Calista Page 16

  He was not ready to leave. Not just yet. With cautious steps, he neared the bedside table, keeping his gaze on Mrs. Cleary. Her uncanny black eyes still watched him. The eeriness of those pupils was frightening.

  Maurice listened until he felt reassured by Mrs. Cleary’s regular breathing. He picked up one of the scattered pills by the tipped jar. Retrieving a small pellet from his own pocket, he inspected both gelatine capsules. Maurice frowned as he realised he was staring at identical capsules.

  Astonished by his find, and what it meant, Maurice felt his pulse race. He returned the tiny pellet into his pocket and stared one last time at Mrs. Cleary’s eyes. Had they moved? He was unsure.

  Without a sound, he hastened to the door.

  Maurice was sweating as he re-entered his bedroom.

  He felt glad he had never thought to return Aaron’s bookkeeping journal. He flipped through its pages, knowing precisely the product name he was looking for. He’d remembered its label from the compartment with the broken latch and he knew its pills were the same as those on Mrs. Cleary’s bedside.

  It took him an hour to pierce through Aaron’s tiny handwriting, but he found the corresponding entry for the drug. The last time Aaron had accounted for this medicine was at the start of August, right before his death.

  Maurice caught the generous figure in the last entry and knew something was wrong. With the cellar sealed and abandoned since Aaron’s death in August, there should have been a near full amount of those pills remaining. Yet from what he had glimpsed, only a quarter of this amount remained in the cabinet.

  Had Mrs. Cleary used up the rest? If so, she must have secretly entered the cellar. Perhaps she had even draped herself in a calico sheet to frighten and injure him… Maurice’s thoughts raced.

  What if someone in the house had surprised Mrs. Cleary entering the cellar and helping herself to these drugs? Sophie Murphy, perhaps? He remembered the blazing row Shannon had recounted, and Sophie’s strange words: “You won’t get away with it, Louise.” Shannon believed she had misheard. But after seeing the letters the gardener had given him, Maurice knew Shannon had heard correctly.

  To employ John’s own words, Mrs. Cleary was just another one of Aaron’s hired stray cats. And stray cats possessed secrets. As for Sophie, she had known Jane Cleary’s real name and so she must have been familiar with the housekeeper’s secret past.

  Maurice thought back to Shannon’s other statement: “She gloated about having come upon some money.”

  Ellen had stressed the same: “An expensive one, sir. Shannon even said she was surprised Sophie could afford that sort of hat.”

  Had Sophie blackmailed Mrs. Cleary? It would account for the maid’s unexpected good fortune, and those letters Alfred had found addressed to Louise March. Sophie must have hatched that scheme upon witnessing the housekeeper enter the cellar. Why threaten Louise March over a small misdeed, when she had much more to gain from terrorising her over a darker secret?

  Maurice sighed. It had taken him days but he had at last found some answers. If Mrs. Cleary had been taunted by Sophie, she could not have gone to the police without risking exposure of her true identity. She would have had to rid herself of Sophie.

  I’ve got you, thought Maurice. All the pieces fell into place.

  But what about Vera Nightingale?

  Maurice was disheartened. There was no chance of Mrs. Cleary murdering Vera, for the housekeeper had gone to London at the time.

  Or had she?

  After reflecting upon this, Maurice sat at his desk. His pen ran furiously across a sheet of paper.

  Mr. Wilson,

  I bring to your attention the unsettling contents of Aaron Nightingale’s cellar.

  I have two of his medical journals in my possession. Perhaps they will elucidate what has taken place in this chamber, and what it may mean for your other client, his brother.

  Time, however, is short, and I must speak to you in person.

  I may have made a discovery relating to Sophie Murphy’s murder. I ask you to promptly launch an investigation. I need to know all you can find on a certain, Louise March.

  Now with regards to Miss Nightingale’s death, it appears that Mrs. Cleary had an alibi. Two staff members have sworn that she took the carriage herself the day before and travelled to London to prepare her upcoming immigration to Australia. If this were true, she would have visited the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission. I entreat you to call upon the commissioner to ascertain whether this was the case.

  Inspector Leroux

  On a separate letter addressed to the Reading Town police station, Maurice penned the following,

  This is Inspector Leroux investigating the murder of Sophie Murphy and Vera Nightingale at the behest of John Nightingale. I believe I have a suspect. Please send armed men immediately to Alexandra Hall. Occupants may be in danger.

  There was quiet rap at his door. Maurice rushed to open it, convinced it was Madeleine.

  Before he could reach it, the door swung open, making way for the dark folds of a long black dress. Mrs. Cleary’s gaunt frame advanced towards him.

  He startled, noting how composed and well-rested she seemed while only an hour ago, she had been fast asleep.

  “Good evening, Mr. Leroux.” She feigned light-heartedness but her voice bore an icy quality.

  “Mrs. Cleary, I did not expect you.”

  “Who did you expect?” Her eye travelled to his desk. With a casual hand, Maurice shifted his journal so that it covered the letter he’d just penned.

  “No one, Mrs. Cleary. It is rather late. I will be retiring very soon,” he said, hoping his voice revealed nothing.

  “I thought I might pay you a courtesy visit to apologise for my absence these last two days.” As she spoke, Mrs. Cleary edged closer to the desk. She cast a keen eye on the documents in front of her. Maurice breathed a sigh of relief. The parcel Alfred had given him lay underneath his coat on the table. She would not see it.

  “No harm done,” he chirped. “I understand you have been ill. Are you… feeling better, Mrs. Cleary?”

  To Maurice’s horror, she gave a sly smile. It was an uncanny row of teeth. “I’ve never felt better,” she said, almost sweetly.

  Maurice waited, feeling his discomfort rise. He expected Mrs. Cleary to leave, but she stared at him, her gaze more intense. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Leroux?”

  Maurice felt a coldness spread across his scalp. He suppressed a desire to shrink back.

  “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I thought you might have letters you’d wish to send out. The delivery boy is usually in early on Sundays. I could hand them over to him for you.” There was in her tone, a lick of menace, something unsaid that made the blood rush to Maurice’s cheeks. He wondered if she had seen him creep in her room. Had she truly been asleep? What had she seen with those staring eyes?

  Despite his galloping heartbeat, he straightened, adopting a neutral expression. “No, there’ll be nothing to send out,” he replied. “Thank you for asking, Mrs. Cleary.”

  The housekeeper gave an austere nod.

  “Well, goodnight. I must see to it that the girls have completed all their chores.”

  Maurice felt his pulse return to normal. Had Mrs. Cleary intuited that she was now his primary suspect in the death of Sophie Murphy? He brushed the thought aside. There was nothing he had done or said which would give that away. He was overly anxious, that was all.

  Having regained his calm, he folded his letters and sealed them in envelopes.

  He had just finished writing out the addresses when another tap at the door alarmed him.

  Through the keyhole, he glimpsed Madeleine’s silhouette.

  “Come in,” he whispered as he opened the door.

  Madeleine quietly slinked in.

  “She’s up Maurice. I saw her walk into the commons. I don’t know why she would think of roaming around at ten o’clock at night. Did you do it?” she ask
ed nervously.

  “Yes. I returned the key,” began Maurice. “But in the process, I might have discovered something. I’m afraid it’s not good. I need you to be wary of Mrs. Cleary. I cannot say anything further.”

  Madeleine stared at him in mute astonishment. “You think she might be a murderer?” she whispered.

  Maurice hesitated. “Perhaps. I can’t talk about it.”

  Madeleine fixed him, a look of enquiry in her eyes.

  “You have been a great help, Madeleine,” said Maurice still speaking in a hushed tone, “but I’m afraid that’s all I can reveal for now. I’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, avoid Mrs. Cleary as much as you can. Better still, can you absent yourselves from Alexandra Hall tomorrow? All of you.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No one should remain alone with her until John Nightingale returns next week.” Maurice actually counted on the police’s presence more than anything.

  “Well, we could ask Alfred to drive us somewhere… It’s Sunday tomorrow. I’ll ask Shannon if we could all go to the markets and then sleep at her aunt’s until Monday. She lives in Reading Town.”

  “Perfect. Now, something else.” He blushed. “Have you…time at your disposal early tomorrow morning? Or perhaps tonight? I… I’m in need of your help.”

  “What do you have in mind, Mr. Leroux?”

  “You said you had a solid memory. It might serve this investigation. I need you to search through Aaron Nightingale’s scientific journals. There are too many volumes in his study. I’m afraid I’ll have no time to do it myself and I feel I can…trust you.”

  “What will you get up to while I’m in his study?”

  Maurice smiled. “I’ve discovered Aaron’s personal journals in the cellar. There’s quite a lot to get through. I was hoping to read them while you peruse the bookshelves. Please, I need you to look up anything you can find on this woman.” He seized a pencil from his desk and scribbled the name, Jeannette Power on a sheet of paper. “Here, take this. All I know is she was a scientist and that Aaron was keen to speak with her.”

  Madeleine’s eyes glowed with excitement but there was caution in her voice. “A woman? Really? What kind of scientist? There’s an awful number of books in that study. It’s like looking for a shell in the ocean. Really, Mr. Leroux.”

  “I can’t be certain but I have a feeling that her work relates to…water. Can you look for that? Anything you can. You see, I saw something in the cellar. Whatever it is, it seems to have been extremely important to Aaron Nightingale.”

  Madeleine studied the name thoughtfully. “If I recall, Mr. Nightingale owned many books on sea life,” she replied. “Do you think this woman might have been a marine scientist?”

  Maurice gazed at Madeleine with renewed respect. “Whatever she was or did, John spoke of her this afternoon. He said Aaron took her down to the cellar on his wedding day. If that is true, she is key to Aaron’s secret projects. Start as soon as you can but don’t let Mrs. Cleary see you. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  “Why Mr. Leroux, this is quite an adventure. Of course, I’ll help you. Whoever thought Frenchmen were fun, huh?”

  “Fun? Is that what it looks like? I’m terrified, Madeleine. Everything about this house is wrong.”

  “Now, don’t you start, as well! I’ve seen the same look in Mrs. Cleary’s eyes. Are you quite sure you are not going as crazy as she is?”

  “Well if she is crazy, then we must be ever careful around her. Now hurry.”

  Madeleine opened the door, peering out to check that all was clear.

  “Be careful, Madeleine,” said Maurice as she slipped out of the room.

  When the maid had left, Maurice pulled out the journals from under his vest.

  “À nous deux, maintenant,” he whispered as though Aaron had suddenly become his lifelong adversary.

  It would take him hours to read each journal, and to piece together years of secrets. But whatever Aaron Nightingale had been involved in all these years, Maurice had an unsettling feeling that Calista had been wronged.

  Chapter 11

  Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale

  Alexandra Hall, 1840-1845

  “Man acts upon everything that surrounds him with an animistic force: doctors do not know it.

  Floods of rays escape from him at all times: they have discovered nothing of the kind.

  — Jules Denis, Baron du Potet

  FOR a while now, Calista no longer tasted the joys of simple pleasures. Marooned in the Berkshire countryside, and rather friendless, she had once gained cheer from occasionally treating the maids, and having tea in Mrs. Cleary’s company. Lately all her pastimes had left her with a lingering emptiness.

  It wasn’t that she had become bored of reading Greek philosophy and tending to her garden roses. It wasn’t that she had grown accustomed to Aaron’s kisses or his firm touch. By the same token, the intensity and the quiet manner in which he admired her every move continued to thrill her, as it had, when she had first set eyes on Aaron Nightingale back in Kerkyra.

  But it was true that since leaving her village in Kerkyra, and upon having lived three years in Alexandra Hall, watching her husband disappear in his cellar at long intervals, she soon sensed that Aaron had grown impatient. It seemed her husband withheld something from her, and the very act of not revealing it fed his resentment.

  Whatever the cause, or mechanism for Aaron’s disquiet, Calista succumbed to the trap which those lacking self-assurance tend to fall into. She began to feel ashamed, suspecting that Aaron might have regretted bringing her, a stained woman, all the way to England.

  This tension came to an abrupt head one day, on a rare occasion in which Aaron broke their solitude by inviting an old medical friend to dinner. It was a standout event for Calista.

  Her English had much improved and by remaining quiet most of the time, speaking few words, she believed none could ever guess at her background or her modest origins.

  Calista’s eyes shimmered the moment she donned her new dark blue crinoline dress. She had chosen this one over the crimson or black gown, because she loved the way it showed off her shoulders, and the stunning effect the colour had on her eyes.

  In her village, the blue had been reviled. Here, it often sparked compliments.

  Sophie chirped with delight as she laced up Calista’s perfectly shaped corset and groomed her mistress’ long black hair. Attired in the latest London fashion, Calista could have passed for a Welsh brunette, all traces of her Greek traits wiped away.

  Calista remained withdrawn for the entire meal, playing the accommodating hostess on occasions, but for the most part, letting her English husband drive discussions to avoid any attention on herself that might prove unseemly. She hoped Aaron would be pleased, and then perhaps this dinner would prove to be a new pattern in their lives, and one day, they might even take a coach into London. It wasn’t that Calista disliked Alexandra Hall but part of her felt estranged from the rest of the world.

  The tone was set soon after Shannon had delivered the Yorkshire pudding to the table. Aaron’s elegant guest spoke up and addressed his host with the following words: “I would be doing you a disservice, my friend, if I did not alert you to your reputation among our fellow graduates.”

  “Pray, tell. I am so much of a pariah, these days, it would not disturb me in the least.” Aaron reached to his right for Calista’s hand. “My sister, Vera, knows I am immune to hearsay. No gossip has ever stopped me before.”

  “As a student, you were known for dabbling in animal magnetism, a tenet whose theories have long been disputed if not disproven. It made you downright unpopular. Am I right?”

  “Is that where discussions lead you when you visit the clubs these days? Raymond, this is old news. It’s hardly a scandal.”

  “Oh, but it is, and it pains me to hear it. Several of my colleagues are convinced you’ve given up medical practice on account of past disagreements with leading physicians in this country.”r />
  “Hardly. I’ve given up medical practice because I’ve other means to make a living. And to assuage your curiosity, I never intended to become a practicing doctor. There are more glorious pursuits in this world.”

  “Such as?”

  Aaron reached for his wine glass.

  His friend mirrored the gesture.

  A cold, and almost chilly exchange issued between the two men as they drank.

  “A wonderful wine,” conceded Raymond. “Well of course, you’re a well-travelled gentleman, my friend, and your lifestyle is your affair, after all. But I’ll be honest with you, there is debate among some of us that you might even possess your own laboratory.”

  “My, it would seem I am the talk of town.”

  “Some of us have long suspected that you’ve buried yourself here, far from London, on the sole pretext of one day proving that animal magnetism is real.”

  Calista’s heart began to pound inexplicably in her chest. She stared at their guest, seemingly passive but her eyes widened.

  Aaron had paused, taking in the accusation. Calista took a deep breath and watched the tension in her husband’s jaw.

  “What if I am?” he replied.

  “Come now,” said Raymond, “you are a student no longer. Leave it alone. We both know Mesmer was a charlatan. There is no such thing as a magnetic fluid inhabiting either you or me, nor can it be credited for any healing effect on other beings.”

  “Funny you should say that, Raymond. There is work being carried out as we speak, in France, about its validity in the power of suggestion.”

  “It will all fall apart, as Mesmer’s theories eventually did.”

  “Wrong. I have read Simon Mialle’s treatise, have you?”

  “Never heard of it and most certainly will not bother.”

  “You should. He detailed cases of magnetic healing through the application of animal magnetism for the period between 1774 and 1826. All cures. Every single of one of them. Each of the cases outlined the disease that was treated and the animal magnetic procedure that was applied, followed by the results. And these results spoke for themselves. This is hardly the work of charlatans. But Raymond, before you give way to hearsay and laugh away my ludicrous ideas with your medical colleagues, let me remind you of another case in 1829. It begs to be heard. An adherent of Mesmer, Dr Pierre Jean Chapelain, assisted surgeon Jules Cloquet in a cancerous breast operation performed on a sixty-four-year-old woman. Her name was Madame Plantin. Not an easy operation, and one which could have had tragic effects. Chapelain used the power of suggestion to mesmerise Madame Plantin who reached a state of near-sleep where she was, in all appearance, at rest, with no discernible changes in pulse or respiration, yet capable of conversing during the entire twelve minutes of the operation. Let me finish. Her wound was closed and dressed. Madame Plantin was left in this state for two days. Dr. Chapelain rose her from her mesmerised state after which she continued to feel no pain and had no recollection of what had transpired. Now, Raymond, what do you call this? If not evidence for the effectiveness of animal magnetism?”