Death in Castle Dark, page 2
“Ah.”
She played with one of Hamlet’s silky ears. “My ex-boyfriend said that my enthusiasm was relentless.”
“He sounds horrible.”
She brightened. “He was!”
A door slammed somewhere above us, and she got serious. “Okay, enough of my gossiping. Let’s get this tour going. Hamlet, you can come with us.”
So we went, we three, through the entrance hall and then a series of rooms, each one more striking than the last—the great hall, the library, the drawing room, the small ballroom, the dining room, the kitchen, and the pantry—and finally down an unexpected hallway that led to the chapel.
“There’s a chapel,” I said. “It’s beautiful.” It was a modestly sized room, soothing and silent, dominated by stained glass windows populated with various Catholic saints. There were only twelve wood pews and an elevated stone platform with a stone altar.
“Do they say Mass in here?” I asked.
“No. People who want to go to church drive into town. Derek has made this a quiet meditation room. There’s nothing . . . consecrated in here. The altar is old, though, and the stained glass was imported from Europe. Isn’t it lovely?”
“It is. Do you care if I take a picture?”
“No, go for it,” said Connie, plopping down in a pew and gazing upward.
I snapped an image and sent it to my family chat room, which included my parents, my little brothers, who were about to be seniors in high school, and my older sister, Gen, who lived in New York. My phone buzzed almost instantly; it was a response from my brother Luke:
Did you go to the past?
Luke and Jay were incapable of being serious about anything. My father always said, with a scowl, that they were a part of the “ironic generation,” but I feared that Gen and I fit that description, as well.
In the hall outside the chapel, Connie pointed at one of the ornate panels on the wall. “Touch that curlicue there,” she said.
I did, and the panel opened with a snapping sound. “Wow.” I peered behind it; there was just enough space for someone to hide in and then a curving passage. “That is super creepy.”
“Yeah. Derek writes it into our story line sometimes. He loves this castle and all its hidden surprises. I guess that lets out near the ballroom on the second floor. There are these weird skinny stairs. I’ve never had the courage to go all the way through; I’ve read too many Edgar Allan Poe stories and I’m afraid someone would lock me in there forever.”
“That’s horrifying!”
Now Connie smothered a yawn. “There are a few of those hidey-holes. I’ll show you them all sometime. Well, we’ve touched the main rooms, but I haven’t showed you the creepy cellar or the upstairs bedrooms. Those are pretty luxurious, and then there’s a third floor with smaller apartments, where servants used to stay. Now it’s where the actors live. Appropriate, right?”
“So, sort of like dorms?” I asked.
“Don’t sound so disappointed. They’re much nicer than dorms. Come on.”
She led me up another grand staircase and marched me down a red-carpeted hall. “That’s Derek’s apartment—isn’t it massive? We’re always trying to guess if he smuggles someone in at night. I’ve been here more than a year and there’s been no sign of a love interest, but Tim—that’s another castmate—he thinks Derek is seeing someone.”
“Huh,” I said.
She pointed southward. “Down that hall and to the left is Paul’s apartment. That’s Derek’s brother. He’s here only once in a while; he works out of town, but they’re co-owners of this place.”
“Neat.”
“And there are more cool rooms down that way: a ballroom and a sort of greenhouse and a media room. But . . . let’s climb one more flight and get to the cast rooms.”
“Is there an elevator by any chance?”
She nodded. “Yeah, near the entrance. I’ll show you later. I like the stairs because they keep me in shape. And I can pretend I’m a queen.”
She led me to a door bearing a sign that read: Private Quarters—No Visitors Allowed. She opened the door and we climbed some normal-looking stairs to a third floor, which had a convent-like feel.
“Such a long hall,” I said.
“Yeah. Like I said, not all of the actors live here. Right now it’s me, Tim, Garrett, Elspeth, who is our makeup genius and an occasional character, and Renata, who plays the dead man’s wife. And you, if you take the role, right? Did you plan to live here?”
“Uh—if I take the job, yes.” The place felt surreal to me and not at all like somewhere I could call home.
Connie was walking and pointing. “Here’s a laundry room, so you don’t even have to leave this floor. And you don’t need quarters, either.”
“Nice.”
“Then across there is the small library.”
“Small library?” I peered into a pleasant room with a luxurious looking carpet centered on a polished wood floor and books filling wood shelves on every wall. In the center was a long wooden table. “Ahh,” I whispered.
Connie was still marching, past two doors that she did not identify. “All the rooms have a little crown on them. See? Derek is so clever with little touches like that. Each crown is a different color. So let’s start at the south end of the hall here.” She got to the end of the long hall with me following obediently. “That’s the costume room, across from Garrett’s room; he’s White Crown. You can see we’re right by the stairway—you can take this downstairs if you’re ever in the costume room and you get hungry.” She scratched her nose with one hand while patting Hamlet’s head with the other. “Then here’s Tim’s room next to Garrett’s, in Gold Crown. I’ll introduce you to Tim later; I think he’s out cycling, anyway.” She tried his doorknob for some reason and found it locked. She shrugged and smiled at me.
“Elspeth is right there in Purple Crown, next to the costume room, which is convenient because she runs it. Then Renata next to her, in Red Crown.” She gestured vaguely as we began walking back to the door we’d come through. She indicated a door to her left. “That room next to Tim’s is empty.” She pointed to her right. “This is me, in Blue Crown. And kitty-corner across would be you, in Green Crown.”
My jaw dropped. “The room right next to the library?”
Connie laughed. “I’m guessing you like books. Wait. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
She stopped in front of a gray wooden door with a green crown placard, turned the knob, and pushed it open. I stared. This was hardly the domain of a servant. I stepped inside and said, “Wow.” A large bed sat on an elevated platform; behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows let in a world of light, and through them, I could see the grounds and the woods. To my left were a small bathroom and a tall dresser, along with what seemed to be a walk-in closet. To my right was a stone gas fireplace, and next to it was a secretary desk. A tiny enclosure had a sink, a small refrigerator, and a baker’s rack; and then there was a low dresser with a tall mirror above it. A large colorful rag rug sat on the stone floor in front of the fireplace; another one sat next to the bed. “This room is extraordinary!”
Connie grinned, watching me. I moved forward, drawn by the amazing view, and a doe strolled out of the woods, leading two fawns. They bent to munch on something in the grass, then looked up when they heard some minuscule sound. “He paid the deer,” I whispered. “He paid them to walk out on cue.”
“Ha!” Connie said. “Those guys are around constantly. A whole giant herd of them sometimes. We also get foxes.”
“A herd of deer.” The only wild animal I’d ever seen, aside from squirrels and birds, was maybe a raccoon or the occasional possum in a Chicago alley.
Suddenly overwhelmed, I sat on the bed. It was comfortable. Hamlet, who had been following us for most of the tour, padded into the room and climbed up to the elevated platform, then flopped on the rug as though it was a familiar sleeping spot.
Connie ran a hand through her plentiful blond hair, fluffing it. “The only rule is that we have to clean our own rooms; Derek’s cleaning service focuses mainly on the first floor, and they do the second floor every third week. As you can imagine, it’s quite expensive.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” I looked around, feeling as though I had shrunk myself and entered some amazing dollhouse. “It would be a privilege to clean this space.”
“Your space,” she said, “if you want it.”
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gen.
Where in the world are you? That chapel is simply gorgeous.
I imagined Gen visiting me here: me leading her casually around a castle.
I turned to Connie. “You say the job itself is fun? It’s a challenge for an actor? Not just some goofy haunted-house nonsense?”
She shook her head. “It’s sophisticated, Nora. And an improviser’s dream.”
I already knew then that I would say yes. But I still wondered if Connie was some sort of attractive lure, friendly and open but essentially false.
My sister, Gen, said that she could always tell if she was simpatico with someone by asking them one simple question: who’s your favorite comedian? It worked, she said, because if they picked someone sexist or racist, she knew they wouldn’t get along. If they picked someone who wasn’t actually funny, then she knew they didn’t have a sense of humor. But if they picked someone great, she knew they had the basis for a friendship.
“Hey, Connie,” I said, “who’s your favorite comedian?”
She shrugged at me, not at all nonplussed by the question. “Oh, gosh, there are so many good ones. But all-time? Like the best ever? I’d probably say Carol Burnett. My mom and I watched all the old reruns of her show when I was a kid. She’s just so funny.” She sighed. “But more recent, I guess I’d go with funny actresses like Tina Fey or Melissa McCarthy.”
“Spy is one of my favorite movies,” I said.
“Yeah, that one is hilarious.”
“And whenever my sister and I are arguing, one of us eventually sends the other one a GIF of Carol Burnett as Scarlett O’Hara wearing that giant curtain rod in her dress.”
Connie laughed and slapped her knee. “Classic,” she said.
When Derek appeared, searching for me, Connie and I were sitting on either side of Hamlet, petting his silky fur and chatting like long-lost sisters.
2
Cast of Characters
Now, a little more than two weeks later on a sultry Saturday night, here I was at my debut dinner, confronting the various Inspectors who wanted to solve our mystery. “Inspector,” I said to the closest visitor, a girl of about thirteen, “perhaps you’d like to come into the drawing room and see some of Mr. Thompson’s greatest treasures. As his secretary, I was expected to catalogue them all and make sure that none of them went missing.” I cast a suspicious glance at the other actors, who in turn demonstrated various levels of defensiveness.
The little Inspector (and several other Inspectors) followed me into the next room, a richly carpeted space dotted with upholstered red divans and brown leather armchairs, as well as discreetly placed antique lamps that filled the room with gold light. I led my visitors to a giant fireplace, on the mantel on which sat a family picture of our actors (including Derek’s own uncle Jim, who had gamely posed as the victim).
“Here’s poor Harold, Inspector, in case you want to get a good glimpse of him. And here’s his wife, and the two children, all of whom you met tonight. Then of course there’s Derek, your host and Harold’s nephew. You might wonder why it’s Derek holding court in the castle. Well, the will told all, didn’t it? The bulk of the estate will go to Harry’s nephew if his son and his wife don’t resolve their differences.”
I made eye contact with all the lingering Inspectors: the girl, her parents, another man who seemed unrelated to them. “As you can see, Derek has it all. But it’s a bit more complicated than that. Anyway, I was going to show you Harry’s treasures,” I said, handing the photo to the girl.
She turned it over and said, “A clue! I found a clue!” In a moment all ten Inspectors were gathered around her as she unfolded the piece of paper behind the frame. “It’s another will!” she cried.
This shocked everyone. Renata glided into the room, her red satin gown looking genuinely expensive in the lamplight. “I’ll take that. Thank you, Inspector,” she said, and the girl handed her the new will.
She looked around dramatically. “This is dated later than the previous will—and it’s notarized by Jacob Snell, a lawyer here in town.”
A small ahhh from the crowd. Derek made his handsome, forceful way through the Inspectors and said, “This is a plant. I’ll have this verified by an independent counsel, Renata!”
Renata studied his face, her eyes bright. “And why do you assume the will goes against you, Derek? Do you perhaps know what is in this will? Perhaps it’s the other one we should have carefully examined!”
They faced each other dramatically, then moved aside to continue their argument in a corner. I shrugged. “As I was saying, Inspector, Mr. Thompson—Harry, I called him—catalogued all of his most prized possessions.” I pointed to a clock on the mantel. “This beautiful antique timepiece belonged to his great-great-grandfather. Its value is inestimable. Don’t touch it, please,” I said as one of the Inspectors leaned forward. One of them said, “There’s some kind of code on the clock!” They rushed in to jot down the strange hieroglyphics carved into the side.
I shrugged, moving down the mantel. “And this saber is an authentic cavalry officer’s sword from the American Revolution—a British sword, though, because Harry’s great-great-great-great-grandfather fought for the other side during the revolution. If you look closely, you’ll see it’s inscribed with his name.”
One of the Inspectors pointed. “There’s blood on it!”
“What!” I cried.
Other Inspectors leaned in. “Yes, it’s blood!”
The girl held up a hand. “But that doesn’t matter, because Harold Thompson wasn’t stabbed to death. He was shot.”
They thought about this; then the girl’s mother said, “Yes, but he did have that mysterious wound on his finger. Maybe it was a defensive wound!”
The Inspectors made a semicircle around the sword and examined it.
Connie came swanning up, looking gorgeous in a blue sequined dress. She had a way of seeming to glare at everyone at once. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. Oh, and speaking of barking, here’s Hamlet again. I’m not surprised he was Harold’s favorite hunting hound.”
A few Inspectors tuned in to what she was saying, and then their eyes went to the dog. One of them dove onto the carpet. “Look at his collar! Another clue!” He pointed to the faux ruby, then consulted his notes. “Isn’t it true that the rubies of the woman in the portrait went missing long ago? Her name was”—he consulted his notes—“Great-Great-Aunt Elizabeth!”
A woman knelt down next to him to study the collar. Hamlet panted and looked pleased. He had an easy gig.
“But if this is a real ruby, what does it mean? And what could it possibly have to do with Harold’s death?”
They looked uncertainly at one another, and then Elspeth appeared in the doorway wearing a fortune-teller’s robes and some spectacular eye makeup. Connie was right: Elspeth was a genius with makeup. Tim appeared beside her, looking jubilant. “Hello, everyone. This nice lady is traveling door to door, offering to tell fortunes. I thought that this would be a perfect time for some of us to hear our destinies, especially those of us who are going to end up in jail,” he said, glaring directly at Derek.
Now Harold’s daughter walked in. She was played by Bethany, the woman Connie had said lived in town. Her blond wig made her look like Connie’s sister. “I want my fortune told,” she said, flouncing past everyone and going to the front of the group. “This is my house, and I’m going first.”
Derek muttered something under his breath, but the fortune-teller went to Bethany and began murmuring to her. The Inspectors leaned in, trying to hear.
Our last cast member appeared in the door; he was Garrett Perth, who played the gardener. In Derek’s mystery, Garrett was in love with Bethany, despite their age difference.
People turned to look at Garrett as he entered, but turned back to Bethany when she screamed and fainted.
Renata, her mother in this story, bent to revive her, and Bethany fluttered her eyes. “What did she tell you, darling?” Renata asked.
“She said that I was marrying a murderer,” Bethany gasped.
“Marrying?” Renata asked blankly.
“She’s in love with Garrett,” said the youngest Inspector. “She’s wearing a ring with his initials on it.” She was a sharp one.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Garrett yelled. “But the night Mr. Thompson died, I saw her leaving with a bag that made clanking sounds, like a bunch of valuables was in it.” He pointed at me and put his hand defensively on a gilded knife at his belt; it glinted with a faux emerald because evidence would reveal the gardener was Harold’s bastard son, and he’d been given the expensive dagger by his father.
Heads swung in my direction and I put up a hand, flourishing my red nails. “I did nothing wrong. As I said, Harry looked to me to protect his valuables. He was concerned that someone might steal them.”
Now the Inspectors didn’t know where to look, so I added, “The same someone who tried to smuggle the ruby out by putting it on Hamlet’s collar. The same person who was able to create an authentic-looking will that made it look as though Derek was the guilty one, but you might notice that this person got exactly what he or she wanted out of the will. I’ll leave you to mull that over, Inspector. I’ll be enjoying some dessert—I believe the chef has put out torte.”
