“Yes,” said Holte. “Was it a difficult day?”
“It was a bedeviling one,” she said. “I spent most of the time on the phone with people who didn’t want to talk to me. I’m doing a follow-up on the Tattler piece. I’m supposed to call Olympia Butterworth at three. She’s the only one who might tell me something.” Just saying this made her want to jump up and down in vexation; it had taken nine attempts to get through to Jonathan Butterworth, who was at the office, and when she did, he declined to talk to her about the Tattler story. She had also had a difficult talk with Neva Plowright, who was dismayed to learn of Julian Eastley’s death but had nothing useful to say about it except that it was sad. “He was so devoted to Louise,” was the most she was willing to tell Poppy.
“I had to agree with that,” Poppy said, trying to get a fix on Holte as he sailed around the room.
“That doesn’t sound enjoyable.”
“Far from it,” Poppy agreed. “And speaking of that, did you know that Julian Eastley had died in an auto crash?”
To her bewilderment, he answered, “Yes.”
“And you didn’t say anything to me?” She considered upbraiding him, but waited to hear what he would say.
“You were deep in preparing for the party, and I didn’t think it was urgent.”
Her burgeoning indignation gave was to stupefaction. “Something like this, so close to the Moncrief investigation, and you thought it could wait?”
“Yes.” He drifted over toward her. “He doesn’t remember much about it—doesn’t even know that he’s dead. Moncrief has been trying to break the news to him gently. So far, he hasn’t been able to get through to him.”
“That’s just…” She could find no word to express her annoyance.
“It’s not easy when you’re first dead,” Holte said by way of explanation. “Particularly if you died…unexpectedly.”
“So you’ve told me.” She began to pace the room. “Have you learned anything useful from him? I’m assuming you’ve spoken to him.”
“Only that he thinks that perhaps his auto crashed, but he isn’t sure. When I asked him what the last thing that he remembers was, he was vague. He said the sun was in his eyes and that perhaps there was a car trying to get around him on a tight turn, or that there was a flash in his rear-view mirror. For someone accidentally dead, he has a good recollection of how it happened: he knows he was in his auto, which is more than many can do. That’s pretty much the extent of what he remembers.” He took a moment to slide over toward her vanity table, and then became more discernable.
“Is there any reason to suspect foul play?” she asked. “Does he think he was forced off the road?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Holte said cautiously. “He is certain something interfered with his sight.”
“So he ran off the road and crashed? Does he remember his auto going down a defile into the creek?”
“No—did it?” Holte said with amazement.
“According to Rob Gentry in Vital Statistics. It’ll be in Monday’s obituary column.” Poppy flung up her hands. “Just another part of the puzzle, I guess.”
“Would you like me to speak to Eastley again?” Holte offered, trying to find some way to ease her distress.
“Do you think it would do any good?” She stopped moving and turned to face him.
“I think it might,” he answered. “It can’t hurt.”
Poppy nodded slowly. “You’re right. Give it a try when you’re next in the dimension of ghosts. Ye gods, why not?”
He went a little closer to her. “What else is troubling you?”
“It’s Overstreet, and Derrington, and Louise, and Stacy, of course. What else is there? Lowenthal wants more information, and I’m trying to dig some up for him. I tried to find Louise’s half-brother today, but no luck. There’s no news on Overstreet, and nothing on Stacy and Derrington, or Louise. I’m running out of people to talk to.”
“That’s hardly your fault,” Holte pointed out.
“Don’t tell Lowenthal that; he’ll laugh you out of his office.” She stopped. “Sorry. I’m being beastly again. Don’t worry, I’ll be myself again in the next few days. Until then, accept a standing apology from me.” After glancing at her alarm clock, she reached for her brief-case and took out her notebook. “I better go down to the phone. It’s almost time to call Olympia Butterworth.”
“Shall I come with you?” Holte asked, keeping up with her as she went to the stairs.
“If you like.”
He floated down beside her. “You didn’t close the door at the top of the stairs.”
“No; Maestro is having his first day out in the house. Monday he’ll be allowed outside, weather permitting. He’s probably in the kitchen, or looking for phantom mice in the pantry.” Abruptly she turned to him. “Are there phantom mice?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said, trying not to laugh.
“And a good thing too,” said Poppy.
“What does the staff think of having a cat about?” Holte asked as Poppy resumed her descent.
“As far as I know, they don’t mind.”
“Do you know what Maestro thinks of the staff?” he said, to amuse her.
She chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll let me know when it suits him.”
“I hope they will all get along,” said Holte, and slid up toward the ceiling while Poppy sat down in the telephone alcove off the entry-hall. Holte made himself comfortable away from the lights.
She gave the operator the Butterworths’ phone number from memory and listened to the rings on the far end; after six of them, she was about to hang up when she heard Trodling say, “Butterworth residence: to whom would you like to speak?”
“To Missus Butterworth, please. This is Poppea Thornton, calling as she asked.” It was a bit of an exaggeration, since Poppy was fairly certain that Olympia Butterworth did not want to speak to the press at all.
“Of course, Miss Thornton. I’ll bring her to the telephone. Please hang on for a few minutes.” The butler’s genial tone was not what Poppy was expecting, and she realized that she might have misread the cool request that had prompted her to call. She used the time waiting for Missus Butterworth to arrive to review all that the article in the Tattler had revealed, and to put her questions into a less emphatic tone. She had got to her fourth question and was rewording it when she heard someone pick up the receiver.
“Miss Thornton?” The sound of Missus Butterworth’s voice jarred Poppy out of her ruminations.
“Missus Butterworth, yes, this is Poppea Thornton. You wanted me to phone you at three.”
“Yes. I’m sorry I was unable to speak with you earlier; I had luncheon guests and could not leave them to take your questions; you know how such occasions are.” She clicked her tongue. “I could not have spared more than ten minutes to you. And I am sure you must have questions.” This last was a bit more pointed than her explanation was.
“I do, and I’m afraid I may be the first of many wanting to speak with you.”
“No doubt,” Missus Butterworth said drily. “But you’re Josephine Dritchner’s niece, and you know to keep the line. I must tell you at first that I am not at all persuaded that GAD has any formal agreement with my daughter no matter what the story in that dreadful rag had to say. I’m afraid that Merrinelle is a very impulsive girl, with a romantic disposition, and nothing would please her more than to be the heroine in Romeo and Juliet, but with a happier ending, in which she becomes the heroine and gains admiration from all involved. She has always inclined to the theatrical, and never more than now.” She sighed. “I trust you will not put that observation in anything you decide to write about this unpleasant business. My daughter has a yen for attention.”
The carrot and the stick, thought Poppy before she launched into her first question. “Was Merrinelle actually seeing GAD before the summer?”
“Oh, yes. He visited here a number of times. His mother and I were friends in school, and I
was always glad to see GAD. I realize that Isadora believes—as many others do—that I married beneath my station when I wed Mister Butterworth, and I have never held that against her, but I do occasionally miss the friends of my youth. Meeting their children from time to time has been a great consolation.” Her voice was strong, but Poppy detected a note of sadness in it. “Seeing GAD was a way for me to recall many pleasant years.”
“I can only imagine what that must be like for you, Missus Butterworth,” said Poppy, making two curt notes, and editing her next question in her mind. “Can you tell me when you became aware that GAD was missing?”
“Yes,” said Missus Butterworth. “It was late in July—around the 27th or 28th—and Merrinelle had not received a letter in more than a week. Up to that time, he had written twice a week at least. At first, I saw nothing worrisome in this—the boy was traveling, and in such distant places that I assumed it was the fault of the post. Trains and ships and all that. Naturally, I read all his letters to Merrinelle and I can assure you that there was nothing improper in them. I told my daughter that she had no reason to worry, but Merrinelle was quite the Tragedy Jane, all full of the most minatory ideas of his fate, each more fantastic than the last. Her father and I poo-pooed her fears at first, but when mid-August came and went and there was nothing more, not even a note or a card saying that he was returning to England to take ship for home, I began to be uneasy. So long a silence is very unlike GAD. Until then, he had been punctilious in keeping Merrinelle informed of his plans, and told her about his travels in great detail. I took the liberty of sending a note to Isadora, asking if she had any news of him.”
“What did she say?”
Missus Butterworth hesitated before she answered. “She did not reply to me, which I took as an indication that she was as apprehensive as I was.”
Poppy scribbled down as much of all Missus Butterworth said as she could. “Was that letter, the one in July, the last communication of any kind that Merrinelle had with GAD?”
“Yes. I wasn’t entirely sure at first, as you may surmise; Merrinelle is not above creating a grand scenario for herself, especially where GAD is concerned, but I’m satisfied that there were no clandestine letters between them, and that Merrinelle had not undertaken to write to him privately.” She paused, as if expecting another question, then decided to explain. “Trodling brings in the mail every day, and I see every letter that comes into the house.”
Poppy nodded to herself: Olympia Butterworth, like Aunt Jo, was another member of the old school when it came to raising daughters, although Poppy had to admit that with a girl as excitable as Merrinelle seemed to be, the precautions her mother had taken might have been sensible. She recalled her purpose, and said to Missus Butterworth, “I apologize; I’m taking notes so that I don’t misquote you.”
“A sensible precaution,” Missus Butterworth approved. “So far your questions have been unexceptionable.”
“Thank you,” said Poppy, more out of good manners than truth. “Can you tell me what GAD said to Merrinelle in his last letter?”
Missus Butterworth thought about this briefly. “He was leaving Vienna to join a group of refugees in a kind of encampment somewhere northeast of Vienna. He mentioned the name of the place, but I can’t call it to mind just now. He had hopes of doing a book about them—the Living Spectres, as they call themselves—upon his return. He was upset that there had been so little attention paid to their fate, what with the Great War and all, and he wanted the world to learn how horridly the Armenians had been treated. So many of them were killed, you see, by the Ottoman Turks, apparently because they remained faithful to their Armenian Orthodox Church, since some of the same treatment was meted out to a few Greek Orthodox as well, but not on the order of magnitude of what was done to the Armenians, almost a decade ago. Now that the Ottoman Empire is officially ending, I expected that there would be more information about the Armenians, but that has not been the case, and GAD was most distressed. The Living Spectres are in dire straits. They aren’t violent people, GAD told us. Their demonstrations are orderly and silent. They seek only a place to live in safety. GAD is doing what he can to advocate for them, to bring their predicament to the attention of Europe. Merrinelle had expressed a desire to join him, to assist him in his work with the Avaikian group, but, as you may conceive, her father and I discouraged such notions at once. The poor girl sulked for days.”
“That must have been a difficult time for you,” said Poppy, still scribbling. “I know that girls her age can be very…fixed in their—”
“Nothing that we haven’t gone through with her in the past, on a lesser scale, of course. But this was more troubling, because the long wait for her to receive GAD’s next letter became disheartening for all of us, and I began to share my daughter’s fear that something may have befallen GAD beyond the usual hazards of foreign travel.”
“Would you be willing to tell me your impression of GAD, as a young man? Did you find him sensible, or likeable, or what?”
At this, Missus Butterworth’s voice warmed. “You know him, don’t you? He is charming in an odd way; a bit shy and thoughtful, not like the ramshackle young men one sees about town all too often these days. He has a pleasant manner and a good understanding about the world, in the larger sense. I’m afraid that Mister Butterworth would not agree with me on that point: he found GAD a bit too much the idealist for his taste, but he had nothing against the boy. He told GAD to his face that he was ill-prepared to shoulder the responsibilities of the Pearse fortune, and to his credit, GAD agreed with him. That improved Mister Butterworth’s opinion of GAD no end. I do hope nothing has happened to him, whether or not his intentions toward Merrinelle are serious.”
Still taking notes, Poppy asked, “What do you think has happened to GAD? Do you have any particular view about it?”
“On the one hand, I wish I knew, but on the other, I’m afraid of what I might learn.” She cleared her throat. “I hope this lack of communication is nothing that he is directly responsible for, that he has become too isolated to be able to send letters home, but I realize it could be that much worse than anything that has ha—”
Poppy heard Missus Butterworth’s voice break, and said, “I do understand, Missus Butterworth. I won’t keep you; I know this has been an imposition on you, and I’m grateful that you were willing to talk to me. I hope that you hear something from GAD before more time goes by. I know his mother is deeply distressed.” She cursed silently as the point of her pencil broke. At least, she told herself, it waited until now to do it. She would have to organize and type up her notes for Lowenthal in any case. She sighed. It as a small consolation for a minor annoyance, but she was glad to have it.
“You’ve been most respectful,” said Missus Butterworth. “I’m afraid we won’t have your level of courtesy from all the press in the coming days.”
“Sadly, you’re very likely right.” said Poppy, and heard Missus Butterworth hang up without a farewell. She replaced the receiver on its hook and sat for a few minutes, her mind almost blank. Then she stood up and went to the kitchen, where she found Missus Sassoro preparing a half-dozen potatoes for boiling.
“Afternoon, Miss Poppy,” said the cook, wiping her hands on the dish-towel and turning on the water in the sink. “I’m doing a small turkey—it’s in the oven now—and making mashed potatoes. I always add some milk to the water—it improves the flavor, to my mind. The left-over turkey will be a nice cold supper tomorrow, with enough for the cat, when I’m off. And there’s lettuce for a salad.”
“I thought we’d be having left-overs tonight,” said Poppy, thinking of all the bowls and platters in the refrigerator.
“Don’t worry about that, Miss; there’s plenty of them to go around for a few days; I don’t want you to get tired of them. I’ll be putting out the sweet onion relish and some of the chopped spinach tonight, as a condiment and a side-dish. Tomorrow, as I said, you’re on your own.” There was a minuscule hesitation. “Mister
Sassoro and I will be taking our children to the flickers, after church.”
“I should think that Aunt Esther and I can manage to put together a couple of sandwiches, and reheat the Lima beans in your absence.” said Poppy, perplexed by the way Missus Sassoro had told her about her Sunday plans. “Can you spare a moment to make me a cup of black tea? I can put the kettle on, if you’d rather continue with supper.” As she said this, she realized that she would never have made such an offer to Missus Boudon: Aunt Jo’s cook would be scandalized at this suggestion, and would be deeply affronted by the implication that she could not handle all her duties in the kitchen.
“Nothing to it. I’ll attend to it right now.” She removed the pot from the sink, poured in milk from the glass bottle on the central table, placed the peeled potatoes in the pot of milky water and carried it to the stove where she put it down on one of the front burners, then picked up the large water kettle on the rear burner. “Just as I thought. It wants refilling.” She took it to the sink, removed the lid, and turned on the cold-water tap. “It’s not good for the kettle to go dry,” she remarked as she carried the kettle back to the stove and put it back on the rear burner. Taking a match from the box and lighting it, she set it first to the front burner, then to the rear, standing back as each burner whooshed into a ring of small, blue flames. “There you are. I’ll have a pot ready for you in ten minutes; as I recall, you prefer the Assam. Would you want anything more with that, or is tea all you’d like?”
“If you have any of your excellent pound cake left, a slice of that would be nice. I’ll be in the study. I still have some work to do.”
“Yes, Miss Poppy.” She was about to go on to the next stage of her cooking when she snapped her fingers. “Oh, by the way, I found your cat in the pantry not half an hour ago; he was investigating a likely mouse-hole under the storage shelves. I left him to it, but I’m sure he’ll come out for turkey-trimmings.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 23
