A small ink bottle had tipped over, staining the journal’s right edge. Maurice felt the paper and frowned. The ink had barely dried. The remaining writing implements were laid out on the left of the desk.
“Was Mr. Nightingale left-handed?” he asked, wondering if anyone had re-arranged the objects on the desk since Aaron’s death which would surely account for the spilt ink.
“Yes, he was. He used to say that boarding school had taught him otherwise, but he preferred to write with his left hand. So did she.”
“She? You mean, his wife?”
“Yes, Mr. Leroux. Mrs. Nightingale learnt to keep accounts over time. Mr. Nightingale had a tutor come by during her first years in England. For years afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale worked together.”
Discarding the stained journal, Maurice sighted a white ceramic bust sitting upon the raised portion of the desk. He had not noticed the statue until now because it seemed partly hidden, its face turned away against a pot of dried plants. He reached for the bust, his sense of details stirred by the odd feeling it had given him.
The generous bearded locks had gathered dust. Maurice stared avidly into the face. He noted the wavy fringe, the broad, handsome features with two horizontal lines on the forehead. The bridge of the nose seemed narrow between the man’s small eyes, and the mouth appeared to clamp shut. A thinker, the owner of that face was in his late forties at most.
Where have I seen that man before, he wondered, as he replaced the ceramic bust. His eyes shifted to the back of the room.
Bookshelves filled the entire wall behind Mr. Nightingale’s desk. On each row, expensive science and medical volumes with gilded leather spines were arranged in alphabetical order. An entire row dealt with the animal kingdom. He glimpsed a volume by a certain Georges Cuvier, another by a Professor Edward Forbes. Maurice ran a finger across the top of one shelf, then brought it to his eyes. No dust.
Up to now, Mrs. Cleary eyed him intensely. He had even sensed her distress when he had picked up the bust ornament.
“Anything wrong, Mr. Leroux?”
“Has anyone entered this room since Mr. Nightingale passed away?”
“Miss Vera came in briefly to look for correspondence. Other than that, the girls dust the shelves once a week but I assure you they do not touch anything else.”
“And what about this week, or just today?”
“No one has entered this room since Miss Vera Nightingale passed away, Mr. Leroux.”
Maurice eyed the spilt ink once more but kept his thoughts to himself. He studied the rest of the room.
“What sort of correspondence do you think Miss Vera was looking for?”
“That is why you are here, Mr. Leroux. I am afraid I cannot help you,” replied Mrs. Cleary drily.
As the housekeeper spoke, Maurice’s eye was drawn to the glass cabinet, opposite the window. On the top shelf, he could make out maps, weighted down by another ceramic bust. The sculpture’s face was turned away, facing the wall.
Maurice walked to the cabinet and tugged at the latch to open the glass panel. The panel resisted.
Mrs. Cleary’s eyes grew sharp.
“What are you doing? This cabinet is locked.”
“Do you have the key?”
“Mr. Nightingale may have kept it in his first drawer.”
Maurice returned to the desk and rummaged through the first drawer. He stood back, a little startled at the numerous glass vials inside it. The tiny bottles were filled with a curious liquid. Maurice reached past them, then carefully felt towards the back of the compartment.
“I think I’ve found the key.”
“What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Leroux?”
“I want to see those maps,” he lied. She would have to learn to trust him while he performed his work. Her manner was suffocating.
He inserted the matching key and opened the glass pane. He had no interest in the maps. The ceramic bust troubled him. Why was its face turned away, exactly like the bust on the desk?
He reached for it and recognised the features. The same man. Maurice searched through his memory. Handsome, broad cheeks, profuse beard, wavy locks…
“That will be all, Mrs. Cleary. I shall be delighted to work here from time to time.”
Her jaw tightened as she nodded.
“Then I shall ask Gerard, our cook, to prepare dinner.”
But as Mrs. Cleary spoke these words, she no longer looked at Maurice and her gaze lingered instead to the back of the room.
Sensing the housekeeper’s uneasiness, Maurice followed the direction of her eyes. In the last instants, the sun had set and Aaron’s books were cast in darkness. Yet aside from the advancing night, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. When Maurice turned around, Mrs. Cleary had left.
Dismissing her odd behaviour, he retrieved the topmost map and studied it as though he were peering into Aaron Nightingale’s secrets. He recognised the land formations. It was an antique map of the Mediterranean, nothing more.
Maurice replaced the map in the cabinet and weighted it down with the bust, this time with the face turned outwards.
The infernal
MAURICE longed to rest after his day’s journey but the night saw him stir and awaken at ten o’clock. Staring up at the high ceilings, then at the oil portrait on the wall across his bed, he met the stern face of a black-clad conquistador gazing down upon him.
In this bearded Spaniard’s gloved hands, the tropical parrot seemed to come alive. Its large eyes circled before glancing back at Maurice. Maurice blinked, still half-asleep. The parrot looked to the window as it always had.
Outside, wispy clouds occluded all but a sliver of the full moon. An eerie glow poured through the veiled window, casting its blue rays on a frayed rug.
It was always a struggle to fall asleep in odd surrounds, breathing in musty odors.
