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

“That’s right. And certainly not the bruises one would expect to find had she truly tumbled from the top of the stairs.” He gave Maurice a complicit look. “But I’m unfortunately not at liberty to say this to her parents. On the other hand, she might have fallen straight down and then bore the full impact upon her skull. You see the skull showed signs of fracture to one side only.”

Maurice reflected on this.

“Dr Hart, could you rule out that someone might have fatally struck Sophie Murphy and that she did not fall off the staircase at all?”

The doctor nodded emphatically. “It is highly possible, monsieur. I do not rule it out.”

“Thank you. What of Miss Vera Nightingale?”

“Ah. Vera Nightingale.” The doctor removed his glasses and sighed. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful fashion as though deliberating on what he might say and how to say it.

“The report I was given indicates she died of asphyxiation,” reminded Maurice. “No wounds.”

“Yes. The report is still valid. What I’ve not mentioned, and perhaps it is because I am unable to draw conclusions, is the curious condition in which I found Vera Nightingale’s body.” His cheerfulness had left him and he now appeared wary.

“Curious? What do you mean?” asked Maurice.

“It sounds perplexing, I know.” Dr Hart gulped his tea. He took a deep breath. “I am afraid I can offer no hypothesis as to the meaning of my findings. But in the spirit of professionalism, I should share with you what I’ve discovered. Mon cher Leroux, the one thing that astounded me upon inspecting Vera Nightingale, was the thin aqueous film which covered her entire neck and face.  An unusual substance.”

A knowing glint shone in Maurice’s eyes, but he bit his lip. He thought back to the wet trail he had wiped off the floorboards upstairs and the moisture across his sheets. He had to remain discreet. “Where had it come from?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head gravely. “I’m unfortunately unable to explain its origin. It was colourless, of remarkable cohesiveness, slippery and…wet.”

“Wet? You mean, like a liquid? A glistening liquid?” Maurice could scarcely repress the agitation in his voice.

Dr Hart almost looked frightened. “I would say so,” he whispered back. “But there is more to this, Monsieur Leroux. This same film covered the membranes inside her nose. And…if you will excuse me…” He lowered his voice. “There were traces of it in her lungs also.”

Maurice’s eyes widened. “You believe this film played a part in Vera Nightingale’s death?”

“Ah, it is most confounding. You see, Miss Vera most certainly died of lack of air,” insisted Dr Hart, shaking his head. “As for the presence of that film, what it could be, and how it came to find itself on her face, let alone in her lungs, I am afraid I am much in the dark.”

These last words plunged Maurice into a deep introspection. Dr Hart was quick to notice this.

“Monsieur Leroux, please don’t take too much to heart. I can see this case is taking its toll upon your health. Enjoy this life. We only have one. You look so burdened.”

“I’m not sleeping very well here,” confided Maurice.

“Yes. I can see that,” nodded the doctor. “Take care of yourself, Monsieur Leroux.”

Long after Dr Hart had mounted his carriage and returned to Reading Town, Maurice remained in a daze, perplexed by the curious events in the house. When it came to Vera Nightingale’s death, nothing made sense. He was left confused by the doctor’s revelations.

The foreign liquid he’d found on his sheets this morning, the black and blue eye he could not match with any person inside the house, and now, this curious film on Vera Nightingale’s body – all these details puzzled Maurice. He wondered whether the maids had partly spoken true, and if there was something uncanny about Alexandra Hall.

Yet he refused to entertain the superstitions of Irish women. He could imagine the impressionable maid, Ellen, asserting that Calista’s spirit roamed at night, and that her wet spectral form left a trail wherever it passed. Maurice shook his head. Such an idea was far removed from everything he knew. French enlightened society had long evolved. It no longer held such beliefs.

His ponderings drew him halfway up the grand staircase, very near Calista’s portrait, just as Madeleine trotted down with a bundle of dirty linen.

“What colour are those eyes?” he asked, facing the oil painting.

“Well good evening to you, too, Mr. Leroux,” replied Madeleine.

Maurice pointed to the portrait with a startling urgency.

“Take a look at them. Please. What colour are those eyes?”

Madeleine pouted. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned her body forward and squinted to better take in the delicate brush strokes.

“It’s hard to make out…” she began. “But I would say…black with a little blue.”

And upon her words, Maurice’s jaw tensed and he fell silent. He gripped the balustrade tight, deep in thoughts.

Madeleine looked satisfied. “Yes, most certainly a blend of black and blue. A pretty lady, ain’t she? So sad.” She turned to Maurice and gasped. “What is the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stared at him, slightly mocking.

Maurice inched closer to her. “I will take your offer,” he whispered into her ear. “I need to get inside that cellar.”

Madeleine laughed. “Is that a new trick to pull me close and kiss me?”

“I am serious. Can you fetch me the key?”

Madeleine blinked. “Are you asking me a favour, Mr. Leroux?” she teased, still rolling the r of his name.

“When can you get it?”

“Hmm… that will depend. What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you later!” she chimed, suddenly withdrawing and dashing down the steps. Maurice looked up and saw Mrs. Cleary staring at