“Baxter, would you mind remaining here until I arrive there? I may have further questions that relate to that statue.”
The impressive butler smiled and planted his feet in the gravel. “I shall await your signal from above, sir.”
St. Clair turned back toward the front of the house, recalling all Elizabeth had told them on the train regarding the Shadow and the statue. The moonlight threw long dark fingers across the path, cast by tall cedars and the hedge maze, and now and then a fountain or statue. He could hear peacocks screaming, probably startled at his presence, and overhead the hooting of an owl. Turning to the left, he gained the main entry and found Kepelheim speaking to a young man with sandy-coloured hair inside the foyer.
“All is well to the north?” the tailor asked, his hand on a small pistol.
“Quiet so far, which is a blessing. Mr. Priest?” St. Clair asked the young man, who nodded. “Would you show me to the duchess’s childhood nursery?”
The young man again nodded, but Kepelheim interrupted. “I, too, know where these rooms are located, Mr. St. Clair. If you would permit me, perhaps we could discuss your wardrobe whilst we walk.”
Stephen Priest remained at his post, and the tailor and the detective walked to the back portion of the cavernous foyer, their boot heels clicking on the tiles eerily. “Beth’s right. This house puts D’Arcy’s Pemberley to shame,” St. Clair said as the tailor led him to a hallway, turning right. “Wait. Isn’t the main staircase back there?”
“Yes, it is,” Kepelheim replied, “but there is a faster way to the nursery. And it is easier on my old legs.”
They walked down a short corridor lined with small portraits and lit by four electric lamps. “The duchess brings progress to her little corner of England,” the tailor said, stopping in front of a set of polished white doors. “Open the door on the right. It will slide into a recess within the wall,” he told St. Clair.
The detective obeyed, and to his surprise, found himself looking at the metal cage of an electric lift! “I’ve only seen two others like this,” he marveled. “Do you know how to operate it?”
“I do. Mr. Baxter showed me last summer after my excursion into the maze, which left me more than winded, I am ashamed to admit, but then I am old. So, in we step, and then we close the grating. This lift may go down to the kitchens below, or rise all the way to the attics. It has been used to transport goods, luggage, and furnishings, saving much wear and tear on the staff’s backs and an old tailor’s knees. If this is progress, then I am all for it. The operation is simple, Superintendent. You see we are on the ground floor, which is shown by the lever resting on the letter ‘G’. If we wanted to visit the kitchens and wine cellar, we would move the lever down to ‘K’, but if we wish to rise, we move it up. Since our destination is the second floor, we slide the lever past number one to the number two, and up we go!”
The lift jerked into motion, rising slowly above the main floor, past the first, and then stopping on the second. St. Clair and Kepelheim pushed the grating to one side, opened a wooden door identical to the one on the main floor, and stepped into a dark hallway.
“We turn right,” the older man said, and St. Clair followed. Kepelheim paused for a moment, feeling his way along the wall. “The main staircase landing is just up here, I believe. You can see the gas lamps burning and make out the turning of the next flight. I think there is a candle table just here.”
Sure enough, a low table and several chairs decorated the beautiful landing, and Charles could see the waxing moon and stars through a large round window beyond. The tailor followed the corridor and turned right, leading St. Clair through a set of large doors and into a second hallway, which either continued or turned to the right.
“This way,” he said, ignoring the passage to the right. “That hallway leads into the ballroom, an enormous space, but without our duchess, who thinks of dancing, eh, Superintendent?”
“Indeed,” the detective muttered, wondering if the day would ever come when he might dance with the beautiful duchess. Somehow, he doubted it.
Kepelheim led him along the passage toward another set of doors. Once through, the way forced them to turn right, where they climbed a short staircase. “It is a bit like a maze, is it not, Superintendent?”
“It is. It reminds me of some of the great hotels in London. Kepelheim, how is this house electrified? Most in London still use gas for illumination—even many of the government buildings.”
“Tomorrow, when it is light, I shall show you the power house. A brilliant young friend to the Duke of Drummond designed it. It runs on coal, and it supplies electricity to the hall, as well as many of the surrounding farms, the winery, and the village, including the small hospital that the family owns. You will soon discover that the duke keeps his eyes open for inventors and scientists who have sound ideas but little financial backing. Both Drummond House in London and Queen Anne House use electricity powered by the same invention. And the duke sells the excess to Whitehall.”
St. Clair laughed. “The next time I switch on the power in my office, I’ll remember that! Is that the north side of the house?” he asked, pointing to the left side of their corridor.
“It is.” The tailor placed two candles into holders and after lighting one, handed it to St. Clair. “The nursery is up here, on the left. I’m not sure anyone resides on this floor right now.”
“Yet, there is a light shining in the nursery,” St. Clair replied. “Is there a gas lamp there that might be lit for some reason?”
“I doubt it. Yes, I mean it is piped for gas, or so I would think, but no one should be in there. Is the duchess asleep?”
“Yes. She is in the drawing room with the earl. Perhaps Alicia is in there.”
“We shall see,” the tailor said, his hand touching the grip of his pistol. “I do not like this, Superintendent.”
“Neither do I,” he admitted. “Is that it?”
Kepelheim walked forward, his right hand on a polished brass doorknob. The door was painted glossy white, as were all the interior doors and trim work of this wing. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
A rush of stale air brushed against their faces, and Charles felt the hair on his neck stand up. “This room feels foul,” he said as they entered. Keeping their candles high, both men moved forward slowly.
The small apartment consisted of a parlour, where they now stood, a large bed chamber, bath, and play room to the right and a second, smaller bed chamber to the left, where the nurse had once slept. Ahead, St. Clair could see one of the two oval windows. Stepping forward, he unlatched the hinged window and pulled it open. Below, he could see the statues, but both lay to his right, not straight ahead.
“I’m going into these rooms,” Charles said, passing through a small bath, the play area, and then into the main sleeping chamber, where Beth had dreamt as a girl. All around the walls St. Clair found bookshelves, each one filled with volume after volume, and in the centre of the far wall, opposite the fireplace, stood a beautifully carved desk of inlaid wood. Atop the broad desk sat a miniature of the hedge maze. Walking to this desk, Charles discovered several filled diaries, a bottle of ink, a blotter, and a child’s drawing of a strange creature that resembled a tall man with wings and large eyes.
“Martin, what do you make of this?” he asked, showing the charcoal sketch to the tailor. “It is signed by Elizabeth, dated September 1876, which is about the time she saw—well, she saw something out this window.”
“This is not a nice image,” the tailor said simply, his brows knit together in worry. “You will soon discover why such a drawing is troublesome, Mr. St. Clair.”
Charles crossed the room to the window seat, where Elizabeth must have stood as she gazed out the window. He unlatched it and pulled it open. Below, he could see Baxter, who was looking up; the butler waved.
“I see the light has gone out!” Baxter shouted up.
St. Clair had forgotten all about the mysterious light, and he turned back toward the room. From below, the light had appeared to be coming from the area closest to the small bed. Dear God, please tell me that there isn’t something sinister in this room—near to where she once slept!
St. Clair gazed down again at the statue of the first duke, known now to be six feet tall. Baxter looked very much like he stood even with that figure.
“Beth told me that she saw a shadowy man who spoke to her from the place where Mr. Baxter now stands,” he told Kepelheim. “She said this Shadow stood a head taller than that statue on the left. If so, then the Shadow Man must have been nearly seven feet tall! Is that possible?”
The tailor called down to the butler. “Can you move closer to the statue of Duke Henry, my friend?” Baxter waved again and moved to his right. “Very good! Now, if you would stand there for just a moment more.”
Charles imagined Elizabeth as a small child, leaning out this same window and hearing the Shadow Man speak. “I think, assuming Beth did not dream this creature—and for my part, Martin, I believe her—then this Shadow thing was indeed very tall. It worries me, to be honest.”
Just then, St. Clair heard a faint panting sound, and he turned to find Bella the Labrador standing at his side. She jumped onto the window seat and barked twice at Baxter. Then, suddenly, the dog turned back toward the room, a ridge of hair rising up along her black back, and she began to howl, her head up, and her thick tail straight.
The sound sent a chill down St. Clair’s spine, and he moved his candle all about to see if anything had entered the room—perhaps a mouse or even a bat. He could see nothing, and still the dog howled.
“This is most alarming,” Kepelheim said, his gun raised. “First you see a light which should not be there, and now our faithful retriever sees that which we cannot. Charles, I think we would do well to go back downstairs and make sure all is as it should be.”
St. Clair agreed, and he took the dog by the collar and led her back into the hallway. Then, remembering Baxter, he returned to the small bedroom, where to his shock, he found a tiny light, glimmering just above the small bed. Having followed the detective back inside, the dog began to growl, her hackles high, and she slowly approached the ethereal light.
Charles felt a rush of irrational terror rise up in his mind—as if he recognised it. He stepped toward it, forcing himself to do so, for he imagined the light could, in fact, see him, and inside his mind, he heard strange whispers in an unintelligible language.
Handing the dog to Kepelheim, Charles reached out to see if the light might be merely a reflexion of moonlight, but as he did so, the strange ball of light darted up to the ceiling and danced above him wildly. Bella leapt onto the bed, standing on her hind legs and scratching at the flowered wallpaper, barking furiously.
Martin drew his weapon. “Do not try to engage it!” he warned the detective. “Do not touch it!”
St. Clair stepped onto the bed beside the animal, bending to reach her collar. “Good girl,” he whispered, keeping his eyes ever on the light. “Martin, can you hear anything?”
The tailor glowered as he leveled the pistol at the apparition. “No, nothing. Do you?”
“I’m not sure…perhaps…” he whispered. “It’s moving down now. Over top of Beth’s desk.”
Charles’s heart hammered in his chest, but he advanced once more toward the light. The colour had shifted now, and the once yellowish light flashed with hues of red and green, pulsing as if sending a coded message. “I think it’s trying to…communicate,” he said.
“Charles, do not engage it!” the tailor shouted.
St. Clair returned to the floor. “Come down, Bella,” he said, his hand on her collar as the animal jumped to stand beside him. “It’s as if it is looking at me.”
He started to walk toward the desk, but the blinking light hovered over the miniature maze, growing brighter and brighter until, with a loud pop and a rush of wind, it vanished into nothingness—as if a door to another realm had slammed shut.
St. Clair stared, unable to move. The dog lunged toward the desk, but Kepelheim put his hand on its collar. “Superintendent?” he asked. “Charles? Are you all right?”
Nothing. No answer.
The tailor stepped forward and placed his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “Charles. Superintendent, are you all right?”
St. Clair spun around, his face pale, eyes wide. “What just happened, Martin?”
“I think we should go back downstairs, my friend. Come.”
His heart pounding, Charles ran to the window and shouted to Baxter. “Did you see that light?”
The butler’s large head bobbed up and down vigourously. “I did, sir! It flashed like lightning!”
“Yes! Thank you, Mr. Baxter, that will do. We’re going back to check on the duchess and the earl!” He shut the window, looking one more time at the strange drawing Elizabeth had made as a child, at last deciding to take it with him to show Paul.
Back downstairs, Bella settled down near Elizabeth, who still slept peacefully, oblivious to the supernatural display which had just occurred in her childhood rooms. Aubrey also slept deeply, unaware of the strange visitation St. Clair had witnessed. With an hour until first light, Charles drew a chair beside his duchess, pistol at the ready, and waited—just in case.
At dawn, the household shifted into a bustle of activity. The male servants, led by Mr. Baxter, devised a rotation strategy for keeping watch whilst taking sleep in turns. Elizabeth asked them not to worry about ordinary chores, but to concentrate on standing guard, for she knew that was what Paul would want.
Neither Charles nor Kepelheim spoke a word to the duchess about the mysterious phenomenon in the nursery overnight, but they did speak of it with Baxter, who said he’d experienced many unusual events during his time at the estate, which had begun when he was only nine.
Sinclair and the tailor sat in the larger of two kitchens where Mrs. Stephens kept water boiling for Dr. Price and busily made up sandwiches and a large roast pig to serve to the men. Esther Alcorn poured tea for the guests. “Here you are, Superintendent. Mr. Kepelheim, would you like some biscuits? We have the chocolate ones you like. Mrs. Stephens baked them only yesterday.”
The tailor’s eyes opened wide. “With the almond flavoring?” The housekeeper nodded, and Mrs. Stephens turned to also nod. “Then, yes, oh yes! Mr. St. Clair, you will want some of these, if you are inclined toward chocolate. They are as tender as your gentle soul, my friend, and in your mouth, they melt into a whisper of delight!”
Charles held up his hand. “None for me, Mrs. Alcorn, though I would usually indulge. I prefer to save my appetite for that bacon I smell in Mrs. Stephens’s skillet, but I promise to try them later. Tell us, Mr. Baxter, what do you mean by unusual events?”
The butler took three of the biscuits and began to dunk one into his teacup. “I was born on the estate, you know. My father managed the brewery for many years, and my mother served in the house in a variety of positions. The brewery is located to the southeast of the house, about four miles from here, beyond Parker’s Clearing, and our family of six was permitted to reside in a large cottage nearby. The events to which I refer began the year I turned nine. I recall it because I had recently entered service here in the hall as a page to the old duke. George Linnhe was a grand man, similar in height to you, Superintendent, but stouter, if you get my meaning. Great height has been a hallmark in the generations of dukes and duchesses through the years, and it is most interesting that the little duchess inherited neither her mother’s height nor her father’s, who stood even taller than you, sir. But she could not be more perfect in my eyes, and she has strength of heart surpassing many a tall man, so there it is.
“As I said, I had turned nine, and the butler, Mr. Fordham, asked me to fetch a large, silver coffee server from the east wing atti
c. I’d never been up to the attics before, but I took the ring of keys and climbed the winding stairs up to that dusty realm. Those are strange stairs, sir. Like a wooden maze in some ways. I’d been up them several times before, so I knew how to navigate them, but they are most strange stairs. Mr. Fordham insisted I use them, as the regular servants’ case was then being refinished, and of course we had no lift at that time. Along the way, I had to pass by the entrance to the second floor, and I heard music playing.
“Now, there used to be a nursery in that wing, but it’s not been used regularly for many generations. In fact, the duke had not yet married, so there were no children living in the hall at the time. The music sounded like a violin, and I thought it my duty to investigate, since old mansions like this—with unused apartments—may house intruders for weeks with no one the wiser. So, summoning up my courage, I followed that long hallway toward one of the empty suites. It was the third door from the far end where I discerned the source of that music, so I knocked.”
Kepelheim whispered. “Did anyone answer?”
“Yes,” the enigmatic butler replied evenly. “A ghost.”
The tailor’s brows shot up. “A ghost! You saw it?”
“I not only saw it, Mr. Kepelheim, I conversed with it. Superintendent, you might now be thinking that it was a living person to whom I spoke, but I tell you that it was not, for I knew this gentleman to be dead.”
Sinclair thought of Beth’s stories of shadows and secrets and of the mysterious light in the nursery the previous night. Was this apparition another such supernatural visitor? “Who was it then?” he asked.
“It was the duke’s father, Richard Henry Linnhe. He had died three years earlier, and he was known throughout the county as a great violinist. In fact, he was carrying his violin when he answered the door that day.”
St. Clair listened patiently, trying to discern truth from fiction. “Mr. Baxter, as you have noted, I am a detective, so I must ask you this. Is it possible this person was a vagrant who bore a striking resemblance to the late duke?”
Blood Lies Page 20
