1 A Spirited Manor (8 page)

He came over and looked at it. 
"Never seen it before in my life."

"I wonder how it got
here..." Clara mused.

"Perhaps the murderer used
it to get into the house," offered Marguerite.

"Or Norman brought it with
him for some reason and he threw it aside so that the murderer would not find
it," Wesley guessed.

Horace took it and folded it,
placing it in his pocket with some finality.  "Whatever it is, we shall
save it for the authorities.  Perhaps it is the calling card of our killer.  The
maze murderer or some such rot."  He looked about the room, the defeat in
his eyes.  "Can we not  retire to the dining room?  We really shouldn't be
playing private investigator before the police have an opportunity to look at
the crime scene.  I find myself in need of a good, stiff drink," he
admitted.  "This really has been a terrible... most terrible...
night..."

The sight of such a proud man so
utterly destroyed was enough for all of them.  Wesley nodded and the others
silently agreed, retreating into the dining room, but not before Clara turned
the knobs on all the lamps to extinguish them, plunging the library once more
into darkness.  Horace locked the door after they had all exited and sealed the
room.

V
iolet rested her head upon the
table, her arms folded to serve as her pillow.  Her mousy sausage curls hid her
face like the drapes of a weeping willow.  Her shoulders shook softly with
silent sobs.  Clifford was pouring himself another drink and turned guiltily as
the others entered the room.

"Did you get it all solved
then?" he asked.

"No," snapped his
father.  "And if you are going to drink me out of house and home, why
don't you pour me a glass, too?"

"Seems like I'm only
drinking us out of Violet's house and home, Father, since you saw so well to
that," he slurred.

"I hate you," Violet muttered
quietly from the table.  "I hate you all!"

Clara took Wesley's arm, needing
contact with a rational, sane soul to steady her as the fighting escalated.  It
was as if they did not even care that a murderer might be near and three of
their companions were now dead.

"Father," Clifford
said, turning to Horace and swaying slightly.  "Are you going to let her
speak to me this way?"

"Quiet, boy!"  Horace
took the tumbler full of scotch from his son's hand and downed it himself.  He
waved the glass in his son's face.  "You go find a nice corner to curl up
in to sleep it off.  In fact, all of you find nice corners to rest.  I'll take
first watch and when I come to hand it over, I want everyone bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed and not falling asleep on the job."

Clifford bristled, red-faced and
sweaty.  "I shall not be tucked off into some corner like the women.  I
shall take the first watch like a man!"

Violet slowly sat up in her
chair, the sound of Clifford's voice suddenly seeming to cause something to
snap.  She looked at him with such hatred, such rage in her eyes.  "No,
you shan't."

"What?" he asked,
turning towards her.

"Like a man?  You are
utterly incapable of protecting anything like a man.  We would be better off
just opening the doors and allowing the murderer to come take us!" she spat.

"Now, now, my sweet, shy
Violet.  You have been under such duress this evening," Clifford said,
trying to calm her down.  "It is no wonder that you are out of sorts.  Go
rest yourself."

"It is no use!" she
shouted, hysteria taking over.  "We are all going to die!  Just like my
mother died!  Just like Norman died!  Just like dear Gilbert died!  And you
think that you are capable of protecting us when men like that could not?"

"I assure you I am quite
capable of fulfilling my manly duties," said Clifford, completely confused
at this turn.

"Manly duties?  Do you mean
that in reference to being a man or to bedding whores and loose women?  Because
I know you are quite capable of only one of those things."  Violet stood
up and stepped forward, her eyes red and bloodshot, her face blotchy and
puffed.  "The only reason I even considered marrying you was because my
mother said that I must.  Well, now my mother is dead!  I know it is not me
that you seek to protect, but her!" she shouted, pointing at Marguerite. 
"I can see you look at her.  I am no fool!  It was her perfume I smelled
on your clothes whenever you came near!"

"That is
preposterous!" he protested.

"Really?  Is it so?  You
thought that I was too stupid to notice?  Well, now we are all going to die
because you are no man.  You are a coward!  A liar!  A cheat!  The first moment
we close our eyes, you will be sneaking kisses with Marguerite, meanwhile you
will be too busy to notice when the murderer comes in and slits our throats as
we sleep!"

"You are the fool!" he
shouted back.

"I shall take this house
and make sure you never step foot in it again!" she screamed.

"I AM a man!" he
shouted back, ignoring her threats.

"Are you?  Prove it!  Prove
to me what sort of man you are!" she challenged.

"You want me to prove what
sort of man I am?" he responded.

"Yes!"

"Fine!  FINE!  I shall
search this house from high to low until I find the murderer and kill him with
my own hands!  Then you'll see what sort of man I am!"

"Fine!"

"FINE!" he shouted,
grabbing the gun from Horace and storming out of the room.

Clara turned to the group.  "We
can't just let him go out there by himself."  She went into the hallway,
calling "Clifford?  Clifford!  Come back!"

But Clifford was nowhere to be
seen.

"H
e's gone!" Clara
exclaimed.

"He is gone?  Where did he
go?" said Marguerite, joining at her side.  "He just stepped out into
the hallway a moment ago.  And now he is gone?"

Violet ran out after her, her
anger faded into desperation.  "Oh my word!  What if I am responsible for
his death!  I never meant it!  I was just angry!  What if he dies because of me?"

She seemed once again on the
verge of hysteria.  Marguerite, seeing that Violet was not going to calm until
the matter was resolved one way or another took her by the wrist and said,
"He is not going to die.  Most likely, he wandered off to hide under a bed
somewhere.  Come on.  Let's go find him."

Wesley followed after as
Marguerite and Violet began climbing the stairs.  "We should come with you! 
There is strength in numbers."

Marguerite pulled out her gun
and cocked it.  "I assure you that we shall be just fine.  How about you
two turtledoves go search the downstairs while we go through the
bedrooms?"

"Do you think that's
safe?" Violet asked Marguerite.

"Clifford was always lousy
at hide-and-seek.  I'll take one side of the hallway while Violet takes the
other, and I feel fairly confident we'll find him in under five minutes."

"But... I don't know if I
can go with you...  what if you're the murderer?" asked Violet.

Marguerite looked at her like
she was an idiot.  "If I was the murderer, I'd have killed Clifford
first."

The entire room hung in silence.

"There is a bit of logic to
it," Clara acquiesced.  Violet seemed to agree and nodded her head before
joining Marguerite at her side.

Wesley turned to Clara and
asked, "Do you feel comfortable searching the downstairs with me?"

"Of course," she
replied.  "You are many things, Mr. Lowenherz, but you are certainly no
murderer."

Horace raised his finger to
interrupt them, fear filling the poor man's eyes for the first time that
evening.  "And what about me?" he asked.

Wesley replied, "You should
stay here.  Shout if he returns.  You fearlessly faced the fiercest creatures
from every corner of the globe.  Of all of us, surely you can stand your ground
against whatever monster we are dealing with on your own."

"I had several man-servants
with me at the time..." Horace pointed out.

"Well, consider this the
greatest hunt of your life."  Wesley grabbed two swords off the wall.  He
tossed one to Horace who grabbed it by its hilt.  Wesley unsheathed the other
and held it out before him.  He turned to Clara, "Shall we?"

She nodded and Marguerite
shouted up the stairs, "Ready or not, Clifford!  Here we come!"

Clara and Wesley made their way towards
the basement, pausing to light a candelabra to bring with them.  Slowly they
crept down the stairs.  Wesley took the front, ready to fend off any marauders,
and Clara kept her eyes open for any dangers attacking from behind.

As they entered the large
kitchen, Wesley stopped to light the gas lamps on the wall.  "No need to
go clunking around in the dark," he explained.

An ominous crack of thunder
shook the house.  Clara clutched his arm.

He smiled in grim amusement. 
"Really, for a woman who has seen three bodies tonight and the ghost of a
fourth, I would not think you one to be frightened by a storm."

She held her hand to her heart,
to cease its terrified beating.  "It is strange the things that frighten a
person.  I suppose you are not frightened of anything, you who speak to the
dead and can see beyond the veil."

Wesley spotted a hurricane lamp
on the counter and lifted the glass to light the wick.  "Fearful that I am
about to disappoint you, I am afraid that poor Norman was correct.  I am quite
the quack.  An outright fraud.  A charlatan of the nth degree."

Clara stood stock still, her
stomach dropping into her shoes with dread.  "But I saw you at the
vaudeville house!  There was a message... from Thomas... it seemed as if he
needed you to speak just to me..."

He shook his head
sympathetically.  "I try to keep such messages general enough that anyone
could find meaning in them.  True, the message may have seemed to have been for
you," he replied.  "But it was from me.  Not from beyond the
grave."

"You cheat the
grieving?" she asked, feeling as if her world might collapse.

Wesley pointed the burning taper
at Clara.  "No, I do not cheat the grieving.  I might be a fraud, but I am
not a cheat."

"Then why do you pretend to
be able to speak with the dead?" she asked, begging for a reason to still
believe in him.

Wesley leaned against the marble
preparation counter, as if weighing how much he could trust Clara.  Finally, he
seemed to give up.  "I have spent the past three years trying to get an
audience with Horace.  This whole mediumship nonsense was all just to get him
into that parlor where I could try and get some answers from him."

"What?"

"You see, fifteen years
ago, Horace lived in the house that I believe you are living in now.  And my
sister, my fourteen-year-old sister, was working there as a housemaid. 
Something happened, and she was found dead in her room.  The police quickly
covered it up, swearing that she turned her hand against herself, but I know
better.  She never would have done that.  I swear upon all that is holy, I
believed that Horace killed her.  That is why I am here.  To find my sister's
murderer."

Clara's mouth became dry, for
she felt as if she knew the answer before it came out from her lips.  "And
what was your sister's name?"

"Minnie."

"M
innie," said Clara,
disbelievingly.  "You said to ask the ghost if her name was Minnie when we
were in the parlor."

Wesley crossed the room to Clara
and took her hands into his own.  "You see, Clara, I am afraid that you
are the true medium here.  I thought to use parlor tricks to frighten an answer
out of Horace.  But instead, the horror has quite grown beyond any trick I know. 
I fear that perhaps he knew what I was up to and brought everyone here to kill
them, just as he killed my sister."

"But I was holding his hand
the entire time of the séance," said Clara.  "He did not let go for a
moment.  He could not have snapped Hilda's neck."

Wesley rubbed his eyes with his
hands, "Perhaps he used a false hand?  Perhaps some other trick?  But who
else could it be?  It is too great a coincidence."

"It must have been someone
else," Clara replied.  "There was no way for him to get from
Gilbert's room back to the library to ransack it."

Wesley seemed torn.  "And
that is what troubles me the most.  If I am wrong, if it is someone else... it
means that all these years have been wasted and I have stepped right into a
trap.  Even worse, I wonder that if this ghost is true, if my sister is truly
here tonight and has appeared to you, could it be that she is exacting her
revenge?"

Clara suddenly realized what
Wesley was wrestling with.  She reached up tenderly to brush back Wesley's
curled forelock, to comfort this poor grieving brother.  "She would not
seek revenge, dear Wesley.  Of this I am sure.  The events tonight have nothing
to do with her.  She is not some malevolent spirit.  I feel almost as if she
has come here to protect us, to warn us..."

He gripped her hand as if it
were a lifeline.  "But how do you know?  What if, in order to save the
people here, I must find some way to destroy my sister's ghost?  What if Horace
is indeed her murderer?  Do I save him?  Do I protect him from her?"

Clara could not stand to see him
in such distress.  She wrapped her arms around him, allowing the events of the
evening to be her excuse to cross the boundaries into such intimacy.  She held
him as he had held her after she discovered Norman's body and let him lean upon
her for support.  "There, there," she said.  "We shall cross
that bridge when we come to it."

"I could not bear to think
that my sister is resting so uneasily in the afterlife... that her death was so
terrible she could not escape this earth..."

"Hush," she said,
stroking his hair.  "Hush."

When he had finally calmed, he
looked down upon her, his eyes full of gratitude.  He took her face in his
hands and whispered, "If we are to die tonight, know that I have never met
a woman finer than you, Mrs. Clara O'Hare."

The use of her full name, of the
name that became hers when she married Thomas reminded her who she was and why
she was here.  She pulled away, breaking the spell between them.  "Come,
there shall be time for such idle passings later.  There is a murderer in this
house and we must find Clifford before this monster kills again."

Wesley nodded grimly.  She
thought he seemed disappointed that she brought them both back to reality from
that moment that was so pleasant between them, but there was no helping it.  He
picked up the hurricane lamp and handed it to Clara.  He then picked up his
sword and they set to their task, searching room-by-room for Clifford, calling
his name as they went through the pantry, the servant's quarters, the washhouse...
but he was nowhere to be found.

"It is like he vanished
into nowhere," said Clara.  "He must be on one of the upper
floors."

"What is this?" Wesley
asked.

They had just entered the wine
cellar, and Wesley pointed down at the ground.  The dusty floor looked as if it
had been disturbed by a door swinging out, only there was no door, only a wall
of bottled wine.  Wesley began feeling around the edges.  "There must be a
hidden entrance."

Clara held the lamp up high for
Wesley so that he might see what he was doing.  One by one, he lifted the
bottles from their places to see if perhaps the weight of one might trigger the
wall to move.

As Clara watched, she rested her
hand upon the rack.  Idly, her thumb began playing with one of the shelves. 
She felt a little knot, a rough spot that her finger began to work, and then,
suddenly, there was a click and the wall swung out to reveal a passageway.

Wesley stepped back and looked
at her.  "Indeed, the finest woman I have ever met, Mrs. O'Hare."

She could not help the blush
which she was sure was spreading across her face like wildfire and he seemed
pleased that his admiration had such affect.  But she did not allow herself to
be distracted.  Wesley entered the room and she followed close behind.

The doorway deposited them at
the top of a set of stairs, which they crept slowly down until they reached a
hallway made of old stones, worn from the years of hands and feet that had trod
their way. 

"This seems like a
different house altogether," said Clara.

Wesley peered into the
darkness.  "So many of these homes were built upon old ruins and ancient
burial grounds.  I wonder if perhaps there was an old castle or fortress here,
and the owners chose to borrow the foundation?"

“Horace did mention that this
house was built upon an elevation...”

The darkness was oppressive; it
seemed almost to have a life of its own.  It was as if it was pressing upon
them, trying to extinguish their light.  It was pitch black and no matter how
hard she tried, she could see nothing beyond their lamp.  The sound of water
dripped in the distance.  Clara hoped that the door had remained open at the
top of the stairs.  She could not imagine being trapped down here where there
was no one to hear their cries for help.

It was then that she saw a glow
that did not come from the light that they carried.  She felt the room plunge
into cold as if doused in ice water.  She grabbed onto Wesley's arm, shivering
once again from both the chill and fear.

"What is it, Clara?"
he asked.

Once more the ghost appeared,
fading in like coming from a fog.  Clara did not know whether to trust this
spirit, or to prepare for her own death.

"It is Minnie," she
said.  "She is here."