by Alex P. Berg
“Hold on. You didn’t want him to think you were seeing things again?”
Vezig sighed and swept a hand over his face.
“Don’t hold out on me, big guy.” I flexed my collar grabbing hand.
Vezig didn’t want to meet my eyes. “For several months now, I’ve been…seeing things. Glimpses of people. One or two, I don’t know. It’s always been from afar. Always at night. Sometimes on the grounds. Sometimes in the manor. Every time, when I tried to follow them, I’d find nothing but shadows. No prints, no sounds, no…strange smells. After about the sixth or seventh time, I started to think that maybe… Maybe it was…”
“What?”
“Ghosts, okay? Happy now? The big ogre is going crazy.”
No crazier than Lothorien, apparently. I drummed my fingers on the butcher block. “You said you split up to search the house for Mrs. Vanderfeller. In teams, or individually?”
“At first it was a mad scramble,” said Vezig. “Every man for himself. Then we organized and went through the home a second time in teams. Didn’t find anything either time.”
Or nobody admitted to finding anything, at least. “What time was it when you heard the scream?”
“After midnight. Maybe around one?”
“And the…ghost sightings? When would you see those?”
“I don’t know. All hours. Well, maybe not. Earlier in the evenings as opposed to near morning, usually, but always at night.”
“Daggers?”
I turned at the sound of Shay’s voice. She’d snuck up on me again. I blamed her comfortable shoes.
She held a glass of red wine in one hand and an opened bottle of beer in the other. “LeBeau insisted we join him. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“I’m sure.” I gave Vezig a nod. “You’re free to go. If I need you again, I’ll find you.”
“Yeah. Sure. Detective Steele? Once again, a pleasure.”
He gave my partner a toothy white smile before leaving—slowly. That guy didn’t give up easily.
Shay handed me the beer. I took a sip. It was a lager, and it was good.
“So,” she said. “Learn anything?”
“Of course.”
LeBeau’s voice rang out from a far corner. “Madame Steele? Where have you gone? Ze crepe batter, it has reached ze right consistency.”
“Crepes?” I said.
“Come on. You know you want to learn how to make a good one.”
“Or eat one, anyway.”
She lifted a brow. “You could cook for me, if you like. It’s very romantic. And it’s a lot cheaper than going out.”
She had me at cheaper.
20
I leaned back in my chair and sighed, my belly stretched tight from cheese-filled crepes and puff pastry-wrapped asparagus spears, miniature lamb kabobs and spicy meatballs and crackers slathered with a wild boar terrine. My mind felt as full my stomach, packed with culinary knowledge such as what sear constituted the perfect amount for a steak, what scent a browned butter emitted, and what the heck a terrine was.
LeBeau gesticulated wildly as he related some culinary misadventure he’d undertaken at the cooking school he’d attended, almost falling out of his chair as he did so. Shay sat across from him, giggling more than was necessary, if not more than was expected given the amount of wine she’d consumed. I tipped back my own bottle of beer and found it to be empty. How many had that been now? Four or five? Certainly not six…
It seemed a bad sign that I couldn’t recall how much I’d had to drink, and yet somehow I still remembered how to keep an avocado from browning and how to keep pasta from sticking in the pot. What the hell had happened to me? I used to be cool.
Shay snorted and set her glass down on the table in front of us. “So, let me get this straight. You took a napkin, battered it, fried it, covered it with chocolate and whipped cream, and fed it to one of your classmates?”
“Ze look on his face as he bit into ze cloth,” said LeBeau. “It was priceless. But not without consequence. He replaced my hard-boiled eggs with raw ones. Ze mess when I cracked zem was quite amusing, at least to him. Zen I put mayonnaise in his shoes, and he put cayenne pepper in my hot chocolate, and zo on and zo forth. I miss zose days. Zuch fun.”
I heard a knock and turned. Lothorien stood at the mouth of the room, his hand hovering over the door frame. “Detectives. I suspected I’d find you here.”
Shay, Pierre, and I sat in a room of considerable size, but one only plainly adorned with a large table and a few buffets filled with plates and utensils. I’d been informed it was the servants’ dining hall, because of course the staff couldn’t eat in the same room as the homeowners, even if they were to do so at separate times. Rich people rules…
After Vezig’s departure, Shay and I had shadowed LeBeau as he cooked, first for the Vanderfellers, who it turned out didn’t even eat together, and then for the remainder of the staff. LeBeau himself, however, ate last. The curse of the cook, he said. Shay insisted we wait and dine with him, apparently out of empathy, but I think she wanted to take notes as he prepared a chocolate soufflé for the others. Normally I would’ve groaned at the idea of waiting, but I found the so called curse wasn’t as bad as it sounded, mostly due to a steady stream of samples that disappeared before they made it to the table. Between that and the beer, I survived. Honestly, given how I felt, I probably should’ve stopped at the appetizers.
“Lothorien. Buddy,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
Buddy? Maybe it had been six beers.
“I’m well, sir, thank you for asking. I’ve come to inform you and Detective Steele that your rooms are ready, whenever you wish to retire.”
“Retire?” I said. “How old do you think I am?”
Shay chortled, though she stopped short of a snort.
Lothorien wasn’t amused. “When I noticed you’d deigned to spend the evening alongside Pierre and how many bottles of wine and beer had been uncorked, I suspected you might need a place to rest your heads this evening. I took it upon myself to make sure a couple of quarters had been readied for you.”
I tried to blink the alcohol-induced fog away—ineffectually, I might add. “Look, Lothorien, that’s nice of you, but it’s unnecessary. Steele and I can see ourselves out.”
“Nonsense, sir. It’s far too late to head home. The quarters have already been readied, besides.”
I stood. The room momentarily tilted and spun, and I grabbed the side of the table for support. Six beers, most definitely. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Quarter after ten, sir,” said Lothorien.
Steele stood. She paused, swaying as I had, and took a long, slow blink. “Already? My goodness, I didn’t realize how long we’d spent with Pierre. But…we should go. We’ve already extended our welcome by dining here. Who knows what sort of protocol staying overnight would break.”
“I assure you, Mr. Vanderfeller would rather you stay,” said Lothorien. “He opened his home to you, something he doesn’t do lightly given his family’s history. Please. Given the time it would take to summon a rickshaw, it would likely be midnight by the time you reached your homes. Better you stay.”
“Be honest, Lothorien,” I said. “Mr. Vanderfeller wants to keep us here twenty-four hours a day until we solve this case.”
The elven butler gave a small shrug. “I never suggested his motives were altruistic.”
I glanced at my partner.
She continued to grip the table. “I admit, I’m a little wobblier than I thought I’d be. Perhaps…it’s not a terrible idea. At least for tonight.”
I swallowed back an unruly belch that tasted of ale. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, right? Okay, Lothorien. Lead the way.”
21
Creak. Creak. Creeeeeak.
I cracked an eyelid. A window glowed faintly, bathed in moonlight. Giants loomed outside it, sentinels shrouded in darkness. A breeze gusted, clacking t
he window in its frame and setting the sentinels to swaying, rustling as they did so.
I opened my other eye and wiggled my nose out from underneath the quilt. The room slowly grew into focus: the rectangular moonlit path trailing from the window’s edge, the lush carpet, the edge of my bed, covered in linen and blankets. Shadows in the corners coalesced into blocky forms, a dresser here, a table there, a bookshelf against the far wall, still dark but now distinct.
My bladder protested, heavy with the remnants of beer I hadn’t managed to expel before going to sleep. I ignored it and closed my eyes.
Clack.
My eyes snapped back open. I sat up and glanced toward the door. In the darkness I couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to be closed.
I flipped up my covers and hopped out of bed, naked expect for my underwear. I crossed to the door and checked. Still closed. Locked, too. I glanced around the room one more time but found nothing out of place.
A small washroom accompanied my guest quarters. I headed inside and checked that too. Finding it empty, I relieved myself and headed back to bed.
I paused at its side, the edge of the quilt already in hand.
I didn’t doubt myself the way Vezig did. Rather, I brimmed with self-confidence in my abilities. Sometimes I overflowed. The wind had gusted outside. It could’ve caused a groan from my window, or the house might’ve cooled overnight, causing a creak. But a clack? I’d heard a latch. Maybe not from my door, but from a door. Whose?
I crossed to my window, which overlooked the Aldermont’s grounds from the second story. The moon waned gibbous in the sky, providing a smattering of light. I could make out the path that circled the house, as well as a portion that headed toward the pond. The hedge maze slumbered, dark and quiet, as did the shadowy forest in the distance.
A flicker. A bit of movement, indistinct. Near the end of the path where it blended fully into darkness. I squinted, but it didn’t reappear.
I glanced at the grandfather clock against the far wall. The hands read one twenty-four, and I thought of Vezig’s statement.
Before leaving me to my routine, Lothorien had brought me a courtesy tray with a pot of tea, a mug, a lantern, a robe, and a pair of slippers. I slipped my feet into the latter and threw on the robe before exiting through the door.
I paused and glanced down the hallway. Shay’s quarters were next to mine. Lothorien had prepared a room for each of us, given that our relationship wasn’t public knowledge.
I crossed to her door and tested the handle. Locked. Good.
With my mind at ease, I headed down the nearest stairwell to the back doors. I placed my hand on the knob and twisted.
It gave, despite what Fezig had told me about the nighttime routine. I knew I’d heard a latch.
I stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind me. I looked to my left and right, but there was no sign of enormous ogres, suit-clad or otherwise.
I followed the path toward the pond. The wind gusted again, flapping the edge of my robe, and I suppressed a chill. The temperature had dropped, and I wondered if I should head back to my room for my jacket.
I didn’t, of course. I didn’t have time to. My quarry might escape. Then again, if I was being honest, they already had.
I arrived at the mistletoe tree without having seen any more signs of motion, barring that of the leaves in the trees being shaken by the occasional gust of wind. A cloud passed in front of the moon, dimming its light. A bird trilled in a far off tree, and from somewhere within the pond’s reeds, a frog croaked.
I hadn’t really believed Vezig’s story about ghosts. I still didn’t, but it couldn’t be a coincidence he’d mentioned it to me and later that same evening I spotted a nebulous trace of the same sort he had. I’d blame the beer, but between the few hours of rest I’d snagged and the cool breeze, I felt quite clear-headed.
I took a chance and kept walking along the path. It skirted around the edge of the pond before dipping into a thicket of trees. Thankfully, the moon reappeared as I entered them, making them only disturbingly dark as opposed to terrifyingly so.
They didn’t last either. The trees thinned, and I found myself amid a field of stone monoliths, some small, others reaching to waist height. The ominous low fog that crept between the stones and the general feeling of foreboding that hung over the place would’ve tipped me off eventually, but the moonlight alone did the trick. The chiseled rocks were gravestones.
The path snaked forward to a mausoleum. It sparkled under a barrage of moonbeams, at least ten feet high and one and a half times as long. Thick columns braced its facade, holding up a roof with a shallow grade. A bust of a heavyset, mustachioed man sat in an alcove to the side of a thick stone door. Above it, someone had carved his name. Frederick Claypoole Vanderfeller.
I spotted a half-dozen other mausoleums further back, but one in particular caught my eye. A small one that couldn’t have held anyone other than an infant, almost like an oversized doll house.
I stepped off the path and approached it, a chill running down my spine. The mausoleum’s façade lay outside the moon’s line of sight, so I had to bring my face close to read the inscription. Nell Patrice Vanderfeller. Exactly as I’d expected. I reached a hand out and rested it on the stone, the polished granite smooth and cold to the touch.
I sighed, feeling a pressure in my chest. If I was being honest with myself, Nell’s disappearance and the fire that had preceded it had captivated me in a way Clarice Vanderfeller’s disappearance hadn’t. In that respect, I guess I was no different than anyone else. According to the captain, the media had been all over Nell’s case, whereas it didn’t seem as if much of anyone outside the police cared about Clarice. It wasn’t hard to see why. Anyone could imagine themselves in the shoes of Marcus and Clarice Vanderfeller at the time of Nell’s loss, grieving over a child, a charming, loving one to boot, but the loss of a mysterious, possibly deranged recluse didn’t pull at the heartstrings in the same way.
Was I wrong thinking the cases were related? People inside the manor spoke of a curse, but I still didn’t buy it. There were numerous scenarios in which Nell might’ve gone missing that had nothing to do with Clarice. What if a stalker had eyed Nell from afar and seen the tumult caused by the fire as an opportunity to snatch her? Or maybe a disgruntled servant, fearful for their welfare in the wake of the fire, had kidnapped Nell, hoping to hold her ransom only for things to go south somehow. If what I’d learned of Clarice was true, she might’ve wandered off, lost in one of her own illusions or in search of a new life that didn’t constantly remind her of all she’d lost.
I swallowed back a lump. Though I could imagine scenarios that didn’t result in Clarice’s death, none of them ended well for Nell.
I heard the trill of a bird again, and I turned my head toward the trees. The wind gusted, and the leaves shook, but was there something else out there? The motion I’d thought I’d seen earlier?
I skirted Nell’s tomb and took a step toward the trees. I paused. Below me, patches of grass lay flat. Foot-shaped patches. Last time I checked, ghosts didn’t weigh much.
I followed the indentations as best I could in the moonlight, but it wasn’t far from guesswork. Still, my tracking abilities must’ve been better than I gave myself credit for. Either that, or the universe intended to deliver me a message.
The tracks ended before a pair of gravestones, much smaller and plainer than the mausoleums afforded the Vanderfellers. I knelt and scraped a bit of lichen from their surfaces, revealing the names. Aaron Wellspring and Sophie Beauclerk.
Given how they’d met their end, I didn’t find it odd they’d been buried in the Vanderfeller’s plot, but why together? Convenience? Didn’t they each have family? Aaron had his wife and daughter, and Sophie her son, if I remembered what Thaddy had said correctly.
I glanced back at the trees, but whatever motion I thought I’d spotted earlier had faded into the shadows. The footprints at the base of the graves were
real though, real enough for me to have followed them in the dark of night even through a thin coating of mist. While I hadn’t fully ruled out the possibility of a Vanderfeller family curse, I most certainly wasn’t dealing with poltergeists. But why had anyone visited the graves of the servants who’d died in the fire? And in the middle of the night, no less? Was someone else investigating their deaths, too?
I shivered, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It wasn’t the chill. I’d felt the same sensation earlier in the mansion’s attic.
I turned, gazing into the trees at my back, but again I saw nothing but darkened trunks, glimmers of stone, and an increasing thickness of fog.
Once more I lamented not going back for my jacket, but not for its warmth this time. More for the fact that I’d left my truncheon tucked away inside its pockets.
With all the dignity I could muster, I scuttled back onto the stone path and booked it toward the house.
22
I locked the Aldermont’s garden-facing doors behind me, my heart thumping in my chest and my breath coming in long, heavy drags, though not nearly as long and heavy as they might’ve been had I attempted the same feat a few months ago. My weight loss and exercise regimen had paid dividends. Even though I’d made the run from the graveyard back to the house in fuzzy slippers, I’d probably done it in near record time. Perhaps the fear of getting stabbed repeatedly might’ve had something to do with it.
I retreated back up the stairs toward my quarters, wondering if I should seek out Vezig and tell him what happened. Then again, it was entirely possible he’d been the one spying on me in the graveyard. Perhaps I’d be better off keeping quiet and enacting a few additional security measures of my own. I had the lock on my door, but a slat or wedge tucked behind the base of it wouldn’t hurt, and even though I was on the second floor, I considered putting a glass or mug against the window sill, something that might be knocked to the ground in the event of an intrusion.
