by Kate Danley
"This here is Mrs. O'Hare," said Red. "She's gonna see to it that your friend's killers are brought to justice."
Loretta's face was instantly suspicious. "And why would you be interested in doing anything like that?"
"Because I believe these same people killed my husband," said Clara. "I believe they killed several of my friends."
Loretta nodded, her suspicion still not gone, but the small flame of hope was shining in her eyes. "And what do you want from me?" she asked.
Clara shook her head. "Nothing. Just tell us where this club is."
"Cherry Lane and 41st Street. It's a big white building. You can't miss it."
"Thank you," said Clara. She reached out and squeezed the woman's hand. "If anyone should ask, we have never spoken with you and you have never spoken with us."
"Fair enough," said Loretta.
"If we need to get in touch with you, how can we find you?"
"Why you lookin' to be able to find me? So you can murder me in my sleep?"
"No, so we can let you know if you are in danger or if we have some news."
"You can find me around here. I don't go much other places unless I'm working. And even if I'm working, you can usually find me right here."
Clara nodded to Red and they stood. "We shall let you know if we learn anything," promised Clara.
As Clara and Red walked away, Loretta shouted after them. "Good luck!"
Clara climbed back into the cab as Red climbed atop. She opened up the invitation the stationer had given her. The address was for a club on Cherry Lane.
8
Red dropped Clara off at the front door. "Meet you inside once I get Daisy settled," he said, tipping his hat.
Clara carefully tucked the invitation back into her bag. She had spent the entire carriage ride reading it over and over. Somehow she needed to get inside. If only Wesley were here instead of locked away, she thought. He would have insisted upon going, no matter what the danger. She knew she could not ask anyone else to risk their life going undercover. In fact, she did not have anyone she could ask other than Red. The rest of her male acquaintances were mad or dead.
She put her hand on the doorknob, but Mr. Willard opened it before she could turn it.
"Ma'am," he said, stepping aside. "You have a visitor."
Clara looked at his dark, serious eyes. Something was disturbing him greatly. She removed her hat and gloves quickly, handing them over and stepped into the parlor.
Her corset suddenly felt as if someone had pulled the laces too tight.
Trevor Beltza.
The scoundrel was in her very parlor. He stood as she entered, as friendly as you please. Rage coursed through her veins at his audacity.
His pasty white skin was as sallow as ever. His stick-straight brown hair had been parted in the middle and pasted flat to his head. His eyes glittered beneath his singular brow. Though he wore the black arm band of the grieving, there was nothing about his demeanor which suggested he was feeling the slightest bit of sorrow.
"How dare you come here," she spat. The air was charged with the menace of her hostility, as if the house itself would propel him outdoors if he did not take flight.
Trevor held up his hands. "Really, Mrs. O'Hare! I have lost a mother because of that man whose company you keep and you sit there scolding me? Please, woman. I come to bury the hatchet between us."
"If I had a hatchet in my hand," said Clara, "I assure you that burying it would be the farthest thing on my mind."
"Now, now!" said Trevor, waggling his finger at her. "Temper!"
She spat out the words, biting them off sharply. "You falsely accuse Mr. Lowenherz of murder and you dare to tell me I am being over emotional?"
"The female constitution is so weak, I am scarcely surprised you are unable to wrangle your emotions under control."
"Mr. Beltza—" Clara began.
"Ahem. It is LORD Beltza now."
"MISTER Beltza," Clara continued, "I am going to ask you very politely to leave and if you do not remove yourself from these premises, I will call the police to throw you out."
"Really," laughed Trevor, "the very idea."
"I assure you I am in deadly earnest," replied Clara, pointing at the door.
Trevor pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at one nostril and then the other. "Such dramatics! And when I come with a proposition for you, Mrs. O'Hare, for securing your dear Mr. Lowenherz's freedom."
His words caused Clara to stop. As much as she would have liked to have thrown him out on his ear, she paused.
"Ah! I thought that would get your attention," said Trevor, leaning upon his silver tipped walking stick. "All I want is a simple exchange. Something you have that I want, in exchange for something you want that I have."
"I don't make deals with devils," she responded coldly.
Trevor rolled his eyes. "Such drama with you fiery redheads! Really. It is a wonder anything gets done with people like you wandering about. Just sit and listen to what I have to say before you act rashly." He motioned to the couch. "Please. Settle down for just a moment and hear me out, and then I will go without any bother at all."
Clara forced her fury down. She sat on the edge of the seat, coiled and prepared to strike if he should make any threatening move.
"Now, isn't this better? Say, couldn't your man servant bring us a cup of tea or something?" asked Trevor, craning his neck towards the door.
"Do not test my patience," stated Clara.
He shrugged. "It is your own fault you are making this as unpleasant as it possibly can be."
Clara looked up at the clock on the mantle. "You have two minutes to state your case."
Trevor sighed. "Very well. As you know, my mother was a powerful woman." He looked to Clara for acknowledgement of this statement. She gave him none, so he went on. "Unfortunately, you and Mr. Lowenherz killed her."
"We did not kill her," Clara clarified. "She leapt from the grist mill and killed herself."
"Be that as it may," he said, "it is your word against mine."
"I believe Lady Daphne Grey would beg to differ."
Trevor's eyes became wide and innocent. He reminded Clara of a dumb cow. "Strangely, she has disappeared," he replied, "I'm afraid until she reappears, she will most likely not have anything to say in the matter."
Clara's blood chilled. She hoped Marguerite had Lady Grey in custody, but with the reach the Quatre Portes held, she was concerned for Lady Grey's safety. Trevor's father, Alastair Beltza had killed Lady Grey's daughter, Julie, and Clara did not doubt for a moment Trevor would not resort to similarly drastic measures to ensure his own well-being.
Trevor leaned forward and smiled. He tapped his cane upon the floor to emphasize his words. "So, you see, it is you against me. Now, your Mr. Lowenherz is facing charges, but I hold no ill will towards either of you. I have been left in charge of my mother's affairs, which truly, I hold no interest in. I propose that I drop all charges facing your Wesley, in exchange for…" He let the sentence trail off.
"In exchange for what?" Clara asked.
"Well, you see, I have some rather large gambling debts which must be settled, and my mother believed that your husband stole a great deal of our money."
It all came back to the money that Peter Nero stole, Clara reflected. How many lives? How many deaths? All because of the greed of one man. "I have no idea what you are referring to."
"Oh, I believe you do."
"You must believe me when I say I don't know where the money Peter Nero stole is."
Trevor opened his hands, as if he was making the most reasonable offer. "Am I asking the world?"
"Are you?"
"Am I asking you to commit an immoral act?"
"Perhaps you are…"
"Please, Mrs. O'Hare. All I ask is that you find what was stolen from my family's estate and return it to me. I am asking you to right a wrong. You believe it is Peter Nero. I have reason to believe your husband took it from him. Do this and I sha
ll generously ensure that your precious Wesley walks free."
This time, it was Clara's turn to give Trevor a sugary sweet smile. Though the corners of her mouth were drawn up, her teeth were clenched as she spoke. "Believe me, there is nothing I would rather do than extricate myself from whatever madness surrounds the loss of these missing funds. But I assure you, I have absolutely no idea where they are."
"Well, you're a resourceful woman. Find it."
"And if I am unable to find it?"
Trevor cast his face to the sky and heaved a sigh. "Then, I'm afraid that Mr. Lowenherz shall meet his rightful end at the hands of justice. And do not think for a moment that I do not have the will or the connections." All jocularity left his face and Clara was reminded of the man who held a gun upon them in the garden. "This is not a bluff, Mrs. O'Hare." He twisted his cane and Clara gasped as her heart seemed to painfully skip a beat. "You have my proposal. When you find the money, send it to my manor and this entire unfortunate business will come to happy conclusion. You have until hangman comes for your love." Trevor stood and picked a bit of lint off of his waistcoat. "I look forward to seeing you soon." He then walked out of the room.
Clara's heart returned to normal and she bent over, breathing heavily. She looked at the door where Trevor disappeared, wondering how he had been capable of making her heart stop and if he would be capable of holding it still for longer.
Clara rushed into the kitchen. Red was just hanging up his hat and Mrs. Nan was just pulling a kettle off the stove for tea.
"I am sorry, Red," said Clara. "But I am afraid we must go to the police station. It is urgent. I must see Marguerite right away."
9
Wesley lay on a hard cot with his arm draped over his eyes as Clara and Marguerite entered. Clara could have wept. Though it had barely been a day, it seemed a lifetime. Clara hated the way he looked so defeated, so utterly alone. Disinterested, Wesley removed his arm to see who disturbed him.
"Clara!" he cried, leaping to his feet and running to the bars of his cage. She ran forward and pressed herself against the bars of his cell. He grasped her face in his hands, relief and love greeting her.
"And who am I? Chopped liver?" asked Marguerite as she paid off the jailor to give them a couple of minutes with the prisoner alone.
"Marguerite!" Wesley said. "Forgive me. I just… I…"
"You just nothing," she replied. "You got yourself in quite a pickle here, Mr. Lowenherz."
"We would have come sooner," Clara explained, "but they would not let us in to see you."
"By the way," said Marguerite, "I am adding the money I had to use to bribe my friends to your tab."
Wesley ran his fingers through his messy auburn hair. "I shall gladly do as many séances as necessary to pay you back once I get out."
Marguerite leaned against the stone wall, both hands upon the head of her cane. "We were a little frightened we wouldn't see you again until you were a ghost," said Marguerite.
"Never you mind," Clara tried to reassure him. "We shall get you out of this somehow."
"How?" he asked.
She thought of how Thomas had led them both this far. Surely he would not abandon them now. "I don't know yet, but somehow."
"Well, while 'somehow' sounds like a most excellent plan, Clara," Marguerite said dryly, "how about we start by getting you a good lawyer, Wesley?"
He sighed and leaned his forehead against the bars. "I apologize for all of this. I assure you that being arrested on murder charges was not my intention when I started down this road."
"And what was your intention?" Marguerite asked with curiosity.
He looked from Marguerite to Clara. "I believed that Lord Horace Oroberg murdered my sister," he finally said. "All this time, this career as a 'medium' was just to get inside his house to find out if he did it. But how do we explain to a jury Violet Nero and that accursed mummy heart murdered my sister fifteen years ago? How do we explain to a jury Julie Grey's ghost told us Alastair Beltza killed her and this led to Rhoda Beltza's suicide?"
Marguerite looked up at the ceiling in frustration. "It will sound like the ravings of a madman."
"They want to transfer you to an insane asylum," said Clara. She saw Wesley's face pale. He understood that such a transfer would mean worse than a death sentence.
"The prosecuting attorney will ask you what you intended to do once you got inside Lord Oroberg's house and if you decided to take it one step further and kill Lord Oroberg out of some sense of 'justice' if you even mention your suspicions," Marguerite advised. "I only hope that you didn't mention recent events on the record." She looked at Clara, knowing the question forming on her lips. "No, I don't have access to his record. We're lucky this jailor owes me a personal favor. And, honestly, I don't know if we'll be able to get back in again."
Wesley stopped her. "What do you suggest I do? You were there and saw everything that happened. How do we explain that to a court of law? There is absolutely no evidence—"
Marguerite sighed. "Evidence? You think that is of any use in this situation? Several other deaths have happened in this fair city, all after several wealthy people hired you to come in and do a séance."
Clara stopped Wesley before he could go on. "What if we prove that these séances brought forth malevolent spirits? Spirits responsible for these deaths?"
Marguerite shook her head. "They are going to demand a demonstration of your 'powers' in the courtroom if you make such a claim. Is that really where you want to go?"
"But we could," insisted Clara.
Marguerite stepped forward. "You know that, and I know that, and there are many others in this world who would like to believe that what we know as true is true, but we can't go unleashing unholy hell upon a court of law."
Wesley began pacing. Clara hated seeing him in such distress.
"Even if you bewitched every spook in a twelve mile radius and had them show up in the witness box, the Beltza pockets are deep. Every judge in this town will side with them."
"But Lady Grey's daughter was murdered by the Beltza family!" Clara pointed out. "Peter Nero embezzled a great deal of money..."
"All baseless accusations."
"Lady Grey can testify on our behalf."
"She has disappeared," said Marguerite. Clara's heart sank, knowing what that meant, not just for Wesley's innocence, but that something terrible must have happened to her.
Wesley leaned his head against the bars.
"But there is more," said Clara.
"More?" asked Wesley.
"Trevor Beltza arrived at my house just about an hour's time ago."
"Do not give that wretched boy anything, Clara," Wesley commanded, as if he could read where her thoughts were going.
"Oh Wesley," she sighed. "All he wants is money. And if it means your freedom, I would be happy to give it to him."
"But where on earth could you get such a sum of money?"
"I could sell the house…" she started.
Wesley stopped her. "No. No, you are not placing Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard's safety at risk for this matter." He looked over at Marguerite. "I am afraid I am going to have to press you into service and demand that you keep an eye on Clara and prevent her from doing anything foolish."
"That is a tall order, Wesley."
"Do it all the same." Wesley clutched Clara's hands and pressed her palm to his lips. "All that I require is a good lawyer."
"Wesley, I cannot bear to think of you trapped in here."
"Then keep yourself busy. Your worrying will do nothing to make my situation better. Find out what your late husband did with the missing money. Throughout all of our interactions since Lord Oroberg's séance, someone has been looking for Peter Nero's funds. We now know that your husband stole it. Finish solving the mystery, Clara! I truly believe it is the only way I will ever be free."
Clara nodded, knowing in her soul from the way that Trevor demanded the money from her that Wesley was correct. Her love would never walk from
the prison alive unless she found out what her dead husband had done.
10
Clara walked out of the prison and towards Red's waiting cab. Despite the relief of finally seeing Wesley again, it seemed like their visit had been fruitless. Red looked at her worriedly. "Any good word, Mrs. O'Hare?" he asked.
Clara shook her head. "The only good is that we were able to see him and give him a little comfort. But there are such terrible forces at work here, Red." She realized how much this young driver had helped her and in a moment of weakness, she confessed. "I believe my husband stole a great deal of money from the Beltza family and Trevor wants it back. Unfortunately, I have no idea where it is or what my husband did with it. If he did indeed do the crime, he took the details to the grave with him." Clara looked back at the prison sadly. "And Wesley will die if I do not figure it out."
Red did not patronize her with placating words. He merely nodded and opened up the door for her. She climbed inside and was left alone with her thoughts as they drove through the city. Though her mind went over and over the details of the days after Thomas died, she could not think of a single instance where she was led to believe he had hidden away a great sum of money. By the time Red pulled up in front of her house, she was no further along in solving the mystery than when Trevor left her with his dire request. She climbed out the door. "Thank you, Red," she said.
The tall, lanky driver had a faraway look in his eye. He stroked his red mustache thoughtfully. "Beggin' your pardon…" he began.
"What is it, Red?" asked Clara.
"I was just wondering…" he began again. He paused before speaking. "It is just that as I was driving I started thinking. If I had a large bit o' money I didn't want anyone to find, I wouldn't just go leaving the money lying around for somebody to take. There are thieves in this town and anybody could just come in and rob a person blind."
