O'Hare House Mysteries

by Kate Danley

  She attempted to smile bravely and with such gratitude for the generosity she was receiving as she dug for information. "Does he support any of the other widows of the firm?"

  "No, I confess he does not. The first deposit arrived shortly after your husband's death with direct instructions to add them to your monthly allowance."

  There was something so unsettling about it all, not just that her entire well-being was reliant upon the munificence of a mysterious stranger and that her security could be taken from her at any time. Who on earth would have taken an interest in her? And why? "May I ask how long I can anticipate this patronage?" she asked.

  "Till the end of your days," he replied, "or so the note states."

  "Well," said Clara, "I hope that you will inform me if you ever learn the name of this benefactor so that I might thank him for his kindness."

  "Of course!" he said. "Gladly! Of course you would want to thank him. Of course." George set about rearranging the pencils on his desk, as if by moving those little pieces of lead and wood he could put the world back into order. "Now, to business. You did not just come here to hear me rattle on."

  "No," confessed Clara, brought back to her original mission. "I am here to pick up a lock box for a friend of mine."

  "I am afraid that is quite impossible. Only the interested parties—"

  Clara cut him off by pushing the letterhead with Lady Rhoda Beltza's note upon it and the key. One look at her signature and George was mopping his forehead again. "Oh!" said George. "Oh. Lady Beltza. Of course. Yes. Lady Beltza. I would be happy to." He got up and left, and soon returned with the box. "Is this what you were looking for?"

  Clara nodded and reached out. The moment she touched it, a thrill went up her fingers. Thomas. He had touched this box. Why? What was it that caused this connection?

  "If you please, George, may I take this box with me?" she asked.

  He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, it is not exactly regulation…"

  "It is my dear friend Lady Beltza's request," Clara explained, improvising as she went. "She wants to put something into it, but doesn't have time to come in."

  This sent George into another spin of nervous energy. He began stacking the paper on his desk, unable to meet Clara's eyes. "Of course! Of course. She is a busy woman. Anything for such an esteemed client of this institution. And of course, you, being you, and a member of our institution's family and such, with Thomas having died here..."

  Clara could tell that George was attempting to convince himself and decided to help him further. "She would be most displeased if I did not bring it to her. You know how she likes things to be exactly as she likes," Clara stated, conspiringly.

  George was frozen like a rabbit in a trap. "You are quite right. Lady Beltza is not happy when her requests are not met. And we try to keep our clients happy! Especially one with her history with us. No one could say no to a widow like yourself… a widow and also a friend of Lady Beltza’s. It would be fine. I am sure. Of course!" George leaned forward and whispered, "Just try to have it back as soon as possible, and make sure to ask for me when you do."

  "Thank you," said Clara. She paused for just a moment, her fingers running along the metal lid. "Mr. Fielding, were you here the day that my husband passed away?"

  He nodded sadly. "Indeed. I was sitting right here."

  Clara had accepted the account of her husband's death as told to her, but wondered perhaps if there was something more. "Could you tell me anything you remember about that day?"

  "Oh, it was so long ago, I don't remember much… Your husband sat down at his desk to do his work and then… well… you know the rest. Just put his head down and his poor heart gave out on him."

  Clara tapped the box. "Did he work on the Beltza accounts?"

  "No! No," said George. "We only handled the smaller accounts."

  Clara wondered what had caused Lady Beltza to remember her husband the other night, to say that he worked with her husband, Alastair. The entire affair was like falling down a rabbit hole.

  George did not seem to have noticed that Clara's thoughts were wandering, though, for he continued to speak. "He hoped he could at least begin working with the Nero accounts, though. Worked himself to the bone trying to prove himself worthy of them. Worked himself to the bone…"

  They sat in silence for a moment as Clara mulled. What to do now? The case was empty. There was no news here. She wondered why she had come.

  "Mr. Fielding, might I see the desk where my husband sat?" she asked.

  He nodded sympathetically. "Of course. Here, let me go tell the clerk to take a short break. One moment."

  Clara watched as he walked over and spoke to a thin man. They both looked back at her and the man nodded, got up, and left. George waved her over. "This was his place," he informed her.

  Clara struggled to keep her composure. Where before her emotions had to be stirred, now she had to fight to maintain control. She told herself it was best to save the emotions for later rather than be hustled away because of an outburst of feminine display.

  "I'll give you a few minutes. Let me know if you need anything," he said.

  "Thank you for your kindness," she replied.

  She waited for him to go before placing the box upon the desk. She took off her gloves and ran her hand along the wood, touching the seat where her husband last sat. It was still warm from its last inhabitant, but she could almost imagine it was still warm from Thomas. This was where he leaned. This was where his hand rested. And then the fingers of her right hand passed across something rough. Beneath the blotter there seemed to be a scratch.

  But it was deliberate.

  She pushed it back.

  There, carved into the wood, was a square with the symbol of four doors swinging inwards.

  "Oh Thomas…" she whispered. "Whatever did you get yourself involved in…"

  12

  Clara and Wesley rode in the carriage in silence, dressed in their evening best—he in his white tie and top hat, she in a gown of black.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" Wesley asked her softly.

  Clara nodded her head, but could not look at him. She knew he thought her only reluctant to return to the manor. She had not yet found the courage to tell him about the trip to the bank and the etching she found on Thomas's desk. If Wesley should belittle her… if he should try to dissuade her as Marguerite had… she would not be able to bear it. Instead, she replied with the only bit of truth she could share, "I must."

  Wesley gripped her hand bracingly. "I shall be here to aid you however I can, dear Clara."

  She gazed at him with such warm sadness. Here was this living, breathing man who loved her, supported her, and she, instead, reached back into the past to the man who left her behind.

  "You seem so far away," he noted gently.

  She could not deny his words. "I promise as soon as I find the answers, I shall return to you."

  "I shall wait until the end of the earth," assured Wesley. He moved as if he wanted to kiss her palm, but stopped himself. Instead, he let go, allowing her the distance she had cloaked herself in. They spent the rest of the journey wordless.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the Beltza manor and the house's footman opened the door. Clara exited and gave a nod to Red. "We shall see you tomorrow," she said to him. She hoped that they would. There was a grim hollowness to the statement the moment it escaped her lips.

  It was not lost upon Red. He gave a tip of his hat. "Just give word if you need to come home sooner and I'll fly here like a bird on the wind." And then he was gone, escaping on his carriage into the darkness. Clara wished that they were going with him.

  Clara looked up at the front of the imposing manor. Her terrible suspicions turned its regal face sinister. Whatever secrets the mysterious room-with-four-doors held, this family had touched it. A possessed girl, a murderous photographer, a mad mummy… and now to think, nay, to know her husband had come in contact with this cursed group, too.

>   Mr. Hopper opened the front door for them and led them into the drawing room. It was yellow and white and seemed so cheerful. A woman dressed in a gown the color of fog sat quietly in wait and rose as they entered.

  The butler stated, "Lady Beltza will be with you shortly. Allow me to introduce Mrs. Clara O'Hare and Mr. Wesley Lowenherz to Lady Daphne Grey."

  Clara and Wesley stepped forward to shake her hand. Daphne Grey was true to her name. Her hair was iron-colored with a shock of white hair at the temple. Her eyes were so pale, it was hard to tell their shade. Her skin held no rosy tones of life. She seemed wan, as if one foot was set in this world and one foot in the next.

  "Are you an old friend of Lady Beltza?" Clara asked.

  Daphne seemed to be distracted, barely hearing her, even though she answered, "Yes, I have been a friend of the family for quite some time."

  The silence hung in the air between them as the conversation ground to a halt. Daphne finally roused herself. "Mr. Lowenherz. I have it on some authority you are able to speak with those beyond the grave?"

  Wesley nodded. "Indeed."

  "My daughter passed away. It would be a comfort to speak with her," Daphne said, the words lifeless, spoken with as much enthusiasm as a comment upon the weather.

  "Of course," said Wesley, looking at Clara for support. "We shall try our best to reach her."

  Once again, silence reigned.

  "Tell us about your daughter, Lady Grey," Clara invited.

  Daphne walked to the window as she fell into the world of her memories. "Julie was the dearest girl," said Daphne. "Always a quiet thing, but inquisitive to a fault. I would think she was in the library reading a book only to spot her in the garden investigating some mystery of nature. She was an innate scientist. If she had not been born a girl, I am sure her mind would have rivaled the professional inquisitiveness of any man." Daphne placed her hand upon the sill softly. "We stayed here for a time with the Beltza family… just before…" Daphne stopped herself. "She loved this house. She knew every nook and corner. I would always find her in the oddest places. She never told me what she was looking for, only that she was not afraid. I don't know why she should think she should be afraid. She was only exploring. But she would always say that. Always say she wasn't afraid."

  Though there was a part of Clara that did not wish to know the answer, she found herself asking, "And how did your daughter pass?"

  Tears welled up in Daphne's eyes. "She drowned. They said she was in love with Trevor, but when he spurned her for Violet Nero, her heart was broken and she no longer wished to live."

  Clara’s knees buckled and she clung to Wesley's arm.

  "Oh my dear lady, I did not wish to disturb you," Daphne commented. Even the sight of someone becoming faint didn’t rouse enough emotion to be alarmed, only polite apology.

  Wesley wrapped his arm around Clara's waist and helped her to the fainting couch. She laid back, the recline giving her some relief against the tightness of her corset. Wesley's eyes were upon her with care, as if asking her if further conversation was the best course in her current state. But Clara would not be dissuaded. She waved Wesley's concerns away and focused upon Daphne. This had to be more than a coincidence.

  "Do go on," Clara urged her.

  Daphne's face twisted in grief as the memories of her daughter took over. "She was happy and healthy one evening, and the next day, she was found in the mill pond with rocks in the pockets of her skirts. It is a tragedy I shall never recover from." She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and attempted to restore her composure. "But I hope that tonight, with the aid of Mr. Lowenherz, I shall be able to learn if her soul is at rest. Perhaps then I can find the strength to continue on."

  Clara clutched Wesley's hand, squeezing it tight in hers. The dinner gong rang and Mr. Hopper entered the room to direct them through.

  "Is Mrs. O'Hare indisposed?" he asked, eyeing Clara.

  She shook her head, resolutely. "I was merely dizzy. If you can give me just a moment to regain my head, I shall be there shortly."

  The butler nodded and motioned to Daphne to follow him, leaving Wesley and Clara alone.

  Clara gripped Wesley's lapels desperately. "Tonight, no tricks," she said.

  "I could give her some sense of peace," urged Wesley, looking at where Daphne disappeared. "Even if the words are only from my own lips and imagination, she could rest easy."

  Clara shook her head. "No. Tonight we seek out her daughter's real ghost and we find out if Violet Nero killed her…"

  And though she did not say it out loud, she was determined to learn if this family killed her Thomas, too.

  13

  Clara and Wesley stepped into the dining room. Rhoda, Trevor, and Daphne were already seated and beginning the meal.

  "We would have waited," said Rhoda, disapprovingly, "but I was informed you couldn't be disturbed to join us on time."

  Clara tried to smile, but knew it came out stiffly. She felt the room begin to spin again but willed herself to remain upright. Wesley seemed to feel her sudden heaviness, for his arm became rigid and she was able to cling to him for strength.

  "Merely exhausted from the excitement of the day," Clara replied.

  Rhoda sniffed.

  "Mother has always taken an ill view of those who allow their emotions to be in command of their actions," Trevor informed her, cutting his rare steak with chipper enthusiasm. "But I, for one, have found the female disposition to be most fascinating. Don't you, Mr. Lowenherz?"

  Wesley deposited Clara in her chair before finding his seat and replying, "I do find that those open to the experiences of the heart are much more sympathetic to the vibrations of the beyond. I would say that Mrs. O'Hare is quite remarkable in her capacity to connect with those emotions some think are feminine weakness. I find those weaknesses to be strengths in my line of work, and this recent spell an indication that we shall be successful in our attempts to speak with those beyond tonight."

  "Oh goodie!" said Trevor, putting down his knife and fork to clap enthusiastically.

  "Please, Trevor," said Rhoda, taking a large mouthful of her wine and attacking the meat on her plate. "You are embarrassing yourself with your own outpouring of emotion."

  "Really, Mother," said Trevor dismissively, "you take the jolliest of nights and insist upon turning it dreary and awful."

  Clara looked at Daphne who appeared on the outside much as Clara felt on the inside, and wondered where "jolly" came into the expectations for the evening.

  Wesley took a sip from his water glass and said, "We must be careful to create an inviting atmosphere for our other worldly guests. Strife and discord will only call to us spirits of the similar ilk…"

  "Ooo! Let's see if they might smash something! La!" said Trevor, eyes glowing in excitement.

  "For the sake of our ladies in attendance," Wesley continued, "I would suggest we keep our thoughts calm and welcoming so as to reach out to those they wish to speak."

  Wesley might be making it up as he went along, thought Clara, but the effect he was going for was immediate. Trevor raised his glass in apology and spent the rest of the dinner attempting not to be horrid. Even Rhoda kept her sharp barbs dulled. The only person who seemed not to take his words well was Daphne. She sank deeper and deeper into the drink, as if frightened to be in her right mind with what was to come.

  At long last, the interminable dinner ended and they retired to the parlor. Rhoda made straight for the brandy as everyone else found a seat.

  Wesley bowed. "If I may, I shall need to take leave to prepare the room for tonight's séance."

  Rhoda, despite her blurred eyes, examined him sharply. She snapped her fingers at the butler, as if to reassure herself that a spy witnessing the process would assure no trickery was employed. "Mr. Hopper, go with Mr. Lowenherz and see that he has all he needs. And Mr. Lowenherz, I trust my butler will provide thorough oversight and assistance. I am in great need of talking to my brother Peter or my husband Alastair. I tr
ust that you will take all steps to ensure they appear tonight."

  Clara looked at Wesley worriedly. She did not know who or what might speak to her this evening, and Rhoda appeared the type who might spread harsh words among certain circles if Wesley were unable to perform up to task. This evening may prove to be his ruin. She wondered at how well Wesley kept any sign of nervousness from crossing his face. He merely bowed graciously before exiting.

  That left Clara, Trevor, Daphne, and Rhoda to polite discussion.

  Trevor jumped up and leapt over to the drink trolley. "I do say! He is a dashing chap, isn't he, Mrs. O'Hare?" said Trevor, watching where Wesley left. He poured cordials for everyone as he spoke.

  "Oh, do shut up," said his mother.

  "How long have the two of you been acquainted?" asked Trevor, sitting on the couch beside Clara, ignoring his mother completely.

  "Not long at all," said Clara, demurely taking the proffered glass. His words should not have struck a chord. But perhaps it was the discovery that her husband's death might not have been natural or something else that made her realize how short a time it actually had been. She attempted to steer the conversation away from herself. "Are you married?" Clara asked Daphne.

  The poor woman nodded. "My husband is a tradesman and often gone for considerable lengths to acquire new goods. But he is a good man and we have been happily married for twenty years."

  "What part of the world does he trade?" asked Clara.

  "Oh, he had specialized in goods from China and India, but since meeting the Nero and Beltza family, he has embarked upon trade relations with Egypt."

  Clara sputtered on her digestif. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Indeed, Alastair Beltza encouraged him to establish these routes, providing him with his own personal patronage until my husband got on his feet. My husband worked very closely with both Lord Beltza and Mr. Nero."

  "Was Mr. Nero with your husband when he disappeared?"

  Daphne shook her head. "I am afraid not. I was receiving regular letters from my husband in Cairo when Peter vanished. I had heard Peter was making a journey back to Egypt and wondered why he had not contacted us for passage. It is a shame. I wonder how things might have been different if he had sought us out."