Dark Places: Long Shadows

Previously:

With tentative steps, Trixie approached the door and tried to open it, but without effect. Taking a deep breath, she calmed the panic which was rising within her and tried again. Still, the door did not budge. Despite the closeness of the small room and the warmth of the summer night outside, she felt chilled. She rattled at the door ineffectually and called through it in the hope that her friends could help her.

“Can someone open the door? It’s stuck!”

Rapid footsteps sounded on the other side and soon the door was shaking. Jim’s voice called, “Hang on there, Trix. We’re trying to get it open.”

The rattling and banging continued, as Trixie’s inner panic rose. She joined in the effort, fighting to keep her actions controlled. Suddenly, it flew open and Trixie landed in a heap at Dan and Jim’s feet. They each reached down and gently raised her to her feet.

“Sorry, Trix,” Dan told her with a rueful grin. “We were pushing the wrong way.”

“Now can we leave?” Di asked in a shaky voice.

Trixie shook her head. “I’m fine.” She walked as casually as she could manage to the end of the room furthest from the stage, where the others had set all of their belongings. “Did we bring any snacks?”

Di let out a loud groan. “How can you be hungry after that? I’m shaking like a leaf and I wasn’t the one who was trapped.” She laughed in rather a forced manner and added, “Anyone would think you were related to Mart.”

“Hey! I resemble that remark!” he joked. “And I’ll have a snack if they’re being handed around. Who’s in for a game of something?”

The tension eased and the group settled down to play games together – charades, to begin with, which degenerated into a lazy game of twenty questions – and snack on the food they had brought. Late in the night, the games gradually fizzled out and the seven friends settled down to sleep.

Later, Trixie lay on her make-shift bed, listening to the even breathing of her friends. Despite her hopes, there had not been the slightest hint of ghostly activity in the old speakeasy. She rolled over to look in the direction of the inner room. She knew that the door stood open, just as she had left it, but the darkness was so complete that she could not see it.

Closing her eyes against the blackness, she tried to imagine this place at closing time on an August night in 1928. A small band, perhaps, would be packing up. The bartender would be wiping down the bar and hiding away all of his illicit equipment. The last few patrons would shuffle away into the night, followed by the staff at their boss’s request. Meanwhile, in their dressing room next to the stage, the dancing girls changed into their street clothes… and found the key to the hidden room among their things, Trixie deduced, shuddering slightly. Then, the owner might have seen Ada trying to leave… What would he do next?

As she lay there wondering, it was almost as if the events played out before her. The other dancers ran lightly up the stairs, but the boss singled out Ada from the group, blocking her escape. Her dark eyes flashed with temper and the dark waves of her bobbed hair swung forward as she vehemently refused his advances. Trixie saw the young woman try to get past him to the stairs, but he stopped her and they talked for some time. When Ada once more made for the stairs, he caught her arm and she struggled to break free. The rage washed across the man’s face and he shook her with all his might and struck her in the face. Trixie tried to block out the vicious attack, but could not. After a time, the girl fell to the floor, motionless.

The anger drained away from the man’s face. He leaned over her, but she did not move. Her pose looked unnatural, with her neck bent at a strange angle and arms and legs going in all directions. The man leaned over and prodded her a few times, but still she did not move. His alarm was growing rapidly, now. He knelt by her side, patted her face and then put his ear to her chest. His face turning a sickly white, he frantically pumped her arms up and down a few times, to no effect. He began to look around himself wildly. Eyes fixing on the panel which hid the secret room, he sprang into action.

With shaking hands, he unfastened the lock and threw open the door. Grasping the girl under the arms, he dragged her inside and closed the door behind himself. In her mind, Trixie followed him inside, seeing him roll back the carpet and the linoleum and open a hatch below. He heaved the body down into the cavity and slammed the lid, before covering the floor once more. No sooner was that done, than he fumbled to let himself out. He locked the door behind himself and leant against it, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his sweaty brow.

He hurried up the stairs, to return some time later with armfuls of supplies. Entering the secret room, he secured it after himself, peeled back the carpet and linoleum once more and began to methodically seal the edges of the panel. Finishing his task, he returned the room to its usual state and gathered the leftover supplies. The door was secured once more and he was almost at the foot of the stairs when another man – tall, broad and red-haired – entered the scene. His face expressed astonishment, followed closely by suspicion. Face pale, but looking defiant, the first man left the room, while the second stared after him with a thoughtful look.

Trixie sat up with a jolt, unsure of whether she had been awake or asleep. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest and her breath felt short. She was chilled, despite the warmness of the room. Picking up her flashlight, she rose slowly and crossed to the hidden room. Shining her light around, she noticed anew that the flooring was a linoleum similar to that she had seen in the storeroom. With difficulty she found a place to get a grip and managed to lift the sheet. The cracking sound it made as she pulled it away from the floor rang loudly through the room, but she did not stop to consider her sleeping friends.

As the light showed up the surface below the linoleum, her heart seemed to freeze in her chest. In the exact place she had imagined, there was a rectangle edged with blackened strips. Several places on both the floor and the reverse of the linoleum showed black stains. Scratching at one, Trixie wondered whether it might be tar.

A hand touched her arm, and she jumped noticeably.

“Sorry,” Jim whispered, backing off slightly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, in a rather shaky voice. “I just didn’t think anyone else was awake.”

Nodding, he turned his attention to her discovery. “What do you think it is?”

Trixie took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that the body is under here,” she admitted. “I’m not sure whether it’s worse to wait and wonder, or – if I’m right – to find out for sure.”

“Well, let’s consider what might happen if you opened it up,” Jim suggested, his smile just evident in the gloom. “I’m not sure it’s wise to leave at this time of night in this part of town. If you’re right, I think you might have some explaining to do when Honey and Di find out you knowingly let them sleep in the same room as a skeleton. If you’re wrong, there could be something else unpleasant in there. It seems pretty well sealed from this side, but we don’t know about other potential openings, or what might have gotten in there in the intervening time. All that aside, how do you intend to open it quietly? It looks pretty well stuck down.”

She sighed in response. “You’re right, as usual. I just don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep now, though, for wondering.”

Jim looked at his watch. “It’s only a couple of hours. Go back to bed and at least try to sleep. I’ll set my alarm for an extra half-hour earlier and we’ll see in the morning.”

“Make it three-quarters of an hour and you’ve got a deal,” she replied with a grin.

Despite her doubts, Trixie was fast asleep when the alarm started beeping some hours later. She opened her eyes to find darkness, which was quickly broken by the flashlight Jim held. Around her, the others began to stir.

“This is not the time we agreed upon,” Mart grumbled after looking at his watch. “There had better be a good explanation for this.”

Before Trixie could defend her plan, Jim spoke up. “We have some further exploring to do. Last night, while the rest of us were asleep, Trixie did some deducing and I think she’s found something significant. There’s another trap door in that room over there.”

The implications of this discovery were soon quite plain to the whole group. Their reactions ranged from excitement to horror, with Diana leading the campaign to leave immediately. She was overruled by the majority, who were just as curious as Trixie to find out what lay below the panel. While Honey and Di hastily packed their belongings – and everyone else’s – the rest of the group set to work on opening the trap door. True to Jim’s prediction, it was difficult, noisy work.

With one final drawn-out creak, the panel came free from its frame and five people held their breath to see what was below. Her hand trembling slightly with excitement and fear, Trixie shone her light into the cavity. She almost dropped the flashlight when it illuminated a human skull.

A couple of hours later, the group left the local police station after giving extensive statements. Despite the fact that she had fully expected to see what was actually there, Trixie still felt rather shaken by the whole experience. Most of all, she was disturbed by the fact that she had found the trap door just where she expected it to be.

Noticing her quiet, reflective mood, Jim approached her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Trix?” At her brief nod he continued, “You seem very quiet.”

“How did I know it was there?” she blurted out. “I thought it was a dream – I had my eyes closed – it felt like waking from a nightmare, but the trap door was right where I saw it. I just don’t understand.”

For a long moment, Jim reflected on what she had said. “Maybe your subconscious told you where to look,” he suggested. “There might have been something different about that place when you walked across it earlier, but you didn’t consciously notice. When you went to sleep, your mind put it all together in a story for you.”

“It seemed so real,” she murmured, not knowing whether to embrace his explanation or reject it.

He gave a shrug. “That kind of dream often does. There are mornings I wake up certain that I’m somewhere else, in another time. It takes some time to convince myself that those days are gone.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

By the following weekend, Trixie’s natural bounciness had been fully restored. She had decided in the interim to accept Jim’s explanation of the events in the old speakeasy and put the matter behind her. To help with this, she had thrown herself into the other, secret investigation she had running at that time, that concerning Dan’s father. She had been surprised at how little effort it took to find out where he was buried. Within half an hour of starting her research, she had found a newspaper article on his mysterious disappearance and the discovery of his body.

According to the article, Alan Carter had argued with his father one spring day in 1980, when he was just twelve years old. He had been seen leaving the family home in Maryland at dusk and his family never saw or heard from him again. Very little was missing from the house – only a change of Alan’s clothes and a rather unusual ring, set with a cognac diamond, which had belonged to his favourite grandmother. A police investigation at the time focussed on the possibility that he had met with foul play, the main suspect being his father, but there was not enough evidence to proceed. The diamond never came to light, either with or without its original setting. Three years after Alan’s disappearance, his father died when the gun he was cleaning discharged.

Another ten years passed before the accident which claimed Dan’s father’s life. During that time, his mother had come to accept that her son must be dead. Then came the news that he had been killed in a car accident. She was puzzled and grieved by the discovery that she had been wrong, and the fact that she could not seem to find out where he had been and what he had been doing in the interim.

It was not difficult for Trixie to confirm the basic details of the article. She found the location of the former family home, which had been sold many years since, as well as the cemetery in which Dan’s father was buried. After locating a photograph of the ring and visiting a jeweller, she was able to confirm that the one she had found was the missing ring. As far as possible, she checked the information against what she knew already and found that the two sides of the story matched at every point. Having sorted out as much as she could in advance, she arranged to take Dan on a trip to Maryland to see the places for himself.

They travelled in silence for most of the journey, with Dan seeming deep in thought. As they neared their destination, he broke his silence to give directions from the map. Trixie pulled up in front of an imposing house, immaculately kept, in a very nice neighbourhood. For a long time, Dan contemplated it in silence.

“Hard to believe he left this to live in the kind of places we lived,” he finally muttered, shaking his head.

Trixie shrugged. “It looks nice from the outside, but you don’t know what it was like on the inside.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’d rather have love than possessions; I guess Dad did, too.”

“Are you ready to move on?” she asked gently.

He nodded once more and they pulled away from the scene of his father’s childhood. A short time later, they arrived at a large cemetery, its smooth lawns and bright flower beds well-tended. Stopping for directions, they made their way to the correct area and soon found the grave they sought.

With heavy footsteps, Dan crossed to the elegant marble memorial. Trixie hung back to give him space, as he stared forlornly at the unfamiliar name carved there. His shoulders slumped and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I guess this is why I never saw his grave before. Mom told me she couldn’t afford a funeral and that he’d just been cremated. It must have just been easier to lie to me than explain what really happened. I guess this explains what she was like after he died, too.”

“Why do you say that?” Trixie asked, softly.

His shoulders moved slightly. “He was the only one who knew who she really was; the only one who ever called her by her real name.” He turned away from the grave. “That’s how I knew it really was them. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t listening, Dad would call her Sheena. He told me once it was kind of a nickname. And you know what? I don’t know if it makes it better or worse to know that they must have kept up the pretence at least partly for me.”

Trixie gave him a brittle smile and a slight shrug. “Sometimes you just have to think positive.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Cemeteries give me the creeps.”

Several days passed before it occurred to Trixie to call Mrs. Baker again and ask for more information. She found the old lady more than willing to talk and had soon related everything that had happened since their last discussion. Mrs. Baker was most interested to hear about the discovery of the register.

“I remember Mr. Regan,” she gushed, sounding quite youthful in her excitement. “Such a tall, handsome man. Such broad shoulders and so striking to look at with that thick head of red hair. He had a lovely Irish accent; so soothing to the ear and so reminiscent of my early years – my people were Irish, you know. He was a real gentleman, too. Very nice mannered. He was very particular about keeping us girls safe. He would never let us go downstairs alone if he could help it. Never left us alone with Mr. Stanfield, either.” There was a slight pause before she continued. “Perhaps Mr. Regan suspected something.”

“Why do you think he had the register, then, Mrs. Baker,” Trixie asked, rather breathlessly. “He apparently wanted it kept safe.”

“Well, it would be evidence, dear, wouldn’t it?” the old lady replied, at once. “Mr. Stanfield was an unscrupulous man. He wouldn’t be above destroying evidence to protect himself. Mr. Regan probably knew that and took it to keep it from being destroyed.” Without pausing, Mrs. Baker continued. “You can put all thoughts of wrong-doing out of your head. Mr. Regan was an upstanding man. It always puzzled me that he kept working in that place when he must have known what it was all about, but I can see now that he must have felt it his duty. If Mr. Stanfield couldn’t be punished for his crime, at least he could be prevented from carrying out another one.”

“I guess you’re right, Mrs. Baker,” Trixie answered. Before she could frame another question, the old lady launched into another topic.

“There was another thing that I meant to mention to you, which I forgot the last time.” There was a strange note in the older woman’s voice, which Trixie could not quite place. “All this talk of Irish accents has reminded me. I don’t think I mentioned that Mr. Stanfield’s real name certainly was not John Stanfield. No one knew just what it originally had been, but I’m quite certain in my own mind that it would more likely be Patrick O’Leary or Seamus Finnegan.”

“He was an Irishman, then?”

“Oh, yes. No mistaking it whenever he lost his temper. He hid his accent well, provided he kept his control, but the minute he stopped concentrating, it came through as clear as day.” There was disapproval in her voice now.

At once, Trixie’s mind leapt to the name written so emphatically in the back of the old register. She could not recall, exactly, what the name had been, but now she wondered if the location next to it had been an Irish one. The phone pressed between shoulder and ear, she tried to wriggle the register free from under a pile of papers even as she related the rest of the discoveries, including that of the body.

Mrs. Baker sighed. “I don’t know whether to feel better or worse. My poor Herb. From what you describe, I don’t think he could have discovered the body – it must have been all sealed up all those years before. Perhaps he really did see the ghost. Maybe that’s what made him so upset about the place, poor man.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Baker,” Trixie answered, hoping to make her feel a little better. “None of the stories I’ve heard have mentioned anyone seeing her. Maybe he found the sealed-up panel and just guessed what was underneath.”

“Perhaps you’re right, dear,” the old woman answered, suddenly sounding very weary. “Whatever the case, I’m glad they’ve found the poor girl, even if it is eighty years too late.”

By this time, Trixie had retrieved the register and found the place. A shiver ran up her spine as she read what was written there: Sean Doherty, Carndonagh, Donegal, January 12th , 1891. On impulse, she decided to ask about it. “Mrs. Baker, have you ever heard of someone called Sean Doherty, especially connected with the hotel?”

There was a long, meditative silence. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” Trixie added, anxious to follow up this line of inquiry straight away. “You’ve been really helpful. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

Shortly afterwards, Trixie made a visit to Matthew Wheeler to own up to taking the ring. It had been weighing heavy on her mind for the last few weeks, especially since her visit to the jeweller. Before that, she had not particularly considered that it might be valuable, but the value mentioned had made her gasp. She had slipped it onto her finger for safe keeping while she waited to speak to him and, as she sat outside his office, her nervous fingers twisted it around and around.

“Come on in, Trixie,” he told her, sticking his head out through the door. “What did you want to see me about?”

Wrenching the offending item off, she dumped it in the middle of his desk. “I found it inside the hole you showed me, with the old register. I’ve done some research and it belonged to Dan’s great-grandmother. His father took it when he ran away from home and Dan’s mother must have hidden it there – that was their apartment at the time she died. I’ve shown it to Dan and Regan, but neither of them recognise it. I don’t know who it really belongs to, but I thought I’d better give it to someone, because I took it to a jeweller to find out whether it might be the same ring and the man said it was worth a packet and that it was definitely the one.”

Her friend’s father whistled between his teeth and picked up the ring. “It certainly is rather large,” he admitted. “I’ve never considered brown a particularly attractive shade in diamonds, but this is quite dark, as diamonds go. Thank you, Trixie. I’ll take care of it.”

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, she thanked him and left.

When Trixie’s cell phone rang one day a few weeks later, she felt a momentary stab of annoyance. She was right in the middle of a very interesting conversation with Honey and felt sure that the moment would be lost if she took the call. She glanced at the screen, thinking it would probably be another person wanting to sell her matches at a grossly inflated price, but was surprised to see that the caller was actually her boss.

“Yes, Mr. Wheeler?” she asked, after pressing the answer button.

“I thought you’d like the latest news,” he told her. “I’ve just heard from the police regarding the remains you found in the hotel basement. It was a woman, estimated to be in her mid-twenties, meeting the physical description of Ada Kriescher and deceased for approximately the right amount of time. They can’t be certain about causes of death under the circumstances, but they think she was beaten to death. There is the possibility that she was in the train crash you mentioned and that she died from injuries sustained in the crash and that her body was hidden for some reason, but that seems a little far-fetched.”

“So, they think she really was murdered?”

He answered, “They do. There was a file from the investigation that was made at the time and I understand that the investigating officer was fairly clear on what had happened, but there was just no evidence to proceed. You’ll be interested to hear that Regan’s father was one of the chief witnesses, and that he placed Stanfield at the scene of the crime not long after it must have been committed. He also told the investigating officer at the time that Stanfield’s real name was Sean Doherty and gave his date and place of birth – which just happen to be the same as was written in the back of the register. For now, the file is being made inactive and I’m free to continue with my redevelopment.”

“Oh, that’s good news, then,” she replied. “You’ll let me know of anything else you want done on that?”

“I will. If anything else comes up, you’ll hear from me.”

After the call had ended, Trixie related the news to Honey, then tried to turn the conversation back to the point where it had left off. “So, are you going to tell me about your date, now?”

Honey thought for a moment, smiled like Mona Lisa and shook her head.

At Matthew Wheeler’s invitation, all of the Bob-Whites returned to the Stanfield Hotel for its grand re-opening party. The transformation it had undergone in the past few months was astounding. The whole block was looking cleaner and better-maintained. Several nearby buildings had received a new coat of paint and the Stanfield itself could almost have been new.

Inside, it was almost unrecognisable. Rich carpet in a deep red, smooth glass, shining chrome and clean lines gave a modern edge to 1920s elegance. Carefully chosen prints depicted life of the time and hinted of darker themes. In a glass case, the original register lay open, artfully obscured by a display of relics sourced from the advertisement – matchbooks and authentic Stanfield Hotel room keys among them. Just above it, the figurine they had found in the old safe-cavity reclined, casting her blank gaze over the scene.

The seven were soon rising in the elevator, a modernised reproduction of a twenties-style one, to the penthouse suite where the twenties-themed costume party was getting started. Trixie gazed around herself with shining eyes, seeing the band in the corner, a dance floor with a few brave people attempting the Charleston, others dressed as gangsters or flappers, the elegant table settings – and a bartender serving alcoholic drinks in teacups, just as was done during Prohibition.

“Welcome, everyone,” Matthew Wheeler greeted them, giving his daughter a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good you could all make it. There’s something over here that I think you’d be interested to see, but first, I have something to hand over.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a ring box and handed it to Dan, who looked rather surprised.

“What’s this, sir?” he asked, opening the box. The ring that Trixie had found was revealed.

“I’ve had my people check and it seems that you are the rightful owner,” the older man explained. “Your great-grandmother left it in her will to your father. Your mother was his heir and you are your mother’s heir, therefore, it’s yours.”

The astonishment was still plain on Dan’s face and in his voice as he thanked his host.

Matthew rubbed his hands together and drew the group’s attention back to himself. “Now, as I was saying, there’s something over here I’d like to show you.”

He led the way across the room to a display in a glass case where two photographs were on display. The first depicted a middle-aged man with shrewd eyes and a smile that did not reach them. Beneath his picture, a black cloth covered the base of the case, its folds partly concealing a few other articles: an old corkscrew, another hotel key and a replica pistol. The other photograph was in the farthest corner, raised on a red velvet-covered pedestal. At its base, a few coloured feathers lay scattered, along with a 1920s era brooch. It was a framed studio photograph of a beautiful young woman, her dark, bobbed hair set in waves, chin slightly down so that she looked straight into the camera with big, dark eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips.

Trixie gazed from one photograph to the other, her heart beating so loudly that she felt sure it must be audible to those around her. Images of the scenes she thought she had dreamt played endlessly through her mind. These two faces were so familiar that it took her breath away. “Who are they?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“This is the young lady you located downstairs,” Mr. Wheeler explained, clearly pleased with his acquisitions. “And this rogue is the original owner of this building – and prime suspect for her murder, though of course it can’t be proved now, since he’s long-dead.”

“He did it,” Trixie asserted. “I’m sure it was him.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” their host answered, indulgently. “I would have preferred for justice to have been served, but you can’t apply today’s standards of law enforcement to things that happened in the past. In a way, though, it’s best to have an unsolved crime. There’s something terribly sordid about the established details in a case that has been tried. For the purpose of establishing a ghost story, this is admirable.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help.” Trixie felt her face flushing and suddenly wanted to be alone. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Wheeler, I’d like to go down and take another look around, one last time before the hotel opens. Would that be okay?”

He nodded and drew a key ring from his pocket. “Lucky for you I haven’t handed over the master key just yet. Make sure you lock up after yourself and bring it back when you’re finished.”

With thanks and assurances, she took the keys and left the party. She shivered slightly as she entered the elevator, thinking of a time long ago, when a uniformed attendant would have closed the cage, moved them upwards or downwards as required and carefully aligned the car with each floor when it stopped. The doors opened automatically into the foyer and Trixie stepped out. She walked through the silent building to the club entrance. Its concealed door stood hospitably open, but inside was a metal grille that she needed to unlock. Downlights under the handrail gave plenty of light to see where she was walking, but lent a mysterious, rather sinister atmosphere.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Trixie found the club to be in semi-darkness. The chandeliers, cleaned, restored and rewired, were in darkness. She left them that way, preferring the dimness of the secondary lighting. Everything was in readiness for tomorrow’s opening – chairs and tables, glassware behind the bar and, unseen but conveniently close, refrigerators could be detected by their soft hum.

The room where the body had been found also stood open, but its doorway was concealed by a thick curtain. Peeking around the edge, Trixie could see more tables and chairs, set ready for a private function. She let the curtain fall back into place and went to sit on the edge of the stage. Closing her eyes, she shut out the luxurious surroundings that Mr. Wheeler had carefully created and tried to feel the atmosphere.

A whisper of sound caused her to open her eyes, but there was no one and nothing to see. Trixie held her breath, straining to make out any movement. Taking a different tack, she deliberately shut her eyes once more and waited. She could feel the gentle circulation of air from the air conditioner, hear sounds filtering in from the outside world and smell the newness of the furnishings. Nothing detracted from the peacefulness of the empty room.

Her eyes fluttered open as a waft of perfume drifted past. Light footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs and in a few moments Honey appeared.

“I thought I might find you down here,” she told Trixie as she wove between the tables. “You’re missing the party.”

Trixie shrugged. “I just felt like a minute alone.” A frown crossed her face. “I thought you hated it down here.”

Honey turned in a slow circle. “Not any more. It… feels different, somehow. It doesn’t seem like the same place.”

The shadow of a smile flickering on her lips, Trixie nodded. She felt as if the story was complete, now. If there ever had been a ghost, she seemed to have been appeased. The hotel would live again, but under the management of a very different kind of man. Without a backward glance, Trixie slipped off the stage and headed for the stairs and the party that awaited.

The End