by Alex P. Berg
“That’s right,” said Marcus. “Four days ago, to be exact. It was shortly after dinnertime. She asked to have tea brought up.”
Shay nodded at me. “Want to write this down, Daggers?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been stretching the old gray matter with crossword puzzles and tile-based memory games. I’m good. Mr. Vanderfeller, let’s for the moment ignore whether your wife left her quarters voluntarily or not. Who would’ve had access to them? Your wife, of course. You. Anyone else? Your butler? The cleaning staff?”
“Any of them, really,” said Marcus. “Clarice didn’t lock her door most of the time. Why would she? We knew not to disturb her, and none of the staff would risk imposing upon her for fear of retribution.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Job loss,” explained Marcus. “We’re down to a bare bones staff at the moment, but even so. Clarice could exhibit a temper when she wished to.”
So…that meant anyone could’ve come to Clarice’s room at any time, but most likely at night when she would’ve been asleep. Still, given the lack of evidence in her quarters, I found it unlikely anything untoward had befallen her here. Much more likely she’d left and trouble had found her elsewhere, even if Marcus found that hard to believe.
“What’s your security like?” I asked.
“We employ a pair of wardens,” said Marcus. “Fezig and Vezig. Tall, strapping ogres, and brothers as you might imagine from their names. They patrol the premises, make sure nothing wanders off on invisible feet. They work largely in shifts, Fezig during the day and Vezig at night.”
Wardens. Of course Mr. Vanderfeller would provide a fancy name for his hired thugs. “This is a big estate, to put it mildly. You only have a single security guard alert and active at any given time?”
Marcus nodded. “As I mentioned, our staff is a pale shadow of what it once was. Finances have forced us to be more frugal than we’d otherwise prefer. Still, despite my previous joke, we’ve never had any security issues. Located here in the middle of Brentford, we’re perfectly safe.”
Except perhaps from each other, I thought.
“Speaking of your staff, how many people do you employ, exactly?” asked Steele.
“We’re down to a mere seven, I’m afraid,” said Marcus. “Lothorien you’ve already met. There are Fezig and Vezig, who I mentioned. In addition to them, you’ll find our head chef, Pierre LeBeau, our housekeeper, Opal Streamshine, and her daughter, Iolite, a chambermaid. Then there’s Thaddy, our groundskeeper, the most senior of our staff.”
“And your entire family lives on the property as well?” asked Shay.
“Correct,” said Marcus. “Myself, my son Simon, daughters Sydney and Angela, and…Clarice. Until recently.”
“I’m assuming you’ve spoken to all of them, staff and family alike, about your wife’s disappearance,” I said. “None of them reported anything suspicious?”
“Not one,” said Marcus, shaking his head vigorously. “I tell you, it’s as if she vanished into thin air.”
“Even so, we’ll need to interview them ourselves,” said Shay. “We might be able to ferret out important clues even they themselves might not think are pertinent. I’m assuming we have your permission to do so?”
“Of course,” said Marcus. “My home is fully open to you. I grant you free rein to investigate anything, interview anyone, or inquire about any topic. Lothorien will make sure everyone knows. Just please…find my wife. I beg you. I can’t stand to lose her too…”
Now came the tear that had earlier eluded him, glistening at the corner of his eye. He turned his head to hide it.
Lothorien must’ve had good eyesight, as he noticed his master’s state even from his position by the door. He approached us with a quick step, and placed a gloved hand at Steele’s elbow.
“Detectives Steele? Daggers? Perhaps we could give Mr. Vanderfeller a moment. If you’ll come with me, I’ll provide you with everything you need to begin your investigation.”
I nodded, casting a final glance in Marcus’s direction. For his sake, I hoped the case would provide a happier ending than I suspected it would.
7
“So, detectives,” said Lothorien as he led us down the nearest staircase. “Where would you like to begin? Could I point you in the direction of one of our staff?”
“You’re already here,” I said. “Why don’t we start with the low hanging fruit?”
He looked over his shoulder as he continued down the stairs, a good way to fall and break his neck if ever I saw one. At least he kept his gloved hand on the banister. “You wish to talk to me?”
“I wish to talk to everyone,” I said. “I think I’ve made that clear several times, but you wanted to make sure Mr. Vanderfeller approved first.”
“So you have,” said Lothorien, now reaching the bottom of the stairs. “Very well. I’m not sure what particular help I can provide, but I’ll do my best. Come. We’ll discuss the situation in my quarters.”
Again with the need to be in a certain room to discuss a certain topic, but at least in Lothorien’s case I could understand his motives. As the estate’s butler, I could imagine his duties were numerous. Perhaps he only felt at ease, truly able to speak his mind, when entrenched in his own personal environs.
Down another staircase we went, and after a few twists and turns into a much less lavishly furnished wing of the home. There, Lothorien led us to his own personal refuge: a room about twelve by twelve feet in size, austerely furnished with a metal frame bed, writing desk, and dresser. A few odd knickknacks graced the top of the desk—an aged portrait of an elf woman, an engraved chunk of hardwood, and a bottle of cologne—as well as the usual envelopes and papers and writing implements. Having lost track of the staircases we’d descended, I now realized we’d entered a first level basement, with small windows set high in the walls at ground level.
I paused inside the door frame. “This is where you live?”
“You sound surprised,” said Lothorien. “Were you expecting a second iteration of Mistress Vanderfeller’s quarters?”
“Well, I figured the long-since burned servants’ home hadn’t been anything to write home about,” I said, “but this is the mansion proper. Easily the fanciest private building I’ve ever seen.”
“Don’t mind Daggers,” said Shay, stepping around me. “He’s blissfully uninformed on a variety of topics, especially anything having to do with the lives of the rich and famous. Apparently that extends to the construction of great houses.”
“Oh, like there’s not all sorts of things about which you’re blissfully ignorant,” I said. “The number of novels in the Rex Winters series, for example, or the difference between an ale and a stout.”
“Twenty-two at last count,” said Shay. “Yes, I’ve kept track, no thanks to you. I couldn’t tell you about the beer. They’re different colors, I think?”
I grunted. “Close enough. Showoff.”
“To answer your question, I live in the Aldermont,” said Lothorien, ignoring our banter. “My personal quarters are plain, but I tend to only sleep here and read in my rare moments of solitude. The rest of my time is spent upstairs, where I enjoy the estate’s worldly pleasures. The primary tradeoff with the profession is of personal freedoms rather than material wants, I assure you. So. What do you wish to ask of me?”
The butler stood next to his bed, his arms crossed and his back ramrod straight. The room’s only chair sat before his desk. I figured if Shay wanted it, she could have it, but she seemed preoccupied casting her observant gaze around the space.
“So you don’t know anything about Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance?” I asked.
Lothorien shook his head. “No, sir. As Mr. Vanderfeller already mentioned, we’re all baffled by it. Ask anyone in the home. I’m certain they’ll tell you the same.”
“Probably,” I said, “but there’s always a chance one of them will let slip something that didn’t com
e up in talks with Marcus. Speaking of which, what can you tell me about him?”
“About Mr. Vanderfeller? Quite a bit I suppose. What is it you wish to know?”
“He doesn’t look good. He mentioned ulcers?”
“Yes, of the gastrointestinal kind,” said Lothorien. “They’ve plagued him for years, ever since Nell’s disappearance. He frequently experiences abdominal pain and bloating, even though he doesn’t eat as much as he used to. His antacids help, but only to a certain degree.”
“There has to be more than that, though,” I said. “His skin is sickly. Has almost a yellowish hue, and it’s loose on his face, not to mention the bags under his eyes. I’m no doctor, but those aren’t symptoms of an ulcer. Am I right, Steele?”
She looked my way from by the desk. “And I am a doctor?”
“Do you know, or not?”
She shook her head. “I doubt his skin pigmentation is directly related to his ulcer. It could be jaundice, or liver failure, or a host of other things.”
“Stress,” said Lothorien.
We both looked at him.
“He’s aware of it. The sallow skin. His private physician claims it’s from stress. The condition’s worsened over the past few days, with Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance, as have the bags, though those are a result of lack of sleep, I suspect.”
I wasn’t sure stress sounded like a viable explanation for his symptoms, but then again, I’d heard of people dying from a broken heart. The body could do funny things when the mind was on the verge of breaking.
“Do you think Marcus did it?” I asked.
“Did what, sir?”
“Killed Clarice Vanderfeller.”
Lothorien almost choked on his own spit. “Pardon?”
“Come on, Lothorien,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It’s a simple question. Do you think Mr. Vanderfeller murdered his wife?”
“I…how am I supposed to answer that?”
“Truthfully.”
Lothorien stood there, mouth agape. His eye twitched. I would’ve mistaken the action for a wink if not for the fact that he was staring at his shoes. Come to think of it, he’d done the same when we first arrived and asked about Mrs. Vanderfeller. Was it a nervous tic, or something else?
It took Lothorien a moment, but he did respond. “No. In all honesty, I don’t think Mr. Vanderfeller could’ve had anything to do with Mrs. Vanderfeller’s exit. I already mentioned his sleeplessness, his lack of appetite, his nervous energy. I haven’t seen him this upset in a long time, not since poor Nell’s disappearance. He’s made all the calls, all the queries. He personally delivered the news of Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance to you, the police, and he’s been adamant that he’ll do anything he can to aid the investigation. Honestly, I think he’s overwhelmed with gratitude at your arrival, even if his expression of such emotion has come out amid a tide of sorrow.”
“So who did it then?” I asked.
Lothorien looked up. “You truly believe she’s dead then, and not merely missing?”
“Steele and I are homicide detectives,” I said. “Our captain wouldn’t have assigned us to this case if she didn’t suspect as much. So far, the evidence, scant as it is, is inconclusive. But the rate of missing persons cases that ultimately are ruled to be homicides is…high, to say the least.”
Lothorien shook his head. Again, his eye twitched, and his back sagged a few degrees. “I’ve no idea who could’ve killed her.”
“Who might’ve had a motive?”
“Within the manor?” asked Lothorien. “No one. Everyone revered Mrs. Vanderfeller.”
“Really?” said Shay. “Mr. Vanderfeller mentioned her temper. He made it sound as if some of the staff feared her.”
“Feared?” asked Lothorien. “Well…perhaps there is truth to that. But not for the reasons you think. No one feared her temper, or for their job. If anything, they feared what happened to her. Who she’d become. Mr. Vanderfeller mentioned the curse. It’s an absurdity of the highest degree, if you ask me, and yet some of the more superstitious among the staff believe in it. Some even believe the curse had transformed Mrs. Vanderfeller, shaped her into the person she’d become. Crushed her spirit. Replaced it, even.”
I frowned. “How can someone’s spirit be replaced by a curse?”
“Not by a curse,” said Lothorien. “By a poltergeist. Some say Mrs. Vanderfeller had been possessed.”
I glanced at Shay. She responded with one of her oh-so-familiar dubious looks.
Lothorien caught it, too. “I don’t believe it, of course, but you may hear that talk from the others. They avoided her because of it—not that they needed to try and get out of her way, given her nature.”
I waved it off. “Regardless, motives. You don’t think anyone in the household held a grudge against her? And I don’t simply refer to the staff. The family as well.”
Again, Lothorien shook his head. “No. As far as wishing her ill? Not a soul in the house would harbor such thoughts.”
I didn’t possess Lothorien’s unshakable confidence in his employers and coworkers, but I kept my morbid thoughts to myself. “So, whether she was taken or left of her own volition, she must’ve left a trail. Can you think of anyone who might’ve seen what happened to her?”
Lothorien shrugged. “As Mr. Vanderfeller mentioned, Fezig and Vezig patrol the estate. If anyone saw something, they might’ve. Or perhaps our gardener, Thaddy Brewstrong, did, but Mr. Vanderfeller asked all of them about Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance. They all claimed ignorance.”
Just as they would’ve if they were involved. “And where might we find them?”
“Vezig works the night shift,” said Lothorien, “but Fezig should be on patrol. I’d suspect he and Thaddy are somewhere on the grounds—though given the estate’s size, I’m not sure how great a help that is.”
“It’s a start.”
I waved to Shay. She nodded and headed with me out the door, while Lothorien left to inform the rest of the household about our arrival.
8
Before leaving his quarters, Lothorien gave us a set of directions about how to reach one of the undoubtedly many doors leading to the grounds in back of the estate, but truth be told, they didn’t help us much. The Aldermont’s endless maze of hallways could’ve served double duty as an attraction at an amusement park. To me at least, they all seemed various shades of identical, not counting the servants’ quarters. Still, by keeping an eye out for windows and following the natural light, we eventually made our way out of the enormous anthill and onto the vast expanse of property behind it.
I breathed in deeply as Shay closed the door behind us, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face and the refreshing cool of the air brought toward my face on the slightest of breezes. Despite my distaste for the color green (which perhaps I’ve overstated), I did enjoy spring. It tied for first among the seasons in terms of the weather, and despite its intermittent rain, it ultimately pulled away from fall in terms of overall appeal, mostly because fall suffered through no fault of its own from the impending threat of winter. Of course, perhaps I would’ve felt differently about the seasons if I’d suffered from hay fever or any host of other allergies spring brought with it, but since I didn’t, I filled my lungs with cool air and smiled a smug smile.
We stepped onto a stone path, whereupon Shay took note of my expression. “What’s with the goofy grin?”
“Do you really need the modifier? Aren’t all my grins goofy?”
“To an extent,” said Shay. “But I enjoy them regardless. They’re part of your charm, and what separates you from all the other affable jackasses out there.”
“I didn’t realize we were awash in them. Remember, I started the trend. I acted that way before it was cool.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But without the affable part, to be fair.” Shay glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “So…what do you think of Lothorien?”
I gla
nced toward the door, too, as well as the nearest windows. I didn’t see any spying faces or hear shuffling feet, but in a manor as large as the one we found ourselves, I probably never would. If people wanted to spy on us, chances were I’d never find out.
“By ‘what do you think,’ I take it you want to know if I believe he’s being forthright with us.”
“You’re quick on the uptake.”
I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s too early to tell. He did exhibit a nervous tic, though, which struck him at inopportune intervals.”
“The eye twitch?” asked Shay.
“Yes. Other than that, he wasn’t particularly fidgety, but still. Think he’s hiding something?”
“I do,” said Steele. “Though maybe not the sort of thing you’re expecting.”
I lifted an eyebrow, knowing full well my furry caterpillars couldn’t make the same neat hook Shay’s slender ones could.
“Did you notice the room contained an odd aroma?”
Being a half-elf, Shay’s nose had an inherent leg up on my own. I hadn’t noticed anything, and said as much. “I did notice a confluence of scents in Clarice’s room, though, among them an unsavory potpourri. Do I get credit for that?”
“I couldn’t quite put my finger on it,” said Steele, lifting a digit in emphasis. “I still haven’t, but I have a suspicion. In addition to the smell, I noticed a bottle of what I believe was rubbing alcohol in his room, despite there not being any other cleaning implements around. I also spotted a spoon, again, without any trays or plates to accompany it.”
I hadn’t taken note of either of those things. Clearly I was losing my edge. “You suspect he’s a drug user?”
“Possibly,” said Shay. “I didn’t see any needles—he’d be extremely careless to leave those around—but it would explain his nervous tic. It might be physiological more than mental.”
“Or it could be both,” I offered. “And while his recreational activities might be completely unrelated to Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance, they might not be. We’ll have to take everything he says with a grain of salt, as I suspect we’ll have to do with just about everyone we find here given this talk of curses and poltergeists and whatnot.”
