by Kate Danley
Red bobbed his head. "Good. Jail would be too good for the likes of him. I wasn't feelin' safe on the streets. I was nervous driving around my cab at night, truth be told. Not afraid to say it, neither." Red then seemed to realize the state that Clara and Wesley were in. "Oh, and you two just surviving that encounter and me here talkin' your ear off and drinking your tea. I shouldn't be keeping you."
"Not at all, Red," Clara tried to reassure him.
Wesley stood up to take the blame for the end of their conversation in a gentlemanly fashion. "In fact, I'm afraid that I am the one who must interrupt our discourse. I must beg your forgiveness and be going. I have a business engagement this evening."
Clara realized that for all of their adventures, Wesley was still trapped in his duties as a false medium in order to cover his living expenses. She wished there was something she could do to improve his situation. She put down her teacup. "Well, Red, it appears that your first duties have arisen. Would you drive Mr. Lowenherz home?"
"Of course, ma'am!" he said, practically leaping up from his chair, so anxious to make her proud.
"If you will pull your carriage around, he shall meet you out front."
"Thank you! I will," said Red, backing out. "Thank you!"
When he was gone, Clara went over to Wesley and held him for a moment. They finally broke.
"How strange that all of these events should intersect," Wesley commented.
"Indeed," said Clara. "I am no longer a believer in circumstance. Tell me, how would you feel about a trip to the Beltza estate tomorrow to pay our respects?"
"Do you think that would be wise?"
"Something keeps drawing us back to this family," Clara stated, ticking off all of the points. "At the séance, Hilda asked where Peter's money went. Peter arranged the financing for the archeologists who unearthed the curse. During our terrible adventure with Phineas, it was mentioned that Peter disappeared six months ago to return to Egypt. Peter originally owned the urn with the mummy's heart and it was his own daughter, Violet, who was possessed. I am beginning to think it may be more and more important to find Peter. I do not know if he is trying to unleash another curse or stop what he started. Perhaps his sister may be able to shed some light upon his whereabouts."
Wesley kissed her soundly. "I could never say no to you."
"As it should be," said Clara with a smile.
2
The next day, Clara was delighted to find Red's cab sitting outside at the ready. Red appeared to have taken great pains to tidy his appearance. Not that he wasn't a fine and dapper looking man before, but he had slicked his hair down and freshened his suit. The carriage had been wiped clean and Daisy's coat was brushed to a high gloss. He seemed to stand just a little taller as he opened the door for Clara.
"Good morning, Red," Clara said as he took her hand and helped her into the carriage.
"Good morning, Mrs. O'Hare," he replied. "Where to today?"
"I am off to see Mr. Lowenherz, and then I believe we have an urgent need to go to the Beltza estate."
Red's pale face paled even further. "Are you sure? To the Beltza estate?"
"Does this cause you distress, Red?" she asked, worriedly. "If so, we could find another cab to take us."
"No! No…" he said, shaking his head, but his eyes said something different.
Clara reached out, trying to explain so that he did not think her cruel. "I promise it is a matter of great importance."
"I should not have…" he stammered. "Forgive me—"
Clara cut him off. "No apologies necessary, Red. We must go there to pay our respects, but we shall be done with it as soon as possible. I promise."
Red straightened his shoulders and nodded like a soldier being told to rush an enemy line. Clara wondered what terrible thing had happened to cause him such dread. There was a tale here to be told. She would have to make sure and get it from him when the opportunity presented itself.
Then Red's eyes focused on something behind her and his face relaxed. Clara looked over her shoulder to see what caused this shift in mood.
Minnie was standing at the window, beaming at Red. She gave him a great wave as if seeing a close friend.
"Is she one of your household?" he asked.
Clara nodded. She wasn't sure how much to say. What is the protocol when revealing that a mutual acquaintance is a ghost?
"Yes," she finally said. "One of the girls who works for me. Her name is Minnie. She is quite darling."
"I shall have to say hello to her the next time I am in the kitchen."
It was so strange that this elusive spirit should choose to reveal herself again to Red, but when Clara saw the smile on Minnie's face, she couldn't help herself from encouraging him. "I think that would be quite a lovely idea. She is frequently out of the house running errands, but if you see her, I am sure she would be quite glad of the companionship."
"She looked a bit like…" He cut himself off. "Well, she looks a bit familiar. Can't place her, but like someone I know."
Clara was glad he did not yet recognize the family resemblance to Wesley. There would be time enough for that if Minnie decided to deepen their friendship.
Red climbed onto the back of the carriage and soon the cab was swaying to the gentle rhythm of Daisy's hooves. Clara rested her chin upon her hand as she looked out upon the white painted houses with their pointed, black, wrought-iron fences. A horse-drawn trolley rolled by, filled with people from different walks of life. The streets were bustling as bankers and businessmen made their way to work. Her Thomas used to be among them, but for the first time since his death, she realized she was not scanning their faces to see if by some accident he was among them, his passing some great misunderstanding. She was glad. Today, she was back in her widow weeds. She burned that awful blue gown, the only colored dress she owned, before going to bed. That dress was a violation. But her heart was moving on from her grief and she knew the day would soon come when she would return to lovely gowns of her own accord. As they pulled up in front of Wesley's house, she knew that the healing was due to one man. He was the one who brought color back to her world.
His townhouse was larger than hers, done in the Georgian style. White columns held up the roofline, large French windows along its face. It had no garden. Its front door led straight to the street. The house to the right and left looked exactly the same, with only the color of the curtains differentiating between them.
Clara felt Red get down from the top of the cab and waited as he came over to the window.
"If you would be so kind, Red," she directed, "to let Mr. Lowenherz know that I am here."
He nodded, tipping his hat. She smiled. She was going to have to let him know that such formalities were quite unnecessary. Soon, Wesley was coming out the door and trotting quickly to her. He stepped inside and sat down, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.
"Good day to you, Clara," he said, not releasing her hand. She was glad. She did not want it back. "Tell me, what grand misadventures do you have in store for us today?"
"Only the one we discussed - a visit to the Beltza household to pay our respects."
"Out of the frying pan and into the fire?" he said as the carriage lurched forward.
"Indeed," replied Clara. "Only, my hope is that perhaps this shall somehow give us warning before the next person comes along to stoke the flames."
"If anyone had tried to warn us of recent events, I'm afraid I would have called them a liar," Wesley confessed.
"I do hope that with the entrapment of that Egyptian queen, we are at last free."
"But you don't feel that we are, do you, my dear…" said Wesley.
She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "No."
The sounds of the city faded as Red drove the horse out of town and into the countryside. The rocking of the carriage changed as the ground turned from cobblestone to dirt road. Occasionally, they would pass a farmer bringing a wagonload of goods the other direction and were met with friendly no
ds and hat-tips. That is, until they crossed into the Beltza lands. The welcoming faces turned dour, and shifty eyes looked at them suspiciously.
"I wonder what has caused this change in mood?" remarked Clara.
Wesley shook his head, but both of them could guess the answer. The Beltza family owned this land and it appeared that affection was one crop they did not grow. Though neither had ever met the Beltza family outside of their in-law Hilda and Violet, the company this family kept certainly gave one an indication of their spirit.
The carriage crested the hill, and the manor house came into view. Clara gasped. It was absolutely lovely. Large, flat lawns circled the large, stone house. There were probably one hundred windows, lined up neatly across the face. Double doors were tucked behind the three-story columns. Behind the house, Clara could see the manor's gardens. They were a riot of spring color, well tended and absolutely pristine. Every hedge was trimmed, every weed plucked; nothing was left but the tamed beauty of nature.
The carriage pulled in front of the house and Red opened the doors to the carriage via the levers by his seat. But then he seemed to remember his riders were his employers, not just some anonymous fares, and hopped down to stand by the door. He straightened his jacket nervously. Wesley stepped out first and took Clara's hand, giving her his strength for balance as she wrestled with her heavy skirts.
"Thank you, Red," Clara said. "Please wait for us here."
Red nodded, his earlier skittishness hidden behind a mask of duty, and he climbed back atop the carriage as Wesley and Clara walked towards the manor's imposing entrance.
There was a metal-handled doorbell and Wesley pulled it up and down several times. In the distance, Clara could hear the tinkling ring, letting the servants know there was someone waiting at the front.
After a few moments, she heard the latch lift and the door open, revealing a pinched, grim butler. He looked at her expectantly.
"We are here to pay our respects to Lady Beltza," Clara stated, handing him her calling card.
He disappeared for a few moments and then returned. "I am to escort you to the conservatory."
"That would be lovely," Clara replied.
They stepped into the house to follow him. The manor was unlike anywhere Clara had been before. Their feet echoed on the marble floor. It was laid out in an elaborate pattern of black squares surrounded by white. The foyer soared two stories up with a sweeping staircase to one side. Rows of doors were just beyond the second-story metalwork balustrade. Eight-foot-tall paintings of the manor's family hung upon the walls. Clara stopped, noticing the larger-than-life depictions of Hilda and Violet on oil and canvas. She gripped Wesley's arm. The butler turned to see what was keeping Lady Beltza's guests.
Wesley took the matter in hand and politely explained, "We were acquainted with both Mrs. Nero and her daughter."
"It is quite something to see their likeness again," added Clara.
The butler placed his hands behind his back and stated without emotion, "Yes, quite a tragedy."
Clara wasn't sure if it was his well-trained manners which kept him from revealing any affection, or if perhaps he was displaying his true feelings about the affair.
But the reason Clara had stopped Wesley was not just Hilda and Violet. It was the man next to them, a smaller picture which had a small gold plaque at the bottom that read: Peter Nero.
"And of course Mr. Nero," said Clara, motioning to the painting. "We did not have the pleasure of making his acquaintance."
"Indeed."
Did she imagine the tinge of bitterness in his voice?
Peter seemed like an unremarkable man from his portrait, and knowing the liberties artists took to flatter their patrons, she could only imagine he was even less remarkable than portrayed. He appeared to be of average height with a small, rounded paunch. His hair was light brown and combed over his balding head. His eyes were brown. His face was plain. He was, truly, the most forgettable looking man Clara had ever gazed upon. How easy for him to go missing and not be found again. She got the distinct feeling that even when he was here, he most likely was the type to be lost among the wallpaper.
She smiled and indicated to the butler that they were ready to move on. He led them out the back and into the conservatory.
The glass room was, like the house, exquisite. But Clara was getting the sense that such perfection was to hide the flaws that the owners did not wish the world to see. The conservatory's windows were framed in white metal. A red and gold parrot squawked from a perch. Clara had never seen one outside of a zoological garden before. The air was warm and moist, and she touched her brow with her gloves to wipe the drops of moisture which sprung from the heat.
Seated in the center of the room was a woman who looked more skeleton than skin. Her cheekbones were sharp and her face had the wrinkles of a person who spent too much time pursing her lips in disapproval. Her hair was mousy and brown, and her upper lip sprouted the dark fur of a woman past her prime. Her eyes were flat and joyless. Clara, having experienced the devastating effects of mourning, would have credited this appearance to recent sad events, but she got the feeling perhaps death was an improvement to this woman's outlook on life.
"Mrs. O'Hare and Mr. Lowenherz," the butler announced.
"Please bring us the tea," said Mrs. Beltza matter-of-factly. She motioned to the chairs at the table, indicating that Clara and Wesley should sit down. "I was surprised to receive your request. It is quite rude to invite one's self to the home of someone to which one has not been properly introduced. I suppose you were not aware of your forwardness."
Clara was taken aback by this woman's blunt words. Wesley, once again, stepped in to the rescue.
"Our apologies, Mrs. Beltza."
"Apologies do not excuse bad behavior," she said, pounding her cane on the floor for emphasis.
"I assure you it was not our intention."
"Intention or not, it was the effect."
Clara broke in, realizing they might be ushered out before they had an opportunity to reveal the nature of their visit. "We were present at the death of both Mrs. Hilda Nero and Miss Violet Nero. We came to pay our respects and to answer any questions you might have had about their final moments. We thought it the least we could do in the face of such tragedy."
The old woman gripped her cane and stared off into the distance. "That was dreadful business, that."
Clara and Wesley did not speak. The silence hung as thickly as the humidity.
"Well, what is done is done," she stated, breaking out of her trance. "I have lost a husband and a brother. The loss of two women who were not related to me by blood and for whom I held little affection for is unfortunate but hardly cause for you two to drive all the way out here."
"I see," Clara stammered, taken a little aback. "We only came to express our sympathy."
The butler returned and served tea to them all. Clara was relieved for this small break. Rhoda Beltza was not what one would consider a welcoming hostess. She could understand more and more the unhappy faces of those who they passed upon the road.
Rhoda took a sip from her teacup and placed it down. "Well, you have given me your condolences. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"
Wesley cleared his throat. "We were led to believe that Peter had a great deal of interest in the Egyptology field."
"Indeed, my poor, idiot brother was quite taken with the archeological finds in that part of the world. In fact, he sunk the majority of our wealth into it. He swore the last day I saw him that he had discovered a large sum of money and would pay me back. I assumed he gave it to that wife of his. Or I would have assumed if it wasn't for that lawyer of hers coming to tell me that with both she and her daughter gone with no will, her estate would be held in probate for the next few years, and even when it was released, there wouldn't be much to collect."
Clara leaned forward. "Mrs. Nero indicated that terrible night that she was searching for this lost treasure."
"Well, if yo
u find it, please return it to me," Rhoda stated humorously. "My husband Alastair left me in quite a pickle. All this estate to manage with no funds to run it. If only he and I had known how Peter would go and squander the family fortune… why, if Peter were alive, I'd take him right across my knee. Brother or not!"
"You believe he is dead?" asked Clara.
"What else could have happened? Indeed, no remote corner of this globe would be so far away that Peter would have left me in such a state. I'm just grateful my dear departed husband wasn't here to see this. Oh, he always said I had a soft spot for Peter. But what sister doesn't indulge her younger brother, even if he is a fool? I suppose the joke is on me. I trusted that rascal and this is how he repays me. Leaving me in wrack and ruin! And poor Alastair gone so I don't even have anyone to give me strength!" Rhoda dabbed her nose with her handkerchief.
"My husband passed away, too," Clara said, trying to reach out and make some human connection with this woman. "I know how awful it can be. Tell me, how long ago were you parted?"
"No one, not even you, I am sure, can understand what it has been like. We have been parted for one year," said Rhoda proudly, her momentary weakness gone as if it had never happened. "And I have remained true to him to this day. Until death do we part! And my death has not yet come." She pounded her cane for emphasis.
"I see," said Clara, so unsure of how to navigate these strange waters.
"Well," said Wesley, interrupting, "We really shouldn't keep you any longer. Please, do let us know if there is any way we can be of assistance. Know that you have our deepest condolences and we are only too happy to come to your aid. You need only say the word. We were glad to have been acquainted with Hilda and Violet, and recently met several of Peter's business associates. We shall let them know you are hale and hearty."
Clara thought it wise that Wesley decided not to mention that most of said associates were now dead.
