The countess seemed somewhat mollified by this, but she was still displeased.
“I’ll request a tea service is brought to you,” Mr. Weber said, urging her to sit down.
With a sniff, she relented, but conveyed quite clearly that her tolerance was at its limit.
Chapter 22
WHO COULD BLAME THE COUNTESS for wanting to leave? Anyone in their right mind would leave this place. It made her feel uneasy about the guests that were still here, potentially unaware of the happenings in the hotel. From Mr. Weber’s perspective, this was his business and he needed to keep it open. It was hard not to be in two minds about it.
But the constable was coming, and all would be sorted out. Hopefully whoever dared to do this would be wise enough to not cause any further damage. Saying that, the incident in the bathroom showed they were still intent on malice.
Then there was the fact that the constable had asked that everyone stay. That made sense, she supposed, as the culprit may flee with the knowledge that the police were coming to investigate.
If this was caused by the ghosts of Roman soldiers, there wasn’t much the police, or anyone else, could do. Maybe they had to turn to priests for protection.
A shiver worked down her spine and she tackled all the unpleasant assumptions she’d have to address if that turned out to be true. The world as she knew it would turn on its end.
What would she say to this constable when he came? What could she say? Obviously, she would tell him everything she’d observed. The dreams were something she could keep to herself. But would she mention that the majority of incidents seemed to be centered around her? Her husband, the person trying to help her, and then messages appearing for her?
It wasn’t true. She hadn’t seen the message in the library first, and Miss Juno had heard the soldiers walking in the hallway before she had. She’d merely confirmed it. It only felt as if this was directed at her.
The rude Italian, Mr. Moran, was the most likely suspect in her book, mostly because he was so deeply unpleasant. The monster doing these things couldn’t fit a mask so perfectly one couldn’t notice, could he? Or she.
Could a woman really do this? The countess and her party seemed much too frightened. Then there was Mrs. Schonberg, who was so cool and aloof. While Clemmie admired her drive and self-belief, there was something in the woman that Clemmie didn’t recognize. Maybe there was even a bit of arrogance there. They were both so… self-contained. It was the only way she could put it. They were kind, but they preferred to keep to themselves, as if the company wasn’t quite good enough for them.
Elitism didn’t make people murderers, but it did show a degree of disregard for other people.
Clemmie had never had to think so hard and thoroughly about people’s personalities before. Back home, it was a fair statement that if they weren’t part of her circle of friends, she didn’t really care about them. And even within that circle, she had mostly cared about her position within it.
She could even be accused of being a shallow person—someone who cared about her wardrobe, about which men wanted to put their names on her dance card, and then about her wedding. But in all fairness, she would rather live a life where she worried more about her social engagements than who would be murdered next!
The hot chocolate in front of her had grown cold. The sweetness didn’t appeal to her anymore, but she didn’t really know what else to do but to sit there and think about the things she knew, assumed and didn’t know.
She kept telling herself the constable was coming, and all would be sorted out.
Sleepiness was creeping in. Her sleep had been so terrible the last couple of nights, she was starting to feel it now. Stifling a yawn, she looked around. No one was in the breakfast room now, and there was nothing to do. Perhaps she should go back to her room and rest for a little while. When she woke, she might feel more hopeful, and less morose.
Rising, she made her way out, and through the mostly vacant lobby. She met a man she didn’t know in the hallway down where the guest rooms were and smiled politely as he passed. As he went, a strong feeling came over her, which showed she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be at home where everything was easy and logical.
Passing a door, she noted that it didn’t look like the others. It was a servants’ door, she recognized. How strange that she didn’t normally notice things like that. Was this the door that Oliver had been taken down through, hidden down there until they could take him away on the cart? Unease bit inside her again. Or had he been hidden in one of the guest rooms? Had he been… alive?
How many entrances were there to the downstairs area? She had no idea. The place was probably riddled with them. There was probably a servants’ staircase up through the entire building. Maybe even more than one. Servants weren’t supposed to be seen walking down the hallways, were they?
Could it be a servant doing this? Someone who hated guests so much they would harm them? Or was it Mr. Weber they sought to harm?
Everything went white. Sharp and white, and the dull sound of a whack. She heard breathing, then nothing. Blackness claimed her, wiping away the fleeting panic that had shot through her, because for an instance, she’d known that something was wrong.
Nothingness gave away to pain, and the continual knocking on her head. It hurt, everything hurt. Her head. Again and again, her head was knocked. At the same time, she felt too languid to move, lingering between
