Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I think so, too. We Canadians have our own wit, but it isn’t as…deft…as the English.” Holte went to the side window and looked out. “Have you thought about the matter I asked you about?”

  “You mean that Warren Derrington, Louise, and Stacy were in on Madison Moncrief’s death. Yes, I have—how could I not?—with Aunt Jo defending Stacy so vociferously at every turn: he’s becoming the spectre at the feast even though, for all we know, he’s still alive, and up to who-knows-what.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then said, “At first I thought it was unlikely, but your bringing up the drugs in Madison’s drink rankled with me, and I can see why Louise might have been the one to do it, and then let in Stacy or Derrington, or both, to string him up from the chandelier. It still seems unlike Stacy to ruin such a fine antique, but there are parts to his character that might ignore the vandalism in favor of immediate advantage.”

  “Have you discussed any of this with Inspector Loring?” Holte had turned around from the window.

  “No, not yet. I don’t want him to go off in the wrong direction if I’ve made a mistake in my thinking.” She studied Holte. “Do you still think it’s possible?”

  “No, the more I’ve cogitated on the case, the more I think it likely that the three of them are involved.” He drifted back toward her, passing through one of the stacks of boxes without any hindrance at all.

  Poppy stared at her bedroom door. “Ye gods,” she whispered. “What will happen if that’s true?”

  “It won’t be easy, that’s certain,” Holte said.

  “How in the world can we prepare for it?”

  “That’s not the sort of thing you can prepare for. You won’t know what to do until it happens,” said Holte, making an offer of consolation.

  “But I can’t help but wonder.” She sighed again, and turned desolate eyes on him. “It’s bad enough that Stacy tried to kill me, but it’s worse if he’s made a habit of killing. Ye gods! That would truly be a catastrophe for Aunt Jo.”

  “So it would; one death might be the result of a nasty confrontation, a heat-of-the- moment thing. More than one killing suggests active malice,” Holte agreed, and seeing her distress, he did his best to soften the blow his question had produced. “But you cannot hurry the law.” He glanced toward the window again. “In another month or so, you should have a fine display.”

  “Which I won’t be here to see.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’m going to need another box. These things are too bulky to fit in this one.”

  “Why not pack them in one of your suitcases?” Holte suggested.

  “Because both of them are already full, and my hat box, and so is my father’s old traveling trunk,” said Poppy. “I’ve also got a laundry hamper filled—underwear and nightgowns, that sort of thing—and ready to go. I never realized how much clothing I have. I’ll need to buy another chest-of-drawers when I get to Aunt Esther’s.”

  “Does that surprise you?” Holte inquired. “That you have a great many clothes?”

  “It shouldn’t, but it does. It’s the clothes for work that does it. I have nine suits and sixteen blouses.” She stopped, and snapped her fingers. “Did I mention that I’m going to buy an auto?”

  “No, you didn’t. What made you decide you needed one?”

  “Riding the streetcars and taxis through the summer. I ought to be in charge of my own transportation; I need to be able to move about on my assignments. Not being able to get around on my own is a real hazard, and as good as the streetcars are, they aren’t what I require. I’ve ordered a Hudson, mostly because it’s enclosed.” She gave a little shake to her head. “I do have a driver’s license, in case you were wondering—you have to have one now, you know. I got it after I came home from college, but Aunt Jo does not approve of women driving. She says such things are best left to men.”

  “Unless the roads have improved since I was alive, there might be some truth in that,” said Holte, attempting the light touch.

  Poppy turned to him, incensed at the notion. “You don’t mean that! I’m not a child. If my Aunt Esther can pilot an aeroplane, I can certainly handle an auto. I’m not a total incompetent. Ye gods!”

  He realized at once that he had underestimated the degree of strain the move had imposed upon her, and he said more sympathetically, “No, you’re not the least incompetent. I’m aware of that. You’re clever and resourceful, and very capable, but—” He broke off. “Is that Missus Flowers calling you?”

  “I don’t—” Poppy listened closely. “Oh. Yes.” She went to the door. “She sounds worried. I suppose I ought to go downstairs.” As she let herself out of her bedroom, she said quietly to him, “If you want to follow me, come along, but mind the lights. Missus Flowers will not like it if they start to flicker again.” And with that, she pulled the door closed.

  TWO

  MISSUS FLOWERS, JOSEPHINE DRITCHNER’S HOUSEKEEPER, WAS PACING THE entry hall nervously, wringing her hands, which was rare for her; she usually displayed a composed demeanor. Seeing Poppy starting down the stairs, she was visibly relieved. “Miss Thornton, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re packing,” she said quietly as she came to meet Poppy at the bottom of the staircase, “but I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

  Poppy felt a twinge of worry. “What is it? Has Aunt Jo been at the sherry again?” Ever since her youngest son had vanished, her aunt had been tippling more frequently than Poppy had known her to do before Stacy had fled.

  “Nothing so easy, although she has,” said Missus Flowers said. “I know how to deal with that by now; no, she has guests.”

  “Guests? Who are they?” Poppy asked apprehensively; her anxiety increased when Missus Flowers did not answer at once, but began to pace again, the lace collar on her conservative, navy-blue dress slightly askew, another sign of serious upset; this time she confined her pacing to the foot of the stairs.

  At last she stopped and answered, “Primrose North is here; they’re in the music room.” She gestured toward the corridor that led to the rear of the house. “Your aunt invited her to come for a drink yesterday afternoon. You were still out.”

  Poppy could not decide what might be sinister in the presence of the aged widow from across the street, but she remembered that Missus Flowers had said guests, and so she asked, “Who is with her? Not Nurse Perkins?” Missus North no longer ventured out without Doris Perkins’ help, but the nurse would not be in the music room; her place would be in the kitchen or the servants’ day room; an unhappy thought took form in her mind, but she kept it to herself, not wanting to exacerbate the situation with speculation.

  “Her son,” Missus Flowers wailed softly. “He accompanied her across the street, and wasn’t about to leave his mother without protection, at least that was what he told me when they came to the door.”

  This took Poppy aback. “Denton? Not Tyler?” She almost held her breath—Denton was an Assistant District Attorney, assigned to the case of counterfeit antiques and Customs fraud that involved the absent Eustace Dritchner; Tyler managed the Norths’ extensive upstate horse- farm.

  “Mister Denton, I’m afraid,” Missus Flowers confirmed.

  “Oh, dear; no wonder Aunt Jo is at the sherry; if Denton is in one of his moods, I’ll be at the sherry, too,” said Poppy. She went down the last step, and was distantly aware that Maestro, the sooty household cat, had run up the stairs, tail aloft. “Denton being his usual ham-handed self, is he?”

  “I’m afraid so, though it’s not my place to say it.” She stopped moving for a moment. “He was asking about Mister Eustace when I took in the tea-tray.”

  “Ye gods,” Poppy said in a hushed tone.

  “Mister North wants to locate Mister Eustace, and he seems to think that Missus Dritchner knows where he is.” Missus Flowers resumed pacing.

  “And Aunt Jo is becoming outraged that Denton is suggesting that Stacy had done anything wrong; that he is not a fugitive, but is necessarily hiding out until his good name is clea
red.” Poppy nodded, her worst fears realized. “Lord preserve us from righteous prosecutors! Aunt Jo must be beside herself.”

  “Exactly. She’s said of course nine times now that I have heard. She may have said it more.” Both Missus Flowers and Poppy knew this was a bad sign.

  “Nine times? Oh, ye gods and damn!” Poppy exclaimed without apology; Aunt Jo must be seriously distressed.

  Missus Flowers nodded emphatically. “I didn’t know what to do, so I called you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Poppy shook her head. “You’ve done the right thing, Missus Flowers. I’ll go into the music room, shall I? And see what I can do to…um…defuse the situation. You might bring in some extra refreshments, including a pot of strong coffee. While you’re at it, you might dress it up with something more to eat. That would make it easier for Aunt Jo.” She could see that this satisfied Missus Flowers, although refreshments had already been served.

  “I’ll ask Missus Boudon to make some of her clam-and-onion cream-cheese spread; we’ll use the Salteens for serving it, and the butter-knife, and perhaps some pâté. I think we have some left from last night: pork and duck with ground chestnuts. You weren’t here for hors d’oeuvres,” she mispronounced as horse doovers as she always did; Poppy no longer bothered to correct her. “Missus Dritchner always likes those, and Missus North is a stickler for proper presentation, and a variety of finger-foods. Often she likes things sweet, but savory will do.” With this viable plan in mind, Missus Flowers whispered a thank you to Poppy, and was about to cease pacing and go off to the kitchen, but stopped when Poppy asked, “By the way, where is Hawkins? Has something come up?” Usually Josephine’s butler was near at hand when there were guests in the house, yet now he was apparently among the missing. “Is there a problem? I would have thought he would be keeping an eye on this situation.”

  Missus Flowers turned back. “He’s gone to the butcher’s shop to pick up an order. Their truck is being repaired, and there’s a dinner—”

  “—tomorrow night. I remember.” Poppy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s a special occasion, isn’t it?”

  “For Mister Galahad’s birthday; he has confirmed that he and his wife will be driving in by mid-afternoon tomorrow. They’re expected between two and three; dinner is at eight, drinks at seven. Cake at ten, with coffee and brandy. Mister Galahad doesn’t turn forty-seven every day,” Missus Flowers was keenly aware that Missus Dritchner’s eldest son preferred to be called Hank, but she could not bring herself to do it.

  Poppy frowned. “Who else are we expecting?” The last she had heard, it was to be a small gathering, but that had been a week ago, and Aunt Jo might have changed her mind about keeping it small.

  Summoning up all her customary sang-froid, Missus Flowers spoke without any show of emotion. “Missus Dritchner is expecting fourteen guests thus far: only the Smiths have declined the invitation, having just returned from their summer in Europe. We haven’t heard back from the Greenlochs…if they accept, there will be sixteen—seventeen, if we count you. Mister and Missus Pearse will be attending, which pleases your aunt, since they have been keeping to themselves this last month; something about their boy GAD. Ever since HOB died, they’ve tried to keep a leash on GAD, and now that he may be missing, they stay close to home, for GAD’s sake. They don’t want to miss any contact with him; Missus Pearse has said that she expects a telegram from him any day, and she wants to be at home when it comes. GAD—” she pronounced both sets initials as if they were words, as everyone did, and went on coolly—“should have been back from Europe by now, and at university. They didn’t go to the shore as they usually do, for fear of hurricanes has been their usual reason, but it’s really GAD, and Missus Pearse has said that she needs to get out of the house, which is understandable. Having a missing child is truly dreadful. Not knowing if he is alive or dead is enough to make one run mad. If one of my children had disappeared, I don’t know what I would have done.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, dear. There I go again. I promise I won’t make any mention of GAD or the Pearses again. The rest of the guest list I think you know.” She put her finger to her lips. “I apologize for babbling, and gossiping, but it is such a terrible circumstance; one cannot help but imagine the worst. It’s so distressing.”

  Poppy gathered her thoughts. “I agree. Toby and I used to play with the Pearse children, and I was quite fond of GAD, even though he was much younger than I was.”

  Missus Flowers put her hand to her lips. “Then you understand. I wouldn’t be talking about this if Missus Dritchner didn’t carry on so about Mister Eustace being…away.”

  Poppy nodded once. “Neither of us can do much about that.”

  “No, we can’t,” Missus Flowers said, and changed mental gears. “Missus Boudon and I will have the house cleaned by noon tomorrow, and Hawkins will put the extra leaves in the dining room table this evening. It’s coming along as planned.”

  “Oh.” Poppy sighed, doubting now that he would have much of a chance to help her move boxes. “Well, if you will, let me know when he returns.”

  “Of cour—” Missus Flowers began, then stopped herself. “I’m catching it from Missus Dritchner.” She resumed her walk to the kitchen.

  Poppy watched her enter the swinging door, then went to the corridor that led to the rear of the house. As she went, she tried to think of how to deal with this awkward situation; she knew she could not make it obvious that she was coming to provide a distraction from Denton’s attempts to pry information out of Aunt Jo, which, by the sound of it, he was surely doing. She took a moment to decide why she might interrupt Aunt Jo while she was with her guests, other than her actual one, and decided that Hawkins’ chore would be a plausible enough cause to speak to Aunt Jo, since Hawkins had been tasked with carrying her boxes down to the auto and then to drive them around to Aunt Esther’s house, slightly more than three miles away from Temple University, something that Poppy was certain would now be postponed. Perhaps, she told herself, it was just as well that she not try to do everything at once; making the move in easy stages would soften the reality of separation, she told herself. Reassured, she squared her shoulders and prepared to march down the central hall to the music room.

  “Difficulties?” Holte asked from slightly behind and above her. “Is your aunt having problems with her guests?”

  She swung around to face him. “That’s what I’m going to find out. If you’re coming, be quiet. Please.” This last was an afterthought. She resumed her march down the corridor, doing her utmost to order her thoughts.

  “As you like,” said Holte, falling in a step behind her. “But only you can hear me—don’t you remember?”

  “I most certainly do. But Duchess is probably with them, and she can hear you. So can Maestro. Animals and babies are aware of you: you see, I remembered, and a drunken sailor saw you once.” She was whispering and looking about as if afraid that someone would notice. “I don’t want that poor old spaniel baying at you; Duchess isn’t up to attacking you, which is good. It’s bad enough when the cat hisses.”

  “Maestro has already greeted me; he met me at the top of the stairs and cursed me thoroughly, his hair standing out in all directions.” He made a kind of amused snicker. “I think he’s secretly pleased I’m back.”

  Poppy was almost to the music room door, so she made no rejoinder beyond putting her hand up to signal his silence. She knocked twice, and waited for her aunt to speak, mentally editing her excuse for disturbing the visit.

  “Come in,” called out Josephine, sounding strained.

  Poppy steadied herself and opened the door, forcing herself to smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt your entertaining, Aunt Jo, but I was hoping to have Hawkins load up some of my boxes to take over to Aunt Esther’s; Missus Flowers tells me he is out. Would you object if I asked his help when he returns? I know you have chores for him to do for the party, but if you could spare him for an hour, it would help me very much.”

  The
music room was shadowy, being at the eastern end of the house, and made more so by the partially closed draperies over the four tall, narrow windows that would have provided some degree of fading afternoon light. As it was, three of the shell-sconces were lit, but they seemed to increase the shadows; one of them flickered, informing Poppy that Holte had accompanied her into the room.

  “It would be inconvenient today—perhaps tomorrow, or Thursday. You’ll have more boxes ready by then, of course,” Josephine said in a critical tone; she was perched on the bench in front of her piano, a small plate of shortbread cookies lying on it beside her, an untouched cup of tea next to it, as well as a half-drained glass of sherry. She was wearing a very dark dress of dull- purple with a half-cape with off-black feathers for trim, four years out of style, and her badger-grey hair was done up in a sleek knot, while her shoes were black lizard, with buckled straps around her ankles; hardly Josephine’s usual costume for receiving company, since—as she had complained after she had bought the ensemble—it made her look like a gloomy crow. “Come in, Poppea,” she said rather grandly. “You know Primrose North, and her son Denton,” she added, waving in the direction of her two guests from across the street, who were seated at a small occasional table set between two upholstered chairs.

  “Yes, I do,” said Poppy, coming a few steps into the room. “Good afternoon, Missus North. Hello, Denton.” She had seen him fairly recently, at his office, where he had given her the news that there had been a bit of a break in the counterfeit antiques case, and had augmented this with a steady effort to pump her for any additional information concerning the whereabouts of Stacy; she could tell by her aunt’s demeanor that he was doing much the same with Aunt Jo. “Do you have anything to report, or is this simply a social call?”