by Kate Danley
Trevor, distracted, let his gun fall as he moved to part the two women. Wesley grabbed at the weapon, bringing Trevor's attention back to his hostage.
"RUN!" Wesley shouted at Clara. "Clear yourself to safety!"
Trevor struck Wesley in the stomach. Wesley bent over, the wind knocked out of him. Then Trevor struck him across the temple, knocking Wesley out cold. Trevor leveled his gun at Wesley's head, murder in his eyes. Clara screamed and leapt at the pair. But before she could get there, a tall man with bright red hair flew out of the peony bushes and knocked Trevor over. Red! It was Red!
"Run!" Red said, rolling on the ground with Trevor. "I have him!"
Clara paused, but in doing so, she looked over at Rhoda and Daphne. Daphne sat upon the grass, her hair pulled from its upswept knot, her clothes torn and disheveled, but otherwise unharmed. Rhoda was running down the path.
"Go!" Daphne said. "Do not let her get away!"
And with that, Clara took off in hot pursuit, her heart pounding.
She could hear Rhoda's feet hammering the gravel in front of her, but due to the twists and turns of the path, Clara could not see her. Clara gasped, the tightness of her corset causing her head to swim. She paused, leaning over for breath for just a moment, then grabbed up her skirts and continued her pursuit. Rhoda had gotten so far ahead, she couldn't even hear her footsteps, but the path did not divide and unless Rhoda had taken off into the woods, she would be somewhere ahead.
Clara slid to a halt as the path came to a mill pond. Rhoda was nowhere to be seen. Clara wiped the sweat from her brow and looked desperately around. Her back was turned as Rhoda sprang out of the bushes and knocked her into the water.
Clara coughed and sputtered as Rhoda dragged her deeper, shouting at her, "Was this how Alastair killed that brat? Didn't you say he drowned her just like this?"
Panic overwhelmed Clara and she fought back desperately. The weight of her skirts and petticoats tried to drag her under. The stones of the pond were slippery with algae and moss. But her disadvantage was Rhoda's disadvantage, too. She flung herself against Rhoda and knocked her down. Water filled her nose and ears. Sputtering, she splashed to the surface and dragged herself towards the shore. She felt Rhoda's talons claw at her skirts, trying to pull her back in, but Clara let forth a kick. It was feeble, the water slowing her movements, but it was just enough to get Rhoda to let go.
Clara pulled herself out, her dress dripping with gallons of water and she waited for Rhoda to come out after her. She was exhausted. She did not wish to harm Rhoda, just to stop her until Red or Wesley or someone could come and restrain her for the authorities. She realized too late such compunction, such hesitation to commit violence, was the weakness Rhoda was relying upon. Rhoda sprang out of the water and threw Clara to the side as she tried to tackle her to the ground. Clara sat hard in the mud, twisted in the miles of fabric. Trying to gain her feet, she slipped in the ooze, and Rhoda was able to limp off.
Rhoda was making for the old gristmill. The building was three stories tall with a large wheel churning the water. The roof was covered in moss and the wood siding was aged to a silvery gray. Clara, finally, was able to scramble to her feet. Though drenched in every manner of pond muck, she sped towards Rhoda, her delicate heels sinking in the ground as she ran. She could see Rhoda yanking on the door to the mill, but it was locked. She saw as Rhoda searched for a way inside. She grabbed a hold of the trestle holding the wheel in place and began climbing up the outside of the building. Clara could not believe how quickly the woman moved for one her age.
"STOP!" Clara shouted at her.
Rhoda gave her nothing more than a cursory glance before continuing her climb.
"You cannot escape!" Clara shouted again.
But Rhoda did not give any indication that she cared about this piece of logic.
Shivering as the morning cold seeped through her wet garments, Clara arrived at the mill. Rhoda was high above her and out of her reach. There was a round, rotating arm which connected the water wheel to the interior of the building, presumably powering the mill's grist stone. Above the arm was an open window, but the huge wooden cylinder was turning fast and there was no way that Rhoda could walk across it to safety.
Clara heard Wesley shout from the path behind them, "STOP!"
Clara cupped her hand to the sides of her mouth to speak sense to Rhoda. "Please! You shall only harm yourself!"
"Come and get me!" Rhoda yelled down at her.
Wesley was at once at Clara's side, staring up at Rhoda as she climbed.
"She is trying to make for the window," Clara said, pointing. "But she shall fall!"
Wesley ran to the door and rattled the handle. It would not budge. He threw his shoulder against it and there was a satisfying give. He threw himself against it again. Once more, and the old hinges ripped from their wooden frame and the door opened.
"We do not wish to harm you!" Clara called.
The upstairs window flew open and Wesley reached out to the woman. "Give me your hand!"
Rhoda looked at him contemptuously, clinging to the trestle. "Why? So you can turn me over to the authorities? So that the family name can be ruined and Trevor's future destroyed? I'd rather die. Vive les Quatre Portes!"
And with that, she let go and flung herself into the pond. She struck the turning wheel on her way down, her dress catching on the wood trestle as she fell. Clara screamed as it held her body in place, as the great wheel beat down upon her, as the water turned red with blood.
19
Red had gone off to seek the police while Wesley had run down to the pond to aid Clara, leaving Daphne in charge of watching over Trevor. He had been tied to the arms of a white, wrought iron chair with Wesley and Red's cravats. When Clara and Wesley returned to the manor gardens, Daphne's hands were trembling from the weight of the gun she held on their prisoner. Though her body might not have had the strength to remain steady, her resolve had not flagged, and her face read that she would not hesitate if Trevor made any move to escape.
"Where is my mother?" Trevor spat.
"She leapt from the mill," Clara said softly. "I'm afraid…"
Her voice trailed off, unable to go further. But Trevor strained against his restraints, crying, "You killed her! I'll make you pay! I'll make you pay! Vive les Quatre Portes!"
The rest of the morning was a blur as the officers arrived and questioned each of them, as Wesley and Clara walked them down to the mill and showed them where Rhoda's body had been trapped. Finally, they were allowed to leave. Trevor shot back a poisonous look at the two of them as he was loaded into the policemen's wagon in handcuffs as accomplice to his mother's crimes. Mr. Hopper watched from the front door, his manner relaxed for the first time since Clara met him.
"Thank you," Daphne said, taking Clara's hand in hers as they watched the wagon drive away. "I never would have known what had happened to my daughter if not for you two. Just knowing has given me some relief."
Clara gave her a squeeze. Though her clothes were filthy and she looked a fright, Daphne did not seem to mind and embraced her like a sister. Red drove the carriage up and Wesley held his hand out to Clara to help her inside. But before Clara got in, she looked back at the manor house. There, in the part of the house that was the closed wing, stood the open curtain which Clara had pulled back just hours before. Standing there was the young ghost of Julie. She gave Clara a smile and a nod before fading into nothing.
"She is finally at rest," Clara whispered.
The ride home was uneventful. Clara was exhausted and Wesley's head sported a massive lump from where Trevor had struck him. The carriage finally pulled up in front of Clara's little house on the square. After they exited, Clara turned to look at Red and said, "Once more we owe you our lives, my friend."
"T'weren't nothing, Mrs. O’Hare," he said, tipping his hat.
"It was something," she said.
"Yes," said Wesley, holding out his hand to shake Red's. "You have proven time and aga
in to be a man of the highest caliber and I am grateful for you, Red. I must admit," Wesley said, smoothing his hair as if embarrassed, "I was unsure of the wisdom of Clara bringing on another member of staff. But you are invaluable. I was wrong to have any misgivings. You are top notch."
Red did not seem to know how to react to such high praise.
"Take the rest of the day for yourself, full-pay," Clara directed. "And tomorrow, too."
Red blushed as bright as his name. "That is awfully kind of you, Mrs. O'Hare."
"Please, call me Clara."
"Awfully kind, Mrs. Clara."
Wesley patted the carriage gratefully and Red drove off. "You could have perhaps waited to give him his holiday until after he drove me home," Wesley jested.
"You, my dear Wesley," Clara said, looping her hand through his arm and looking at the place where he had been struck, "are in desperate need of some nursing and I shall have the doctor come give you a thorough going over before I let you out of my sight."
He smiled wearily. Clara was not encouraged when he did not put up a fight. "That, Clara, sounds like a most excellent plan."
They walked up the stairs and Clara opened the door. Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard were waiting for her, but Wesley could not see them. Their energy had been drained with her being away overnight. It seemed she had three souls to play nursemaid to today.
"Let me get you a cup of tea," Clara said, helping Wesley into the sitting room, "and then I shall fetch the doctor."
He sat down to wait as Clara bustled off. She soon returned with a tray full of delights, but the safe-deposit box from her husband's bank was in the middle of the table and she could not put down her load.
"Wesley, darling," she said. "Would you move that for me?"
He rose and picked it up, but then turned it over in interest. "Whatever are you keeping a safe-deposit box here in your house for?"
"It was the one that Rhoda went to collect, the one that was empty. I thought perhaps it might have some sort of… something… to it that might resonate. It was a foolish notion," said Clara as she placed the tray and began preparing the tea.
"Energy?" Wesley asked.
"Something like that."
"May I?"
Clara smiled and gave a small half-laugh. "Of course. I shall reward you handsomely if you find anything."
He opened up the lid and peered inside. "I thought so…"
"Thought so what?" she asked, his tone giving her pause.
"There is a false bottom in this," he said, pointing to the base.
"What?" said Clara, the teaspoon she was placing on the saucer clanging loudly.
"There," said Wesley pointing at a small hole in the corner.
Clara took out a hairpin and placed it inside the hole. With it, she was able to lift the false bottom. There was only enough room for a single slip of paper. She pulled it out, her heart pounding as she recognized the handwriting. She read it out loud: "'I take these funds to stop a great evil. May god protect my soul from the Quatre Portes.'" At the bottom, he had drawn a square symbol. She looked at Wesley. "It was written by my husband."
Before either of them could say a single thing more, there was a great pounding on the front door. Clara got up to answer it, wondering who on earth it could be. She opened it and standing there were two police officers.
"How may I help you?" she asked worriedly.
"Is Mr. Wesley Lowenherz available?"
Wesley crept up behind her, concern in his eyes. "I am he."
"Mr. Wesley Lowenherz?" the police officer asked.
"Yes, sir," confirmed Wesley, confusion upon his face.
"Mr. Wesley Lowenherz, you are accused of fraud, intention to deceive, and thievery, and we place you under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Rhoda Beltza."
In High Spirits
Book One – O'Hare House Mysteries
By Kate Danley
1
Clara watched in horror as the constables grabbed Wesley by the arms and marched him out of the house. He looked over his shoulder at her, his brown eyes filled with confusion and loss.
"No!" she shouted, picking up the hem of her black skirts and running after them. "Please," she beseeched, holding onto one of the officer's sleeves. "There has been some terrible mistake."
"That's none of our business, ma'am," the constable said, shaking her off.
"Please!" she begged.
With a withering look, the man stated, "Don't make me arrest you for assaulting an officer in the line of duty."
His words were like cold water. She realized, to him, she was nothing but an overly emotional woman, pleading for lenience like so many other women he dealt with day after day. She felt her throat tighten as she stopped her words and forced back the tears which wanted to spill from her eyes.
"I shall be fine, Clara," assured Wesley. His square jaw was clenched, though, as they continued walking him towards the back of the paddy wagon. "This is just some misunderstanding. Go to Marguerite. Tell her what has happened. She'll get it sorted out!"
And then the doors to the wagon were open and Wesley was being pushed inside. They banged shut and the lock was thrown with heavy finality. The police officers did not even look back as they took their place in the driver's seat.
"Wesley…" Clara whispered.
His face appeared in the barred window, his auburn, curly hair bright against the darkness. He gripped the bars, but smiled at her bravely. "Go to Marguerite," he instructed. "She shall know what to do!"
Clara stood there in a daze as they drove away. She did not move, even after the wagon turned the corner and she was left with nothing but empty silence. Not a bird sang in the garden square. Not a single cricket chirped. There was just the oppressive loss.
She turned back to the house, feeling as if she were trapped in some sort of horrible nightmare. Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard stood in the doorway, bearing witness to everything that was happening. But they were living halfway between this world and the next, their ghostly bodies depleted because she had been gone overnight. They were unable to help her except to be friendly shoulders to lean upon.
She was so tired. She looked down at her clothing, muddy and torn from her encounter with the Beltza family. Her body ached from the battle. Wesley had been unjustly arrested. And just when she’d finally accepted her widowhood and moved on, her soul was shaken to its core to discover that her late husband—her beautiful, wonderful Thomas—had been killed by his association with that family. She wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap. To weep until there were no tears left. To let the darkness swallow her whole.
But a movement in the window of her house caught her attention. Minnie's familiar face stared down upon her. This face judged her, it saw her weakness and concluded that even these few moments of self-pity made her unworthy of the love given so freely by Wesley.
Clara bowed her head, ashamed beneath Minnie's silent accusation. The girl was right. There was no room for the despair. She must soldier on. She must stand tall against whatever storm swirled around her for the sake of Wesley. Her new love. Wesley.
She slowly walked up to the house, her heeled boots striking impotently against the stone.
"Oh, Clara," Mrs. Nan clucked, reaching her arms out to draw her in tight. "Never you fear. We shall do whatever it takes to set things straight."
Clara nodded silently. She thought she had wrested her emotions, but this moment of gentle support was enough to make her lose control again. She could not, she whispered to herself as the tears threatened to spill once again. She would not, she commanded herself as she swallowed and breathed deep. "I must away to the police station to see Marguerite. She shall know what to do. Please, Mrs. Nan, if you could, would you lay out fresh things for me?" She looked down at her dress. "I am afraid this is quite unsuitable for the errand I must run."
"Of course!" clucked Mrs. Nan. "You get upstairs this instant and get yourself freshened up. I shall see if I can find Red—"
"I a
m afraid that I gave him the day off," said Clara, cursing herself for her moment of generosity.
Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard exchanged glances. Mr. Willard finally coughed. "I wish that we could send a message to him for you…"
Clara waved his unspoken apology away. "It is my fault your spirits are so weak. Securing a cab shall be the least of my worries today, I fear."
"Never you mind, dear," said Mrs. Nan. "Upstairs with you! We'll get you to the police station as soon as possible and this great misunderstanding will be taken care of. Really! Someone accusing that lovely Mr. Lowenherz of being a murderer and a fraud!"
Clara's mind went through all the events that had happened since she first saw Wesley Lowenherz at that vaudeville theater. The deaths. The curses. "It all comes back to Peter Nero," Clara muttered to herself as she stepped across the black and white tiled floor of her foyer to the stairs.
"What, dear?"
"Nothing," she replied, pushing aside her thoughts. "You are right. I must depart as quickly as possible."
2
"He WHAT?" shouted Marguerite.
Clara and Marguerite sat in Marguerite's office at the police station. The raven-haired investigator had seemed surprised to see her. Clara hated to tell her that the surprises for the day had just begun. The oak paneled room was stifling and cramped. A black fan spun the stale air impotently. It seemed as if Marguerite's files had exploded in just the few short days since Clara had seen her. Cases and notes were all over the office.
"Indeed, Wesley has been accused of being a fraud and a murderer," Clara informed her.
Marguerite got to her feet, her cane slamming into the ground. The bullet wound she endured the night Violet Nero slaughtered everyone in Lord Horace Oroberg's country manor had still not healed. To all appearances, though, Marguerite refused to let such a matter slow her down. "Oh, we shall see about this…"
Clara drew a brave breath before continuing. "I am afraid that there is more to it," Clara confessed. "For you see, if it goes to trial, he is a charlatan…" Marguerite was very still as Clara continued to talk. "But he is not a murderer. And he most certainly did not steal money from—"