Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Anything wrong?” Lowenthal asked, peering closely at her.

  “Not really. I just wish I’d had more time to polish the story.” It was near enough to the truth that she did not feel she had been dishonest.

  “It’s enough for now. You can do something slicker if there’s a follow-up to Overstreet’s get away—I won’t put too much of a rush on you,” said Lowenthal. “If they catch Overstreet in the next week or so I’ll put your report above the fold.”

  “Be sure to include a reminder to send Captain Joiner a clipping. His contact address is with the notes. As to a slot above the fold, I’ll hold you to that boss,” she said with a wavering smile.

  Lowenthal nodded as a sign of surety. “You’ll deserve it if you can see it through.”

  “Oh I can,” said Poppy. “I have my own interests in this story.”

  “That’s what I mean about if,” Lowenthal said, “After what you’ve been though, you may lose your…perspective. You’re supposed to keep your objectivity in this field, and it might not be possible for you to do that. If that happens, let me know.” He coughed. “I’d say the same thing if you were a man, so don’t think I’m underestimating you.”

  Poppy shook her head adamantly. “I’ve got to see this through.”

  “Fine with me, but you can change your mind; I won’t think any the less of you, if you do.” He did his best to achieve a reassuring smile, then pointed to the door. “Out. I got work to do.”

  FOURTEEN

  POPPY HAD STOPPED OFF AT THE BEAUTY PARLOR ON HER WAY HOME, AND SHE waited until she was at Aunt Esther’s house to phone Loring at his flat. It took him nine rings to answer, and she wondered what she had interrupted, but controlled her impulse to question him. “I have an address that may help you in the Pearse investigation,” she began after they had a brief exchange of pleasantries.

  “Unofficial investigation,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What kind of address?” He sounded preoccupied.

  Driving home, she had worked out an explanation that would not reveal who supplied the information, and now she delivered it as smoothly as she could. “I spoke to a…colleague of my father’s. I didn’t mention any names, if course, but I explained that there was a missing person who might be in Europe, and this…colleague, told me that there is a man in London, who used to be part of the intelligence operations during the Great War, who now works as an investigator locating missing and displaced persons, and he might be willing to take on the case.”

  Loring was paying attention now, his tone dubious but polite. “Who is this fellow? Not the one who told you, the man he recommended, in London.”

  “The name is N. N. N. Blessing—that’s three Ns—and his address is thirty-one Museum Street, Westminster, London. You might want to tell the Pearses about him.”

  “Will they be at your party?”

  “I don’t know,” Poppy said. “Aunt Esther hasn’t shown me the guest list yet. She’s been busy.”

  “Then I suppose I should call them—the Pearses—to show them I’m doing something, at least. I know Missus Pearse is getting anxious. She wants this in the papers as much as Mister Pearse does not.” He paused. “Will you give me the information again? All of it?”

  “Certainly,” she said, and repeated Blessing’s name and address.

  Loring read it back to her, then added, “This colleague of your father’s, is he reliable? The one who recommended this Blessing fellow?”

  “Very,” said Poppy, and realized that her conviction might sound too confident. “He helped me to find out what happened to my father, so I trust any recommendation he might offer.”

  “Okay,” said Loring. “I’ll see what the Pearses want to do. Thanks for the lead though.”

  “My pleasure,” said Poppy, and felt herself start to blush. “And thanks for the help on the Overstreet escape.”

  “Glad to do it.” He went silent for a second or two. “Will it be in tonight’s edition?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Page two, but above the fold.”

  “That’s great. So I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” He seemed ready to hang up, but asked, “Do I need to dress up? I should warn you that I don’t own a dinner jacket.”

  “I think a good suit would do; this isn’t the Opera Ball. You could come in a sports jacket and I doubt Aunt Esther would mind. It’s going to be a diverse lot, from what Aunt Esther has said,” she said, and once again wondered who would be coming. “She and I will be in dinner dresses. I think Aunt Jo will be here with Hank and his wife Cecily, and they’ll be in proper dinner-dress, but Cornelius and Eunice Lowenthal, and a couple of her colleagues from the National Geographic Society will be there, too. You’ll fit in as well as any of them.”

  “That ought to be interesting; quite a mixed crowd,” Loring said, sardonically amused.

  “Then you see what I mean about what to wear.”

  “I do,” he said, and hung up on a chuckle.

  Poppy put the receiver back in its cradle and then picked up her new briefcase, her purse, and her hat before hurrying upstairs. She opened the door at the top of the stairs carefully, to ensure that Maestro did not escape; the cat was not at the top of the stairs, but was crouched, waiting, just inside her bedroom door, and leaped out to wrap himself around her ankle, purring and growling at once.

  “Let go you monster. You’ll ruin my stockings. They’re silk, and more expensive than a week of chopped chicken-and-fish for you. Let go.” She put down what she carried and bent to disengage him.

  As Maestro retreated, sulking, to the corner of her bed, Chesterton Holte spoke up from near the ceiling. “I gather all went well.”

  Poppy refused to be startled. “If you mean passing on the address, I think it did. I waited until I got here to phone Loring. The operators at the newspaper are notorious for listening in on conversations.”

  “So you’ve told me.” He came slowly down from the ceiling, becoming a bit more clearly defined on the way; when Maestro hissed at him, Holte turned to the cat. “Same to you old boy.”

  “He’s still not pleased with his move. Give him some time and he’ll quiet down.” Poppy went over to the bed. “Yes, I’ve told Loring. I don’t know how much use he’ll make of it, but do you think I should send a note to N.Cubed Blessing, informing that he might receive contact from the Pearses, or from Loring?”

  “No, not yet; no reason to; for the time being, you needn’t be directly involved,” said Holte, settling into his usual place three inches above the seat of the side-chair between the chest-of-drawers and her vanity table. “Let’s see if anything comes of it first. For all we know, the Pearses won’t want to use N.Cubed services.”

  “I’m assuming you listened in on my conversation with Captain Joiner?” She bent to take off her shoes and stopped as she looked at the ruins of her stockings. “Ye gods, these are a total loss.”

  “Yes, I did listen in,” Holte admitted without apology. “Very direct fellow, Peregrine Joiner. I’m pleased he was so cooperative.”

  “And with very nice manners, too; not like some policemen I’ve talked to,” Poppy observed. “Must be a Canadian trait.”

  Holte did something that suggested a partial bow. “By policemen, in this instance I gather you don’t mean Inspector Loring.”

  “That would be most ungracious of me,” Poppy conceded.

  “I like to think you’re more generous than that, particularly since he is so fond of you,” Holte rejoined, “You needn’t protest it; it’s obvious that his fascination has not faded through the summer.” He made a gesture with his barely visible hand and strove to change the subject. “Where is your estimable Aunt Esther? I thought she would be here ahead of you.”

  “I assume that she is out with Miss Roth, doing the last-minute shopping for tomorrow, since both Miss Roth and Mister Galliard are missing, as is the auto. I can tell by the aroma that Missus Sassoro is in the kitchen. From the scent, we’re h
aving veal tonight.” A thought suddenly struck her. “Can you smell any of her cooking?”

  “No. I can’t smell anything. I don’t hear the way you do, either. And you know I can’t actually touch anything. Senses get…diffuse, once you lack a body to have them with.” There was a note of nostalgia in this admission.

  “Do you miss it—any of it?” she could not keep from asking.

  “Yes and no,” he answered, and became slightly more misty than he had been. “But it’s one of the things we forget, in time.”

  “You’re being deliberately vague,” she told him.

  “I am aren’t I?” He swung toward the ceiling again. “All right, I’ll try to explain. I don’t actually speak. I don’t have a mouth or vocal chords any more. You can hear me because my obligation to you allows you to receive my thoughts, and because of this link, I can hear you clearly.”

  “Sort of like a radio tuning in on a station?” she asked.

  He dropped down once more. “It’s a good enough analogy. Animals are not so tightly tuned as living adult humans are. Babies receive almost everything.”

  She was studying his filmy presence intently. “Do I see you because of that tuning?”

  “In part. As you know, keeping the semblance of a living appearance has some demands for ghosts. It’s tiring to manifest the way I’m doing now, for you, who can pick up my presence. For those who can’t, the best I can manage is kind of mist and a sound like the echo of a moan.” He returned to the chair. “So what can you tell me about tomorrow night? Is there any reason I should… attend?”

  Poppy cocked her head. “Is there any reason you shouldn’t?”

  Holte made a noise that was almost a chuckle. “I’ll make an effort then. Just promise me you’ll keep your infernal cat up here, closed in.”

  “I’ll do it whether you’re here or not,” said Poppy. “Maestro isn’t comfortable at parties.”

  “Yes,” said Holte, glancing over at the cat, who pointedly ignored him, his ears remaining fixed forward as if he had heard nothing. “I’ve realized that.”

  Poppy bent down and picked her purse up off the floor. As she opened it, she said, “I really ought to get him some toys. Give him something harmless to kill.”

  “Didn’t they send along some from the Dritchner house?”

  “A couple, none of his favorites.” She took out her checkbook and opened it. “I wonder if Galliard would be willing to plant catnip for him. I’ll be letting him out by Monday, and catnip would delight him.” She thought a bit, and added, “It might bring too many neighborhood cats to the house, but Maestro would like it.”

  “Always a problem, having catnip in the yard. What about a window-box, over there?” He pointed to the tall windows that faced the side of the lot. “You might get the occasional cat on the roof, but the catnip would be all Maestro’s.”

  She would have tossed one of her pillows at him if she had thought it would have done any good. “At Aunt Jo’s house, she refused to let the Jeffries plant any; Aunt Esther isn’t such a stickler, and I’ll suggest a window-box.”

  “Speaking of your aunts, has your Aunt Esther had an interview with Lowenthal yet, about that proposed article about the Living Spectres?” Holte asked, as if he wanted to prolong their discussion.

  “I don’t think so, no. Neither of them has mentioned it.” She fussed with her purse and took out her compact. “My face needs attention.”

  Holte made what could be a resigned sigh. “I know you have to change and take care of your hair—I like the new cut, by the way—but I’m curious about Aunt Esther.”

  “I don’t know if she has an appointment; I pretty sure she hasn’t spoken to Lowenthal. I’m surprised that you don’t know that,” she said, glad that she had persuaded Renee at Hannah’s Beauty Box to give up her four-thirty departure to restore Poppy’s coiffeur. “You’re at the Clarion almost as much as I am, and you have access to all the phone conversations.”

  “I don’t spend all my time hanging around the Clarion,” he told her.

  “That’s right. You often go into the dimension of ghosts.” She hesitated, then plowed on, “Have you any news from there?”

  “No, but I hope to have some soon,” said Holte, then added, “I’ll probably go there on Saturday for an extended period. That’s your half-day at the paper, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. This Saturday, I’ll be working in the afternoon rather than the morning, to make allowances for tomorrow evening.” She stood up. “Not that I’m a prude, but I need to unfasten my hose from my garter-belt, and I’m still not used to you watching me undress.”

  Holte rose out of the chair toward the ceiling. “I’ll be back in a little while. I need to talk to Knott. It shouldn’t take long.” He passed through the ceiling and slipped into the dimension of ghosts, leaving Poppy alone with Maestro.

  Once she was sure that Holte had gone, Poppy unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor, then removed her jacket and blouse, taking the time to loosely fold them and set them next to her pillows. After tugging her slip over her head, she unfastened the garters from her garter- belt and let her ruined silk stockings slide down her legs. Kicking these away from her, she looked over at Maestro. “I should be very angry with you, you know. These hose cost almost a dollar.” She sank back onto the side of the bed, and leaned over to pick up her skirt and lay it on the side of her bed. “But you have no appreciation about the cost of things, do you?”

  Maestro opened one eye, then yawned.

  “It’s all very well for you to take such a cavalier attitude, but in future I’d be grateful if you would leave my hose alone.” Satisfied with her admonition to the cat, she reached down for the stockings and knotted them together before dropping them in the wastebasket beside the night-stand. “I’m going to put on a new pair. If you’d be good enough to leave them as is?” Without waiting for a response from Maestro, she got up and went to her chest-of-drawers and removed a new pair of stockings. Taking care to keep the seams straight, she drew on the left one first, fastened it to the garter-belt, then did the same with the right, all the while trying to decide what to wear for dinner. “Aunt Esther probably wouldn’t mind if I wore riding britches and a barn-jacket,” she mused aloud, then selected an ankle-length skirt of rosy-mauve wool crepe, and then a long blouse of polished linen the color of ripe Santa Rosa plums. On impulse, she added a multi-colored silk scarf, which she knotted loosely around her neck. She was just putting on a pair of low-heeled black shoes when she heard the side-door open on the ground floor.

  “Poppy! We’re back!” Aunt Esther caroled out.

  “Good evening, Aunt Esther,” Poppy answered loudly enough to be heard downstairs. She went to her vanity table, refreshed her lipstick, and ran a comb through her hair, all the while trying to decide if she liked the slightly shorter length. Without reaching a decision, she went out of the room and, taking care to secure the door at the top of the stairs, went down to the study, where she found Esther in the act of pouring out a dollop of cognac into one of the little balloon glasses.

  Hearing Poppy arrive, Esther turned toward her. “Can I get you a drink? I like that ensemble you’re wearing.” Esther herself remained in her walking suit, a handsome jacket with long peplums over a below-the-calf pleated skirt, all in a warm, light-grey. Her blouse was Prussian blue, as were her ankle-strap shoes.

  “Whatever you’re having is fine with me,” said Poppy, dropping into the side-chair at the end of the coffee-table. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “Hardly a compliment, just an observation; I suppose I ought to apologize for not changing for dinner, but since it’s just you and me, I didn’t think it would matter,” said Esther, reaching for another of the small balloon glasses. “How was your day?”

  “How was yours?” Poppy riposted with a fencing gesture from her finger.

  “Oh, no; you first,” Esther insisted, handing the second glass of cognac to her. “I need to gather my thoughts.”


  Poppy lifted her glass in a perfunctory toast to her aunt. “Mine was about usual; I did a squib on an auction fraud—it may be one of the counterfeit antiques that Knott and Denton North have talked about—and then I did a short column on the current state of the hunt for Miles Overstreet—he’s escaped, by the way, so I had nothing very much to tell, except that he got away on a yacht, and that the Royal Navy as well as the Coast Guard is looking for him; it’s under my own by-line again, which is very kind of Lowenthal. After I turned the story in, I had a kind of tea in the cafeteria this afternoon, spent a little time on the phone trying to learn more about Overstreet. And I got my hair cut.”

  “Um,” said Aunt Esther, giving her niece’s hair careful scrutiny. “Very nice. I thought that you had a bit too much curl in the back. This is much neater.” She sat down and took a sip of cognac. “Miles Overstreet is the young man who used to work for Percy Knott? He fled after Percy was murdered?”

  “He’s the one,” Poppy confirmed.

  “That complicates matters. How unfortunate. I don’t suppose anyone knows where he’s gone.” Aunt Esther stared at the silent radio on the high-boy next to the fireplace as if she expected it to express an opinion; after a second or two, she shook her head. “There isn’t much either of us can do about it, is there? Is there a hunt on for him?” Since this was clearly a rhetorical question, Poppy said nothing. Suddenly Esther stifled a yawn, covering it with her left hand. “Oh, drat. I’ll have to plan a nap for tomorrow afternoon, otherwise I may doze off in front of our guests—most negligent for a hostess.”

  “You? Doze off?” Poppy marveled. “Never.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Esther. “I haven’t the stamina I had twenty years ago. Still, I like to think that I can still run with the best of them; it only takes a little more effort.” She toasted the air, and took a long, slow slip. “Better. Much better.”