“No. I really can’t say. It was a fragile consignment. We had to be especially careful transporting it from the ship to here. And we had to do so in a timely fashion.”
“You never looked inside it, yet you seem to vividly recall that particular package. Why is that?”
“Well, it was Aaron who behaved strangely those times. He sent me letters daily. He was anxious to find out if it had arrived. I was to bring it to Alexandra Hall the minute I learnt of its arrival. That’s Aaron for you. I was his little page boy.” John swallowed the last of his brandy and stared at a portrait on the wall. “My God, those are frightening.”
“One more thing, Mr. Nightingale,” began Maurice.
“What would you like to know?”
“Did your brother ever speak about his wife? I mean, Calista. Did he ever… I mean, did he confide in you about anything?”
“How do you mean? About her illness?”
“No. I mean. Just in general… about their marriage. Did they…argue often? Did he say anything at all?”
“Only that she was cursed.”
John blurted out the words before biting his lip. He stared silently at Maurice who had gone pale. Taking a deep breath, John revised what he had said.
“She could not have children. That’s what I meant.”
Return to the cellar
JOHN Nightingale was content to linger in the parlour with another drink in hand while awaiting dinner. Maurice excused himself. He quietly crept towards the empty corridor by the staircase. Aside from echoes of female voices in the commons, not a soul stirred. The maids tended to their chores and would likely not intercept him. He glimpsed Gerard’s busy silhouette through the French doors of the kitchen, then looked at his watch. He had exactly half an hour.
The presence he had seen last night, on his first visit to the cellar, filled him with fear. Would Calista’s spirit reveal itself once more? He dreaded another encounter.
Lamp in hand, Maurice leaned quietly against the cellar door and worked at the lock. A flurry of white hair dashed across the checkered tiles. Before he knew it, Willy bounced at his feet, more playful than ever, its tiny pink tongue searching for his hands. As the dog gave a sharp bark, Maurice felt a jolt of panic. He lowered himself to Willy.
“Hush, you!” He pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head. Willy made joyful leaps to lick Maurice’s hand. “No. No more playing for today,” whispered Maurice. He gestured frantically towards the commons. “Go,” he ordered gently. “Go find Mary.”
The dog hesitated. It looked up at Maurice, wagging its woolly tail and panting loudly.
“Go find Mary,” encouraged Maurice. To his relief, Willy darted out to the washing room.
Without a second to lose, Maurice tore open the cellar door and rushed inside. He ceased thinking. He all but ran through the dark passage and down the stairs. As always, the confined spaces tormented him, but he fought off the sensation. He focused on the steps, paying no attention to the cloying walls or memories. He could hear the sound of his own frightened breath down the passage and the clatter of the lamp as it shook with each step.
Maurice had reached the chamber. He paused, hands on his knees, to recover from his manic race. As he looked down, he noted how wet the ground seemed. While the chamber was a humid place, more so than the rest of the house, this was not what he remembered. The floor’s surface glistened under the lamp’s glow. He shone the light across. Moisture, which had been absent on his first visit, now ran across the floor, all the way to the disturbed boxes. Feeling a chill inch down his spine, Maurice neared the trunks, fearing the worse.
Nothing stirred. The presence that had so frightened him last night was nowhere in sight. Relieved, he rearranged the empty trunks, peering behind them in passing. Nothing. Maurice shone the lamp around the cellar, weary of seeing a rising shadow. Again, nothing.
Nothing except… His eyes were drawn to the table, then to Aaron’s medical case. They caught the shape of several metal objects that should not have been there. Maurice raised his lamp, in disbelief.
The missing spoons from the kitchen cabinet. Seven of them. Maurice was certain they were not present yesterday. Someone had placed them on the table overnight.
Had Mrs. Cleary been right all along? Had Calista’s ghost taken spoons from the kitchen and now returned them? But why? And how? He recalled that several spoons had been found near Vera’s body. Whoever had taken these had likely used them to cause Vera’s fall, even if she had later died of suffocation. Maurice was wary. In the event Calista had never taken those objects, then who had? And who had entered the cellar after him?
He was running out of time. Upstairs, the corridor by the cellar would only remain clear for a few minutes. Maurice turned to the oriental cabinet and pulled open the third drawer. All of Aaron’s work was recorded here. At least, he hoped. Retrieving the remaining two large leather-bound journals, Maurice secured them under his coat.
A sly creaking sound rose from the stairwell behind him. Maurice whipped his head round. He had left the door to the basement unlocked. He hoped Willy had not lured any of the maids to it. His pulse raced as he wondered what he’d heard. Was it Mrs. Cleary? He drew nearer to the stairs and waited. After a few minutes, he shone his lamp within, but there was no one there.
He was about to return upstairs, when he remembered the pipes John had described, and which linked the fountain to
