Maurice drank his tea. He was ready to wave it all away as the ramblings of a lunatic.
A glint flashed in her eyes. “I’ll show you now, if you like.” She stood firmly. “Come with me.”
He stood, a little reluctantly. They walked across the veranda, stepped silently through the house and towards the kitchen.
Gerard was absent. He had left the French doors wide open. Maurice intuited he might have gone out to smoke.
Mrs. Cleary led Maurice to a large glass and mahogany closet at the back of the kitchen. “See for yourself,” she said, gesturing to the bottom shelf.
Maurice inspected the cabinet. Behind the glass panel, a collection of silver spoons hung upon a wooden board. But where there should have been others, the slots remained empty.
“Yes,” he nodded, still not convinced. “I do see that half these silver spoons have gone missing.”
“They did not just go missing. It was her. She took them!”
“Why would any…ghost… wish to possess these spoons? Mrs. Cleary, I don’t see…”
“Because she’s playing with us. When Gerard found Miss Vera after she died, he said there were spoons scattered along the staircase and in the entrance hall. Don’t you see?” She eyed him intensely with those black pupils, waiting for him to see what to her was all too evident.
Maurice sighed. “No, Mrs. Cleary, I do not see. If anybody took these spoons it was a person of flesh and blood. Did you report these missing objects to Mr. Nightingale?”
She stifled a mocking laugh and stood upright. “One must never, never disturb Mr. Nightingale. And after his wife passed away, well, he was a changed man. I mean, why would I bother him with spoons? Of all things. He was an awfully busy man. He fixated on whatever project obsessed him. Nothing else mattered.”
“What about the other maids?”
“I already searched their things. It was not the maids.”
“Perhaps Mr. Nightingale himself took away those spoons,” offered Maurice, tired of her games.
“He would not…”
“What about Alfred? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. He is not permitted inside the house.”
“Don’t believe a word that man says. If he were so inclined to come inside, there’d be no one to stop him.”
Maurice was intrigued. Here was Mrs. Cleary insinuating that Alfred could not be trusted. As he pondered over this, a loud clamour of pots and pans rose from the front end of the kitchen. Mrs. Cleary was violently startled by this noise. Her eyes doubled in size and she gasped. Maurice heard the sound of a door slamming shut. The housekeeper wailed and clutched at her throat. She appeared to swoon, before suddenly gripping the back of a chair, trembling, her face ashen, her lips blue.
Maurice dashed to the front of the kitchen. Gerard was nowhere in sight. Seeing that the French doors were still opened, he wondered what door he had heard slam shut. Had someone been eavesdropping their conversation? He stepped out. The passage was clear, yet the small white Bolognese growled by the stairs.
“Willy! What are you doing here?” cried a young voice.
A maid emerged from the corridor. She reached for the dog and swept it up in her arms. “You know you are not supposed to be here,” she chided, burying her face into its belly. Conscious of Maurice’s gaze, she shuffled away.
Maurice studied the empty staircase and wondered why the dog had growled at it. He re-entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Cleary slumped on a chair.
“Would you like a glass of water, Mrs. Cleary?”
“Could you please?”
Maurice grabbed the pitcher on the table and poured her a drink.
Her voice rose behind him. “Do you believe in Greek mythology, Mr. Leroux?”
It was an odd question. He walked to the pump and refilled the pitcher. “I studied a little of it during my years at the Sorbonne,” he answered. “I remember that I enjoyed it.”
“Did you, now.” She nodded to herself, as an unconvincing smile twisted her lips. “So you would know all about the story of Medusa?”
Maurice startled. “Medusa. Well, I remember some of it, yes.”
She sipped her water, still gazing up at him with her little black eyes.
Maurice tried to remember. “Medusa… Well, let’s see. She was a gorgon. Wasn’t she? Why are you asking about Medusa?”
“Perhaps you should return to your native France before you find yourself face to face with something you might regret.”
“Is that a warning, Mrs. Cleary?”
She did not reply. She finished drinking her water.
Maurice drew out a cigar from a case in his pocket. He lit it impatiently. “You’re wasting my time, Mrs. Cleary.”
“All I know, Mr. Leroux, is that there is something in this house.” She stood upright. “I feel better now. As I said, things go awry around here. But we won’t need to put up with it for much longer. Once John Nightingale moves in, I’m sure he’ll set things straight.”
She made towards the doors.
Maurice reflected upon her grasp of Greek mythology.
“Wait a moment, please. Would you know a little Greek?” he asked.
Mrs. Cleary turned. Her face had softened.
“Only a little,” she said, regretfully. “It was Mrs. Nightingale who taught me. We use to…speak a little. Why are you asking?”
Maurice thought back to the words on the tombstone.
“What does… panta rhei mean?”
A sly smile drew itself on her face.
“So you’ve seen her grave.”
“Yes, I strolled past. I studied some Greek decades ago but forgot most of it. I thought you might know.”
“Everything flows. Panta rhei…. It means, everything flows. It was Calista’s favorite saying. In her first years in Alexandra Hall, she liked to read Greek philosophy in the library upstairs. There is a longer version. Let’s see… Pánta khôreî kaì oudèn ménei.”
“Which means…”
“Everything flows, and nothing stands still.”
