McCann's Manor

by Charlotte Holley

  Liz took the flashlight, sighed.

  "Why the heavy sigh?"

  "Oh, nothing; just—well, how can you be so psychic when you're so logical?"

  Kim lifted the panel, took the flashlight out of Liz's hand and shined it out into the room. “I was born psychic; I had to train myself to be logical. Holy cow! Would you look at this? This floor must be six feet high and as wide as all the other floors."

  Liz walked out of the stairwell, strained to see. “A complete hidden floor? Why?"

  "You seem to know much more about McCann than I do. You tell me,” Kim said.

  "Wow. Just think we're looking at something that hasn't been seen in almost two hundred years."

  "Not exactly, Liz."

  "What do you mean?"

  Kim shined the flashlight onto the ceiling, “Well, look; this has to be electrical wiring and air conditioning duct work. Whoever converted the house to electricity for the Tatums had to have known about this floor because they used it to wire the rest of the house; there may be water pipes here, too. Yeah, see? Over there—and there. Looks like they even wired this floor for electricity—there are light fixtures and plugs—and ducts that come out in here. Leonard and Betty may have known about this floor, even if they didn't use it."

  "Not necessarily, Kim,” Liz contradicted. “They probably didn't live here while the renovations were taking place. Maybe they hired someone to do the job and the contractor found this floor by accident—or had access to the original plans—and thought it would be the easiest way to do the job."

  Kim looked at Liz, “Now look who's being logical. Why would he have wired this floor unless he was hired to do it, too?"

  Liz looked around, shrugged, “Maybe because there isn't an extension cord in the world that is long enough to run all the way up here and he needed the plugs and the light to finish up the work. You don't want to mess with things like electricity in a place as dark as this. Look how well all this work is camouflaged; it almost looks as if it was part of the original work. Everything matches the paneling and the mortar. He had to have light and lots of it to do this kind of work."

  "Yeah, maybe—lots of care was taken with all of this. Still, it must have taken quite a while to do it; I can't imagine anyone initiating all this work without getting paid for it."

  Liz smiled, “It isn't like Tatum couldn't afford to pay for it—unless the guy itemized every little piece of wire and plug and Leonard read it all, he wouldn't have noticed the extra money for the wiring of this floor."

  "So you think the Tatums never knew about it?"

  "I'm thinking if Leonard had known about it, he would have put his darkrooms and theater on this floor instead of the third floor where he had to have the walls built in to make it dark. There are no windows up here to spoil his film."

  "True, but if he was six feet tall—or close to that, he may have felt too closed in to spend much time here."

  "Then why have it wired and the duct work put in here?"

  "Okay, I concede—at least about part of it. Maybe the contractor thought it was more practical to go ahead and do this level at the same time than to be called in later to do it when and if the Tatums discovered it and wanted to put in a rec room or something."

  Liz laughed. “Yeah. That must be it! I think it was a simple case of convenience—it was more useful to have the electricity and the ventilation in here while he was doing his work—and maybe he wanted to do a complete job while he was at it."

  "Shall we continue to explore this level, or did we already see everything we needed to see here?” Kim asked.

  "We should look at everything while we're here—it'll save us time later."

  "Are you being sarcastic?"

  "Maybe,” Liz said as she flipped the light switch and the room lit up.

  "Ooh! Do you think that's wise? Those light bulbs are old,” Kim warned.

  "I just wanted to see if there were light bulbs up here. We can turn it back off if you want to."

  Kim walked around the room, “This isn't half bad, except for the ceiling being so low."

  "I'm thinking it would be great for meditation up here—no telephone or outside light to distract us,” Liz said.

  "You feel all that comfortable in here, do you?"

  "Well I'm shorter than you, but it is a higher ceiling than we had in the travel trailer and you didn't seem to mind that—the rooms are a lot larger."

  Kim nodded, agreed, “You're right, but there were at least windows in the trailer. It would be all right, once you got used to it. So, what do you think McCann used these rooms for?"

  "I'm not the definitive expert on Benjamin McCann, you know."

  Kim cocked her head, thought for a minute and said, “I don't know—you may know more about him than anyone else in this century."

  "That might be true, but I don't think I know much about him at all,” Liz confessed.

  "Close your eyes and take a deep breath—feel his presence. That's good. Now, what do you see him doing here?"

  Liz fell into the light trance of hypnosis at Kim's suggestion. She could feel McCann's presence, could almost see him as he paced across the floor. He could just stand upright on this level, so that placed the ceiling height at about six feet, five or six inches. “He came here to be alone,” she said at last. “He would tell his servants he was going for a walk in the woods, but he always came up here, sometimes staying for two or three days without food or water. He had mementos of Constance here. More than that—he had Constance's remains up here."

  "What?” Kim quizzed.

  Liz opened her eyes, blinked at Kim in shock.

  "What did you see?” Kim asked.

  Liz looked at the fireplace at the end of the huge room. “I don't know how it happened, or what happened, but what I got was that Spencer married Constance—or told people they were married. I don't know how that could have happened, because she was going to have Ben's baby—somehow, though, she wound up with Spencer. That isn't good—she was already married to Ben."

  "Are you sure about this?” Kim asked.

  "No, I'm not, but that is what I saw—and when the baby was born—Ben's baby—Constance died. Spencer kept the child, raised him as his own, but Ben knew the youngster was his and he was going to tell the boy someday, once he could prove Spencer to be the villain he knew he was,” Liz confided.

  "What about Constance?"

  "Spencer buried her in his family plot, but Ben—when the dark of the moon came, Ben went and dug her up and brought her here. He brought the casket in using that huge dumbwaiter in the kitchen. He put her—in the—in the fireplace, there!” Liz walked to the center of the stone wall at the end of the room, pushed a stone at the base of the mantle. A section of the stone wall slid away, revealing an open casket behind the wall.

  Kim stepped closer, clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp as she saw the small cadaver of a woman lying inside the coffin. “God, Liz! How many more bodies do you think we are going to find in this house?"

  Liz looked down at the woman's body, felt an overwhelming urge to cry, for Ben in his sorrow and pain. What would it take to free his tormented spirit? “Kim! Spencer isn't wandering this house looking for gold—he is looking for Constance."

  "I guess we're going to have to call Sheriff Humphrey out to get Constance and have her put back where she belongs."

  "Where do you think she belongs? Isn't this the home Ben built, out of love, for her? Whatever Spencer did to coerce Constance into marrying him, he didn't do it for love. He did it to hurt Ben and to keep Ben bound to him. He didn't figure on Constance dying when the baby was born, though, and the only way he could control Ben then was by retaining control of his child."

  "What are you saying?"

  "She and Ben should be buried out here together, overlooking the river. It is what Ben would have wanted. It will put Ben—and Constance—at peace, at least. We will have to contend with Spencer some other way,” she said.

  "
How many more bodies, Liz?” Kim repeated.

  Liz shook her head, “This is the last—just Ben and Constance. Of course, theirs aren't the only spirits roaming around, but they're the only bodies out here."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Reasonably,” Liz said.

  "Should I go call?"

  Liz nodded. “Might as well get it over with early—that way, maybe they will leave before dark."

  "What are you going to do?” Kim asked.

  "I'll wait here. Maybe I can figure out what Ben knew about Spencer."

  Kim stood fixed by the mantle, staring at Liz, asked, “Are you sure that's a good idea? Should you be here alone?"

  Liz looked at Kim, smiled at her, “I will be fine. I need a few minutes alone before the hubbub starts. I have to deal with this sorrow somehow."

  Kim was reluctant to leave her friend alone, even for a minute, but she made her legs move and walked to the stairs, disappeared down the staircase. Once downstairs, she called John and explained what had happened to him, then she phoned the sheriff's office. Then she waited.

  * * * *

  John arrived in a few minutes; Kim took him and showed him the stairs. “Go to her. I'll wait for the fuzz."

  John touched her on the shoulder, asked, “Are you sure you want to wait? I know Humphrey pretty well; maybe I should be the one to wait for him."

  Kim shook her head. “Somehow, I think she needs a broad set of shoulders about now. You go; I'll be all right. I should put the animals upstairs anyway."

  "All right, whatever you think. I'll go to Liz. Oh, by the way, my friend in New York says he can have the paperwork from the institution here for us by the end of the week."

  "That's great. Thanks, John. Now, go to her.” She took his arm and led him to the newly discovered stairway and watched him climb up the old metal staircase.

  Upstairs, he crossed the distance between the staircase and Liz in a few long strides, wrapped her sobbing figure in his strong arms. “There, there. Let it all out, sweetheart. Here, take this hankie."

  Liz wiped her eyes, hugged him close to her, “Oh, John. How could anyone have been so vile as to have done this to Ben?"

  "Spencer again?” he asked as led her to a low bench, sat her down.

  "Yes,” she sobbed and then she poured out the whole sordid story to him.

  "Wow, that's pretty low. No wonder McCann hated him so much. Here, you're trembling. Sit down. What can I do for you?"

  She shook her head. “You're here; that's enough.” Then she laughed hard.

  "What is it?"

  "I was just thinking, you used to have the jitters every time you came here—and we're ridding you of that reaction by shocking it out of your senses every time you come in."

  He laughed, too and said, “Yes, that is a hoot, isn't it? Before you're through, I'll think I have to come here every day just to get my shock treatment."

  Liz took a slow breath, looked deep into his eyes, said, “Thank you for being there for me."

  "You would be there for me if the situation was reversed."

  "Maybe..."

  He looked at her.

  She smiled. “Okay, I would be there for you,” she admitted.

  "You were there for me last night. I needed someone to talk to after—after my little chat with Missy. You were there."

  She cleared her throat, rubbed her nose with the handkerchief. “This is soft—silk?"

  "You like it?"

  "Yes, I like it very much."

  "Then it's yours—and I'll bring you a dozen more just like it."

  "That's very generous of you, but I don't cry that often,” she said, feeling more than a little self-conscious.

  He knelt in the floor in front of her. “Then maybe you can find some other uses for them."

  She bit her top lip, tried not to look silly when she grinned at him. “If they all smelled like this one, I would just put them all over the house to remind me of you."

  He studied her face, cupped her chin in his hand, and drew her close to him. “Liz, I—"

  "Well, well! So we meet again! I suppose, Ms. Carr, that you have another spellbinding tale for me today?” Humphrey greeted as he stepped into the spacious room. “This place could use a good dusting, you know."

  Liz jumped; John stood and turned to face Humphrey. “You've a great sense of timing, Pete."

  "Yes, well, I didn't get to be sheriff for nothing, you know."

  John pursed his lips. “Yes, I know."

  "So, what's the story on this one?” Humphrey asked.

  "This is Constance Spencer, Sheriff Humphrey,” Liz said as she pointed to the body in the coffin.

  "This McCann was quite a colorful character, wasn't he? Smuggler, body thief—what other talents did he have?"

  Liz looked around the room, “He seems to have been quite a remarkable architect."

  Humphrey nodded. “Yes, yes. You look to be right with that one. Look, Ms. Carr—I checked with the Austin police and they told me you're quite a gifted psychic who has helped them solve several mysteries. They said they're still at liberty to call on you and your friend, Kim to help with other cases in the future—is that right?"

  "Well, yes, it is. Most of the psychics with the Parapsychology Group are on call whenever they need us."

  "Yeah, well, seems like I owe you an apology. Would you accept it?"

  This was a switch, and it surprised her; then she wondered what Humphrey might be up to. “Yes, of course,” she said.

  "Okay,” he said, sitting beside her on the low bench. “I'm ready to hear your story on this one. By the way, the coroner got a few of his historical society pals together and they all pretty much agreed our body from yesterday is indeed Benjamin McCann. They also seem to concur with your assessment he and Spencer were enemies and Spencer probably did kill McCann."

  Liz nodded. “Well, it's the truth, Peter. Please call me Liz."

  "All right, Liz. You say this is—was—Spencer's—wife?"

  Liz ran through the story for Peter Humphrey, who listened while Jack Lance wrote down her statement.

  "Peter, what are you going to do with Ben's body?” she asked after she had finished the tale.

  Peter shrugged, “Plant it in the ground and hope it don't grow,” he laughed.

  Liz smiled at his attempt at humor. “May I make a suggestion?"

  "Suggest anything you want—within reason,” Peter said.

  "I would like to see him buried here on top of this hill overlooking the river—with Constance."

  "I can see burying him with his cat, but I'm not so sure about burying Constance Spencer here. The family might have a problem with that."

  "But she was Ben's wife. Somewhere there are marriage papers to prove it. David Spencer somehow forced her to marry him—I'm certain of it—or forced her to live with him telling everyone she was his wife."

  "That's very interesting, Liz,” Peter admitted, “but why would he have done that?"

  "I have given that question some thought, but I don't have any answer for it yet. I was hoping maybe Ben kept some kind of journal or something that would give us some idea about the relationship he had with Spencer. They seem to have known each other for most of their lives. Spencer may have come to Ben's rescue when Ben got into some kind of trouble—but Spencer had no love for Ben and his primary intention in helping Ben was to use him to make himself richer."

  "Is this pure speculation on your part, or do you have some kind of proof?” Peter asked.

  "It's neither. I believe it because of the psychic link I established with McCann in a vision where I saw him writing a letter to Constance, but I have no proof."

  "I see,” Peter said. “Well, what else have you garnered from your psychic link with McCann?"

  "I haven't been able to give it much attention yet and I would rather not speculate until I have the chance to meditate on it a bit."

  Peter nodded. “I suppose that's all right. Will you please let us know should you
come up with any additional information?” He looked toward the passage where Willard was busy fussing over the body of Constance. “You got anything to add?"

  Willard came out, handed Humphrey a small metal box. “I found this in her coffin. It is pretty well rusted shut, but it might contain some useful information. The body is pretty much in the same state as McCann's, although she was interred in the ground for a few days before she was brought here."

  "How can you tell?” Jack Lance asked.

  "There is clay on the casket, here—came into the cracks pretty well—like it would have when the thing was covered. This is clay, mind you—the Spencer plot is close to the river where there is lots of clay instead of plain dirt. Six feet down over there, the clay stays wet all the time. It would explain why the coffin has so much clay still clinging around the edges."

  Humphrey registered some surprise, “You mean you can tell that it has been buried and that it was buried in Spencer's plot by the clay on the casket?"

  "Well, I can't prove it was Spencer's plot without lab tests, but I do know it wasn't the cemetery."

  "How do you know it wasn't the cemetery?"

  "Pete, you're pretty dense sometimes. The cemetery is over ten miles from the river. There's no clay like this there. This is river mud mixed with clay. Besides, the community cemetery didn't exist until the mid eighteen hundreds; remember Bastrop wasn't even a community when Constance died. Spencer and McCann both were pioneers in the area,” Willard said.

  Humphrey took a deep breath, blew it out again before he spoke, like counting to ten, Liz noted. He said, “So you think it is Constance Spencer?"

  Willard nodded, “I think it's probable. McCann only loved one woman and she was Spencer's wife. ‘Course, I know you don't like to hypothesize, Pete, so why don't you get the paperwork together and go dig up the plot where Constance is supposed to be. If you can't find her coffin there, then this is probably the lady herself."

  "Well, thanks for that bit of wisdom, Willard, but I already know what protocol is in order, you know.” He turned to Liz and John, then, “In case you haven't already guessed it, Willard here is our local history expert; he knows more about the past around here than a lot of us know about the present. You got questions about anything that went on two hundred years ago, this is your man."