O'Hare House Mysteries Read online

  "I will make sure to let him know," smiled Clara. "Thank you."

  Just as Mrs. Nan was walking out, the door opened and Mr. Willard announced, "Mr. Phineas Stokeman to see you, ma'am."

  Clara rose, alarmed by what could possibly have caused him to come see her. The tall, gangly man with the oily black hair walked in. Every inch of his pale skin was covered in black, except his face, which was guarded with a hat, dark glasses, and a muffler.

  "Mr. Willard, would you close the blinds for Mr. Stokeman?" Clara asked realizing how taxing it must have been for Phineas to come all this way.

  "Of course, ma'am," her butler replied.

  As he was shutting the curtains, eventually enough darkness was reached that Phineas could remove his dark glasses and look at Clara without blinking. She began to rise to greet him.

  "Sit! Sit!" he said. He held out a bouquet of flowers awkwardly. "I apologize for dropping in like this, but I came to see how you were doing. May I come in?"

  "Of course," said Clara, turning to Mr. Willard. "Mr. Willard, would you take those flowers and put them in some water?"

  The butler took the bouquet and held it at arm's length as he walked out of the room. Clara motioned to Phineas to take a seat. Her head was beginning to pound already with the exertion. "Please. Can I offer you anything to eat or drink?"

  He waved the offer off. "No, I would not think of imposing. Indeed, I have imposed too much! My conscience felt terrible that I had been the one to suggest the séance, and then that it led to you being injured. I was awake all night. Tell me, Mrs. O'Hare, are you recovered?"

  She tried to smile. "I am afraid that I shall have a lump on my head, but other than that, I am fine. Thank you for your concern."

  Phineas sat forward and wet his narrow lips nervously. Clara began to get the sense that there was an ulterior motive to his call. She sat back, waiting patiently as he figured out the most delicate way to broach the subject.

  "Did you really see the ghost of an Egyptian queen last night?" he asked with great interest.

  "I did," she replied, suppressing the shiver that coursed through her body when she thought of it. "She was standing over Pauline. It may have only been a trick, but it seemed to have been influencing her."

  "Did she say what she wanted?" asked Phineas. "I mean, besides the words that Pauline seemed to channel?"

  "No," replied Clara. "Nothing more at all."

  "It really was an astonishing evening," said Phineas. He stared down at his balled fists as if embarrassed. "I hope you won't mind me saying so, but you seem even a stronger medium than Wesley Lowenherz."

  "Oh no," said Clara, the warning bells clanging in her mind. "Mr. Lowenherz is quite stronger than me. I assure you. I am quite positive that it was he that created a connection strong enough that a widow like me thought she saw something." Clara began to sidestep and babble. "As a matter of fact, I am not so sure I saw anything at all. I saw a dark shadow, which really, all shadows are dark. It very well could have been Pauline's shape being cast by the firelight. Indeed, now that I think about it in the light of day, I am sure that is what I saw."

  "You are probably right," Phineas agreed jovially. "In the atmosphere your Mr. Lowenherz created, it is a wonder that all of us did not begin seeing ghosts."

  He and Clara shared a laugh, but she had the feeling his mirth was as false as hers. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box. "I hope you will not feel this is too forward, Mrs. O'Hare, but I felt so dreadful about last night. Please accept this gift for what it is, merely an apology for the distress you have endured."

  He held out the box. Clara gave him another stiff smile, hoping he was not about to embarrass himself with some display of affection she could not return. "You shouldn't have."

  "Please, I would like for you to have it. It is nothing. A trifle, but something that I hope you will enjoy."

  Clara relented and took the box. She opened it up and inside was a simple necklace with an ornamental scarab hanging from the chain.

  "They say that these creatures protect the heart from being stolen," Phineas explained. "The mummies we found almost always contained one upon the chest bone. I felt as if after last night and the loss of the heart due to some silly showgirl's carelessness, it would be appropriate."

  Clara smiled ruefully. "It is very kind of you," she said, and then laughed, "and indeed, quite appropriate."

  "Put it on!" said Phineas.

  Obligingly, she took the chain and placed it over her head.

  Suddenly, the room began to spin.

  "Oh my," she said, gripping the arm of the sofa. "I'm afraid that I must have hit my head much harder than I originally thought. I'm afraid I am feeling a little faint."

  Phineas rose in alarm. "Of course! I shall not keep you. Shall I call your butler?"

  She shook her head. "I shall be just fine."

  "Don't get up! Please!" he said as she struggled to stand, but her knees buckled and she slumped onto the ground. He ran over and took her arm, wincing in pain at the touch, and then helped guide her back to her seat.

  "You should not have done that," said Clara. "What with your condition—"

  "My condition is nothing," he said, cutting her off, "if you were injured once more on my watch…" He then paused, as if seeing her for the first time. "I do say, Mrs. O'Hare, you are a handsome woman."

  She tried to wave him off, the room continuing its spin. She couldn't even think straight enough to rebuff this compliment. The most she could come up with was, "I am a widow, sir, and still in mourning."

  Phineas stopped her. "No! That was not my intention with such a comment. How utterly embarrassing to cause you injury first in body and then make you think I would take advantage of you in this state. No!" He sat down to explain awkwardly, "I am a photographer. You saw my pictures of Violet and Pauline. I took those photographs of the dig site which were presented at Dr. Mallfeld's lecture."

  "You knew of the lecture?" said Clara. "Were you there?"

  Phineas shook his head. "Alas, I am afraid that Dr. Mallfeld and I did not part on the friendliest of terms, and I did not want that evening to be the first time we became reacquainted. I hold him no ill will. You must believe me. But I was greatly pleased to hear that he displayed my photographs for the public to see. I hope someday to change the world with my photography."

  "How interesting," said Clara, politely, still not sure what he was getting at.

  "It is just that as I looked down at you in that moment, there was an air about you. Something… well, something that needs to be captured. Tell me, Mrs. O'Hare, have you ever had your picture taken?"

  "No," she said. "No, I can't say that I have."

  "That is a tragedy," he said. "I hope you will not think me too forward, but would you perhaps consider sitting for me? Allowing me to photograph you?"

  Clara could barely think of a response, the world was spinning so badly. It was a strange request. A bizarre request. "I couldn't possibly," she replied.

  "Please say you will!"

  "I couldn't…" she protested, but even as she did so, she had a harder and harder time remembering why she was so resistant to the idea.

  "I would provide you with a print. It would make such a lovely gift to Mr. Lowenherz this holiday season."

  The thought of Wesley made the world stop spinning for just a moment. She clung to it before being ripped away into the spinning sensation once again. She leaned back her head on to the couch and whispered, just to make Phineas go away, "Of course," she replied. "Of course."

  He gripped the brim of his hat in delight. "Wonderful! Wonderful. I shall be in touch shortly to schedule a sitting. Thank you, Mrs. O'Hare! You have made me so happy!" He put on his glasses. "I shall show myself out. Thank you again!"

  Clara closed her eyes, letting herself slip into the darkness of sleep. She should have said "no", but it was impossible… impossible…

  16

  Clara and Wesley sat in Dr. Van Flemming's
untidy office, waiting for him to arrive.

  "You are looking pale, my dear," Wesley observed with concern.

  Clara raised her hand to her forehead. "Yes, my darling. I have not felt myself since yesterday. I believe all of the excitement may have strained my nerves. Or perhaps being out in the night air the past few days have given me a chill."

  Before Wesley could reply, Dr. Van Flemming walked in and sat down in his chair sternly. "You all were indeed the showmen and I am quite ashamed to have taken part in such foolery. Egyptian curses indeed! Why, that was nothing but an actress pulling one over in a bit of playacting."

  "I assure you," Wesley began, "that there was nothing playacting—"

  "You mean to tell me this woman," Dr. Van Flemming pointed his finger at Clara, "saw the ghost of an Egyptian queen in a room controlling Pauline… I mean… a known actress of the lowest caliber? Pauline was merely trifling with your sympathies and I cannot believe you fell for it." The flush that crossed Dr. Van Flemming's face told the tale that his sympathies had fallen for Pauline's trifling more than he would like to admit.

  "I am sure it seems unbelievable—" said Wesley.

  "I do not take lightly to being taken for a fool."

  "Please, Dr. Van Flemming," Clara said. Her soft voice and the toll it took for her to speak up caused the men to stop their bickering. "Obviously you are right that something is not as it seems."

  "As I was saying," he said, giving an approving nod that Clara was so sensible.

  "But I did see something, and this something seemed to have possessed Violet and Pauline!” she insisted. “If it is not supernatural, then there must be a logical explanation. Won't you help us to discover the cause? We do not ask that you believe the events of such a bizarre evening, but surely there is a root cause of these mass hallucinations. Only a man of science such as yourself holds the key to the answers."

  Dr. Van Flemming sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh. "I cannot turn my back on such a plea."

  "Thank you," Clara responded, her speech taking almost all of her energy from her. She leaned heavily upon the arm of her chair.

  "How did you know Pauline?" Wesley asked.

  "She was always a vain creature." Dr. Van Flemming looked out the window. "I met her at the burlesque. In fact, the night I first met her was the happiest night of my life. She began seeing me, thinking that somehow I, with my mind full of scientific knowledge, could reverse the aging process, could keep her young forever. Her signature Egyptian performance? It was because of the mummy downstairs. Pauline became convinced that the Egyptians unlocked the secrets to eternal youth. She had already stolen my heart before I realized that it was not me, but my knowledge, that she was after. It was then that she and Phineas struck up their… friendship. He, by all reports, should be dead. His biological diseases are all fatal, and yet, he lives and does not seem to age." Dr. Van Flemming stopped himself, embarrassed. "She tried to come to see me about a week ago. Sent a message. Said that she was being haunted by dreams of Egyptians. Said she felt like some sort of evil curse had wound itself around her. Poor girl seemed delusional. She asked if there were any items in ancient Egyptian culture to counter such curses."

  "And what did you tell her?" asked Wesley.

  "That she was reading too many ghost stories. And after seeing her performance last night, the way she frightened Mrs. O'Hare here to the brink of feminine strength, well… I believe I made the right decision to send her away."

  Clara stopped him. "If this is all in her head," she said, knowing that it was not and the curse was very real, "sometimes the suggestion of a cure can change a person's health. Is there anything in the ancient texts to counter such curses?"

  "There are no such things as curses! Thus nothing to counter!" Dr. Van Flemming erupted in exasperation.

  "But on a mythological level…"

  "If you want to avoid opening up an ancient Egyptian curse, don't go opening up any ancient Egyptian tombs," Dr. Van Flemming stated with finality.

  "Was there a curse on the tomb that you opened?" demanded Clara with the last remains of her strength.

  "This is preposterous..."

  "Please, just humor us," said Wesley. "Do you have any photographs or drawings of your dig site? Something we could compare the artifacts in your basement to in order to see if there are any differences or clues."

  Dr. Van Flemming rose. "I may be many things, but unorganized, I am not." He tripped over a pile of books and knocked over a stack of papers on his way to the bookshelf. He took down a large scrapbook, brought it over to the desk, and opened the pages to the photographs of the mummy's sarcophagus.

  "It looks like there is some damage here," said Clara, pointing to the face of a statue.

  "Ah!" pontificated Dr. Van Flemming, only too happy to correct her. "That is indeed what you would think. The ancient Egyptians kept their works unfinished. They believed if you completed a painting or sculpture, it would bind the subject's soul to the object." He grumbled as he peered closer at the picture. "That damned Dr. Mallfeld thought our mummy would look much better if he corrected the unfinished bits and painted them on himself."

  "What did you say?" asked Wesley slowly. "He completed an unfinished object which might have bound a soul?"

  Dr. Van Flemming closed the book. "Now, if you are going to get started on this idea of a curse again and tell me that a bit of paint unleashed a terrible power…"

  "Please, Dr. Van Flemming," Clara responded. "Could we not lift a bit of the paint from the mummy, just to see if it might help?"

  "My good madam," he said rising. "I fear that this illness which has struck you has made you take leave of your senses. I advise you to go home and lie down."

  "But please, can we not try?"

  "I will not further damage this ancient artifact for the sake of some foolish notion you have gotten into your head! And so I say, good day to you. May I show you out?"

  Clara and Wesley rose, knowing that it would be foolhardy to push any further, and headed for the door.

  "Thank you very much for your time," Wesley said. "We apologize for any distress our inquiries might have caused."

  Dr. Van Flemming seemed to soften a little. "None at all. But please do not reduce the important work and studies I do to flim-flammery."

  "I assure you that was not the reason for our questioning."

  Dr. Van Flemming looked over at Clara, who was leaning heavily upon Wesley's arm, and softened. "Take Mrs. O'Hare home. When she is feeling better, come back and we can discuss this further."

  "Thank you," said Wesley, gently guiding Clara down the sidewalk. "We appreciate your generosity."

  Wesley hailed a cab and helped guide Clara inside. She clutched his hand gratefully as she leaned her head against the back of the padded seat and closed her eyes.

  "My darling," he said, wiping her feverish brow. "You seem increasingly unwell."

  "I do not know what has come over me," she replied. "Phineas Stokeman came to my house earlier to see how I was faring after the séance, and it was then I started feeling ill."

  He pressed the back of her hand to his lips and kept it clasped in his as the cab gently rocked down the road.

  Clara finally spoke, her eyes still closed. "It is so strange that Mr. Stokeman and Dr. Van Flemming both knew Violet and Pauline."

  "Have you been thinking this whole time?" chided Wesley good-naturedly. "And here I thought I should keep quiet so that you could sleep."

  "It is no use," Clara said. "I could not quiet my mind if I wanted to. Too much has happened and I fear that some terrible event marches closer to us every day."

  "Don't fret about that now, Clara," Wesley said tenderly. "Just rest. Feel better. Soon you will be fit as a fiddle and we can solve this blasted mystery."

  "If the ghost controlling Pauline wanted the heart so greatly, why would Pauline have thrown it away?" Clara murmured, as she began to drift off to sleep despite her own protests. “I wonder if Pauline eve
r had the heart at all…”

  Wesley stroked her hand and rested his lips against her brow.

  17

  The sun was shining in Clara's room. Opening her eyes caused sharp spikes of pain. Her head was pounding as if a hundred drummers were beating rhythm on the inside of her skull. Her mouth was parched. Her eyes were dry.

  "Whatever could be the matter?" Clara whispered to herself.

  She slowly sat up and hung her legs over the side of her bed. Mrs. Nan knocked gently and then opened the door. She seemed surprised to see Clara awake.

  "Up and about already?" she said. "I would have thought you would have slept until noon with the busy days you have been having."

  "Oh, I wish I could have," said Clara. "I feel quite out of sorts."

  Mrs. Nan looked at the scarab necklace hanging around Clara’s neck. "Tsk! Wore your jewelry to bed, dear? That's an easy way to lose things in the bedclothes."

  Clara touched it. "How strange… I thought for sure I had taken it off last night."

  "Odd," said Mrs. Nan. "You were looking so peaked, you probably just forgot."

  "Just so," said Clara. She stood and then sat back down again. "Oh, Mrs. Nan. I am afraid I am not feeling well enough to come down for breakfast."

  Concerned, Mrs. Nan came over and helped Clara get her legs back under the covers. "Don't you worry a thing about such foolishness," she said. "You staying in bed will give us time to give the dining room a good cleaning out. Now, you just rest here. I'll bring you some breakfast as soon as it is done. You've been pushing yourself so hard, it is no wonder that you are not feeling well. Today, you'll do nothing but rest. I'll get you some books from the library, and we'll give your body a little time to recover from all this excitement."

  Clara nodded in agreement, unable to come up with the energy to even feign protest. "Could you get me my writing box? I'd like to send Wesley a message to let him know I am not feeling well."

  Mrs. Nan smiled as she tucked Clara in. "He is a special gentleman, isn't he?" noted Mrs. Nan conspiringly.