Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

nose. Upon recovering from his surprise, he peered in to examine the long, full dresses until he understood the reason for the odour. At least five of these gowns looked horribly stained. He wondered what to make of the stark contrast between Calista’s refined room and the coarseness inside her closet. Then he shut the doors.

Perhaps all might be explained once he understood more about the house’s occupants.

Gerard

MAURICE entered several guest rooms to the right of Calista’s bedroom. His search led him back to the stair landing, then to Aaron’s study.

As he passed the space between Aaron’s study and his guestroom, he noted a wet trail on the floorboards and on the rug in the corridor. A glistening liquid had been smeared there. At first, he feared that his own shoes might be stained, but upon inspecting them, Maurice saw they were not. Finding a towel in his room, he used it to dab the moisture on the floorboards, keeping an anxious eye on the stair landing to check that none of the maids saw him. He did not wish to be a grubby guest. There. Mrs. Cleary would not notice a thing.

Relieved, Maurice proceeded past his room. Finding the correct key, he entered a spacious carpeted library filled with antique volumes and leather-bound classics. Wooden shelves reached the ceiling, covering every wall. The scent of dark cedar filled his nostrils. Were he not working on a case, he would have loved nothing better than to explore these treasures at leisure. He regretfully sighed and left the library.

He had now reached Aaron’s bedroom at the far corner of the second floor. Maurice unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The richness of the furniture was astounding. There was even a fireplace finely carved in sandstone. An opulent Persian rug covered the floorboards. A rustic chandelier in blackened metal hung from the wooden ceiling. Maurice gazed up at the Renaissance coffers. It was a style, he had only seen in the grandest homes.

Dominating Aaron’s room, was a four-poster Renaissance bed in maroon oak. Its headboard was hand-carved with rosettes, foliates, and a scene of merry musicians. Atop the bed lay a gilded coverlet and dozens of silk cushions.

A large leather chest abutted the foot of the bed. Maurice lifted the lid. Personal clothing, two leather caskets, shoe boxes, and dusty books filled the trunk. His eye lingered on the smaller sized casket which bore a distinct medieval emblem. It was locked, but Maurice admired the courtly love scenes where a troubadour and his lady, both painted in red, exchanged affirmations. Before closing the trunk, he wondered where Aaron had obtained such a rare treasure.

Turning to a grand armoire, Maurice peered into Aaron’s wardrobe. His lips curled with a smile. On the surface, Aaron Nightingale might have resembled a dandy, but to Maurice, he evoked a chameleon like image, dressing in various styles at whim. Perhaps Aaron had even fancied himself as a Renaissance man, mused Maurice, a man with boundless abilities…or a god. Maurice reflected on this idea.

He exited the room and headed downstairs. Halfway down the staircase, he paused at Calista’s regal portrait and for a moment, he could not lift his eyes from her. He was reminded that it had all begun with this Greek woman’s death. Calista first, then Aaron, followed by the maid and Vera. He’d been called upon to solve two murders, but he was not prepared to overlook four deaths in one year.

Having reached the kitchen, he decided to sneak inside and interview the cook. He cast a quick glance around him. Mrs. Cleary was nowhere in sight. He pushed open the French doors.

Gerard O’Malley knelt before the giant stove oven in the heart of the room. He worked at blacking its surfaces.

As Maurice entered, he startled. “Jesus, Mr. Leroux. You frightened me.”

The Irishman interrupted his work and rose to his feet.

“So I hear you like my scones, Mr. Leroux,” he said. He spoke with a thick accent and with English not being his first language, Maurice strained to understand him.

“Delicious, thank you,” he replied. “Is there something wrong with the oven?”

“That old thing. Nah, she’s right. Just weekly routine. Real bastard of a job. Makes it worse when you have to wake up at four in the morning.” Gerard wiped his nose, smearing a little grease upon it. He found an old rag and wiped his hands on it.

“That early! Mr. O’Malley, I hope it was not the scones that you had to bake on my account,” said Maurice.

Gerard continued to wipe his hands, giving the impression he had not heard. He seemed reticent to speak.

Spotting nicotine stains on the cook’s fingers, Maurice dug into his vest and began to light a cigar. “Would you like one?” he asked, presenting his cigar case.

“Oh no, I shouldn’t. Mrs. Cleary won’t like it.”

“I’ve closed the kitchen doors. She won’t know a thing.”

Gerard reached for a cigar. Maurice leaned across to light it for him. “I’m investigating the deaths of Sophie Murphy and Vera Nightingale,” he reminded the cook.

“I know. I just don’t think I can be of much help to you.”

“Well you can start by telling me what happened here,” said Maurice, as he glimpsed the shattered glass on one of the windows.

“I don’t think Mrs. Cleary would like that much, sir.”

“Mrs. Cleary doesn’t have a choice. I am working at the behest of John Nightingale. Don’t worry, you won’t lose your job by speaking with me.”

Gerard looked worried. “Just between you and me, then.”

“That’s right. Nobody has to hear it.”

“Well in that case...” Gerard leaned in to confide in Maurice. “You should have seen the state of the kitchen this morning, Mr. Leroux,” he whispered. “Like a blasted hurricane went through it. My crockery smashed to pieces. The saucepans in such a state. It’s