by Kate Danley
"I see. And how did your carriage come to this… accident?" Rhoda asked, implying that their return was nothing more than a fabrication, and that they broke a very expensive piece of property and placed their lives and the lives of their livestock at risk to prey upon her in her grief.
"A young girl ran out in front of our carriage," Clara replied, "causing our horse to rear up and the carriage to tip. We apologize for having to impose…"
"Impose, nothing!" said Trevor. "Oh, Mother, you wouldn't believe it. It was absolutely smashed up. But it was like the fates intervened. Do say you'll let Mr. Lowenherz display his skills this evening after supper! Do!"
Rhoda inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Very well. Since it is what my son desires, who am I to deny him such a request? That is, if Mr. Lowenherz would be amenable."
"I am," said Wesley, entering with Mr. Hopper. "It would be a pleasure and the least I can do."
Rhoda could not even strain herself to pretend hospitality. "Very well. We shall get changed for supper. I leave you in the hands of my staff, whom I hope will display competence for the first time in my memory and take care of your needs. I would advise you to lower your expectations so as not to be disappointed. Good help is so hard to find. But then after supper, we shall see what gifts you have and whether you are deserving of your reputation, Mr. Lowenherz."
Clara was feeling more and more that they should have taken their chances outside with the storm.
5
Clara carefully pulled the long, black, silk gloves up her arms. "Thank you for your help," she said to the young maid, who gave a bob and ducked out of the room. The poor girl had seemed terrorized the entire time, as if frightened she would commit some misstep resulting in her dismissal. The first time Clara spoke, which was to compliment her, the maid had cringed in response. The Beltza household was obviously not a kind one. It was such a shame. Clara looked in the mirror and admired the maid's handiwork. She had smoothed and arranged Clara's fiery hair so expertly, especially after the havoc of the storm. It was done in a loose bun in the style of those fashionable Gibson girls, very similar to the hairstyle Clara had admired on her friend Marguerite Matson. The black taffeta dress the maid had brought was several years behind the current style, but still very attractive. She turned to admire the low train and ruffled hems, and wondered to whom this gown once belonged. She could not imagine Rhoda wearing it.
The dinner gong rang distantly and a shiver of dread worked its way down Clara's spine. She steeled her breath and promised herself that she would only need to endure one evening and then never again. She reminded herself that for whatever reason, she was here, and it was her duty to learn as much as she could about this family. Her hand rested on the doorknob. She desperately did not wish to turn it, but she knew there was no escape. There was a time in her life when she would have looked upon such an awkward evening as an amusement rather than a crush of despair. She dug deep into her soul and tried to find that part of herself and failed.
But she did walk out the door. And there was Wesley. His auburn hair had been styled in a pompadour and greased into place. He was dressed in white-tie and tails. He made everything look fashionable.
"May I escort you downstairs?" he asked, his brown eyes brimming with pleasure as he drank her in.
She smiled, the warmth spreading through her body from finger tips to toes. "Of course, darling." She linked her arm through his. "I apologize for getting us into this mess. I was thinking this would be nothing more than an informative social call, and I'm afraid that instead we are quite trapped."
"Step inside, said the spider to the fly," he quipped quietly into her ear.
They walked down the staircase and saw Mr. Hopper standing by the door to the dining room. The room was dim, lit only by two candelabras upon the table, although there were sconces set into the wall that could have made the room feel more welcoming. Large paintings of Lord Beltza and Peter Nero hung on opposite ends of the room. The furniture was polished to a mirror-like sheen. There was not a single water ring or dent in the long table's mahogany. The footman waited in the shadows to direct them to their seats. Clara thought how lonely this room must seem with only Trevor and Rhoda in attendance.
But then Rhoda and Trevor came in and all sympathy was lost.
"I see you found your way," Rhoda stated, unimpressed. Trevor deposited her at her place and they all sat. "Try not to strain the seams on that dress, Mrs. O'Hare. It looks as if you are about to burst out of it."
Clara vowed that she would have second and third helpings of every plate offered to her.
The table was covered in china and silver for a seven course meal. For one who had put up such protestations about guests, Rhoda certainly cut no entertainment corners. Clara thought perhaps she was just excited to have a new opportunity to berate her servants.
The conversation was kept to polite topics of the weather and recent events in the news. Anytime it steered towards politics or gossip, Rhoda jumped in sharply and changed the subject. Even Trevor seemed slightly cowed by her reign at the table. There were only so many times a person could comment upon the width and breadth of raindrops before the conversation stalled. But as another bottle of wine was opened, Rhoda, not having the constitution to imbibe at the rate she was drinking, turned the discussion towards Wesley and his skills.
"So, you speak to ghosts," Rhoda slurred.
Wesley dabbed his lips with his napkin. "Indeed. It has been a gift of mine."
"How long?" she asked, giving a hiccup. "How long have you been speaking to the dead?"
"Oh…" said Wesley, lying. "It is something I have always done, but only recently decided to share with the rest of the world."
"I wish I could speak to the dead," said Trevor, wistfully, knocking aside his silverware as he reached to pour himself another glass. "I'd ask them all sorts of questions, like… which banks should I invest with and how to make a fortune and such."
Clara watched as Wesley struggled with himself and then decided to not even attempt to answer. She let her eyes drift across the wall to the painting of Peter Nero and then of Rhoda's husband, Alastair Beltza, as Trevor rambled on. Suddenly, Clara's breath caught in her throat. How had she not noticed it before! The gold pocket watches in both paintings! They were the same… and both were etched with a familiar design. It was a square pattern that almost appeared to be an architect's rendering of a room with a door on each wall swinging inward. No one would have noticed if they had not had the encounters that both Wesley and Clara had experienced recently.
Clara cleared her throat, interrupting Trevor. "You know, something that aids Mr. Lowenherz to connect with those who have passed is an object which they carried around with them every day. It picks up their signature energy, having been with them for so many hours."
She was making this up as she went along, but Rhoda and Trevor nodded in agreement as if Clara was speaking cold hard truth. Wesley looked at her, puzzled by where she was going with this.
"Like a dinner jacket or something?" asked Rhoda. "I still have some of Alastair's clothes lying about."
Clara dabbed her lip with her napkin. "I could not help but notice the pocket watch he is carrying in that painting. It must have been important for him to wish to have it immortalized."
Clara was sure that if she had tried to suggest this tactic while Rhoda was sober, she would have accused her of trying to steal her dead husband's valuables. But with a few drinks in her, Rhoda ate it up like chocolate cake, getting more and more excited about the prospect. "I think I have it up in my bedroom," she slurred. She turned to the footman. "Go send my maid to get Alastair's pocket watch from my things." She gave Clara a wink and downed the rest of her glass. "Let's see what that old blowhard of mine has to say for himself."
Soon the butler returned and handed it to Rhoda. She held the timepiece up, letting it dangle in the firelight. "Well, come and get it."
Clara stood and followed Wesley. He carefully took it from Rhoda and sa
id, "I cannot make any guarantees, but I shall attempt to pierce the veil." He gave Clara a glance, begging her to help him out of this situation.
But she could already feel the tug. She said, "What a lovely watch. I can see why it was held dear by both Mr. Nero and Lord Beltza."
She placed just a finger upon it, as if admiring the etching, and the electricity shot through her like a bolt of lightning. She gripped the crook of Wesley's arm tightly, hoping he would understand the tension in her hand.
"Yes…" Wesley said. "Yes… I am getting something… Let us follow where the spirit leads."
Clara was glad the drink would have blurred the senses of their host and hostess enough that they would not have caught this slight lie. Steering Wesley's arm, she led him out of the room while attempting to look no more involved in the matter than just escorting her companion.
The tug brought them to the base of the grand staircase in the foyer.
"Up?" Wesley asked. Clare nodded. "Up we go! The spirits lead us towards the heavens!"
Rhoda was stumbling behind them, swaying with every footstep and having to prop herself against the banister as she fell from side-to-side. Her hair had come undone from her bun and her skirts kept tripping her. Her son seemed to not be faring much better. He decided it would be far safer to crawl up the stairs using his hands like an infant.
But up went the motley crew. Through the hallway and then up another set of stairs. Mr. Hopper followed behind, opening the locked doors as they travelled deeper and deeper into the manor house, into wings which had long since been closed.
Finally, they came to a plain, simple door in the farthest corner. Clara pulled Wesley to a halt.
"Here," said Wesley. He tried the door handle, but it was locked.
"This door leads to the attic," Mr. Hopper informed the group.
"Of COURSE it's in the attic!" Rhoda exclaimed. "That's where I would hide something if I was hiding something that someone didn't want to be found by me. But I found you, old rascal!"
"This is extraordinarily exciting," belched Trevor.
"Open the door!" Rhoda snapped at Mr. Hopper. The poor butler scrambled forward with his keys.
Rhoda and Trevor stormed up the stairs despite the darkness, fueled by the thought of discovering a treasure. The sounds of furniture being thrown echoed towards the remaining members of the party. Mr. Hopper stoically led the way for Wesley and Clara. The entire room had been sacked in the span of those thirty seconds. Furniture tipped. Dust cloths removed. Crates over turned. Clara heard the butler gasp. Poor man most likely was thinking of all the work these fools had now caused.
But the pull of the watch was unrelenting and did not give Clara a moment to murmur words of comfort. Instead, it led her to the back of the room, towards a small plank. She pointed.
Wesley turned back to the two and said, "It has led me here."
Rhoda fell down towards them and pried at the floorboard with her fingers, breaking her nails to ragged edges. It came up. There was something inside.
"What is it, mother dear?"
She pulled out an envelope and opened it in greedy delight. "It is a key, perhaps to a safe-deposit box, and an address to his bank!"
Clara felt as if someone had struck her in the heart. The letterhead was for the firm where her husband, Thomas, had worked. And where he had died.
"I think I am going to be sick," said Trevor, before emptying the contents of his stomach into a hat box.
6
Clara's knees weakened and she leaned heavily upon Wesley's arm. The attic was stifling, the smell of Trevor's sick causing her own stomach to revolt.
"I need to step away," Clara said.
"Of course," Wesley replied. He turned and informed Rhoda, "Mrs. O'Hare is in need of some fresh air."
Rhoda waved him away, still puzzling over the key, oblivious to her son's state. The butler stood patiently by Trevor, his handkerchief over his nose, as if this was a normal part of an evening at the Beltza house.
Clara and Wesley descended the steps and he walked her out of the abandoned part of the house to the warmth of the lived-in wing.
But Clara's mind was a jumble of thoughts, each pushing and jostling its way to the front. She felt as if her head might explode if she spent one more minute within the walls of the cursed manor. She peeled herself away from Wesley.
"Darling?" he asked worriedly, reaching out for her.
"I need to get out of here…" she murmured, wrapping her arms around her corseted waist to comfort herself.
"Let me take you downstairs…" he offered.
"No!" she said, louder and more violently than she intended. His face looked as if she had slapped him. How to explain? she wondered. She tried to soften her words. "No, thank you," she said. "I just… I need a moment alone. I do not feel well."
"Of course," Wesley replied, concern in his eyes. But this time, he did not make a move to stop her as she rushed down the steps and out the front door.
The moon was hanging full over the front yard. The air had a bite to it. Though the storm no longer raged, it left a chilling wind. Clara stood, letting the cold night air wash over her.
It was just a coincidence, she told herself. Many people did business at her husband's bank. What happened to Thomas was no more than what it was. His heart gave out from overwork. That was all.
But the words rang hollow in her mind.
The events of the past few weeks sped through her memories, intersecting and becoming more than just coincidence. It seemed as if she had been led to her little house on the square, her little house with all her ghosts who just happened to have been murdered by Violet Nero. Her feet had been guided to Wesley. There was no other explanation for the way she found him in that vaudeville house, then that he should be at the manor of Lord Oroberg, at the table with Violet Nero. And then that Red, of all cab drivers, should be the one to pick her up as she fled Phineas Stokeman's house, a driver who happened to work for Peter Nero's sister. And that all of their adventures, all of their shared connections, they all converged here - to this house, to this moment with this small scrap of paper tying this family, these events, to her husband.
Could it be that something more was at work? That, somehow, Thomas was asking for her help to right a great wrong?
"Oh, Thomas," she said to the moon. "What did they do to you?"
"You talkin’ to someone, Mrs. O'Hare?" asked a voice. Red stepped out of the shadows. He had a lit cigarette in his hand, most likely having come outside for a break.
Clara wiped the tears from her eyes, not wanting any witnesses to her outbreak. "You must forgive me, Red. I thought that I was alone."
He looked at her, seeing her distress. "Did someone upset you, ma'am? Shall I get Mr. Lowenherz for you?"
She waved his concerns away. She was not yet ready to confess. "I am quite all right. Thank you, Red. I am afraid that something just…" She stopped herself. How could she explain? It would sound like the ravings of a madwoman. "Never mind. I am fine."
Red came closer, looking around first to make sure no one was listening. "This family is pure evil, Mrs. O'Hare. That Lady Beltza married the devil himself, if you ask me."
"What?" asked Clara, taken aback by his vehemence.
Red stopped himself, realizing he had spoken out of turn. "Begging your pardon. I shouldn't have said that."
"Stop apologizing for speaking plainly, Red. It is exactly what I need to hear. Please, go on," she begged.
Red looked out into the distance. "There was a girl who used to live here, Mrs. O'Hare…"
His voice trailed off. Clara stepped closer. "Go on."
"It isn't like anything ever happened between us," he said. "Nothing like that. She was well above my station. But I always thought this girl hung the moon. There was something special about her. She weren't anything special to outside eyes, but…"
"Something happened, didn't it?" Clara asked, urging Red along, knowing in her gut the truth.
"That Trevor Beltza took a shine to her. She didn't do nothing to encourage it. She wasn't like that. The constables said that she was trouble, but I knew her. She wasn't like that."
"What happened to her, Red?"
"She drowned," he said. "They said she did it to herself. Said that she loved Trevor Beltza and killed herself when he started loving someone else, that she was mad with jealousy. But I know it weren't true… I know in the way I knew to stop my cab for you. Something happened here and it weren't right."
"I believe you, Red," Clara confessed. "There is something terrible afoot." It was her turn to stammer and stumble out the words. "My husband died not too long ago. They said it was his heart. They said he just fell over dead at his desk. But…"
"It's something about this family, isn’t it?" said Red.
Clara nodded. "Up in the attic… I saw something, Red."
"Something?"
"I felt… drawn…"
Red remained silent, allowing her to continue at her own pace.
"There was a floorboard and inside it, we found a piece of paper and a key. The paper was written upon the letterhead of my late husband's firm. How?" Clara stopped herself, wearily. "My mind is playing tricks on me."
"Not tricks," Red said. "It ain't tricks."
"Something terrible has happened here, hasn't it?" she asked desperately.
"I always get these feelings," he said. "And more times than not, they end up being true."
"I get the same feelings," said Clara.
Red paused. "Ma'am, do you ever see people who aren't there… more than just out of the corner of your eye?"
Clara nodded.
"Me, too," Red said. "I think… I think I saw that girl who disappeared. She wasn't alive. But I saw her. I could have sworn it." He took a final drag from his cigarette and then dropped it on the ground, crushing out its light with his shoe. "And that's why I left."
