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

Alfred stopped in his tracks. He didn’t look pleased. “That right? Just speaking with everyone like the police did.” He stood upright, flexing his muscles.

Maurice held his gaze.

“That’s exactly right. So you spoke with the police?”

“Sure did. Twice already. And I can’t say I was any help. No chance I killed anybody. I’m not even allowed inside, see. Mrs. Cleary would die of fright if she saw my filthy boots plodding along on her tiles. Still, who knows, maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for. Sorry, I can’t help you.” He made a start.

“Be sensible, Alfred. I’m sure you don’t want John Nightingale finding out you’ve made this investigation harder than it is. Two murders are not dismissed so easily. And so close in the space of time. Surely somebody has to take the blame for that,” reminded Maurice.

The groundsman turned abruptly. His axe changed hands, much to Maurice’s alarm. A mocking smile drew itself on the gardener’s lips. “Accidents do happen,” he said. “I’m told the two women were very near the staircase. And as I’ve told you, I’ve already given my statement to the police.”

“Nonsense,” insisted Maurice. “I’m hearing far too many fanciful statements. Mrs. Cleary thinks this place might be haunted. Now, here you are, evoking accidents. Too convenient for my liking.”

The gardener’s weathered face looked suddenly weary and he emitted a nervous laughter. “Blimey, how many times do I have to tell you? I ain’t so sure myself what happened to those women. Never seen the inside of that house.” He paused. “I tell you what, maybe what you ought to be looking into is family secrets.”

Maurice startled. “Now why would I do that?”

Alfred glowered at him. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Explain what you mean or I shall report you to John Nightingale for obstructing my investigation.”

In response, Alfred fixed him. Maurice watched the gardener’s thick fingers tighten around the axe handle but he stood his ground. “Now tell me, did you see something?” he repeated.

Alfred shook his head. “A feeling, that’s all. Some folk you know just by looking at them that they don’t belong here. Mrs. Nightingale never belonged in Alexandra Hall. And that’s the truth.”

“That may be, but it was her home. What makes you say all this?”

“In all the years I’ve worked here that lady never looked happy to me.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“My little cottage, see, is not far behind the creek and a few times, months before she passed away, I’d see her come out of the house at night. Now I’m a big fellow, but it still gave me the shivers. That’s all I know.”

“You often peer at the women of the house, Alfred? Watched any of the maids recently?”

“I ain’t saying that,” thundered Alfred. “What I mean is I saw a lamp in the dark. So of course, I got curious. I looked through my window. There she was. Barefoot, like some wanton creature. She’d be dressed in a white nightrobe with her long black hair all loose down her shoulders. I was looking, you know, like any man would but, you know, minding my own business. I was curious, is all.”

“Sure, you were. I know all about your past jail time. So you followed her, then? Did you touch her?”

Alfred’s jaw twitched in anger. “I never touched anyone!”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Like I said, I stayed out of her way. The first time it happened, I asked myself what business this lady had with going out like that, and in the middle of the night. And so I watched her. She crossed the garden and found the creek. She knew what she was looking for. Now, I’m not made of stone. It was a pretty sight, this foreign lady. But to me, she looked much like some weeping ghost. Yes, sir. So that’s all I meant, see. If you’re looking for your ghost, it’s her.”

“I don’t believe in spirits, Alfred.”

“Neither do I. But there’s ways of haunting, see. I’m not speaking of some raving Scottish ghost with a sword and that. I’m talking another sort, the wronged kind. If anyone haunts this place, then that would be Mrs. Nightingale.”

“That’s a convenient tale,” said Maurice. “You sure it was her and not one of the maids?”

“Oh no, it was her, alright. Scared me a few times. She’d just sit there, by the creek. I told myself she must like being near the water.” Alfred reflected on that memory and shook his head. “That lady, I can tell you right now, there was something not quite right about her.”

Maurice reflected on the groundsman’s words. He had felt for Calista ever since discovering her grave.

“Plenty of unsavoury characters in these parts, Inspector Leroux,” volunteered Alfred. “I’ll tell you what, if anyone broke into the house to murder those other ladies, they most likely came from Reading Goal.”

“An escaped convict? I considered that already but no theft has been reported. I find it doubtful.”

“Well, I’d best be going. That firewood ain’t chopping itself.”

Alfred picked up the tools he’d left by the side of the fountain and walked away to his cottage.

Maurice felt bemused by all he’d heard from the staff today. Had they all struck an agreement with one another to speak of nothing but hauntings?

He became drawn to the fountain’s sounds. Water poured out of an enormous fish sculpture which seemed to leap over a shell-shaped pond. How was it, Maurice wondered, that only a hundred feet away, Calista’s grave remained unattended while, here, was an entirely different story?

Maurice leaned over the large pool, the water’s rush filling his ear. Beneath the water, the pond’s surface glistened, set alight by tiny alabaster mosaics. Maurice had seen nothing like it before, not even at the Louvre. It was so beautiful