O'Hare House Mysteries

by Kate Danley

  Wesley just stood by the front door, dripping sadly.

  "Perhaps it is best if we were all to bed," Clara offered, going over to help Wesley remove his coat and hang the sopping mess where it would not ruin the floors. "I am sure things will look much different in the morning. There is nothing to be accomplished tonight besides fret. I advise all of you to finish your drinks. We shall lock ourselves into our rooms, just in case the murderer is still at large, and hopefully with the dawn, a course of action will present itself."

  They all nodded in agreement. Marguerite went back into the dining room to pour herself another glass. Clara held her hand out to Wesley, inviting him to come with her.

  They walked up the stairs and passed the bathing room. Clara went inside and grabbed several fresh towels for Wesley.

  "Dry yourself off. I would hate for you to catch your death of cold when there seem to be so many other ways of catching death around this horrible home."

  He laughed, even as he shivered slightly. "You are too kind, Clara."

  "Not at all. You went out into that storm to save us all. Finding you a towel is truly the least I can do. Would you like me to come in and build up the fire in your room?"

  "I can see to it," he replied. They stopped in front of Clara's door. It was open and she could see her bag waiting for her at the foot of the bed. He rested his hand upon her arm. "Let me examine your room to ensure it is safe before you go in."

  She nodded, the frightful wisdom of his caution chilling her almost as deeply as if she was the one who went into the storm. She let him go first, but followed him into her chambers. Wesley looked beneath the carved double bed, opened up the wardrobe to look inside. He tested the windows to make sure that they were locked and made sure no one was hiding behind the curtains or door.

  He gave her a nod. "It appears to be safe," he said.

  "Thank you," she replied.

  They stood there in silence for a moment. He reached out his hand to shake hers. "You are quite a brave woman, Clara. It is a shame such a tragedy had to strike. It was quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I am so sorry that our first memories of each other will be marred by such a terrible turn."

  She smiled at him. "If such horrendousness had to happen, I must say that I am glad to have you here to take care of things. I hate to think how different this all would be if Norman or Horace were left to sort things out."

  He nodded, and then returned her smile. He gave her hand one last squeeze before saying, "Now, lock your door behind me and promise that you shall not leave until dawn."

  "You have my word, Wesley."

  He began to walk out, and then paused, turning around. "I like when you say my name," he said, and then left down the hall.

  Clara watched him until he disappeared into his own room, then shut her door and locked it. She paused, resting her hand upon its wood frame and whispered, "Heaven forgive me, but I like saying it, too."

  14

  Clara woke, shivering in her sleep. At first, she thought that one of the windows must have opened in the middle of the night. The room was as bright as if there was a full moon. But she heard the rain pelting upon the glass and realized that it was something else.

  She turned onto her back and there was the girl, Minnie, the ghost who had haunted her in her room at home and somehow managed to follow her here.

  Minnie stood in her unearthly light, her gauzy dress floating about her. Clara tried to still the fear which was making her heart beat fast. Minnie motioned for Clara to follow.

  "You appeared earlier, Minnie, and someone died. I am frightened," Clara confessed.

  But Minnie did not make any movement which suggested she heard Clara. Instead, she walked once more through the door, her hand returning to curl its single finger, calling Clara to follow.

  Clara sat for a few moments. There was a murderer in this house. If Gilbert escaped, who knew what evil might befall her if she left her room. But the ghost's hand remained, calling her to leave her bed.

  She closed her eyes and thought to herself that Minnie had led her to this house where all of these horrible things had occurred, but by the same token, Clara was the only one who could see her. If Minnie had anything to do with these terrible events, who knows what greater catastrophe would befall them all if she was not heeded.

  And so, bravely, Clara took her robe from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around herself. She slipped her slippers onto her feet, unlatched the door, and followed after the ghost.

  The strangest sense of déjà vu filled her, as the ghost wandered down the long, dark hall. She did not know if it was the memory of being led down her own dark hallway at home by this girl, or if she was aware of some other event which was to come. The heads of all the dead animals hung in the hall stared down at her accusingly, as if asking why she was not still in bed when the entire house slept.

  But Minnie's reproach was far worse than these glassy eyed creatures, Clara decided. She crept down the stairs after the spirit, into the foyer, and then followed the glowing figure towards the library, the room where the party had originally gathered before dinner.

  Minnie walked through the closed door. Clara tried to open it, but it seemed stuck, as if something heavy was pressed against it. She pushed and pushed with all her might. Finally, she cracked it enough to enter, but when she stepped in, she stepped onto something soft. She looked down in the dim light of the ghost's illumination and realized she was standing upon a housecoat sleeve.

  The housecoat was being worn by one Norman Scettico. He was the heavy object blocking the door. His body was completely still and he did not move one bit as Clara opened her mouth and screamed.

  15

  In an instant, the house was awake and alive. Pounding feet raced down the stairs. Clara backed out of the library and pointed.

  Wesley ran forward and gathered her up into his arms. She felt herself unable to stop trembling as she buried her face into his strong chest, his thin nightshirt soft against her cheek, the lapels of his velvet night robe giving her something to clutch to as she tried to will away the sight of the corpse.

  Horace marched into the library as he put on his glasses. She heard him exclaim, "Great Scott!"

  The others passed by and peered into the room.

  "Well, I'll be damned," said Marguerite. "I guess that was one way to get him to shut up."

  Clifford came over to Clara, patting her back. "There, there," he said, as if trying to coax her away from Wesley's comfort and into his own arms. "What a terrible fright you have had."

  Horace was in a different mood. He exited and glowered at Clara. "Tell me what happened. Tell me every detail down to the last."

  "I came downstairs," Clara gulped.

  "Why? Why did you come downstairs?" demanded Horace. "We agreed everyone would stay locked in their room."

  Clara looked up at Wesley, knowing that he was the only one who might understand what really happened. Instead, she just said, "I heard a noise. I thought I heard someone walking down the hallway and so I got up to investigate. I thought I heard them going into the library, so I followed. Only, there was something heavy against the door. I pressed and pressed. I'm afraid that it was Norman."

  Wesley smoothed her hair, resting his cheek upon her forehead. "We'll get it all sorted. Don't you worry."

  She realized that at this point, Norman would have been the one to accuse her of murder, but he was not there to shout such accusations. So instead, the entire room looked around at one another, unsure of what to do next.

  Clifford shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure you didn't kill him..." he finally said. "But the constable will want to know that we asked... You didn't kill him by any chance, did you? While you were sleepwalking or anything?"

  "Oh for godssake," said Marguerite, rubbing her arms against the chill of the night. "Any idiot could tell that she did not kill him, then push him against the door, then pull the door open, and then turn into a blubbering mess. Obviously Gilber
t escaped his room and is on the hunt. We need to find him before he finds us."

  "I locked Gilbert’s door with my own hands," Horace said, offended. "You and Norman saw me do it."

  "We certainly did, but one of your witnesses is dead, leading me to believe that maybe things were not locked as tightly as you believed."

  "Well, I never," said Horace, outraged at her accusation. "Let's go look in on Gilbert and we shall have our answer."

  But Marguerite would not be cowed. "Well, let's!" she challenged.

  Violet tried to take Clifford's arm, but he pulled away, more interested in keeping pace with Marguerite. So Violet trailed behind, forgotten and alone.

  Wesley pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried Clara's cheeks as the party moved down the hallway towards the servant quarters.

  "I must look a fright," Clara apologized.

  "My dear, you look lovely as always," Wesley smiled. "Do you think you can stand much more of this?" he asked. "I could take you to your room to lie down."

  She shook her head. "No, what if that fiend is still loose? I am far safer with this group than on my own." She stopped herself and then admitted what she really felt. "I am far safer with…you…than on my own."

  He nodded and gently transferred Clara so that she could lean against him, wrapping his arm around her waist and resting her head upon him. "I shall keep you safe, dear Clara."

  They slowly walked down towards the others. When they arrived, Horace was fiddling with his key ring, looking for the right one for the lock. "Damnable nuisance."

  Clara should have extracted herself from Wesley's embrace at this point for reasons of modesty and good taste, but after such a night, she could not bear to stand alone. Instead, they leaned against one another for strength and waited.

  Finally, the door opened. Horace bellowed as he walked into the room. "Gilbert! Gilbert, get up from bed you damnable fellow!"

  But Gilbert did not stir. Instead, he lay upon the mattress, sleeping so soundly that he did not even move.

  "Is he deaf?" asked Marguerite incredulously.

  "I should say not!" said Horace. He strode over and shook his butler harshly. "Wake up, man!"

  That's when Gilbert rolled from his side onto his back. His eyes were wide open. His throat was covered in blood, oozing from two puncture wounds in his jugular.

  "Well, he is not deaf," said Marguerite.

  16

  Horace closed and locked the door behind him, in shock.

  "Three deaths in one night?" he said, incredulously. He repeated it again. "Three deaths. In one night. Under my very own roof."

  "And the murderer does not appear to be Gilbert," remarked Marguerite.

  Horace placed his hand upon the door, as if to assure himself that it was still solid and real. "How did someone get in there? They must have been a magician! To get into a locked room? To kill not one, but two men...?"

  "Maybe it was Norman and then he fell and broke his neck?" offered Marguerite.

  "No, no, that's not it," said Horace. He turned and looked at Clara sharply. "You said that you heard footsteps coming down the hall. What if that was the murderer! What if he lured Norman down just as he lured you down, and it was only your screams that kept the blaggard away! Dear, you may have saved us all! And yourself!"

  Clara looked at Wesley and then at the faces of the others. "I don't believe I heard the murderer," she replied.

  Horace did not seem pleased that she did not ascribe to his theory. "Well, then, you just tell me what you think happened."

  "I don't know," Clara replied. "It was..." She realized that to hide the truth would make her look like she was lying, and in this situation, they might assume the worst. So she relented. "It was the same woman that I saw during the séance. She woke me and told me to come downstairs."

  Horace's jaw dropped. "You're telling me some ghost told you to come downstairs and you just happened to stumble upon some room where Norman was lying dead?"

  Clara cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Yes."

  Wesley looked at her. "Really?" he asked, but she could see in his eyes that he believed her. Or at least that he wanted to believe her.

  But it seemed that Horace had been pushed beyond that which his mind could accept. "Bah!" he said. "I have three dead people in my house. There might be ghosts, but there aren't GHOSTS. These aren't some haunted halls where dead women come to take a stroll. Don't tell me you believe this nonsense, Medium!"

  Wesley held up his hands, as if asking him to provide a better answer if he had one. "There are stranger things in all the heavens than known to man."

  "Don't go slaughtering quotations at me and expect me to take you seriously."

  "Nice turn of phrase, Horace," Marguerite sighed.

  "All I know is that there is a real, live, flesh and blood murderer still in this house and none of us are safe." Horace began pacing. "Perhaps not all of the staff went home. The storm was so terrible, perhaps someone used that as an excuse to stay. Perhaps they hid themselves here to take revenge upon me for... I don't know what! You never know with the help! They get the strangest notions in their head and soon, there is no reasoning with them! One day, they are asking for a raise in wages, the next they are luring young women out of their beds to murder them!"

  "I was not murdered," Clara pointed out.

  "A mere technicality!"

  "It would make sense," Violet squeaked. "Someone here might bear a grudge against my mother. And it would make sense also to destroy the one man with the sense to decipher the clues scientifically. The one man who could figure it all out!"

  "I could figure it out," said Clifford.

  No one made a response in support and his statement hung awkwardly in the air.

  Horace broke the silence by striding off, calling behind him. "Follow me!"

  They all trooped along behind him, up the stairs, and towards the foyer. As they marched, Horace pulled a gun off of the wall in the hallway. He cocked it and said, "Loaded. Just like I left it. Come along then! Into the dining room!"

  As soon as they were all inside, he locked the door and set about rallying their spirits. "See here, we are all in danger then. But never you fear! I shall protect us all. We shall remain hidden in this room until the storm breaks and we can go for help. There is strength in numbers and obviously, it is not safe for us to sleep alone. We shall all take turns keeping watch, except for the women of course. Delicate creatures and all."

  Clifford pulled out two dining chairs. He sat in one and propped his feet up on the other. "Seems to me they could keep watch the same as any man," he grumbled.

  "Quiet, boy. The women are free to do what they see fit. But it is a man's place to protect them and that is what we shall do," insisted Horace.

  Marguerite pulled a derringer pistol out of the pocket of her robe and pointed it at the door. "Don't worry, Clifford, dear. I shall keep an eye out. Wouldn't want you to miss any of your beauty sleep."

  "That was not what I was insinuating," Clifford tried to clarify.

  "I don't think you were insinuating anything, you lily coward."

  Clara pointed at the door at the far end of the library. "Excuse me. There are several entrances to this room, including one which goes into the room where Norman was murdered. And it appears to be open."

  They all turned.

  "Well, we know how the murderer got in," said Horace, removing his key and walking over to close and lock the doors.

  "Wait," said Wesley. "Was that door open before?"

  "What?"

  "When you went in and looked at Norman's body, did you see this door open?"

  They all stopped and looked at the room.

  "I seem to recall it was closed," said Marguerite, her bright blue eyes flickering as she pieced together the memory. "And that's why it did not dawn on us that, of course, the murderer used it to enter and exit."

  The open door stood there like an accusation.

  "Well," said Horace, resolut
e but seeming as if he wanted someone to dissuade him. "I suppose we shall just have to go in and make sure our murderer is not lying in wait."

  "You go and flush him out, father. I shall keep the women safe... make sure the murderer doesn't sneak around and get them while our backs are turned," said Clifford.

  Marguerite rolled her eyes.

  "May I borrow your derringer?" Wesley asked, hand outstretched.

  Marguerite passed it over to him, handle first. "I call her Bessie."

  "Thank you." Wesley gave Clara's hand a reassuring squeeze before he walked over to join Horace. "Shall we go inside?" he asked.

  Horace nodded and like two men stalking prey in the tall grass, they crept towards the doors. They flanked the opening on either side and then, silently counting to three, they flung the doors open.

  No one sprang out of the darkness at them.

  "Can't see a blasted thing!" bellowed Horace. "How are we supposed to be able to see a damned thing without a light! Gilbert! Gilbert, bring a light!"

  It was spoken out of habit, and it was only after the words left his lips that Horace seemed to realize what he said. Breaking the awkward silence, Clara rushed forward, taking a taper from the dining room table and going into the room to light the lamps upon the wall.

  "What the devil!" said Horace.

  The entire room had been tossed. Chairs were tipped on end. Books were ripped from their shelves. The skins were torn from the walls. A safe was behind one of them, and the wood around it bore deep scratch marks, as if someone had used an axe to try and gouge it out.

  Marguerite peered inside. "You've redecorated, Horace."

  Wesley carefully stepped through the room, looking in the fireplace, behind the chairs and the few curtains which remained hung in case someone was hiding. He lowered the derringer and returned it to Marguerite.