Chapter 7

Dashiell stood there, his hand outstretched.

Long seconds ticked by.

Still nothing happened.

Dashiell let his hand fall to his side. “I guess we’re too late.”

“Impossible!” Watson exclaimed.

Dashiell turned his head to regard the butler, as did Regina. “And what makes you say that?”

“The spell should work for seven hours, according to my research!”

“Six, actually,” Dashiell replied.

Watson looked undeterred. “Six then. The point is, Mrs. Scofield was alive six hours ago.”

“Are you sure?” Regina asked.

“Of course I am sure. Mrs. Scofield had an appointment at 10 am. I assure you the people from Washington Woman would have mentioned if she was dead when they arrived.”

Dashiell checked his watch. It read 1:17 p.m. “Alright then. We have a case of a soul departed before its nature says it should depart. There must be another explanation.”

“I can think of one,” Watson said.

Dashiell looked calmly at Watson, not rising to the bait. Instead, he looked around the room. “Was there, by any chance, a cat in here between the time she died and when we arrived?”

Regina looked puzzled, but Watson just shook his head. “No. Mrs. Scofield was allergic to cats.”

Dashiell looked interested. “How allergic?”

“What does that matter, Dash?” Regina inquired.

“Well, if she was deathly allergic, she could have died of anaphylactic shock. And cats have long been believed to carry souls away to the underworld. It would be the perfect crime.”

“She sneezed in their presence. That is all. It was annoying, but not life threatening. Besides, does that look like the body of someone who died due to an allergic reaction?”

Dashiell considered this. “No, it doesn’t,” he conceded. “Then again, it doesn’t look like the body of a woman who died of any unnatural cause.”

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Chapter 6

The room was immaculate. There was a large, yet undeniably feminine desk backed by a pair of French doors. The walls were lined with bookshelves which contained a variety of reading material and several pictures of Mrs. Scofield and well-known elites. Dashiell counted four, no five, senators as well as three former Presidents and their wives. Mrs. Scofield clearly travelled the circles of power.

The desk was dominated by an old-fashioned typewriter. “She typed the manuscript by hand?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” Watson replied. “She did not want details escaping before she was ready and she felt that computers could be hacked too easily. She kept the only copy locked in her desk, except when she was reviewing it.”

“And that copy is gone now?” Regina asked.

“It is,” Watson confirmed.

Dashiell had been moving slowly toward the other large piece of furniture in the room, the chaise lounge. Laying on it, like Cleopatra, was Mrs. Scofield. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. Whatever had caused her death had apparently not caused her any pain.

Dashiell walked slowly around the body and chaise, examining for any clues of occult practices. He chanted a cantrip under his breath, designed to detect the presence of any other spells cast by another. He felt nothing.

He stopped near Mrs. Scofield’s head. “Which direction is that?” he asked, pointing in a line from her head out the window.

Watson looked up. “West.”

Dashiell nodded. He’d have preferred north, but you worked with what the scene gave you. And on the plus side, it wasn’t south. That also spoke against someone with occult experience.

He reached into his bag and drew out eight candles. He was going to surround the body with two circles. Five of the candles would represent the points of the pentagram. Four were used to mark the four cardinal directions. He had eight candles because the candle at the top of the pentagram also represented one of the directions, tying the circles together.

Dashiell opened the book he had brought and flipped it open to a dog-eared page. Regina and Watson stood by the desk, watching.

Dashiell begin to chant words from the book as he placed a candle on the floor, near Mrs. Scofield’s head. He walked clockwise around the chaise, mapping out a circle. When he got to a point in line with her right hip, he placed another candle. He then placed one near her feet and one on a line with her left hip. He then moved back to her head.

He then touched the candle near her head and began a different chant. He moved counterclockwise this time. When he reached a spot in line with her left shoulder, he placed another candle. He walked around the circle, placing the other four candles in the pentagram. When he was finished, he touched the candle near her head a third time. You could draw a circle that would intercept all eight candles.

Dashiell then went back in his bag. He pulled out a small brass brazier and set up a small tripod. In the brazier, he placed three sprigs of dill. He then took out a taper of cedar wood and lit it with a lighter. Once it was burning, he walked around the circle, clockwise, lighting all eight candles. When they were burning, he placed the taper in among the dill.

A sharp smell began to dominate the air of the room as the herb burned. Dashiell blew gently on the smoke, urging it toward the body. He began a new chant from the book.

The smoke crept along the floor, surrounding the chaise, ringing the body of Mrs. Scofield. It danced up around her head, entering her nostrils.

Regina gasped as the smoke moved with an apparent intelligence. Watson merely looked on, his staid demeanor betraying no emotion.

Dashiell finished chanting. “Elizabeth Mallory Scofield,” he intoned. “Your work here on Earth is not quite finished. I call upon your spirit to come forth, that you may disclose unto us how you died.” He raised his hand imploringly toward the body.

Nothing happened.

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Chapter 5

The car drew to a stop and Watson hurried out the door, holding it open for Dashiell and Regina. He then led them into the house.

“What was in the autobiography?” Regina asked.

“I am sure I would not know,” Watson replied.

Regina stopped in her tracks and gave Watson a look. “Come now, Mr. Watson. You might not know the particulars, but you’ve been working here how long? You must have some idea.”

Watson looked uncomfortable. “Please, Detective. You must understand. There are certain standards someone in my profession has to respect. If word were to get out that I was speaking out of turn…”

Dashiell held up a restraining hand. “Mr. Watson, from the sounds of things, if you are correct, this manuscript is probably at the center of it. We understand your position, but if you want us to catch whoever did this, we need some idea of who would gain from your employer’s death.”

Watson pursed his lips momentarily, looking for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer. But then his shoulders sagged. “Very well. In any woman of wealth’s life, there are bound to be skeletons in the closet. But of course, Mrs. Scofield was not born to wealth. Mr. Thomas Scofield shocked his family when he chose to marry her instead of another member of the upper classes.

“Since she was not raised to this world, she had more…’history’ than other women who typically inhabit the role Mrs. Scofield inhabited. From what little I heard of her discussions, she was being quite candid in the book. It did not appear that she was holding anything back.”

“And who knew about this book?” Regina asked.

“Quite a few people. The family all knew of course. And the publisher. And then members of the press. That is why Washington Woman was coming to interview her. It was a teaser interview and photo shoot to promote the book. It was to be the first of several such interviews, so it appeared that many in the media knew it was forthcoming.”

“And was she just candid about her past?”

“I am not sure what you mean, Detective Robbins.”

“Was she candid about the members of the family?” Regina pressed. “Some of them might not be too thrilled to see their dirty laundry aired for the world to see. If even a quarter of the rumors about some of the children are true, well, that’s a motive for murder right there.”

Somewhere in the middle of the interrogation, the group had resumed walking. Suddenly, they stopped outside a set of thick oaken doors with large brass handles.

“Inside is Mrs. Scofield, just as I found her. So far as I know, the only people to set foot in this room today are Mrs. Scofield, myself and the reporter and photographer. I have left the body as undisturbed as possible.”

Dashiell nodded. “Very well then. Let’s go in. Time’s a wasting.”

At this prompt, Watson threw open the door.

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Chapter 4

Dashiell and Regina followed Mr. Watson down the stairs and saw a large black town car idling near the curb. He opened the rear door and held it open for them. It appeared to be a natural movement for him.

Dashiell and Regina entered the rear of the automobile and Mr. Watson joined them.

“Do you mind if Detective Robbins joins us?” Dashiell asked.

“Not at all. If I am correct, it will speed things along. Additionally, she can serve as a witness to the summoning.”

The car pulled away from the curb and into D.C.’s noon-time traffic. “So tell me, Mr. Watson. Exactly which member of the Scofield family passed away?” Regina asked.

“It was Mrs. Scofield,” Watson said.

“Which Mrs. Scofield?” Regina prompted, knowing there were three current Mrs. Scofield’s.

“I am sorry, Detective. Within the household, only Mrs. Elaine Scofield, the matriarch, was referred to as Mrs. Scofield. The others were known by more familiar names.”

Dashiell whistled. Elaine Scofield was the head of the family’s charitable trust. She sat on the Board of the Children’s Hospital, was a donor to Feed the Homeless and was renowned for her work with various charities around the city. A death within the Scofield family was noteworthy. The death of the matriarch was sure to be national news.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Dashiell asked.

“No one. I felt it best to be discreet in this matter, especially until we know for sure what happened.”

Dashiell nodded, somewhat relieved. Of course, the fact that the family was consulting him was another reason to keep this matter quiet. Many would look askance at the use of an occult detective.

“What makes you suspect foul play?” Dashiell inquired. “If memory serves, Mrs. Scofield was of a fairly advanced age. In her late seventies, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed. “However, she visited with a doctor just last month and he assured her she was in perfect health. I myself saw her just this morning when serving her breakfast and she looked quite vigorous.”

“And what did her morning consist of?”

“It was a full schedule. She spent a great deal of time on the phone with various charities. She had a photo shoot for Washington Woman magazine and then spent time alone in her study working on her autobiography. The publisher was expecting a copy of several chapters next week.”

“What happened?” Regina asked.

“I went to check on her, to inquire what she wanted for lunch. I found her laying on the chaise lounge. I tried to wake her, but to no avail. I checked her vital signs and found nothing.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you sought me out,” Dashiell said. “People die suddenly all the time.”

“A fair point, Mr. Aldridge,” Watson said. The car was pulling into a long driveway in front of a very large house. “However, when I looked around the office I realized that the manuscript Mrs. Scofield had been working on was gone.”

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Chapter 3

Regina stifled a scoff as the impeccably dressed man made this statement, but she noticed that Dashiell merely looked thoughtful.

“How long ago was the body discovered?” Dashiell asked.

“About an hour ago. I would have been here sooner, but I needed to check your credentials,” the man replied.

Dashiell didn’t seem perturbed by this. “I take it they checked out.”

“I am here, am I not?”

Dashiell nodded and turned to walk back towards Regina. “Very well. I just need to collect a few supplies.”

He skirted past Regina into his messy office. He stepped over to a bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books there. He stopped on one, checked the title and pulled it out. He then moved over behind the desk and grabbed a small black attaché case that was there.

He opened the book automatically to a page and scanned it quickly. He checked the case, rummaging around a bit. He placed the book within the case. He then turned to the desk and opened the left hand drawer. He pulled out some chalk and a candle, placing them in the case as well.

He then turned and walked toward the door. Regina watched him throughout the whole process. She had a skeptical look on her face.

“Dash, can you really summon a dead woman’s soul?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.” He walked back into the main room as he said this.

The well-dressed man overheard the exchange. “Are you saying you might not be able to do this, Mr. Aldridge? I was led to believe….”

Dashiell waved a hand to cut him off. “Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I’ve done it, but I have successfully raised spirits in the past. But you’re right about the time constraints. The soul only remains with the body for a set number of hours. After that, I am powerless to do anything. Assuming the victim died shortly before you came looking for me, I should be able to call it forth.”

The man nodded and turned toward the outer door to Dashiell’s office. “Then let us hurry, Mr. Aldridge.” He opened the door and swept into the hallway, followed by Dashiell and Regina. “Pardon my lack of manners, Mr. Aldridge, but I have been in a hurry. My name is Charles Watson. I work for the Scofield family.”

Dashiell and Regina exchanged looks. The Scofields were one of the richest families in the city. There were Scofields on the board of the Kennedy Center, the Smithsonian and a variety of private foundations. They regularly hosted the crème-de-la-crème of the political elite in D.C. If Mr. Watson was right, this was going to be a media nightmare.

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Chapter 2

Dashiell absorbed this. “You believe?”

“Yes,” the man replied. He didn’t appear like he was going to add any more.

“Wouldn’t that be a matter for the police?” Dashiell asked, aware that Regina was listening in.

“It would, Mr. Aldridge, if I thought they’d rule this case a murder.”

“You have reason to doubt they would?” Regina piped up from the hall.

“May I ask to whom I am speaking?” The man’s manners were as impeccable as his cleanly pressed suit.

“That’s Detective Robbins, DCPD Homicide. You can see why she might be interested,” Dashiell replied.

The man nodded. “Very well, Detective. What was your question?”

“I asked,” Regina replied, “if you had reason to doubt the police would rule this a murder.”

“I do. A cursory examination of the body shows no evidence of foul play.”

“Well, there are still plenty of ways that someone could be murdered. If you’re that concerned, an autopsy would reveal if any poisons or other non-obvious methods were utilized,” Regina said.

“That would take too long, Detective. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been led to believe that time is of the essence.”

“And why is that?” Regina inquired. “The body’s not going to get more dead.”

“May I explain on the way?” He directed the question to Dashiell.

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“Well, Mr. Aldridge, if I’m correct, I’d like you to summon the soul to tell us who killed her.”

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Chapter 1

Dashiell G. Aldridge was a big slab of a man. He sat in a large chair behind a large wooden desk in his second floor walkup in downtown Washington, D.C. Across from him sat a petite redhead, Detective Regina Robbins, DCPD. They were sharing Chinese food and shooting the breeze.

“So then,” Dashiell said, “we hear this scream, and my partner slaps his hands over his ears yelling out ‘Banshee!’”

Regina laughed. “He didn’t!”

Dashiell shook his head. “He did. He fell to the floor, curled up into a little ball and cried like the world was ending. Good God, it was like he forgot it was a training exercise.”

Dashiell went to set the box of General Tso’s chicken he was holding and knocked a fork to the floor. He bent over and picked the fork up, examining it.

“You expecting anyone, Regina?”

She shook her head, wiping her eyes and trying to get her laughter back under control. “No, Dash. Why?”

“Well then, it looks like I have a client coming to visit. A man.”

As he finished speaking, there was a knock at the door.

“One of these days, Dash, you’re going to have to tell me how you do that,” Regina said with a smile.

“It’s fairly simple really,” he explained, rising to his feet and heading toward the front of the converted apartment. “It’s all in the silverware.” With this cryptic remark, he walked into the foyer and opened the front door to his office.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

Dashiell examined the man standing in the open doorway and one word came to mind – polished. The man was impeccably dressed, with a crisp white shirt, dark blue tie, navy slacks and polished brown shoes with a matching belt. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue.

“You are Dashiell Aldridge, the occult detective?” He had a slight New England accent. Old money, thought Dashiell.

“I am, sir. Would you care to come inside?” Dashiell stepped back and beckoned toward the interior and his office. Regina had stepped into the door, looking down the short hallway at the man in the door.

“There’s no time, Mr. Aldridge. I would like to engage your services and from what I understand, time is of the essence.”

Dashiell’s eyebrows raised. “And what sort of case do you have? Missing person?”

“Nothing so mundane, Mr. Aldridge. I believe there has been a murder.”

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