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

It was no longer a question of what Aaron had done, however cruel, but rather, how early he had planned it. It drew such a malignant portrait of Aaron Nightingale that Maurice stood. He began to pace, seized with dread, yet unable to pinpoint the true nature of his fear.

At last, he glimpsed it. The curious void in Alexandra Hall’s decor. The absence of Calista Nightingale’s touch everywhere inside this home. She’d had no voice. Had she only ever been an instrument of Aaron’s scheming and nothing more? Had Aaron loved Calista at all? No. He loved only her gift, and the use he could make of it to further his own ambitions.

Maurice thought of the stamped yet unposted letter to Vera and he was now certain Aaron had not taken his own life. Why would he? He did not love Calista. Only his own obsession had ever driven him.

A distinct rumbling stirred in his stomach and he could no longer ignore his hunger pangs. Peering through the study window, he saw the swaying of the trees. Blustery weather swept through the valley and grey clouds cast the estate in near darkness. Dressed in their Sunday best, their hair braided down their backs, the four maids of Alexandra Hall stepped towards Alfred’s awaiting coach.

Shannon, Ellen, followed by Madeleine had mounted the carriage, but as it came to Mary’s turn to climb aboard, a raven silhouette sprung up the path. Maurice recognised Mrs. Cleary. The wind’s might came alive through her black dress. The housekeeper was fast by the roadside and she held Mary back with a vile grip. Maurice felt a twist to his heart. He watched the young maid shake her head in protest then bury her face in her hands.

As the coach made its way to Reading, Mrs. Cleary dragged a sobbing Mary back to the house.

Now only the delivery coach waited along the muddy road.

Colours and shapes, all illusion

Maurice suddenly regretted sending the maids away. The house felt eerily empty.

In the kitchen, he found Gerard O’Malley, arranging a plate of roast beef and butter sandwiches. After reading of Aaron’s dark work, the sight of cold meat was not as pleasant as it would otherwise have been, but Maurice resigned himself, wary of collapsing.

“Why do I go to such trouble, eh?” asked Gerard. “Nobody tells me anything. Now, who is going to eat all of that? All the girls have gone to Reading Town.” He turned to Maurice as though to confide in him. “All of them except Mary, I should say. Poor thing wasn’t allowed to go to town.” Then shaking his head, “That’s Mrs. Cleary, right there for you. If you ask me, she’s looking a bit unhinged today. Puts on those grand airs, but you dig a little deeper past the surface, and that’s what you get.”

Maurice eyed Gerard sharply but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Mind you,” said Gerard, “they say women know best how to raise a child so I’d hate to say anything.”

Maurice nodded coldly. He picked up a roast beef and gherkin sandwich from the platter.

“You’ll tell me what you think of those,” chirped Gerard. “Mrs. Nightingale used to love them at first. Another thing about women is their stubborn dislike of a good roast and steak. Mrs. Nightingale didn’t much like the sight of meat over the years.”

Maurice nearly choked. He coughed, then ran his tongue across his cheek in an attempt to swallow each bite without chewing the meat.

“Would you like some water, Mr. Leroux?”

“No, I’m alright,” said Maurice, raising a hand to ease the cook. “I was a little hungry and forgot to chew.”

“You should try the corned-beef sandwich. Less chewing. Corned-beef, Mrs. Nightingale could still eat,” said Gerard. “She’d often ask for them sandwiches to be sent upstairs when she was too tired to come down. Poor woman. She’d work so hard. I’d prepare a plate and hoist it up.”

Maurice eyed the hallway nervously then peeked at his watch.

“Where is Mrs. Cleary now?” he asked.

“She said she was off to the gardener’s shed. Something about burning leaves and fallen trees, and composting kitchen waste. I wasn’t paying much attention. The less I hear of her these days, the better I feel.”

“Splendid, thank you. Gerard, what did you mean by ‘hoist it up?’ Would you not bring the sandwiches upstairs to Mrs. Nightingale, yourself?”

“Oh, no. I am never permitted upstairs. No need to, though. Mrs. Nightingale’s room is the one with the dumbwaiter, see. We didn’t have one initially, but Mr. John Nightingale made it for her. Simple steel plate that we hoist up and down a shaft with some pulleys.”

Maurice stared. He recalled no dumbwaiter inside Calista’s bedroom.

“A clever thing, really,” continued Gerard, “considering it was a last minute modification. Or so I’m told. Do you want me to show you? It’s near the commons kitchen. We don’t use it now, of course, so the plate is stuck down there. Hasn’t been up since she passed. Might not work any longer.”

“No, no, I’m a little busy right now. Thank you for the sandwiches, Gerard. They were fabulous.”

“Nice to be appreciated. Thank you, Mr. Leroux. Have yourself a good afternoon.”

Maurice glanced nervously at his watch before stepping out of the kitchen and into the entrance hall.

There was no sign of the housekeeper. He pushed open the glass doors. An icy gust unsettled the leaves at his feet, and stirred the poplar trees. Feeling the chill, Maurice hurried down to the road where the delivery boy waited, his boots drenched in mud. Coming as close as he could to the young man, he slipped the first letter into his hand.

“Please deliver this urgently to Mr. Wilson at Waileys Brothers in London. Once he receives it, he will need to come to Alexandra Hall in person, right away. As