“What were they talking about? It might give us a hint about his work.”
“Well, funny you ask. Their conversation actually began about the fountain and... it digressed. But I remember Aaron questioning her about some device, a contraption of some kind.”
“What device?”
“I’m sorry, it escapes me. I dismissed it as some Frankenstein fancy of his and at the time, I had taken on the role of entertaining the guests. But he did take her down there.”
“Where?”
“In the cellar. They excused themselves for half an hour.”
“Who was this woman?”
“I honestly cannot remember. But like you, she was French. She’d just returned from a long stay in the Mediterranean. I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask Mrs. Cleary. She remembers names, that one.”
“Your brother had many secrets, Mr. Nightingale,” said Maurice darkly. “I’ll be honest with you. It would not surprise me if the deaths in this house are linked to him.”
John nodded. “You know that’s just the thing about Aaron. Here you are, believing you are investigating two sudden deaths but you’re beginning to understand that Aaron, himself, is his own mystery waiting to be solved. Is that not the case, Mr. Leroux? Do you not see what this house is? I’ve learnt over the years that possessions are a reflection of their owner. But knowing Aaron, he didn’t just fashion Alexandra Hall as his trophy home, it’s likely much more than that. Look at these portraits. Better still, at all the animals. You must learn to interpret them a little more. I’ve tried and I can’t. Anyway, maybe you’ll soon be able to answer this question for me: with a brilliant mind such as his, why did my brother kill himself?”
Maurice was taken aback. “What do you mean? He killed himself?”
“A family secret. No one knows of it and no one is to know. The coroner found traces of poison in Aaron’s body.”
“I did not know this,” was all Maurice could reply. His mind raced. He had fixated on the notion that whoever had caused Sophie and Vera’s deaths, might have also killed Aaron. But poison was in no way the work of a spirit. “How do we know someone did not poison your brother?” he asked, eyeing John with suspicion.
“I know what you are implying by this, Inspector Leroux, but you are misled. My brother took that poison himself. He knew he was dying. He had the time to change his will, right before expiring. He’d locked himself in his bedroom the whole time. There was no one with him when Mrs. Cleary summoned a locksmith to force open the door.”
“I see.” Maurice fell silent.
“Alas, if only you could see.” John appeared to drown his fear in another mouthful of brandy.
Maurice remembered the cellar and peeked sideways at the clock. Gerard would soon be preparing dinner. It might be the only time he could re-enter the underground chamber, unseen. Already a chill worked down his spine at the thought of descending that narrow stairwell.
“Is there anything else you might know about Aaron’s work, Mr. Nightingale? I find it impossible to rule out that whatever occupied your brother may be related to these deaths. And, I suppose now, to his own.”
John seemed to recollect something. “Aaron would often ask me to collect things for him from London over the years.” He paused. He looked grim and stared down at his empty crystal glass.
“What kind of things?”
“Well. Let’s see…” John stood and poured himself another brandy. “Are you sure you don’t want one, Mr. Leroux?”
Maurice saw exactly what had driven John up to now, and why he remained so evasive. It was guilt. The Nightingales’ instinct for preserving their reputation was undeniable. “I don’t like alcohol,” he replied.
“Why, Inspector, that’s unheard of for a Frenchman. Why is that?”
Maurice waved away the question. “It…disagrees with me,” he mumbled.
“Suit yourself.” John replaced the liquor into the cabinet and swirled his glass before sitting back down. “Look around you. All those faces. You can see his obsession can’t you? He’d see something and he just had to have it. It didn’t matter if he had something of the kind already, he desired it in another colour or another shape. He was a collector of things. And when those things bored him, he looked elsewhere. Aaron liked to import exotic shipments.”
Maurice thought back to the numerous stacked boxes in the cellar. “How did you help your brother?”
“I helped supervise the shipments. I signed with my name because he was very clever that way. And in that period there were packages by the dozen.”
“You mean, all those masks, the ivory tusks, the antique books in the library, the Abyssinian artefacts? The scimitars in the rooms upstairs?”
“Those? God, no. I mean illegal shipments. Consignments that needed to somehow evade customs unless of course someone bribed custom officials. If you’d forced open a box, who knows, you might have found a dead African’s teeth or perhaps a skull, and I’m afraid that would only be the start. But to be quite frank, Maurice, I still have no idea what Aaron was up to. I’m sure it was harmless in the scheme of things. It’s not like Aaron murdered anyone.”
Maurice reflected on those words. Something John had said bothered him. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Perhaps they were gifts,” suggested John, catching Maurice’s frown.
He was filling the silence now, thought Maurice. It was the guilt again.
“I recall that on three occasions,” continued John, “a shipment arrived with some mysterious lettering. It was a small package. If my memory is correct, there were three of those over the years. Each time, Aaron assured me they were for Calista.”
“Do you know what
