by Kate Danley
"Who would have done such a thing?" asked Horace, crouching down in horror to cradle the taxidermied head of his torn bear rug as gently as a broken lover.
"Obviously, there is something here that the murderer wanted," Wesley replied.
Clara stepped over to Norman's body, which had not been disturbed. She turned back to Violet. "There is something you said earlier... that the murderer most likely killed your mother because of a grudge, but then they would have killed Norman because he was the only one who could have solved the crime via powers of scientific deduction."
"I could solve it, too!" said Clifford, impotently.
"Quiet!" they all shouted back.
"What is inside of that safe?" Wesley asked Horace.
Horace stumbled to his feet and reeled across the floor to it. He spun the dial with tears in his eyes. "Nothing. Just legal papers. My marriage certificate.... the death certificate of Clifford's mother... the deed to the house."
"Wait!" shouted Clara.
"What?" asked Horace, wiping his dripping nose.
"The deed. The ghost led me to the deed of my house, which is why I came to see you in the first place, Horace!"
"I don't understand."
"There must be some connection," she reasoned out. "Why would the ghost lead me to a deed, and then all of this..." she pointed at the disaster of the room "...occurred, seemingly to get into a safe which contained a deed to your house."
"May we look at it, Horace?" asked Wesley, his hand outstretched.
Horace took a stack of papers out of the safe, riffled through them, and then handed the deed to Wesley. They all gathered round to look.
"There doesn't seem to be anything amiss," Wesley said to Clara. He passed it to her, to see if she noticed anything out of the ordinary.
"I should say that there is nothing amiss!" said Horace. "I just had it reviewed by my lawyer. I transferred ownership to your mother, Violet. It was to give her a place to live after your wedding."
"What?" she said, paling to a frightful shade of white. She turned to Clifford. "Did you know of this?"
The anger which rolled off of Clifford filled the room. "Yes. I told him that it was a foolish mistake. This house has been in the family for centuries."
"And it would have remained in the family, passing back to you and Violet, upon her death! Only you didn't marry that damned girl fast enough and now it all belongs to Violet and she isn't even your wife!" said Horace.
Violet gave a horrified cry at the callousness of his words. Horace jammed his hands into his pockets gruffly and said, "Yes, well, now you know, Violet. This house is yours."
"Why are you so anxious to rid yourself of this house?" Clara asked.
"I don't want to get rid of it at all!" Horace said. "But the damned tax collector will rip it out of my hands if I don't unload it. So, I was going to keep it in the family, so to speak."
"You could have just given it to me," whined Clifford.
"What? So you could lose it in gambling debts and set up some doxy in the country? Turn it into some pleasure palace of depravity? Not on my bear rug!"
Wesley took the deed back from Clara and crossed back over to the safe to replace it. He closed the door and spun the dials. "Well, if this is indeed the reason why the murderer struck, we now know. It stands to reason that he learned of this transfer and did not want the house to go to Hilda. We must take great care to watch over Violet tonight, in case he decides that she should not inherit, too."
Violet began trembling with fear. "I don't want to die!" she said. "I never wanted this house! Or this family! I never wanted any of this!"
Marguerite reached out and laced her fingers through Violet's hand, letting the poor girl lean upon her for strength. They made an odd pair, standing together, the protector and the weak. Suddenly Violet looked up, as if someone slapped her. "Are you wearing perfume?" she asked.
Marguerite looked startled by her reaction. "I have a scent mixed for me in Paris," she stammered.
Clara and Wesley exchanged glances. There were volumes not being spoken between these women. There was something about the perfume that upset them both.
Violet backed slowly away. "I have smelled that perfume before..." She walked back towards the dining room. "I must go sit down. This is all too much and I fear that I am beginning to imagine things."
"I shall come with you," offered Marguerite, almost apologetically.
"No!" Violet said. "Not you. You stay here..."
A coldness settled upon Marguerite as soon as Violet turned her back. Clara imagined a glint of danger in Marguerite's eyes.
But the moment was broken as Clifford sighed and dragged himself towards his fiancée. "Fine. I shall sit with you since you insist upon being parted from the group and heaven knows we can't have you killed before we get this house thing sorted."
"You are a real class act," Marguerite remarked drily. "What a lucky girl."
"This is all still conjecture," stated Wesley as Violet and Clifford left the room. "It could be nothing but coincidence. After all, we also have the murders of Norman and Gilbert. Gilbert was certainly not in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was locked in his room. Why would the murderer have taken the time to kill him?"
"Perhaps he saw too much?" said Marguerite. "He probably knows more about this household than anyone in this room."
"You can't trust anyone now days..." muttered Horace, picking through his broken trophies.
"But that still leaves Norman," pointed out Clara. "Perhaps he stumbled into the room at an inopportune moment, but why was he here in the first place?"
Wesley crossed and knelt beside the body. "He must have deduced something… he must have guessed something was amiss..."
"What is this?" asked Clara, crossing over to a chair.
"What?" Wesley and Marguerite replied in unison.
She reached beneath it. Tucked behind the foot was a crumpled piece of paper. She withdrew it and slowly spread it flat.
"It looks like a puzzle maze," she replied. "Almost like a child's game. All of the paths lead to the square in the center, but you can get to it four different ways. There are four arrows, one on each side of the square, all pointing in. It seems quite a beginner's level." She showed it to Horace. "Is this one of yours?"
He came over and looked at it. "Never seen it before in my life."
"I wonder how it got here..." Clara mused.
"Perhaps the murderer used it to get into the house," offered Marguerite.
"Or Norman brought it with him for some reason and he threw it aside so that the murderer would not find it," Wesley guessed.
Horace took it and folded it, placing it in his pocket with some finality. "Whatever it is, we shall save it for the authorities. Perhaps it is the calling card of our killer. The 'Maze Murderer' or some such rot." He looked about the room, the defeat in his eyes. "Can we not retire to the dining room? We really shouldn't be playing private investigator before the police have an opportunity to look at the crime scene. I find myself in need of a good, stiff drink," he admitted. "This really has been a terrible... most terrible... night..."
The sight of such a proud man so utterly destroyed was enough for all of them. Wesley nodded and the others silently agreed, retreating into the dining room, but not before Clara turned the knobs on all the lamps to extinguish them, plunging the library once more into darkness. Horace locked the door after they had all exited and sealed the room.
17
Violet rested her head upon the table, her arms folded to serve as her pillow. Her mousy sausage curls hid her face like the drapes of a weeping willow. Her shoulders shook softly with silent sobs. Clifford was pouring himself another drink and turned guiltily as the others entered the room.
"Did you get it all solved then?" he asked.
"No," snapped his father. "And if you are going to drink me out of house and home, why don't you pour me a glass, too?"
"Seems like I'm only drinking us out of Violet'
s new house and home, Father, since you saw so well to that," he slurred, casting an angry glance towards his fiancé.
"I hate you," Violet muttered quietly from the table. "I hate you all!"
Clara took Wesley's arm, needing contact with a rational, sane soul to steady her as the fighting escalated. It was as if no one else cared that a murderer might be near and three of their companions were now dead.
"Father," Clifford said, turning to Horace and swaying slightly. "Are you going to let her speak to me this way?"
"Quiet, boy!" Horace took the tumbler full of scotch from his son's hand and downed it. He waved the glass in his son's face. "You go find a nice corner to curl up in to sleep it off. In fact, all of you find nice corners to rest. I'll take first watch and when I come to hand it over, I want everyone bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and not falling asleep on the job."
Clifford bristled, red-faced and sweaty. "I shall not be tucked off into some corner like the women. I shall take the first watch like a MAN!"
Violet slowly sat up in her chair, as the sound of Clifford's voice caused something to snap. She looked at him with such hatred, such rage in her eyes. "No, you shan't."
"What?" he asked, turning towards her.
"Like a MAN? You are utterly incapable of protecting anything like a MAN. We would be better off just opening the doors and allowing the murderer to come take us!" she spat.
"Now, now, my sweet, shy Violet. You have been under such duress this evening," Clifford said, trying to calm her down. "It is no wonder that you are out of sorts. Go rest yourself."
"It is no use!" she shouted, hysteria taking over. "We are all going to die! Just like my mother died! Just like Norman died! Just like dear Gilbert died! And you think that you are capable of protecting us when men like that could not?" Her tiny, birdlike frame shook with rage.
"I assure you I am quite capable of fulfilling my manly duties," said Clifford, completely confused by her turn.
"Manly duties? Do you mean that in reference to being a man or to bedding whores and loose women? Because I know you are capable of only one of those things." Violet stood up and stepped forward, her eyes red and bloodshot, her face blotchy and puffed. "The only reason I even considered marrying you was because my mother said that I must. Well, now my mother is dead! I know it is not me that you seek to protect, but her!" she shouted, pointing at Marguerite. "I can see you look at her. I am no fool! It was her perfume I smelled on your clothes whenever you came near!"
"That is preposterous!" he protested.
"Really? Is it so? You thought that I was too stupid to notice? Well, now we are all going to die because you are no man. You are a coward! A liar! A cheat! The first moment we close our eyes, you will be sneaking kisses with Marguerite, meanwhile you will be too busy to notice when the murderer comes in and slits our throats as we sleep!"
"You are the fool!" he shouted back.
"I shall take this house and make sure you never step foot in it again!" she screamed.
"I AM a man!" he shouted back, ignoring her threats.
"Are you? Prove it! Prove to me what sort of man you are!" she challenged.
"You want me to prove what sort of man I am?" he responded.
"Yes!"
Clifford's eyes went wild. "Fine! FINE! I shall search this house from high to low until I find the murderer and kill him with my own hands! Then you'll see what sort of man I am!"
"Fine!"
"FINE!" he shouted, grabbing the gun from Horace and storming out of the room.
Clara turned to the group. "We can't just let him go out there by himself." She went into the hallway, calling "Clifford? Clifford! Come back!"
But Clifford was nowhere to be seen.
18
"He's gone!" Clara exclaimed to the room.
"He is gone? Where did he go?" said Marguerite, joining at her side. "He just stepped out into the hallway a moment ago. And now he is gone?"
Violet ran out after her, her anger faded into desperation. "Oh my word! What if I am responsible for his death! I never meant it! I was just angry! What if he dies because of me?"
She seemed once again on the verge of hysteria. Marguerite, seeing that Violet was not going to calm until the matter was resolved one way or another took her by the wrist and said, "He is not going to die. It has been all of two seconds. Most likely, he wandered off to hide under a bed somewhere. Come on. Let's go find him."
Wesley followed after as Marguerite and Violet began climbing the stairs. "We should come with you! There is strength in numbers."
Marguerite pulled out her gun and cocked it. "I assure you that we shall be just fine. How about you two turtledoves go search the downstairs while we go through the bedrooms?"
"Do you think that's safe?" Violet asked Marguerite.
"Clifford was always lousy at hide-and-seek. I'll take one side of the hallway while Violet takes the other, and I feel fairly confident we'll find him in under five minutes."
"But... I don't know if I can go with you... what if you're the murderer?" asked Violet.
Marguerite looked at her like she was an idiot. "If I was the murderer, I'd have killed Clifford first."
The entire room hung in silence.
"There is a bit of logic to it," Clara acquiesced. Violet seemed to agree and nodded her head before joining Marguerite at her side.
Wesley turned to Clara and asked, "Do you feel comfortable searching the downstairs with me?"
"Of course," she replied. "You are many things, Mr. Lowenherz, but you are certainly no murderer."
Horace raised his finger to interrupt them, fear filling the poor man's eyes for the first time that evening. "And what about me?" he asked.
Wesley replied, "You should stay here. Shout if he returns. You fearlessly faced the fiercest creatures from every corner of the globe. Of all of us, surely you can stand your ground against whatever monster we are dealing with on your own."
"I had several man-servants with me at the time..." Horace explained.
"Well, consider this the greatest hunt of your life." Wesley grabbed two swords off the wall. He tossed one to Horace who grabbed it by its hilt. Wesley unsheathed the other and held it out before him. He turned to Clara, "Shall we?"
Marguerite shouted, "Ready or not, Clifford! Here we come!"
Clara and Wesley made their way towards the basement, pausing to light a candelabra to bring with them. Slowly they crept down the stairs. Wesley took the front, ready to fend off any marauders, and Clara kept her eyes open for any dangers attacking from behind.
As they entered the large kitchen, Wesley stopped to light the gas lamps on the wall. "No need to go clunking around in the dark," he explained.
An ominous crack of thunder shook the house. Clara clutched his arm.
He smiled in grim amusement. "Really, for a woman who has seen three bodies tonight and the ghost of a fourth, I would not think you one to be frightened by a storm."
She held her hand to her heart, to cease its terrified beating. "It is strange the things that frighten a person. I suppose you are not frightened of anything, you who speak to the dead and can see beyond the veil."
Wesley paused for a moment, her words causing him hesitation. He spotted a hurricane lamp on the counter and lifted the glass to light the wick. Several moments passed before he spoke. "Fearful that I am about to disappoint you, I am afraid that poor Norman was correct. I am quite the quack. An outright fraud. A charlatan of the nth degree."
Clara stood stock still, her stomach dropping into her shoes with dread. "But I saw you at the vaudeville house! There was a message... from Thomas... it seemed as if he needed you to speak just to me..."
He shook his head sympathetically. "I try to keep such messages general enough that anyone could find meaning in them. True, the message may have seemed to have been for you," he replied. "But it was from me. Not from beyond the grave."
"You cheat the grieving?" she asked, feeling as if her world might collapse.
Wesley pointed the burning taper at Clara. "No, I do not cheat the grieving. I might be a fraud, but I am not a cheat."
"Then why do you pretend to be able to speak with the dead?" she asked, begging for a reason to still believe in him.
Wesley leaned against the marble preparation counter, as if weighing how much he could trust Clara. Finally, he seemed to give up. "I have spent the past three years trying to get an audience with Horace. This whole mediumship nonsense was all just to get him into that parlor where I could try and get some answers from him."
"What?"
"You see, fifteen years ago, Horace lived in a different house. My sister, my fourteen-year-old sister, was working there as a housemaid. Something happened, and she was found dead in her room. The police quickly covered it up, swearing that she turned her hand against herself, but I know better. She never would have done that. I swear upon all that is holy, I believed that Horace killed her. That is why I am here. To find my sister's murderer."
Clara's mouth became dry, for she felt as if she knew the answer before it came out from her lips. "And what was your sister's name?"
"Minnie."
19
"Minnie," said Clara, disbelievingly. "You said to ask the ghost if her name was Minnie when we were in the parlor."
Wesley crossed the room to Clara and took her hands into his own. "You see, Clara, I am afraid that you are the true medium here. I thought to use parlor tricks to frighten an answer out of Horace. But instead, the horror has quite grown beyond any trick I know. I fear that perhaps he knew what I was up to and brought everyone here to kill them, just as he killed my sister."
"But I was holding his hand the entire time of the séance," said Clara. "He did not let go for a moment. He could not have snapped Hilda's neck."
Wesley rubbed his eyes. "Perhaps he used a false hand? Perhaps some other trick? But who else could it be? It is too great a coincidence."
"It must have been someone else," Clara replied. "There was no way for him to get from Gilbert's room back to the library to ransack it."