Masquerade: A Nevers and Moon Mystery - Part I

‘Going somewhere?’

(Base Image by Ricardo Ortiz/ Designed on Canva)

Chapter 1

It was half past one in the afternoon on a January day in 1979. There was no rain, but an army of clouds stood ready in the skies above Hawthorne House, prepared to strike at a moment’s notice. Harsh Arctic winds swept across the land, rustling leaves and lacerating flesh.

Esteemed film director Renfield Ray, the auteur behind the multiple award-winning triumph “The Ninjas of the Saigon” and not-too-proud owner of Hawthorne House, did not care for the weather. His wife and daughter had both chosen to spend their afternoons in the village, but not Renfield. When the weather was like this, as it often was, he liked nothing better than to be indoors, where he could be warm, dry, and, most importantly, undisturbed.

He was most disappointed to find Dr Eliza James waiting for him in the living room. Dr James was the family physician (among other things) and had lived with them in the house since the Rays first moved in. She had an expectant look on her face. In her hands, she nervously clutched a large grey bag, which went perfectly with her large grey overcoat.

‘Going somewhere?’ he inquired disinterestedly.

‘Just waiting for you,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Renfield, I hope you’ve reconsidered.’

‘On the contrary, I’m more resolute than ever. No more, Ellie. No more, and that’s final.’

Dr James pursed her lips. Renfield moved towards the fire, absentmindedly stoking it with a poker while attempting to watch the doctor out of the corner of his eye. Eliza’s mind went back to the first time she met Renfield Ray, and their mutual patron, Mr. Valentine LaGrange.

---

The year was 1975. The place, a packed lecture hall. The Dean of Medicine had just finished introducing the guest speaker, a world expert in the burgeoning field of applied biochemistry, Dr Eliza James.

'Thank you, sir, for that pleasant introduction,' she began. 'I'm very happy to be here, addressing you all on our topic-' She turned to the board behind her and wrote as she spoke. '-Preventive Medicine and the Quantum Mechanical Model.'

The rest of the lecture, while certainly illuminating to those of a more academic persuasion, was all Greek to the two men who stood at the back of the hall, one tall and one short. They shifted uncomfortably as they watched the doctor talk about wave functions and collapsing timelines. In retrospect, they should have paid more attention. They might have learned something useful.

'Dr James,' said the tall one, approaching the doctor after the lecture. 'My name is Valentine LaGrange, and this is Renfield Ray.'

The short one gave Eliza a polite nod, which she reciprocated.

'Did you enjoy the lecture?' she asked.

'Oh, very much,' Valentine said enthusiastically. 'But that's not why we're here. It's our understanding that your interests cover a range of fields and that your goals may just be the same as our own.'

'What he's saying is that we have a proposition for you,' Renfield chimed in. 'One that we think you'll want to hear about.'

'Well,' said the doctor. 'In that case, you have five minutes.'

Five minutes later, Dr Eliza James cancelled the rest of her lecture tour and headed for the nearest train station.

---

Dr James took off the overcoat, revealing a beautiful but ill-fitting blue dress and a matching pearl necklace.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen those clothes before,’ Renfield commented. ‘I say, they don’t really suit you, do they?’

‘They’re Julia’s,’ the doctor said quietly.

‘Why would you want to go around wearing my wife’s clothes?’

‘Shut up, Renfield.’

There was steel in her voice now, in place of the meek pleading that was there just a moment before. With a determined set in her jaw, the doctor approached the director. Renfield clutched the poker harder, his whole body tensing up.

‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind?’ she asked her voice practically a whisper.

‘Quite… quite sure.’

‘Then what use are you?’

With one fluid motion, Dr James pulled a small black pistol out of her large grey handbag, jabbed it into Renfield’s chest, and fired a bullet straight through his heart. Then she held him close, pressing his limp body tightly to her bosom. And as Mr. Ray’s scarlet blood dyed the fabric of her dress, a smile spread across the doctor’s lips. 

Chapter 2

In 1971, Frank spent six months living in Rome. He ate in cafes, drank on the streets, and met all sorts of interesting people, from beggars to would-be world leaders. One March morning during that time, he was eating a leisurely breakfast at his favourite cafe when a woman approached him, dark-haired and bright-eyed. With a smile, she took the seat opposite him and lit a cigarette.

‘Frank Nevers, I presume?’

‘That’s right.’ He casually sipped his coffee, as if he wasn’t face to face with the woman of his dreams. ‘You’re Cleopatra Moon.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of me,’ Cleo said. ‘What else do you know about me?’

‘Officially, you’re a private logistics consultant. In that role, you’ve worked with practically every intelligence and military agency on the planet. You spent your childhood in Hong Kong, New York, and South London. And you have a cat.’

He had finished his coffee. Frank set the cup aside and wiped his lips with a napkin. ‘How did I do?’ he asked.

‘It was Bangkok, not Hong Kong,’ Cleo said. ‘And my cat died a year ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s alright. My turn?’

‘Please, go ahead.’

‘You’re a man who chases the truth but doesn’t believe in it. People tend to think you’re a cynic but really, you’re just an idealist who’s disappointed with the reality of the world. You have a talent, a unique one, for finding secrets. You use this gift in your work as a freelance journalist; work that has put you at odds with… how did you put it… practically every intelligence and military agency on the planet.’ Her smile broadened.

‘Oh,’ Cleo added. ‘Almost forgot. You were supposed to be named Frank Neves, but someone messed up the birth certificate.’

‘That’s… impressive,’ Frank said appreciatively.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’d say you have a talent too.’

‘I read people.’ Cleo gave him a mischievous wink.

‘Dare I wonder why you’re here? Not that I’m not enjoying this, of course.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded. ‘The thing is, you’re good at your job.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. So good, in fact, that I’ve been brought in to assess just how much of a threat you pose to the powers that be.’

‘I’m no spy, Ms Moon.’

‘Mr Nevers, you brought down three presidencies.’

‘Dictatorships,’ he corrected her. ‘And in any case, that doesn’t make me a spy, just a damn good reporter.’

At that point, a waiter interrupted their conversation. Frank ordered another coffee and Cleo asked for a glass of water.

‘So where do you stand?’ Frank asked her once the waiter left with their order. ‘How much of a threat do you think I am?’

‘I’m not done assessing that yet,’ Cleo said, putting out her cigarette. ‘I might need you to do something for me. Just to really get to the bottom of this.’

‘Nothing dangerous, I hope. No chance of death or dismemberment?’

‘Come on, Mr Nevers,’ she laughed, leaning forward. ‘What’s a little death between friends?’

‘If we’re going to be friends, I think you should start calling me Frank.’

‘Cleo.’

---

By the Tenth of January 1979, the weather had significantly worsened over Hawthorne House. A steady fall of snow transformed the vast greens that surrounded the house into a winter wonderland. Yet this beautiful scene, worthy of inclusion on a holiday card, was sadly marred by the petulant eyesore that was Hawthorne House.

The house was no more than four years old, yet its anachronistic mix of Gothic and brutalist architecture accentuated its rundown appearance. There were the usual signs of ill maintenance and disorder —weeds in the yard, debris on the roof, and walls that could sorely use a coat of paint. But more than that, there was an oppressive atmosphere about the house, more fitting for a prison or a funeral parlour than a home.

Up the winding hilly road, a car (once white, now yellowed) came a-rumbling. It stopped in front of the wrought iron gates. Frank and Cleo alighted and, bags in hand, made their way up the drive towards the house.

Once at the door, they set their bags down and knocked. It creaked open momentarily and revealed a sombre young man. He couldn't have been a day over thirty but, like the house, he too had an oppressive air about him that made him look far older. He looked expectantly at the guests, waiting for them to identify themselves.

‘Frank Nevers and Cleo Moon,’ Cleo said with a smile.

'Peter Ray,' their gatekeeper said with a nod, opening the door wider and stepping out of the way. 'Mom's expecting you.'

---

‘It’ll be just like Rome,’ Cleo had told Frank as they rode in the car. He watched the empty mountain landscape zooming by, a place almost completely devoid of human civilization.

‘Somehow, I don’t think this is going to make up for what happened in Rome,’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought marrying me would have made up for Rome.’

‘Of course, dear.’ Frank laughed. Cleo’s face broke into a smile.

‘What I meant is it’ll be simple,’ she said. ‘Easy. Shouldn’t break a sweat.’

‘We’re going to be investigating the disappearance and/or murder of a big-time Hollywood director,’ he pointed out. ‘Who just so happens to be a mysterious recluse. And whose lifelong collaborator, mentor, and father-in-law also disappeared a few weeks ago.’

‘Right, what was his name?’

‘Valentine LaGrange.’

‘Fake.’

‘So fake. But the fact remains.’ Frank rolled down a window and lit a cigarette. ‘This sounds like anything but an easy case.’

‘True,’ said Cleo. ‘But that’s not what we’re investigating.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Nope.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘We’re here for something completely different.’

Chapter 3

This seems like as good a point as any to talk about the non-deceased residents of Hawthorne House – or as I like to call them, the main cast. Each of them plays a role in this story, and these roles may seem familiar. Please be assured that this is entirely intentional. Some things aren’t cliché, they’re classic.

Mrs Julia Ray

The wife of Mr. Renfield Ray and daughter of successful Hollywood producer Valentine LaGrange. Her roles in life have always revolved around these two men – the obedient daughter, the loving wife – supporting roles, really. But maybe, just maybe, she might still have a shot at the spotlight.

Mr Peter Ray

You met him already. The eldest child and only son of Renfield and Julia Ray, Peter handles his reclusive father’s business interests in Los Angeles. Don’t be mistaken by his sombre behaviour with Frank and Cleo. For most of his life, Peter has played the part of a Hollywood playboy. That changed the day his father died.

Ms Mallory Ray

Renfield and Julia’s youngest child. Like most teenagers, Mallory strongly feels that she is the main character in every story. This is not a criticism. Unlike everyone else in her family, she knows what she wants, and what she wants is the world. The fact that she lives in the middle of nowhere is just a temporary obstacle.

Dr Eliza James

In addition to her PhD, Dr James also holds a medical degree, which has helped establish her cover as the family doctor. The only people who are privy to the real reason she lived at Hawthorne House are her, Renfield, and Valentine LaGrange. Two of those people are already out of the picture; one, as you know, by her own hand. Dr James isn’t worried. She’s played this role many times before.

---

Since the day she murdered her longtime friend and collaborator, Renfield Ray, Dr James hadn’t been getting much sleep. This was not due to anything so base as guilt. She just had a lot of work to do.

As a result, on the day Frank and Cleo arrived at Hawthorne House, Eliza didn’t wake up until noon. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she noticed a small, folded note that was waiting for her on the nightstand.

“Come to the basement,” it said. “Important.”

It didn’t say who it was from, but the doctor knew who it must be. She quickly got dressed and headed down the stairs, through the kitchen, past a door, and down the rickety steps that led to the basement.

There was nothing particularly special about the basement. It was a large underground space with a disused dumbwaiter in one corner, a washing machine in another, and a furnace in a third. The area between these points was taken up by broken odds and ends, all thrown together and mostly forgotten. A single naked lightbulb hung in the centre of the room, currently dark.

Dr James waited in the shadows, her ears on alert for the slightest indication of the one who had summoned her. Her vigilance was soon rewarded. There was a creak on the stairs and Eliza's heart fluttered in her chest.

‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘I know it’s you. Why all the mystery? We could have had this conversation upstairs over some tea.'

There was no reply.

'Or maybe something stronger?’

Still silence. 

Dr James stepped forward in the dark, making her way towards the centre. She could just about make out another person approaching from the direction of the stairs. An inexplicable terror bubbled up in her chest, which was not a feeling the doctor was accustomed to.  The dark figure grew ever closer, and the doctor hastened to where she approximated the light must be. She reached a hand up, keeping her eyes firmly fixed upon the shadow that now stood just out of her reach. Her fingers closed around the cord.

With a deep breath, Eliza turned the bulb on, flooding the basement with its incandescence.

---

Mrs Ray was waiting in the parlour when Frank and Cleo were ushered in. Cleo observed that Julia was a fairly good-looking woman whose features had been marred by years of stress. She could have been handsome or stately, instead, she seemed irritated and impatient. (Frank noticed a small purple splotch on Mrs Ray's neck, just above the neckline of her dress.)

‘I’m glad you’re finally here,’ Mrs Ray said brusquely. ‘What department did you say you were with?’

‘We didn’t, Mrs Ray,’ Cleo replied. ‘I’m an… outside consultant.'

‘I suppose that makes me an outside-outside consultant,’ Frank joked. Mrs Ray looked confused.

‘You’re not here about my husband?’

'No, Mrs Ray,’ said Cleo.

‘My father, then. He’s missing too.’

‘Still, no.’ Cleo shook her head. ‘If you could please assemble the household, we’d be happy to tell you exactly why we’re here.’

TO BE CONTINUED.