by Kate Danley
"What did this creature look like?" Mr. Willard asked.
Clara described the man in the fog and how he had come so close to the house. When she was done, Mr. Willard looked less fearful than Clara had expected. She supposed that once one had met their end, there wasn't much left to be frightened of. Nevertheless, she was still unsettled.
"Well, if he is not of this earth," said Mr. Willard thoughtfully, "we know that he cannot enter the house."
"And what makes you say that?"
"If he could, he would have come into the room, don't you think?" he asked.
"Unless his task was merely to frighten me," Clara responded.
"I shall keep a sharp watch for anything unusual," Mr. Willard reassured. "Please let me know if you see him again and I shall be sure to come as quickly as possible."
"Have you heard of any such creatures before?"
Mr. Willard poured Clara another cup of tea. "Well, one hears rumors of poltergeists and assorted fiends. From your recent adventures, I would not dismiss any myths or superstitions as false. But I do not know of any creature who watches in the fog. Keep your wits about you."
"Thank you, Mr. Willard. It is all so greatly beyond the scope of anything I have ever experienced before."
Mr. Willard placed the newspaper on the table and Clara absentmindedly opened it. "Oh dear," she said.
"What is it, ma'am?"
"Well our friends in the newsroom seem to have learned of what passed. The headline reads, 'Murderer Continues to Terrorize Countryside'." She looked at Mr. Willard who arched one eyebrow. Clara went on to read, "'The body of Lady Rhoda Beltza was fished from a local mill pond during the early hours yesterday morning. The loss of this dignified philanthropist will cut deep into the hearts of all those she selflessly served. Despite recent ineptitude, the local police have narrowed down their search to a single suspect, whom justice is sure to speedily find guilty. When asked for the suspect's name, our police source informed us that their News Post subscription was used by the department to stock their washroom facilities. Such disregard for those who believe truth must be shared with the populace is just one more sign how out of touch our city officials are with the needs of the people. Lady Rhoda Beltza is survived by her loving son, Lord Trevor Beltza, a fine, upstanding youth who is sure to continue his mother's great work—'" Clara put the newspaper down in disgust. "REALLY, Mr. Willard! Have you ever heard such lies? Fine, upstanding youth? Dignified philanthropist?"
"I am sure they are merely attempting to increase circulation."
"At least they did not name Wesley," Clara said, shaking her head.
"We must be grateful for small miracles."
"Well, I will be circulating about town to prove this rag wrong," Clara said as she cracked the shell on her soft-boiled egg. "I believe that I shall be quite engaged for the foreseeable future proving Wesley's innocence."
It was that moment that Red entered the room with a spring to his step, quite recovered from their ordeal.
"Good morning, Mrs. O'Hare. I trust you have been well?"
The poor boy had no idea what he was walking into and all that had transpired over the course of just a day, Clara thought. "Oh Red," she replied. "I fear I have some terrible news. Please sit down, would you?" she asked, motioning to the seat across from her.
He looked scandalized that she would ask him to sit, so she did not press him. She filled him in on all of the events which had taken place since last they parted. When she was finally done, his face was bright red with emotion.
"How dare he!" said Red. "A man like that Trevor Beltza making such baseless accusations against Mr. Lowenherz!"
"I fear that the corruption strikes quite deep. We have a friend in the department and she is working tirelessly to see that justice wins the day. In the meantime, I am quite determined to use what means I have at my disposal to prove his innocence."
"And how can I be of help?" Red asked, earnestly.
Clara rose and left the room momentarily. She returned with the note Wesley had written her and the deed to her house. "These both contain the same watermark, and I believe it is some sort of a clue. Wesley's sister felt it was very important. So, I need to find the stationer. Perhaps he will be able to tell me who else has purchased this paper."
"That could prove to be very difficult," admitted Mr. Willard. "Where did the paper come from?"
"The deed came from the lawyer's office of Lord Horace Oroberg," Clara informed them. "But I do not know where Thomas got it."
"Perhaps at the bank where he worked?" Red offered.
Clara nodded in agreement. "Yes, that was my thinking. I believe that we need to engage in a little of our own sleuthing. Red? Get Daisy ready! We have an old acquaintance of my husband's to look up!"
6
Clara walked into the bank where her husband had died just half a year ago. She carried with her the safe deposit box that she swore she would return. The building still seemed to have the same omnipotence, the same sense of foreboding, even more so than when she was last here.
The men in the bank were busy, counting upon their great adding machines. The receptionist was not at his desk, but she did not wait for him to return. Instead, she marched straight to the desk of George, the banker who had been so kind as to help her before. But the moment he saw her, his face turned white.
"Mrs… Mrs. O'Hare! I did not expect to see you here today!"
"And why is that?" she asked, struck by the fear upon his face.
"Well, of course, well, you know. The death of Lady Beltza. I know that you two were close. I just… I heard..." He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and the paused to wipe the lenses of his glasses. "I just did not expect to see you. In fact…" He took Clara's arm and steered her to a doorframe out of the line of sight from the main floor. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't know if anyone should see you here."
Clara handed him the box. "Please, George, I wish you no harm. I merely came to return the safe deposit box."
"Her son… he was here. He was looking for this box. Oh, I am in such trouble!"
"Did you say what became of it?"
"I had to! I had to tell him that you came with direct orders from Lady Beltza to retrieve the box. I showed him her signature and explicit instructions. Oh, Mrs. O'Hare, I was sure he was going to have my job…"
She gulped, suddenly strangely afraid that Trevor was still interested in the box and that he knew she had it in her possession.
"You did what you had to do, George. Don't ever forget that. I am here to return the box after such a horrific incident. I had hoped to deliver it to Lady Beltza, but alas…" She let her voice trail off, as if grieving for the fact she had failed such a woman. She even lifted her handkerchief to the corner of her eye to show her sorrow.
"There, there, Mrs. O'Hare. I am sure that you did everything in your power. Now, you must away. I was told not to speak with you if you returned…"
"Not to speak with me?" she asked sharply. "Why? My husband worked here to his dying breath!"
"And that is why I am speaking with you now, but please, if you can find it in your heart to take pity upon me, to think about my family and what will happen if I lose my position…"
"Of course," she said. "Of course, I am being quite selfish." She handed over the box to George as a gesture of goodwill.
George mopped his brow gratefully and took it, the relief clearly upon his face.
"Oh!" she said, as if just remembering. "I found this scrap of paper in Mr. O'Hare's things and I was wondering if this was the same stationary you use here at the bank? I thought it rather lovely and would like to acquire some more for myself." She held out Thomas's note, but made sure to fold it so that George only saw the blank side. "It has a rather fetching watermark."
George's face paled even more. "Oh no. No. That is none of ours. I recognize it though from the Nero family's law firm, though. All of their legal correspondence came from there."
"So very kind of you, George," Clara murmured, as if saddened by the reminder that the Nero family had passed, instead of the fact that she had reached a proverbial dead end. "I had no idea. Do you have any idea which stationer might sell it?"
He leaned forward, his voice in a low conspiring tone. "There is a stationer at the waterfront. McDillions and Fellstein. But please, be cautious if you go there. I only tell you because of your husband…" He swallowed. "Now, if you would please, Mrs. O'Hare. I must get back to my desk before anyone notices that I am gone."
"Of course," Clara said. "And thank you so much for your trouble, George."
"No trouble! No trouble at all," he lied, mopping his brow. "But if you would, please. I must be going. Please."
She gave him a smile and walked out. So the paper was linked to Peter Nero. What had he sent that her husband would choose to pick that scrap to write his final note? There was only one other place which had access to the paper—the law offices of Horace Oroberg's solicitor and the creator of the deed to her house.
Perhaps a visit to McDillions and Fellstein stationers would reveal other clients, she thought.
7
Clara stepped towards Red's cab as she adjusted her gloves. "I need you to take me to the waterfront," she said. "There is a stationers there I intend to call upon."
Red pushed back his top hat and leaned forward on his knee. "‘Tis a rough neighborhood, Mrs. O'Hare," he informed her. "Are you sure you are wanting to go there?"
She shielded her eyes as she looked up at him. She did not know if Red's concern was because of the actual dangers of the area or just that she was a young widow traveling alone. She wished she had a more concrete reason to explain the urgency besides the fact that a ghost had indicated this was the path to pursue. But remembering how Minnie had caused Red's cab to crash outside the Beltza estate when she wished for them to loiter longer with the family gave Clara pause when she considered ignoring Minnie's guidance. "I am afraid this mystery is deepening, Red," she finally said. "It has been communicated to me that Wesley's life may depend upon what we learn there. Of course, I would never ask you to place yourself in harm's way—"
Red cut her off. "I might be many things, Mrs. O'Hare, but I am not a coward. If you say we need to go there to save Mr. Lowenherz's life, then we go in there together. Climb aboard!"
"Oh Red," she replied, reaching up to thank him. "I hope that our errand will be fruitful. I would not ask you if it was not of the utmost importance."
"You can count on me, Mrs. O'Hare."
Clara stepped inside. Red's newly repaired carriage swung gently as he drove her down to the waterfront. Though the interior of the cab was enclosed in glass, the smells of the city grew strong. Clara took out a handkerchief sprinkled with rose water and held it to her nose.
The waterfront was busy with people transporting their wares. The people here were of a rougher sort. Their voices were harsh and guttural. They called out loud to one another instead of speaking in more genteel tones. Some pushed large barrels up ramps and onto carts.
It seemed a strange place for a stationers, she thought. What was it that kept them, with such a distinguished client list, in this part of town instead of on some more fashionable street?
Red brought the carriage to a halt and opened the door for her from his seat above. She stepped out. "I shall go in alone, Red, but if there is any sign of trouble, please do not hesitate to drive to safety."
He gave a dismissive laugh that she would suggest such a preposterous notion. "I wouldn't think of it," he said. "I shall be waiting right here for you, ma'am."
She looked up at the black paned windows of the stationers. On display were several ledger books, open so that one might see the tidy columns waiting to be filled by some industrious company, and samples of the different letterheads available. She opened the black painted door and a small brass bell tinkled.
The shop itself was small, yet distinguished. A long counter ran along two of the walls. Behind it were shelves stocked with paper and empty books. She was the only one inside. There was a doorway which led to the backroom, its contents hidden from view by a red velvet curtain. She could hear someone moving boxes behind it. She hoped whomever it was had heard her enter. She was about to call out when a shopkeeper with a black mustache and mutton chops walked into the room. His beady eyes were cold and cruel. Clara smiled sweetly, hoping to catch him off-guard.
"Good morning," she said.
"How may I be of assistance?" he responded gruffly.
She pulled out the paper with the watermark and held it out to him. "I should like to order more of this."
"To what account?"
She wet her lips, taking a chance. "Lord Trevor Beltza… vive les Quatre Portes."
Before she could say anything more, the man's manner immediately changed. He bowed respectfully, almost fearfully. "My apologies, madam. I did not recognize you as one of his associates."
Clara closed her mouth, not wanting to reveal her shock at his shift in mood. He went into the back room and brought back a box. He lifted the lid and showed off the paper to her. There at the bottom corner was the watermark which led her here. Clara nodded approvingly. He wrapped it up and tied it with string for her.
"We have not heard Lord Beltza's reply. I trust he has received the invitation?" the stationer asked, his eyes darting worriedly up to her face.
She adopted an air of stony silence, allowing her eyes to communicate that he had not. The color drained from the proprietor's pallor and he scuttled back into the workroom once again.
When he returned, he presented her with an envelope, using two hands to present it. "My apologies."
The envelope was small and non-descript. She could not wait for the privacy in Red's cab to open it. But she knew she had to play the part if she was to leave safely. She allowed a small approving smile to cross her face as she took it and placed it into her bag.
He slid the box of paper to her. "Will that be all?"
"You have been most helpful," she replied. She walked over to the door and opened it, the tinkling of the bell this time marking her exit.
As she stepped out onto the street, she released the breath that she was holding. Red was waiting for her, just as promised, and looked down at her from atop his cab. "All is well?" he asked.
She flashed him a wide smile as she put the box of stationary in the carriage. "Oh, Red! Even better than I could have hoped!"
Just then, there was a strangled cry. Clara turned. A wailing keen sounded down the street. Clara picked up her skirts and ran towards it. She heard Red calling after her as he dismounted and tied up Daisy.
Clara turned the corner and there was a woman bent over the lifeless shape of another. Both were dressed in the garish garments of those who had been forced to earn a hard living through less honorable means.
"She didn't do nobody no harm!" the woman cried over her friend. "What does anyone have against poor Flossie?"
Flossie was curled up on her side like she had just lain down for a quick nap, but her face was deathly pale. Clara crouched down and pulled a compact mirror from her purse. She placed it beneath Flossie's nose. Her breath did not fog the glass. Respectfully, Clara closed her compact and returned it to her purse as Red squatted down beside her. "Perhaps we should call a constable?" she suggested.
He nodded, but the other woman wailed, "Ain't no good. They don't give a rat's arse for the likes of our kind. They think the world would be a better place without us in it. Just because we ain't honest women doesn't mean we deserve this. It don't mean that we deserve this!"
"What is your name?" asked Clara sympathetically.
"Loretta," said the woman wiping her eyes.
"We are going to try and seek justice for your friend," Clara pledged.
She didn't know if the woman believed her or not, but at least her crying sobs slowed.
"How do you suppose she died?" Red asked.
"Just like they all do," said Loretta. "They
just drop dead, their hearts just stopped."
The woman's words chilled Clara's bones. "What do you mean?" asked Clara sharply. "One's heart stopping could be argued as a natural death."
"You can tell me it’s natural, but there ain't nothing natural about it. They go in and service that gentlemen's club, but if they say anything about it, they are dead within the day."
Clara and Red exchanged curious glances. "Have you ever been in this club?" asked Clara.
"Sure thing! But I got myself protection," Loretta said proudly.
"Protection?" pressed Clara.
The woman pulled out a necklace from between her cleavage. Clara felt herself pale as white as the dead woman they crouched beside. It was a scarab very similar to the one Phineas Stokeman had given to her, a scarab which had been used to return the heart to the mummy queen.
"Where did you get this?" Clara asked.
"A right gentleman gave it to me," Loretta replied. It was enough to set her off again. "I should have given it to Flossie afore she went!"
Despite the woman's grief, Clara found herself pressing for answers. "Do you know this man's name?"
"A scientist. He called himself Norman. Said to beware of the room with four doors."
Norman Scettico had been the scientist who had accompanied Marguerite Matson to the country house of Horace Oroberg. He had died, but not before drawing a map of Horace Oroberg's basement onto a scrap of paper. And here he was tied to this poor woman, Clara thought.
"How did you meet him?" she asked.
Loretta shrugged. "I was invited into the club and he decided to use my services. Seemed grateful for the opportunity, if you know what I mean."
Red coughed uncomfortably.
"Can you take us to this club?" asked Clara.
Loretta shook her head. "I wouldn't set foot near that place, protection or not. There's something wrong with them. Talking about Egyptian mummies and eternal life. Everyone was dead set on building a cellar. You'd think they'd be more worried about using the days they got than looking to add more, if you ask me. They can have all of my time," said the woman, wiping her nose. "This here was my dearest friend and they dropped her just for talking to me."
