1 A Spirited Manor (6 page)

V
iolet screamed at the sight of
her mother.  She buried her face in Clifford's chest, who awkwardly tried to
provide some comfort.  His face was so pale, he himself might have been
mistaken for a ghost.  Wesley was immediately upon his feet, lighting the
candles so that they might be able to get a better look.  Norman ran to the
poor woman, his fingers upon her throat, searching for a pulse.

"She's dead," he
confirmed.

"Of course she is
dead!" shouted Clifford.  "Her head has practically been snapped from
her body."  Violet gave a muffled cry.  Clifford patted her shoulder
bracingly.  "Apologies, dear."

Marguerite was on her feet at
once, searching the floor as if for footprints or some sort of clue.  "How
in the devil did someone get in here to do this?"

They all stared, the open window
continuing to flap open and shut in the wind, but no longer with the violence of
its initial swing.

"Who said someone had to
get in to do it?" said Norman accusingly.

Marguerite rolled her eyes,
"We were all holding hands.  We would have known if someone let go." 
She looked at each person individually.  "Did anyone let go?"  They
all shook their heads and she turned back to Norman.  "Then that means someone
got in and did it."

Wesley walked over and closed the
window, latching it tight.

Horace pointed his finger
accusingly at Wesley.  "I said we wanted to see ghosts, not be
ghosts!"

Norman joined in his reproach. 
"You're the flim-flam man here.  You tell us how this happened!"

The color drained from Wesley's
face.  "My dear sir, if you are insinuating I had anything to do with this
death..."

"You're in cahoots with
that widow!" Norman replied, now pointing at Clara.  "You and your
false stories of fake ghosts dressed in purple.  You distracted us while the
murderer got in!"

"What?" she said, aghast. 

"None of us have ever seen
you before tonight.  And despite the fact all of us have occupied a room
together in the past, none of us have ever ended up dead until you showed
up."

Clara gulped.  "Do you mean
to say that I killed this woman?"

"I can assure you that her
hand never left mine," Wesley said, stepping forward to protect her if
Norman continued his rant.

Horace waved away Norman's
accusations.  "Please.  A woman's delicate touch could not have done such
an act.  Strangulation, perhaps, but snapping another woman's neck?  She
wouldn't have the strength.  And you call yourself a scientist!  I find your
powers of observation do not fill me with confidence in your skills."

Norman pulled down the bottom
edge of his waistcoat, as if Horace was throwing down a challenge. 
"Fine.  So, it needs to have been a man with strong hands who was not in
our circle.  Is that what you're saying?"

The entire room stopped.  As
one, they all turned and looked at Gilbert, hulking Gilbert, with his massive
hands and long arms.

"I swear to you all that it
was not me," the butler protested.

Horace stepped forward speaking
slowly so that there could be no misunderstanding.  "Gilbert, did you send
home all of the house staff as I requested?"

Gilbert's eyes were wide, aware
of how bad this appeared.  "I did, sir.  We are quite alone."

"It was him!  It was him, I
say!" shouted Norman.  "The butler did it!"

Horace waved him down and turned
back to Gilbert.  "You realize that I am forced to confine you to your
rooms, Gilbert, until the police are able to conduct a full investigation."

The butler nodded but did not
make any protest.  "I understand fully, sir, the unfortunate situation as
it appears to be."

"Very well.  If someone
would care to come with me to witness the confinement.  I won't have it be said
that I let a faithful servant escape because of old loyalties or some such
rot."

"I would be happy to go
with you," offered Wesley quietly, trying to let Gilbert know he would not
condemn him until his guilt was proved.

"Not you!  I do not trust
you as far as I can throw you!" said Norman.

"Fine, Norman!  You come
along then, too!" snapped Horace.

"Why do you all act as if I
am committing some wrong by pointing out the truth of what is going on?"

"I was the fool who brought
you here.  I will be the fool to put up with your nonsense," said
Marguerite as she took Norman's elbow.  She gave Horace a little wave. 
"Norman and I will go with you."  She then turned back to the remaining
group.  "Wesley?  Stay here and make sure that Clifford doesn't do
anything untoward towards the girls, will you?"  Clifford opened and
closed his mouth like a fish in protest.  "Don't pretend, Clifford.  It
looks unseemly.  Lead the way, Horace!"

Horace nodded gruffly and
motioned for Gilbert to walk in front of him.  They all marched out of the room,
leaving Wesley, Clifford, Violet, and Clara to keep poor Hilda's body company.

Violet was sobbing quietly into
Clifford's shoulder.  He kept looking over at her mother's body uncomfortably. 
"There, there. No one liked her very much in the first place."

Violet gave a violent gasp and
pushed him away.  Clara rushed over to embrace her as Clifford realized his
callousness.  With her arm around Violet's shoulders, Clara tactfully suggested,
"Perhaps you would like to see Violet to her room, where she can lie down
until the police arrive."

Clifford seemed immediately
relieved to have some sort of helpful direction in this moment of crisis.  He gently
guided Violet to her feet and towards the door, looking highly uncomfortable by
her emotional outbursts.

"Quite the happy couple,
aren't they?" Wesley remarked under his breath.

Clara looked over at him. 
"Your thoughts mirror my own."

He grimly smiled, as if he was
unaware that he had spoken those words aloud.  "Apologies.  It was an
inappropriate comment in such a moment of tragedy."

Clara shook her head.  "I
find it the most appropriate of sentiments.  Her own mother, killed before her,
and him unable to manage.  Poor thing.  She deserves better than that."

Wesley stared at the dead woman.
 "And so we find ourselves in the uncomfortable position, Mrs. O'Hare, of
deciding what to do next."

"Please, call me Clara.  I
find that enduring a murder is an occasion to drop formalities."

He reached over and gripped her
hand and she gripped his hand back.  She could not help but to think how grateful
she was to have him here to offer his strength if she needed it.  She tried not
to imagine what this night would have been like without him.  It would have
been beyond endurance.

And then she realized she had
been standing there for some minutes, just holding on to him, without saying a
word.  She cleared her throat.  "Perhaps we should contact the
authorities."

Wesley held her hand for a
moment longer before giving it a squeeze and heading out of the room.  "Of
course.  That is a most sensible course of action."

There was a phone hung in the
hallway.  Clara had never used one before, but Wesley made straight for it.  She
followed behind.  He picked up the black receiver and placed it to his ear.  He
jiggled the hook.  "Hello?" He spoke into the mouthpiece on the
wall.  "Hello?"  Disappointed, he placed the receiver back in its
crook.  "The line appears to be dead."

Clara looked out towards the
windows.  "Most likely this storm has severed the lines.  We shall have to
ride into town."

Wesley nodded grimly and strode
towards the front door.  He opened it up and was greeted by sheets of rain. 
Clara peered out from around his steady frame.

"You cannot take a
carriage," she said.  "The wheels would get stuck in the mud within a
few minutes of being on the road."

"I shall go by horseback,
then," he replied.

She cautioned, "Perhaps it
is best to wait until morning."

He turned, placing both hands
upon her arms in a gesture which was strangely protective and familiar for one
she had just met.  "There is a murderer in the house and a dead woman in
the parlor.  As much as I would enjoy spending the evening here with you before
a warm fire, there is no time to wait."

She nodded in understanding,
respecting him even more for placing himself in harm's way in order to ensure
their safety...  her safety...  She reached over to the stand and took a hat
and overcoat from the hook.  She passed them to him.  "Be safe,
then."

He took the hat from her and
placed it upon his head, and allowed her to hold the jacket as he fit his arms
into the sleeves.  Out of habit and without thinking, she found herself
smoothing the shoulders and turning him to straighten the front lapels like she
used to do for Thomas.  She stopped herself, realizing her hands now rested
upon the strong muscles of his chest and she was standing too close for a woman
who was not his wife.  He looked upon her, his brown eyes smoldering with something
more than just duty as they gazed at one another.

"Promise me you will be safe,
Clara.  I would be most distressed if something were to happen to you while I
was away."

She smiled, picking a bit of
lint from his collar, the gesture strangely intimate.  "I shall promise
you that gladly."

He nodded once more and then
stepped away to stride into the darkness.  Clara watched him for as long as she
could see him, which was not all of ten steps.  The rain was fierce and blowing
almost sideways.  Lightning lit up the sky and for another moment, she saw his
silhouette against the sky.  She hoped that she would see him again.

S
he closed the door.  The sound
of feet came from the hallway behind her and she turned.  Horace, Marguerite,
and Norman emerged.

"Is all well?" she
asked.

"As well as it could
be," said Horace.  "Damnable surprise this.  Who would have thought
Gilbert, after all these years of service, would sink to such violence?  No
accounting for the help these days.  You treat them fairly.  You give them a
home and shelter and honest work, and they then go kill a woman in your own
parlor.  Well, I shall think twice before hiring a butler stronger than myself,
I tell you!"

Marguerite rolled her eyes. 
"Please, Horace.  Let the police determine his guilt before you play judge
and jury."

Horace didn't make a reply, just
harrumphed and looked towards the parlor uncomfortably.  "Well, I suppose
we should decide what to do with Hilda next."

"You should leave the crime
scene untouched so that the police can do their jobs!" Norman insisted in
his whiny pitch.

"Be quiet, Norman,"
Marguerite sighed.

"Wesley... I mean... Mr. Lowenherz
has left to fetch the authorities," said Clara.

"Went out in this
storm?"  Horace pointed at the phone.  "He could have called!"

Clara shook her head.  "Wesley
tried, but I'm afraid he said the lines are down.”

“Does he even know how a
telephone works?”

“He seemed familiar enough with
it.  I’m sure he was doing it correctly.”  Clara pointed outside, “The rain and
wind really is so terrible, a tree must have interfered."

"Well, a damnable nuisance
that."  Horace peered out the window.  "He went into that storm,
then?  I hope we don't have two bodies to deal with come morning."

"Horace, please,"
Marguerite said.  "Things are getting downright morbid."

"There is a dead woman in
the parlor, Marguerite," Norman pointed out.

"That is still no reason to
go losing our heads."

"Like her?"

Marguerite gave him a look which
caused him to shut up.  "We are going to go into the dining room and are
going to help ourselves to a drink to steady our nerves.  And then we are going
to wait until the police arrive and get this whole mess sorted.  And then we
were going to go to bed and wake up in the morning and deal with whatever the
day deals us.  Do you all understand?" she asked.  Her tone brokered no
nonsense and the entire company seemed quite happy to allow her to take command
of the situation.

"Thank you," Clara
murmured to Marguerite as they entered the dining room.

"For what?  For finding an
excuse to empty Horace's liquor cabinet without looking like a callous drunk? 
We should be thanking Hilda.  He'll break out the good stuff, now."

Clara stood still for a moment,
and Marguerite did not seem to notice that she did not keep pace.

Really, thought Clara, what a
houseful of horrible human beings she found herself trapped with.  She looked
back at the door, wondering if Wesley was still safe or lost in the rain and
when he might return.  She wondered for a moment if she should perhaps go out
and search for him so that he was not traveling alone when Marguerite placed a
tumbler full of something in her hands.

"Cheers!  Hilda is
dead!"

"One should not speak ill
of those who have passed," Clara tactfully replied.

"You didn't spend much time
with her.  If I knew who killed her, I'd probably kiss him on the mouth."

"Marguerite!" said
Horace in shock.

"Come now, don't pretend
you don't feel the exact same thing.  She was a pain in your backside and as
tragic as a death might be, things suddenly get a whole lot easier for
you."

Horace's eyes narrowed and Clara
saw a flash, just for a moment, of the man who had found killing the creatures
now beheaded and hanging from his walls great sport.

Clara looked at them both. 
"What do you mean?"

Marguerite lifted her glass to
her lips.  "Oh, nothing.  Just fun and games with Nero inheritance rights. 
Cracking good decision to get that daughter of hers all engaged to your son,
wot wot!" she said, mockingly at Horace.

But before Clara could inquire
further, the sound of the door flinging open filled the house.  They all ran
out into the hallway.

Wesley stood there, drenched to
the bone.  He removed his borrowed hat and tried to brush off some of the water
in a futile gesture.

"Well?  Did you get the
police?" asked Horace.  "Are they on their way?"

Wesley shook his head.  "I
got as far as the bridge, but it is completely washed out.  The river has risen
and there is no crossing it.  I'm afraid that we are on our own until this
storm passes by.  There will be no getting in or out until the water level drops. 
I wouldn't be surprised if the entire area doesn't flood."

Horace clasped his hands behind
his back and tried to see a bright side.  "Well, at least the house was
built upon an elevation.  Bedrock foundation.  We shall be quite cozy and dry."

"And sitting ducks for
whenever the murderer decides to show up again," pointed out Marguerite.

They all looked at one another. 
Horace took the key out of his pocket and went to the front door.  He closed it
and locked it.  He then went to the parlor, shut that door and locked it, too.

He placed the key in a small
pocket in his waistcoat meant for a watch.  He patted it soundly and said,
"Well, that is the only entrance to the parlor and I am the only one with
a key.  We shall just keep it locked until the police arrive.  I shall make my
rounds around the house since Gilbert is indisposed and ensure that all the
doors and windows are fastened." 

Wesley just stood by the front
door, dripping sadly.

"Perhaps it is best if we
were all to bed," Clara offered, going over to help Wesley remove his coat
and hang the sopping mess where it would not ruin the floors.  "I am sure
things will look much different in the morning.  There is nothing to be
accomplished tonight besides fret.  I advise all of you to finish your drinks. 
We shall lock ourselves into our rooms, just in case the murderer is still at
large, and hopefully with the dawn, a course of action will present itself."

They all nodded in agreement. 
Marguerite went back into the dining room to pour herself another glass.  Clara
held her hand out to Wesley, inviting him to come with her.

They walked up the stairs and
passed the bathing room.  Clara went inside and grabbed several fresh towels for
Wesley.

"Dry yourself off.  I would
hate for you to catch your death of cold when there seem to be so many other
ways of catching death around this horrible home."

He laughed, even as he shivered
slightly.  "You are too kind, Clara."

"Not at all.  You went out
into that storm to save us all.  Finding you a towel is truly the least I can
do.  Would you like me to come in and build up the fire in your room?"

"I can see to it," he
replied.  They stopped in front of Clara's door.  It was open and she could see
her bag waiting for her at the foot of the bed.  He rested his hand upon her
arm.  "Let me examine your room to ensure it is safe before you go
in."

She nodded, the frightful wisdom
of his caution chilling her almost as deeply as if she was the one who went
into the storm.  She let him go first, but followed him into her chambers.  Wesley
looked beneath the carved double bed, opened up the wardrobe to look inside. 
He tested the windows to make sure that they were locked and made sure no one
was hiding behind the curtains or door.

He gave her a nod.  "It
appears to be safe," he said.

"Thank you," she
replied.

They stood there in silence for
a moment.  He reached out his hand to shake hers.  "You are quite a brave
woman, Clara.  It is a shame such a tragedy had to strike.  It was quite a
pleasure to make your acquaintance and I am so sorry that our first memories of
each other will be marred by such a terrible turn."

She smiled at him.  "If
such horrendousness had to happen, I must say that I am glad to have you here
to take care of things.  I hate to think how different this all would be if
Norman or Horace were left to sort things out."

He nodded, and then returned her
smile.  He gave her hand one last squeeze before saying, "Now, lock your
door behind me and promise that you shall not leave until dawn."

"You have my word,
Wesley."

He began to walk out, and then
paused, turning around.  "I like when you say my name," he said, and
then left down the hall.

Clara watched him until he
disappeared into his own room, then shut her door and locked it.  She paused,
resting her hand upon its wood frame and whispered, "I like saying it,
too."