“Her cousins?” Brigid held a cookie in one hand, a mug of hot chocolate in the other. “What cousins?”
“They live in France. Her second cousin, something removed, is part of the treasure hunt. Jacques.”
“I don’t understand.” Brigid took a bite of cookie and chewed and pondered. “I’m sure there are no cousins. Her parents were also only children.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Completely.”
I thought back to the introductions that first day. Shelagh had presented Jacques as one of her closest relations—no, one of her “closest possible relations.” Was the word “closest” meant to modify “possible” or “relations”? There were two distinctly different meanings there. I remembered the look she and Jacques had shared. Was it something familial?
“Goodness,” I said to myself. “She could have meant something different from what I thought.”
“What’s that?” Brigid asked.
I told them about those first moments in that room in the back of Deacon Brodie’s Tavern.
“We need to figure out who Jacques is. He still might be a relative, but if not … well, if the police don’t already have that figured out, they need to,” Brigid said.
“I agree.” I would tell Inspector Winters first thing—at a reasonable hour.
“Oh, no,” Brigid said.
“What?” Tom and I now asked.
Brigid looked at me. “She wanted me to get involved.”
“In the hunt?” I asked.
“Something. She wanted me involved—or someone involved.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“She wanted me somehow involved or she wouldn’t have used the pubs I put in that article. I mean, aye, a couple are tied to the Jekyll and Hyde story, but not all of them, and all of them are in my article. And she asked me specifically about a bookshop person. I told her about you. She must have wanted me to pay attention.”
“Why? For another article?”
Brigid shook her head. “During our interview, our time together, she told me many times how much she enjoyed my writing. She frequently said I could bleed the truth from a stone. She commented on what a valuable trait that was, for a reporter and an officer of the law, she supposed. I bet she was telling me something, and I needed to be on the alert.”
I didn’t disagree with Brigid completely, but it did seem a little far-fetched.
“That’s possible,” I said. “But she must have told you more.”
“Well, she told me more than once that she had no family left and that was a subject of concern for her.”
“Right, we need to figure out who Jacques is.”
“Sooner rather than later. What’s his full name, and where is he?”
“Last I saw him, he was at Shelagh’s house, but he had a room somewhere else too. I didn’t ask where. His last name is Underwood. Jacques Underwood.”
“Just like the old typewriter in Shelagh’s library?”
“Well. Yes, I suppose. I think I remember that it was an Underwood, but I didn’t look at it closely.”
“How could you not?” Brigid asked. “Typewriters! How could you not want to look at them, touch them, press their keys?”
“Not my thing, I guess.”
Brigid made a noise of exasperation. “Let’s get over to The Banshee Labyrinth.”
Tom and I explained the roadblocks to getting inside The Banshee Labyrinth tonight. Brigid didn’t like what we told her, but ultimately she seemed to accept that she wasn’t going to get inside that particular pub this evening.
She looked at her watch. “I have an interview with Louis Chantrell in five hours anyway.”
“About what?”
“I told him it was about Shelagh, that I wanted to talk to him for another article, one that might help people look harder for her. Truth is, I don’t get him, and I want to see if I sense he’s up to something. That last name is just too weird. I have questions.”
“Lass, that could be dangerous,” Aggie said as she held the cookie tray out for Brigid.
“I’m a journalist, it’s part of the job.” She took another cookie.
I didn’t agree with her completely, but I didn’t argue.
“Anyway”—Brigid looked at me—“want to come along?”
Aggie tsked.
“I do,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Tom.” Aggie nudged Tom’s shoulder. “Stop your wife from doing such silliness.”
Tom sent a wary smile to Aggie. “I don’t think that’s the kind of marriage we have, but I will be happy to caution her and ask—tell, if that would make you feel better—them both to be careful.”
Brigid sent a suspicious glare at my husband and seemed to be waiting for more. When Tom didn’t continue, she looked at me again. “All right. I’ll pick you up at your bookshop at seven-thirty.”
“Sounds good.”
Brigid grabbed two more cookies on the way to the door. She told us all goodnight but smiled only at Aggie. Aggie’s cookies will do that.
Once she was safe in her car and pulled away from the curb, Tom closed and locked the door.
“You’ll be careful, aye?” he said to me.
“Of course.”
“You’ll text me his address?”
“Barrie!” Aggie said.
We both looked at her.
“Excellent!” she translated.
“I will text you his address,” I confirmed.
It must have been Aggie’s hot chocolate, because shortly after we said good-bye to our middle-of-the-night visitor, we were all back in bed, sleeping soundly for a few more hours.
TWENTY-SIX
“Lass, I cannae believe you knocked on someone’s door in the wee hours,” Rosie said as Brigid came into the bookshop.
She cringed. “You know, Rosie, I agree. I feel bad about that.” She looked at me. “I really am sorry. I was … I don’t know, on a roll or something.”
“It’s okay.” I smiled.
Tom had thought the whole thing ridiculous. He harbored no ill will against Brigid, but he thought she should have waited until a decent hour or just texted back and waited for a later reply. He didn’t dwell on it, but the fact that she’d come over when she had only highlighted her thoughtlessness.
“Have you heard from Inspector Winters?” Brigid asked me.
“I have. I let him know what we’d discussed about Jacques, and he said he would meet me, us if you want, at The Banshee Labyrinth at noon. The police did get inside last night and confirmed that no one was being held captive anywhere in there, but they didn’t look for a book. The owner was out of town or something but is coming back this morning. Winters also told me that Louis Chantrell is not a suspect, though he is a very interesting man.”
“Aye?”
“Yes, and left it at that, saying you and I would see soon enough, but he didn’t seem concerned about us visiting him.”
“What did he say about Jacques?”
“Inspector Winters was aware that Shelagh didn’t have any blood relatives. He’d talk to the inspectors on the case, but they probably know too. But the more I think about that first meeting with Shelagh, the more I wonder if Jacques wasn’t just a close family friend or something and Shelagh was using a term of endearment. I don’t know, I’m just glad the police will double-check.”
“Well, I will work on it too.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a full day, but we’ll see. Let’s at least get to the bottom of the somewhat strange and mysterious Louis Chantrell.”
Hector whined up at me from where he’d been sitting at my feet. I reached down to pick him up.
“I’ll be back. I’ll be fine,” I assured him.
He wiggled, and I let him kiss my cheek and then reluctantly handed him to Rosie.
“He thinks ye need tae be extra careful around even somewhat strange and mysterious people,” Rosie said.
“I promise I will be.”
“I hope so.” Rosie
sent Brigid some raised eyebrows.
Brigid squirmed as she nodded.
“Och,” Rosie said before she and Hector turned and made their way to the back of the shop.
The snow had started again, but the wind wasn’t bad. Brigid and I put on hats and, both of us in boots, took off toward the bus stop.
“I didn’t want to drive in this weather. Come on,” Brigid said.
We boarded the second bus that came along and sat next to each other. There was no need for small talk, because Brigid was on the phone the entire trip to Louis’s house. I caught snippets of her conversations, and at one point I suspected she was speaking to her aunt, Grace, who also happened to be media-relations minister to the city’s lord provost. I pricked up my ears, curious to hear about some city business, but she kept her voice low enough and the bus engine was loud enough so that I couldn’t make out the details.
Louis Chantrell lived in an old brick house on the edge of one of the rougher neighborhoods. A narrow home, it was two stories and a short attic space high, the first-floor windows almost completely hidden by an overgrown garden. There were no flowers in bloom, and the falling snow was beginning to accumulate on the old, seemingly ignored branches and stems.
“I wonder how this place looks in the summer,” Brigid said as we stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, outside the short wrought-iron fence that outlined the property.
From the corner, the view down either bordering street showed older buildings, some covered in the same sort of graffiti I’d seen on the bottom of Darcy’s Roost.
“Maybe he cleans up the garden in the spring,” I said. “It could be nice.”
“Could be,” Brigid agreed. “I wonder why he lives here, though. I’m sure Shelagh pays him well. This is all odd.”
She took a step toward the path that led to the front door. I followed.
Brigid knocked, the sound echoing inside. “If he comes to the door with vampire teeth, we’re leaving.”
I laughed, but I didn’t think she was trying to be funny.
We heard fast footfalls approach, and then the door opened quickly but with a weary creak.
“Ah, hello,” Louis said. He blinked at me. “Delaney?”
“Yes,” I said. “I really wanted to see your place, and Brigid’s a friend.”
Brigid shrugged.
Louis smiled. “Ah, don’t blame you. Quite the story here. Come in, then. Come in. I’m baking, but I will join you in the drawing room momentarily. Coffee or tea?” He’d already started walking away.
“Coffee, thanks,” we both called after him.
“Do you know the story?” I asked Brigid quietly as we went in and shut the door behind us.
“No, but I’m always up for a good one.”
The house seemed even narrower from the inside. A steep stairway was close by on our right, its old wooden planks worn shiny and slightly bowed in the spots where feet had stepped.
The same planks made up the flooring. They weren’t in terrible shape, but scuffed here and there. Hooks lined the wall to our right. A coat hung from one, a pair of boots on the floor beneath.
I was just about to ask if we should remove our coats when Brigid took the lead and did exactly that. I shrugged out of mine and hung it up too.
“Come on.” She set off down the hallway.
She stopped outside what I would call a drawing room, but this one was straight out of the movie Psycho. My imagination almost saw it in sepia tones. It was furnished and decorated with antiques. Carved wood framed the couch and chairs around faded pinkish flowered upholstery. This was not an antique revival; the items in this room hadn’t been redone, they’d been used and loved, showing their wear.
“Well, this is fabulous,” Brigid said quietly.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
We walked around the skinny but long room, looking at the multiple items that had been set out on doilies. Lamps, figurines, black-and-white pictures—mostly of people who’d surely been dead a long time. A windup clock ticked so loudly it echoed through the room.
My eyes landed on a familiar picture. A man with muttonchop facial hair hung in a frame in a prominent spot on the wall.
“I know him,” I said quietly as I approached the picture. “Oh, Eugene Chantrelle.”
“The murderer?” Brigid hurried up next to me.
“Yes, the one who killed his wife, Elizabeth. Robert Louis Stevenson followed the trial. It might have inspired Jekyll and Hyde to some extent.” I looked at some of the other framed pictures, noting they all had small plaques or nameplates, and most of them mentioned the last name Chantrelle.
“But Louis’s last name is spelled differently,” Brigid said.
“I had it changed—legally, of course,” Louis said as he came in behind us.
We startled and turned. Louis carried a tray full of more snacks than I’d seen grace any tray in a long time—and I’d seen quite a few trays over the past few days.
“You’re a Chantrelle, without an e?” I said.
“Well, originally I had the e, but with the advent of social media and the internet it all became quite annoying. People would send me bothersome messages and such. It became too much for this man who likes to keep to himself. I had to change it.”
“We met when I did the article about Shelagh, but I couldn’t find you anywhere on social media,” Brigid said. I hadn’t either, but I didn’t mention it.
“I hope not. I’ve done the best I can to keep a semi-low profile. Even after so much time, people still become fascinated by my ancestor Eugene. Reluctantly, I have posted on social media for this house—it’s a museum, and the only way I can keep it is by continuing to show it. But now I can do it by appointment only, infrequently at that. It’s amazing the difference one little e can make—if my name isn’t spelled the way Eugene’s was, the connection doesn’t get quickly made.”
I looked around. “I thought Eugene lived next to where The Banshee Labyrinth is now located.”
“He did.” Louis set the tray down on a table. “This is a reproduction. My grandfather built it.”
“It’s fascinating.”
“It’s old, but it’s also home.” Louis motioned for us to sit down. Once we had our spots, he continued. “Now, Ms. McBride, you want to talk to me about Shelagh?”
“And about you, Mr. Chantrell.”
“Aye? I hope you like biscuits,” Louis said.
“I love biscuits.” Brigid smiled, and I was beginning to wonder if biscuits—cookies—were the only things she ate.
It seemed very chummy, I thought, remembering Elias using the same word when he and I were in a friendly but crowded line at a grocery store. I knew that Brigid wasn’t always friendly, and I wondered if she was preparing some sort of attack.
“Very good. May I inquire if, as a journalist, you’ve heard any news on Shelagh?” Louis asked. “I call the police at least twice a day, but they don’t tell me anything.”
“I haven’t. I’m sorry. You don’t have any idea where she might be?” Brigid took a bite of the cookie.
Louis shook his head, and his eyes shadowed. “At first I thought that maybe she’d set this up, but I don’t think so anymore.”
“Why?” Brigid asked.
“It’s gone on too long. If she’d wanted to scare people by disappearing, she would have reappeared shortly thereafter.”
“That would be cruel, don’t you think? To hide and scare your loved ones into thinking you’d been taken. Blood was found too. Would she go that far?” Brigid asked.
Louis sighed. “She wouldn’t think of it as cruel. She’d be so quick about it that we’d all forgive her. But it most definitely has gone on too long now.”
“How did you come to work for Shelagh, and when did you begin?” Brigid asked.
“Oh, it was decades ago—goodness, probably sixty years now. I first worked for her parents.”
I calucluated that he was probably only five to ten years older than Shelagh,
but his bald head still made it difficult to discern his age.
“What did you do?” Brigid asked.
“A wee bit of everything.” Louis laughed, but sobered quickly. “I started working for the O’Conners shortly before Shelagh … well, lost her way for a wee bit. Until recently her escapades were old news. I look forward to the day they return to being unimportant. Nevertheless, I met the O’Conners back when Shelagh was sixteen. One of my duties was to keep an eye on her. In fact, I’m the one who first gave her Jekyll and Hyde to read.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” I said. “Considering your ancestors.”
“Aye. Honestly, I felt guilty about it for a long time, but it wasn’t my fault she took things so far. Stevenson’s story is brilliant. All I did was introduce her to it. She did the rest.” Louis smiled sadly.
Brigid and I shared a quick look. Clearly, Louis would always feel some guilt when it came to Shelagh’s behavior.
Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of the day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering.
The bookish voice caught me so offguard that my hand flew to my mouth, hoping to stop any sounds of surprise.
I’d very recently read the words that just played in my head. They were from Dr. Jekyll himself, his final statement in the story. In my head, the deep voice spoke slowly, sadly. Why was the bookish voice talking to me now? Was it simply that I was in this house?
“Delaney?” Brigid asked.
Distantly, I heard her, but I wasn’t ready to let go of trying to understand what Jekyll wanted to communicate. What was my intuition keying in on? The words were meant to convey that Hyde was just as real as Jekyll, that both sides existed together, and probably do in most everyone.
“Delaney!” Brigid said as she shook my arm.
“I’m so sorry.” I blinked and then nodded at her. I cleared my throat and looked at Louis. Shelagh had said that Louis was her closest advisor, but was there more, and did that matter? “You two are close, then?”
Louis squinted at me. “Are you feeling all right?”
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