by Kate Danley
"Draw it for me," said Marguerite, passing the pad over to her.
Clara sketched it quickly and passed it back. Marguerite looked at it and nodded. "I shall look through our files and see if this has been seen elsewhere."
"It may appear as a room's floor plan."
Marguerite looked a little less convinced. "I am not sure that a room with four doors can be a unifying factor…"
"I asked to see the watch and there was an energy coming from it, something which led us up into an attic which had long been closed. Beneath the floorboards, we found a note written on my husband's firm’s letterhead and a safe-deposit box key."
"That hardly means…" started Marguerite.
But Clara cut her off. "I know. I know that it is nothing more than coincidence. But what if it is not? What if my husband discovered something with these families, something about that treasure Peter lost?"
"If the Beltza family has anything to do with this," said Marguerite, "we are going to need solid evidence. I will most definitely reopen the investigation on that girl, but Clara, we must tread very, very carefully, and the watch design choices of a dead man are not going to be enough."
"I know," said Clara, wondering if she had made a mistake coming to Marguerite.
"And just because a bit of letterhead was found does not mean the rational conclusion to jump to is that they are responsible for your husband's natural passing."
"It was not natural," she spoke, now less and less confident in that which seemed so clear only hours before.
"Perhaps you are just looking for a reason for your husband's death. Something to make sense of this tragedy."
"I…" Clara began, and then stopped herself. She collected her thoughts, the lump rising in her throat and threatening to cause her eyes to spill over. "I was so happy with Wesley," she finally said. "I felt as if my heart had opened once more. I do not wish to cling to this pain, this grief. I would not… not unless I believed there truly was something…"
Marguerite reached out and handed Clara her handkerchief. Clara dabbed her eyes. Marguerite squeezed her hand sympathetically. "I shall look. I promise. If there is something to find, I swear to you that I shall find it. Just… don't hang too many of your hopes on this."
Clara nodded. "I should go. This was silly."
"No…" said Marguerite. "Not silly at all…"
The air in the police building was suddenly too heavy, the walls too close. "I need to go," said Clara, standing.
"Clara," Marguerite said, stopping her. "My husband disappeared."
Clara paused, realizing what a huge confidence Marguerite was placing in her. Marguerite gripped the edge of her desk, as if seeking out its solidness to give her strength.
"He disappeared," she continued, "without a word. It was at the same time that Peter went missing and I was convinced they were connected. It is why I began seeking out these specific supernatural forces. I was sure there was no way that my husband would have left me on his own. I pushed Norman down this path of investigation and he died because of it. Since that night at the Oroberg house, I have had to come to grips that I was wrong, that my singular focus caused the death of my partner. When it comes down to it, my husband left and there is nothing more to it than that. He was just a man who needed a life without me. And if I hadn't been so hell-bent on looking for a reason, a good man, Norman Scettico, would still be alive today."
Clara looked at the grief upon Marguerite's face, the damage this truth caused her each day. But Clara knew that she was not reopening old wounds for the sake of finding a logical reason for her tragedy. Something terrible had happened to her husband Thomas and he was trying to tell her. She just knew it.
10
The next morning Clara opened her eyes just moments before Mrs. Nan came bustling into the room.
"Oh! You're awake, dear! Let me get the windows open for you. Mr. Willard has the table set and is positively beside himself in excitement to have something to do."
Though events of the day before had exhausted her, her sleep had been restless and unsettled. The cloud of worry hung over her thoughts, the sense that time was running out. Clara sat up in bed, untying the braids in her hair. "I shall be down shortly."
Soon dressed and washed, she made her way to the dining room where a lovely assortment of breads and jams awaited her. Though the gloom followed her, she managed to exclaim, "What a spread!" to Mr. Willard. His chest puffed with pride.
Just then, there was a ring at the door. Clara looked over at Mr. Willard.
"Were you expecting anyone today, ma'am?" he asked.
"No, indeed, I was not," she replied.
She sipped her tea slowly as he left the room. She heard the low murmur of his voice and then the higher ring of feminine tones.
Mr. Willard came in with a calling card upon a silver tray. "There is a Lady Rhoda Beltza waiting to see you in the parlor," he replied.
But, alas, Lady Beltza had not gone into the parlor at all. She stormed into the dining room angrily and planted herself with an air of expectancy across the table from Clara.
Clara dabbed her lips with her napkin and rose. "Lady Beltza! I am honored to have you in my home—"
"I won't trouble you, Mrs. O'Hare," she said, waving Clara's niceties away. "I am in great need of locating Mr. Lowenherz. If you could just direct me how to find him, I assure you I shall be gone."
Clara could not help but wonder the scandal which would be caused if Lady Beltza was seen on the doorstep of a bachelor this early in the morning. She looked at Mr. Willard. "Mr. Willard? Would you please ask Red to fetch Mr. Lowenherz? Lady Beltza and I shall wait for him in the parlor. And if Mrs. Nan would bring in the tea? I would hate for it to go cold."
Mr. Willard bowed and left the room. Clara knew that Red's carriage was not yet fixed, but hoped that he, being a resourceful lad, would figure out some way to bring Wesley back.
"May I ask what has caused this urgency?" Clara asked, motioning politely to Rhoda the way to the other room.
"That lock box," Rhoda huffed. "I came all the way in yesterday, opened it up, and there was nothing inside. Nothing! I let them have an earful, let me tell you. Giving my husband the key to an empty box. I could not believe the audacity. So, I went home yesterday and Trevor thought that since Mr. Lowenherz led us thus far, perhaps he can explain himself why there was nothing in the box when I opened it with the key."
"I am sure that Mr. Lowenherz was not aware it was empty—" started Clara.
"You may tell your husband's firm that we shall not be doing business with that company again!" Rhoda said with some finality, depositing herself soundly upon the cushions of the couch.
"My husband passed away," Clara reminded her.
Rhoda shifted uncomfortably in her seat, knowing she should apologize, but not caring enough to form the words. "Well, that was awfully careless of him."
Thankfully, at that moment, Mrs. Nan arrived with tea. Clara allowed the silence to hang between them as Mrs. Nan poured, having no idea how to respond politely to Rhoda. Clara sipped as the two women waited for Wesley.
"Well, you are certainly not much of a conversationalist," Rhoda said, putting her cup down. "You should contact whatever finishing school you attended and inform them of their grievous omission in your education."
"My apologies, Lady Beltza. I am afraid I am lost in thought from your news."
"Well," said the matron, "that is to be expected. I can see how this would be upsetting to anyone."
Clara bit her tongue and did not let her know that it was not the news of an empty safe-deposit box which was upsetting. Instead she asked, "What were you expecting to find inside?"
"Oh, I really hadn't thought about it," said Rhoda, coyly stirring her cup. "But if I was to have hazarded a guess, I suppose I was expecting to find the money which Peter stole from us…" Rhoda shook her head in disgust. "Why on earth did Peter feel he needed some foolhardy trip to Egypt to return some object? Said that he couldn't
keep it here anymore. Blamed it for a rash of bad luck. I had never heard such foolishness in all my life. But I could never say no to my brother, especially when he was so distraught. He was quite beside himself. But for my husband, Alastair, to place himself in financial risk for that man... Peter swore it was an investment, that he would return from Egypt with treasures beyond our imaginations. Instead, he just took off, leaving his poor daughter and his wife behind. Of course, I never really liked Hilda, but Violet always held a special place in my heart…"
Clara wondered which of Violet's murderous tendencies Rhoda found most appealing.
"Still, what can you do?" said Rhoda with some defeat. "Those two women were destitute. They kept swearing they had no idea what Peter did with the money, even though he was still writing them regularly until he disappeared six months ago. They couldn’t have asked him where it was? You can't fool me. I would now bet all the money we lost that my brother used the funds to get away from that horrible wife of his. I saw how she treated him when I opened my doors—"
Clara interrupted her. "Violet lived at your house?"
"Oh, yes! The whole family – Peter, Hilda, and Violet. Violet and Trevor quite hit it off. In fact, they were engaged for a time. After all the business with Peter, though, I wouldn’t hear of my son marrying her."
"They are… cousins…" stated Clara.
"As all good families are! Keep the good blood where it belongs!"
Was this when Violet murdered the girl that Red spoke of? Clara took a polite sip of her tea, carefully framing her questioning. “You will forgive me, but I heard there was a girl very broken hearted about this engagement…”
“Oh, yes,” said Rhoda, rolling her eyes. “If she had not been so dramatic, everything would have turned out just fine for her. My husband would be dead just a month later after lending my brother all our money, the engagement was over in six months when Peter completely disappeared and I could see there was no hope of recouping our losses… that girl would have actually seemed a potential match. But young love has no patience, does it?
At that moment, Wesley came into the room, disheveled and looking like he had barely had time to tie his tie before arriving.
"Are you all right, Clara?" he asked.
She put down her cup and motioned for him to sit. "Lady Beltza was asking for you," Clara stated, motioning to her guest.
Rhoda looked aghast. "Do none of you rise at a decent, Christian hour?"
Clara could not help but think that Rhoda's definition of this time was nothing more than the world being at her beck and call whenever the whim arose.
Wesley gave her a polite smile and bowed his head. "My apologies, Lady Beltza. I was told that Mrs. O'Hare was at an hour of desperate need and I came as quickly as I could."
"Well, the hour certainly is desperate. Sit! Sit!" she said, patting the cushion beside her.
Wesley sat down, tugging the legs of his pants so that his knees would not stretch the fabric. "How may I be of assistance, Lady Beltza?"
"That lockbox you led me to was completely empty. Empty, I say!"
"I apologize," he said, clearly not apologizing at all. "I am afraid that was the message left for you from beyond the grave."
"Well, there must be more messages and I must hear them."
"Pardon?" asked Wesley.
"You must come out tonight. We are holding another séance. And you shall tell whoever is attempting to communicate with me from beyond the grave that I will not be led around town like some daft fool."
Wesley looked at Clara to make sure she was on board for the requested misadventure and she nodded imperceptibly. She knew that with sleight of hand and stage tricks, Wesley could convince Rhoda that she was speaking to her dearly departed, but there was more to the family that Clara needed to know. They had been led there for a reason. The feeling, the gloom which invaded everything this morning, said she needed to go back.
"Very well," said Wesley. "Mrs. O'Hare and I—"
"Oh, I wasn't here to invite both of you."
Wesley paused before patiently explaining. "I am afraid I do not travel without Mrs. O'Hare. She amplifies the sympathetic vibrations—"
Rhoda cut him off, bored with the conversation already. "Very well! Very well. Whatever it is you need is fine. Just be at the manor tonight at five o'clock to dine before we commune with the spirits. Please try to come in proper dress." She sniffed, looking Clara up and down as if unconvinced she could pull off such a transformation.
Clara sat forward. "Lady Beltza, it would be very helpful if we were able to examine that empty safe-deposit box," she said.
"It was nothing but an empty, lead box. Whatever for?"
"You were directed to that box," said Clara. "I just wonder if perhaps it holds greater answers."
"Oh, very well," Lady Beltza huffed. "I have no idea how I will find the time to go back there…"
Clara wanted to believe that the message they received was about the letterhead, but needed to make sure. "Lady Beltza, I would be happy to go down to pick it up for you," Clara stated. Her stomach clenched, thinking about going to the place her Thomas died, but she needed to do it. It was important. She could feel it.
"Take it! I have no use for it. Tell them I have given it to you," said Lady Beltza, removing the key from her handbag, scrawling a note on the letterhead in pencil, and passing it over.
"Thank you," said Clara, rising. "We shall look forward to seeing you tonight."
"Until tonight then," said Rhoda, getting up and sweeping out of the room.
When the door closed behind her, Wesley let out a huge breath. "My word, that woman…"
"Indeed," said Clara. "She is a force to be reckoned with."
"Did you even finish your breakfast?" he asked.
Clara shook her head.
"Well, we shall have to remedy that," he said, giving her a welcome kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for agreeing to be my assistant this evening."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Clara confessed.
"Why did you ask if you could see the empty box?" asked Wesley.
She did not know how to tell him that she believed it may have been connected to the murder of her husband. So, instead, she merely said, "I just have a feeling."
11
Clara stood before the imposing building of T&M Banking and Investments. She knew the architects designed it specifically to convey the power beyond the doors, to cow the clients into feeling they were barely worthy to be able to enter such a noble institution. They succeeded. The doors were made of cast bronze, impenetrable to any who might attempt to force their way in. The steps were made of granite, polished to a slippery gleam. A doorman in a long green coat and top hat stood at the ready, and wordlessly opened the entrance for Clara. Inside, the vaulted ceiling rose high overhead. The large marble room echoed with the sound of footsteps and clerks typing quickly. A low, oak balustrade partitioned the clerks from the visiting public. Clara walked to the empty reception desk and shifted uncomfortably while she waited for the employee's return.
"Mrs. O'Hare!" exclaimed a voice.
She turned to see a small man with a fringe of brown hair combed over his balding dome. He mopped his forehead, sweating from the exertion of whatever his day's tasks. He moved much like a chipmunk, dashing from spot-to-spot before scurrying off to the next. She recognized him but could not remember his name. It was strangely sad to think of Thomas working here. Even though these men spent more waking hours in the day with her husband than she did, never were they a part of Thomas's true life. She did not know any of them beyond a passing acquaintance.
"George Fielding," the man said, stretching out his hand. "I wouldn't expect you to remember. Perhaps you did. But I wouldn't expect… it has been so long and we only met twice. My condolences on the loss of Thomas. He was a good man."
Clara nodded, bracing herself for any emotion which might bubble up.
"What can I help you with today?" he asked. "The widow of Th
omas O'Hare is always welcome here! Come! Sit! Sit!"
He opened up a wooden gate, bringing Clara into the working area of the bank. They walked past rows of desks until they finally arrived at his spot. He motioned for her to take a place in a stiff wooden chair.
"Can I get you a cup of tea? Refreshments of any kind?"
"No," she said. "You are most kind."
"Well, this is such a surprise. Such! What are you doing here today? Come to learn of investment opportunities to protect a woman such as yourself from future uncertainties?" he asked hopefully.
"I am quite well cared for," she replied. "I am most grateful for the widow's pension I received."
"Yes, that was quite a kindness to have a benefactor ensure that you were taken care of."
"What?" asked Clara, unsure as to what he was referring.
Mr. Fielding seemed surprised at her reaction. "Oh! I had assumed that they had told you. Our firm, of course, has but a small allowance for widows. But a benefactor took notice of your situation and requested that he be able to supplement your income."
"I beg your pardon?" asked Clara again.
"You heard me correctly. There are such good hearted souls in the world." He beamed.
"Why would someone take an interest in a widow whose husband died when his heart failed?" she asked.
He spread his hands wide. "I suppose some would just feel the loss of such a heart could only be replaced by the kindness of another."
Clara touched her nose with her handkerchief, as if tears were threatening to spill. She was not feeling sadness at all, though, only an unsettling sense of foreboding. She hoped her display of emotions might cause Mr. Fielding to talk more candidly. "May I inquire who my benefactor is?" she asked, allowing her voice to crack.
"I wish I could tell you more, but I am afraid I do not know," he confessed, trying to comfort her. "This person wished to remain anonymous and our only communication with him is the monthly deposits he sends."