by Kate Danley
"And what happened to the emerald after it was discovered?" asked Clara.
"Well," said Dr. Van Flemming. "It was found on one of the expeditions funded by Lord Horace Oroberg and Lord Alastair Beltza. It was brought back on Captain Grey's ship. It arrived here and was supposed to go into the private collection of Lord Beltza, but there was mix up, I'm afraid, and it was sold to a private donor."
"Do you know who that person was?" asked Clara with great interest.
Dr. Van Flemming shook his head. "I am afraid that the purchase was done anonymously through a third party."
Clara sighed, grateful that there was no record which could lead anyone back to Thomas. He seemed to have thought of everything.
"When did this happen?" she asked.
"About a year and a half ago," said Dr. Van Flemming. "It was a very disappointing turn of events to lose such a valuable piece of antiquity."
They were interrupted by Pauline knocking over a stack of books. In her arms was a large box.
"Careful with that!" shouted Dr. Van Flemming in alarm.
"It ain't nothing but a box of old rocks," she said.
Dr. Van Flemming leapt from his chair and took the box from her. Clara, out of curiosity, walked over behind him and looked inside. It was full of carved scarabs.
"You got a million of these things," scolded Pauline. "You got so many, you don't even know which ones you got."
Dr. Van Flemming sighed in resignation. He looked over at Clara. "She does keep me honest."
"He'd be buried if it weren't for me helping him out."
Clara thought of the destitute woman they encountered who swore it was a scarab which kept the Quatre Portes from stopping her heart. She wondered if the woman spoke the truth or superstition. She had encountered enough in recent days, though, to believe many things others might find extraordinary.
"Dr. Van Flemming, I was wondering if I might borrow a few of these," Clara asked. "There is a very particular turn of events which has happened since last we met, and I fear that they may come in handy."
"Really?" he said.
"You might both wear one, too," Clara suggested.
Dr. Van Flemming nodded and reached in. He took out four blood red scarabs and handed them to Clara. "Will these do? Call them replacements for the one you lost during our last adventure."
Clara smiled and took them gingerly from him. She did not feel any magical presence as she had the last time. The room did not spin. Her earth did not tilt. Perhaps it truly was nothing more than a piece of jewelry.
"Thank you," she said.
He waved her off. "It is the least I could do for you saving my Pauline." Pauline blew him a kiss. This time there was no misunderstanding of the relationship which had developed between the actress and the scientist. Dr. Van Flemming laughed. "May you never have use for them."
Clara felt a little shiver and hoped that his words had not just tempted fate.
13
Clara knew that no good could come from going to the Beltza townhouse. But now that she was aware of the emerald's power, she could not give it to Trevor and she could not sell the stone to get back the money for him. And so the carriage rocked its way up the boulevard towards the Beltza family's city home.
They arrived far too quickly. It was a white, Georgian townhome upon a semi-circular crescent street overlooking a park in the finest area of town. The trees lining the street were blossoming and spring bulbs around their base were in bloom. Red stepped down to open the door for her.
"Do you want me to come in with you?" he asked.
Clara felt her knees knocking together, but shook her head. "I cannot afford to have Trevor knowing of any others I care about. It would be best if you kept as low a profile as possible."
Red nodded his head in understanding. "I will wait out here for you, but if you have any trouble at all, just scream and I will come running."
Clara gave him a grim smile before making her way to the door. She rang the bell and it was opened by the familiar face of Mr. Hopper, the butler who had taken care of the Beltza estate. Clara was surprised that he had not gone to seek employment elsewhere.
"Mrs. O'Hare," he said stiffly.
"I was wondering if I might have a moment of Mr. Beltza's time," Clara said.
"Lord Beltza is in his study, ma'am," he replied. "I shall see if he is available. Please come in."
Clara walked into the foyer. Marble staircases rose up to the upper levels. Murals of the gentry in various stages of revelry were painted on the walls. In a few minutes, Mr. Hopper had returned. "Follow me, please," he replied.
Clara climbed the steps behind him and followed him into the second story study. It was papered in scarlet brocade and the walls were filled with bookshelves. All the books looked practically new. Clara would not have been surprised at all if they had been placed there more for show than education.
Trevor was in an armchair by a window, smoking a large cigar. His feet were propped up on a large, ornamental vase whose value Clara could not even possibly imagine.
"Ah! Mrs. O'Hare! How lovely to see you again so soon! I hope that you are well?" the ridiculous man greeted in an entirely too friendly manner.
When she did not reply, he nodded at Mr. Hopper to leave them.
As soon as the door shut, Clara turned back to Trevor. "I have learned that the money is gone," Clara replied.
Trevor leapt to his feet angrily, all pretense of ease and goodwill disappearing. "Gone? What do you mean it is… gone?"
Clara wetted her lips and continued. "My husband took the money and then rid himself of it. I have searched my house. I have searched his accounts. It is gone. If you wish to find the money, perhaps it would be best to continue the line of investigation that everyone else seems to think is true: find out what Peter Nero did with it."
Trevor laughed. "Uncle Peter? You must be joking. That blowhard couldn't have found his way out of a bucket with a map."
"If he was so good at getting lost, it holds to reason that he could easily have lost something like a large sum of money."
Trevor pointed his finger at Clara and shook his head. "No. You are lying to me. You know where that money is and you will return it."
"I cannot," she stated again. "It is gone."
Trevor picked up a porcelain statuette of a couple dancing and hurtled it against the wall, shattering it into small pieces. He then regained his composure. He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat and smoothed back his hair. "Mrs. O'Hare. I hate to have to do this, but I told you that if you did not return the money, I would ensure that Wesley Lowenherz never saw the light of freedom. Do you remember when I said that?"
His words chilled her to the bone, but she had no hope to offer him. "I cannot give you something I do not have," she replied, trying to make him see reason.
"I am a man who keeps my promises," said Trevor with deadly earnestness. "And I need to make sure you understand I am a man of my word. I am going to ask you one final time: bring me the money."
"I cannot," Clara said again, trying to will him to accept this truth.
"Then what happens next is upon your head," Trevor stated calmly. He reached over and pulled on a tapestry bell. Mr. Hopper returned to the room. "Please escort Mrs. O'Hare out," he replied dismissively, walking over to his desk without another look back. He glanced up at her only once, but a stillness had overcome him, like a predator hiding in the grass.
"Ma'am?" Mr. Hopper asked, motioning with his hand towards the door.
Clara stepped out. Terror ran through her veins. The calmness which followed Trevor's outburst scared her more than if he had thrown one hundred priceless porcelains against the wall.
She increased her speed and Mr. Hopper had to walk faster to keep ahead of her. He opened the door just as she reached for the handle herself. She ran down the steps and to the cab.
"Red?" she said. "I fear for Wesley's life. We must get to the police station with all speed!"
14
"I shall return shortly," she said to Red. "Wait here for me."
She took the stairs two at a time, attracting concerned glances from the officers around her. She flung open the door to the station and strode inside, looking around madly for Marguerite even as she made her way to the woman's office. Clara opened the door, not even bothering to knock. The room was empty.
Clara stepped out into the hallway, wringing her hands. Where was her friend? She knew that it was a grievous assumption on her part that Marguerite would just be sitting in her office at Clara's beck and call whenever the whim struck her. She ran back to the front desk and waited her turn in line to speak with the constable in charge.
"I am trying to locate Mrs. Marguerite Matson," Clara explained to the guard.
The man looked at her with a bored expression. "Mrs. Matson is out for the moment, but if you would just have a seat, I can assure you that she will be returning shortly."
"You don't understand," Clara pressed. "It is imperative that I speak with her now."
"Like I said," repeated the guard briskly, "she is out and will be returning soon. If you will sit down and wait, she will be back."
"I fear for a prisoner's life," she tried to explain.
"A prisoner in our prison?" said the guard.
"Yes," Clara affirmed.
"Well then you're quite lucky. Because behind bars is the safest place for any criminal to be. Now if you will take a seat, ma'am," he commanded, pointing at an empty chair.
Clara clenched her teeth and sat, realizing that to him, she was just another nuisance. The minutes stretched on inexorably. She rose and began pacing. Half a dozen times, she made for the door, determined to have Red begin a search of the city only to sit down and remind herself that Marguerite would be returning and staying here would be the best way to find the woman.
About an hour and a half later, Marguerite came running through the front door as fast as her injuries would allow her.
"Oh, thank god you are here!" Marguerite said as she spotted Clara. "I sent someone round to fetch you! There is a fire at the prison!"
Clara felt the whole world shift beneath her. "Wesley!" she cried. She turned to the guard. "I told you something like this was going to happen! I told you!"
The guard looked back from Marguerite and Clara in confusion.
"Did she?" challenged Marguerite.
"Well, she said something about danger to some prisoner…" the man tried to explain.
Marguerite shook her head in disgust and took Clara's arm. She directed her to the door, but said over her shoulder as they walked out. "If this woman ever comes in looking for me again in the future, you send out the entire police force to find me, do you understand? Or, by gum, your head will roll!"
The air smelled of burning. Great black clouds hung in the sky. Red still sat patiently by the entrance. Without waiting another moment, Marguerite jumped inside the cab and banged on the roof. "To the prison, Red! And quickly!"
The wagon lurched to one side and Clara and Marguerite hung on for dear life. Clara's mind would not accept the idea of what might be. It refused to acknowledge the realities that might be. Wesley had to be alive. He had to. Life would not deliver to her this tragic blow. Surely life would not rip another love from her hands. Surely Minnie would have seen to it that her brother was safe.
But perhaps that is why all the ghosts gathered around him, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered. Perhaps they knew his time was near and came to greet him, to guide him to the other side.
She pushed aside the thought. It could not be! It would not be. But the billowing smoke, the taste of charred flesh in the air spoke otherwise.
By the time they arrived, the firemen had brought their steam pump. It seemed too small, too little to make any sort of a difference in the blaze which licked the sky.
Clara leapt from the carriage, scanning the crowds for Wesley's auburn hair. Marguerite was immediately at her side.
"Where is he?" Clara whispered. "Please…"
Marguerite squeezed her hand bracingly and then stepped away to talk with one of the jailors in low tones. Their heads bent together as they conferred. Marguerite became animated, pointing and shouting at the prison. The man just shook his head. What could he mean by shaking his head like that, Clara wondered. Marguerite looked over at her. Her face told the story. Clara shook her head. It could not be true. She would not allow it to be true.
Marguerite hobbled over and rested her hand on Clara's arm. "I am afraid that they only had time to open a few cells before the fire took hold. Wesley's cell was not one of them."
Clara felt her knees buckle beneath her. She heard someone making a heart wrenching wail of despair and desperately wanted to go over to comfort her, only to realize that it was she who cried out. And there was no one who could comfort this wound.
15
She was aware of Red and Marguerite's presence, of their help as she climbed back into the carriage. She knew that Marguerite did not leave her side. But the world was distant and grey. Her thoughts seemed not her own. Her cries came in waves, ceasing and then starting. It was not under her control anymore.
"We shouldn't leave her alone," said Marguerite in soft tones to Red as they helped Clara out of the cab and to the front door of her house on the square.
"I shall be fine," Clara replied, but neither of her friends seemed to pay her any mind.
"Her butler and housekeeper are here, but I shall go fetch the doctor," Red said to Marguerite.
"I don't need a doctor," Clara stated.
"That would be wise, Red," Marguerite said. "I'll stay with her until you get back."
Clara heard Red's carriage drive away and felt Marguerite help her up the steps. She heard Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard come into the foyer. She heard Marguerite tell them that there was terrible news and heard Mrs. Nan's wails as she replied it couldn't be true, it just couldn't.
Clara allowed herself to be helped up to her bedroom and placed onto her bed.
"Stay here," Marguerite instructed her, helping her to place her feet up onto the mattress. "I shall be right back."
Clara lay unmoving just as Marguerite instructed. She heard Marguerite comforting Mrs. Nan and hushed words spoken downstairs. The time ticked by. Clara wondered why the whole world had not completely stopped, how it was possible for the clocks to keep moving. Why did the world not cease spinning on its axis?
She heard the downstairs door open and another voice added to the mix. This one was a male voice. Clara wondered who he could be. She did not really care. The footsteps climbed the stairs and the voices came closer to her room.
An older gentleman with a white fringe of hair and round glasses came in. His coat was worn, as was his leather doctor's bag. He sat down on the bed beside Clara. She could not raise the interest to greet him. He poured a few pills into his hand and poured a cup of water for Clara from a pitcher.
"Drink this, dear," he said. "They shall help you to rest."
He seemed kind, Clara thought as she dutifully took the pills and drifted away into nothingness.
16
Clara's eyes sprang open as her heart pounded. There was something wrong. And then she remembered that Wesley had been killed in the fire at the prison. The entire world seemed to come crashing around her ears as she remembered everything that had happened. The drugs the doctor had given her made the room seem fuzzy and strange.
It was dark outside and the room was filled with just enough moonlight that Clara could see the shapes of her furniture.
But there was something more, Clara realized. The wrongness was not just that Wesley had passed away. There was something wrong with the house. The energy practically thrummed.
She swung her legs out of her bed and shoved her feet into her slippers. She grabbed the lamp by her bed and lit its flame. There was nothing in the room. She walked over to the window.
The ghostly phantom she had seen the other night was standing once again beneath the flickering gas flame of the lamp post. His eyes snapped up to her face in the window. She could see completely through him. She wondered what had caused this creature to stalk her. But she did not cry out in fear. Instead, she felt it was very important for her to remain at the window and look at him, distract him.
Yes, that was the feeling, she realized. She needed to make sure his attention remained on her for whatever reason. She tied back the curtain of the window so that he could get as good a look at her as possible. She walked to and fro in front of the window, making sure that his eyes stayed on her.
And then, like a balloon popping, the tension of the house dissipated and was gone. Clara closed the curtains once again. She grabbed her house robe and wrapped it around herself. She had a sense of foreboding and panic did not leave, but this feeling was from her, not the house. Steeling her courage, she walked over to the door and opened it. She peered into the hallway. There was nothing there.
"Mrs. Nan?" she whispered loudly. "Mr. Willard?"
Neither of them came.
She swallowed, almost wishing for the cold chill of Minnie, just so that she wouldn't feel so desperately alone. She walked down the long and dark hallway until she stood at the top of the stairs. The front door was closed, and the lock was thrown, but there was a noise which came from the parlor, like a chair was being moved. Her hand began to tremble.
Frightened, she crept down the stairs. The sound in the parlor stopped. She placed her hand upon the doorframe, and then stepped into the opening to see who lurked inside.
