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

left closet door slowly opened. Maurice blinked. How was this possible? Had he lost his mind? But he knew the answer was there, all along. Why did he not choose to accept it? Perhaps Aaron Nightingale had died, not of the grief that followed his wife’s death, but of a similar cause as Sophie Murphy and his sister, Vera. Perhaps a supernatural force played a part in all three deaths…

Calista was here. He felt it, though a shadow of doubt clouded his mind.

He raised his waning lamp, peering into the gloom. The dim light flickered over the hanging fabric, causing a shimmer of silks and taffetas, in red, blue, and black. Maurice breathed fast. He could see nothing.

Until the other closet door swung open on its own. It made a malignant creaking noise. In that instant, all Maurice’s doubts vanished.

He stepped back, shaking with fright. He flung himself outside, fumbled for the key, and closed the door. Behind him, he heard both closet panels slam shut. There was a thumping sound inside the bedroom, and then the floorboards groaned as though something moved towards the door just as he locked it. A shadow of himself, Maurice fled to his room.

Chapter 8

Friday

MAURICE could hear singing outside his room. Lulled by the soothing voice, he rose from his sleep. Dark images of algae, the beach on a starless night, and the murky ocean – they faded from his mind. His eyes blinked open and daylight brought him back to Alexandra Hall. He lay there, recalling what he had seen in Calista’s room. He reached out a hand and felt for the water glass he usually placed on the bedside table. Finding nothing, Maurice lifted his head.

The near empty glass sat near the table’s edge. Water had collected in pools across the table and the rug was sodden with it.

A jolt saw him spring to his feet. Clad in his nightrobe, he pushed his feet into his shoes and threw open the bedroom door. He found Madeleine humming a melody as she polished each of the staircase banisters.

“Were you in my room this morning, mademoiselle?” asked Maurice.

Madeleine looked amused. “Why, Mr. Leroux. Who do you take me for?”

“I… My water glass. It was moved. Somebody…somebody came into my room last night. Was it you, mademoiselle?”

Madeleine erupted into light laughter. “Had I visited your room, you certainly would have known,” she said cheekily.

“Mademoiselle, it is not funny. You see, I usually place my water glass in the middle of the bedside table. When I woke up this morning, it stood much nearer to the edge. Did you perhaps see someone else enter my bedroom earlier today?”

“No one’s come within an earshot of your room. The others are downstairs having breakfast. Besides, how would you know you did not move the glass yourself? Perhaps you felt for it in your sleep, drank, then clumsily put it back,” said Madeleine with a shrug.

Maurice did not insist. Madeleine was right. He was being ridiculous. He must have moved the glass himself. Feeling newly doubtful, he returned to his bedroom.

Leaning across the wash basin, Maurice poured water from the pitcher onto his face then stared into the mirror above the porcelain bowl. The sinister encounter in Calista’s room flashed in his mind. He met his wild, haggard eyes. Now you listen to me, Maurice, he thought, addressing his reflection. Keep your wits about you.  Tout va bien. All is well, he repeated, as he wiped his face with the towel. He would not let himself be haunted. He had to remain level-headed.

As he buttoned up his vest, his eye fell on the desk. An uneasy feeling swept over him. Someone had touched his journal. His writing implements lay in a disorderly fashion. Ink spots ran on the lacquered surface beside the journal. More ink blotted the page in front of him. Barely breathing, Maurice picked up the journal and turned to the previous page. He gasped. In a hideous script, with no care for spacing or form, a single word was written.

OVEE

Recovering from his stupor, Maurice fled the room and raced downstairs. As he entered the commons kitchen, he found Shannon and Ellen. Shannon sat at the head of the table, where the housekeeper normally ate.

“Where is Mrs. Cleary?” he asked.

Shannon shot Ellen a dark look as though she wished her to keep quiet. “She is not awake yet,” she said. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Leroux?”

Maurice made no answer. He steadied himself, placing a hand against the wall. Silence hung above the wooden table where the maids were having breakfast. The only sound was the crackling of the hearth fire, casting its warmth throughout the tiled room.

“Mr. Leroux, you look awfully tired today,” noted Ellen in a sweet voice. She’d ceased eating and stared at him.

Shannon glowered. It was unlike the young Ellen to speak up so rashly but Mrs. Cleary’s absence seemed to give the girl confidence. Shannon studied Maurice. He had as yet not answered her offer for tea. He seemed stunned, almost shaken. A knowing glint passed through her eyes.

“We are all afraid, with many ways of hiding it,” she whispered, still gazing up at the Frenchman. Despite her unexpected gentleness, her tone had a distinct, I-told-you-so quality.

Maurice smiled thinly. He couldn’t bring himself to reveal the dread he felt. “Miss O’Sullivan, where is Mrs. Cleary?” he asked again.

“The truth is, she is ill. You must understand that the past two months have been a trial for her, what with Mr. Nightingale passing away and then...”

“She saw it,” blurted Ellen.

“Ellen, please be quiet.” Shannon turned apologetically to Maurice. “Pay no mind, Inspector Leroux. Like I said, Mrs. Cleary is not well.”

“What were you saying, Ellen?” asked Maurice, ignoring Shannon’s protests. “What did Mrs. Cleary see?”

Ellen hesitated.