O'Hare House Mysteries

by Kate Danley

  Marguerite stopped her, rubbing her tired eyes with her fingers. "Oh, the lawyers will have a field day when they learn the pretty penny he charged for the séance at Lord Oroberg's house."

  "The dead did arrive, though," pointed out Clara.

  "You are splitting hairs," Marguerite retorted. "Unless he can conjure up the dead in the middle of a courtroom, I'm afraid the jury isn't going to buy that defense."

  "The Beltza family—" Clara began.

  Marguerite faded. "Oh no…"

  Clara realized the events of the day were still too new for Marguerite to have heard about them. "Lady Beltza perished this morning. Wesley was trying to save her, but she threw herself into the millpond and was killed beneath the wheel."

  "Oh… no…" Marguerite said again, but this time a little louder.

  Clara realized it was probably best if she started at the beginning. "There was a struggle. We learned her husband, Alastair Beltza, was responsible for the death of Lady Grey's daughter, Julie. And then Lady Beltza held us at gunpoint. Red, my new driver, saved us, but Lady Beltza ran away. She and I exchanged blows—"

  "You fought Lady Beltza?" laughed Marguerite, before stifling down her mirth. "I apologize. That image should not have delighted me as much as it does. I should not think ill of the dead."

  Clara stopped her apologies. "If I had any clue of this stunt her son has pulled, I would have thrown in a few more strikes," confessed Clara.

  "You believe these charges most likely have been brought about by her son Trevor Beltza?"

  Clara leaned forward in her seat, explaining. "I was under the impression that he was placed under arrest."

  Marguerite began putting the pieces together. "And in order to free himself, he pinned the blame for his mother's death on Wesley. That little weasel!"

  Clara exhaled, so weary of it all. Who would have guessed a simple yearning to speak with the soul of her dead husband lo those weeks ago at the Oroberg estate would have lead to all this? False accusations and Wesley's imprisonment? "I believe so. But his mother ended her own life. I promise that Wesley was trying to save her."

  Marguerite shook her head in frustration. "The Beltza family is powerful enough in this town to ensure the charges stick."

  "I do not know what to do, Marguerite," Clara confessed, her voice breaking.

  "Well, first things first," said Marguerite, coming over to help Clara to her feet. "We get down to the prison and make sure that Wesley isn't locked in some hole. We'll make sure he has every comfort a man could want. We'll get him a good lawyer. And we'll begin doing whatever it takes to clear his name."

  "There is more," Clara continued.

  "More?" Marguerite leaned against her desk and folded her arms. Clara got the distinct impression she was bracing herself.

  "When Lady Beltza perished, and when Trevor found out about her death, both of them said, 'Vive les Quatre Portes'. I then found a note from my departed husband who was fearful of the Quatre Portes. Have you ever heard of such a group?"

  Marguerite shook her head. "It is French and it means 'long live the four portals'. But what the French want with four doors is beyond me."

  "Marguerite, at two sites of two of the murders, there were rooms with four doors. One was a tomb in which Violet wanted to entrap me. The other was the room of Dr. Van Flemming and he used it to store the body of that cursed queen. Further, on my husband's desk, I found a scribble carved into the surface. It looked almost like an architectural rendering of a room with four doors."

  Marguerite let out a low whistle. "Yet again, Clara, I find myself wondering if I should deputize you. So you think the Beltza family is associated with this group?"

  "Alastair Beltza stole a large amount of money from his family's estate…" Clara found herself unsure of propriety. "He was having an affair."

  "With whom?"

  "Lady Daphne Grey."

  "Oh… the plot thickens."

  "Alastair killed Lady Grey's daughter because he feared she knew certain state secrets and was threatening to expose him."

  "But then why would the Quatre Portes kill Alastair?"

  "Perhaps they learned he lost a large sum of their money somehow? Perhaps they believed the lie that Julie knew too much and thought it best to dispose of Alastair before he made another mistake? I don't know."

  "Well, what happened to this money?"

  "He gave the money to Peter for safe keeping, only the money disappeared. I found a note from my husband this morning in the false bottom of a lockbox. It said he took the money to prevent a terrible evil and that he feared this Quatre Portes."

  "Oh this is a fine kettle of fish…" Marguerite rubbed her chin with one finger as she digested Clara's words. "You warned me once your husband might have been wrapped up in something sinister…"

  Clara thought back to that moment. They had met in this very office. Marguerite had shared that her own husband had just disappeared one day, and she had tried to convince Clara that Thomas's heart attack was nothing more than a natural end. "It appears that, sadly, I might have been correct," Clara said softly.

  Marguerite shook her head. "I owe you an apology."

  "I don't need an apology," she replied firmly. "I need your help to find my husband's killer. Alastair Beltza died exactly as my husband did. They both put their heads down on their tables one day and died of heart attacks. Someone must have poisoned them."

  "Poison?"

  "There is no other explanation."

  "You would be surprised by how many other explanations there might be." Marguerite stood again and brushed her blue skirt. "I thought it was just the Beltza family that had friends in high places. This Quatre Portes sounds even worse." Marguerite sighed. "We'll just have to determine who they are and dismantle their organization before they have a chance to get to us."

  Clara felt as if a massive weight was being lifted from her shoulders. "I knew I could count on you!"

  "Don't go singing my praises yet, Clara," Marguerite warned. "I have some power… but even if this isn't some international conspiracy, you and Wesley were at every major murder this city has seen this month. It is going to be a very difficult task to suggest to the good people of a jury that this was mere coincidence. Once, you are helpless bystanders. Twice is a coincidence. But three times? Three times is more than almost anyone can stomach. I wouldn't stomach it if I wasn't there myself. We have an uphill battle ahead of us and we must be on our toes."

  "I place myself willingly in your hands," Clara replied. "I trust you implicitly, Marguerite, and know that you shall steer us well."

  "I wish I had your confidence in me," she replied, shaking her head. She walked over to the door and opened it. "Now, follow me. Let me see what strings I can pull to get us down to see our prisoner."

  3

  Clara and Marguerite walked through the black, spiked gates of the prison. The tall, gray walls, dotted with small, barred windows, loomed overhead. The grunts and cries of the captives were only too grim a reminder of the fate awaiting Wesley if they did not clear his name.

  They walked up the steps and into the main receiving room, Marguerite's cane striking the flagstones. The room itself was barren, Clara supposed to make it easier to transport prisoners in and out. There was nothing in the room but a clock, a few wooden chairs, and a large, elevated desk being manned by a single gentleman standing behind it. He wore a dark blue policeman's uniform with shiny brass buttons. His hair was parted down the middle and combed smoothly to both sides. His face disappeared behind a curly beard.

  Marguerite rapped on the desk. "Morning, Clarence."

  He squinted over his spectacles. "Marguerite! Is that you?"

  "In the flesh!" she said with a smile.

  "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "You have a prisoner who was brought in this morning," she replied casually. "A fellow named Wesley Lowenherz. We want to check in on him."

  Clarence pulled out his large ledger book and ran his finger
down the names. Something seemed to trouble him, though. He scratched his beard and looked up at Marguerite. "Afraid I can't let you do that yet," he said.

  "What?" she replied incredulously.

  He tapped his finger on Wesley's name. "He's being held in solitary until we can get a doctor in to look at him. Keeps spouting off things about Egyptian curses and ghosts. He can't see anyone until he is evaluated for the nut house…" He noticed Clara for the first time. "Pardon. For the… asylum. Or if we are cleared to go forward with the murder charges."

  "Murder charges!" Clara exclaimed. Marguerite placed a warning hand upon Clara's wrist.

  "Has he seen a lawyer yet?" Marguerite asked.

  "Not yet, ma'am," Clarence replied. "He's on suicide watch."

  "WHAT?" Clara exclaimed again.

  "Keeps saying his dead sister forced him to kill Lady Beltza or something. And Trevor Beltza swears Mr. Lowenherz kept threatening to kill himself with the gun Lord Beltza wrestled from him."

  "That is not what happened at all!" said Clara. "I saw—"

  This time Marguerite stepped on Clara's shoe to silence her.

  "She saw in his face he couldn't have done it and she is heartbroken to hear of everything you have told us," Marguerite stated, completing Clara's sentence. "Thanks for your help, Clarence. Mrs. O'Hare and I would be grateful if you would keep us apprised of the situation."

  "Sure thing, Mrs. Matson!" he replied, going back to his book.

  Marguerite took Clara's elbow. "Help me out, would you dear? I'm afraid my leg has gone all dodgy on me again."

  Clara bit her tongue until they were outside the front doors. "Why didn't you let me set the story straight?" she hissed.

  Marguerite looked up at the sunny sky. "Put up your umbrella, would you Clara? It is so hot and I would love a little something to block me from the sun." She hissed in Clara's ear. "And also the son."

  Mystified, Clara did as she was told. Marguerite grabbed Clara around the waist and leaned upon her as they walked. She kept her face close, as if trying to hide beneath the shade, but it was the perfect excuse to keep her voice at a whisper. "We must tread very, very carefully. If Wesley is on so-called 'suicide watch', it means that Trevor has arranged to kill him any time he pleases, anytime there is even the slightest hint of a threat."

  Clara's blood ran cold. "Surely they wouldn't…"

  "You don't know the Beltza family. Their influence in this department is heavy and the corruption runs deeper than you can imagine. No lawyer? Solitary confinement? Waiting for a doctor? You had better believe Trevor is pulling the strings. It is very important that until we find out what Trevor wants, you know nothing, you make no statements on the record—"

  "But justice—"

  "Justice is dead when it comes to the bottomless pockets of the Beltza family!" Marguerite hailed a cab. "You say that Lady Daphne Grey was there, too?" she asked. "And she is now aware of Alastair Beltza killing her daughter, Julie?"

  Clara nodded.

  Marguerite's usually smiling mouth was pulled into a grim line. Worry knitted her brow. "I'm going to bring her to my house if they haven't snatched her already. Watch yourself, Clara," said Marguerite as the cab drew to a stop. "Do not go anywhere on your own. Look over your shoulder. I don't want to scare you, but…"

  "Should I be scared?" asked Clara.

  "Yes," replied Marguerite as she climbed aboard. "Very, very scared."

  4

  Clara could not sleep. Though Mrs. Nan had come to see her to bed and the house was silent, Clara lay awake. She stared at the ceiling until finally, frustrated, she threw off her covers and began to pace. The room was chilly and she snatched her shawl from where it was draped on the end of the bed. Her mind was reeling, going over the same thoughts of Wesley being ripped away from her… of Wesley behind bars… of the mysterious Quatre Portes and the power that they wielded. Wesley's death at the Beltza's hand would be just as final as any death from the mummies and ghosts and demons they had faced before. Oh! That she had the constitution of Marguerite to look at such dangers and attack them straight on.

  She lit her candle from the warm, banked embers in her fireplace and quietly opened up the door to the room. The hallway was silent. She crept down the stairs and into the parlor. The room had been shuttered for the night. She sat down in the chair, her eyes falling upon the metal safe deposit box with its false bottom and the note written in Thomas's hand. She picked it up, tracing the letters with her finger. "What does it all mean, Thomas?" she asked.

  At that moment, the temperature of the room dipped into a familiar chill. She had been through this enough times to know what would happen next. The young girl's ghostly glow appeared near the open door to the parlor.

  "Minnie?" Clara asked, unable to stop the shiver and chatter to her teeth. Her words came out in a plume of misty fog, not unlike a winter's day. "Oh, I wish the afterlife was not so cold…"

  Minnie, the ghost of Wesley's departed sister, stood silently waiting for Clara, but it was unclear what she was waiting for.

  "Minnie, I see you. What is it that you have to show me?"

  Minnie beckoned with her hand, motioning for Clara to follow her. Clara put Thomas's note into her pocket and trailed behind.

  Minnie walked through the foyer with its black and white tiled floor and into the library, where she had taken Clara the first night. Minnie pointed at the wall safe. Clara was suddenly struck with the strange thought that perhaps she had failed her ghostly companion with all of their recent adventures. Perhaps Minnie had been trying to say something else all together.

  Clara went over and spun the lock. She pulled out the papers and looked inquiringly at Minnie. "I do not know what you wish me to do?"

  But Minnie had no more instruction. She vanished into thin air and all that was left was the memory of that biting cold. Clara shook her head and walked back into the parlor where the light of her candle would allow her to read the papers.

  She knew the stack was only the deeds and floor plans and other papers she had put there herself. But why, that night when Violet had ransacked Horace Oroberg's study, had she gone for his safe, too? Was there something there?

  Clara pulled out the deed to the house, the one drawn up by Lord Oroberg's lawyer and began examining it. On a hunch, she pulled out the note from Thomas and compared them. They were the same! They were both written on the same paper. Had the deed been drawn up at Thomas's firm? Or perhaps Thomas had dealings with Lord Oroberg's lawyer, too?

  She held up the paper to the light and realized there was a watermark at the bottom. The light shone just a little clearer through the page. She held up Thomas's note. The watermark was there, too. A chill ran down her back. It was a familiar shape. A simplified architectural rendering of a room with four doors. Here the symbol was again. Her hand began to tremble. Her very home was tied to the Quatre Portes.

  "Minnie?" she said to the thin air. "How I wish that you could speak…"

  There was a gentle scratching at the window. Clara turned, but there seemed to be no one out there. The scratching came again. This time, she rose. She blew out the light so as to see the street better.

  There were gas lamps lining the foggy road, which cast an eerie light. Standing beneath the lamp was a strange fellow. His skin was sallow and gray. His clothes hung in rags off of his gaunt bones. His hair was white and wild. Fear began pounding in Clara's veins, the same fear as an animal when it catches sight of the hunter. She knew instinctively this was not a man, though he may have held a male shape. His eyes pierced the darkness and they were on her from the moment she pulled back the curtain. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, revealing sharp teeth that seemed almost feline. With a bony hand, he tipped his hat to her.

  Clara froze, unsure of how to respond. Suddenly, he was gone. But before she could think what to do, his face was opposite hers, just on the other side of the window. Nothing but the thin plate of glass divided them. Before she could even scream, he disappear
ed once more.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she stumbled back, gripping onto a chair arm for strength. What was this creature who stalked her? Where had he come from and what did he want?

  A small voice inside her answered that question: he wanted only her doom.

  5

  The next morning she rose from bed early and went downstairs for breakfast. After her midnight discovery and that face in the window, she had tossed and turned until dawn. At least, she thought, Mr. Willard and Mrs. Nan appeared to be in fighting form, which was a small comfort. She was worried the fact she had not actually slept much meant that their solid state would not be restored.

  Still, she asked, "How are you feeling this morning?" as she sat down to the table.

  "Fit as a fiddle!" Mr. Willard replied, placing the toast holder and its triangular contents beside her and pouring her a cup of strong tea. "And you?"

  She gratefully took it and sipped. "I am afraid I had quite a restless night."

  "Indeed?" he asked.

  "Minnie had a matter which needed discussing."

  He shook his head. "I shall have a conversation with her about the hours she keeps."

  Clara reached out and touched his sleeve to stop him. She gave him as honest a smile as she could muster. "Please, don't. There was a matter which was troubling me and she, I believe, was merely trying to direct my efforts."

  She could see that Mr. Willard was not entirely in agreement with her, but he conceded to her wishes. "Very well, ma'am."

  "There was also…" Clara began, but at once felt strangely foolish.

  "Yes?" asked Mr. Willard. He turned around in concern.

  "I went to the window last night, Mr. Willard, and there was… a creature. A phantom. It looked almost like a man, but he did not move as one. He was watching the house. He was watching me. And he wanted very much to let me know that I was being observed."