“Which part of the back garden?” Poppy asked.
“In the northwest corner. It doesn’t get a lot of sun, and the creeping juniper there now is looking bedraggled.” She took up one of her own scones and bit the narrow end off of it. “It’s not a Devon Cream Tea, quite, but close enough for breakfast.”
“What would make it a Devon Cream Tea?” Poppy inquired, moving her plate a little so that Missus Sassoro could set down Poppy’s mug of coffee and a pretty little creamer.
“Clotted cream and four p.m.,” said Esther. “Also the south coast of England would be nice.”
“Surely there’s a dairy in the vicinity that makes clotted cream,” said Poppy.
“No doubt, but I’m not going to spend my time driving about looking for it,” said Esther. “I’m just wishing, not expecting. I wouldn’t mind a large glass of Russian tea out of a samovar, either, but I’m not eager to go back to the Soviet Union to get it.”
“Do you think you’ll go back to Rus—the Soviet Union again?”
“Probably not,” Esther said, and picked up her scone. “Emphatically not to Siberia. The weather is too unendurable. Baking in summer and well below freezing in winter.” She sighed. “There is one thing I’d like to explore over there: when I was flying, I saw a huge swath of fallen trees, all looking to have gone down from the same point. It was near a place called Tunguska. I asked about it, but no one would tell me anything, so naturally, I am very curious.”
“A bomb, do you think?” Poppy asked, her own interest piqued.
“Not any kind of bomb I’ve ever heard of. There were miles and miles of downed trees, the whole landscape was blasted.” She waved the matter away. “I should be thinking about the Amazon, not Siberia.”
“I think you might want to concentrate on the back garden for today,” Poppy recommended before she shook her head and took a bite of her first scone. Some of the butter that had soaked into the triangular bread leaked out and ran down her chin; she took her napkin and wiped away the butter, leaving a faint smear behind. “I’ll have to repowder before I leave,” she said, chewing. “These preserves are excellent—not too sweet.”
“I agree,” said Aunt Esther. “I can’t abide saccharin compotes of any kind.”
“You like chutney,” Poppy pointed out. “Some of those are very sweet.”
“And made to go with heavily spiced foods, not a bland scone or a pancake,” said Esther, and sipped her coffee.
Poppy swallowed, added a little cream to her coffee, and then stirred a single spoonful of sugar to it, her thoughts in a jumble. To fill the silence between her and Aunt Esther, Poppy asked, “How do you rate last night’s party?”
Esther considered her answer and said, “All in all, I’d give it seven out of ten. It would have been better if Langton had not brought Beatrice, but she is his wife, so I couldn’t very well ask him to come on his own, since the company was mixed. I’m sorry Elliott Wickman had to leave early; he and Archibald Wyman were having a grand time discussing bizarre methods of execution.”
“But aside from Beatrice Timms, what is your assessment of the company in general?” Poppy asked, judiciously sipping her coffee.
“In general, I think the lamb was a great success. Most of the guests got along—with the exception of Beatrice, and Josephine would not get off her high horse. The way she behaved to Isadora Pearse was beastly.” She sighed briefly. “She can be so difficult, my sister. Rigging herself out that way! And then speaking only to those she already knew; I could have strangled her for the way she treated Eunice Lowenthal. If I hadn’t seen her pull such a trick in the past, I would have been completely flummoxed, but I still can’t excuse her for being so…so brattish. You’d think she were sixteen again.” She drank more coffee. “I was worried that she might decide to…but I hoped that Hank could talk her out of…” Her words drifted off. About ten seconds later she said, “Speaking of Hank, I saw your Inspector Loring in deep conversation with him, between dinner and dessert. They were in the sitting room. Did you happen to notice?”
Poppy frowned. “No, I didn’t. I stayed in the parlor and dining room for the most part. Milly and I were reminiscing about our years in secondary school and college. Why on earth would Loring want to talk to Hank?” Immediately the answer sprang up in her mind. “Stacy. Of course.”
“I assume so,” Esther said. “But I had the impression that Loring was asking Hank about his business, as well.”
“I didn’t know that Loring was interested in boats. Or aeroplanes,” she appended.
“Perhaps your Inspector is more adept at small-talk than you give him credit for,” Esther suggested.
“You may be right,” said Poppy, and took another, more careful, bite of her scone, pondering the mystery that was J. B. Loring.
By the time Poppy got up from the table, Aunt Esther had been gone for ten minutes, and Poppy was beginning to feel that she ought to be on her way. She wanted to get to the Clarion while Lowenthal was still there. She hurried up to her room to repair the damage of breakfast, to give Maestro his plate of food for the day, and to put on a little scent before she left. Half- expecting to hear Holte comment on the morning, she took a little longer than usual to check the contents of her purse and her brief-case, but did not notice him anywhere.
In her Hudson, she threaded her way through morning delivery vehicles and the worsening weather, going toward the Addison Newspaper Corporation building and the parking place in the alley next to it that she was coming to think of as hers. She stopped at the newsstand outside the main entrance and bought a copy of the Tattler, which she folded and shoved into her purse before going through the imposing doors and up the stairs, hoping that she would have a little time to read the story in the Tattler before she got down to work.
The city room was as busy as it was on weekdays; most of the desks were occupied, the copy-boys were busy working their way from the composing room to the city room, answering summons from both places; cigarette smoke hung in the air. Poppy jostled her way to her desk, a little surprised that Holte had not accompanied her in her auto, and was not now lurking in a light-fixture. She took off her coat and hung it over the back of the chair, then sat down and pulled out the Tattler, preparing to look through it for the distressing story from Merrinelle Butterworth. It was on page 4, below the fold, for which Poppy was grateful; had it been on the front page, there would have been an uproar before now. At least, Poppy thought, the Tattler publishes on Thursday and distributes on Friday morning, which meant that there had not been much time for the story to take hold. With real trepidation, Poppy began to read:
This reporter has learned from Merrinelle Butterworth, daughter of Jonathan and Olympia Butterworth, that her fiancé, G.A.D. Pearse, who spent the summer in Europe and was scheduled to return two weeks ago, has been missing since the end of July. The scion of the Pearse family, G.A.D. will inherit the control of the Pearse fortune upon the death of his father. Miss Butterworth reports that so far, the parents have made no effort to locate their missing son, and have not engaged the police in opening an inquiry into his disappearance, or if they have engaged private parties, she has not been informed of it. Merrinelle Butterworth, the oldest daughter of mercantile tycoon Jonathan Rhodes Butterworth, and who is a sophomore at the Mount Delos Women’s College, has told this reporter that she fears for her fiancé’s life and that she believes his family’s inactivity in efforts to find him is a possible indication of collusion with foreign interests. Miss Butterworth says she wants to alert the public to this most distressing development, and to urge those in a position to do so, to press for thorough investigation.
“Heaven alone knows what happened to him,” Miss Butterworth said to this reporter.
“If I don’t act on this, who knows who will?”
Poppy went through the story twice, then picked up the Tattler and made for Lowenthal’s office, rehearsing in her mind what she would tell him. She knocked on his door, and when he called out, �
��Come in,” she did.
Cornelius Lowenthal sat behind his desk, his hair already twirled and twisted into small corkscrews over his forehead; he showed no ill effects from the previous night. He was on the phone, deeply engrossed in a dispute; he motioned to Poppy to sit down even as he bellowed, “No, that isn’t sufficient, and you damned well know it! Get the whole story, with confirmation, or drop it now!” He slammed the receiver back into the hook on the candlestick telephone. Panting a little, he gave his attention to Poppy. “Well?”
“I think there may be something to this,” Poppy said, handing the Tattler to Lowenthal. “Page 4, third column, below the fold.”
With a snort of impatience, Lowenthal opened the paper and looked. “I repeat: well?”
“I know something about it. The Pearses are good friends of my Aunt Jo—”
“What a grande dame she is,” Lowenthal interjected.
“She can be,” Poppy said, and continued in a rush. “Her…outburst…last night was not remarkable; she is distressed at Stacy’s absence, and Isadora Pearse has been quite vocal about her missing son; it was a very awkward moment, and I know that it’s going to lead to gossip.” She paused, working out how to continue. “Sherman Pearse has insisted that they keep the story away from the public because he’s afraid of extortionists coming after him with false information and ransom demands that would make finding GAD impossible.”
“Not an unreasonable stance,” Lowenthal allowed. “How many people would you say know about this?”
“Perhaps a hundred,” said Poppy. “Double that if you count the servants, but they tend to keep family troubles inside the house.”
“Yes. Those women at the Moncrief house, they did their best to keep out of public attention. You think you could get some of the same from the Pearse servants?”
“No, I don’t think so. The Pearses are very private and wouldn’t tolerate that kind of intrusion; any servant caught telling tales outside the door would be fired in an instant and given no reference. But it is a real case; the police know about it, and most of the Pearses’ circle, as I told you. Would you like me to run with it? Just to see what I can learn that’s solid?”
Lowenthal mulled this over. “Tell you what: check it out and report to me on Monday morning about what you’ve learned. I’ll decide then.” He tapped his desk-blotter with his fingers. “Anything more on the Moncrief or Knott stories?”
“Nothing worth two inches in Tuesday’s edition.”
Lowenthal nodded. “By the way, your Aunt Esther is coming in on Wednesday to talk about an editorial piece on the Armenians. Now that woman I like.”
As compared to Aunt Jo, Poppy added silently to herself. “I hope you can work something out. She’s pretty much caught up in the refugees’ plight.”
“Plight,” Lowenthal repeated as if tasting the word. “Good way to put it. Keep it in mind for later, in case your aunt wants your help on her piece—assuming I agree to run it. I don’t want it to read like a term paper. Our readers like simple, declarative sentences, not complex paragraphs.” He was about to dismiss her. “By the way, the wife and I had a good time at your party—better than either of us was expecting. And the food was very good. The drink, too. Tell your aunt thanks for us, will you?”
“I’ll be happy to, boss,” she said, astonished at his favorable comments.
“Right-o then. See what you can turn up on the…Pearse story.” He pointed to his door. “Chop-chop.”
“I’m on it, boss,” she said as she claimed the copy of the Tattler and left Lowenthal’s office. Back at her desk, she sat down and tried to make up her mind whether to call the Pearses directly or to try to phone the Butterworths first. After a little cogitation, she chose the Pearses, telling herself that this would be easier, because she knew them, but had only met the Butterworths in passing. She got her notebook out of her purse and looked up the Pearses’ phone number, then gave it to the operator.
“Pearse residence,” said their butler, an estimable man named Elliston. “To whom would you like to speak?” he inquired in a deep, plummy voice that reminded Poppy of warm jam.
“Either Mister or Missus Pearse, or Miss Genevieve, if her parents aren’t available.”
“Very good. Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Poppea Thornton, Josephine Dritchner’s niece,” said Poppy, squirming at the necessity of such formality.
“If you will wait a moment, Miss Thornton, I’ll see if any of those three are home.” Elliston put the receiver down and went in search of them.
Poppy took up a pencil and started to doodle; she ended up drawing intersecting circles, and wondered in the process what she was telling herself. After about two minutes, Elliston returned.
“Missus Pearse wishes me to inform you that she will call you on Monday, at your place of business, in the morning, to schedule an interview.”
“Monday morning” said Poppy, making a note of it on her blotter. “Thank you, Elliston.”
“You are most welcome Miss Thornton,” he said, and hung up.
Poppy repeated Monday morning several times to herself, to fix the time in her mind, and then bit the bullet and called the Butterworths.
“I’m sorry Miss Thornton,” the operator told her. “That line is busy. If you could call again later.”
Girding her metaphorical loins to the prospect of frustration, Poppy was about to call Aunt Jo, when one of the copy-boys came by and handed her a note; it was from Gentry in Vital Statistics, saying Call me. Puzzled, Poppy picked up the phone, lifted the receiver and depressed the hook twice to get the PBX board in the basement that handled the in-house calls. “Extension 348, Rob Gentry, please.”
“Calling,” said the operator in an adenoidal tone.
Poppy heard the three rings on the other end, and then Gentry picked up his receiver. “Vital Statistics.”
“Rob? Poppy Thornton here. I just got your note. What’s going on?”
He hesitated a moment—Poppy assumed to look through the vast pile of paper on his desk—then said, “I got a call about an hour ago from York, notifying me that they had a fatal car wreck near the town, and they have confirmation on the driver.”
“I gather he’s dead, if they called you,” Poppy said.
“Good guess,” said Gentry sardonically. “I thought it might have something to do with those stories you’ve been on about Madison Moncrief’s murder?”
Poppy’s curiosity increased tenfold. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve mentioned this guy in a few of your stories.” Gentry’s Carolina drawl got stronger. “About the Moncrief murder. This guy was part of all the fuss, kind of a family friend. You interviewed him in June.”
“What guy? What happened?” Poppy demanded, although she had a degree of certainty that she knew whom Gentry meant.
“Julian Eastley? That hero fellow? He crashed his car a couple nights ago, about four miles west of town. Went off the road on a sharp turn and dropped into a small ravine and then went into a creek, according to the police report. They didn’t find him until late yesterday, and it took until this morning to get a positive identification on him. The police think his car might have been side-swiped—there’s extensive damage to the left side of his auto that can’t be accounted for by going down the ravine, unless it rolled over twice, which it might have done. I thought I should let you know before you read it in the paper.” His chuckle was grim and quite humorless.
“They’re sure it’s Eastley,” Poppy said.
“They found his driver’s license in his wallet. There was an empty flask in the car, by the way.”
“That’s not surprising,” said Poppy, who knew a number of people who liked to have a nip now and then while driving. “What else?”
“That’s all I have so far,” said Gentry. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything more. There’s going to be an autopsy.”
Poppy gave herself a mental shake and said, “Thanks, Rob. I owe you one.”
After Poppy hung up, she sat and stared into space for nearly three minutes, then took a pen and began to scribble in her notebook. She would have to ask Holte a number of questions when next she saw him. Satisfied that she had enough information to consult when they did talk, she picked up the phone and made another futile attempt to make contact with the Butterworth household, and was annoyed when she again encountered a busy signal. An hour later she finally reached the butler, a very dignified individual named Trodling.
“Missus Butterworth asks that you call again at three this afternoon, Miss Thornton,” he informed Poppy after checking with Missus Butterworth.
“Thank you, Trodling,” said Poppy, hoping that this was not just a delay, but an actual engagement. At least she was making a little progress, she told herself, and spent the next ten minutes organizing her notes.
Shortly before she left, she called Loring and left a message to him to phone her at home after four—she had some information to pass on to him. Feeling virtuous for a change, she rang the operator again and asked if she could find a number for Rudolph N. Beech, living somewhere in Florida.
“I’ll try,” said the operator, sounding exasperated. “I’ll try the cities first.”
“Good. I’ll be here until two; if you can’t turn something up in that time, I’ll take another crack at it on Monday.”
“I’ll let you know what I find at or before two Miss Thornton,” the operator assured her.
“Thank you,” said Poppy, and went back to trying to work out where Eastley’s death fit into the picture—if it fit at all.
TWENTY
POPPY WAS BACK AT AUNT ESTHER’S HOUSE BY TWO-THIRTY; SHE WENT UP TO HER room to change out of her working clothes and to put on something more comfortable. She was just donning one of her two pairs of slacks—the bronze wool ones—when Holte, resembling a wisp of fog, came through the ceiling. “There you are,” she said, making it almost an accusation. She buttoned her slacks and pulled on a cream-colored fisherman’s sweater over it, then ran her fingers through her hair to restore a little neatness to it.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 22
