The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1)

by Jackson, Melanie

  This sense of belonging was a new experience. I had to admit that the idea of leaving the house, even temporarily, now that I had laid eyes and hands upon it was increasingly less appealing. I felt like I really belonged there. This was the home I never had. This was where the changeling fitted in. I was grateful to Kelvin. And Harris. And the gift came without any shadow of grief to darken the moment.

  Haven’t you noticed that usually, when someone dies, their home immediately feels empty and the people visiting for the funeral and cleanup are intruders in the vacated space? Maybe it’s because many of the deceased’s possessions are suddenly ownerless and worthless. After all, who wants an old hairbrush or beat-up sneakers or photo albums of other dead people that no one recognizes anymore? Their owner conferred their worth and meaning and now they are gone. Most everyone already has their own ratty sofas and wobbly dining room tables. The dead person’s beloved stuff is fit for nothing but a thrift shop, and stripped of its personal things, the house is just a shell, built to be generic, able to house anyone.

  But that wasn’t the case at Wendover House. These possessions, these heirlooms, had never been ownerless or neglected. The house was never uninhabited. When one Wendover died, another took their place. Changing fashion was not considered. One did not discard the hand-carved grandfather clock in the parlor or the fine tapestries in the library because a new owner had different tastes. The furnishings were immutable, existing when their owners were dust.

  Certainly I would not bring anything of mine here to pollute the space.

  Except clothes and some family pictures.

  And a television and DVD player. And my computer.

  So, okay, maybe the office would change a little. And my bedroom. I would not sully the public rooms with a television, but I would allow my bedroom to be degraded because I really like watching old movies in bed.

  Imagining my computer in my new library office, I wandered back into the book room. My eyes fell on the painting I had left leaning against the wall after Ben and I had examined it.

  I needed a hammer and a nail. I had seen some in the kitchen.

  After hanging the grim picture behind the desk in the library where it was in a place of honor but where I wouldn’t be forced to stare at it all the time, I opened the central drawer and began looking for a tidal chart. The drawer didn’t open more than about six inches before it caught on something.

  I jerked it a couple of times, but without real force since I didn’t want to damage anything. Though my mission was pure enough, I still felt presumptuous going through a desk that didn’t belong to me. Oh, legally it was mine, but morally? Unlike the other objects, the desk felt like it still belonged to Kelvin Wendover.

  Sighing, I pulled out a bent tablet covered in crabbed writing and peered into the gap to see what was sticking. Amid the pens and paperclips and other normal desk detritus there was a gun. A nine millimeter, black, fairly new and very ugly. The barrel was pointed right at me.

  I didn’t touch it.

  A dueling pistol or a derringer, or even a blunderbuss or fowling piece, I would have accepted without question since they went with the antique theme of the house. But this modern thing was out of place in this elegant and aged desk. And why the heck had my great-grandfather wanted it anyway? Did he have cause for worry about either of his neighbors? Or had he gotten senile and perhaps paranoid? Was that why Bryson Sands had not been friendly?

  I closed the drawer carefully, wanting nothing to do with that handgun or the questions it raised.

  Feeling unnerved and wishing to reclaim my upbeat mood, I began dusting the library shelves, straightening books and reading titles as I arranged them. My favorite find was an Ansonia clock, about seventeen inches high and made of brass. It was so elegant that it looked like it belonged on a fireplace in Versailles. I hadn’t wound any of the clocks in the house, but if I found the key, this one would be put to use.

  There were some blank spots on the shelves and the books that remained were in some disorder. Kelvin had obviously not been fanatical about his shelving. Amid the expected volumes about maritime law and state history, I found a book on witchcraft which had fallen behind a stack of almanacs. Normally this was something that would interest me, but for the time being I left it alone. It was getting late and I didn’t want to read anything disturbing before bed. The day had been lovely and I didn’t want to jinx it.

  On a high shelf I found the family Bible. It was a brute of a book and the leather cover was cracking along the spine. I set it on the desk and opened it carefully, reading through the names—Kelvin, Kelvin, more Kelvin—then Grandma. The entries stopped there.

  Because she had run away, married a man and changed her name instead of him changing his to Wendover.

  And she had daughters instead of Kelvins.

  And the eldest daughter had had a daughter.

  Now I was back on the island but there was no Wendover in Wendover House. Was I supposed to find some man to marry who would change his name and start having baby Kelvins again? Was this what Harris—and maybe others—secretly expected? The idea was disturbing but it made a kind of sense. If you were crazy enough to believe legends and had missed the whole women’s movement.

  I found a folded paper tucked in the back of the Bible. It wasn’t signed, and the handwriting was slightly larger and more rounded than what I was used to, but I was pretty sure that the note had been penned by my grandmother.

  I can’t do it. Let the ocean have it. Daddy, you might be willing but I will not stay.

  This had to be a reference to the legend about there needing to be a Wendover in the house on New Year’s Eve. Had my grandmother—that strict rationalist who objected to fairytales—actually believed this nonsense? Or had she used this excuse because it was something Kelvin would understand? After all, it would be hard in that day and age to admit that you were running off with a traveling salesman because you were in love, especially if your parent was not entirely rational.

  The room darkened as a cloud arranged itself in front of the sun. Suddenly the house felt less charming and more like a honey trap that had drawn me in with the lure of beauty. I put the note back in the Bible and returned it to the shelf.

  Though it was early, I decided to eat cereal for an early dinner, using up my milk as quickly as I could. The eggs I would use for breakfast and lunch in some form or other so I could turn off the refrigerator. The generator was quiet as engines go, but it seemed silly to run it for a mostly empty refrigerator, especially with gas being as expensive as it was. And I would be able to hear better without its low throb in the background.

  Though I hated the idea, I decided that I needed to go back down to the basement and have another look around before dark. The cat had gotten in there somehow and maybe that existing opening was one that the electrician could use to bring in the wires. And also seal up when he was done.

  Whether I stayed on the island or put the house on the market, it needed to be electrified. It wouldn’t be inexpensive because so much of the island was rock, so I needed to find savings where I could.

  Kelvin, done sulking upstairs, didn’t mind going down to the basement and I half hoped that he would lead me to his hidden exit, but he just climbed up on the highest shelf and began grooming. Scowling at his uncooperative attitude, I set the lantern on the floor and began removing items from the shelves, dusting them half-heartedly with some kitchen rags before replacing them. The old canning jars were wooly with cobwebs and dust and would need boiling before they could be used again.

  My phone rang halfway through the empty canning jars, the forgotten sound scaring me nearly to death.

  “Hello?” I gasped when I had fumbled it out of my pocket.

  “Hello? Tess, are you there?”

  “Jack? Is that you? Wait. I’m in the basement. Give me a sec to get upstairs.” I hurried up the steps but the cat didn’t follow. I had half an urge to bolt the door anyway, but decided to start retraining myself.
The basement door being open that first night had made me into a scaredy-cat. The door could stay ajar until the cat reappeared. That would prove that I was a rational adult.

  “Jack? Is this better?”

  “Much. Look, I just read the paper and saw your announcement. You’re in Maine?”

  “Yes, on an island called Little Goose.”

  “Should I offer condolences? Was it someone close? I didn’t know you had any family left.”

  “My great-grandfather died. I didn’t know that there was anyone left in Maine either, but it turns out there was. Kelvin Wendover. He’s left me the house and some other investments.”

  There was a pause.

  “Are you coming back?” Jack asked bluntly.

  “I don’t know. I would come back to pack of course. And to sell the paper, if I can find a buyer. Maybe Glory will want it,” I added hopefully. “The thing is that I’m slowly realizing that there just isn’t much else to come back to.”

  Jack exhaled and I hoped he wasn’t insulted. Our breaking up had been as much his choice as mine and he had already started looking for a second job.

  “I’m rather glad to hear this,” he confessed. “I’ve been dreading telling you, but I’ve had an offer from The Trib and I’m going to take it. It’s better money and, well, a chance for more interesting work. Also, it would get me away from Kathy.”

  “That’s great,” I said, and tried hard to mean it. This changed the balance of my own equation. Without Jack, the paper would be almost impossible to run. “How’s the leg? Healing up?”

  Another pause as Jack accepted that I was changing the subject.

  “Yep. Another two weeks and I’ll be good to go. How are you doing? What are you doing? Do you like living on an island?”

  “I … I don’t know. I have a rather interesting neighbor. You’ll be jealous when I tell you.”

  “Who?” he demanded, beginning to relax as we got away from personal things.

  “Benjamin Livingston.”

  “No! I heard he was living in Maine, but what are the chances of him being next door?”

  “It’s true. He has one of the three houses on the island.”

  “Three houses? Okay, I want the full story. Are you really living in the back of beyond, or is this a joke?”

  So I took a deep breath and started telling him.

  “Well, first off, I’ve inherited a cat and there’s no electricity in the house. There is also a curse on the island....”

  I talked for half an hour straight and then my phone began beeping, complaining of a tired battery. When I hung up I felt cleansed, but also a little uneasy that I had transferred my angst onto Jack. He had needed to be reassured several times that there was nothing truly sinister about Harris or the island. And there wasn’t. I was just more imaginative than I had ever realized.

  I went to the basement door and called the cat. When Kelvin failed to appear, I fetched his food bowl and rattled the crunchies. That worked much better. Kelvin and I returned to the kitchen and began considering further food options. I started with washing my grimed hands. The solar panels really did provide hot water as long as the sun was out, but it had wheeled into the west hours ago and the water was only tepid.

  My spirit might be cleared by my talk with Jack, but my clothes were a mess. I was going to have to do some laundry. There was the washtub on the back porch, but I could have hot water if I used the bathtub. I wondered if everything would dry overnight if I started laundering at once. Or right after a light but late after-dinner snack.

  “I hate doing laundry, Kelvin. At least by hand. I wish I had packed more.”

  Then I thought of the bedroom upstairs, the blue one with the white counterpane and gilded bedposts. The room I had chosen to sleep in had been empty of clothing, but the blue one had had some clothes in the wardrobe. I hadn’t paid attention to what kind of clothes but my impression was that the previous inhabitant had been of the female gender.

  “I wonder….”

  Kelvin followed me upstairs and entered the pale blue room without hesitation. Perhaps he felt at home because there was a painting of a similar looking cat on the wall.

  There was enough sun to see by without lamplight as long as I held the garments near the window. As I feared, most were inappropriate, silks and delicate linens, arranged so tidily that I could almost see my grandmother folding them. Everything reeked of mothballs, but I found a pair of high-waisted slacks in camel wool and a cashmere sweater in a shade of mustard that Grandma Mac had always favored. There was also a pair of jeans in a style my grandmother called dungarees.

  “Kelvin, this is my grandmother’s room, isn’t it? And these really are her things?” I asked in a hushed voice, partly repelled but also charmed by the idea that her father had kept them there, waiting for her return.

  Kelvin mewed.

  “I don’t think she would mind if I borrowed her clothes while I did laundry, do you? Especially not a nightgown,” I said, reaching for the red flannel feedbag hanging from a hook on the back of the door. The slightly stiff gown was not attractive, but it would be warm.

  Hesitating a moment, I took the slacks and sweater too. I would need something for tomorrow if the clothes didn’t dry overnight.

  The uncharacteristic jumble of shoes on the wardrobe floor were tempting since there were some flats and boots among the satin slippers, but Grandma had been a half-size smaller than I am and the shoes would probably pinch.

  “Come out, Kelvin,” I said and then noticed a small painting beside the wardrobe. It was a seagull on a rock, either deliberately done in the style of the impressionists or painted by someone who needed glasses. I squinted at the signature but couldn’t make it out. Could this have been something my grandma painted? Or perhaps her mother? I would probably never know. I closed the door softly.

  I looked in the tiny drawer of the bedside table, hoping for a forgotten picture or a note or anything that would tell me for sure that this really was my grandmother’s bedroom, but there was nothing personal, not even perfume or a hairbrush. Maybe she had taken everything like that when she left. I liked that idea better than the one where someone—Kelvin or Harris perhaps—had gone through the house and systematically removed anything personal that had belonged to the previous occupants.

  Furniture, drapery, linens, food—even the gun—were left behind, but pictures, letters, journals were all gone. The only item that contained any information was the Bible in the library.

  Though the lack of personal items made the house seem more like it truly belonged only to me and not the dead, it reinforced the idea that I was being seduced into a beautiful trap, one that had been set and sprung many times before with other Wendovers. And someone didn’t want me to know how my predecessors had felt about being caught in it.

  The cat mewed and patted my ankle. It was nearing full dark and I hadn’t brought a flashlight.

  “Okay, Kelvin, let’s go have a snack. I’ve worked hard today and cereal isn’t cutting it. And I need some tea before bed.”

  A strong cup of tea is so prosaic that it denies even the most extraordinary things. It’s why the British drink it in times of crisis. Maybe it would help me sleep.

  Chapter 9

  The sun winked out while I made tea. The light was somber and then it was gone, sunk in the sea, or so it seemed. Fortunately I had a flashlight on hand.

  I read for a time and then tried to sleep, but the subconscious was restless about my tentative decision to move to the island, and bad dreams about my grandmother rowing desperately in a storm roused me again and again.

  The last time I woke the cat was gone and my door was ajar, a slice of deeper darkness in the shadowy room. The doors in the bedrooms were latched rather than knobbed, so it was possible that the cat had opened it on his own, but my hands shook as I reached for my flashlight and switched it on. It helped to have light, but there was a large part of me that was afraid of the dark—at least the dark in that house—
and it did not place much confidence in my plastic device to protect me from it. It was embarrassing, but the rational conviction I used every day of my life was ready to abdicate to supernatural terror. One clanking chain, one mournful wail, and I would forget that I didn’t believe in ghosts and run screaming into the night.

  There was a violent gust of wind and a blast of air from the chimney that scattered soot across the floor. Then it reversed itself and it felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room, making the bed curtains sway. The house’s ghostly larynx moaned. I had heard of things like this happening in hurricanes and tornadoes, but we weren’t having a violent storm. This was just the usual night rain with the standard collision of clouds that led to distant lighting. I needed to ignore the trilling of my nerves, which were not doing the usual low thrum of sensible concern at strange weather, but letting off an irrational screech from the highest register reserved for supernatural phenomenon.

  Something wasn’t right. I got out of bed. My borrowed nightgown was warm, but it could not chase away the cold of predawn fear. A glance at the window showed me it was later than I thought. There was a pencil-thin squiggle of light showing between the clouds. Not true dawn yet, but the sun rose quickly over the water where there were no mountains or trees to delay it.

  Down the stairs I went, wasting no time with creeping. Nor did I look at the front door for fear that I might just keep heading that way and not stop until I was at Ben’s house. Instead I turned left at the hall and headed for the kitchen and then right to the chimney where the basement door was concealed.

  The door was closed. Bolted. This was a tremendous relief. But the cat was mewling loudly, using both front paws to claw at the door. Cold seeped over the gap at the sill and grasped my toes. I could smell the sea. It was the same current that I had felt and smelled that first night. It tasted of ocean and something more pungent.