The Vanishing at Castle Moreau, page 26
“What do we know about Castle Moreau?” Stasia took charge of the conversation. She tapped a pencil against a lined, spiral notebook. “Let’s get back to basics. Walk me through it, Tremblay,” she stated.
Deacon looked up from his phone. He shot Cleo a look, and she wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. He looked weary already. Or wary. Maybe both.
Stasia tapped her pencil again. “Listen, I know this sucks—for all of us—but your lawyer said to get ahead of it. If you can figure out what the heck Moreau’s story is, then maybe we can get to the bottom of what happened to Anne as well as my long-lost great-great-aunt Elsie.”
“Fine.” Deacon dropped his phone onto the table and leaned forward, drilling his gaze into Stasia. “Here’s what I know: Tobias Moreau was a French trapper who, at the turn of the century, built the castle for his wife. They had a daughter named Ora. She grew up to become the famous Gothic writer whose books I’ve never even read. She married, and they had a son who died shortly after his own son was born. That son went on to have a daughter. Her name is Virgie, my grandmother. She kept her maiden name. Her kid was my dad, and my parents died in a plane crash when I was fifteen. It’s just Virgie and me now.”
Stasia was busy scribbling in her notebook. She looked up. “To summarize, then, Ora Moreau the author is Virgie’s grand-mère.”
“Yep.” Deacon rapped his knuckles on the table.
“Which means Ora Moreau is your great-great-grandmother,” Stasia concluded.
“Right.” Deacon seemed unimpressed.
Cleo reached up to take the mug of coffee Dave offered her. He smiled a little, then directed his words toward Deacon.
“When did the first stories of missing women linked to Castle Moreau start?”
Deacon shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Stasia chimed in. “I know. The first woman rumored to go missing was probably around the time of Ora’s marriage. So . . . the 1820s. And then roughly fifty years later, my own family had Elsie Stockley vanish, as well as another young woman, Hester May, and they say there were others too.”
“The phantom woman.” Once again, Cleo spoke without thinking.
“What?” Dave looked down at her.
She cast Deacon an apologetic look, but he rolled his hand in the air for her to continue. “Remember? The other night? Virgie mentioned the phantom woman—the woman with the crooked hand.”
“That was a book written by Ora Moreau,” Stasia said.
Cleo wasn’t about to mention her visions of the woman in the castle. Instead, she replied, “But what if it is true?”
Dave’s brows flew up. “That’s an interesting point.”
Stasia swung her legs off the chair. “You’re saying maybe the book has a clue in it as to what started this entire thread and theory about the missing women?”
Cleo shrugged. Deacon locked eyes with her, and his seemed to reassure her he wouldn’t share the details of her fright that night in the castle. He intercepted to spare Cleo the discomfort. “My grandmother says she haunts the castle. That she always has.”
“That’s just speculation. Not a real person,” Stasia stated.
She was interrupted when Deacon’s phone trilled. He answered it, and Cleo watched his face as he listened. Color drained, and his eyes darted to meet Cleo’s even as he responded to the caller. “Mm-hmm. No, I hear you, I just . . . yeah. Yeah, I will. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. I know, Stephen. I will. Bye.”
Deacon flicked his screen and slowly rested his phone on the table. No one spoke. They could tell he was unsettled. He raised his eyes after staring at his phone for a long moment as though it would somehow magically provide the answers they all sought.
Finally, Cleo asked what the others wouldn’t. “What is it?”
Deacon gnawed at his lip, then sniffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “They already let Stephen know what they found.”
“And?” Dave leaned on the table in anticipation.
Deacon looked over at him. “There’s no news on the age of the remains yet, but the skeleton is female, and the bones of her hand—” He choked.
“Are crooked!” Stasia breathed in realization.
Silence enveloped the room.
Dave cleared his throat. “So, the bones are the woman with the crooked hand? The woman from Ora Moreau’s novel—she was real!”
Deacon nodded. “The phantom woman.”
“The very first victim at Castle Moreau,” Stasia said.
thirty-four
Daisy
1871
Thank you for coming.”
Daisy stood before Lincoln as he sat looking up at her from his wheelchair. She’d had little choice. She’d been summoned by Festus, who had caught her coming from the direction of Elsie’s room. What she’d seen there haunted her. She was not finished either, but the sound of Festus’s footsteps had urged her from the room, and she was thankful he’d not actually caught her leaving it. Now she stared down at Lincoln, doubt more than likely etched into every crevice of her face.
“Would you have tea with me? Can we chat? Discuss books and history?”
Daisy blinked. He was sincere. Lincoln’s dark eyes were fixed on her with a veiled anticipation of intelligent dialogue. Was he truly serious about wanting her companionship? Her mind was in disarray. How was she to discuss books and history when Elsie’s and Hester May’s very lives hinged on her staying the course to find the truth?
“Please.” Lincoln pointed to the window seat just to the left of his chair. “Sit.”
She stiffened. “I’d rather not.”
“Oh?” Lincoln’s friendliness dissipated, and he eyed her carefully. “You sound upset.”
“Perhaps . . .” She tried not to reveal the fear growing inside her. A panic like none she’d felt before was welling up and making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
“What is it?” Lincoln asked.
Daisy avoided his eyes and walked to the window, crossing her arms around herself. What should she say? Trusting Lincoln might be foolish. He had to know about the missing women. How could one live here and not know something was amiss?
“Daisy.” Lincoln’s voice was low.
She looked over her shoulder. His hand was outstretched, beckoning her. She refused to take it.
Lincoln dropped his hand to the arm of his chair. He heaved a sigh, giving her perhaps the most honest expression yet. He was agitated and allowed it to show as he worked his jaw back and forth. “You do not trust me?”
“No,” she answered with equal honesty.
“Why?”
“Do you know . . . ?” Daisy halted.
“Go on.”
She licked her lips and sucked in a nervous breath. “There is a woman here. In the castle. Not your grandmother, and not me. She roams the place at night. I saw her.”
“You did.” It was a statement of acknowledgment. He wasn’t surprised.
“Yes.” Daisy rejected caution and approached him, kneeling on the floor beside his chair, her hands covering his arm as it rested on the leather padded armrest. “She warned me. ‘Leave them alone,’ she said. Who is she? What does she want?”
Where are Elsie and Hester May? Daisy added in her mind but didn’t dare speak it. Yet.
Lincoln looked beyond Daisy with a grim smile. “So you’ve met the phantom woman.”
“Please do not try to convince me I saw a ghost.”
“You saw a woman my grandmother wrote about.”
“The woman with the crooked hand? I’ve not read the story. It sounds frightening.”
Her words must have struck a small note of humor in Lincoln. His mouth twitched, flirting with a smile but not quite achieving one. “Ah, well. It’s just a story.”
“Based in truth?” Daisy questioned.
Lincoln leveled his dark stare on her. “You would argue that my grandmother’s writing is a memoir, not fiction?”
“If it was, wouldn’t the woman with the crooked hand be dead?”
“Very.”
“Then it wasn’t her,” Daisy concluded.
“A ghost then, after all.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“Why?” Lincoln smiled. Almost mocking her. Challenging her.
Daisy stiffened. “I may not be schooled in theology, but I have read the Holy Bible. There is nothing to say that when we die, we hover around the earth as unresolved spirits.”
“It’s heaven or hell instantly, you believe?”
Daisy grimaced. “I do not judge another’s heart. Judgment is for God alone to carry out. But I do believe there has to be a human explanation and therefore it’s not safe here in Castle Moreau. Not with a stranger roaming the halls, threatening me. Toying with my door. Scraping at the walls. Touching my neck as I walk in the darkness.” Tears sprang to Daisy’s eyes, and her voice wobbled. “I am afraid. Elsie is missing. And Hester May—”
“What about Hester May?” Lincoln asked sharply.
“She, too, is missing.” Daisy fought to control her tears. “I cannot lie. I found . . . belongings. She was here. And now she’s gone. What is happening? Please. I want to trust you. I want to believe you are good, that you counteract the evil of your grandmother.”
All warmth faded from Lincoln then as he glared at her. “My grandmother is not evil.”
“No? But she took flesh from Elsie’s leg.”
“To cut away the infection,” Lincoln replied through gritted teeth.
“And she saved it in a vial!”
“What else should one do with human flesh? Toss it in a bin?”
“I don’t know!” Daisy sobbed. He was angry with her. She was confused. Afraid. Her confidence waned as quickly as it had risen. “I found more vials. Empty ones. And she has your grandfather’s heart on her desk!”
Lincoln gave a shout of laughter. A deep, short laugh that made Daisy back away from his chair. “Good night, woman!” He chuckled darkly. “Do you have an imagination like my grandmother’s? Why, yes you do!”
“She told me so!” Daisy insisted, swiping at her tears with her sleeve.
“Of course she did. She’s a storyteller. Have you looked inside that box of hers?”
“No!” Daisy was appalled that he would suggest such a thing.
“Go ahead. Look inside. That wooden box contains her pen collection. There’s no heart. No body parts. And her vials are for samples she collects from her walks in the woods—mushrooms, fungi, and other such things. If she was tending Elsie and removing dead skin, she probably used the vials to be safe and prevent others from contracting disease.” Lincoln caught his breath after his almost hysterical laughter. “You have allowed my grandmother to play with your mind and create her tales for real and not just on the page.”
“Why? Why would she be so cruel as to weave such horrific lies? The heart of her dead husband? It’s dreadful, and if it’s not true—”
“It’s not,” Lincoln interrupted.
“Why tell me so?” Daisy challenged.
Lincoln’s smile was thin, implying that she should be able to see the obvious. “My grandmother writes stories of horror. She must carry on the façade in real life as well or she won’t be taken seriously. As an author. As a woman.”
“She frightens us with untruths outside of her novels?” Daisy could scarcely believe the boldness of such a gory lie. “Doesn’t it tear at her soul to treat the memory of her dead husband in such a blithe and flippant manner?”
Lincoln rubbed his hands down his legs, which, in the daylight, appeared more withered than Daisy had first noted. He saw her watching them and raised an eyebrow.
She blushed.
Lincoln answered her question about his grandmother and also the question that lingered in her eyes about his condition. “When one is left with little, you must choose to embellish life and make it interesting or else waste away in grief and self-pity.”
“She loved your grandfather?” Daisy inserted.
“True, but my grandmother doesn’t shy away from the reality of death. She sees carrying on her reputation for all things Gothic as some sort of entertainment.”
“And you?” Daisy tipped her head, looking up at him. She gripped the arm of his chair, her knees still pressing against the floor beside him.
“Me?”
“Your grandmother finds morose fulfillment in mocking death. How do you find fulfillment?”
“Because of this?” He waved his arm the length of his legs. “I was born like this. It is called Little’s disease, and I’ve known nothing else. When my parents died, I came here, as a young boy, to Castle Moreau. Most forget I even exist. That is how I find fulfillment, Daisy. By not existing.”
“That makes no sense,” she whispered.
Lincoln leaned toward her, and she could smell spice on his skin. “Meaningful things rarely make sense, my dear.”
“Then explain it. Please, help me understand! Tell me where Elsie is, and Hester May—or show me some way to find peace within these walls!” Daisy demanded.
Lincoln did not hesitate, nor did he argue. He reached for the wheels of his chair and pushed away from her, rolling toward his desk. “My grandmother prefers this not to be seen. But since you will not be silent—nor will you heed the warnings of the phantom woman—I must show you to purchase your silence.”
Daisy struggled to her feet, following him at a cautionary distance. Lincoln settled behind his desk where she’d first seen him. He removed from the desk a copy of his grandmother’s novel, turning to the last page. Turning the book around, he handed it to Daisy.
In cursive, and identifiably in Madame’s handwriting, she had penned the words:
To my grandson,
Remember, la femme fantôme will live on in Castle Moreau. Always.
Respect her. Treat her with reverence. She is our past, our present, and our future. A terror of proportions we cannot ignore and must never forget.
Grand-mère
“This explains everything?” Daisy stared at the missive in disbelief, both at the words and the idea that Lincoln would think she might find resolution in them.
She was taken aback when Lincoln reached across the desk and gripped her hands. The book fell between them to the floor, Madame’s handwriting glaring up at them. His fingers were warm, the pressure of them against her skin persistent.
“The phantom woman is the past, the present, and the future of this place, Daisy mon amour.”
My love.
The words quickened her heart with the ridiculous promise behind the endearment to her, a virtual stranger, and certainly not someone he loved. But it was his declaration that he believed the phantom woman to be real that made her tremble. He had alluded to her before, almost teasing as if retelling a ghost story. But now, as Daisy dared to meet his eyes, as she saw the flickering behind their depths and felt the caress of his thumbs . . . she knew.
Lincoln Tremblay believed the phantom woman was real. Had always been real. Would always be real.
As much as Daisy despised the argument that the woman in her room was a spirit of wickedness, she could deny it no longer. Not if Lincoln was telling her the truth.
And everything in his eyes said he was.
The door was closed to her, but Daisy heard the voices behind it. Lincoln. Madame Tremblay. They were arguing. Daisy held a tray with Lincoln’s supper on it, but she dared not enter the study now. Not as Madame’s voice rose in a harsh tone.
“You should not have!” she scolded.
Lincoln’s response was a hum of unintelligible words.
Daisy shifted the tray in her hands, her head tilted toward the door. She felt no shame in eavesdropping. If Lincoln was arguing with Madame, perhaps it was to the benefit of finding Elsie. She knew Lincoln still hid the truth from her. And yet, even now, Daisy’s skin crawled with the feeling of being watched. The trouble with spirits was that they lingered, invisible to the eye, and were seen only when they wished to be.
“She is not to be spoken of,” Madame hissed, her words brimming with emotion.
“She is not sacred, Grand-mère.” This time, Lincoln’s rumbling voice could be heard.
“Speak for yourself.”
Footsteps sounded, coming toward the door. Daisy backed away quickly, making a pretense as if just now approaching the door after climbing the staircase.
Madame yanked it open and stood in the doorway. Her body was erect, poised, her face troubled, but she steeled her expression on seeing Daisy.
“You’ve brought him dinner?”
Daisy nodded. “Yes, Madame.”
“You’ve not done this before.” The simple observation was true. She hadn’t. Daisy assumed in the past that Festus had. Food brought from a cold hearth in the kitchen. She had noticed tonight an extra serving besides hers. She assumed it was for Lincoln, but for some reason Festus had not brought it to him.
“I thought—”
“You may give it to him.” Madame stepped aside. It was the first time Daisy had seen her in the proximity of Lincoln. As Daisy ducked past her, she felt Madame’s eyes on her back. Moving forward, she slid the tray onto the desk in front of Lincoln.
“Thank you,” he responded and reached for the tray, pulling it toward him. His eyes did not leave her face. She could not read his expression, but she noted a slight tremble to his fingers as he reached for a fork.
“You may go now,” Madame instructed.
Daisy met Lincoln’s eyes. He offered a weak smile. “Yes. Do as my grand-mère says.”
Daisy nodded once, then turned to exit the room. When she reached the doorway, Madame’s voice sliced into her with thinly veiled accusation.
“I am missing a key from my desk. Do you know anything of it?”
Daisy froze, looking down at her feet. “No, Madame,” she lied. Then she forced herself to lift her eyes to appear more convincing. “I don’t know anything about a key.”
