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THE MODEL-T SEDAN CAME to a halt. Alexandra exited and tossed an overnight bag over her shoulder. In recent weeks, she had taken the train out of Paddington Station each Saturday and disembarked in Maidenhead to mind Simra’s six-year-old twins.
He would then drive her to Cookham.
“See you tomorrow, Simra. Bye, kids!”
“Ta, Miss Alee!” the boy and girl beckoned as the car headed off.
Before barging in, Alexandra sat along the Thames. It was chilly, and not a duck, Dick, or debutante stirred its banks. Her visits necessitated tactical contemplation. With each overnight stay, she and Will had drawn closer. She believed he needed to regain comfort in female contact, confident no woman had touched him in a non-medicinal manner for ten years running. It was heartbreaking to her.
As for his former gal in the photograph, Noel Boneje had been his fiancée. Alexandra settled on a strategy to remedy Will’s isolation. Option one required him to visit London. If he resisted, option two was to show up at his door unannounced with a high-end prostitute.
The cost of retrieving her Victorian Hasselblad camera would be enduring another insipid sales pitch for her to see a psychiatrist, but it a tit for tat world.
Alexandra spotted a man standing across the river. He sported a top hat and a dark cloak. His long, stringy white hair danced in the cool breeze. It was him—Astor Lys. He was a Swiss solicitor and gifted pianist she had been introduced to in New Orleans during one of her aunt’s unhallowed soirées. Even from this distance, Alexandra sensed a predatory malevolence in his gaze. She stood to confront him, but he vanished in the blink of her eye.
A shiver ran down her spine. She left to knock on Will’s door.
He answered, displaying confusion. “‘Visit Cookham Saturday’ is tomorrow. What are you doing here?”
“Exercising privileges on ‘Anything goes Friday.’”
Will retreated to put water to boil once Alexandra dashed past him. He said, “Normal people telephone before pushing in.”
“Normal people are not so assuredly home.” She removed her coat and assumed a lotus position near the fireplace to sneak in some tranquil reflection before the fireworks commenced. “Anyhoo, from the genteel lad who coined the term ‘Alee-normal Babblebrook.’”
It still made him laugh. He eventually left the kitchen carrying a tea tray with finger sandwiches. “Whatever are you doing?”
“I’ve taken up Dhyana to soothe my conscience. Simra’s children are teaching me.”
Will hoped that they would not be irreparably scarred with limited exposure. “Simra is a private man. Don’t intrude on his affairs.”
“Such as you anonymously paying for his son’s cleft lip surgery?” She had ferreted from Simra very little along their journey back from Nairobi but had tapped his wife and children with better results.
Will placed down his teacup. “He told you this?”
“No, just about his war experience.” Alexandra took a bite of her sandwich. The damn Germans had sold him on liverwurst. She rattled off Simra’s joining the Sixth Poona Division to his crossing the Nefud Desert as if reading a ticker tape, concluding with, “He actually treated a wound of T. E. Lawrence.”
Will needled one correction. “You mean John Hume Ross?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she brayed. “Everyone knows that John Hume Ross, who for so long you have insisted on calling T. E. Lawrence, has henceforth changed his name to T.E. Shaw and is now stationed in Waziristan. He has no standing in Simra’s war journey whatsoever.”
Will dropped his sandwich, dumbfounded.
“Did you bring a bottle of magnesia?”
“Only aspirin. Your tummy would settle if you got out more.”
Will failed to see why it was so important to her. “Our conversations would be rational if you’d see the alienist I keep telling you about. You’re a picnic basket short of a sandwich!”
“That’s a tad under the belt,” she protested, unaware why it was so important to him. “Anyhoo, I need you to join my investigation of a haunted house tomorrow. Simra has signed on.”
“Join what? Come, Barnabus!” With that, they were off, once more driven from their domicile.
Alexandra checked her watch. It usually took less time for him to flee. She stood, wanting to sort through the pantry before getting on with burning supper.
—‡—
WILLIAM BATHENBROOK knew that after their initial squabble, his evenings in Alexandra’s company would smooth out. After dinner, they sprawled out on the floor to take in the hearth’s heat and sip brandies. Alexandra read the latest exploits of persnickety Belgian inspector, Hercule Poirot. She leaned on the slumbering Barnabus, and to her insistence, her thigh served as Will’s pillow. He had initially balked, thinking it unfit to relax so casually with a grown sister, but reconsidered, as she was a lesbian.
He was tempted to drift into sleep as she stroked his face and hair. Alexandra might be bonkers, but she had a nurse’s touch and a soothing reading voice. He was grateful for so many little things she had added to make his days easier: from perfectly pre-knotting his ties to teaching him a way to place on his prosthetic arm, as its straps and harness were not suitable for someone with only one arm to secure.
Tonight, he had received a bonus: spared his waltz lessons.
The last chapter was completed. Alexandra closed the book and pitched her offer. “This alienist to whom you subscribe. Will he find my lost sandwich? I’ll attend one appointment if you join me at the rectory tomorrow, and upon our return, meet my masseuse. She’s lovely and I feel pained whence absent from her touch.”
“When,” Will corrected. How did a Japanese lesbian masseuse get involved in this? he dared to ask himself. “I’ll consider it.”
“It’s a fine tradeoff. A night of ghost stories and a massage, while I risk chase all about London by men with a net and straitjacket.”
He sniffed for cheese in the trap. “Only the ghost hunt.”
“Not enough!” Alexandra knocked down her brandy. “You must also dine out with me on your thirtieth birthday.”
She was like a strangler vine with an agenda, but as it was not until October and she’d likely be locked up receiving proper psychiatric care by then, he agreed.
Alexandra nudged him to get up. She grimaced upon standing and rubbed her thigh. “A woman in Nairobi beat me with her whip. It was just innocent horseplay. She was jealous that I danced with a man. Very domineering in that way.”
“Please, say no more.”
“I must retrieve the coat of arms.” Alexandra went into his study. The Bathenbrook shield featured a knight standing in a fountain. They each placed a hand upon it and sealed the deal.
“The local pub serves a fair meatloaf,” he suggested as their future dining option.
“I’m thinking Kung Pao chicken in Hong Kong. Anyhoo, time for your waltz lessons.”
Will felt depleted. He knew better than to not read the fine print. He took a stance; his right arm extended, waiting for her to put a record on the gramophone. As he had no left hand to lead with, she had struggled to teach him the closed position steps, since everything needed to be reversed.
They danced to the notes of “Let the Rest of the World Go By.”
It amazed Will that Alexandra could look at him unmasked—a smile on her lips and a caring glisten in her hazel eyes.
“Why did you tell Father that I was a lesbian?”
“Because he spends too much time worrying over some heel trying for your money.”
“Well, we’ve spoken,” she spouted happily. “So now he’s heard the truth from me.”
Will was relieved. The ringing of his telephone granted him leave. After taking the call, he rejoined Alexandra.
“Gunnar and Hildegard will spend the night.”
She threw up her arms. “We won the war, you know!”
“Take my bed. I’ll sleep with Barnabus and still go tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will!” Alexandra kissed his cheek upon heading for the stairs. “See if the Teutonic invaders care to come along. It will add numbers for the séance. Goodnight.”
—‡—
AS THE END DREW NEAR, Alexandra chalked it up as the worse road trip ever. Simra’s sedan was not built for five adult passengers, and over the three-hour ordeal to Borley, she had served as the squashed wurst in a Hun sandwich. She weighed the unsuited German pair with derision. Gunnar was clean-cut, placid, and rather handsome for a chemist. Hildegard was highly combustive, cultured, but irrational, as she dyed her hair black. Really, who does such a thing? Alexandra failed to reason.
The Kraut couple had passed the trip squabbling in having joined this campaign: he a firm “Ja” and she a feisty “Nein.” To help lighten the mood, Alexandra had tried to orchestrate a round of “99 Flaschen Bier.” It had flopped quickly. Thankfully, they were passing through Sudbury and closing in on their destination.
Alexandra took out a pamphlet Oliver had compiled that outlined the history of the rectory. Each time she had attempted to read it aloud, her audience had degenerated into juvenile banter.
She tried again. “The Gothic-style mansion was constructed in 1862 on the grounds of a twelfth century monastery that held to it an unsettling history. Local lore tells of a monk and a nun from nearby Bures Convent falling in love and eloping with the help of a friendly coachman. Upon capture, the monk was hanged, the coachman beheaded, and the nun immured alive within the monastery’s basement. It is to this tragic event that the historic hauntings are tied.”
Will asked, “What’s the most fun a monk can have...? Nun!”
Everyone snickered. Alexandra frowned.
Simra turned off Hall Road to enter the estate. It was a huge, unkempt property filled with bone-barren trees. Looming ahead stood the twenty-three-room monstrosity; a once opulent vision faded to ruin in its abandonment. The tall gables and chimneys stood chipped. Some windows were sealed with bricks, lending the impression it was a place of imprisonment.
It sobered up their horseplay. They all swiftly disembarked, eager to warm up inside.
Oliver had arrived earlier with the keys and was unloading boxes of food, flashlights, candles, and explosives from his loaner car. Alexandra walked over to greet her only ally and understudy. She asked, “Why are the windows and door open?”
“To help heat up the place.” Oliver left to introduce himself.
Alexandra carried a box into the gloomy structure. It felt ten degrees colder inside than it was outdoors: so chilly, she could see her breath. A glint of light guided her down a dark hallway.
She passed through the main foyer to settle into the drawing room, which would serve as their base for the next twenty-four hours. Its large fireplace was already ablaze. The outline of absent portraits pockmarked the faded wallpaper. Even with the shutters open, little illumination cut through the dirty windowpanes. Upholstered chairs, a wood table, and a dusty piano filled out the room. No coat closet was required.
She picked up an empty Corona pop bottle, likely left by laborers who’d recently abandoned their repairs.
Alexandra feared desertion of another kind. To her, this was a job; to Will’s friends, a silly midwinter diversion. The problem was Will. He did not respect her prowess as a businesswoman, and the others owed allegiance to him, not her.
They arrived, already peevish over their working conditions. Once setting down their packages, they crowded the fireplace.
Alexandra clapped to gain their attention.
“Welcome to the rectory. Our first goal is to make a detailed map of the house and grounds. I am thinking two teams of three or three teams of two would best suffice. What say you?”
“I say four teams of one and a half,” Will snarked.
Alexandra took pause not to strangle him. Once everyone stopped chuckling, she said, “Three teams of two, it is. As Oliver and I have cameras, we need volunteers to join us. We must start a fire upstairs. Who will join Oliver to do so...? Anybody...?”
Everyone looked up. Rats were scurrying about.
Alexandra placed the bottle on the wood table. “Who will join me in touring the exterior...? Anybody...?”
Everyone looked out the window. A light snowfall and nasty wind were kicking about. Volunteerism was in short supply.
She asked, “Who will prepare a hearty stew for dinner?”
Hildegard held up a hand, followed by Simra.
It was a start. Alexandra said, “Those remaining face the fate of the spinning bottle. The winner joins Oliver upstairs. Gentlemen, take a side.”
Will and Gunnar shuffled over to the table.
The bottle was spun and came to a rest, pointing at Will.
Alexandra concluded, “We shall all reconvene in this room in two hours. Godspeed and chop-chop!”
Everyone rolled their eyes and drifted out of the drawing room to commence their duties.
—‡—
THE LIFESPAN OF A SNOWFLAKE in England was briefer and less mischievous than a poorly timed wink. As they walked the muddied grounds, Gunnar comprehended Alexandra’s account of how high the snow piled Montana. He had fought in Galicia, battling Russians and Romanians as a soldier in the Alpenkorps, and knew what a Carpathian winter looked and bit like. Alexandra could attain little sense of the fair-haired, enigmatic German. She had experienced the Great War still a child, reading about the Huns’ “Rape of Belgium.” Maturity had opened her eyes that the world was not as black and white as newspaper ink would have one believe, and that yellow journalism would stoop to no bounds to pry a daily nickel from a pocket. With each step shared with Gunnar, she became better aware that it might serve her interest for them to be allies rather than foes.
The property spread four acres. She jumped a small creek, needing to grasp Gunnar’s hand to avoid sliding off the far bank. She briefly hugged him during the conclusion of his rescue. After holding her stare into his reassuring blue eyes, she blushed and pulled away.
“Your wife seems a very spirited sort,” she noted. “Whyever did you agree to join in on this?”
“It sounded like a more interesting setting to play Parcheesi.”
Alexandra was finding some wry humor in him. The board game was religion in India and catching on in England. “Your friendship with Will is most unexpected, seeing that he pierced you with a bayonet. How does one reconcile that?”
“He could not pull it out, despite many kicks to my chest,” Gunnar recalled, amused. “When it finally popped free, with I left helpless, he looked me in the eye and let me live. A shell hit nearby, and then his arm landed next to me. Will helped me quit morphine. Simra patched me up. One does not easily forget.”
Alexandra smiled. “I suspect all of you are helping my brother with something very secretive.”
“He’s looking for a woman in France that...” Gunnar paused. “It’s not my affair to tell.”
They came to a shuddered summer house at the end of the property and headed back for the rectory along a stone wall. Alexandra jumped over the creek and stopped dead in her tracks.
A dark emptiness blurred the snowfall. A shadowy nothingness shaped in the silhouette of a woman. It was not imagined, as Gunnar had taken his cigarette from his lips to stare with alarm. Alexandra aimed her camera and managed a snapshot before the figure faded away. According to the report, this path was dubbed the “Nun’s walk.”
“We should return to the rectory,” Alexandra said, unnerved. “It’s none too holy out here.”
After warming up by the drawing room fireplace, Alexandra set up in a corner her mounted Victorian Hasselblad camera. Once night fell, attaining any photographs chasing ghosts within the house would be infeasible. A strategy was molded to lure any roaming spirits to her. She had no experience in using flash powder and reasoned an equal chance it would work out splendidly or spark an uncontrollable fire.
Such was the incalculable risk that comes with adventure!
She reclaimed her handheld Leica-1 camera to inspect the main floor. The library was barren and the windows in the dining room were bricked up, as Reverend Bull had grown tired of the ghostly nun watching his family dine from outdoors. Alexandra visited the exterior courtyard and waved to Simra, who was chopping wood and filling buckets with well water.
Near the kitchen, a row of servant bells hung on the wall, with each designated for an upstairs bedroom. She could hear Hildegard prepping dinner. Alexandra knew if they were to each play a role in amending Will’s shattered life, amity was in order.
One German down; one to go. Alexandra exhaled and entered the kitchen. “I have fared poorly in prior relationships with women. I truly long for a heartfelt bond with you.”
From the hallway, Will cleared his throat and skedaddled.
Hildegard paused her chopping. “Why were you laughing with my husband outside?”
Alexandra grimaced. It was not the sort of question one prefers to hear from a moody wife wielding a cleaver. Her mind went blank. “He told me a nun joke popular in the Vaterland?”
“You lie!” Hildegard obliterated a potato. “Repeat it to me!”
“I can’t because... he told it in German?” To Hildegard’s tautened glare and grip of her cleaver, Alexandra blurted, “He said you make a very bland stew. Anyhoo, can I help spice it up?”
Hildegard violently chopped off the stem of a carrot. “I’ll add spices. You just suck on this.”
Alexandra’s brows shot up. She bit down on the long carrot thrust into her mouth and bid a hasty retreat. She clapped her hands. “Time’s up! All to the drawing room. Chop-chop!”
She received a sluggish response. As she waited in the hallway for stragglers, someone playing Chopin on the piano caught her attention. A glissando interrupted the flow of the song. Will was the last to arrive.
She said, “If I’m found dead, Hildegard is to blame.”
He chuckled. “Never play spin the bottle with a married man.”
“Get inside, you turd.” Alexandra informed her audience, “We shall have tea at four, a delicious stew by the redoubtable Hildegard at six, and Parcheesi galore thereafter. I have photographed a first paranormal entity. Otherwise, the house is secure. Questions?”
No one appeared eager to say much. A bell chimed near the kitchen. Several hands went up.
“I’ll start with Simra.” Alexandra sighed. The continued chiming was becoming annoying. “What is your inquiry?”
“If we are all gathered, who is upstairs pulling the bell cord?”
The others lowered their hands, awaiting her answer.
“I dare not guess, but as Oliver and Will are still charged with that area, they can venture to find out. You two, chop-chop!”
The investigative duo left and took the stairs cautiously. The second floor of the rectory held eleven bedrooms and a small chapel. Will and Oliver had earlier mapped, photographed, and secured all the rooms, leaving their doors open. A fire had been started in the bedroom of the late Reverend Bull, which was closest to the stairwell. The Ghost Club had termed it the “Blue room” and of particular interest. Bull had died seven months ago in bed—as had his vicar father from syphilis in 1892—and visitors had noted that odd noises routinely emanated from within.
They passed the small chapel and approached the rear bedroom identified as hosting the chimed bell. Its door was closed. Will opened it and looked in. The chord hung near a barren bedframe, but nothing stirred. He shrugged to Oliver, left the door open, and they returned to the Blue room.
Will took a seat. He thought Oliver to be a decent chap. Will had plagued such types in his unruly youth; pawns to lock in a school closet or bully in other ways. He wished to know the lad better, as they both had a role to play in Alexandra’s new life in London town.
“Any plan for when my sister pulls down her shingle? I can’t see this venture lasting long.”
“She’s far too savvy to allow that.” Oliver used a poker to rouse the miserly fireplace logs. “Don’t you want her to succeed?”
He sensed Oliver cared little for the barbs directed at Alexandra. Years ago, Will would have slapped him for mouthing off, but now it fostered an appreciation for his loyalty. “Do you have any sisters?”
“Two older and one younger,” Oliver confided.
“What if your youngest was upset that no one asked her to a harvest moon dance?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’d cheer her as best I could.”
“Alexandra keeps voicing dismay over not being invited to Amazonia so she might die a horrible death. Should I cheer her on as best I can? I want her to live a long and happy life. Such cannot be said for any of her siblings. Do you host any romantic designs?”
“A guy like me can’t carry a torch for a lady like Alexandra.”
Will felt bad his inquiry had spurred Oliver’s self-derision. He carelessly informed, “If she shows no interest in you, trust me, it’s not you. Her eyes drift toward the fairer sex.”
Oliver was unsure of the implication, which had been delivered with a wink. “Pardon me?”
Will leaned forward. “She favors the company of women.”
Oliver was yet sold, despite another wink. “What of her plans to marry Archibald Leach?”
“Some phantom actor a continent away?” Will scoffed, sure he had it all figured out. “A ruse to veil a carnal relationship with her Japanese masseuse. So don’t take any rejection personally.”
Oliver smiled. A door slammed down the hall. He was first out to investigate. It was the bedroom they had just visited. It was now locked. “We’ll be executed if we abandon our position.”
Objects were being thrown against the walls inside.
Will spouted, “I can live with that.”
The muffled wail of a woman beyond the closed door sent them scurrying to face the fire.