Mr. Grey and the Hotel Ghosts Page 5

* * * *

  Our Lady of Grace Cemetery lay quietly slumbering in the midst of the New York bustle. The only bright splashes of color amidst the trees were bunches of flowers placed on the more recent graves. An air of gentle melancholy hung over all as Martin and Claudia made their way along the path, led by a caretaker.

  "The Captain's grave is along this row," he said, indicating a line of Civil-War-era headstones. "Most of our military gentlemen from the Civil War are located here."

  Martin thanked him and the man walked away. Claudia watched him go with raised eyebrows. "He makes them sound like they're residents at some rest home!"

  "Whatever gets him through the day, I suppose," Martin said with a smile, his eyes scanning the orderly rows of lichen-spotted black and grey tombstones. "Ah, here it is…"

  Claudia peered at the worn stone. "'Sacred to the memory of Captain Joseph Cloverdale, 104th New York Regiment, Born 3rd March 1834, Died 8th February 1863. He died that others might live.' That's a sweet epitaph."

  "Do you notice something?" Martin asked after a pause.

  She looked at the headstone then around the general area of the grave, and frowned. "No…Oh! His wife isn't buried here." She cocked an eye at him. "I wonder if she remarried?"

  "It's quite possible. A search of the records will show…"

  Once more there came that strange shifting of reality, a flickering between one world and another—

  Claire Cloverdale stood beside the 104th Regiment's chaplain at the head of the grave. Snow fell silently upon the graveyard, turning the world into a monochrome image of bare black trees and half-hidden buildings. The dark earth yawned like an ugly mouth, waiting to close about the flag-draped coffin that rested on short wooden booms stretched across the grave. Her eyes were moist, her heart full to bursting with love, sorrow, pride and deep regret, as the chaplain uttered the final words.

  "…And so we commit our dear brother to the earth, in the sure and certain knowledge that Life Eternal awaits him. No greater gift hath any man, in that he lay down his life for another. Joseph died that many others may live. He was a brave man; he was an honorable man. May he rest in peace. Amen."

  The crowd of mourners murmured the response. An officer of the regiment stepped forward to draw the star-spangled flag from the coffin. He and another officer began to fold it into the classic triangle. With a soft-spoken word of command, the bearers removed the booms and began to lower the coffin into the grave with white ropes. Claire watched it descend, its shiny wooden surface speckled with drifting snowflakes. A brass plate bore the name, rank, age and epitaph of Joseph Cloverdale. Her husband; her love. Within her breast, her heart felt full to bursting.

  The coffin reached the bottom with a soft thump, and the bearers drew up the ropes. As they withdrew, the color guard formed up in two ranks, one either side of the open grave, their blue tunics somber against the white of the snow covering the graveyard. They held their long rifles at rest by their sides, the brass butts pressing into the snow.

  The officer presented Claire with the flag. She took it and pressed it to her breast, her heart aching as he stepped back and saluted her. Tears spilled openly down her cheeks as the command was given, the officers and chaplain saluted the grave, and the firing party presented arms.

  On the word of command they raised their rifles to their shoulders and began the salute. The three volleys crashed out, startling the roosting pigeons from the trees around the graveyard and echoing down the deep-walled streets of New York.

  As the last echo died, Claire turned away and the rest of the funeral party began to follow. Behind them, the grave diggers replaced their caps on their heads and moved in to complete the sorrowful business.

  The scene flickered again, the figures of mourners and grave diggers melting into nothing against the backdrop of the cemetery.

  Claudia stared at Martin, her eyes wet, hands clasped to her breast. She looked down and saw to her surprise she was not holding her country's flag. "Oh, that poor woman!" She blinked away her tears. "Martin, I didn't expect all that. Did you?"

  "I had the feeling it would happen like that, yes," he replied softly. "I'm sorry you went through it, but I think it was necessary."

  "Why? Jesus, Martin!" She looked back at the quiet grave of the soldier, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "What's going to happen next?"

  Chapter Five

  Martin was busy shaving the next day when an urgent knock sounded on the outer door to his hotel room. He opened it and was almost bowled over as Claudia rushed in.

  She pulled up short at the sight of him in his pajama trousers, his chest bare, shaving foam around his jaw. A slight flush colored her face. "Whoa! Excuse my hurry, Martin, but I hit pay-dirt with the Cloverdale history!"

  "I'm always pleased to see you," he said with a soft chuckle, silently thankful that he kept himself in condition. "What have you found?"

  "You carry on shaving and I'll set it up," she said, sitting on the bed and opening her laptop computer.

  Martin returned to the bathroom, leaving the door open so he could see and hear Claudia. She tapped busily at the keys as he scraped his chin.

  "I checked the census records for 1860 and downloaded what I found. Here, listen to this. 'Joshua Cloverdale, widower, age 52. Three sons: Joseph, 25, James, 23, and Samuel, 13. They were residents of the Southshore plantation, near Wilmington, North Carolina, in 1860.’ Now, ten years later…" Claudia tapped more keys. "We have one Claire Cloverdale, widow, age 36, resident in Baltimore. Martin?" He leaned back from the mirror and looked at her. "She had a daughter!"

  Martin grunted with surprise, his razor poised. "A daughter?"

  "Yep! Anna-Grace Cloverdale, aged 7. She must have been conceived just before Joseph died."

  "Perhaps we both know when, too," Martin said softly.

  Claudia blushed. "Yeah, well…" She pointed at the screen. "James has disappeared. No trace on any record I can find. Their younger brother Samuel joined the 1st North Carolina Cavalry Regiment; he died at Gettysburg. I checked the archives of a web site run by a history group that researches the Civil War battles. He was only sixteen."

  "What a waste; what a sheer bloody waste."

  "Maybe. At least he and all those others died for a cause they believed in."

  "What you've found is all very useful stuff." Martin mulled over the data as he wiped his face with a towel and moved through to the bedroom. "I'm not sure where we go from here, though. It may be the presence in the hotel will show us more." He touched her shoulder. "Claudia, what are your feelings on this?"

  "My feelings?" Claudia asked softly. She looked up at him, and took the towel he held. "You've got soap on your neck." She wiped it away, looked at him thoughtfully, and sighed. "I admit it scares me a little, Martin; all this popping in and out of the minds of people from the past." She wrinkled her nose as she breathed in his cologne, a subtle, rich and pleasant scent. "Being in Claire Cloverdale's body as she was making love was something totally out of this world! Nothing could have prepared me for that."

  "I agree entirely!"

  She gave him a half-smile, and rubbed his arm in a friendly way. "Yeah, well, you were there at the time."

  "Do you want to continue, Claudia?" He spread his hands. "I've never had an experience like this in my whole career. Honestly, it's so far out of the normal run of things—if paranormal research can ever be said to be normal…"

  "Martin, you're digressing."

  He gave a snort of laughter. "Yes, I am. It's because I'm unsure about this. I've no idea of the dangers involved. It might get rough." He took her hand and held it gently. "If you don't want to go on, I'll understand."

  She made a noise of disgust. "Quit? Like hell I will! Martin, I find it all so intriguing, I'm more than willing to continue." She squeezed his hand. "I want to know how this ends!"

  "I'm glad." He smiled, and reluctantly released her clasp. "This intrigues me too."

  "So, that's settled," she said b
rightly, grinning up at him. "What do we do next?"

  "Go back to the hotel and wait?" he suggested.

  She laughed. "I knew you'd say that!"

  * * * *

  The hotel was quiet. Martin and Claudia spent the whole morning wandering the echoing corridors, peering into dusty unfurnished rooms, and checking the sensors. The watchman remained in the office. Martin sensed he was not happy about something and he could guess what from the resentful attitude he adopted whenever Claudia was around. She grimaced when he mentioned it.

  "That's Kyle Marshall for you. There's nothing he does better than screw up happy working relationships."

  "Lord preserve us from ambitious men!" Martin responded.

  "Amen!" Claudia checked her watch. "Lunch?"

  "Okay, my treat."

  "No, this is New York; put it on your expenses."

  "Ah! Not that different from the Revenue Office, then."

  * * * *

  They ate at the delicatessen around the corner, working their way through some more novelties for Martin's benefit. Claudia chewed her ham-on-rye and regarded him thoughtfully.

  "Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

  "Nothing happened this morning."

  "No. I couldn't sense anything."

  "Biding its time?"

  "Perhaps. I think we should go back, see what happens. Maybe try the roof garden? We haven't been up there yet."

  "Not an inviting prospect in this weather," Claudia remarked, looking at the flurries of sleet falling outside. She shivered. "Reminds me of that graveyard, the funeral in the snow."

  * * * *

  The old brass elevator took them to the 10th floor. After that, they had to use a stairway to reach the roof.

  "I didn't think city buildings were built as high as this until the 20th Century," Martin said, looking out over the derelict expanse of old plant boxes and small, decrepit summer houses. "And this garden must measure nearly an acre!"

  "The Chestnut Mansion was one of the tallest in its day," Claudia replied, pulling the hood of her coat up to protect her head from the probing icy wind. "It's why they had one of the first elevators installed." She peered out at the rainy cityscape around her. "Imagine what it was like before these other buildings went up. It must have been quite a view." She pointed. "The Hudson is somewhere over there."

  They walked together, mindful of the debris littering the flagstone paths between the old beds and boxes. A tall shrub had grown wild in the years since the hotel had been properly maintained, its branches overhanging the path and forcing them to move to one side. Martin wondered nervously what the roots were doing to the fabric of the roof beneath their feet.

  The world flickered silently around them as two realities crossed in time.

  As they rounded the corner the sun blazed from a summer sky, and the neatly tended plants were in full bloom. Martin and Claudia stumbled to a halt and stared around, struck by the light and the sultry heat of a New York summer. Not far away, there was a large group of people gathered near the iron railings surrounding the roof. All were dressed in old-fashioned servants' uniforms, and all were in a state of high agitation.

  The cause was easy to see. A slightly-built, swarthy young man was hanging onto the other side of the railings, the sheer drop to the street yawning beneath him. He was yelling and cursing in what sounded like Italian.

  "Giuseppe!" one of the group, a tall man in a manager's suit was pleading, wringing his hands with anxiety. "For Chrissakes, come in from there! We can talk about this!" The man had a strong Bronx accent.

  "No! You accuse me!" the man over the railings yelled. "You call me thief! I no thief! You call me thief, I jump!" To emphasize the point, he pulled off his striped waistcoat, shifting his grip to do so with heart-stopping agility, and flung it away. The garment fluttered briefly on the up-draught from the street, before falling like a strange butterfly to the sidewalk far below.

  "No, Giuseppe, we just want to settle this peaceably. There's no need for you to do this!"

  "You dishonor me!" the man yelled back, swaying visibly. "I kill myself!"

  Martin and Claudia stared at each other. "We're in the past again!" She gasped. "And we're not in anyone else's bodies!"

  "Yes! Look around; the roof garden's as it used to be," Martin replied, watching the drama before them. Some of the people were looking around too, but it seemed they couldn't see the two strangers in their midst.

  Suddenly Claudia gave a cry and gripped his arm. Martin followed her pointing finger, to see a man crouching by the railings in the shadows of a planter full of tall ornamental shrubs. He had what looked like a thick electrical cable in his hands, and was peering through the foliage at the group and Giuseppe.

  "Is he going to lasso him?" she wondered.

  Martin followed the line of the cable, and saw it connected to a black enameled junction box on the wall of a nearby summer house. He frowned; something didn't look right.

  Just then the hidden man made his move. Reaching out, he touched the end of the cable to the railings. Bare copper wire flashed in the sunlight. A fat blue spark of electricity cracked audibly as the cable made contact with the iron.

  Giuseppe gave a gargling scream and hurtled backwards into the awful gulf of the street. The crowd screamed and shouted as they surged to the railings, and the man in the shrubbery hurriedly drew back the cable. With a satisfied grin, he slid like an eel through the undergrowth to emerge, looking innocent, on the path near the summer house. Making sure he was not being observed, he calmly unplugged the cable and threw it into a corner, before running to join the group.

  "Oh my God!" Martin breathed heavily in distress. "Did you ever see anything so cold-blooded?"

  "Not even in this city," Claudia said, looking equally appalled. "You know, that guy looks familiar."

  Martin took her arm and they cautiously approached the group. The female staff members were weeping; a few had descended into hysterics. The manager hurriedly delegated those who had kept their heads to look after them before rushing off in the direction of the stairs. The murderer sat with his arm around a maid, comforting her, his face the picture of shock.

  Claudia gasped. "It's James Cloverdale!"

  He looked up then, as if he had heard her speak and she drew back in alarm. Martin had time to recognize the man through years of aging on his face before the scene faded swiftly to nothing, leaving them standing on the deserted roof of the old hotel.

  * * * *

  "Okay, what do we have here?" Claudia asked, quietly nursing her coffee.

  Outside the street was busy with traffic. From the café window they could see the corner of the hotel, and the long, long drop to the street below. She looked at it again and shivered. "For one thing, it looks like Mike was right. That old 'cop's nose for trouble' shtick worked for him. He said it felt like a murder scene up there and it is; cold-blooded murder." Claudia grimaced, and cocked an eye at him. "Now here comes the $64,000 question; why did he do it?"

  "Perhaps we can work it out." Martin thought for a few moments. "This Giuseppe chap who was killed. It seemed he was being accused of something serious enough to threaten to kill himself over."

  "Serious, yeah. If he was Italian, it's a near certainty he was Catholic. Suicide's a mortal sin to them."

  "Extreme as his actions were, I got the distinct impression he wasn't serious," Martin said slowly. "It was all so confusing at the time, yet now I suspect he was trying to divert suspicion from himself over something."

  Claudia thought, then shook her head. "You could be right. He had a tight grip on those railings."

  "Tight, yes, yet 110 volts of DC current was enough to loosen it."

  "DC? Don't you mean AC?"

  "No, DC. Nowadays it's AC, but in the late 19th century, the US adopted Edison's DC standard." Martin flushed with embarrassment as she gave him a level stare. "Sorry. It's part of the trivia I've picked up over the years."

  "I can imagine!" s
he said dryly. "So DC current would have affected him differently?"

  "Yes. It causes all the muscles to spasm. The greater the charge, the more violent the spasm. To those people watching Giuseppe, it would have seemed as if he had hurled himself into the street." He shook his head in reluctant admiration.

  "As a means to murder, it would be near-perfect for that time. Forensic science would have been primitive back then. I'm reasonably sure they had no means of detecting death through electric shock unless the person was burned by it."

  "With that kind of voltage his hands could have been burned. Mind you, if they were looking at a body which had fallen ten floors, there'd be even less to go on." Claudia shuddered. "Ewww!"

  "Yes. If it's any consolation, I think Giuseppe was dead of the shock long before he hit the street." He sipped his coffee and put down his cup. "So, by implication, James Cloverdale had a role, perhaps the leading role, in whatever crime Giuseppe was accused of. Up on the roof, he saw the perfect opportunity to get rid of an accomplice and cover his own tracks into the bargain."

  "So what would it have been?"

  Martin shrugged. "He was interested in the Cloverdale necklace before. It's not likely he'd be after the same thing, in the same location. There's sure to be some mention of Giuseppe's death in the papers of the time. Even in a city full of life and death like New York, the manner in which he died would be sure to make the news. We need to check the records." He drained his coffee and stood up. "In which case, I think we'd better try to patch up our relationship with the librarian."

  * * * *

  As luck would have it the librarian was away. Her deputy had no knowledge of their misbehavior during their previous visit and readily brought them the microfiches they requested.

  After an hour of careful searching, Martin looked up. "Damn!" he whispered. "Wrong again."

  "What have you got?" Claudia asked, moving up to peering over his shoulder at the screen. He pointed.

  'Cloverdale Necklace Stolen!' screamed the headline for the New York Sun. 'Big jewel heist at Chestnut Mansion Hotel.'

  "Dated the 3rd May, 1896," Martin said. "Now, let's look further."