by Alex P. Berg
“It’s an old saying,” said Knox. “Basically it means wealth gained in one generation is generally lost by the third. I’m not familiar with the details, but I know that after Frederick Vanderfeller’s death, his children engaged in a drawn out legal battle over their respective inheritances. Vanderfeller’s companies were split up as a result of the lawsuit and never regained their initial levels of success—which isn’t to say his descendants are paupers, but I believe the idiom still applies.”
Captain Knox leaned forward and lifted a mug from her desk. No steam rose from its surface, indicating she’d poured herself the beverage during her overnight affair with Rodgers, Quinto, and the disappearing wife-beater. I assumed it was coffee, but Knox was a rare breed in that respect, alternating between bean- and leaf-derived brews with ambivalence. Most cops stuck to one or the other.
She brought the mug to her lips and took a sip.
“Forgive me for asking,” said Shay, “but what does any of this have to do with a missing person?”
“I was getting to that,” said Knox as she returned the mug to her desk. “As far as I understand it, the protracted legal battle created quite a bit of animosity among Vanderfeller’s offspring. Most of them left town in the aftermath, leaving only Frederick’s eldest son, Edward, in New Welwic. He in turn passed away fifteen years ago, leaving his share of the estate to his only daughter, Clarice. Then about seven years ago, the Vanderfeller family saga took an unexpected twist when Clarice’s youngest daughter, Nell, went missing at the tender age of seven. The case attainted a high profile. You might remember hearing about it if you read the papers at the time. Sadly, she was never found.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t quite get the gears in my brain to catch. “I’m sorry, Captain…are you telling us you want us to crack open a seven year old cold case about a missing wealthy elite? Why?”
“No,” said Captain Knox pointedly. “I’m telling you about Nell’s disappearance because that’s the piece of information that makes me suspicious of foul play. Her mother, Clarice Vanderfeller, was reported missing two days ago.”
Finally the pieces began to coalesce. I nodded. “So, the golden great-grandchild of a wealthy New Welwic business magnate goes missing under mysterious circumstances, only for said great-grandchild’s mother to also go missing years later. It’s…odd, if nothing else.”
“So you understand my concern,” said Knox. “From the information I’ve received, which is precious little, there’s nothing obvious to tie the cases together, and yet…call me suspicious. To take nothing away from our missing persons unit, you two are the best investigators we have in the precinct, and given that we don’t have a murder presenting itself this morning, I’d rather the two of you take a deeper look into it.”
If Captain Armstrong had ever paid me such a compliment, my jaw might’ve broken through the floor and kept on travelling right down to the center of the earth and out the other side, but coming from Captain Knox, I took it in stride. She ran a strict meritocracy. Based on Steele’s and my record both before and since her arrival, she’d made no bones about our superior rate of success. Upon taking over, she’d immediately elevated Steele to the rank of senior detective, same as me, and she’d even mentioned going to bat for both of us to secure us raises. Given her own track record, I actually believed she would. I hadn’t mentioned said remark to Rodgers or Quinto for fear of reprisal, but given the pair of them worked with us on cases more often than not, I had to imagine Knox wouldn’t leave them languishing far behind, either.
“Who reported Clarice missing?” asked Steele.
“Her husband, Marcus Vanderfeller,” said Knox. “And yes, apparently he took her name, unconventional as that might be, but when the name in question is Vanderfeller, perhaps that makes a difference. He delivered his report two days ago, but it only reached my desk yesterday. From the write-up I received, he’s extremely distraught over his wife’s disappearance, and he’s offered to open his home and his staff to help us find her.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at Steele. “It’s slightly out of our wheelhouse, but I imagine all the same investigative techniques apply. We’ll be happy to look into it. See what we can uncover.”
“Good,” said Captain Knox. “I have the Vanderfeller’s address right here in the case file, but honestly, I’m not sure you’ll need it. It’s in Brentford. Rumor has it it’s easy to recognize.”
By which she undoubtedly meant the estate was the size of a small moon. I mentally prepared myself to feel uncouth, underdressed, and roughly as insignificant as an ant.
4
As we arrived at the Vanderfeller estate—‘The Aldermont,’ according to the lettering above the twelve foot tall, wrought iron gate out front—I began to suspect I’d actually undersold the place. My first clue was that the walk from the gate to the home took almost more time than our rickshaw ride from the precinct to the estate had, with the driveway meandering back and forth between impossibly tall, centuries old trees the builders had clearly been too awed by to cut down. Interspersed among the giants were a number of smaller specimens, six to ten feet in height, growing in the cracks of the foliage above and surrounded by thick entanglements of underbrush. Most surprising however were the sounds that radiated from the forest, those of buzzing insects and birdsong and small critters rustling through the leaves as they fled our presence. Other than in the city’s famed Rucker Park, I couldn’t remember seeing signs of wildlife much of anywhere in New Welwic, not counting the traditional assortment of garbage-fattened rats, alley cats, and diseased pigeons. I even spotted what I thought was a deer as we rounded a bend. Could the Vanderfeller’s estate possibly be large enough to sustain such a creature?
I soon received my answer. The trees parted, and beyond them stretched a wide promenade, three hundred feet in length at least. At the end of the mall loomed an enormous structure, easily the largest private residence I’d ever seen. Three stories tall based on the windows—four if one counted those in the attic—with a steeply pitched grey slate roof trimmed with copper gutters and spouts and elaborate ornaments topping each peak and turret and the sill of each window. As long as the promenade was, the house itself must’ve been at least half as wide. Even if the structure was narrower than it appeared from the front, it must’ve housed over a hundred rooms, maybe double that, and that was accounting for all the excesses it undoubtedly contained, such as ballrooms and conservatories and dining rooms that could seat a hundred.
I felt overwhelmed looking at it, and yet I couldn’t help but feel the palatial home hadn’t once shone with a much greater radiance. The bricks that formed its façade were a dull brownish orange, and even at a great distance I could tell they’d been darkened by years of dust and soot and weathered by the sun and rain. The copper trim at the roof’s edges didn’t gleam in the early morning sun, marred by dull patches and spots of green oxide. Even the promenade itself underwhelmed. Despite it being early spring, the grass that covered the expanse reached to mid calf, scruffy and wild and interspersed with patches of brown. Gardens peeked out to the left and right of the home, half-hidden behind walls of trees. From where I stood I couldn’t tell if they were manicured or overgrown, but I suspected the latter.
Shay whistled, her eyes wide.
“You’ve got to stop doing that.”
“What?” she said. “Whistling?”
“Yes. Every time you engage in that pastime it makes me more aware of my own inability to do so.”
“Have you ever tried?” asked Steele.
“No,” I said. “I assumed I wouldn’t be able to based on the unique shape of my lips and upper palate.”
Shay snorted. “Come on. Let’s give it a shot. Pucker your lips. Curl your tongue slightly upward. Then blow softly. Try to keep a gap between your lips and teeth.”
“Seriously. This isn’t going to work. Some people are physically incapable of whistling. I read that somewhere reputable.”
Shay lifted an eyebrow.
“Fine. Better stand back, out of the spray zone.”
I did exactly as Shay instructed. I puckered, curled, and blew. Spittle flew, and I emitted a sound like a pixie who’d eaten one too many bean burritos. “See?”
Shay lowered the eyebrow. “Eh. We’ll work on it.”
“We really don’t have to,” I said, walking toward the palatial home. “Whistling is one of those things I’ve long since accepted I’ll never be able to do, like playing guitar or breathing fire.”
“You want to be a musician?”
“I didn’t say I do, merely that I did. I was sixteen once. And I didn’t have any interest in the instrument itself. More its ability to attract members of the opposite sex.”
Shay gave a small shrug, mostly with her eyes. “Well, at least your inability to whistle doesn’t preclude a general ability with your tongue.”
I blinked. “Whoa, there, vamp. We’re on the job. Keep the salacious talk to a minimum.”
“I’m saying you’re a good kisser. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
We walked to the building, which took several minutes given the length of the promenade, and approached the front doors. They stood inside a pair of castle gates, two gargantuan wrought iron barriers that looked as if they could survive an army’s best blow with a battering ram. Luckily those gates stood open, revealing the much more moderately sized ten foot tall oaken doors behind them. I hefted the weighty knocker that hung from the face of one and slammed it down a few times.
I was on the verge of pulling back the knocker once more when the door finally creaked and opened. In its yawning maw stood a tall elf, smooth of cheek but with a touch of grey in his otherwise dark, smooth-swept, medium length hair. He wore a black six button jacket and vest over a crisp white shirt, all paired with a similarly monochrome black bowtie and slacks. Pristine white gloves covered his hands, one of which grasped the door’s heavy handle and the other which he held closed, close to his heart.
“Ah,” he said, a look of relief washing over his face. “You must be the detectives. Daggers and Steele, is it?”
“That’s correct,” said Shay. “You were expecting us?”
“A runner arrived thirty minutes ago with the news,” said the elf. “We welcome your assistance. Please, come in.”
The elf swept his hand through the air, and we followed it inside. Within, the foyer was much as I’d expected it would be, just your average sprawling entry hall with granite columns even Quinto couldn’t stretch his arms around, reaching all the way to the ceiling three stories above, with matching staircases of gleaming hardwood curving around the sides of the room and toward the upper levels.
I tried not to gape. “You have us at a disadvantage, Mr….”
“Willowswitch,” he said. “Lothorien Willowswitch. I’m the Vanderfeller’s butler. I’m assuming you’ve been…briefed on the situation?”
“Only in the most superficial of ways,” said Shay. “We understand the lady of the house, Mrs. Clarice Vanderfeller, has gone missing.”
Lothorien nodded, his eye twitching. “It’s true, I’m afraid. Several days ago. All of us—her family, the staff, and of course her husband, Mr. Vanderfeller—are worried sick. It’s so…unexpected. Not to mention troubling.”
Despite the sunlight streaming through the enormous windows set in the mansion’s façade, the butler’s face appeared pale, his skin almost clammy. Having never met the man, I couldn’t tell if such a state was abnormal or his status quo, but I guessed the former. Given the touch of grey in his hair and the rate at which elves aged, I suspected he’d been at his position for some time. Surely he’d grown to care for his employers over the years. The loss of the family’s matron couldn’t be easy.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” I said, “Detective Steele and I are here to try and uncover what might’ve happened to her. As a matter of course, we’ll need to explore the premises, talk to people, interview them, see what sort of information they can provide, you included. I’m assuming we have your permission to do all that?”
“I’m certain you will,” said Lothorien, “but I’m not in a position to grant such a thing. Mr. Vanderfeller must do so. He expressly asked to meet with you the moment you arrived. Please, come with me.”
Lothorien started off down a side hall, leaving us no choice but to follow him as instructed. I tried to pay attention to my surroundings as we walked, certain that if I didn’t I’d risk becoming lost in the Aldermont’s maze of bedrooms and sitting rooms and washrooms, but it was to no avail. The luxurious furnishings blended into a hodgepodge of drapes and wainscoting and vases set upon pedestals. Hopefully Steele would have better luck with the landmarks than I would.
Luckily, we didn’t go far. Lothorien led us into a parlor of sorts, furnished with a quartet of couches upholstered in tan leather as well as a number of cabinets and mirrors and clocks. An enormous painting took up one wall of the room, displaying a family of six arranged on an expanse of grass on a bright, spring day. The husband and wife stood front and center, the woman with pale blonde curls spilling from underneath a sun hat onto her dress, a puffy, voluminous affair featuring inordinate amounts of chiffon and lace. The clean-shaven gentleman who stood next to her was smartly dressed in a top hat and coat, probably sweating profusely under his garb, but the artist had failed to capture that particular bit of realism in the portrait. The children seated before the couple included a boy, by his looks the eldest, and three sisters, ranging in age from six or seven to the middle teens, if I had to guess.
I gestured toward the painting. “The Vanderfellers, I assume?”
Lothorien nodded. “The current masters of the house, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Vanderfeller, portrayed in the center of course. Young Master Simon, there on the right. Then moving to the left are Misses Sydney, Angela, and…”
Lothorien’s voice hitched as his eyes drew to the last young girl on the left, the youngest.
I surprised myself by remembering what Captain Knox had mentioned to us about the family. “That would be Nell, then?”
Lothorien nodded, a hint of resignation in his voice. “Yes, Detective. This painting was commissioned eight years ago now, almost a year to the day before…well, I’m sure you’re aware of the family’s history.”
“Not nearly as well as I’d like to be.”
The butler didn’t take the bait. “And I’m certain Mr. Vanderfeller can enlighten you in that regard, as soon as he’s been made aware of your arrival. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
He bowed and exited stage left, leaving Shay and I to our own devices.
5
I turned back to the painting as the butler’s footsteps faded, letting my eyes drift to the depiction of young Nell Vanderfeller on the far left. Although Lothorien had mentioned the painting preceded Nell’s disappearance by a year, I could see how the newspapers might’ve been taken by her story. With a head full of golden blonde curls, dimples that accentuated her smile, and a face that could warm even the sternest of father’s hearts, her disappearance would’ve made the front pages even if she hadn’t been the youngest descendant of the famed Vanderfeller line. Even now, seven years after the fact and having never met the young woman, my heart broke for her, mostly because I knew all too well what fate befell girls like her who went missing.
Perhaps my empathy arose from the way in which the artist had portrayed her: with a beaming smile, a warm glow, and full of life. Whether or not the real Nell of eight years ago glowed with such radiance was a question I couldn’t answer, but her siblings certainly hadn’t been painted in such a fashion. Her brother, Simon, who seemed about seventeen, wore a self-satisfied smirk that made him come across as a pompous jerk—which as the eldest child of an absurdly wealthy family, there was a good chance he was. Though her oldest sister, Sydney, possessed the same head of golden curls she did, her face was broader, plainer, and more like he
r father’s. It also lacked some indefinite spirit Nell’s displayed. Then there was the last of the four siblings—what had Lothorien said her name was? Angela? She seemed sad in the painting, with downturned lips and oddly soulful eyes. Long, arrow-straight hair even paler in color than her mother’s hung down around her face, perturbed by not even the slightest hint of a breeze. In New Welwic? In spring? The painter must’ve invoked an artistic license in that regard. I wondered how many other features were real or imagined on the part of the artist…
“Hoping to find a clue to Nell’s disappearance in an eight-year-old painting?”
Steele had crept up beside me. She eyed the painting as well, but she split her gaze between it and me.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Merely trying to learn what I can at every step. Know thy enemy and all that.”
“Enemy?”
“Oh, come on. You’re not that naïve. A young girl, Nell, goes missing, then seven years later her mother does. Maybe both of them ran away and for completely unrelated reasons, but I highly doubt that. For one thing, a girl running away that young is extremely rare. I forget the statistics, but most runaways happen after the age of thirteen, something like four out of every five, and the vast majority of them, regardless of age, come from broken homes. Poor ones, usually. For Nell to voluntarily disappear at her age from this particular family is extremely unlikely, and then you add Clarice’s disappearance? It adds up to foul play, just as the captain suspected. Now one missing individual could be chalked up to a malicious outsider, a stalker, a rival of some kind. But two? Seven years apart?” I shook my head. “The enemy comes from within.”
Shay nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. But what’s to say the two disappearances are related?”
“I already made my thoughts on your naïveté known. Don’t make me contradict myself.”
Shay shrugged. “Consider all the options. You taught me that.”
“Oh, I’m considering them. But the only one that makes sense is the one I’ve already mentioned. That the cases are related—assuming Mrs. Vanderfeller is truly missing. If it turns out she suffers from early onset dementia, wandered off, and got lost, all bets are off.”