1 A Spirited Manor (7 page)

C
lara woke, shivering in her
sleep.  At first, she thought that one of the windows must have opened in the
middle of the night.  The room was as bright as if there was a full moon.  But
she heard the rain pelting upon the glass and realized that it was something
else.

She turned onto her back and
there was the girl, Minnie, the ghost who had haunted her in her room at home
and somehow managed to follow her here.

Minnie stood in her unearthly
light, her gauzy dress floating about her.  Clara tried to still the fear which
was making her heart beat fast.  Minnie motioned for Clara to follow.

"You appeared earlier,
Minnie, and someone died.  I am frightened," Clara confessed.

But Minnie did not make any
movement which suggested she heard Clara.  Instead, she walked once more
through the door, her hand returning to curl its single finger, calling Clara
to follow.

Clara sat for a few moments. 
There was a murderer in this house.  If Gilbert escaped, who knew what evil
might befall her if she left her room.  But the ghost's hand remained, calling
her to leave her bed.

She closed her eyes and thought
to herself that Minnie had led her to this house where all of these horrible
things had occurred, but by the same token, Clara was the only one who could
see her.  If Minnie had anything to do with these terrible events, who knows
what greater catastrophe would befall them all if she was not heeded.

And so, bravely, Clara took her
robe from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around herself.  She slipped her
slippers onto her feet, unlatched the door, and followed after the ghost. 

The strangest sense of déjà vu
filled her, as the ghost wandered down the long, dark hall.  She did not know
if it was the memory of being led down her own dark hallway at home by this
girl, or if she was aware of some other event which was to come.  The heads of
all the dead animals hung in the hall stared down at her accusingly, as if
asking why she was not still in bed when the entire house slept.

But the ghost's reproach was far
worse than these glassy eyed creatures could ever dish out, Clara decided.  She
crept down the stairs after the ghost, into the foyer, and then followed the
ghost towards the library where she first came upon arriving in the house.

The ghost walked through the
closed door.  Clara tried to open it, but it seemed stuck, as if something
heavy was pressed against it.  She pushed and pushed with all her might.  When
she finally opened the door enough to enter, she stepped in and onto something
soft.  She looked down in the dim light of the ghost's illumination and
realized she was standing upon a housecoat sleeve.

The housecoat was being worn by
one Norman Scettico.  He was the heavy object blocking the door.  His body was
completely still and he did not move one bit as Clara opened her mouth and
screamed.

I
n an instant, the house was
awake and alive.  Pounding feet came marching down the stairs.  Clara backed
out of the library and pointed.

Wesley ran forward and gathered
her up into his arms.  She felt herself unable to stop trembling as she buried
her face into his strong chest, his thin nightshirt soft against her cheek, the
lapels of his velvet night robe giving her something to clutch to as she tried
to will away the memory of the dead man.

Horace raced into the library as
he put on his glasses.  She heard him exclaim, "Great scot!"

The others passed by and peered
into the room.

"Well, I'll be
damned," said Marguerite.  "I guess that was one way to get him to
shut up."

Clifford came over to Clara,
patting her back.  "There, there," he said, as if trying to coax her
away from Wesley's comfort and into his own arms.  "What a terrible fright
you have had."

Horace came out and glowered
angrily at Clara.  "Tell me what happened.  Tell me every detail down to
the last."

"I came downstairs,"
Clara gulped.

"Why?  Why did you come
downstairs?" demanded Horace.  "We agreed everyone would stay locked
in their room."

Clara looked up at Wesley,
knowing that he was the only one who might understand what really happened. 
Instead, she just said, "I heard a noise.  I thought I heard someone
walking down the hallway and so I got up to investigate.  I thought I heard
them going into the library, so I followed.  Only, there was something heavy
against the door.  I pressed and pressed.  I'm afraid that it was Norman."

Wesley smoothed her hair,
resting his cheek upon her forehead.  "We'll get it all sorted.  Don't you
worry."

She realized that at this point,
Norman would have been the one to accuse her of murder, but he was not there to
shout such accusations.  So instead, the entire room looked around at one
another, unsure of what to do next.

Clifford shifted uncomfortably. 
"I'm sure you didn't kill him..." he finally said.  "But the
constable will want to know that we asked... You didn't kill him by any chance,
did you?  While you were sleep walking or anything?"

"Oh for gods sake,"
said Marguerite.  "Any idiot could tell that she did not kill him, then
push him against the door, then pull the door open, and then turn into a
blubbering mess.  Obviously Gilbert escaped his room and is on the hunt.  We
need to find him before he finds us."

"I locked Gilbert’s door
with my own hands," Horace said, offended.  "You and Norman saw me do
it."

"We certainly did, but one
of your witnesses is dead, leading me to believe that maybe things were not
locked as tightly as you believed."

"Well, I never," said
Horace.  "Let's go look in on Gilbert and we shall have our answer."

"Well, let's!" said
Marguerite, challengingly.

Violet tried to take Clifford's
arm, but he pulled away, more interested in keeping pace with Marguerite.  So
Violet trailed behind, forgotten and alone.

Wesley pulled a handkerchief
from his pocket and dried Clara's cheeks as the party moved down the hallway
towards the servant quarters.

"I must look a
fright," Clara apologized.

"My dear, you look lovely
as always," Wesley smiled.  "Do you think you can stand much more of
this?" he asked.  "I could take you to your room to lie down."

She shook her head.  "No,
what if that fiend is still loose?  I am far safer with this group than on my
own."  She stopped herself and then admitted what she really felt. 
"I am far safer with...you...than on my own."

He nodded and gently transferred
Clara so that she could lean against him, wrapping his arm around her waist and
resting her head upon him.  "I shall keep you safe, dear Clara."

They slowly walked down towards
the others.  When they arrived, Horace was fiddling with his key ring, looking
for the right one for the lock.  "Damnable nuisance."

Clara should have extracted
herself from Wesley's embrace at this point for reasons of modesty and good
taste, but after such a day, she could not bear to stand alone on her own two
feet.  Instead, they stood, leaning against one another for strength as they
waited.

Finally, the door opened. 
Horace bellowed as he walked into the room.  "Gilbert!  Gilbert, get up
from bed you damnable fellow!"

But Gilbert did not stir. 
Instead, he lay upon the mattress, sleeping so soundly that he did not even
move.

"Is he deaf?" asked
Marguerite incredulously.

"I should say not!"
said Horace.  He strode over and shook his butler harshly.  "Wake up,
man!"

That's when Gilbert rolled from
his side onto his back.  His eyes were wide open.  His throat was covered in
blood, oozing from two puncture wounds in his jugular.

"Well, he is not
deaf," said Marguerite.

H
orace closed and locked the
door behind him, in shock.

"Three deaths in one
night?" he said, incredulously.  He repeated it again.  "Three
deaths.  In one night.  Under my very own roof."

"And the murderer does not
appear to be Gilbert," said Marguerite.

Horace placed his hand upon the
door, as if to assure himself that it was still solid and real.  "How did
someone get in there?  They must have been a magician!  To get into a locked
room?  To kill not one, but two men...?"

"Maybe it was Norman and
then he fell and broke his neck?" offered Marguerite.

"No, no, that's not
it," said Horace.  He turned and looked at Clara sharply.  "You said
that you heard footsteps coming down the hall.  What if that was the murderer! 
What if he lured Norman down just as he lured you down, and it was only your screams
that kept the blackguard away!  Dear, you may have saved us all!  And yourself!"

Clara looked at Wesley and then
at the faces of the others.  "I don't believe I heard the murderer,"
she replied.

Horace did not seem pleased that
she did not ascribe to his theory.  "Well, then, you just tell me what you
think happened."

"I don't know," Clara
replied.  "It was..."  She realized that to hide the truth would make
her look like she was lying, and in this situation, they might assume the
worst.  So she relented.  "It was the same woman that I saw during the séance. 
She woke me and told me to come downstairs."

"You're telling me some
ghost told you to come downstairs and you just happened to stumble upon some
room where Norman was lying dead?"

Clara cleared her throat
uncomfortably.  "Yes."

Wesley looked at her. 
"Really?" he asked, but she could see in his eyes that he believed
her.  Or at least that he wanted to believe her.

But it seemed that Horace had
been pushed beyond that which his mind could accept.  "Bah!" he
said.  "I have three dead people in my house.  There might be ghosts, but
there aren't GHOSTS.  These aren't some haunted halls where dead women come to
take a stroll.  Don't tell me you believe this nonsense, Medium!"

Wesley held up his hands, as if
asking him to provide a better answer if he had one.  "There are stranger
things in all the heavens than known to man."

"Don't go slaughtering
quotations at me and expect me to take you seriously."

"Nice turn of phrase,
Horace," Marguerite sighed.

"All I know is that there is
a real, live, flesh and blood murderer still in this house and none of us are
safe."  Horace began pacing.  "Perhaps not all of the staff went
home.  The storm was so terrible, perhaps someone used that as an excuse to
stay.  Perhaps they hid themselves here to take revenge upon me for... I don't
know what!  You never know with the help!  They get the strangest notions in
their head and soon, there is no reasoning with them!  One day, they are asking
for a raise in wages, the next they are luring young women out of their beds to
murder them!"

"I was not murdered,"
Clara pointed out.

"A mere technicality!"

"It would make sense,"
Violet squeaked.  "Someone here might bear a grudge against my mother. 
And it would make sense also to destroy the one man with the sense to decipher
the clues scientifically.  The one man who could figure it all out!"

"I could figure it out,"
said Clifford.

No one made a response in
support and his statement hung awkwardly in the air.

Horace broke the silence by striding
off, calling behind him.  "Follow me!"

They all trooped along behind
him, up the stairs, and towards the foyer.  As they marched, Horace pulled a
gun off of the wall in the hallway.  He cocked it and said, "Loaded.  Just
like I left it.  Come along then!  Into the dining room!"

As soon as they were all inside,
he locked the door and set about rallying their spirits.  "See here, we
are all in danger then.  But never you fear!  I shall protect us all.  We shall
remain hidden in this room until the storm breaks and we can go for help. 
There is strength in numbers and obviously, it is not safe for us to sleep
alone.  We shall all take turns keeping watch, except for the women of course. 
Delicate creatures and all."

"Seems to me they could
keep watch the same as any man," said Clifford.

"Quiet, boy.  The women are
free to do what they see fit.  But it is a man's place to protect them and that
is what we shall do."

Marguerite pulled a derringer
pistol out of the pocket of her robe and pointed it at the door.  "Don't
worry, Clifford, dear.  I shall keep an eye out.  Wouldn't want you to miss any
of your beauty sleep."

"That was not what I was
insinuating."

"I don't think you were
insinuating anything, you lily coward."

Clara pointed at the door at the
far end of the library.  "Excuse me.  There are several entrances to this
room, including one which goes into the room where Norman was murdered.  And it
appears to be open."

They all turned.

"Well, we know how the murderer
got in," said Horace, removing his key and walking over to close and lock
the doors.

"Wait," said Wesley. 
"Was that door open before?"

"What?"

"When you went in and
looked at Norman's body, did you see this door open?"

They all stopped and looked at
the room.

"I seem to recall it was
closed," said Marguerite, her bright blue eyes flickering as she pieced
together the memory.  "And that's why it did not dawn on us that, of
course, the murderer used it to enter and exit."

The open door stood there like
an accusation.

"Well," said Horace,
resolute but seeming as if he wanted someone to dissuade him.  "I supposed
we shall just have to go in and make sure our murderer is not lying in
wait."

"You go and flush him out,
father.  I shall keep the women safe... make sure the murderer doesn't sneak
around and get them while our backs are turned," said Clifford.

Marguerite rolled her eyes.

"May I borrow your
derringer?" Wesley asked hand outstretched. 

Marguerite passed it over to
him, handle first.  "I call her Bessie."

"Thank you."  Wesley
gave Clara's hand a reassuring squeeze before he walked over to join Clifford. 
"Shall we go inside?" he asked.

Horace nodded and like two men
stalking prey in the tall grass, the crept towards the doors.  They flanked the
opening on either side and then, silently counting to three, they flung the
doors open.

No one sprang out of the
darkness at them.

"Can't see a blasted
thing!" bellowed Horace.  "How are we supposed to be able to see a
damned thing without a light!  Gilbert!  Gilbert, bring a light!"

It was spoken out of habit, and
it was only after the words left his lips that Horace seemed to realize what he
said.  Breaking the awkward silence, Clara rushed forward, taking a taper from
the dining room table and going into the room to light the lamps upon the wall.

"What the devil!" said
Horace.

The entire room had been
tossed.  Chairs were tipped on end.  Books were ripped from their shelves.  The
skins were torn from the walls.  A safe was behind one of them, and the wood
around it bore deep scratch marks, as if someone had used an axe to try and
gouge it out.

Marguerite peered inside. 
"You've redecorated, Horace."

Wesley carefully stepped into
the room, looking in the fireplace, behind the chairs and the few curtains
which remained hung in case someone was hiding.  He lowered the derringer and
returned it to Marguerite.

"Who would have done such a
thing?" asked Horace, crouching down in horror to cradle the taxidermied
head of his torn bear rug as gently as a broken lover.

"Obviously, there is
something here that the murderer wanted," Wesley replied.

Clara stepped over to Norman's
body, which had not been disturbed.  She turned back to Violet.  "There is
something you said earlier... that the murderer most likely killed your mother
because of a grudge, but then they would have killed Norman because he was the
only one who could have solved the crime via powers of scientific deduction."

"I could solve it,
too!" said Clifford, impotently.

"Quiet!" they all
shouted back.

"What is inside of that
safe?" Wesley asked Horace.

Horace stumbled to his feet and
reeled across the floor to it.  He spun the dial with tears in his eyes. 
"Nothing.  Just legal papers.  My marriage certificate.... the death certificate
of Clifford's mother... the deed to the house."

"Wait!" shouted Clara.

"What?" asked Horace,
wiping his dripping nose.

"The deed.  The ghost led
me to the deed of my house, which is why I came to see you in the first place,
Horace!"

"I don't understand."

"There must be some
connection," she reasoned out.  "Why would the ghost lead me to a
deed, and then all of this..." she pointed at the disaster of the room
"...occur, all to get a safe which contained a deed to your house."

"May we look at it,
Horace?" asked Wesley, his hand outstretched.

Horace took it out, gave it to
him, and they all gathered round to look.

"There doesn't seem to be
anything amiss," Wesley said to Clara.  He passed it to her, to see if she
noticed anything out of the ordinary.

"I should say that there is
nothing amiss!" said Horace.  "I just had it reviewed by my lawyer. 
I transferred ownership to your mother, Violet, to give her a place to live
after your wedding."

"What?" she said,
paling to a frightful shade of white.  She turned to Clifford.  "Did you
know of this?"

The anger which rolled off of
Clifford filled the room.  "Yes.  I told him that it was a foolish
mistake.  This house has been in the family for centuries."

"And it would have remained
in the family, passing back to you and Violet, upon her death!  Only you didn't
marry that damned girl fast enough and now it all belongs to Violet and she
isn't even your wife!" said Horace.

Violet gave a horrified cry at
the callousness of his words.  Horace jammed his hands into his pockets gruffly
and said, "Yes, well, now you know, Violet.  This house is yours."

"Why are you so anxious to
rid yourself of this house?" Clara asked.

"I don't want to get rid of
it at all!" Horace said.  "But the damned tax collector will rip it
out of my hands if I don't unload it.  So, I was going to keep it in the
family, so to speak."

"You could have just given
it to me," said Clifford.

"What?  So you could lose
it in gambling debts and set up some doxy in the country?  Turn it into some
pleasure palace of depravity?  Not on my bear rug!"

Wesley took the deed back from
Clara and crossed back over to the safe to replace it.  He closed the door and
spun the dials.  "Well, if this is indeed the reason why the murderer
struck, we now know.  It stands to reason that he learned of this transfer and
did not want the house to go to Hilda.  We must take great care to watch over
Violet tonight, in case he decides that she should not inherit, too."

"I don't want to die!"
said Violet.  "I never wanted this house!  Or this family!  I never wanted
any of this!"

Marguerite reached out and laced
her fingers through Violet's hand, letting the poor girl lean upon her for
strength.  They made an odd pair, standing together, the protector and the
weak.  Suddenly Violet looked up, as if someone slapped her.  "Are you
wearing perfume?" she asked.

Marguerite looked startled by
her reaction.  "I have a scent mixed for me in Paris."

Violet backed slowly away. 
"I have smelled that perfume before..."  She walked back towards the
dining room.  "I must go sit down.  This is all too much and I fear that I
am beginning to imagine things."

"I shall come with
you," offered Marguerite.

"No!" Violet said. 
"Not you.  You stay here..."

Marguerite looked at her
strangely.  Clara almost felt like she saw a glint of danger in Marguerite's
eyes.

But the moment was broken as
Clifford sighed and dragged himself towards his fiancée.  "Fine.  I shall
sit with you since you insist upon being parted from the group and heaven knows
we can't have
you
killed before we get this house thing sorted."

"You are a real class
act," Marguerite remarked drily.  "What a lucky girl."

"This is all still
conjecture," stated Wesley as Violet and Clifford left the room.  "It
could be nothing but coincidence.  After all, we also have the murders of
Norman and Gilbert.  Gilbert was certainly not in the wrong place at the wrong
time.  He was locked in his room.  Why would the murderer have taken the time
to kill him?"

"Perhaps he saw too
much?" said Marguerite.  "He probably knows more about this household
than anyone in this room."

"You can't trust anyone now
days..." muttered Horace, picking through his broken trophies.

"But that still leaves
Norman," pointed out Clara. "Perhaps he stumbled into the room at an
inopportune moment, but why was he here in the first place?"

Wesley crossed and knelt beside
the body.  "He must have deduced something... he must have guessed something
was amiss..."

"What is this?" asked
Clara, crossing over to a chair.

"What?" Wesley and
Marguerite replied in unison.

She reached beneath it.  Tucked
behind the foot was a crumpled piece of paper.  She withdrew it and slowly
spread it flat.

"It looks like a puzzle maze,"
she replied.  "Almost like a child's game.  All of the paths lead to the
square in the center, but you can get to it four different ways.  There are
four arrows, one on each side of the square, all pointing in.  It seems quite a
beginner's level."  She showed it to Horace.  "Is this one of
yours?"