“Ellen, be quiet!” cut in Shannon as she slapped a hand on the table.
Maurice ignored her. “Go on,” he urged Ellen.
“She was acting… strange, like she was afraid and seemed about to swoon. So I ran back inside and I saw her trembling and clutching the stairs. She looked awful.”
“She was just ill,” dismissed Shannon.
“No!” cried Ellen. “She told me she saw Calista’s ghost. Then she collapsed on the stairs and did not move. I thought she was passed out but Gerard came out of the kitchen to see how she was and she told him she would be retiring for the rest of the day.”
“I see,” replied Maurice.
“She’s resting now,” explained Shannon after lapsing into silence. “I think we’ll get along just fine without her. We’ve got plenty of work to get through before Sunday. You finish cleaning up, Ellen, and we’ll be on our way.”
Ellen promptly obeyed.
“May I ask you something, Miss O’Sullivan?” asked Maurice who still lingered by the doorway.
“What is it?”
“This scar, on your hand, how did you get it?”
Shannon blushed.
“It’s not so bad. It’s a long story. Willy bit me.”
Maurice frowned. “Willy? Mary’s little dog? You find me surprised. It looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“I don’t know what came over him that day. But it’s been years. He’s been harmless ever since. There’s nothing to worry about now.”
Maurice reflected on Willy’s unusual behaviour.
“What about the scars I see on Mary’s neck and arms?” he asked, watching Shannon’s reaction.
Her eyes had widened. “I don’t know what you mean,” came her evasive reply.
“Very well.” Maurice sighed. Shannon was too fearful to speak against the housekeeper. He returned to the purpose of his visit. “Miss O’Sullivan, have you ever heard of the name, Ovee?” he asked, feeling his pulse quicken.
Shannon looked confused though the earlier tension in her voice was gone. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Maurice nodded. He’d have to ask Mrs. Cleary later.
He left the room. As he neared the kitchen, he glimpsed Madeleine, helping Gerard tend to the stove. She’d rolled up her sleeves and bore stains up to her elbows. Both were laughing, and even Gerard sported a rare grin as he applied black lead to the cast iron surfaces.
Catching sight of Maurice, Madeleine whispered something to the cook then darted to the French doors. She poked her head out. “Now is the right time,” she whispered. “I can fetch that key for you.”
“How will you manage?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” she smiled. “Shannon’s found herself a new role as housekeeper. She’ll be keeping us busy all day. But don’t worry. This afternoon, I plan to sneak into Mrs. Cleary’s bedroom. I’ll find that key. If she awakes and surprises me, I’ll say I was looking for next week’s grocery list.”
“Didn’t you tell me earlier this week she sleeps with her eyes open? What if she sees you?”
“No fuss, Mr. Leroux. It’ll be fun. You’ll have that key by your bedside tonight.”
The cellar
MAURICE felt anxious all day. He feared that Mrs. Cleary might awake before Madeleine had the chance to fetch the cellar key. It was around eight o’clock when he climbed upstairs just as Madeleine furtively emerged from his bedroom. She nodded, then walked past him.
“Done,” she whispered. “Shannon caught me leaving Mrs. Cleary’s room. I told her I had come in to pick up soiled linen and didn’t find any.”
“Thank you, Madeleine.”
As Madeleine dashed downstairs, Maurice entered his bedroom and closed the door. He found a copper key by the bedside and slid it into his pocket.
He waited for hours. When he was certain the household had retired, he rose and left his bedroom. It was a humid night and the moist air had clouded all the windows of Alexandra Hall.
Clad in his woollen nightrobe, Maurice carried a small lamp which he would light once he was through the cellar door. The faint moonlight from the high windows illuminated his path down the staircase. In place of leather shoes, he’d worn his slippers to muffle the sound of his footsteps. He hoped this might also allay suspicion should he be discovered roaming the house at night.
As he reached the ornate cellar door on the first floor, he glimpsed a slithering shadow behind him, towards the stairwell. Maurice faced the stairs, blinking into the gloom. An undisturbed stillness greeted him. He waited, peering into the dark with his pulse racing. What if Mrs. Cleary had awakened? What if she followed him inside the cellar and saw what he was up to? What would he do? He stood by the door for a few more minutes. The silence held and nothing stirred.
Breathing a sigh, Maurice turned to the cellar door. He inserted the key with care and disengaged the lock. Holding his breath, he pushed. Much to his relief, the hinges did not creak. He lit his small lamp and stepped inside.
A narrow stone passage lay before him, unlit, and of such height, he was forced to crouch as he advanced. He reached a set of stone steps and began to descend. He wondered how Aaron Nightingale would have fared going down these stairs. According to portraits, the Englishman stood much taller than him.
The steps continued deeper than Maurice could have guessed and after a few seconds, a tight feeling gripped his chest. In this narrow stairwell, closed in, and cast in darkness, a familiar fear stirred. His memories resurfaced, uninvited.
Years ago, Therese, in one of her many fits of cruelty, would lock him inside the pantry.
Maurice pressed a hand against the cold
