O'Hare House Mysteries

by Kate Danley

  A small corner from the fireplace mantle ripped itself out and crashed into the wall. The ghost pointed to where it had been. With some dread, Clara stepped across the room. There was a deep hole. Praying it was not home to mice or spiders, Clara reached inside. Her fingers felt something. Gingerly, she withdrew a stack of yellowed letters tied up with ribbon. She looked at the girl. "Oh dear."

  And then the ghost vanished, plunging Clara into darkness. Clara stood frozen, grateful that she had opened the drapes for the little bit of light thrown by the moon. But then she heard a noise and it was not made by a spirit of the other world. It sounded like someone had knocked against a piece of furniture in the other room. Clara looked around wildly for a place to hide. The curtains. She dashed over to the window and stood behind the velvet fabric just as the door swung open.

  A flickering flame cast dancing shadows on the walls. Clara held her breath, terrified that even an exhalation would betray her. Shuffling feet stumbled across the floor. Someone was quite inebriated and trying not to cry. The mattress groaned. She heard a masculine whisper, "Oh Julie…"

  Trevor. It was Trevor's voice.

  "Oh Julie…" he murmured sobbing into the pillow, "Oh Julie… I never loved Violet… Uncle Peter made me… To get back the money, he made me… but I loved you… I know you never loved me, but I loved you… and then the money was gone… he lied… I never got to tell you… because you were dead… but I loved… you…"

  Clara waited in fear, but Trevor said nothing more, just heaved tearful, wracking cries into her bed.

  What had transpired between Julie and Trevor? What did Peter Nero force him to do to cause Trevor such drunken grief? Pretend to love Violet? And then Peter went back on his word? Could it be possible that this ridiculous man-child actually held true affection for Daphne's only daughter?

  Clara looked down at the stack of letters. Surely they held some answers. She needed to get back to her room to look through them. She prayed that Trevor would pull himself together and go back to bed. But when the sound of snoring broke the silence, she knew she was out of luck. She touched the back of the velvet. She could remain standing here all night and sneak out after he woke or she could risk leaving and possibly being caught. Clara peeked out. Trevor had climbed onto the poor girl's bed and wrapped her pillow in his arms, holding it tight.

  She decided to risk it. She crept forward, considering her options. Trevor had brought a candle with him. If she groped her way through the dark of the other rooms, she was sure to knock into something and wake him. But if she stole his candle, he would be sure to know that he had not been alone. She looked at him, his face flushed and sweaty from the drink and his state comatose. He might have forgotten that he brought a candle at all. Or perhaps the servants would rouse him in the morning and not know what was missing. She would do it. She grabbed the lit candle and fled.

  She wound her way back through the house, taking several wrong turns and finding herself in the wrong rooms. The house was enormous and she could see why Rhoda would have shuttered this wing of the manor when only Trevor and she lived here.

  Clara finally reached her room. The clock struck 12:30. Her odyssey seemed to have taken forever, but only thirty minutes had passed. She used Trevor's candlestick to light her own lamp and then took it out into the hallway, hoping that he would assume he had left it behind on his nightly walk. She then returned to her room, closed the door softly behind her, and dashed to her bed. She placed the stack of letters on her coverlet and untied the ribbon. She opened the first envelope and pulled out the note. It was written in a lady's delicate hand.

  "Oh my love," the letter began.

  Clara scanned down through the body to the signature. Daphne. It was Daphne's signature. Why had her daughter felt it was important to hide away her mother's old love letters? Why was her daughter reaching out beyond the grave to lead Clara to them? Clara took the next letter from the stack. This letter was of a more masculine scrawl. Clara tried not to read the words, not wanting to intrude on the private passions of this couple, but when she reached the signature, she understood.

  Alastair.

  Daphne and Alastair Beltza had been having an affair.

  A chill wrapped itself around Clara's spine and she realized the importance to the ghost.

  Was Julie killed by Violet?

  Or had she been killed because she knew too much…

  17

  The next morning, Clara went down into the breakfast room. She was surprised the servants had allowed her to sleep past eight o'clock. Spring flowers were upon the table, bringing a light fragrance to the room and chasing away the dark shadows of their evening before. Daphne and Rhoda were already eating, but it appeared the men had not yet risen.

  "I trust you slept well," said Rhoda, behaving as if none of the horrible things had been spoken between them.

  "Quite," Clara replied tentatively, taking her seat. Rhoda's politeness scared her almost more than her fury.

  "I should think so. You slept in late enough."

  Clara knew all was status quo. She took her napkin from the table and placed it purposefully in her lap, not rising to Rhoda's bait. "And you, Daphne? How did you rest?"

  Daphne just nodded. Her face was haunted and pale. She looked as if she spent the night crying instead of sleeping.

  "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Beltza—" Clara began.

  But Rhoda cut her off. "Don't think that you and Mr. Lowenherz will be leaving before I have an opportunity to contact my Peter! We shall hold a séance every night until we reach him on the other side!" stated Rhoda.

  Clara bit the inside of her cheek. "I was under the impression…"

  "Well, obviously you are wrong," snapped Rhoda.

  Clara breathed deep before replying. "I shall inquire whether Mr. Lowenherz's calendar has availability…"

  "Availability nothing! I shall place him on retainer to be here whenever I need to speak with those beyond." Her attitude completely shifted from stern dictator to frighteningly benevolent hostess. Sweetly she said, "You two gave quite an impressive demonstration last night. Two séances for two! Your Mr. Lowenherz should be pleased to learn he has such a generous patron of his talents."

  Clara did not know how to respond to this, and so chose instead to turn to Daphne. "My dear, I am quite concerned about you. May we take a turn around the garden this morning?"

  Rhoda snapped her fingers at Clara to get her attention. "Don't pay Daphne any mind. I am sure she has always been prone to these emotional outbursts."

  Clara replied pointedly, "I thought it might provide you and Mr. Lowenherz the privacy to discuss future readings."

  Rhoda sat back in her chair, suddenly seeing the brilliance of Clara's plan. "Oh! Yes. Yes, that would be most agreeable. Daphne! You go out with Clara into the garden immediately after breakfast and don't come back until we tell you to."

  Clara hoped that Wesley would not be too cross with her for placing him in such an awkward predicament with Rhoda, but there were things she absolutely had to discuss with Daphne.

  "Oh, Mother," said Trevor stumbling into the room. "What a riot we had last night."

  "I am sure I have no idea to what you are referring," she sniffed back. "You really should learn to control yourself in front of guests, Trevor."

  "It was the strangest thing," he said. "I went to bed in my room and woke up in the closed wing! What a lark! La!"

  Rhoda looked at him sharply. "You did what?"

  Trevor took a large gulp of the coffee. "No idea how I got there! I would have thought I would have at least brought a lamp. Had to grope my way back in the dark!"

  "We found your candlestick in the hall," stated Mr. Hopper as he brought the plate of eggs to Trevor.

  "You don't say! I wonder how it got there!"

  "Mr. Hopper!" snapped Rhoda. "Get out! No one asked you to speak! No one looked for your information! Get downstairs and do not let me see your face again unless I ring for you. After last
night's embarrassment, DO NOT MAKE ME GIVE YOU THE SACK!"

  "I shall be downstairs if you need me," the butler said as he bowed out of the room. Clara wondered how long the poor man would last before handing in his resignation.

  "Must've been a rousing party!" Trevor exclaimed, as if the unpleasant outburst had never occurred. "I left my light in the hall! La! It is a wonder I didn't burn the entire place down!"

  "Where, exactly, in the closed wing did you find yourself?" asked Rhoda pointedly.

  This time, it was Trevor who appeared to not wish to discuss it. "Oh, some room…"

  Rhoda peered at him and Clara guessed that perhaps Rhoda had some suspicion where he ended up.

  Clara pushed herself back from the table. "If you will excuse Daphne and I, I believe now would be a good time to take that turn around your lovely gardens I am longing for."

  Daphne looked torn between not wanting to stay in the room with these two bickering and not wanting to go outside. Clara recognized that despair. She walked over to Daphne and took her arm, linking it through hers. "Come," she said. "We shall be the best of friends and enjoy the splendor of spring."

  The sound of Rhoda and Trevor's muffled sniping followed them the moment they closed the door and stepped into the sun.

  18

  Slowly, Clara and Daphne walked around the garden. The flowers were in full bloom and fat bumble bees contentedly made their rounds. Clara kept her hand tucked in Daphne's arm, not just to support the poor woman, but to ensure she could not escape.

  "Daphne," Clara finally said breaking the silence. "Tell me… How did you know Alastair?"

  Daphne stiffened and Clara felt the woman want to pull away. Instead, Clara gripped her closer. "Isn't it time to lift this burden from your shoulders? I know the answer," said Clara. She took the letters out of her skirt pocket. Daphne gasped. "You may confide in me safely," Clara reassured her.

  "Where did you get them?" Daphne asked.

  "Your daughter showed me where they were last night. I believe she thought they were very important for you to have." Clara handed them over.

  Daphne held the stack of letters to her heart. Clara could feel her hesitate, but the woman did not shy away from telling the truth. "Alastair was my lover," she replied.

  Clara said nothing, allowing the woman the space to say what she needed to say.

  "All night I was awake, thinking of what you said happened. It was my mistake to come here, to love Alastair. It was our ruin. And this mistake caused my daughter's death. I knew it in my heart, but it was not until I heard you speak last night that I knew for sure." Daphne sighed. "Alastair said he took money from the family estate to give to Peter for his excavation. This was the lie we agreed upon for Rhoda. But, in truth, he took it to keep my daughter and me in comfort. He said he feared his wife would learn of our affair, so he asked Peter to put it in a safe-deposit box. We were to have the key and be able to access it anytime we liked. Only, something went wrong and the money disappeared. Peter said he put it in the box, but then it was gone. He kept saying he was involved in something terrible, he said the money rightfully belonged to him, but that he wouldn't have stolen it from Alastair. He kept talking about an artifact he had to return to Egypt, of a doomsday curse and the need to close a tomb he and his partners had opened."

  "But I do not understand how Peter stealing money from Alastair resulted in your daughter being murdered?" asked Clara, not following Daphne's logic.

  Daphne looked up at the cloudless sky, letting the sun fall upon her face. She closed her eyes and spoke. "Alastair moved us here to the manor. My husband and I were estranged and we were able to make it seem as if Rhoda was taking me in out of kindness. She did not know that Alastair brought me here to love while her back was turned. When my husband made noises towards reconciliation, Alastair made sure he knew he would be destroyed if he pursued me. Towards the end… Alastair would not let me leave. I was frightened of him. And Julie… oh poor Julie… she was always too inquisitive for a girl. She knew. She stumbled onto the letters which you held in your hand. If I could have found them in her room, I would have burned them, but she kept them hidden and I never found their hiding place. After Peter lost the money, the passion between Alastair and I cooled and he turned so cruel. I sometimes wonder if he merely used our affair as an excuse to take the money from Rhoda, and then somehow stole the money back from Peter. Everything here was a swindle and a double-cross. My daughter told Alastair she would expose him if he did not treat us with kindness. She was going to use the letters she found as blackmail if Alastair would not let us go."

  "How did Alastair die?" Clara asked, dreading the answer.

  "He and Peter had a falling out over the missing funds. Peter kept swearing they had been taken from the lockbox he placed them. Alastair threatened to expose Peter for his fraud. But then one morning, Alastair was sitting at breakfast. He placed his head down upon the table, and was gone. It was so silent. So quiet. Just… gone…"

  "Just like my husband…" Clara murmured.

  "What?"

  But Clara could not answer, for they were interrupted by Rhoda. "Ladies, if you would step back into the house."

  Clara and Daphne turned back and the sight filled Clara with dread. Trevor, his youthful glee replaced by deadly intent, held a gun to Wesley's back. Wesley looked brave but defeated.

  "What is going on?" Clara asked.

  "I will ask you again to please step inside the manor house," said Rhoda.

  Clara knew in her heart that the moment the stepped across the threshold, they would not be coming out. One does not draw a gun upon a person to allow them to live and tell the tale.

  "Rhoda, whatever is going on here, we are reasonable adults and I am sure we can discuss this with rational calm. There is no reason for this sort of behavior," Clara urged.

  Trevor pushed the gun against Wesley's back. "Mr. Lowenherz was unwilling to allow us to become his patrons, but I am afraid we demand a command performance."

  "We shall let you go the moment we learn of where Peter hid the family fortune," Rhoda added.

  But Clara could see the lie in her eyes. This was no longer about just the money. There had been a reason Rhoda was trying to keep them at the estate. "You did not care about the séance at all. You knew you could not allow us to live now that we know how Julie died."

  Rhoda smiled for the briefest moment, as if pleased Clara had figured it all out, though her words denied that truth. "Such imagination. Really. All we are concerned with is getting your gentleman-friend to tell us where the money is and you have my word you shall go free."

  "There is nothing to learn," replied Clara. "This fortune you seek is gone. The lockbox where it was kept was empty."

  "Peter can tell us where it went."

  "Peter may not be dead," said Clara.

  "Oh, my brother is dead," said Rhoda. "I am sure of it. Peter knew too much for our associates to let him live."

  The phrase "knew too much" caused a chill to cross Clara's bones, but it was Daphne who replied as comprehension dawned, "Alastair thought Julie knew too much… he killed her. He drowned my daughter!"

  "Her casualty was an unfortunate business decision, nothing more," said Rhoda. "Alastair said she was getting in the way. Said she had a stack of letters which she threatened to expose him with unless he 'treated her well'. My husband was paid good money for selling his secrets, and it was not for your daughter to get in the way of our profit."

  "Secrets?" said Clara, unsure of how a stack of love letters could be used as proof of fraud.

  "What? You think a family like ours does not hear the whisperings in court? Is not aware of the military strategies bragged about in the clubs? Of investment opportunities to expand into wealthy but poorly protected territories? Peter was so focused on the gold and riches he found in those blasted tombs, he did not realize there was a treasure much, much more valuable right under his nose. But your daughter, my dear Daphne, figured it out and when she thr
eatened to ruin it for all of us, she had to go."

  Clara realized that Alastair believed Julie had much more than love letters in her secret pile. It was a misunderstanding which cost the poor girl her life.

  "Trevor!" Clara begged, remembering his sobs from the night before. "Don't you care that your father killed the woman you loved?"

  "Father explained it all," he said with cold hard cruelty. "It was done to protect the family. And now I shall protect the family."

  "You are a fool!" Daphne cried. Her face was twisted in rage, but also filled with strength and power. The certainty of her daughter's fate seemed to have transformed her from her weak shell to a woman with nothing to lose. She held up the stack of letters. "He betrayed you all. He stole the money for me."

  "What?" Rhoda said disbelieving.

  Clara watched as Daphne twisted the truth into the only weapon she had. She ripped one of the letters from the top of the pile and showed it to Rhoda. "I was having an affair with your husband and he took the money to keep me as his mistress. That money was not for you or your precious Peter. We loved each other here in your own house. Under your own roof. Beneath your very nose and you never even knew, you fool. He never took the money for you. He stole it from you!"

  "That's not true!" shouted Rhoda, backing away. "Peter stole the money from Alastair! That is why the money disappeared!"

  "Alastair never loved you!" said Daphne, laughing. "He never loved your cold, domineering cruelty. It was in my arms he found comfort! He stole the money for me! He was willing to destroy you all for ME!"

  "LIAR!" shouted Rhoda, her face twisting in rage as she launched herself at Daphne with her claws out.