Chapter 15 #2
“I-I cannot.” She tugged a handkerchief from the pocket of her black silk bombazine. It was an awful feeling to realize the only friend she might have was the undertaker of all people, and even more awful that she simply could not say another word.
“You cannot, or you will not?” Titus pressed.
“Both.” Her voice was small and strained.
“Did this stranger hurt or threaten you in some way?” Titus’s features darkened.
“No!” Waverly hefted an unladylike sigh.
“I think it would be best if you came into town with me.”
The sudden shift in conversation took Waverly by surprise. “Why?”
“Because we must determine what you wish to acquire for your guardians’ coffins. Funeral arrangements must be made. And perhaps”—Titus extended a gloved hand to her—“I may in time earn your trust.”
“My trust?”
“Yes. I would like for you to see that I am more than just an undertaker.”
“What are you then?” she whispered around the emotion that made her throat sore.
Titus took her hand and squeezed it. “At the very least, Miss Waverly Pembrooke, I am a friend. Let’s start there, shall we?”
The funeral parlor was a newer addition to Newton Creek.
Funerals were typically held in the parlor of the deceased’s home.
That she could host the funeral was obvious, that she would host it was not.
Waverly didn’t even know how to pretend to grieve for Uncle Leopold, and with the impending hardship of losing her home once the Hall was closed forever, well, there was no reason to exhaust herself with hostessing duties.
To serve as the funeral home, Titus Fitzgerald had purchased a two-story, white pillared house in Newton Creek’s valley.
The house featured black shutters, a black porch, and a black front door.
A circular drive looped to the right of it, with a portico at the side door that was large enough to allow for a horse-drawn hearse.
But then who would order a hearse for their funeral in a small town like Newton Creek?
Few people cared for such pomp and circumstance.
Or perhaps Uncle Leopold would have, as he could easily have afforded it.
But, for all the eccentricities of his will, Leopold had left no instructions regarding the funeral itself.
That, unfortunately, had been left up to Waverly. Her undying curiosity rose to the fore as they neared the funeral home. “Do you live here as well?” The idea of sharing a residence with the dead was quite macabre.
“I do. The upper level is my living quarters.” Titus helped Waverly from his modest carriage. With her feet planted on the walk, they approached the home. The front door opened with a subtle flourish as Titus pushed on its handle.
A middle-aged housekeeper, dressed respectably in mourning, met them at the door and took his hat.
“Tea, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Yes, please, Agatha. And show Miss Pembrooke into the office. I will be there directly.”
So formal. So businesslike. Waverly eyed Titus as he turned to address her.
Did he know that many of the townsfolk questioned his heritage, wondering why he’d decided to settle in Newton Creek since he had no immediate family in the area?
Yet it didn’t seem to bother Titus what other people thought of him.
It only bothered him what other people thought of her, and that bothered Waverly.
She was, after all, nothing more than a paying customer on behalf of the Traeger Estate.
And yet he claimed to be her friend, this after all but accusing her of murdering her own kin.
“I’ll be right with you.” He dipped in a solemn bow and then disappeared into a side room, leaving Waverly at the hospitable mercy of Agatha.
“This way, Miss Pembrooke.”
Waverly followed Agatha down a hallway that was whitewashed and had an assortment of gilded-framed paintings of countryside, farmland, and even one of a cow. The art was nothing at all like Uncle Leopold’s.
Agatha swung open a heavy wood door, and a burst of sunlight met them in the hall, along with the scents of sandalwood and tobacco.
“Please, have a seat, Miss Pembrooke.” Agatha motioned to a stuffed chair near a bay window with a table between it and another matching chair. “I’ll be back shortly with tea.”
“Thank you.” As Agatha took her leave, Waverly settled into the chair, adjusting her skirts and pulling off her black gloves.
Titus strode into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “Do forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“I’ve been here all of a minute, not long enough to succumb to death from boredom.” Her response was meant to lighten the mood, but instead Titus frowned as he took the chair opposite her.
“Do be serious, Waverly.” He gritted the words through his teeth, and he cast a glance over her shoulder at the door, presumably left open for propriety’s sake.
She felt a pang of remorse. Her previous interactions with the undertaker had her expecting bluntness from him, even a cutting sense of humor.
Perhaps his aloof manner was meant to mask an awkwardness between the undertaker and a young unmarried woman.
Both were all too aware of the other’s eligibility.
Or maybe, Waverly thought, irritating the other brought some satisfaction to the one doing the irritating.
But now Waverly could see the facade of etiquette had fled from Titus’s features. He leaned forward with a sternness that demanded her attention.
“I am begging you to trust me.”
“We’ve already spoken of this.” Waverly released a breath of exasperation, wishing Titus would leave it be. “I’m here to plan my uncle and aunt’s funerals.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Here we are.” Agatha entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a small plate of cookies. She slid it onto the table between them. “Would you like me to pour?”
“No, Agatha, thank you.” Titus attempted to shoo her away discreetly.
Agatha looked between them, and her lips thinned. “Would you like me to stay and assist with notes?”
Titus cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No. I am quite capable of recording the wishes of Miss Pembrooke for the Traeger funerals.”
“Very well then.” Agatha, who seemed a tad presumptuous and uptight to Waverly, straightened her back and exited the room.
“She means well,” Titus said as he reached for the teapot.
“Allow me,” Waverly offered.
Titus sat back as Waverly took it upon herself to pour the tea. It gave her something to do and something else to look at besides Titus’s face, which was once again turning concerned and adamant.
“Do you not see what is happening?”
His persistence might have been endearing had he any expression other than one that scowled at her as if she were an imbecile.
“You already made it quite clear back at Traeger Hall. You haven’t stopped at making it clear.
” Waverly gave a short nod and set the teapot down with a plop that made the teacups and saucers clank together.
“I came here to discuss caskets.” She tried to ignore the anxiety welling within her.
“I would like satin lining for my uncle and aunt’s caskets, I hear it is all the rage,” she prattled.
“And a stuffed turtledove as well, posed along with a bouquet of daisies and sunflowers in honor of Aunt Cornelia’s fondness for orange and pigeons. ”
“Turtledoves and pigeons are hardly the same bird.”
“Then I want both. Stuffed. With glass eyes.”
“Glass eyes?”
“Glass eyes.” Waverly handed a teacup and saucer to Titus. “And I would like the caskets to be made of cherrywood. Uncle Leopold would have nothing less, I’m sure of it.”
“And would you like windows placed in their coffin lids so you can see their expressions when you suddenly fall into the grave along with them after someone returns to Traeger Hall to finish the job you seem so bent on ignoring?”
Waverly stilled, her teacup halfway to her lips. She wondered if it were possible to hurl daggers from her eyes at the man. Likely not. But it would be a nice addition had the Creator seen fit to give her such a talent.
“I’m not ignoring it,” Waverly capitulated.
There were certain consequences for taking Titus into her confidence, not the least of which was that he might discover more than she wished him to.
He was an intelligent man who was far more invested in her situation than seemed necessary for an undertaker.
She ran her finger along the rim of her teacup, allowing the silence between them to build.
He had offered friendship, yet there was something more in his eyes, in his tone .
. . as if he truly cared about her. She wasn’t sure why, but that frightened her as much as it caused her heartbeat to race.
She didn’t hold many precious memories of being cared for.
Aside from . . . No. Waverly cut that thought short.
Would trusting Titus be the wisest course of action?
Doing so could possibly assist her in solving the mystery of why Uncle Leopold believed he would be murdered, not to mention address her suspicions that it had less to do with her uncle’s businesses and more to do with his dabbling in the art world.
And then there was the incident last night. The whispering through the keyhole of her bedroom door.
The beckoning . . .
Waverly, open the door.
She leveled a frank gaze on Titus Fitzgerald. Sometimes trusting cost more than one was willing to pay.
Waverly decided to change the subject. “In regard to the satin-lined caskets . . .”
Waverly
In an interview shortly before her death in 1950; memories from twelve days prior to the murders:
I was going to die.
At least that was what Uncle Leopold had told me.
That night, after the bullet had shattered the window, after Aunt Cornelia and Uncle Leopold had retired to bed, I tiptoed through the Hall. I stood at the door that led into the bell tower, staring down at the brass knob, and finally twisted it.
Once in the tower, a draft of fresh air wafted down the narrow, winding steps that led up to the belfry.
It was also cold and damp. I wanted to take comfort there.
I hoped I would find it in the bell tower at night just as I did during the day.
A place of solace and quiet. But at night, the tower took on an ominous feel, an oppressive weight on my chest. I had barely made it up the first few steps before I decided to return to my bed.
That was when I heard them, the footsteps.
They were heavy and echoed in the tower.
Someone above me was descending the stone steps.
Fear rippled through me, and I froze in place.
My palm was spread against the cold wall as I stared up into the darkness, certain the one who had fired the gunshot earlier had returned to finish the job.
But it was Uncle Leopold who wound his way down the stairs.
He stopped, visibly surprised that I was standing there at the bottom in my white nightgown, looking very much, I suppose, like a ghost. He held a lamp in his hand, and its light cast shadows around him, deepening his eyes and emphasizing the grim set to his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I-I come here . . . sometimes,” I managed in reply.
Uncle Leopold descended the final steps to stand beside me. He held the lamp up and stared into my face. “Sneaking about the Hall at night will sign your death warrant.”
His voice was stern, commanding. So I did what I always did—I nodded my acquiescence.
“Go to bed before the killer decides you will join me in the afterlife.”
My response surprised even me. “Why do you believe you’re going to die?” I asked.
Uncle Leopold’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to consider whether I deserved an answer and then decided I did. “Because I must die. That’s the way of it when one has wealth.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You’re not supposed to understand.” He pushed by me and stalked into the passageway beyond.
I followed him, closing the bell tower door behind me. When the latch clicked shut, confirming the door was sealed, I looked up to see Uncle Leopold still standing there.
His eyes were hard and drilled into me so insistently that I could almost feel their glare.
“You must stay out of the business of Traeger Hall. Death doesn’t play favorites and will have no mercy.”
“What business?” I breathed.
It was then I thought Uncle Leopold might actually know my secret, the one I hid especially from him.
“You know of whom I speak.”
He knew!
“Go to bed. Lock your door. Stop roaming the Hall at night. That is foolishness.”
“Yes, Uncle.” My response trailed behind me as I hurried back to my bedroom. I shut and locked the door, then went and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Uncle Leopold roaming the halls in the middle of the night.
I always assumed he couldn’t sleep or that he was still about his work.
But tonight was the first time I saw him in the bell tower.
Perhaps he was assessing why his instructions had not been followed—why, after the gunshot, no one had tried to ring the bell and alert the town about the need for help.
But there was something else about Uncle Leopold that night, something I could not put my finger on. It became the first of several nights that I lay awake, considering, before it all ended in a bloody massacre heralded by Uncle Leopold’s bell.
As I sat on the edge of my bed, I knew that if I dove beneath the bedsheet, I would still be seen.
I would still be vulnerable. I was not safe in Traeger Hall, and that feeling had been with me since the day I first arrived.
So I did the only thing I could do—I faced my fear.
I faced the monster who roamed the halls as Uncle Leopold.
And that night I whispered my final response to my uncle.
“What are you all about?” I asked. And I was worried that I would never find out.
What I didn’t know then was that, in a matter of two weeks, Uncle Leopold’s predictions would come true and I would be flirting with death myself, not realizing how imminent it really was.