“Aunt Esther said something about the Armenians. She spent a few days in Vienna on her way home, and was able to see the conditions in which they were living, which she thought outrageous; she may do an editorial essay for the Clarion about the Armenians,” Poppy interjected. “I’ll have a word with her tonight, to see if there’s any light she can shed on where GAD might be.”
“That’s a good place to start; better than anything we have here; the reporting from Eastern Europe is…sketchy, so if you can provide some solid facts, I’d be grateful,” Loring approved, and took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, he was scheduled to leave from England over two weeks ago, but a telegram from the White Star Line informed his family the day the ship—I forget its name—sailed, that GAD was not aboard, and that he had made no other reservations, at least not with the White Star Line. They’ve made inquiries with other shipping lines, but there is no mention of him among their passengers; in fact, from what we can turn up, he never made it to England. This is quite upsetting to his family, as you may suppose.”
“I don’t need to suppose—I’ve heard Missus Pearse expostulate on the matter,” said Poppy, thinking back on Hank’s birthday party.
“Then you know that she is certain that something dreadful has happened to GAD.” Loring saw her nod. “She’s very worried.” He rubbed his chin. “That’s pretty much all I know.”
Poppy thought a moment, then answered carefully, “I know that Missus Pearse has been clamorous in expressing her worries to anyone who will listen, and that her fears grows worse with each retelling. She was at Aunt Jo’s dinnerparty last week, and belabored the guests who would listen with her dreads and dismay at GAD’s absence. I think she’s in a panic, but I wouldn’t say so to her face, and she’s fueling it by describing her imaginings.” Poppy sat back in her chair, her pencil dawdling over an empty notebook page. “I’ve also heard rumors that the reason the Pearses let their son travel is that he has been courting a young woman they don’t approve of here in Philadelphia, and they hoped, if he got away for a time, the infatuation would blow over.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” said Loring. “Do you happen to know who she is?” He shot a disapproving glance at the nearer sconce as it went off, then back on at once. “If that happens again, I’ll ask for a pair of candles.”
“It’s working fine now,” she said, and before she could stop herself, she added, “It’s not blinking Morse code—that’s something.”
Loring scowled. “Okay. No candles.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “So tell me who the unsuitable young lady is.”
Poppy could feel herself blush, worried that Chesterton Holte might be up to mischief, and testing the depth of her knowledge. “Merrinelle Butterworth, or so Isadora Pearse claims. I don’t know it for a fact, but before she was worried that GAD went missing, she was horrified at the prospect of having Merrinelle Butterworth for a daughter-in-law. The Pearses are wealthier than the Butterworths, and that’s saying something, and Old Money besides. Isadora has no intention of letting GAD marry beneath him. She once was in favor of his journey, hoping that it would put an end to GAD’s crush on Merrinelle.” Poppy felt a rush of chagrin. “I’m sorry. That sounded awful.”
Loring chuckled. “Well, at least Miss Butterworth can’t be called a fortune-hunter. The Butterworths are doing quite well for themselves. Their department store is probably the most successful in the city.”
Poppy achieved a smile. “Not even Missus Pearse could make that claim, although she’s certain that Merrinelle wants to advance herself socially. Isadora’s main objections to the Butterworths is that the family is still making its money through business, not inherited investments and land. The thought of a nouveau riche bride in the family was more than she could endure. She might not feel that way now.”
Loring fell into a brief, thoughtful silence before going on. “Mister Pearse was quick to warn us about his wife’s tendency to bruit GAD’s dangers about. He has persuaded her not to go to the press with her fears, and for now, she is in agreement with her husband, but he told us that he doesn’t know how long he will be able to keep her from announcing GAD’s disappearance to the world at large.” He had more coffee. “I’m supposed to call on her tomorrow and explain what the police can do to search for him—which isn’t very much, to be honest about it—and that for our work to succeed, her continued silence is necessary.”
“Since he’s apparently in Europe, I wouldn’t think there is much anyone can do from here.”
Loring shook his head. “If we don’t make this an active investigation, there’s almost nothing anyone can do, and that includes the Department of State. But during the Great War, I made some contacts among various police forces, and I’ll be writing to the men I know, those still in active service, and a few retired, to find out if they have any recommendations for how I might pursue this… non-case.”
“Is that why you were included by Mister Pearse? That you have foreign connections?” Thinking of Sherman Pearse, Poppy decided it was likely the reason.
“I think so. Most of my job in the Great War was…” He faltered, looking away from her. “Was graves’ registration—finding and identifying the dead, and that included bodies that did not obviously belong to any specific army, mostly parts of bodies.” His eyes turned ancient again, fixed on memories rather than this sunny but breezy afternoon.
Poppy took this in, and had to resist the urge to ask him if he knew anything about the death of her father. America had not entered the Great War yet when B. O. Thornton had been killed, so Loring would not know anything about it. “That’s pretty demanding work.”
“Yes, it is,” he said bluntly. “But, as Commissioner Smiley said during our meeting with the Pearses, I have contacts no one else does, and I know how to keep my mouth shut.” He offered a tentative smile. “And so do you.”
“That won’t be easy if things get out of hand,” said Poppy, frowning. “Because Isadora Pearse is overwrought about GAD, he drives all other considerations from her mind. So far, she has kept her outbursts to her friends, not those beyond her group. If she decides she should make a public announcement, she will, and no one, including her husband, can stop her.” She reached for her coffee and tasted it; she found it cooler than she liked, but knew that was her own fault; she could have sipped it while they talked instead of taking insubstantial notes. “She’s not going to lose another son if she can help it.”
“I understand that.” He unrolled his napkin and dropped it in his lap. “Can you tell me anything about GAD? Mister Pearse said a lot about him, but I think it would be useful to get your take on the boy.”
Poppy thought this over, and finally said, “I don’t know how useful it might be, but our families used to be on good terms. We spent a fair amount of time together when I was young, and if you think that would help…”
“It would give me some notion about GAD from someone other than his parents; you may know things about him that neither his father nor mother do.” Loring studied her. “That is, if you think it’s a good idea.”
“I understand what you’re after,” she responded. “The thing is, I don’t know him very well. I haven’t seen him for almost three years, and that last time was a month or so after HOB—their eldest—died, which hit GAD hard; he may have changed since then, but if you like, I’ll find out what his friends are saying about him now. At that last meeting, he was just getting used to his brother’s death.”
“I’ll bear it in mind; it’s possible that loss did change him to a degree, but you’re observant, and at least you’re not one of his immediate family; you have a clearer view of him,” Loring said, a wry quirk to his mouth. “I would like your opinion of him. Tell me anything you think might help me be able to get a real fix on him.”
“I don’t see him the way his family does, it’s true,” she said, and ruminated briefly. “All right. This is what I noticed about him.” She stared into the distance of memories, trying to recall the boy
she had known. “He was adventurous as a boy, always getting into things: climbing trees, running into streams, going up in tall buildings, that kind of thing. He did most of those things alone. He has a sympathetic streak, too, and that meant that every abandoned kitten, every injured rabbit, every fallen baby bird, every hapless puppy that came his way ended up in his room, much to the consternation of the rest of his family. When he thought something was unfair, he would rail at it, and upbraid his brothers and sisters for not being as upset as he.” She paused, trying to summon up her memories of him as she had seen him the summer before she went to college—he was a little older, some of his character emerging more clearly than before he went to preparatory school. “He’s athletic, but doesn’t go in for team sports: he is an outdoors sort of man; he camps, and hikes, and canoes, and sails; every now and then he fishes. He told me once that nature restored his soul. He doesn’t hunt, but I’m told he’s a crack shot. He was talking about becoming a naturalist when he was younger—back then, he admired the work of John Muir, and President Roosevelt, for all the old Rough Rider had done to preserve nature, and said that he wanted to follow in their footsteps—and he still might do something of the sort now. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s what he’s up to in Europe.”
“Then you would believe that he might take on the misfortunes of displaced Armenians,” said Loring.
“I’ll put it this way: he has always sympathized with those who are less fortunate than he is. His father was not pleased, for although he praises charity, he doesn’t approve of needing it,” said Poppy, and lapsed into a brief silence. “You should talk to his sister Genevieve—Genevieve Yolande Guinevere—GYG, called Gigi within the family. She’s the most like him of them all, and if you can speak with her privately, she may tell you things she would never tell her parents. In fact, I think you should speak to all the children alone, if that’s possible.”
“I’ll have to talk to everyone in the family eventually,” he said, not pleased at the prospect. “I’ll ask Mister Pearse if I can do this in private, and soon.”
“Tatiana—Tatiana Roxanna Augusta, and the family added La La to TRA—won’t want to help you; if she tells you anything, it isn’t likely to be the whole truth. She’s secretive and she likes to mislead; if she smirks, it means she thinks she’s getting away with something. A few years ago, she got into trouble for borrowing Auralia’s pearl necklace. She and Auralia don’t get along very well—never have. The twins, Felix and Berengaria—they call her Gari rather than Barengaria Eleanor Morgana or BEM—should be about twelve, as I recall, and they stick together; other than that, I haven’t much to say about them. I don’t know how reliable they are in regard to GAD. Felix is Felix Alexander Darius. Not called FAD, just Felix.”
“Twins often do stick together,” said Loring. “Either that, or each resents the other.”
“You might want to see them together when you go to interview the children,” Poppy said, recalling the twins’ shyness when alone. “They’re fairly cooperative, or they were a couple of years ago. They may not be now.”
“What about Auralia?” Loring asked after looking through his notes.
“She’s married, and lives in Connecticut with her husband, William Mikkelsohn. She’s just twenty-three, if I remember correctly, and he’s about twenty- eight; they married last year, at the end of January. I think she’s pretty ambitious, and Mikkelsohn is from a political family; one of his forbearers signed the Declaration of Independence, and Auralia never lets anyone forget it. When I saw her at school, she was hard-working and eager for success, which for her meant a good marriage to a man interested in politics, so she’s succeeded so far. At school, she was in charge of the Committee for Public Health. They raised money for families unable to afford medical care during the Flu. She managed to convince the dean to establish a clinic for mothers with young children in one of the old buildings on campus.”
“That sounds commendable,” said Loring.
“Oh, it was. Auralia garnered all manner of praise for what she did, and she deserved it, in a way. But I think Auralia would like to be in charge of almost anything if it had political worth. She has her mind on the long game, not immediate advantage. And I know from experience, she would not let you forget the things she has done.” Poppy blinked at her own audacity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
“You said it just fine.” Loring gave an amused single laugh. “Then, do you think it might be worthwhile for me to talk to her?”
Poppy was about to answer when the waiter appeared with a plate of rolls and butter. He did a quick survey of their cups. “I’ll bring you more coffee. Your meals should be ready in about ten minutes. Sorry for the delay. There’s a private party in the banquet room, and that is slowing down things in the kitchen.” Then he withdrew, taking care to make sure the curtain was completely closed.
Loring was silent for several seconds, then said, “Let’s wait until he brings the coffee. We can have a little more privacy after he’s gone.”
Poppy nodded. “It’s never easy when there’s an interruption.” She drank what was left in her cup and then made a few hasty notes. “Would you like to talk to Aunt Esther? About the Armenians? You could do it Friday night.”
Loring stared around the booth. “Why don’t you ask her if she would like to talk with me? A party might not be a good setting. Could we arrange another time for that?”
Poppy saw his point. “If that’s what you’d prefer, I’ll do it, of course. She said she has some photographs of the group near Vienna; I’m sure she’ll show them to you.” She sketched a star next to where she had written Esther – Armenians – GAD – Loring, so that it could be a more emphatic reminder to bring it up with her aunt that evening. “Is there anything more you’d like me to arrange for you with her?”
“Not that occurs to me,” he said, closing the file in front of him and cocking his head in the direction of the curtain as the waiter came back, a large silver-plated coffee-pot in one hand, and small paper napkins in the other. As he refilled their cups, he set down the napkins. “Will you want anything else to drink? We have an array of sodas, and milk. Or, if you prefer, we have tomato juice, orange juice, and apple juice. The tomato juice is canned, the orange juice is fresh, and the apple juice is in glass bottles. Your order should be out in five minutes or so. I can bring you an appetizer, if you like.”
“I don’t think so,” said Loring, and nodded to Poppy. “Would you like anything? More coffee? A glass of water? Juice?”
“A glass of water when you bring the food.” Had she been at home, she would have told Missus Sassoro to bring her a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, but knew better than to do it here, in the presence of a police officer, even so accommodating a one as Inspector J.B. Loring. “So long as you keep the coffee coming.”
“Very good,” said the waiter. “And you, sir?”
“Water when the food comes would be fine,” Loring said.
“Very good,” the waiter repeated, and slipped back through the curtain.
“Now, where were we?” Loring asked rhetorically, taking a roll from the basket and setting it on his butter plate. “Weren’t you about to tell me more about whom else you know who might be able to tell you something about GAD?”
“Was I?” Poppy asked, then tried to resume her train of thought. “Humphrey Fairchild knows the Pearses quite well, and he and Mildred will be at the party on Friday. You needn’t worry about talking to them there.”
“You mentioned them.” He thought. “If it looks as if he could provide anything useful, I’ll make an appointment to meet with him privately. We’re agreed, aren’t we? That clandestine discussions don’t usually go well at parties.”
Poppy was convinced he was right, so she only said, “I’ll introduce you. Mildred will probably pester you for information about Louise Moncrief.”
“She’s the one who called the police when you went missing, isn’t she?” Loring asked.
> “Yes, bless her. She’s expecting, so they probably won’t stay late—she needs her rest.” Poppy heard steps approaching. “I think lunch is here,” she said just as the waiter drew the curtain back; their conversation was once again abandoned.
ELEVEN
CHESTERTON HOLTE WAS A FILMY BLUR IN THE LATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT THAT flooded Poppy’s room, more like a flaw in the three tall windows than an actual presence. He watched as Poppy sat down on the edge of her bed to take off her shoes. On the end of the bed, Maestro raised his head to give a half-hearted hiss before curling himself into a tighter knot and going back to sleep. “Your Inspector Loring is in a difficult spot,” he said as he drifted toward the chaise lounge next to the new chest-of-drawers standing against the north wall.
“He is,” said Poppy, sounding a bit distracted.
“Would you like me to make some inquiries?” Holte offered.
“In the dimension of ghosts, or nearer to home?” Poppy countered, and immediately added, “I apologize. I meant in the dimension of ghosts. Don’t take offence at what I’m saying. My feet are killing me.”
“I thought they might be, since you’re rubbing them before you remove your hose.”
“I’m not going to remove them. I want to get out my new low-heeled pumps, after I dress for dinner. There’s no reason for anything fancier than they are.” She smoothed the bedspread in a slightly distracted way, her thoughts in a jumble; Maestro raised his head to stare at her, then dropped it back on his pile of paws.
“That isn’t for almost three hours,” Holte observed.
“I know. But we’ll have a drink together before we sit down to eat,” Poppy said, stretching, “and that will be in about an hour and a half. Aunt Esther has been busy today, and she’ll want to talk about it. She has an appointment with Lowenthal tomorrow, to discuss some articles on her travels. No doubt she’ll want some pointers on how to approach him.” She gave a little sigh and took a handkerchief from the nearer night-stand drawer, using it to wipe her face carefully, so as not to smear her mascara.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 12
