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

“Inspector Leroux,” he called out as the two men found each other by the colonnades. “I’m pleased to finally meet you. I’ve heard only good things about you. And how was your journey from…from…where is it again?”

“Normandy. I’m from Normandy. Delighted.” Maurice shook John’s hand.

“Normandy, of course! What a week! Should we move into the parlour? It’s like a Russian winter out here.”

Maurice sensed that the Englishman’s exuberance was a mere attempt to hide his nervousness. As the two men stepped inside the house and towards the parlour, they continued to exchange civilities.

Maurice was quick to note that Shannon, who until then had been avidly peering out from the entrance hall, found the perfect moment, in full view of John Nightingale, for ordering Madeleine to bring out a platter of sandwiches.

Maurice had no sooner settled by the chimney, than he was burdened by the house’s cloying atmosphere. The walls oppressed him. He was haunted by his encounter in the cellar, the mysterious scrawl in his journal, and the notion that someone, whoever it was, had entered his room multiple times as he slept.

He eyed the imposing portraits hanging upon the parlour walls. All these faces, how demonic they seemed now, as they stared down at him. He no longer felt at ease in Alexandra Hall. A lingering evil clung to the house. He was suddenly seized by an urge to flee to his room, pack his bags, and travel far away from Alexandra Hall.

He now understood why Mrs. Cleary’s nerves were so shot, or why Ellen remained a pitiful waif despite Gerard’s hearty meals. It was not the famine she had known in past years which kept her thin. It was fear. Fear, ruined her appetite.

John Nightingale drew him out of his dark thoughts.

“Why, Mr. Leroux, you look like you’ve had no rest.”

“That might be true, yes.”

“Well that’s not good. Not good at all. And where is the ever chirpy Mrs. Cleary?” He pronounced the word chirpy to convey that it was entirely unlike Mrs. Cleary.

Maurice attempted to smile.

“I’m afraid she is unwell. She took to bed early yesterday and hasn’t been seen since.”

And I hope she stays asleep for a while, thought Maurice as he anticipated his visit to the cellar.

“Oh. Well that’s unfortunate. I was hoping to speak with her about terms of appointment.”

“The shock of the last months, I suppose,” lied Maurice.

“I was told she’s rarely ill. Solid nerves. The only time was after my sister-in-law passed away. Mrs. Cleary doted on Calista. In one of his letters, Aaron told me she was inconsolable and kept to her room for days.”

“Speaking of your brother, tell me, Mr. Nightingale, do you think it not peculiar he would amend his will to ensure you wouldn’t be permitted here for another six months? I remain sincerely baffled by this. It is a rather odd number, isn’t it? I mean why six months? Are you not concerned about this?”

Though he fought to conceal his anxiety, Maurice’s mind raced. For a man as organised as Aaron to suddenly adjust his will moments before his death, puzzled him. What had he been hiding?

“Honestly, I am not,” said John. “My brother was quite the eccentric. Vera and I remained in the dark about his business. What I do know, is that he had marvellous taste in women.”

Maurice reflected.

“Did he ever mention something about Ovee?”

John shook his head. “I’m sorry, did you say, Ovee?”

“Yes, does it remind you of anything?”

“No. I’ve never heard of that. What is it?”

“I was hoping you might know.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

Maurice was disappointed.

John stood, seemingly aloof. He faced an antique cabinet and opened the front panels.

“Now, I believe…” he said, searching for something. “Mind you, I’ve not been to Alexandra Hall since the wedding. Now where was it? Aha! I knew he had some!”

He pulled out a tray of crystal glasses then helped himself out of a decanter of brandy.

Madeleine had since breezed in, carrying a tray of fresh brioche buns filled with salmon and cream cheese. She placed the tray on the coffee table. Before leaving, she eyed Maurice insistently as though to enquire if he had finished with the cellar key. She seemed anxious to return it.

“You seem to know this place quite well, Mr. Nightingale,” observed Maurice. Glancing back at Madeleine, he quietly shook his head and mouthed a ‘no’.

The maid walked out just as John sat back down.

“Call me John, please. Yes. Yes, you might say so. I helped build it, you see. It was a challenge to say the least. Aaron and his ideas.” He leaned forward. “Now Mr. Leroux, how is your investigation progressing? Are you as dumbfounded as we all are? I myself have given up. I wish only to believe that my sister fell, just like the poor maid. No point delving into it. Nature takes its course as Aaron would say. I’m far too tired to grieve all over again. Bless her, she didn’t have much of a life, my sister. There’s a point where marriage is an altogether forgotten prospect. And when you’ve not married, well…  It’s a man’s world out there. If you ask me, she is in a happier place, now.”

“This investigation is not progressing much, I’m afraid,” lied Maurice, concealing his secret visit to the cellar. “I feel I’ve only been scratching at the surface. I’m beginning to think that…”

Say it. You think Vera’s death defies the laws of nature. You think Calista killed her. Say it!

No. He wasn’t ready. He still had to ascertain what Aaron had been working on in the cellar. “Mr. Nightingale, I wanted to ask you what you knew of your brother’s work. According to Mrs. Cleary, he was involved in quite an important project