by Laura Rahme
Mrs. Cleary thought for a moment. “Mr. Nightingale was never quite the same after his wife died. He used to walk through the house with a worried look on his face. At the time, I gathered his work troubled him.”
“It must have been important work for him to deprive his wife’s family of attending the burial. What was he working on?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know.” She waved a hand and turned her face away, avoiding eye contact.
“Where did you say he conducted that work?”
His question remained unanswered. A tall maid with ginger-coloured hair had come forth, and upon seeing her, Mrs. Cleary promptly stood.
She cleared her throat and gave orders.
“Shannon, I believe Mr. Leroux has finished his breakfast. Hurry up and clean the table and bring a water carafe to the study.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cleary.”
Mrs. Cleary turned to Maurice. “If you’ll excuse me, I will see that the cook has everything he needs. Let me know if you’d like some sandwiches for lunch. I’m sure we have some ham in the larder and I’ll ask Gerard to make a fresh loaf of bread.”
“That will be lovely, thank you.”
She stared at him as though collecting her thoughts.
“Mr. Leroux. You’ll find Alexandra Hall a fascinating place. At times when you examine all the art work and the exquisite objects that Mr. Nightingale so loved to collect, you might overlook details the first time round. Colours and shapes have a habit of changing in this house, in a most unusual way. When you think you have grasped what you are seeing, you find it is all an illusion, and things take on quite another form.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Mrs. Cleary. But I’ll keep an open mind,” said Maurice.
“Oh, no. You’ll understand what I mean, in time.” She hastened away.
Maurice began his inspection of the house by visiting Calista’s bedroom upstairs. Soon after breakfast he headed to the room diagonally from his.
As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, a lingering feminine scent wafted to his nostrils. It was soft, jasmine like, and a mournful feeling tugged at his chest as he inhaled. The large bed, untouched since January, was painted in white and gold. Silk blue sheets mirrored the azure of the ceiling. Within this celestial artwork, naked cherubs looked down onto the bed. The room’s serene atmosphere was enhanced by the pink pastel blooms adorning the walls.
Maurice’s eye lingered on an antique vanity table to his right. Mrs. Cleary’s obvious fondness for Calista had moved him. A wave of sadness rushed through him as he sighted the objects on the table: a silver casket, a porcelain brush, a handheld mirror and numerous perfume bottles. But upon lifting the casket, he was struck by its contents— coral and bead necklaces, in a style that he’d never seen. Inside the drawers, he found no letters, only paper and ink. And then more strange beads, many of them, blue.
Maurice opened the tall 18th century double-door closet but instantly shirked back, clamping his nose. Upon recovering from his surprise, he peered in to examine the long, full dresses until he understood the reason for the odour. At least five of these gowns looked horribly stained. He wondered what to make of the stark contrast between Calista’s refined room and the coarseness inside her closet. Then he shut the doors.
Perhaps all might be explained once he understood more about the house’s occupants.
Gerard
MAURICE entered several guest rooms to the right of Calista’s bedroom. His search led him back to the stair landing, then to Aaron’s study.
As he passed the space between Aaron’s study and his guestroom, he noted a wet trail on the floorboards and on the rug in the corridor. A glistening liquid had been smeared there. At first, he feared that his own shoes might be stained, but upon inspecting them, Maurice saw they were not. Finding a towel in his room, he used it to dab the moisture on the floorboards, keeping an anxious eye on the stair landing to check that none of the maids saw him. He did not wish to be a grubby guest. There. Mrs. Cleary would not notice a thing.
Relieved, Maurice proceeded past his room. Finding the correct key, he entered a spacious carpeted library filled with antique volumes and leather-bound classics. Wooden shelves reached the ceiling, covering every wall. The scent of dark cedar filled his nostrils. Were he not working on a case, he would have loved nothing better than to explore these treasures at leisure. He regretfully sighed and left the library.
He had now reached Aaron’s bedroom at the far corner of the second floor. Maurice unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The richness of the furniture was astounding. There was even a fireplace finely carved in sandstone. An opulent Persian rug covered the floorboards. A rustic chandelier in blackened metal hung from the wooden ceiling. Maurice gazed up at the Renaissance coffers. It was a style, he had only seen in the grandest homes.
Dominating Aaron’s room, was a four-poster Renaissance bed in maroon oak. Its headboard was hand-carved with rosettes, foliates, and a scene of merry musicians. Atop the bed lay a gilded coverlet and dozens of silk cushions.
A large leather chest abutted the foot of the bed. Maurice lifted the lid. Personal clothing, two leather caskets, shoe boxes, and dusty books filled the trunk. His eye lingered on the smaller sized casket which bore a distinct medieval emblem. It was locked, but Maurice admired the courtly love scenes where a troubadour and his lady, both painted in red, exchanged affirmations. Before closing the trunk, he wondered where Aaron had obtained such a rare treasure.
Turning to a grand armoire, Maurice peered into Aaron’s wardrobe. His lips curled with a smile. On the surface, Aaron Nightingale might have resembled a dandy, but to Maurice, he evoked a chameleon like image, dressing in various styles at whim. Perhaps Aaron had even fancied himself as a Renaissance man, mused Maurice, a man with boundless abilities…or a god. Maurice reflected on this idea.
He exited the room and headed downstairs. Halfway down the staircase, he paused at Calista’s regal portrait and for a moment, he could not lift his eyes from her. He was reminded that it had all begun with this Greek woman’s death. Calista first, then Aaron, followed by the maid and Vera. He’d been called upon to solve two murders, but he was not prepared to overlook four deaths in one year.
Having reached the kitchen, he decided to sneak inside and interview the cook. He cast a quick glance around him. Mrs. Cleary was nowhere in sight. He pushed open the French doors.
Gerard O’Malley knelt before the giant stove oven in the heart of the room. He worked at blacking its surfaces.
As Maurice entered, he startled. “Jesus, Mr. Leroux. You frightened me.”
The Irishman interrupted his work and rose to his feet.
“So I hear you like my scones, Mr. Leroux,” he said. He spoke with a thick accent and with English not being his first language, Maurice strained to understand him.
“Delicious, thank you,” he replied. “Is there something wrong with the oven?”
“That old thing. Nah, she’s right. Just weekly routine. Real bastard of a job. Makes it worse when you have to wake up at four in the morning.” Gerard wiped his nose, smearing a little grease upon it. He found an old rag and wiped his hands on it.
“That early! Mr. O’Malley, I hope it was not the scones that you had to bake on my account,” said Maurice.
Gerard continued to wipe his hands, giving the impression he had not heard. He seemed reticent to speak.
Spotting nicotine stains on the cook’s fingers, Maurice dug into his vest and began to light a cigar. “Would you like one?” he asked, presenting his cigar case.
“Oh no, I shouldn’t. Mrs. Cleary won’t like it.”
“I’ve closed the kitchen doors. She won’t know a thing.”
Gerard reached for a cigar. Maurice leaned across to light it for him. “I’m investigating the deaths of Sophie Murphy and Vera Nightingale,” he reminded the cook.
“I know. I just don’t think I can be of much help to you.”
“Well you can st
art by telling me what happened here,” said Maurice, as he glimpsed the shattered glass on one of the windows.
“I don’t think Mrs. Cleary would like that much, sir.”
“Mrs. Cleary doesn’t have a choice. I am working at the behest of John Nightingale. Don’t worry, you won’t lose your job by speaking with me.”
Gerard looked worried. “Just between you and me, then.”
“That’s right. Nobody has to hear it.”
“Well in that case...” Gerard leaned in to confide in Maurice. “You should have seen the state of the kitchen this morning, Mr. Leroux,” he whispered. “Like a blasted hurricane went through it. My crockery smashed to pieces. The saucepans in such a state. It’s a wonder the French doors are in one piece. You’d best watch your step unless I missed a piece of glass.”
“Has someone tried to break into the house?”
A look of dread passed over Gerard’s face. “Afraid not. It’s much worse than that. Look, I don’t want to say.”
“I’m sure you’re bursting to say it though,” observed Maurice.
“Sure I am, but she might hear us. Mrs. Cleary…”
“Nobody can hear a thing. I’ve closed the doors, Gerard,” reminded Maurice in an encouraging tone.
Gerard dropped the sound of his voice. “Alright, where do I start? She’s been acting strange ever since Calista Nightingale died. Oh, she says there’s a haunting in this house, but I ain’t so sure. I ain’t buying it. I’ve seen her tantrums.”
Maurice frowned. “Mrs. Cleary never mentioned any haunting. It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve heard.”
Gerard fixed Maurice as though weighing up whether to speak further. He peered through the French doors to check that no one was passing by.
“She won’t mention any of it to you. The lady has gone insane, if you ask me. But what choice do I have? I answer to her. I do what I’m told. Don’t want to lose my job when Mr. John takes over. Though I’m sure he’ll straighten her out. I think she’s just showing you her good side.” He paused. “For now.”
“You said she thinks there’s a haunting. Can you explain what you mean?” asked Maurice.
Gerard looked askance through the windows to check that no one was watching him from outside. He turned to Maurice. “She’s been saying Vera Nightingale was murdered by Calista’s spirit. That she died of fright. That’s the way she said it.”
Maurice blinked. “Murdered by a ghost? That’s absurd.” He’d not expected Mrs. Cleary to be the sort of person to fall prey to superstitious thoughts. “Alright then, about Vera Nightingale. Tell me more about that night. What were you doing?”
“Sleeping, sir. I got up the next day before everyone else. Now I found Vera Nightingale by the stairs that day and to be sure, I remember the horror on her dead face. She sure did look frightened to me. But I think anyone who was close to death would find themselves in a little panic, don’t you think?”
“You found her?”
“I did. I asked the gardener to ride into town and summon the police.”
“What else did you see that day?”
“There were spoons scattered across the stairs and down below. I didn’t want no one tripping on them so I put those nasty things away. The police didn’t like that much. They spoke to me like I had tampered with the evidence.”
“You think someone might have placed them there on purpose and caused her to trip?”
“No one here would do such an awful thing. I think maybe she was carrying them and they slipped from her hands when she fell.”
“What was Vera Nightingale doing with spoons in the middle of the night?”
“Well…I…I don’t know.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“Oh, the usual drama. Mrs. Cleary was no use. She’d been running errands in London the day before, and didn’t show up until the evening after I found Miss Vera Nightingale. I had to do everything myself. The girls were in tears. The coroner asked everyone what they’d seen. What could I tell them? Nothing. I heard nothing that night. I think Vera Nightingale gave herself a fright and fell down the stairs.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time Alexandra Hall made someone’s blood run cold. What with all those portraits crowding the walls. Bunch of ghouls. Even I get frightened at times the way those people with their stiff airs look down on you.”
“I’m surprised both you and Mrs. Cleary believe Vera Nightingale died of fright. You should already know that she suffocated. The fact is, somebody smothered her.”
Gerard grew pale. “No one here would do such a thing. I already talked to the police and they said the same thing you did. But I don’t know, I still cannot believe it.”
“Where did you say Mrs. Cleary was all this time?”
“Like I said, in London, running errands. Between you and me, she wants to emigrate to Australia. She hates it here.”
“How do you know so much about what she plans to do?”
Gerard had poured some flour in a bowl, made a well and added in a little yeast paste with salt. He walked to an internal pump and filled a water pitcher. “Well, she used to confide in Sophie. Sophie Murphy.”
“The maid who died two weeks before Miss Nightingale.”
“Yes. Sophie let it slip. Not much that girl could keep secret. But anyhow, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
He looked suddenly dispirited as he kneaded the dough to prepare a bread loaf.
Maurice reflected upon the cook’s words. “You haven’t answered my first question. Who do you think created havoc in your kitchen, Mr. O’Malley?”
Gerard’s ears blushed red. He shook his head as he pounded a fist into the dough which he then flipped over and gave another spray of flour.
“I ain’t saying it, Mr. Leroux. Don’t want to get myself dismissed. Who else is going to hire an old man like me?”
“Well you seem a little troubled by it all. Maybe it might help you to bring someone into your confidence.”
“You’re a smart man, sir. And you’re right, it’s been bothering me. Do you really want to know what I think? I think it’s Mrs. Cleary. I think she’s doing it herself. She’s got so much anger bottled up within her that it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Gerard’s pounding grew harsh, his fingers clawed at the dough before slamming it loudly on the bench. “This is not the first time,” he muttered under his breath. “If it happens again, I’ll have her send out for new crockery and get me another set of copper pans. Haunting! What bullshit. The woman is a tyrant. And a mad one at that!”
As he uttered those words, the French doors were pushed open and the eldest maid strode into the kitchen. Gerard hushed instantly. He hurried to the sink to put out the cigar he’d half-smoked.
“I can smell tobacco,” she said.
“It’s nothing, Shannon. Inspector Leroux, here, wanted to have a talk and...”
“Mr. O’Malley’s right. It was my idea,” said Maurice.
Shannon crossed the room with an air of efficiency. Without a word, she moved past Maurice and reached out to open the windows.
Maurice left soon after. He was lost in thought. Returning to the landing, he resumed his tour of the house, entering a gallery of rooms. Some of these were not locked but when they were, he spent considerable time ferreting through the keys Mrs. Cleary had given him to determine which of them fitted in the lock.
Having reached a corridor, he heard a dog bark behind him. A voice, young, almost infantile, called out after it.
“Willy! Come back here, you. Don’t pester Mr. Leroux.”
Maurice turned around and saw a young maid hurry off with a tiny Bolognese under one arm. She held a duster in her other hand.
Save for the housemaids’ routine cleaning, it seemed these rooms had been neglected and uninhabited for a long time, possibly longer than a year. There was an absence of furniture which made settling in or sitting down almost impossible, but Aaron
Nightingale more than made up for it with artefacts. Portraits left not an empty space upon the walls.
Maurice neared a room whose door had been left unlocked. Noticing a curious odour, he peered inside. He inhaled the scent of wood, and…something else. He could not describe it.
The treasures in that room were overwhelming: Abyssinian wooden stools covered with hides; long deadly arrows and feathered bows from presumed wanderings in South Africa; carved shields; and leaning against the golden wallpaper, were noble African faces carved into long ivory tusks.
Elsewhere he saw embroidered leather poufs and fancy cushions from the Sahel lands and from Egypt, a low damascene table for playing Arab checkers, an oriental lamp with filigree details, then scarabs upon scarabs in blue, turquoise and gold, all heaped into a dusty Moroccan leather box.
Aaron Nightingale had possessed untold riches but he seemed to have never touched any of it. Everything lay frozen, exactly as it would appear in a display window or souk. Rich leather scents filled Maurice’s nostrils; and once more, a curious odour, but he could not make it out. It was a malignant smell, as though something rotted inside the room.
Maurice was about to leave, when his eyes caught the largest of the African masks, set against other gilded objects. For a second it seemed to him that the mask had come alive, that its features had shifted like a gleaming mass. Its crown of hair had seemed to unfurl. Maurice squinted. He stared again at the mask but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Colours and shapes… Mrs. Cleary was right. Dismissing what he had seen, he left the room.
His steps echoed in the long corridor. He passed further rooms and yet more portraits hanging upon the walls. At last, he came into large billiard room with heavy red carpet. An imposing brass chandelier hung directly above the wooden felt-covered table. Everything looked new, untouched. Had Aaron ever played billiards at all?
On the face of it, one could imagine Alexandra Hall and its contents to be nothing more than a projection of Aaron’s ego and his vain pursuits. The entire house could be considered a cabinet of curiosities. There was an unease as one stepped inside its rooms. The luxury and decadence unsettled. It spoke of the soul of a man with an insatiable lust for possessions.