The Alps Obscure

by Oster, Camille

  “I have been told that Mr. Rowland is currently missing.”

  “Did you speak to him after we arrived here?”

  “He came to tell me you were preparing to leave.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. I made ready to leave. The horses were strapped, but the departure didn’t come.”

  “You were in here the day he disappeared?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Rowland must have been taken from the hotel in some manner. He is not here.”

  The man was silent for a moment. It couldn’t be him, could it, Clemmie found herself wondering. Has she upset him at some point, to the degree he sought to take revenge? These questions cropped into her head with everyone now, and she hated that it did, but how could she know who was responsible? She hadn’t met anyone she would assume that about.

  “I was here most of the day he disappeared. Either in here, preparing, or just outside. I brought the carriage outside and we waited. I would have seen anyone coming here. Then I unstrapped the horses and stabled them again. I would have seen him if he’d been taken here.”

  “What about the day after?”

  “Then I would have been in the hotel. I feed and groom the horses in the mornings, but I have a room.”

  Again she chided herself because she’d never even wondered where he’d taken himself. “So if he was taken by carriage, he’d had to have been brought out after that.”

  “A missing carriage would have been noticed,” he said. “We know the sounds of our carriages. More likely, he would have been taken in a cart. They come and go all day, and one cart is much like another. And they can be taken by one horse. Carriages are too heavy. Maybe one of the smaller like a trap, but it would be harder to hide someone.”

  Clemmie listened intently. This was valuable information. What he said made perfect sense. It must have been that Oliver had been in the hotel for a while, then transported some time later, but before the hotel was searched. “He must have been taken somewhere.”

  The man stood by, waiting.

  “What about when Mr. Carter disappeared?”

  “I don’t know. Unless it was in the morning, I wouldn’t have seen.”

  “No,” she said absently. Perhaps it was his presence that had delayed them from moving Oliver, provided they’d attacked him in the hotel itself. For a while, she’d been under the assumption that he’d left the hotel, but he’d had no plans to. He must have been attacked in the hotel. “Someone in this hotel means harm,” she finally said. “Is doing ill deeds.”

  “I can be ready to leave any time.”

  “A constable is coming,” she found herself saying. She felt too embarrassed to enquire about his name. “Hopefully he will clear this all up, and we will find Mr. Rowland.” Or his remains, she added silently.

  When had she lost hope that Oliver was alive? Maybe at the point when she’d realized she needed to stop being childish and incompetent. There was still hope, but she needed to acknowledge that the probability was high that Oliver had been killed.

  “I will inform you when things change,” she said. “Although I’m assuming we…” She should probably be saying ‘I’, “…will be heading north again.”

  “As you see fit,” he said with a nod, and she appreciated that the man only spoke of the things that were necessary to say. It was comforting somehow.

  Once outside again, she intended to walk back to the main entrance, but then stopped. If he was taken out of the hotel, it had probably not been through the lobby. There had to be other entrances.

  Taking herself in the other direction, she walked around the hotel. There was a basement, likely where the kitchen and storage areas were. Maybe that was where the drivers lived. Many of the staff probably lived in the village below. Or perhaps they were on the top floor like servants were back home.

  Now that she looked at it, this hotel was so full of rooms, a person could be hidden anywhere. And there were entrances to the hotel. A kitchen entrance, another entrance, a third one with telltale signs of black soot. It had to be a coal room. A person could be carried out, or marched out.

  Imagining it left her feeling deeply uneasy. With a cart, Oliver and Mr. Carter could have been taken anywhere. Even hidden down in the village.

  Someone with a weapon could easily lead someone out, but someone carrying a body had to be strong.

  Hopefully this constable would come soon and investigate properly. This was beyond her capabilities, even beyond her comprehension.

  The cold slowly seeped the warmth from her, and she even felt an ache in her back where the spear had hit her in her dream. Her mind was concocting it, of course, but she could feel it like a physical thing.

  The truth was that she was lingering because she felt more comfortable out here where she could see people coming. Inside the hotel, someone was… trying to undo her—maybe even trying to hurt her.

  But she would soon freeze to death if she stayed out longer than she already had, so she pulled together her courage and walked back to the hotel. Lunch was another hour away, so she determined she would have a hot chocolate and chase away the cold. It was always something that soothed her, and she could definitely use some comfort right then.

  Mr. Weber nodded to her when she walked in, and she headed to the breakfast room, which was deserted, except for a couple she didn’t know. They hadn’t been here long, she guessed.

  What she did know was that there was a group of people who’d been here from the time Miss Marnier had first been attacked until now. Someone was responsible, and it had to be from that group. Unless it really were ghosts causing this.

  “A cup of hot chocolate,” she said to the waiter who approached her. The weather was turning outside the window. The clean day was getting darker. A front was coming in, and it looked like the wind was picking up. This place was at the mercy of the weather. It seemed to change dramatically and without much warning.

  A cup was placed down in front of her and she cupped it with her hand, feeling the heat seep into her fingers. A taste, and warm, luscious chocolate washed over her mouth. She felt guilty for enjoying it, because Oliver couldn’t. How could she enjoy something when he was… missing?

  It was difficult to think of the circumstances he was in, but she hoped he wasn’t suffering. Or was it better that he was suffering and alive? These questions were impossible to answer.

  A commotion drew her attention to the lobby, but she couldn’t see what was happening. Raised voices flowed into the breakfast room. Someone was unhappy. Perhaps the constable had arrived.

  Getting up, Clemmie walked to the lobby and saw the countess with her companions.

  “I told you I wish to leave,” she demanded. “This place is not safe.”

  “The constable has requested that no one leaves,” Mr. Weber said apologetically. It went against his grain to deny a guest, but he’d apparently been in communications with the constable. It was news to her that they’d been told not to leave. From the perspective of a policeman investigating crime, it was understandable.

  “Well, I have committed no crime. There is no reason for me to stay.”

  “The request is the same, I’m afraid,” Mr. Weber said appealingly.

  “He will come chasing after us if we leave,” Miss Marnier said, looking concerned. “It will show guilt, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’d never steal men away in the middle of the night. To assert such a thing is preposterous.”

  “But this man wishes to understand what we’ve experienced and observed,” Miss Juno said. “It is only through our accounts that he will know what has happened.”

  “The staff here know full well what’s happened. They can convey it just as clearly as we can.”

  “The constable is on his way. Once he gets here and takes your statement, I’m sure he’ll be amenable and let you be on your way. And your carriage
isn’t ready to depart.”

  “Frig the carriage. This place is a hazard with walking ghosts and creeping murderers,” she stated with the full force of her displeasure, and Mr. Weber winced at the statement. There was no way this wouldn’t become known, and his business would suffer for it. “How are we supposed to stay in a place like this?”

  “We’ll manage,” Miss Juno said, trying to calm her down.

  “Shouldn’t you be minding the child?” the countess countered sharply, and Miss Juno was rebuked enough to lower her gaze, and then disappear from view.

  “Please bear with this inconvenience,” Mr. Weber urged.

  “I’m sure the carriage will be ready very soon. Maybe even this afternoon,” Miss Marnier said. “We’ll speak to the constable, and tell him what we’ve observed. We should perhaps not assist whatever is doing this by not giving our observation. Then we’ll be on our way. I’m sure the constable cannot possibly object.”

  The countess seemed somewhat mollified by this, but she was still displeased.

  “I’ll request a tea service is brought to you,” Mr. Weber said, urging her to sit down.

  With a sniff, she relented, but conveyed quite clearly that her tolerance was at its limit.

  Chapter 22

  WHO COULD BLAME THE COUNTESS for wanting to leave? Anyone in their right mind would leave this place. It made her feel uneasy about the guests that were still here, potentially unaware of the happenings in the hotel. From Mr. Weber’s perspective, this was his business and he needed to keep it open. It was hard not to be in two minds about it.

  But the constable was coming, and all would be sorted out. Hopefully whoever dared to do this would be wise enough to not cause any further damage. Saying that, the incident in the bathroom showed they were still intent on malice.

  Then there was the fact that the constable had asked that everyone stay. That made sense, she supposed, as the culprit may flee with the knowledge that the police were coming to investigate.

  If this was caused by the ghosts of Roman soldiers, there wasn’t much the police, or anyone else, could do. Maybe they had to turn to priests for protection.

  A shiver worked down her spine and she tackled all the unpleasant assumptions she’d have to address if that turned out to be true. The world as she knew it would turn on its end.

  What would she say to this constable when he came? What could she say? Obviously, she would tell him everything she’d observed. The dreams were something she could keep to herself. But would she mention that the majority of incidents seemed to be centered around her? Her husband, the person trying to help her, and then messages appearing for her?

  It wasn’t true. She hadn’t seen the message in the library first, and Miss Juno had heard the soldiers walking in the hallway before she had. She’d merely confirmed it. It only felt as if this was directed at her.

  The rude Italian, Mr. Moran, was the most likely suspect in her book, mostly because he was so deeply unpleasant. The monster doing these things couldn’t fit a mask so perfectly one couldn’t notice, could he? Or she.

  Could a woman really do this? The countess and her party seemed much too frightened. Then there was Mrs. Schonberg, who was so cool and aloof. While Clemmie admired her drive and self-belief, there was something in the woman that Clemmie didn’t recognize. Maybe there was even a bit of arrogance there. They were both so… self-contained. It was the only way she could put it. They were kind, but they preferred to keep to themselves, as if the company wasn’t quite good enough for them.

  Elitism didn’t make people murderers, but it did show a degree of disregard for other people.

  Clemmie had never had to think so hard and thoroughly about people’s personalities before. Back home, it was a fair statement that if they weren’t part of her circle of friends, she didn’t really care about them. And even within that circle, she had mostly cared about her position within it.

  She could even be accused of being a shallow person—someone who cared about her wardrobe, about which men wanted to put their names on her dance card, and then about her wedding. But in all fairness, she would rather live a life where she worried more about her social engagements than who would be murdered next!

  The hot chocolate in front of her had grown cold. The sweetness didn’t appeal to her anymore, but she didn’t really know what else to do but to sit there and think about the things she knew, assumed and didn’t know.

  She kept telling herself the constable was coming, and all would be sorted out.

  Sleepiness was creeping in. Her sleep had been so terrible the last couple of nights, she was starting to feel it now. Stifling a yawn, she looked around. No one was in the breakfast room now, and there was nothing to do. Perhaps she should go back to her room and rest for a little while. When she woke, she might feel more hopeful, and less morose.

  Rising, she made her way out, and through the mostly vacant lobby. She met a man she didn’t know in the hallway down where the guest rooms were and smiled politely as he passed. As he went, a strong feeling came over her, which showed she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be at home where everything was easy and logical.

  Passing a door, she noted that it didn’t look like the others. It was a servants’ door, she recognized. How strange that she didn’t normally notice things like that. Was this the door that Oliver had been taken down through, hidden down there until they could take him away on the cart? Unease bit inside her again. Or had he been hidden in one of the guest rooms? Had he been… alive?

  How many entrances were there to the downstairs area? She had no idea. The place was probably riddled with them. There was probably a servants’ staircase up through the entire building. Maybe even more than one. Servants weren’t supposed to be seen walking down the hallways, were they?

  Could it be a servant doing this? Someone who hated guests so much they would harm them? Or was it Mr. Weber they sought to harm?

  Everything went white. Sharp and white, and the dull sound of a whack. She heard breathing, then nothing. Blackness claimed her, wiping away the fleeting panic that had shot through her, because for an instance, she’d known that something was wrong.

  Nothingness gave away to pain, and the continual knocking on her head. It hurt, everything hurt. Her head. Again and again, her head was knocked. At the same time, she felt too languid to move, lingering between consciousness and not. The blackness beckoned her back. It was easy in the nothingness, no pain, no worries.

  But a part of her said she needed to focus, because there was danger. If she wanted to live, she needed to not be unconscious right now.

  Another smack of her head shook her back into consciousness. Her eyes weren’t working. There was a sweet taste in her mouth, but it wasn’t the chocolate.

  Her whole body shook, vibrated and moved. She was moving, being moved.

  Hooves and wheels. Recognition of the sounds came to her. She was being taken somewhere, but she was still alive. For how long? What would they do when they reached where they were taking her? Kill her? There was a good possibility.

  Could she plead with them? Offer them money? That hadn’t worked for Oliver or Mr. Carter. This person intended her harm, and they were taking her to where they were going to inflict it.

  In sheer panic, she moved, but something held her down. It wasn’t hands. A blanket of some kind. It smelled terribly. With her hands, she tried to move it, but stopped. The person would hear her, and she didn’t want them to. They might hit her again if they knew she was conscious.

  The taste was still in her mouth. She must have been drugged in some way. Where was she? How long had she been there?

  Another stone under the wheels smacked her head.

  Calm, she told herself. Panic would lead to disaster. Think.

  A canvas of some kind was over her. it was too dark to see anything. It stunk and made it hard to breathe, even harder to not scream in panic and fear. Somehow, she managed to calm herself.

  The horse
was continuing at pace. Not sprinting or cantering. It was just trudging along. Were they getting close to where they were going?

  With searching hands, she felt along the canvas. It was tied. She’d been hidden under it. This was how Oliver must have been transported. Mr. Carter too. Drugged and taken away on this cart.

  With shaking fingers, she searched, intermittently stopping and listening to see if the driver was noticing. Perhaps there was someone watching her, but they didn’t seem to have noticed her squirming under the canvas.

  Blackness was pressing on her, because she couldn’t see anything, and panic was pressing on her mind. She wanted to scream and scream, and never stop, but she couldn’t. They may kill her if she did. Hit her until she lost consciousness again. They clearly didn’t want her conscious.

  Her hand slipped out of something and she felt it was much cooler, but as she pushed, the canvas was restrained. Tied down.

  As quietly as she could, she shifted closer and reached as much as her arm through as she could, a hole in the road knocking it painfully on the edge of the cart, but she ignored it. Stretching as far as she could, the canvas pressed painfully on her arm, but she reached a knot. It was too hard to undo, too tight from the position she was in. Her fingers wouldn’t grip it. Didn’t have the strength.

  Fumbling with the knot, she tried to undo it, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic enveloped her again. She wasn’t going to get out of this. But then she found something to tug and it shifted. Suddenly the pressure of the canvas gave when the knot undid itself. The gap was only small, but she could see the faint outline of the moon above clouds. It was nighttime.

  Pressing her body through the gap, she hung out the side of the cart, the wheel worryingly close. There was no easy way of doing this, no safe way. She simply had to drop into the darkness below her. But there was a good chance they would notice. It was quiet other than the steps of the horse and the creaking of the cart and wheels.

  Her dropping like a sack of potatoes would make a sound, but there was nothing else she could do. It was the only way out of this cart, and going legs first wasn’t an option.