by Kate Danley
"Please, sir. The spirit world will not make itself known to us if it senses it is not welcome," Wesley said.
"Shut your trap, Norman," bellowed Horace. "I didn't drag all of us out to the middle of nowhere to hear you yammer on. Let's get on with it! Bring on the ghosts!"
Once more, Wesley seemed to stifle the words he clearly wanted to say. Clara gave his hand a gentle squeeze of encouragement. He looked over at her in gratitude and his smile was enough to cause her to look down in pleased embarrassment.
"If you all would close your eyes..." Wesley began.
"I'm not closing my eyes!" spat Norman.
"You'll close your eyes or you'll find yourself walking to the train station in this rain!" shouted Horace.
Wesley began again. "If you would all close your eyes and breathe deeply. Think of the person you wish to contact and gently invite them to join our circle."
Clara watched as each person closed their eyes, occasionally reopening them to check and see if everyone else was participating. She shut her eyes and in the darkness thought of the girl who had appeared to her. She wanted to think of Thomas, to invite his presence, but for some reason, could not bring herself yet to face him, not when she found her hand clasped in Wesley's warmth, and not wanting to pull away.
"Now, if you would all open your eyes," said Wesley. He then called out. "We ask those spirits in the room to make themselves known."
A tinkling bell rang from a far corner and a chill ran down Clara's back.
"I don't know if we should be doing this," Clara whispered, the fear building within her.
The sound of the bell was matched with the sound of a tambourine.
"It is Peter!" shouted Hilda for some reason. "Peter has come back! Where did you leave the money, Peter?"
The table shifted beneath them and all but Wesley, who sat with his head still bowed and eyes closed, shouted in alarm.
That was when Clara looked behind his left shoulder. "I see her!" she shouted. "I see her there!"
Wesley's eyes opened and he stared at Clara. "What do you see?"
"Behind you! The girl who came to me!"
Wesley looked behind him, as did everyone else.
"Do you not see her?" Clara asked, begging for someone to confirm that this was not a hallucination, but she seemed alone in this vision.
"Tell us what she looks like," commanded Wesley.
Clara looked at the girl, who was staring blankly at Clara. "She is young, younger than me. Perhaps fourteen or so. She has light, red hair braided and pinned to her head. She wears a dress of lilac. Her face is round and her skin freckled."
Wesley's face looked as if he had just endured a slap. "Ask her if her name is Minnie."
"Are you Minnie?" Clara repeated.
The girl immediate looked up, staring deep into her eyes and nodded.
"Yes! Yes, she is Minnie!" Clara confirmed.
At that moment, lightning flashed and a roll of thunder boomed so loudly it caused the entire room to shake. Minnie looked around her in fear. She seemed to be trying to say something.
"Minnie! Minnie, what is it?" Clara shouted.
The window flew open and the rain poured into the room. The wind from the storm blew out the candle and they were plunged into darkness.
"Be not afraid!" Wesley commanded.
"Gilbert!" Horace yelled. "Gilbert! Bring us a light!"
The door to the room was flung open by the butler and the light from the hallway shone in.
They all sat, hands still clasped and the terror of the moment passed.
And then they realized that Hilda sat there in their circle, dead, with her neck snapped and lolling unnaturally to the side.
12
Violet screamed at the sight of her mother. She buried her face in Clifford's chest, who awkwardly tried to provide some comfort. His face was so pale, he himself might have been mistaken for a ghost. Wesley was immediately upon his feet, lighting the candles to chase away the darkness. Norman ran to the poor woman, his fingers upon her throat, searching for a pulse.
"She's dead," he confirmed.
"Of course she is dead!" shouted Clifford. "Her head has practically been snapped from her body." Violet gave a muffled cry. Clifford patted her shoulder bracingly. "Apologies, dear. But it is."
Marguerite was on her feet at once, searching the floor as if for footprints or some sort of clue. "How in the devil did someone get in here to do this?"
They all stared, the open window continuing to flap open and shut in the wind, but no longer with the violence of its initial swing.
"Who said someone had to get in to do it?" said Norman accusingly.
Marguerite rolled her eyes, "We were all holding hands. We would have known if someone let go." She looked at each person individually. "Did anyone let go?" They all shook their heads and she turned back to Norman. "Then that means someone got in and did it."
Wesley walked over and closed the window, latching it tight.
Horace pointed his finger accusingly at Wesley. "I said we wanted to see ghosts, not be ghosts!"
Norman joined in his reproach. "You're the flim-flam man here. You tell us how this happened!"
The color drained from Wesley's face. "My dear sir, if you are insinuating I had anything to do with this death..."
"You're in cahoots with that widow!" Norman replied, now pointing at Clara. "You and your false stories of fake ghosts dressed in purple. You distracted us while the murderer got in!"
"What?" Clara said, aghast.
"None of us have ever seen you before tonight. And despite the fact all of us have occupied a room together in the past, none of us have ever ended up dead until you showed up."
Clara gulped. "Do you mean to say that I killed this woman?"
"I can assure you that her hand never left mine," Wesley said, stepping forward to protect her if Norman continued his rant.
Horace waved away Norman's accusations. "Please. A woman's delicate touch could not have done such an act. Strangulation, perhaps, but snapping another woman's neck? She wouldn't have the strength. And you call yourself a scientist! I find your powers of observation do not fill me with confidence in your skills."
Norman pulled down the bottom edge of his waistcoat, as if Horace was throwing down a challenge. "Fine. So, it needs to have been a man with strong hands who was not in our circle. Is that what you're saying?"
The entire room stopped. As one, they all turned and looked at Gilbert, hulking Gilbert, with his massive hands and long arms.
"I swear to you all that it was not me," the butler protested.
Horace stepped forward speaking slowly so that there could be no misunderstanding. "Gilbert, did you send home all of the house staff as I requested?"
Gilbert's eyes were wide, aware of how bad this appeared. "I did, sir. We are quite alone."
"It was him! It was him, I say!" shouted Norman. "The butler did it!"
Horace waved him down and turned back to Gilbert. "You realize that I am forced to confine you to your rooms, Gilbert, until the police are able to conduct a full investigation."
The butler nodded but did not make any protest. "I understand fully, sir, the unfortunate situation as it appears to be."
"Very well. If someone would care to come with me to witness the confinement. I won't have it be said that I let a faithful servant escape because of old loyalties or some such rot."
"I would be happy to go with you," offered Wesley quietly, trying to let Gilbert know he would not condemn him until his guilt was proved.
"Not you! I do not trust you as far as I can throw you!" said Norman.
"Fine, Norman! You come along then, too!" snapped Horace.
"Why do you all act as if I am committing some great wrong by pointing out the truth of what is going on?" asked Norman.
"I was the fool who brought you here. I will be the fool to put up with your nonsense," said Marguerite as she took Norman's elbow. She gave Horace a little wave. "Norman and
I will go with you." She then turned back to the remaining group. "Wesley? Stay here and make sure that Clifford doesn't do anything untoward towards the girls, will you?" Clifford opened and closed his mouth like a fish in protest. "Don't pretend, Clifford. It is unseemly. Lead the way, Horace!"
Horace nodded gruffly and motioned for Gilbert to walk in front of him. They all marched out of the room, leaving Wesley, Clifford, Violet, and Clara to keep poor Hilda's body company.
Violet was sobbing quietly into Clifford's shoulder. He kept looking over at her mother's body uncomfortably. "There, there. No one liked her very much in the first place."
Violet gave a violent gasp and pushed him away.
Clara rushed over to embrace her as Clifford realized his callousness. With her arm around Violet's shoulders, Clara tactfully suggested, "Perhaps you would like to see Violet to her room, where she can lie down until the police arrive."
Clifford seemed immediately relieved to have some sort of helpful direction in this moment of crisis. He gently guided Violet to her feet and towards the door, looking highly uncomfortable by her emotional outbursts.
"Quite the happy couple, aren't they?" Wesley remarked under his breath.
Clara looked over at him. "Your thoughts mirror my own."
He grimly smiled, as if he was unaware that he had spoken those words aloud. "Apologies. It was an inappropriate comment in such a moment of tragedy."
Clara shook her head. "I find it the most appropriate of sentiments. Her own mother, killed before her, and him unable to manage. Poor thing. She deserves better than that."
Wesley stared at the dead woman. "And so we find ourselves in the uncomfortable position, Mrs. O'Hare, of deciding what to do next."
"Please, call me Clara. I find that enduring a murder is an occasion to drop formalities."
He reached over and gripped her hand and she gripped his hand back. She could not help but to think how grateful she was to have him here to offer his strength if she needed it. She tried not to imagine what this night would have been like without him. It would have been beyond endurance.
And then she realized she had been standing there for some minutes, just holding on to him, without saying a word. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps we should contact the authorities."
Wesley held her hand for a moment longer before giving it a squeeze and heading out of the room. "Of course. That is a most sensible course of action."
There was a phone hung in the hallway. Clara had never used one before, but Wesley made straight for it. She followed behind. He picked up the black receiver and placed it to his ear. He jiggled the hook. "Hello?" He spoke into the mouthpiece on the wall. "Hello?" Disappointed, he placed the receiver back in its crook. "The line appears to be dead."
Clara looked out towards the windows. "Most likely this storm has severed the lines. We shall have to ride into town."
Wesley nodded grimly and strode towards the front door. He opened it up and was greeted by sheets of rain. Clara peered out from around his steady frame.
"You cannot take a carriage," she said. "The wheels would get stuck in the mud within a few minutes of being on the road."
"I shall go by horseback, then," he replied.
She cautioned, "Perhaps it is best to wait until morning."
He turned, placing both hands upon her arms in a gesture which was strangely protective and familiar for one she had just met. "There is a murderer in the house and a dead woman in the parlor. As much as I would enjoy spending the evening here with you before a warm fire, there is no time to wait."
She nodded in understanding, respecting him even more for placing himself in harm's way in order to ensure their safety... her safety... She reached over to the stand and took a hat and overcoat from the hook. She passed them to him. "Be safe, then."
He took the hat from her and placed it upon his head, and allowed her to hold the jacket as he fit his arms into the sleeves. Out of habit and without thinking, she found herself smoothing the shoulders and turning him to straighten the front lapels like she used to do for Thomas. She stopped herself, realizing her hands now rested upon the strong muscles of his chest and she was standing too close for a woman who was not his wife. He looked upon her, his brown eyes smoldering with something more than just duty as they gazed at one another.
"Promise me you will be safe, Clara. I would be most distressed if something were to happen to you while I was away."
She smiled, picking a bit of lint from his collar, the gesture strangely intimate. "I shall promise you that gladly."
He nodded once more and then stepped away to stride into the darkness. Clara watched him for as long as she could see him, which was not all of ten steps. The rain was fierce and blowing almost sideways. Lightning lit up the sky and for another moment, she saw his silhouette against the sky. She hoped that she would see him again.
13
She closed the door. The sound of feet came from the hallway behind her and she turned. Horace, Marguerite, and Norman emerged.
"All is well?" she asked.
"As well as it could be," said Horace. "Damnable surprise this. Who would have thought Gilbert, after all these years of service, would sink to such violence? No accounting for the help these days. You treat them fairly. You give them a home and shelter and honest work, and they then go kill a woman in your own parlor. Well, I shall think twice before hiring a butler stronger than myself, I tell you!"
Marguerite rolled her eyes. "Please, Horace. Let the police determine his guilt before you play judge and jury."
Horace didn't make a reply, just harrumphed and looked towards the parlor uncomfortably. "Well, I suppose we should decide what to do with Hilda next."
"You should leave the crime scene untouched so that the police can do their jobs!" Norman insisted in his whiny pitch.
"Be quiet, Norman," Marguerite sighed.
"Wesley... I mean... Mr. Lowenherz has left to fetch the authorities," said Clara.
"Went out in this storm?" Horace pointed at the phone. "He could have called!"
Clara shook her head. "Wesley tried, but I'm afraid he said the lines are down.”
“Does he even know how a telephone works?”
“He seemed familiar enough with it. I’m sure he was doing it correctly.” Clara pointed outside, “The rain and wind really is so terrible, a tree must have interfered."
"Well, a damnable nuisance that." Horace peered out the window. "He went into that storm, then? I hope we don't have two bodies to deal with come morning."
"Horace, please," Marguerite said. "Things are getting downright morbid."
"There is a dead woman in the parlor, Marguerite," Norman pointed out.
"That is still no reason to go losing our heads."
"Like her?"
Marguerite gave him a look which caused him to shut up. "We are going to go into the dining room and are going to help ourselves to a drink to steady our nerves. And then we are going to wait until the police arrive and get this whole mess sorted. And then we were going to go to bed and wake up in the morning and deal with whatever the day deals us. Do you all understand?" she asked. Her tone brooked no nonsense and the entire company seemed quite happy to allow her to take command of the situation.
"Thank you," Clara murmured to Marguerite as they entered the dining room.
"For what? For finding an excuse to empty Horace's liquor cabinet without looking like a callous drunk? We should be thanking Hilda. He'll break out the good stuff, now."
Clara stood still for a moment, and Marguerite did not seem to notice that she did not keep pace.
Really, thought Clara, what a houseful of horrible human beings she found herself trapped with. She looked back at the door, wondering if Wesley was still safe or lost in the rain and when he might return. She wondered for a moment if she should perhaps go out and search for him so that he was not traveling alone when Marguerite placed a tumbler full of something in her hands.
"Cheers! Hilda is dead
!"
"One should not speak ill of those who have passed," Clara tactfully replied.
"You didn't spend much time with her. If I knew who killed her, I'd probably kiss him on the mouth."
"Marguerite!" said Horace in shock.
"Come now, don't pretend you don't feel the exact same thing. She was a pain in your backside and as tragic as a death might be, things suddenly get a whole lot easier for you."
Horace's eyes narrowed and Clara saw a flash, just for a moment, of the man who had found killing the creatures now beheaded and hanging from his walls great sport.
Clara looked at them both. "What do you mean?"
Marguerite lifted her glass to her lips. "Oh, nothing. Just fun and games with Nero inheritance rights. Cracking good decision to get that daughter of hers all engaged to your son, wot wot!" she said, mockingly at Horace.
But before Clara could inquire further, the sound of the door flinging open filled the house. They all ran out into the hallway.
Wesley stood there, drenched to the bone. He removed his borrowed hat and tried to brush off some of the water in a futile gesture.
"Well? Did you get the police?" asked Horace. "Are they on their way?"
Wesley shook his head. "I went as far as the bridge, but it is completely washed out. The river has risen and there is no crossing it. I'm afraid that we are on our own until this storm passes by. There will be no getting in or out until the water level drops. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire area floods."
Horace clasped his hands behind his back and tried to see a bright side. "Well, at least the house was built upon an elevation. Bedrock foundation. We shall be quite cozy and dry."
"And sitting ducks for whenever the murderer decides to show up again," pointed out Marguerite.
They all looked at one another. Horace took the key out of his pocket and went to the front door. He closed it and locked it. He then went to the parlor, shut that door and locked it, too.
He placed the key in a small pocket in his waistcoat meant for a watch. He patted it soundly and said, "Well, that is the only entrance to the parlor and I am the only one with a key. We shall just keep it locked until the police arrive. I shall make my rounds around the house since Gilbert is indisposed and ensure that all the doors and windows are fastened."
