Most of the basement had been converted to a wide home office-cum-library, a cluttered space with the musty smell of old paper but one with a cozy charm. Martin ran his gaze along the shelves, noting copious numbers of books on genealogy and history.
Chuck indicated a pile of old, black leather-bound books on a table which had been swept clear of papers. Gold embossed lettering on the spines was cracked and peeling under the onslaught of time; the leather was also cracked and blotched in places.
"I think these are what you're here to see, folks," he said. "Seriously, I hope Carla isn't in any trouble over my having these? She's a good girl; I don't want to see her fired for her kind thought."
"She won't be, I can assure you of that, Mr. Swinburn," Claudia said firmly, going over to rest her hand on the books.
"The name's Chuck, and I'm glad to hear what you say." He looked upon the pile of old registers with great benevolence. "These are a potential goldmine for my society. Which particular books are you folks interested in?"
Claudia looked at Martin, who thought briefly. "The guest register for February, 1863, then the guest and staff registers for April and May, 1896," he said.
"Sure thing." Chuck examined the spines. "Here we go."
He hefted the two thick books out of the row and placed them on the desk.
"The 1863 one first?" Claudia asked. Martin nodded.
"Aside from names, may I ask what exactly are you looking for, folks?" Chuck asked, peering at them curiously as he placed the tome on a raised book rest for them to study in comfort.
"Anything which corresponds to certain events in the past," Martin explained, beginning to leaf slowly through the book. He felt the familiar mild despair and mild euphoria which mingles in the bosom of any historian faced with ancient crabbed writing in a previously untapped source. "We're looking for the family name of Cloverdale."
"Go right ahead, I'll fetch the coffee. Unless you'd like tea?" he asked Martin.
"Coffee's fine. I'm acquiring a taste for it."
Whilst Chuck was upstairs, Martin and Claudia began their search. Claudia stood behind Martin to watch as he turned the pages, pressing close, her hand on his shoulder. Her nearness caused him more than a moderate amount of distraction.
"Here!" Some minutes later he tapped an entry, the ink, once black, now nut-brown with age. "Captain J. and Mrs. C. Cloverdale booked in at the Chestnut Mansion Hotel on 5th February, 1863." His finger slid further down the page, then overleaf to the next. At the top he tapped again. "And here's another J. Cloverdale, who booked in on the 8th."
"The day of the fire." Claudia breathed deeply, and let the breath out in a long sigh. "Damn! I think we're onto something here."
"Yeah. James must have kept out of sight of his brother during that day. I would assume because he wanted to cause that scene in the ballroom. Being seen earlier would spoil his grandstanding."
She snorted. "What a jerk!" Reaching out a hand, she ran her finger lightly over the thick paper. "I'm surprised this register survived the fire."
"It's one of the first things hotels get to safety during an emergency," Martin pointed out. "Then rescuers know who's likely to be in the building."
"Oh yeah; good point." Claudia pressed her forehead. "Sorry, even those few hours’ sleep I got this morning haven't set me straight today."
He smiled up at her and stroked her hand. "It's okay, I'm nearly running on fumes myself."
"Let's get going, then," she commanded, clapping her hands softly. "Before we both collapse. Next book!"
"Okay, 1896 it is. But first, look at James' writing from the 1863 register and try to memorize the style. We've got to see if it comes up later so we can find his alias—if he's using one. I doubt he'd bother to disguise his handwriting."
* * * *
A trawl through the records for 1896 came up with a number of possible names for James Cloverdale but nothing definite. Chuck returned with the coffee and sat quietly for a while, watching them work. Martin explained what they were looking for and Chuck nodded.
"If I may make a suggestion?" he said. "This business of signatures and writing in general is one that crops up time and again in genealogy. There've been countless folks who changed their names for whatever reason, not all of them legal. I've got a little trick which could help."
So saying he pointed to a flat-bed computer scanner. "Lay the 1863 book on there, open at the page for James Cloverdale. I'll scan it, and then print off a transparency of his entry on the page. All you need to do then is lay it over all the suspect signatures until you see letters which match."
Martin grinned. "Chuck, you're a genius."
"Oh, hey! Spare my blushes."
The older man got to work. Within fifteen minutes, they had a match.
Martin laid the transparency over the signature for one James Covington, purportedly a resident of Jacksonville, NC. "See how 'James' is written the same way? And the loops of the C and the O in Covington look similar to those in Cloverdale," he said softly. "I think we've got him!"
"Clever," Chuck remarked. "Monogrammed personal items like trunks, cases and vanity things were very popular in those times. He didn't change his initials, so he wouldn't need to explain if anyone at the hotel saw him using such items bearing a different set."
"When did he check out?" Claudia asked.
Martin looked ahead for a few entries. "A week later."
"So he was no longer staying at the hotel when he was murdered."
"Murdered? Quite a little party you seemed to have stumbled into," Chuck said seriously. "So this James Cloverdale, a.k.a. James Covington, was murdered? Whereabouts?"
"Near Queens, New York City, in an alley off 6th and Arnold." Claudia shook her head. "He was the victim of a vicious assault which left him badly injured, but I'm sure he died of a heart attack immediately after as a result."
"You know something about him already, then?" Chuck asked and Martin gave Claudia a gentle nudge.
"Only hearsay so far," she said, quickly.
"We'd need to look up the details in the police files of that time," Martin pointed out. "Would you know where we can find them, Chuck?"
"City Archives," he replied promptly. "All public records go there anyway once they pass a certain age. Anyone can access them under the Freedom of Information Act."
Martin smiled and rubbed his hands. "Excellent!"
Chuck nodded. "It makes life easier for us researchers."
Claudia looked at her watch. "I don't think we'll make it this afternoon. We do have tomorrow free, so we can check then."
"Good idea; it'll give us a clear run at the task. For now, I think we've taken up enough of your time, Chuck. Thanks very much for that and the use of the books."
"You're welcome!" The older man led the way upstairs. "I love history; it's great to meet two fellow enthusiasts." He paused near the front door. "That name—Cloverdale," he said thoughtfully. "It rings a bell with me. It's British in origin, undoubtedly. Perhaps I'll look up a few sources myself."
"You may have started something here," his wife said, as she emerged from the living room to see them off. "I don't think I'll see much more of Chuck tonight…"
* * * *
As Claudia drove them back into the city Martin looked at his watch. "Still some daylight left," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could try to locate the alley where James was murdered?"
"I recall every detail," Claudia said grimly, watching the road. "Asleep or awake, I know where it is."
"Are you okay about going there?" Martin asked tentatively. "You saw him die."
"I'm okay." She gave him a forced smile and patted his hand. "I saw Cloverdale commit murder himself. It was an evil act. So was his death, but I guess you could call it poetic justice."
Chapter Nine
Thirty minutes later they arrived in the area Claudia had walked through on her nocturnal journey. Parking the car by the road, she guided Martin along the row of houses, her step confident.
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"This area was really run-down a few years back," she told him as they walked. "Then the money started to flow in from the neighboring blocks and the whole district was gentrified. Our company sold quite a few properties around here; it's why I know it so well." She stopped, and pointed to a shop-front further along the street. "That's Molloy's Bar!" Standing on the sidewalk they peered in through the window. The bar still bore the old name in shining red neon. It was busy with workers unwinding after a day in the neighborhood offices, the old booths and tables Claudia had seen long since replaced with modern furnishing.
"It certainly doesn't look like a dive now," Martin said.
"No." Claudia shook her head. "Back then, it did look rough. At least the internal layout hasn't changed. There's the place Cloverdale, or Covington sat," she said, pointing to the rear.
"His attackers were watching him from in there?"
"I think so," she said slowly, rubbing her forehead. Recollection came. "Somehow I had the feeling they were watching from across the room, although I never actually saw where they were sitting."
"So, Cloverdale came out of the bar and turned right?" Martin asked, looking up and down the sidewalk.
"Yeah, he went this way."
They walked further, towards the main street. Rain had begun to fall again and the street lights cast halos of orange over the darkening street. "The weather was better back then," Claudia observed dryly, turning up her collar. "Ah! Here it is!"
She stopped at the opening of an alley, the last before the street corner which lay some fifty yards away. Martin walked a little way down and looked around. Claudia followed reluctantly a few moments later, her memories of the night strongly revived at the sight of the alley.
It had the depressing smell of alleys all over the world, even those in more respectable neighborhoods. Urine, vomit, the smell of rotting garbage emanating from the rows of dumpsters lining the way. A mesh gate closed off one section, the ragged remnants of wind-blown paper pasted to the wire. The whole area was poorly lit. Martin closed his eyes, and she looked at him curiously.
"It feels unpleasant," he murmured after a while. "There's an air of…"
Suddenly Martin reeled backwards as if struck.
"Martin!" Claudia grabbed him. "Are you okay?"
She stared as garbage suddenly whirled into the air, plucked from the ground and dumpsters to swiftly form a small tornado. "What the hell?"
The vortex suddenly swelled in size and swept up to enfold them, and she felt a malevolence within the rush of wind. The air around them was full of flying debris and she screamed as a heavy polythene bag full of tin cans bounced off her shoulder to burst in the maddened air. A flying can slashed across Martin's left cheek, sending bright drops of blood to join the supernatural storm.
Somehow she grabbed hold of Martin's arm and dragged him back to the alley mouth, their heads bent against the howling wind. And it was literally howling, she realized; a strong male voice amidst the rushing wind raged with anger and loss.
Suddenly they were free. The wind dropped, the garbage settled to the ground as if it had never moved. Chill air and sporadic pellets of sleet surrounded them now on a normal, everyday street. A few pedestrians passed them by, unconcerned or only mildly curious at the presence of two bedraggled people emerging from an alleyway. Cars moved on the road, bearing folks home to their evening meal.
"What the hell happened in there?" Claudia whispered as she rubbed her bruised shoulder. She stared into the alley, half-expecting a renewed attack.
Martin blinked and fumbled in his pocket for a tissue. "That was James Cloverdale making his presence felt."
He dabbed his cut cheek and sounded groggy. Claudia realized then just how shaken he was. "Claudia, that was ugly! I'm sorry, I didn't expect it to be so bad."
"You expected something to happen?" she asked, drawing him further away from the alley. A few scraps of paper whirled in a stray eddy of wind and she flinched. "Were you going to try to contact him?"
"Yes. It's the scene of his death-trauma, the most likely place for his spirit to be. I hoped to reason with him, to persuade him to move on to a higher existence." He glanced at the alley. "It seems I hoped in vain."
"Is he still there?" she asked, peering into the gathering dusk.
Martin didn't answer. Instead he drew himself up to his full height, and walked with a firm tread back towards the alley. "Martin, no!" she gasped, trying to hold him back.
"Claudia, it's okay." He paused, kissed her then stroked her cheek. Gently taking her hand from his arm, he gave it a squeeze. "I know what I'm doing. He won't catch me out a second time. Please. Watch and wait."
"Okay, okay!" She backed away with her hands up. "But I do it under protest."
He flashed a smile, then turned to walk into the alley. Claudia heard him chanting something under his breath. Litter stirred, rose threateningly, began to whirl. Martin chanted louder in a language strange and fluid to her ears. The garbage hesitated, and then dropped. Shadows flickered in the alley, seeming to creep towards the upright figure of the Englishman but vanishing when she tried to focus on them. Martin came to a halt and remained still, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Soothing words, coaxing, cajoling, issued from his mouth. From time to time he paused, as if listening.
After long minutes, he turned and walked steadily over to where she waited. A look of disgust and defeat filled his face. "Not good," he said, touching the cut on his cheek with his fingertips. "Cloverdale's too strong here. He's full of hatred, refuses to let it go and move on."
"You tried to exorcise him?" Claudia asked, glancing back.
"No. I don't like exorcising a spirit." Martin frowned as he took her arm and led her away. He didn't even glance back to the alley. "It's a last resort for me. Too much like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. I find reason and explanation work far better. Sometimes, as in the alley tonight, I use a Gaelic prayer. It's a very ancient and soothing language which seems to work well in these cases. Exorcism's only for the really nasty stuff."
"Jesus!" She clasped his arm and took a deep breath. "I'd hate to see what you categorize as nasty!”
"Believe me, you don't want to!" he said tersely.
* * * *
Back at her apartment she settled Martin on the couch and tended to his wound with iodine and a Q tip. Martin sat quietly, letting her work, flinching at the sting of the iodine. "How bad is it?" he asked.
"Long but shallow, thank goodness. I have some butterfly Band-Aids that should hold it closed." She stroked her finger along his jaw. "It won't look pretty for a while but I don't think they'll start calling you Scarface back home!"
He took her hand and kissed it, then held it as he gazed into her eyes. "Thanks," he murmured.
She smiled. "Just thanks in general, or for something in particular?"
"Oh, a little of both!"
"You're welcome." Leaning forward she kissed him, then pushed him gently aside. Snaking her arm around his waist she sat and leaned close. Martin pressed his face into her hair, comforting and drawing comfort. "I was scared out of my wits back there." She sighed as she stroked his hand. "Nothing I've ever encountered comes close to that."
Martin grunted in non-committal fashion and she leaned back to look at him closely. "You've seen worse."
"Yes—and dealt with it. There are some terrifying things out there, love." He settled back. "That hoary old saying 'things man was not meant to meddle in' is true. Yet people still meddle."
"And you're the one-man firefighter preventing the blaze from spreading?"
"Oh, I'm not alone. There are many others who do some good."
"What about the churches? They're the ones who usually get involved in this kind of thing."
"Some are good, others not so good." Martin stared up at the ceiling and Claudia cuddled closer. "A few clergymen back home realize that any ally is a useful one. Others scream for their Archdeacon if they know I so much as set foot in their parish."
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"It must be frustrating, knowing you can help but facing so much antipathy."
"Sometimes. It's not as bad as it was. In Britain at least, the established churches are nowhere near as powerful as they once were. That can be good and bad, depending on circumstances and point of view. The New Age mentality saw a lot of people taking an interest in spirituality, most of them in a positive way. They define themselves as spiritual rather than religious. If 'official' sources are closed to me, I can usually find what I need to solve a case elsewhere."
He grimaced. "Of course, the New Age also led to a number of people opening doors onto things they found to their cost are best left alone. I've had more than one case where I had to deal with the fall-out."
"You said back in the alley that you can carry out exorcisms. Isn't that the preserve of a church?"
Martin shook his head. "No. Anyone determined enough could perform one, equipped with bell, book and candle. Doing it for the right reason is another matter entirely. Some clerics tend to act like storm-troopers, smashing a 'haunting' without looking at the situation first. I try to be more sympathetic to all concerned."
She smiled gently, amused and touched by the seriousness in his voice. "Is that because ghosts are people too?"
"Because they were people, once."
"What's your take on this case? Where do we go from here?"
"James Cloverdale has to be persuaded to go on his way," Martin replied firmly. "It's not doing him any good, remaining locked to this plane of existence."
"But how will you do it?"
"Find the necklace, the Cloverdale jewels. They're the cause of his being tied here. If we could discover what happened to them, we can find the rightful heir and perhaps, just perhaps, it will persuade him to let go."
"You're convinced no one recovered them in the hundred or so years since his death?"
"Oh yes. Whatever presence is showing us the scenes in the hotel wouldn't do it without good reason." His eyes narrowed. "Those jewels were hidden somewhere, perhaps in the hotel itself, either by James or his accomplice, Giuseppe. I have the feeling we're getting close."
Mr. Grey and the Hotel Ghosts Page 9