by Kate Danley
Clara reached out and gripped his arm. "We shall find out what happened to her, Red. That is a promise. We shall."
7
The maid came into Clara's room and pulled the curtains open far earlier than she felt a person should rise. Politeness would dictate Clara keep the schedule of the manor's mistress, and so she allowed herself to be helped out of bed and dressed. The staff had tried their best to clean her rain soaked, muddied gown, but it was beyond the hope of a single night’s work. She braced herself for Rhoda’s pointed comments on her appearance, but when she came into the dining room, neither Rhoda nor Trevor were about.
She asked Mr. Hopper, "Should I wait for the other guests?"
The butler shook his head. "They are rarely up before noon, ma'am. But Lady Beltza insists upon breakfast at seven, served whether they are here or not, just in case the day comes that they would like to rise early."
This home was becoming stranger and stranger, Clara thought.
A vast spread of fresh breads, preserves, and sausages sat upon the buffet. Clara helped herself to double servings, hating to think it might all go to waste. Fortunately, Wesley came in to give her a hand.
She sat down. His eyes were upon her, so concerned that she might still be in the distress of last evening. She smiled reassuringly as he helped himself to the food and seated himself across the table from her.
Clara asked, "Did you sleep well?"
He nodded. "It is always strange to find oneself in a new bed, but the staff here made me feel so comfortable. After such an adventurous day, I slept far better than to be expected."
Clara knew him enough to know this meant he slept not at all.
"As did I," she replied.
The butler seemed to glow in the faint praise. How terrible that Mr. Hopper was so trapped here, she thought. Lady Beltza was so spiteful, Clara suspected if he tried to leave, he would not receive a reference. His days of buttling would be done. It was unfair.
"We shall have to see what we can do to get our carriage fixed," Clara stated. "Being Sunday, it may prove to be difficult."
Wesley looked at her sharply, sensing the undercurrent of her words. "Indeed," he replied. "I hope we can find someone able to be of assistance. Today."
Just then the door opened.
"Lady Beltza!" exclaimed the butler in surprise.
Rhoda walked into the room, her skin tinged green from the night before and her eyes bloodshot.
"Coffee," she said. "I require coffee."
The butler pulled the chair out for her as she sat down wearily. He rushed over to the sideboard to pour her the requested beverage.
"I trust you slept well?" Rhoda asked, her eyes half-lidded as if every word came at a terrible cost.
"Quite well, thank you," said Clara.
"Shhh!" said Rhoda. "Not so loud…"
The butler brought her the coffee and she sipped it like a dying man at an oasis. Clara and Wesley ate noiselessly, the unfortunate sound of their silverware upon the china causing their hostess to cringe.
"We may have to impose upon you for a little while longer," Clara began, "this being Sunday and those needed to assist us will be at church services."
Rhoda held up one finger to silence Clara. "I am going into town today. I shall take you with me. I need to get to the bottom of the mystery of that key Mr. Lowenherz was so kind to lead us to last night." She beamed at Wesley in approval.
"But won't the bank be closed on a Sunday?" asked Clara.
"Oh my dear girl," Rhoda laughed mirthlessly. "When you have invested as much money into a firm as our family has, there is no such thing as 'closed', I assure you. I shall take you home and then we shall go our separate ways."
A small warning bell rang in Clara's head. "You were an investor in the bank?" Clara asked. "My husband used to work there before he passed away."
Rhoda looked at her sharply. "Indeed? Your husband, you say?"
"Yes, Thomas O'Hare. He was a clerk."
Rhoda sat back, a shrewd cruelty coming over her face. "Ah, yes… that unfortunate clerk. I remember him. He was of great assistance to my departed husband, Alastair. Died of a heart attack at his desk your husband did, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Clara, her mouth suddenly dry. "I am surprised you were aware of him."
"I make it a point to keep aware of all the potential risks to my investments. How strange that our paths would cross …"
"Strange, indeed," said Clara. She knew more than ever this was no coincidence. But why had they been brought here. Merely to show Rhoda a key? It made no sense.
She did not have any more opportunity to mull it over, though, for Rhoda pushed back from the table and declared, "Enough of this." She stood, leaving her full plate to be thrown away. She motioned to the footmen to remove Clara and Wesley's places, even though they were not done. "We should get ready for the day. I shall meet you out front in a half-hour. Since you did not bring anything, I assume it shall be an easy task for you to leave."
Rhoda snapped her fingers at Mr. Hopper and motioned to her side like a dog being told to heel. He scampered along as she walked, listening to her lowly spoken instructions for the day.
The footmen swarmed and within seconds, the entire table was cleared. Clara and Wesley found themselves alone.
"Well…" he said.
"Well…" she replied back.
He started to make a joke, but stopped himself as he looked more intently at Clara. "You are quite pale, my dear," he said. "Are you well?"
"Yes," she replied. He was so full of care, she could not help but feel some guilt for not telling him everything she suspected. She decided perhaps a half-truth might be enough. "I am merely shaken to hear of my husband from someone like Lady Beltza."
Wesley leaned his arm across the table and took her hand. "She really is quite a dreadful woman, isn't she?"
"Indeed," said Clara. "I hate to think that Thomas had to endure this family."
A strange thoughtfulness crossed Wesley's face. "How odd that we would discover this connection… We came here merely to learn if there was some way to prevent the tragedies which have been touching our lives with increased regularity, and yet it all suddenly comes back around to your husband's firm. Do you think it is just coincidence? It must be. I am sure my mind is playing unfortunate games."
Clara could not believe that Wesley would come to this same conclusion so easily on his own. She felt at once as if she was not as mad as she feared. "Both your mind and mine are as one," confessed Clara. "I cannot pretend to understand what greater machinations are at work here, but it seems to me that something is guiding us, something needs us to be here."
He reassured her firmly. "With a mind like yours, my dear," said Wesley, "I would bet my money that this is all a part of the greater good."
"I fear this greater good is about to unleash a much greater danger," replied Clara.
"Then we shall face it together head on," said Wesley, proving once again in Clara's mind that he was one of the greatest men she had ever encountered.
8
Lady Beltza's carriage pulled up in front of Clara's house and Red jumped off the top to open the door for Wesley and Clara. He then dashed behind to untie Daisy. Clara and Wesley stepped out and turned to thank Rhoda for her assistance, but the woman did not even pause to say goodbye, just banged the roof of the carriage to move on.
"She seems very anxious to find what is in that safe-deposit box," remarked Wesley.
"May she find whatever she seeks so that we never have to see her again," said Clara.
"Ah, if only wishes could come true…" sighed Wesley.
Red held the reins of his horse. "If it pleases you both, I'll be heading home. Give Daisy some time to recover and see about getting my carriage fixed proper."
"Thank you. Of course, Red. And please, do send me the bill for the repairs and I shall see that it gets paid," said Clara.
Red tipped his hat and walked off, Daisy in tow.
Wesley linked Clara's arm through his and strolled her up to her door. "And what plans do you have for the day, my dear?"
A strange plot was starting to shape itself in her mind, but she wanted to formulate it entirely before bringing Wesley into her confidence. She did not want anyone, especially one she trusted so implicitly, to dissuade her.
"I suppose that I shall have a quiet day at home," she said. "We have had a great number of adventures in the past twenty-four hours."
"Well, be sure to let me know if you are in need of dinner," said Wesley.
"I shall," she replied. The street was deserted, so she impulsively gave Wesley a peck on the cheek and registered his wide grin before opening the door and walking inside. The house practically thrummed as she crossed the threshold. She loved the way the very bricks of this building welcomed her home.
"Mrs. Nan? Mr. Willard?" she called worriedly, remembering how they told her that they faded when she was not there overnight to fuel whatever energy it was that allowed them to take physical form.
"Oh! You are back!" said Mrs. Nan, walking into the foyer. Clara noticed Mrs. Nan's figure was ever so transparent around the edges.
"I apologize I was away," Clara said. "There was an accident on the way home yesterday—"
"You are quite all right?" Mrs. Nan asked, hustling over. "You did not sustain any injuries, did you?"
"I am fine," assured Clara. "The carriage merely tipped—"
"What did that Red do? He seemed like such an intelligent young man! Not the type at all to go tilting over carriages when there are inhabitants inside!"
"It was not his fault!" Clara said, stopping her. "A girl ran out into our path and frightened the horse."
"Oh, was the poor dear all right?"
"Yes, both the girl and the horse."
"Well, thank goodness for small miracles."
"But…"
"But what?" Mrs. Nan asked, a tone of suspicion creeping into her voice.
"I thought the girl was Minnie," Clara said.
"Oh dear," said Mrs. Nan. She placed her hands on her hips and scanned the upper landing for the elusive ghost to give her a good talking to. "Minnie! This is inexcusable!"
"Oh Mrs. Nan, I believe Minnie had her reason, and I fear they were very good reasons," said Clara. She calmed herself, bringing herself back to her original plan. "I shall be grateful for a clean pair of clothes and then I must go out."
"Out again? Does that Wesley not have work he should get at? A man should provide!"
"I assure you that he has nothing to do with this scheme. It is all of my own doing."
"Well then, I am sure it is well thought out and grounded in common sense."
Clara only wished that it was.
But before she could say anything more, Mr. Willard stepped in from the dining room and his face lit with delight to see Clara. "Ah! You are home!"
"Indeed I am, Mr. Willard. I must go out this afternoon, but I assure you I will return shortly."
He stretched his hand in front of him. "Well, we are glad you are here for as long as you can. We are quite interested to hear how things went at the Beltza manor. Did you find any answers to the many mysteries you are solving?"
"I am afraid, dear Mr. Willard, I only succeeded in discovering more questions."
"All to be answered in good time," he said. "In good time."
"Now stop your talking and let us get you into fresh things," said Mrs. Nan, herding Clara up the walnut staircase to her room.
Clara was so exhausted, she would have loved to have climbed beneath the chintz coverlet on her four-poster bed and pretend all was right in the world. Mrs. Nan deposited Clara before the full length mirror, walked over to the dark cupboard, and pulled out a fresh change of clothes. Clara began unbuttoning her sleeves as Mrs. Nan started work on the back.
"It does look like your dress needs a good washing," Mrs. Nan commented with a tsk of her tongue.
"I am afraid that I was caught in a downpour, and then stranded on a muddy road. Lady Beltza's household did what they could for me, but at the current rate of my adventures, I believe I should begin carrying my own change of clothes."
"Well, that's what I'm here for. Idle hands make the devil's work."
"And you, my dear Mrs. Nan, are a pure angel."
"How were things with Mr. Lowenherz?" she asked casually.
"Oh, they were lovely," said Clara. "He is so kind, especially…"
"Especially what, dear?"
"Oh… there was something that happened which upset me. He was very kind in light of my behavior."
"Now what on earth could have upset you that terribly?" asked Mrs. Nan, pulling the shirt off of Clara and laying it upon the bed.
Clara spoke as Mrs. Nan returned to help her with her skirt. "I felt the strangest something in the manor."
"Something?" asked Mrs. Nan.
"Indeed," confessed Clara. "There was a pocket-watch and it led me up to an attic where we discovered… well, it was a note and a safe-deposit box key, but the note was written on the same letterhead as the firm where Thomas worked…"
"…and you think it might not just be coincidence," stated Mrs. Nan.
Clara did not look at her, just nodded.
"Well then, you shall just have to go investigate, shan't you?"
"I believe I must. It is why I must go out now with such urgency. Please know that I would not leave you and Mr. Willard without refreshing your energy if I could."
Mrs. Nan draped the fresh new shirt over Clara's head. "We're fine, dear. Just do what you need to do. We are here!"
"It is strange, Mrs. Nan," said Clara.
"What is?"
"To look at all the events of recent days, to have them all come back to Thomas."
Mrs. Nan came round to examine Clara, pausing to tidy up a stray wisp of hair. "You have quite a gift and the love between you was mighty. I would not be surprised at all if he was still here, trying to guide your feet along this path."
"But if he is here, if he is guiding me, why can't I see him?"
"Because, dear, maybe you would stop looking for him," said Mrs. Nan.
9
Clara sat in an office at the police station. There were well used oak filing cabinets lining one wall, a large desk in the middle with a black typewriter, and a worn wooden chair behind it. The busy sounds of the men in blue were just outside the door, their shapes a blur through the inset frosted glass. She was only left waiting for a few minutes before that door opened and a familiar voice filled the room.
"Well, look who the cat dragged in."
Clara smiled. "Marguerite!"
Her friend was still recovering from her gunshot wounds at Horace Oroberg's house. Her cane clunked as she limped behind her oak desk and sat stiffly, her bright blue eyes as lively as ever. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt and blue skirt. Her raven black hair was swept up atop her head in a loose bun.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" she asked. "Although, with your recent rate of convictions, I should probably deputize you. You're solving more cases than my team."
Clara could not help the affection she held for this brash woman. A person does not survive a murderous rampage and not feel a certain bond.
"Any more ancient Egyptian curses? Possessed women?" Marguerite asked.
"Funny that you should mention that…" said Clara.
"Oh no. Oh, dear god, no! What happened this time?"
Clara shook her head. "It is not as bad as all of that. I just had a very strange experience last evening."
"Should I send a crew to clean up any blood?"
"No," said Clara.
"There is a first time for everything."
"Wesley and I were on our way home when a young girl leapt out in front of our carriage, spooking our horse."
"Is the girl all right?"
"I don't know," said Clara. "I believe she might be dead."
"What?" asked Marguerite, sitting forward.
"Not from t
he accident. I believe… I believe she may have been a… ghost…"
Marguerite was one of the few people on earth Clara could say something like that to and not receive an immediate appointment for Bedlam.
"A ghost, you say?" confirmed Marguerite.
"Are you familiar with the Beltza family?" asked Clara.
"Oh no…" said Marguerite. "Not the Beltzas…"
"What?" asked Clara.
Marguerite rubbed her chin, appearing as if she was trying to figure out how much to confide in Clara. Finally, she threw up her hands. "They are, of course, one of the wealthier families in this area and have provided a goodly sum of donations to our department."
Clara could see where this was going.
"They also," said Marguerite, "were persons of great interest when Peter Nero disappeared."
"Of great interest?"
"I would have gambled my week's salary that they were responsible, but they came up smelling of roses. That boy Trevor is being arrested almost every other day in some scandal, and yet, week after week, he is let go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. He knows someone here. Someone is protecting him. That family is as dirty as they come."
"I have been informed that a young girl died there," said Clara.
"They said she turned her hand against herself, but I'll eat my hat if that is true." Marguerite took out a pad of paper, licked the tip of her pencil and began writing. "If we could somehow tie them to her murder, it would be like Christmas in July." Marguerite looked up, realizing how awful her statement sounded. "Not that I want her to have been murdered… but… if she was… and we could bring them to justice… you understand…"
"I do," said Clara.
"It is the closure families look for," said Marguerite.
"Also…" this was where things may be even too farfetched for her friend. "I believe all of these recent murders may have something to do with my husband Thomas's death."
Marguerite put down her pencil, folded her arms on her desk and leaned forward. "What makes you say that?"
"There was a watch in two of the paintings," said Clara. "And it had an etching of something I have seen at all of the murder sites we have attended recently."
