Chapter 7
JUST LIKE the entry hall, Uncle Henry’s office looked exactly as Alex remembered it: dark mahogany floors, wood paneled walls, and the large desk that spanned the center of the far side of the room. Alex and her uncle had spent hours together at that desk, studying reference books, going over lists of facts they’d written on the chalkboard between it and the narrow, curtained windows directly behind it, and throwing theories back and forth as quickly as the firelight flickered from the candelabra hanging from the high ceiling above it. She’d loved those days, and though she hadn’t ultimately embraced criminal detective work the way her uncle had encouraged her to do—she craved the outdoors too much for that—she had developed keen analytical instincts that well served her preternaturalist disposition.
Alex sat in her uncle’s mahogany and leather throne chair, wrote the short list of facts she and Rick had learned from Louis, and finally slid the paper to the middle of the desk. Ivy, sitting in her lap, meowed.
“If this doesn’t suit you,” Alex said, “jump down. Prove to me you’re well again.”
Ivy gaped at her until Rick set his tailcoat on the back of the chair next to Alex and sat in it. Then she yowled.
Rick rolled his white shirt sleeves up to his elbows in a much too familiar manner. Alex dragged her gaze from his forearm.
“What is she so upset about?” Rick said.
Alex licked her lips, inhaled. “I’m assuming it’s because a, er, scorpion poisoned her.”
“Hmm.” Rick reached to the top of Ivy’s head, but Ivy crouched back from him. “She still doesn’t like me, does she?”
“I think you offended her when you kicked her out of your bed.”
“I liked someone else there better.”
Heat rose in Alex’s cheeks. She turned away from him and stared at the corner fireplace. Their bed. Rick’s arms around her . . . her face nuzzled against his chest . . . his lips against the top of her head . . . She cleared her throat. How could she keep a clear head—make correct decisions—if she let her mind wander like that?
“Besides,” he added, “I’m not particularly fond of waking up with a cat tail mustache.”
“It doesn’t really matter. She didn’t like you before then, either.” Alex retrieved the files on Aunt Pauline’s and Jeremiah Godfrey’s deaths from Uncle Henry’s desk drawer and handed Jeremiah’s thin file, along with her notes from her and Rick’s conversation with Louis, to Rick. “Spread these pages across that side of the desk. I’ll lay Pauline’s pages out over here.”
Rick set the first page in front of them. “It’s a timeline. Is there one for Pauline too?”
“Right here.” Alex placed Pauline’s timeline next to Jeremiah’s and scanned both pages. Jeremiah’s contained only a few more facts than those she and Rick had learned from Louis. First, people at the ball game said Jeremiah appeared overexerted during the game but looked better after the picnic. Second, when the police found Jeremiah the next morning, he was wearing his bed clothes, his mouth was frozen in an open grimace, he had swollen, dark blue lips and blue fingers, and there was a half-empty cup of chamomile tea next to his bed.
Bits of Pauline’s day, however, brought a lump to Alex’s throat. She’d lived that day too.
PAULINE WATSON’S LAST DAY
December 1, 1873
8:00 a.m. Pauline, Fay, Alex, and I (Henry) eat breakfast together in the dining room.
9:00–11:00 a.m. I go to my office at the bank. Pauline organizes the servants’ work assignments, checks on the girls’ educational progress, and prepares the cook’s weekly menu.
11:00 a.m. Theodore Clemens visits Pauline. He is an old beau but has not been in the area for five years. (Pauline insisted she only ever thought of him as a friend.)
12:00 p.m. Theodore stays for lunch. I arrive home for lunch early. I see Pauline and Theodore together without the children and become angry and jealous. Pauline and I argue. Pauline insists she only ever thought of Theodore as a friend. Theodore leaves. (Note: Theodore Clemens dies in 1883.)
1:00 p.m. Pauline feels sick. I leave without eating.
2:00 p.m. A neighbor, Mrs. Katherine York, visits Pauline. Pauline agrees to help with the town’s Christmas bazaar. (Note: Mrs. York dies in 1881.)
3:00 p.m. Pauline feels quite sick. She complains to Fay, Alex, and the servants about the sloppy performances of their duties. She goes to a guest room to rest.
6:00–6:20 p.m. Fay and Alex visit Pauline before dinner. Pauline is in bed.
7:00–7:25 p.m. Edna takes Pauline tea to help settle her stomach. Pauline’s symptoms settle. Edna visits with her.
8:30 p.m. I return for the evening. I retire to my bedchamber.
8:40 p.m. Fay knocks on Pauline’s door and says good night. Pauline says, “Get out.” Fay goes to bed upset.
9:30 p.m. The household retires for the night.
December 2, 1873
7:00 a.m. I find Pauline dead in the guest room bed. Items found at the scene that were later removed:
Pauline’s night robe, bedding, dead plant on the nightstand, dinner tray with uneaten food and dishes
Ivy jumped to the floor.
“You’re either getting better,” Alex said to her, “or feeling braver.”
Ivy stood on her hind legs against the chair but didn’t jump into Alex’s lap. It was definitely progress. A good thing. So why did Alex’s arms feel empty?
“One similarity between the timelines,” Rick said, “though it’s common with most people, is Jeremiah and Pauline had breakfast with their families the day they died. Pauline’s timeline mentions you were there. Do you remember anything about that day?”
“Only that I cried for several hours because Aunt Pauline said my penmanship was sloppy and illegible, and if not immediately corrected, could lead me to a fate worse than death: spinsterhood.”
Rick smiled. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back in his chair, watching her. “I never considered penmanship an important trait in a suitable wife.”
Alex looked away from his incessant gaze.
“You won’t ask me what I think is important, will you?”
Ivy crept toward the fireplace. Halfway there, her fur lit up like one of Mr. Thomas Edison’s incandescent lamps. Alex furrowed her brows.
“Confidence, determination, intelligence . . . and it doesn’t hurt that you’re beautiful. Alex? Are you listening?”
Alex waved his comment off as if she hadn’t heard him, hadn’t noticed the exasperation—disappointment?—in his voice. Indifference was an easy response.
Rick scooted his chair closer to hers. “Have you figured out why Ivy lights up like that?”
“I wish I had, or at least found a way to trigger it. I could have used it in the ca—when it was dark.”
“I thought I was giving you a pet, not a lamp.”
Alex touched the back of her hair—her topknot was still pinned in place—and turned back to the files. She flipped through what appeared to be Pauline’s small housekeeping account book and set it on the desk below the fact sheets. She, of course, did not notice his knee bumped hers. She bit the inside of her cheeks. Time to get their conversation back to business. “Pauline seemed out of sorts that day.”
“But Jeremiah wasn’t. At least not according to Louis.”
“Maybe he didn’t notice it because Jeremiah was always cross with him.”
“Maybe.”
Alex glanced between the timelines. “But they did both feel ill sometime that day.”
Rick, staring at Alex out of the corner of his eye, pushed up from his chair and walked to the window. “Not for the same length of time, though, or even after similar events. Your aunt spent the day with an old beau, and Jeremiah spent the day at work and at the ballpark.”
Alex set the remaining papers from Pauline’s file next to her timeline, and Rick returned to Alex’s side. He briefly touched her shoulder.
An airy giggle trickled over
the air.
Completely unnecessary heat rose to Alex’s cheeks. “That wasn’t me.”
“It sounded like you—your voice.”
She looked over her shoulder to the red floor length window curtains but saw no unnatural bulges behind the fabric. She’d once hid behind them when Aunt Pauline had been upset with her for adding two humps to her cursive m rather than three.
“I know it did, but it wasn’t. Do you see me smiling? Even a little bit? I can’t imagine I’d laugh without smiling.”
Rick’s eyes lit up. “No, but you are beautiful.”
“Please be serious.”
Another gentle, ghostly laugh—a masculine one this time. Rick’s? But when she looked up at him, he shook his head.
The hair on the back of Alex’s neck stiffened to attention. She stood and carefully peered about the room. “Is someone there?”
Ivy, her fur glowing like white fire, leapt into Alex’s arms. Rick grasped her elbow. His fingers felt warm and firm against her skin. “There’s no place in here for anyone to hide. Confess. You laughed just now, didn’t you?”
She pulled away from him. “No, I did not.”
“Don’t think I mind. I love it, actually. I haven’t heard you laugh like that, like you haven’t a care in your entire body, for more than a year.”
“I did not laugh, and I’m quite certain you didn’t laugh a moment ago, either.”
He pursed his lips. “You got me there, but give me a minute. I’m sure I can come up with something that’ll make us both laugh.” He furrowed his brow, and tapping his forefinger to his lips, paced toward the fireplace. “I know. Who is the greatest chicken killer in Shakespeare?”
“This isn’t a joke.” Alex, scanning the room, backed against the chalkboard. If someone was hiding in the office, he or she couldn’t grab her from behind.
“Macbeth,” Rick said, “because he did murder most foul.”
She groaned.
He peeked behind the medallion-back settee and returned to her side. “Perhaps there’s a ghost in the room who doesn’t want us to find out the truth about your aunt’s or Mr. Godfrey’s deaths. The Night Hag, maybe.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The Night Hag is merely a mythological explanation for what must be a natural or preternatural phenomenon.” Alex closed her eyes, watched her thoughts shuffle through her memory like a box of unconnected puzzle pieces: Ivy lighting up now and in the dark cavern, the laughs she and Rick had just heard, the voice that had whispered from somewhere within the cave. Were there, in fact, such things as ghosts?
She took a deep breath, held it, and focused all her senses on the desk, the walls, the ceiling, lights, fireplace, furniture—all crisply familiar like those matter-of-fact files, and yet nothing stirred or tingled within her. The sounds had not come from plants.
“I figured you’d say that,” Rick said.
“You believe it’s a myth, don’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’ve explored enough grave sites and found enough odd treasures not to believe there aren’t things out there I can’t explain.”
“Rick.”
Rick stared at her. Alex gaped and despite herself, her fingers trembled against Ivy’s fur. That was her voice, but—
“Your lips didn’t move,” he said.
She gaped at him, shook her head.
He narrowed his eyes, stepped away from the desk, scanned the room. “Who’s in here?”
Alex pressed her body tighter against the blackboard, but this time it wasn’t because she worried someone might grab her from behind. This time, she knew when and where she’d said Rick’s name in just that way. It was the day she and Rick had ducked into this office for a few moments of privacy after the picnic where Uncle Henry and Rick’s parents had announced to their guests her and Rick’s engagement. They, laughing at their elders’ naiveté, had stood close to the fireplace. Yes, Rick was wealthy, and she was well connected. And yes, they enjoyed each other’s company and interests as friends generally did, but their insistence that she and Rick would eventually learn to love, not just like, each other was an illusion. Both she and Rick knew their own minds and would always know them. Partners, of course. Lovers, too, since all would expect an heir. But twisted, messy, romantic feelings for one another? Ridiculous!
Rick inhaled sharply.
Alex clenched her fists. Had he heard—remembered—that moment too? If he had, what then? “Read aloud what your papers say. Then I’ll read mine,” Alex said. “If we ignore the voices, maybe they’ll go away.”
“Ignore them? Not investigate? That doesn’t sound like you.”
She swallowed. Some memories had to stay in the past. “What would be the point? As you said, there’s no one here.”
Rick arched an eyebrow. “This might be your chance to see a ghost.”
“I’d rather not.”
“All right. It’s your call.” He scanned the room yet again then slid a list of notes in front of them on the desk. “This one says, ‘The Night Hag is a legendary demon who comes upon her victims just before they fall asleep or just before they wake. She paralyzes them and sits on their chests until they suffocate to death. Those who’ve survived the phenomenon report feelings of panic, drowning, or pain, and they claim they saw a witch in their room.”
“Come here, Alex.” Once more, the voice—Rick’s voice—came from the direction of the fireplace.
Alex hugged Ivy tighter. Ignore it, she thought, but the memory came anyway. After Rick had said those words, he’d pulled her into his arms, kissed her softly on the lips, and with their noses touching said, “I know this feels strange between us now, but it won’t always. I promise.”
Alex shoved her thoughts back to the present and stared at Ivy, who’d stopped glowing. The voices had stopped too. Hmm.
Rick turned over the paper he was examining—there was nothing on the back—and flipped again to the front. His hands trembled slightly. “At the top, your uncle wrote: ‘Theodore Clemens already dead. It’s not him.’”
Alex shuffled through a few more sheets of notes about her aunt. “I can see why Uncle Henry thought Mr. Clemens was responsible for Pauline’s death. Listen to this. ‘Theodore Clemens has a history of thievery. When the police questioned him, they found a skeleton key that would fit in our front door lock. We, however, found nothing missing, and Clemens did not possess any of our belongings. He claimed he had planned to rob us but hadn’t yet done so, and since the police found nothing to connect Mr. Clemens to Pauline’s death, and since a man cannot be convicted of a crime he hasn’t yet committed, they did not arrest him for theft, either.’”
“Anything else?” Rick said.
Ivy jumped from her arms, sat, and licked her shoulder. Alex peered back at the now silent space around the fireplace. Had whatever it was that had been in the room left?
“‘Police questioned Pauline’s family, servants, and Mrs. York,’’ she read aloud, ‘‘but learned nothing of consequence. Full reports are kept at the police station.’ This is interesting. Uncle Henry included a complete description of the guest room and its contents at the time of her death. I wonder why he wrote all this when he could have just looked at the real thing. He hasn’t allowed anyone to touch that room for any purpose other than an occasional light cleaning. Is there a list like this in Mr. Godfrey’s file?”
“No.” Rick pursed his lips. Why was his jaw set so tightly? “Let’s make one after our visit there tomorrow.”
Alex returned the paper she was holding to the desk and headed toward the door that led into the formal dining room. Rick had closed it after they’d first entered. She hadn’t thought anything of it until, in the next moment, he stepped in beside her, clasped her hand, and slowly wrapped her fingers around his bent elbow. “Whatever happened just now brought back a lot of old feelings.”
Alex nodded. She, looked at a dent in the wood floor, wished her hands weren’t sweating.
“Only they’re not so old t
o me anymore,” he added. “They’re current.”
“Please don’t say such things.”
“Why not? We’re married.”
“Somewhat.”
He stepped in front of her, facing her, and placed his fingertips beneath her chin. He lifted her gaze to his. “We should be together, Alex.”
Not again. Alex folded her arms in front of her. “Let’s just try to get through this investigation, all right?”
“And then what?”
A shiver trembled through her as dishes from the dining room clanged like soft, accusing death tolls. “Then we’ll see.”
***