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"He WHAT?" shouted Marguerite.
Clara and Marguerite sat in Marguerite's office at the police station. The raven-haired investigator had seemed surprised to see her. Clara hated to tell her that the surprises for the day had just begun. The oak paneled room was stifling and cramped. A black fan spun the stale air impotently. It seemed as if Marguerite's files had exploded in just the few short days since Clara had seen her. Cases and notes were all over the office.
"Indeed, Wesley has been accused of being a fraud and a murderer," Clara informed her.
Marguerite got to her feet, her cane slamming into the ground. The bullet wound she endured the night Violet Nero slaughtered everyone in Lord Horace Oroberg's country manor had still not healed. To all appearances, though, Marguerite refused to let such a matter slow her down. "Oh, we shall see about this..."
Clara drew a brave breath before continuing. "I am afraid that there is more to it," Clara confessed. "For you see, if it goes to trial, he is a charlatan..." Marguerite was very still as Clara continued to talk. "But he is not a murderer. And he most certainly did not steal money from—"
Marguerite stopped her, rubbing her tired eyes with her fingers. "Oh, the lawyers will have a field day when they learn the pretty penny he charged for the séance at Lord Oroberg's house."
"The dead did arrive, though," pointed out Clara.
"You are splitting hairs," Marguerite retorted. "Unless he can conjure up the dead in the middle of a courtroom, I'm afraid the jury isn't going to buy that defense."
"The Beltza family—" Clara began.
Marguerite faded. "Oh no..."
Clara realized the events of the day were still too new for Marguerite to have heard about them. "Lady Beltza perished this morning. Wesley was trying to save her, but she threw herself into the millpond and was killed beneath the wheel."
"Oh... no..." Marguerite said again, but this time a little louder.
Clara realized it was probably best if she started at the beginning. "There was a struggle. We learned her husband, Alastair Beltza, was responsible for the death of Lady Grey's daughter, Julie. And then Lady Beltza held us at gunpoint. Red, my new driver, saved us, but Lady Beltza ran away. She and I exchanged blows—"
"You fought Lady Beltza?" laughed Marguerite, before stifling down her mirth. "I apologize. That image should not have delighted me as much as it does. I should not think ill of the dead."
Clara stopped her apologies. "If I had any clue of this stunt her son has pulled, I would have thrown in a few more strikes," confessed Clara.
"You believe these charges most likely have been brought about by her son Trevor Beltza?"
Clara leaned forward in her seat, explaining. "I was under the impression that he was placed under arrest."
Marguerite began putting the pieces together. "And in order to free himself, he pinned the blame for his mother's death on Wesley. That little weasel!"
Clara exhaled, so weary of it all. Who would have guessed a simple yearning to speak with the soul of her dead husband lo those weeks ago at the Oroberg estate would have lead to all this? False accusations and Wesley's imprisonment? "I believe so. But his mother ended her own life. I promise that Wesley was trying to save her."
Marguerite shook her head in frustration. "The Beltza family is powerful enough in this town to ensure the charges stick."
"I do not know what to do, Marguerite," Clara confessed, her voice breaking.
"Well, first things first," said Marguerite, coming over to help Clara to her feet. "We get down to the prison and make sure that Wesley isn't locked in some hole. We'll make sure he has every comfort a man could want. We'll get him a good lawyer. And we'll begin doing whatever it takes to clear his name."
"There is more," Clara continued.
"More?" Marguerite leaned against her desk and folded her arms. Clara got the distinct impression she was bracing herself.
"When Lady Beltza perished, and when Trevor found out about her death, both of them said, 'Vive les Quatre Portes'. I then found a note from my departed husband who was fearful of the Quatre Portes. Have you ever heard of such a group?"
Marguerite shook her head. "It is French and it means 'long live the four portals'. But what the French want with four doors is beyond me."
"Marguerite, at two sites of two of the murders, there were rooms with four doors. One was a tomb in which Violet wanted to entrap me. The other was the room of Dr. Van Flemming and he used it to store the body of that cursed queen. Further, on my husband's desk, I found a scribble carved into the surface. It looked almost like an architectural rendering of a room with four doors."
Marguerite let out a low whistle. "Yet again, Clara, I find myself wondering if I should deputize you. So you think the Beltza family is associated with this group?"
"Alastair Beltza stole a large amount of money from his family's estate..." Clara found herself unsure of propriety. "He was having an affair."
"With whom?"
"Lady Daphne Grey."
"Oh... the plot thickens."
"Alastair killed Lady Grey's daughter because he feared she knew certain state secrets and was threatening to expose him."
"But then why would the Quatre Portes kill Alastair?"
"Perhaps they learned he lost a large sum of their money somehow? Perhaps they believed the lie that Julie knew too much and thought it best to dispose of Alastair before he made another mistake? I don't know."
"Well, what happened to this money?"
"He gave the money to Peter for safe keeping, only the money disappeared. I found a note from my husband this morning in the false bottom of a lockbox. It said he took the money to prevent a terrible evil and that he feared this Quatre Portes."
"Oh this is a fine kettle of fish..." Marguerite rubbed her chin with one finger as she digested Clara's words. "You warned me once your husband might have been wrapped up in something sinister..."
Clara thought back to that moment. They had met in this very office. Marguerite had shared that her own husband had just disappeared one day, and she had tried to convince Clara that Thomas's heart attack was nothing more than a natural end. "It appears that, sadly, I might have been correct," Clara said softly.
Marguerite shook her head. "I owe you an apology."
"I don't need an apology," she replied firmly. "I need your help to find my husband's killer. Alastair Beltza died exactly as my husband did. They both put their heads down on their tables one day and died of heart attacks. Someone must have poisoned them."
"Poison?"
"There is no other explanation."
"You would be surprised by how many other explanations there might be." Marguerite stood again and brushed her blue skirt. "I thought it was just the Beltza family that had friends in high places. This Quatre Portes sounds even worse." Marguerite sighed. "We'll just have to determine who they are and dismantle their organization before they have a chance to get to us."
Clara felt as if a massive weight was being lifted from her shoulders. "I knew I could count on you!"
"Don't go singing my praises yet, Clara," Marguerite warned. "I have some power... but even if this isn't some international conspiracy, you and Wesley were at every major murder this city has seen this month. It is going to be a very difficult task to suggest to the good people of a jury that this was mere coincidence. Once, you are helpless bystanders. Twice is a coincidence. But three times? Three times is more than almost anyone can stomach. I wouldn't stomach it if I wasn't there myself. We have an uphill battle ahead of us and we must be on our toes."
"I place myself willingly in your hands," Clara replied. "I trust you implicitly, Marguerite, and know that you shall steer us well."
"I wish I had your confidence in me," she replied, shaking her head. She walked over to the door and opened it. "Now, follow me. Let me see what strings I can pull to get us down to see our prisoner."