Frank Tuttle: Dead Man's rain

Jefrey served, moving from plate to plate and filling each with food from within his steaming pans. We had duck with bread stuffing, mashed potatoes and something Jefrey called jelad cafe oromead that turned out to be a three-bean salad and a slice of ham. It wasn’t bad, either; I made sure I asked Lady Merlat to compliment the cook, though we both knew that either she or Jefrey had cooked it all.

Abad choked his down and demanded seconds and thirds. Othur pushed his around without ever lifting his fork, drank five glasses of wine and slipped a solid-silver serving knife up his sleeve when he thought no one was watching. Elizabet, like Othur, merely toyed with her food, though she did manage to eat a few beans and most of the ham slice.

The widow’s plate sat untouched. The meal was quick, with the only conversation being of the pass-the-salt variety. Finally, the widow rang a tiny silver bell, and Jefrey rolled his cart back in and began collecting plates.

“Now we talk,” said the widow, as Jefrey scooped up my plate.

“Fine, Mother,” snapped Abad. “And what are we to talk to this gentleman about?”

He said “gentleman” with a sneer.

“Do you remember what I said, Abad? About insult?” said the widow.

Before he could answer, I spoke. “I’m here to find out who-or what-has been frightening your mother,” I said. “To that end, I need to ask some questions.”

“Go ahead,” purred Elizabet. “We all want to help Mother, I’m sure. Don’t we?”

The brothers Merlat issued a weak round of yeses. Elizabet beamed and turned toward me.

“Do me first,” she said.

Jefrey threw a handful of forks into a metal pan, but I ignored him.

“Fine,” I said. “Tell me, then. Have you seen your father’s shade?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and she drew her arms across her breast and huddled closer to me. “More than once.”

“How many times?” I asked. “And when?”

She bit her lower lip. “The first time was-oh, three months ago,” she said. “I’d come home for a few days, to visit Mother, and the dogs began to bark, and the footmen were shouting. So I opened my window-I was in my room, on the fourth floor-and looked down, and there was Father, standing there, looking back up at me.”

“What was he wearing?” I asked.

She frowned. “Shrouds,” she said. “Grey, gauzy shrouds. He had grave-mold all over his face-oh, Mother, I’m so sorry, but he did.”

“And you’re sure it was your father?”

Elizabet shook her head. “It was him,” she said. “His ghost, I’m sure of it.”

“And you’ve seen him since.”

She counted on her fingers. “Three times,” she said.

“When?” I asked. “I need dates. If you can’t recall the exact day, that’s fine, but the nearer you can narrow it down, the better I can help your mother.”

She struggled, came up with four dates, one of which was a maybe, but close-within a couple of days.

“All right,” I said. “One more thing. You know the revenant stories, that they come back to take vengeance on their killers. Tell me, then-why is Ebed Merlat coming back here?”

At that, Elizabet shrugged. “They’re only silly old wives’ tales,” she said. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t believe-or disbelieve-in anything yet,” I said. “I’m only asking you a question-why do you think your father would come back?”

She looked away. “I’m sure I have no idea,” she said. “That’s your job, isn’t it? To find that out?”

I shrugged. “If that’s what it takes, Miss Merlat, that’s what I’ll do.”

She drained her wineglass, and I’d moved on to question Othur and Abad.

Neither was helpful. Othur spent so much time “away”, as he called it, that he had neither seen nor heard anything. And Abad grudgingly admitted that he’d been home on two of the occasions the apparition was seen, though he wouldn’t claim it had been his father. He gave me dates for both days, said he didn’t know what might drive his father out of his grave and retired early, Othur at his heels.

Elizabet soon took her leave as well. “Good night,” she’d said to me, more in promise than farewell. Then she’d sauntered away, sure I was watching her go every languid step of the way.

Jefrey came banging back in. He held a covered plate in his hand, which he took to the widow. “I see you didn’t touch a bite,” he said, plunking the plate down and removing the cloth. “You got to eat, Lady Merlat.”

On the plate was a grilled cheese sandwich and a thick dark slice of chocolate cake.

The widow sighed. “Thank you, Jefrey,” she said. Jefrey stood there and watched until she picked up the grilled cheese and took a bite. Then he left, collecting a few wineglasses and pausing to look at me with a “Well, what?” expression.

I shrugged in return. I’d gotten nothing, except the firm conviction that everyone but Othur was lying.

Elizabet’s revenant wore shrouds. The widow’s wore a burial suit. Abad’s ghost had mad red eyes and a bloody white shirt, and it screamed out the widow’s name.

Othur wasn’t lying only because he probably saw legions of revenants every night, and forgot them all with his first puff of weed in the morning. We could parade dancing Trolls past his bed, and get nothing out of him the next day but pouts and slurred insults.

I looked up at Lord Merlat’s blood-and-thunder portrait and propped my chin on my hands. What about it, Old Bones? I thought. What are you up to, and why?

The widow put down her fork, tinkle of silver on china. “Well?” she said.

I sighed. Lord Merlat’s eyes, mere dabs of paint and shadow, bore into mine.

“About what I expected,” I said. “They’re claiming to have seen something they haven’t, unless your visitor has a more extensive wardrobe than the spooks in the stories usually have.” I lifted a hand when the widow puffed up.

“Ignore me, Lady,” I said. “I do have a few questions for you, though.”

“Ask.”

I rose, stretched, pushed back my chair. “I’m going to take two angles on this, Lady,” I said. “First, I’m going to assume that someone is dressing up in grave-clothes and taking strolls in your yard.”

“Nonsense,” said the Lady.

“Maybe,” I replied. “I’ll also entertain the notion that your husband really has returned. I’m just telling you it’s a distant second.”

“It is the truth.”

I prowled about the ornate display cases, which seemed to favor china plates and silver teapots.

“Either way,” I said, “I’ve got to work backward from your visitor in the night to the root of the problem.” I turned to face the widow. “Why would someone want to frighten you, Lady?”

“I am not frightened,” she snapped.

“Why would someone want to make you think your husband needs vengeance before he can rest?” I said. The widow’s eyes went narrow and cold. A pair of blue veins popped out on her powdered forehead.

“I do not know,” she said, snapping out each word as though she could make it hurt me.

I met her eyes, held it. She blinked first, and looked away.

I sighed. “All right,” I said. “You’ve got trouble, never mind what kind. The best kind of trouble never comes cheap. So tell me this, Lady Merlat. Are you having money problems?”

She met my eyes, glared.

“House Merlat is hardly reduced to paupery,” she said.

I shrugged. “Fine,” I said. “Wonderful. Are you causing anyone money problems?”

She swallowed, closed her eyes briefly, spoke.

“My husband invested well,” she said. “Aside from our banked assets, we receive a quarterly sum from various investing firms.” She swallowed again. “The funds are generated by careful, discrete investing. We engage in nothing rapacious. I tell you, goodman, money is not the issue here.”