by Alex P. Berg
Shay regarded me carefully. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”
“Not really. Sydney seems too careful, too logical. Perhaps she might poison her father in an attempted power grab, but Clarice was murdered violently. Bashed in the back of the skull with a statuette, if we’re right. That’s a passionate act, a spur of the moment decision.”
“Okay. Fine. So if not her, again I ask you, who?”
My pacing brought me to the painting of young Marcus Vanderfeller with his parents, the stern, walrus-bearded man and his soft-featured wife.
“What if it was Marcus this whole time?” I said, turning back to Steele. “He was the one most responsible for Clarice. Closest to her, by all accounts. She might not have been an invalid, but caring for someone in her condition must’ve been draining. Caretakers in situations such as his often come to view themselves as victims of a cosmic injustice. What if he tired of caring for her? Or what if history repeated itself? What if he has another mistress and Clarice found out? And let’s not forget that while the younger Vanderfellers would’ve eventually reaped the financial benefits of Clarice’s death, Marcus did so immediately. With Clarice gone, the estate is his.”
Steele tilted her head. “The attack did occur in his office. He raged at Bertrand just now, blaming him for his wife’s death, but I’ve seen equally memorable acting jobs from other killers. If, perhaps, Clarice had been spying on him from the confines of the secret passageway, if she’d overheard or seen something amid his personal effects that enraged her, she might’ve come out. Confronted him. He might’ve fought back. That would explain the manner of her death, the lack of premeditation seemingly evident in the death blow.”
“But if so, that leaves us back at the same bramble patch we find ourselves now, supposing Angela or Bertrand committed the murder. What would Clarice have overheard or seen that could’ve caused her to confront her husband?”
“Marcus lied to us about Bertrand. Perhaps he lied to Clarice about him as well.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said, turning back to the portrait. “But she knew about Bertrand. Had known for years. What else about him could he have hidden from her that would cause her to lash out in anger, and consequently have him do the same?”
I stared at the portrait. The resemblance between Bertrand and the young Marcus was uncanny. Without ever having seen a portrait of his mother, Sophie, I was still certain the young man had inherited all his physical traits from his dad. Comparatively, Marcus’s harsh-featured father and smooth-cheeked, somewhat familiar looking mother might as well have been distant relatives of Marcus. Then again, I’d heard features sometimes skipped generations.
My eyes drilled into the picture of Marcus’s mother. Features sometimes skipped generations.
“Holy crap…”
“Come again?” said Shay.
I spun to face her. “I know what Clarice Vanderfeller might’ve discovered. And there’s someone else who might’ve had a motive to murder her. I’ve just realized who.”
41
After showing her to the hatch leading out of the attic, Steele, whose sense of direction was far better than my own, led me down multiple flights of stairs and to the section of the basement where the servants’ quarters resided.
She stopped in front of an unmarked door. “I think this is the one, but I could be wrong. When I found her earlier today, she was upstairs cleaning.”
With the day having come to an end, I figured the staff had all retreated to their quarters, especially now that word of my return must’ve made the rounds. “Only one way to find out.”
I knocked on the hardwood. A lengthy silence followed, eventually broken by footsteps and the creak of the door.
A face both familiar and unfamiliar greeted me in the opening, unfamiliar in that I’d never met the woman who answered but familiar in that I’d seen parts of her before. Her long glossy black hair and amber eyes were identical to those of her daughter, although her facial features were sharper and more angular than Iolite’s.
“Excuse me. Opal Streamshine?”
“Yes?” She opened the door fully and gave Shay a nod. “Detective Steele. You must be Detective Daggers.”
I noticed movement through the crack between the door and its hinges, and a more familiar face crossed into view. “Iolite. You’re here as well. Good. We were going to search for you momentarily.”
Opal’s brows drew together. “Is everything alright, officers? We’d heard about the search that had begun for you, Detective Daggers, and after everything that’s happened over the past few days? We were all anxious, to say the least.”
“Your concern is appreciated, Mrs. Streamshine,” I said. “But as you can see, I’m fine. A situation arose this morning from which I couldn’t quite extract myself. But never mind that. I was hoping the two of you could come with me. I wanted to get your opinion on a matter upstairs.”
Opal glanced at Iolite, and her daughter returned the look. “Is something amiss?”
I got the impression they hadn’t heard about the scuffle between Marcus and Bertrand. That was probably for the best. Better to catch them unawares.
“Not particularly, no. But I thought I might garner your professional opinion on something.”
Again Opal and Iolite shared concerned glances, but they nodded and agreed to come. Steele asked me where to, but I surprised her by saying I’d lead. I’d made the trip enough times to start to grasp the lay of the land.
Up the basement stairs we went, then to the second floor, where I wove through a maze of corridors before eventually stopping at Marcus’s study. I opened the doors and waved for Opal and Iolite to go through, which they did with hesitation. Their uncertainty only grew as they took in the surroundings.
“Mr. Vanderfeller!” cried Opal. “Are you well?”
Marcus sank deep in his desk chair, his jaw tight and his eyes closed. Lothorien stood as his side, pressing a cool compress against the man’s forehead. Quinto stood to the side, out of the way but ready for action.
Marcus’s eyes opened at the sound of his housekeeper’s voice. He smiled faintly. “Opal. I’m fine, don’t worry. I merely had another episode with my ulcer. Thanks to Lothorien’s assistance, I have it under control.”
Lothorien nodded and patted his master on the shoulder. “Anything for you, sir. Please, try not to move.”
Iolite’s face also expressed a mixture of confusion and concern, but not with Mr. Vanderfeller. Her eyes drifted over the far side of the room where the bookshelf remained separated from the wall, the dark gap of the secret passageway looming ominously behind it.
“What is this?” asked Iolite. “What happened here?”
A few books lay discarded on the floor, knocked there during the movement of the bookshelf or Marcus and Bertrand’s fight. I bent over and picked them up.
“Are you talking about these? Relics of a minor tussle. But if you were referring to the bookshelf, well… Turns out it can move.”
Iolite kept her gaze on the gap in the wall. Was she overwhelmed by the presence of the passageway, or afraid to meet my eyes?
“Mrs. and Miss Streamshine,” I said. “Are you aware why I brought you here?”
Opal tore her eyes away from Marcus, concern etched across her face. She gestured to the bookshelf. “I assume it has to do with Mr. Vanderfeller, and with this.”
I returned the books that had fallen to their home. I traded them for a different volume.
“Perhaps you hadn’t heard, but earlier this afternoon, upon closer inspection of this chamber, Detective Steele found evidence of foul play. Blood splatters, specifically. Only a couple, and confined to books on this shelf, but there nonetheless. You can see one on the spine of this text.”
I held it out for everyone to see. They saw, but didn’t comment.
“That alone isn’t proof of a misdeed,” I continued. “For all I know, Mr. Vanderfeller suffered a shaving accident a few days
ago. But if you look into the passageway unearthed by that displaced bookshelf, you’ll find a larger quantity of dried blood on the floor. Also, if you take a look at the bronze statuette on the desk, you’ll notice the globe resting upon the titan’s shoulders is dented.”
Iolite glanced at the statue, then the gap in the wall. Opal looked to Marcus, a flutter entering her voice.
“Are you…saying Mrs. Vanderfeller was murdered here?”
I nodded. “Bludgeoned with that statuette, actually. Then dragged off through the secret passageway behind that bookshelf, after which her body was disposed of.”
A look of horror crossed Opal’s face. Again, she looked to Marcus.
“Why are you telling us this? Why us?” Iolite had finally found the strength to look at me. Surprisingly, her voice didn’t waver.
“Miss Streamshine. You and your mother are this estate’s housekeepers. You clean for a living.”
Opal’s head snapped back. “You can’t be suggesting we killed Mrs. Vanderfeller?”
“No one would question your presence here should they find you with the appropriate equipment,” I said. “And though parts of the Aldermont require attention, I’ve seen your work. The two of you are thorough.”
Opal sputtered. “That’s ludicrous! We’ve been loyal to this family for decades. Why would we do such a thing?”
Why, indeed. I gave Shay a nod. “Steele. Could you bring Bertrand over? I’d like to have him included in this conversation.”
Iolite’s face darkened at the mention of the young man, which I hadn’t expected. Maybe I hadn’t figured everything out just yet, but I would in short order. The noose was tightening.
42
It only took a moment for Steele to return to the office with Bertrand and Rodgers in tow. The young man looked as if he were being transported to the gallows, but his face brightened at the sight of the youngest of the two housekeepers.
“Um…hi, Iolite,” he said, coming to a rest near her right shoulder.
She looked away and responded in a much cooler tone. “Hello, Bertrand.”
And so the plot thickened…
I gave Bertrand a nod, no longer entirely sure what the wheels I’d set in motion were dragging behind them. “Bertrand, could you share with everyone here the theory you related to me earlier?”
“Theory?”
“About the fire that struck the servants’ home seven years ago. The one in which your mother perished.”
Marcus coughed and grimaced again, shooting daggers at Bertrand. “Don’t you dare say anything, Bertrand. That’s a lie. She was a good woman.”
The young man looked to me for guidance. I nodded.
“I, uh…don’t know if it’s true, but I have reason to believe that…” Bertrand took a deep breath and sighed. “That…Clarice Vanderfeller set the fire that burned down the servants’ quarters seven years ago. That she trapped my mother in that burning building. That she killed my mother.”
Marcus grimaced again, but whatever fight he’d briefly flashed had fled. Either he suspected the same and didn’t wish to admit it, or he’d spent all his energy in his physical attack on Bertrand.
Meanwhile, Opal suddenly couldn’t stand still. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, rubbing her hands together as her eyes darted from Marcus to Iolite to Bertrand.
“Opal,” I said. “Care to offer your thoughts on the matter?”
She squeaked. “What? What do you mean? The fire was a tragedy, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“Perhaps you didn’t know for certain, but surely you suspected. You went to great lengths to make sure no one knew. But your greatest ally was simple luck. Genetics.”
Bertrand looked confused, but Iolite surprisingly didn’t.
Opal shook her head fiercely. “No.”
“Really?” I said. “If Bertrand is right, and I believe he is, Clarice went into a rage when she found out he was her husband’s bastard. It drove her to murder his mother, Sophie. So why would she treat you any differently? Why would Clarice banish Bertrand to the subbasement yet let Iolite roam free, working the manor like any of the other staff?”
Bertrand blinked, his eyebrows intertwined and his mouth half open. “Wait…what are you talking about? Why would Mrs. Vanderfeller hold a grudge against Opal and Iolite? Just because Iolite’s father died in that same fire, trying to save my mother?”
“Aaron, Opal’s husband died in that fire,” I said. “But Iolite’s father didn’t. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”
Opal looked away, her eyes brimming with tears. Marcus eyed Opal with a heartbroken helplessness, all while Lothorien looked on in shock.
Bertrand might as well have been punched. “Iolite is my…sister?”
Iolite had turned a decided shade of green and looked as if she might be sick. She refused to meet Bertrand’s gaze.
That didn’t stop the young man. “Iolite, how could you? You didn’t know, did you? You couldn’t have?”
And there it was. Confirmation of what I hadn’t expected coming into the grand confrontation but had suspected upon seeing Iolite and Bertrand’s reactions to one another. Not that I blamed either of them. For all his personality quirks, Bertrand was exceptionally handsome, and how many options did a young woman employed at the isolated Aldermont have, exactly?
A pin could’ve dropped and we all would’ve heard it, which was good because Iolite’s answer was barely above the human auditory threshold. “Not at first, no. I only recently found out.”
“So that’s why you’ve been avoiding me these past few days,” he said. “Ever since…Mrs. Vanderfeller’s death.”
I’m not sure if Bertrand meant to reveal that last part, but out it came regardless.
“Iolite,” I said. “Care to tell us about Bertrand?”
The young woman bored a hole through the floor with her gaze, a disgusted look plastered across her face.
I tried again. “Bertrand?”
The basement-dweller blinked, clearly unable to make his mind work properly. “We, ah…met a number of months ago. Well, not precisely. We’d met long before, of course. As kids, at first. But we fell out of touch. It was my fault, mostly. I fell out of touch with everyone. Over time, my only source of interaction with those in the house was when people brought me meals. Sometimes it would be Lothorien. Sometimes Pierre. And sometimes…Iolite.”
Bertrand gazed at the young woman longingly, despite his newfound knowledge. “Those sparse interactions, even though they only occurred every few weeks? They were the highlights of my existence. It took me months to muster the courage to talk to her when she came, but when I finally did? She was kind, warm, and funny. We talked, a little at first, then more and more as time went on. I showed her the passage system in the walls, so that we could sneak about and meet each other without fear of anyone else knowing, and without my own fear of coming face to face with others. And we… We…”
The longing gaze lingered, and Bertrand didn’t have to elaborate. Two youngsters of their age, in their circumstances? We could all guess exactly what they’d done together.
“How did you discover the truth, Iolite?” I asked. “About your father?”
I thought she might not answer, but after an extended silence, she looked up. “I’d been cleaning a portion of the third floor. The southern wing. We rotate which areas of the manor we tidy, skipping those least used portions and cleaning them only infrequently. As I chanced across a staircase to the attic, it occurred to me I’d never been up there. Not that an attic needs much cleaning, but I thought we should at least go up and dust on occasion.”
I knew the walkway up there had seemed too clean when I’d first arrived. I nodded for her to go on.
“This was recently. A week ago, perhaps. Bertrand and I had…grown close. We’d shared with each other some of our most closely held secrets. He’d told me about Mr. Vanderfeller, his father, which I’d already suspected, but bey
ond that he’d told me about why he’d been banished to the sub-basement. About Mrs. Vanderfeller, and about the fire. It weighed on me, that knowledge, that Bertrand’s mother might’ve been murdered, and by the lady of the house no less. That day, while I was in the attic, I came across a painting.”
“Of Marcus as a young man, with his parents,” I said.
Iolite lifted a brow. “You’ve seen it?”
“I didn’t notice the resemblance at first, but eventually it dawned on me.”
“I didn’t want to believe it at first. But…I remember my father. He was a kind man, full of love and passion, but I don’t look anything like him.”
Iolite looked to her mother, who was now crying outright.
“I couldn’t ask my mother,” she continued. “I simply couldn’t. And I couldn’t ask…Mr. Vanderfeller. But I thought perhaps there was a record. Some note made in passing that could prove or disprove it. So I snuck into this room, late at night a few days ago. I broke into the desk and searched through the files. At first, I didn’t find anything, but then in the back of a drawer, I found it. An old journal.”
Marcus looked confused but too tired to get out of his chair and confront his daughter.
“And what did you find in it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Iolite. “As I opened it, Mrs. Vanderfeller burst through the wall, through that passage. She leveled a finger at me, her arm trembling. She couldn’t even form words at first, but her voice slowly rose. Contemptible, baseborn, harlot, liar, she said. And that’s when I realized it. As I’d been travelling the hidden hallways, she’d been spying on me in turn, and she’d finally come to the same realization I had.
“She came at me, screaming and slapping at me. I fell back, using my arm to protect myself from her blows, thinking she’d kill me like she did Sophie and my father, the man I’d thought to be by father, but she suddenly pulled back. She pointed her arm at me again and laughed. She said she knew what I was thinking, but that I deserved a fate worse than Bertrand. He got to stay. I wouldn’t. She’d throw me on the street. See me turned into a harlot like my mother, but a real one, laid bare to the world. And…that’s when I snapped.”