Before his marriage, Aaron had built Alexandra Hall, god knows why— a Georgian masterpiece in the middle of the Berkshire countryside. After marrying Calista, he had changed. Her brother had adopted the life of a recluse. Vera remembered how she’d confided to her friend:
“It’s her, you know. She won’t have anything to do with us. No pity for his family.” No room for the sister who loved him more than anyone.
“Just dreadful,” had replied her friend.
“She has him trapped, and nowadays, he barely leaves his cursed mansion.”
As her memories flooded back, Vera lingered in the entrance hall, the sound of her own voice echoing in her mind. His cursed mansion.
Odd, how she had sensed it all along.
Her silk shawl slipped off her shoulder. She reached with her hand to wrap it back over her thin frame. She picked up the lamp by the window sill and walked with it towards the parlour. Her full skirts traced a giant black shadow on the wall.
The entire parlour was shrouded in darkness save for its far wall. There, within a marble fireplace, embers glowed.
Vera advanced through the room, holding up the lamp, feeling her way past the sofa, the Empire armchairs. As she passed the main table, her heart raced. Two dozen pairs of eyes looked down upon her from the walls; a host of faces from afar, immortalised in oil paintings set in gilded frames.
Portraits took up most of the height on each wall, rivalling with one another for space: here, a wealthy Dutch merchant and his pet monkey; there, a Polish hunter hiking in a thick forest with his dog; nearby, a fierce warrior in a golden armour rode a royal elephant from Siam; above, a spoilt Spanish princess sported a mean grin while cradling her puppy; and across, a lion was tamed by his Egyptian master…
Over the last fortnight, Vera had stared at those paintings for hours. She knew them all. Her brother’s tastes sent a chill down her spine.
A distant sound rose in the entrance hall. Somewhere in the house, a door had slammed shut. Vera calmed herself. It was likely one of the maids.
She reached the low-back chair near the chimney. She would rest here, by the fire, well away from the malevolent presence that had watched her for days. It could surface in every room if it wished. It liked to play games. But here, by the warmth of the flames, she felt safe. It did not like the fire. She leaned over, and threw a log into the hearth. A pleasant crackling sound filled the parlour which glowed a bright red.
Vera glanced apprehensively at the dozens of portraits. They were no longer just paintings. A hundred eyes held her gaze and watched her. This room was the heart of Aaron’s questionable home, the heart of Alexandra Hall.
With a name as grand as Alexandra Hall, one could sum up her brother’s delusions of grandeur. It was an understatement to say that Aaron Nightingale relished adventure and drama in his life. No sooner returned from an expedition with his amateur archaeologist friend based in Egypt, he had built Alexandra Hall two years before his marriage. Right here, on the land of their grandparents.
He had the old Berkshire cottage demolished and in its stead, he’d laid foundations for a Georgian mansion. If it had seen visitors, for Aaron preferred to dispense with visitors, this house would no doubt have been the talk of London.
It possessed all the graceful airs of a wealthy country estate. Its heavy entrance doors had come at a pricey sum, with each upper glass pane engraved with a majestic A, entwined with an N — Aaron’s initials. In the years following her brother’s marriage, the upper pane on the right door sported the new initials, C and N, in honour of his wife.
Gentle shade was a welcome balm in the summer when one strolled the veranda along the colonnades. As far as the eye could see, the lawns stretched for acres and were well-tended. At least for a while, thought Vera, cynically.
English pleasures abounded in this oasis of peace and one had only to venture past the rose garden with its mosaic fountain, and there, one would find a small creek shaded by willows.
This magnificent house made of large brick, boasted two storeys with high ceilings, an enormous entrance hall with a grand curved staircase, and three dozen rooms of which the parlour was the largest. Or was it? Vera recalled that there existed another room somewhere in the house. She had seen it in the construction plans, but it was years ago.
She entertained the idea that if Aaron had ever amassed a treasure then it would be kept in that room, wherever it was. But so far, she had found nothing. Instead, a terror had welcomed her.
Vera had only visited Alexandra Hall on three occasions upon its completion. There had been the awkward welcome when the peasant girl, Calista, had arrived in England. The wedding had followed a couple of months afterward, and it had been the only time when Aaron had suffered guests. Friends from as far as France had attended, together with past medical colleagues, scientists, and Aaron’s questionable business partners. Even their younger brother, John, had stayed over.
John was an engineer. He actually did something for a living, unlike Aaron whose profession Vera had never defined. To think that all those years when he attended lectures in Paris had amounted to nothing.
The third occasion came a few years later. Vera had travelled to Berkshire upon receiving Calista’s letter.
