by C W Briar
Timothy’s face hardened, but his eyelids fluttered as if he were fighting sleep. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he said, “I do not know Master Voor’s business. He said he was going away for a few weeks to support a university’s studies at a mine. Obviously his time away extended. I know nothing more, not even the name of the university. He gave the scarcest of detail before rushing to pack his bags and taking a carriage in the night. He said he needed to catch a train in Pittsburgh very early in the morning.”
Rose rocked on her toes and heels. “Twice in that statement you used the term ‘he said.’ Does that mean you don’t believe him, or are you merely conveying what he told you?”
“It means he is away on travel, girl.” He spat the last word at her. “I have no reason to doubt what he said. Master Voor frequently travels.”
Unmoved by Timothy’s ire, Rose asked, “Did he lie about being gone for several weeks, or has something delayed him?”
“Listen here, child. I am not amused by your mockery and accusations. My master—”
I stepped closer to Rose. “Forgive her, sir, if my apprentice’s questions offended you. She has not yet mastered the delicate aspects of the job. We do earnestly wish to help, and the creature’s history of attacks on this property makes us worried it will happen again.”
“The attacks occurred in the garden and in the house you are staying in. I would think your time is best spent searching there.”
“You do not intend to assist us in any way, do you?”
My question coaxed an ugly smile from him. “Oh, so the detective has finally figured that out.”
“I’m sorry. I can be rather slow.” I stopped Rose by her shoulder again, this time as she tried to walk away. I worried what she might do out of my sight in response to the old man’s rudeness. “Will you at least tell me if anything exotic was delivered to the house within the past year? It might be something that seems ordinary but came from an unusual location.”
“Nothing of the sort. Good day, Mr. Wells.”
“Thank you. You have been most helpful, but would you be willing to answer one question more?”
“What?” The word popped from his tongue like an ember.
“My question—well, Rose’s question—is do you think Mr. Voor lied about being away for several weeks, or has something unexpected kept him away? Did he die at the mines?”
The door slammed in reply. It opened a few seconds later after Timothy caught us peeking through windows, and he shouted at us to leave.
The rain pelted us as we walked down the steps.
“Sorry,” Rose said in a rare moment of clear and earnest regret. “I hope my provocations didn’t hurt your inquiries.”
“Not in the least,” I said. “That man is either exceptionally rude or hiding something. We’ll come later, with a search warrant if necessary. For now, I need you to go back to the statue and help the sheriff. I hope the locksmith has arrived by now.”
“What about you?”
“I want to examine something.”
She pleaded, “I want to see the pavilion too.”
I laughed. I cannot keep a secret from her. “Run along, Rose. I can break the law on my own.”
16
I leaned against the pavilion’s wall, not only for shelter beneath the overhanging roof, but to avoid being seen by those at the statue or in the Voor house. Jail is a miserable interruption when on a case.
Rose shoved rain-soaked strands of hair away from her forehead. “Please, sir. If I help, the search will go twice as fast.”
“I don’t want you in here. It’s quite enough I’m setting a bad example. I do not want you participating in the crime as well.”
“What if I choose to do so of my own accord?”
I lowered my face close to hers. “If I go to jail, the responsibility of stopping the ghoul belongs to you. Now go help our sheriff friend, or at least distract him. I’ll join you shortly.”
Rose is gifted at hiding most emotions; disappointment is not one of them. She scrunched her upper lip. “What do I tell them if they ask for you?”
“Make up a story.”
“I do not care for lying.”
“Rose, just—” I paused to calm myself. Mud splashed out from under my boot each time I tapped my toes. “Just say I am busy with the investigation and will return soon. That is the truth.”
“Do you think Mr. Voor summoned the creature?” she asked.
“Not in any sort of mystical way. He might have an artifact in the house or pavilion that enticed the creature to come here. It’s even more likely he imported it and put it in a private display. I need to collect evidence, and you need to hurry back to the sheriff. Now go.”
Rose finally yielded. She huffed and scurried in the direction of the statue.
The doors remained locked, so I stepped on one of the pavilion’s decorative lion heads and climbed onto the lower roof. Two of my stitches snapped as I pulled myself up, and fresh blood reddened the raindrops on my hand. Once I reached the nook beneath the upper roof, I peered through one of the windows.
The floor was made of stone except for a six-foot brass circle with hieroglyph etchings. I spied bookshelves, stoppered jars, and two leather chairs. The darkness obscured all other details. I convinced myself I could no longer wait—that if given time, Timothy would hide all evidence. In truth, I shattered the window because of my ravenous curiosity.
Once I cleared the shards out of the window frame, I slid inside with all the grace of a dropped coal sack. The brass seal on the floor rang like a cymbal under my landing.
As I got up off my backside, I noticed a ring of unlit bulbs hanging from the ceiling. A metal lever with a rubber handle stood erect from the wall, and when I pulled it down into an iron receptacle, it coughed sparks onto my feet. The room illuminated, and a muffled hiss of steam echoed in two pipes near the bookshelves.
Everything was arranged with the meticulous care of a museum exhibit. A taxidermic monstrosity with cat, owl, and bat parts hung from a plaque. I opened the lid of a gold-etched cedar chest and found scientific and medical instruments arranged in parallel rows. The pipettes and sealed powders seemed sensible possessions for a chemist. The same could not be said about the scalpels, syringes, and leather bindings.
A cursory check of the liquor cabinet proved Mr. Voor had questionable taste and an affinity for getting drunk quickly. I found an absinthe kit, and such a drink would have been delightful under other circumstances. The rest of the collection, however, was distilled to abuse tongues and capsize brains.
Atop the cabinet sat nine jars with cork stoppers. Each contained a unique substance such as clear fluids, black sand, or a silvery bead. The one with yellow powder held sulphur. I supposed the last vessel held red wine until I opened it and smelled the blood.
I next inspected the bookshelves. None of the novels and texts on chemistry or history piqued my interest. The other books, however, could have fueled a thousand speculations about Mr. Voor. Medieval science books written in French and Old English. Parchments in Latin and what appeared to be Sanskrit and Chinese. Medical journals with detailed drawings of human and animal anatomy. Spellbooks and ritual records from Celts, Gypsies, and unfamiliar cultures.
Mr. Voor’s interest in the occult exceeded fascination and superstition. He owned a library devoted to it.
Tucked among the more exotic and serious tomes was a book without any identifying marks on the cover or binding. To my utter surprise, it contained nothing but childish pencil drawings of houses, trees, and other common objects. I chuckled because of how odd it seemed on a shelf of overly odd books.
The drawings also confused me. According to Mr. Carter, Charles Voor had no children, and by extension no grandchildren, so who drew the images? Furthermore, instead of improving page-over-page, the drawings became more erratic and ill-defined, as if the young artist regressed in ability.
I returned the book and chose another, one which was heavily worn and t
herefore heavily read. Its blue, leathery cover bore gold lettering and symbols matching those on the brass floor and pavilion door.
As I pulled it out, I knocked a framed picture off the shelf. It cracked against the floor.
Fortunately, the fall was not as damaging as it sounded. I placed the chipped frame back on the shelf and took note of the old, faded photograph. A short, bearded man in a surgical coat was shaking hands with a half-bald Union Army officer. Both men looked about age sixty, making them ninety if still alive today. A note at the bottom of the image read Charles, thank you for your support. Major General Hitchcock.”
Charles? Charles Voor? Would a ninety-year-old man have the strength for a winter expedition in Canada? Bravo to him if he did, but it was more likely Mr. Voor shared a name with his father. I made a mental record to later investigate his ancestry for a Charles Voor Sr.
To my frustration, the text in the blue book was written in Latin. I cursed myself for dismissing Rose. She had learned Latin during her years in the Catholic orphanage.
The pavilion door’s lock clicked, and I jumped. The door handle turned. Someone was coming in.
Seeing no means of concealment or escape, I tore several pages from the book, stuffed them in my inner vest pocket, and dropped into one of the leather chairs as if I belonged in the study.
The door swung open. Timothy stood at the entrance with an umbrella in one hand and a gun in the other.
I crossed my legs and laid the open book on my lap. Making the most of my predicament, I said, “Thank heavens you are finally here. Have you brought me some tea?”
17
“Thief,” Timothy snarled. “You have no right to be in here.”
I snapped the book closed, laid it on the arm of the chair, and wiped my bloody hand on my pants. “Forgive me, sir. I chased the ghoul to the pavilion and thought it climbed inside. I tired myself out during the pursuit, so I sat here for a quick rest.”
He would never believe me. I did not care. I needed a delay and a plan, not his support.
Timothy left the umbrella outside and entered the study. He nudged the glass shards on the floor with his shoe. “You broke a window.”
I stood. The moisture from my coat remained on the leather chair. “That window was the ghoul’s doing. That’s why I thought it came in here.”
“A thief and a liar. I’m calling for the sheriff.”
“I apologize, but I already summoned him. He is busy with a task I gave him.” I brushed my hand over the seat, but of course I could not sweep away the damp spots like crumbs. “I can go find him for you if you like. Or perhaps we could wait someplace comfortable until he arrives. Might I recommend this study? We could pass the time with these books.”
Timothy leveled his gun at my chest. “You are coming with me to the sheriff’s house.”
“Very well.” I sighed. “I do hope you plan to share that umbrella.”
Timothy moved toward me. He stepped onto the bronze disc, and a faint, metallic ring echoed beneath the floor.
I turned my ear toward the previously unnoticed sound. The ground beneath the seal was hollow. I stomped my heel on it twice and confirmed the echo.
“Quit stalling and go outside,” Timothy said.
I began to devise another lie. I looked for any sufficiently unusual object and settled on a blue lily pressed between layers of glass. “It may not be wise to involve the sheriff.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do, I will tell him what I found in here. Do you know what that is?” I pointed at the lily. “It’s a Jotela flower, an exceedingly rare specimen. Native tribes in Indochina worship it, and removing it from the region is punishable by death over there. I know some officials in Washington who would be intrigued to hear Charles Voor has one.”
Timothy frowned at me with equal parts disdain and annoyance. “That’s a Siberian squill, you imbecile. It’s one of Master Voor’s favorites. He brought it back from Russia.”
“Well … ’snails.” My bluff failed. “It is a beautiful flower.”
I trudged across the pavilion, stomping on the metal floor as I went. I felt angrier at the butler for thwarting my curiosity than for aiming a weapon at me.
“Move along,” Timothy ordered, pushing me outside. He stopped to lock the door and pick up his umbrella.
As I waited with arms crossed to conserve my warmth and keep my stolen pages dry, I heard excited cries over the steady hiss of rain. The voices came from the direction of the statue door. All of the people I stationed there had vanished from sight.
Had they been attacked? Dread and urgency tugged at my sleeve.
“We need to head over there at once,” I said, not bothering to mask the concern in my voice.
“No. We are going to the sheriff.”
“The sheriff is there, you ornery, inbred fossil.” I stifled an urge to punch him. “Listen. The ghoul is hiding in the chamber, and I need to stop it before it kills again. If it harms one person because of your interference”—a person like Rose—“their blood will be on your hands, and then your blood will be on mine.”
My threat startled him, but he recovered and poked my chest with the barrel of his gun. “Shut your mouth.”
I stepped back as if surrendering, then swatted his gun aside while pulling out my revolver.
Timothy froze for a moment as he realized I had turned the tables. He dropped to the ground and shielded himself with his umbrella.
Agitated shouts continued to sound near the river.
“I’m going over there,” I said. Without waiting for his reaction, I sprinted toward the statue.
“Halt!” Timothy shouted.
“Shoot me,” I replied, unwavering in my run. For a moment, I feared he might.
18
The voices cleared as I drew near. The men shouted, “Keep going,” “I can almost fit through,” and “Do you need help?”
I crested the steep bank that bends around the statue and slid down the wet grass. The hidden door was open. Claude and an unfamiliar man stood in front of it, peering into the darkness. Sheriff Richt and the two boys called out from inside.
“Where is Rose?” I asked breathlessly.
They pointed toward the river. Rose climbed up the shore near the collapsed dock and waved.
The men explained what had transpired during my absence. The newly arrived gentleman I did not recognize was the locksmith. He succeeded in forcing the door open, but to everyone’s disappointment, the inner room proved empty and scarcely large enough for a mule. Someone had apparently walled-off the majority of the room.
My accomplice arrived at that time and assisted the befuddled men. She held a light to the grate on the small room’s floor and discovered a trough with two chains. She deduced these were part of a mechanism for opening the passage Dr. Torani told us about. Rose’s search led to the old, ruined dock where, beneath the rotted boards, she found a crank and a drain gushing with water.
When she rotated the crank, a portion of the wall in the small room receded, exposing a larger, deeper chamber.
Rose beamed with pride as she strutted to me. “I figured Lady Ragiston built the hidden entrance to protect the slaves. Since they came by boat, the dock seemed a logical place to look for a door knob.”
I would have congratulated Rose for her fine work, but her expression tensed. I spun and faced the source of her worry. Timothy approached with his umbrella held high and his gun aimed at me.
Groaning, I removed my coat and handed it to Rose. The rain began to invade the few remaining dry threads of my shirt.
“Left breast pocket,” I whispered, then cocked my head toward the room. I needed her to read the Latin text before it could be confiscated.
She donned the oversized coat and escaped toward the door.
“Mr. Wells, stay where you are,” Timothy ordered. Despite his umbrella, the rains had soaked his clothes, making him appear weaker and more shriveled than ever. Bruises darkened his fingertips and t
he flesh around his eyes. His skin looked otherwise pale as washed cotton.
“Sir, a man of your age would do well to avoid being outside in this weather. The cold will be the death of you.”
“I am through with your games.”
Sheriff Richt and his conscripts emerged from the chamber to investigate the commotion.
“Ah, Sheriff. There you are.” Timothy nodded toward me. “Arrest this man.”
Sheriff Richt’s focus darted to me. I circled my ear with my finger, intimating the butler had gone nuts.
“What is this business about, Gideon?” he asked.
Timothy waved his weapon. “He stole into Master Voor’s property. I caught him reading the master’s personal documents.” A vicious flock of coughs flew out of his lungs, and I hoped he would not accidentally squeeze the trigger.
“Put the gun away, Mr. Barron,” Sheriff Richt said to Timothy. “Are you ill?”
“I am fine. I demand you arrest this criminal.”
The sheriff puckered his lips as if preparing to spit. “How do you respond to these charges, Gideon?”
I shrugged. “Guilty as charged. I trespassed in the pavilion and flipped through one of Mr. Voor’s books. That is all. Sheriff, we’ve no time for bickering right now. The creature is likely hiding in there, and we could put this nightmare to rest in time to eat a warm lunch.”
He shivered. “Curse this rain. Mr. Barron, the Ragistons hired Gideon to rid Haughtogis of the ghoul. We need his help.”
“That gives him no right to break the law or for you to ignore your duty.”
“Might I suggest we deal with this charge tomorrow?” I said. “You have my confession. Determine the fine, and I will pay it. Our hunt is infinitely more urgent.”
Timothy scoffed. “Sheriff, you cannot trust this outsider.” A coughing fit bent him at the waist and halted his protest.
Fury burned the last of my patience to ash. The coppery taste of anger tinged my tongue. I snapped, “He is hiding a crime. Charles Voor is responsible for the ghoul. He brought it back from some godforsaken jungle, and he is to blame for it preying on the people of this village.”