”

  “Have a good afternoon,” answered Maurice.

  For a heartbeat, he felt wary of Gerard’s last words, then he heard the familiar trundle of the coach in the distance and knew the driver was now on his way to Reading Town. The police would soon be here; three hours at most.

  As he climbed the steps, Maurice slipped a hand in his pocket. He felt the cold metal of the antique key Madeleine had given him. He studied its contours, as though its shape might inspire the matching casket in his memory.

  The house’s new emptiness weighted upon him, but he hoped his plan would work. Yet as he passed Calista’s portrait, a fear swept through him. He wondered what Mrs. Cleary was up to now. Aside from that moment when she’d wrestled Mary away from the carriage, he’d not seen her all day…

  And where was Mary?

  He was about to return downstairs to find the girl, when his eye settled on a door at the far end of the second floor. Of course. He knew now where he’d seen the casket the first time. Maurice dashed to his room to fetch the house keys then headed to Aaron’s bedroom.

  As he opened Aaron’s door, he thought he heard shuffling footsteps behind him, but when he spun around, there was no one in sight. He pushed open the door.

  Maurice walked to the large leather trunk and lifted its lid. There it was— the medieval casket he’d admired earlier in the week. It bore the same insignia as on the key. Maurice picked up the small box. He inserted the tiny key, holding his breath. The casket was old and he wondered how it held together, but the lock yielded easily as though it had been used a number of times in the past year. What was Aaron hiding in there? He’d gone through such effort to hide this key…

  There was a dozen unopened envelopes, bundled together by a hemp string. They were all well-travelled, worn, stained, and obviously from far away. They had all been addressed to Calista Argyros. Maurice stared in disbelief. Cyrillic letters flashed before his eyes as he tried to make out the names of the senders. No. It couldn’t be. Calista’s parents had written to their daughter over numerous years. Maurice felt his heart lurch in his chest at the thought of Aaron isolating his wife from her own family. The Argyroses had wished to reach out to her but never could.

  Was there no end to Aaron’s cruelty?

  In disgust, Maurice was about to replace the letters when his eye caught a lone envelope, resting at the bottom of the casket. The stationary looked expensive.

  It was addressed to Vera Nightingale.

  Finding the envelope already opened, he drew out the letter.

  The handwriting bore a style he’d not seen in the rest of Aaron’s journal. The script was awkward, erratic, as though the sender had penned it in haste.

  It was written by Calista Nightingale.

  Dear Miss Vera,

  Forgive me for writing to you but I have no one else. I need to speak with you before it is too late and before there are no witnesses to the things I have seen.

  I feel you are a good woman. It saddens me we are not friends. In my village, women gathered often and spoke of their troubles. Ever since my marriage, I have had no one and it is with a troubled heart that I am writing to you.

  If only you knew your brother as I know him. I say this now because it has been too painful to hide and now everything I have kept inside, flows out of me and to keep it in, will only hurt me.

  Miss Vera, you must think me foolish to write to you of such things. You know nothing of me, nor I of you. This letter will surprise you and you will not believe what I have to say. I fear you may even detest me for speaking ill of your brother. If so, then I am doomed. For I cannot live like this.

  If you had only seen the things I have seen. There is in Alexandra Hall a horrible place where unspeakable things are done to the most fragile creatures. The light of the sun does not reach here. I spend hours in a room where no one goes, do you understand?

  There have been countless animals. Even young black slaves taken from illegal ships. I cannot say more. Your brother believes he is going to prove that animal magnetism is real. But I am exhausted and I no longer believe in his work. I only see the cruelty and the madness. I wish for it to stop.

  If it does not cease, if no one will stop it, then I feel that only χάος will result. Do you know this word, Miss Vera? Chaos. You think it is the same in my language and in yours? You are wrong. Because in Greek, it means the abyss and into this dark world, all things are sunk. What Aaron has done is so wrong.

  What could be worse, Miss Vera? What could be worse? I know of one other thing. I believed he loved me. But I was wrong. He has tricked me. He has tricked the people in my village. I am forever wronged and it hurts so much.

  There is in Alexandra Hall a stain that can never be washed away. I beg of you, I cannot remain here. Please. I must return to my village. I cry every night. I try to forget the horrible things he has made me do but I cannot.

  I understand if you do not wish to see me but I beg you, please come as soon as you can to Alexandra Hall. Please have pity on another woman so far from home.

  Maurice read it again, horrified by its revelations. He seized the letter and threw the casket back into the trunk.

  As he left Aaron’s room, thoughts rang in his mind. He recalled what Mrs. Cleary had confided earlier in the week: Vera had received a letter from Calista and rushed to her while she lay ill for several days.

  This was the very letter. The date did not lie. It was Calista’s plea for help. How, then, had it come into Aaron’s possession? How could it have been hidden in his locked casket?

  Maurice’s throat tightened as he understood. Vera must have betrayed Calista. She had revealed all to her brother and handed the letter to him.

  And now the pieces fell into place. For Maurice recalled Aaron’s own unsent letter to Vera, months later, right before he died.

  I have forgiven you.

  Lay your mind at rest, for you are lucky. Mary could have ruined everything for all of us. However, all is well.

  He knew, now, what Aaron meant. Mary had seen something.

  Maurice’s thoughts raced. Upon interviewing Mary this week, he had grown convinced that she knew something and refused to speak of it. The maid had giggled at the thought of Vera’s death. Had she not also made a statement? He had ruled it out,
and never recorded it in his notes. What was it?

  “I think Miss Vera was smothered with a pillow. It would make perfect sense, don’t you think?”

  Mary implied that Vera’s smothering to death was befitting… or perhaps, deserving?

  He had dismissed Mary’s words as evidence of feeble-mindedness, but what if it wasn’t? He could still hear Mrs. Cleary, warning him about Mary. She confuses everything. She is untrustworthy.

  No, thought Maurice. Mary had done more than confuse everything. She had disguised the truth about Vera.

  There was only one way to find out for sure.

  Where was Mary?

  He bolted down the stairs, then looked for the girl in the commons kitchen, the scullery then the washing room. She was not there. Maurice cocked an ear for Willy’s barks. Nothing. He pushed open the French doors. No sign of Mary or Mrs. Cleary in the kitchen.

  Maurice returned to the entrance hall and peered out from the glass doors. There was no one outside. Turning to the parlour, he felt a jolt of surprise.

  Mary sat there all along. She faced away from him, her brown hair cresting over the velvet divan. As he approached, he heard the young woman soothing herself while coddling Willy.

  It was unusual for Mary or any of the housemaids to be seated in the parlour. Maurice sensed this oddity but he brushed it aside, determined to question the young maid.

  He crouched in front of her with a smile.

  “There you are, Mary. It’s lovely to see you. I have been thinking,” he said.

  She looked up, her eyes widening with fright.

  “It’s ok, Mary. Would you like to know what I think? I think you are cleverer than you let out. I truly believe that. I think you know things about the people in this house, and that I should have listened to you from the start.”