Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes; he’s been adamant about that. He wants to remain in Europe for another year, and to makes sure the Living Spectres are successfully established, wherever that might be. He plans to write a book about his experiences with them. I’m going to tell Loring about it in my next report. The magistrates in Brno aren’t too pleased with GAD’s literary ambitions, and I fear that if I mention it to Mister Pearse that he might disown the lad.” Blessing stared down at his notes. “I can’t decide how to present the court’s decision to Mister Pearse. I doubt he’s going to like anything I can tell him about the proceeding; he already thinks that I’ve bungled my mission. Do you have any suggestions in that regard?”

  “Not just at present,” said Holte, and made up his mind that this was another thing to take up with Poppy when he got back to Philadelphia.

  “So tell me,” said Blessing with a feigned indifference, “is your current hauntee willing to print such a letter in her paper?”

  “It isn’t up to her, it’s up to her editor, and it will depend on the letter itself, I reckon.” Holte cogitated for a few seconds. “If it’s full of recriminations and justifications, I’d guess Lowenthal would turn it down—or the paper’s attorneys would. If it’s informational and not obviously self-serving, then I think there’s a chance that Lowenthal would accept it.”

  “Would you mind if I pass those suggestions along to GAD, presenting them as my own? I don’t want to try to describe you to GAD—I’d have no credibility left with him by the time I’d finished.” Blessing shrugged, and turned his thoughtful gaze in Holte’s direction. “I think GAD should know how to present his experiences.”

  “Go ahead; tell him it’s your idea. Stress the importance of tone in editorials,” said Holte. “Something along more in sorrow than in anger lines.”

  “Yes.” Blessing made a note to himself.

  “Will the magistrates ultimately allow GAD to remain for a year, do you think?” Holte asked after a brief silence.

  “I have no idea. I doubt they’ll agree to allowing him to stay anywhere in the vicinity of Brno. I don’t really understand the Czech soul very well,” Blessing told him.

  “Are you going to advocate for GAD’s plan?” Holte pursued.

  “I’m leaning that way, but it might be out of my hands. Mister Pearse is considering sending one of his attorneys here to—as he puts it—talk sense to GAD and the court.” He let his breath out slowly and stared up at the ceiling. “I hope he changes his mind.”

  “I take it you don’t think that would help,” said Holte.

  “Not at all. GAD would get his back up even more than it is, and he would take a more pugnacious stance against whatever his father does; he’s the right age to do that, and in my opinion, Mister Pearse is asking for it, as the Yanks say. If GAD gets too pugnacious, the magistrates might reconsider their decision and put him back in jail with all charges in place, and then we would be in a stew.” Blessing noticed that he had ink on the tip of his right index finger. “Blasted pen’s been leaking.”

  “Are all the parts properly screwed together?” Holte asked.

  “I ought to check,” Blessing said.

  Holte rose from the table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I don’t envy you your position. I trust you’ll find a solution all the parties can live with.”

  “Thanks ever so,” said Blessing sarcastically. “Are you planning on coming back this way any time soon?”

  “In a day or so, I will, unless something comes up. In the meantime, I’ll find out as much as I can in Philadelphia, so I’ll have useful information to provide, in appreciation for all you’ve done.” He waved his insubstantial hand, and was out through the roof, moving at ghostly speed, following the sunset westward, and emerged in front of Poppy’s desk at the Clarion about three in the afternoon, to find Poppy reading through a stack of papers, with a photograph propped on her typewriter’s keyboard. “That’s the photograph the Department of State thinks is Stacy?” he asked softly, and heard her give a little yelp. “Apologies for my abrupt arrival,” he added.

  “Something spicy in all those pages,” Gafney caroled out, waving his cigarette suggestively. “Why not share it with the rest of us, honey?”

  “Something confusing; not nearly as salacious as you’d like,” Poppy said, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Where have you been?”

  “In the dimension of ghosts and in Brno, and I have news from both places,” he told her. “Do you want to postpone hearing what I have to tell you until you’re in your auto?”

  “Um-hum,” she said.

  “Shall I leave you to your work?”

  “Um-hum,” she repeated, surreptitiously eyeing Gafney to see what he might be up to.

  “Is the Hudson in its usual place?”

  Poppy stared at Holte and nodded.

  “I’ll see you there a little after five, why don’t I?”

  “Um-hum,” she said again.

  Holte was already headed for the window, looking like a large smattering of dust motes as he went. Only when he was outside the building did he realize that he had not found out if she thought the photograph was Stacy or not. Something else to discuss on the way home, he told himself, and drifted on toward the Mayes Brothers store, three blocks away; it would be a good place to pass the time.

  THIRTY-NINE

  IT WAS NEARLY FIVE-THIRTY WHEN POPPY LEFT THE CLARION. SHE HAD PUT ON her raincoat against the rising wind, and her hair had become a tousled mess by the time she got into the driver’s seat. She set down her purse and briefcase before starting the engine, reviewing all the things she had written so far for the Department of State messenger, who would return in the morning to collect the file along with her comments on the various documents that had accompanied the photograph.

  “Good evening,” said Holte from the general area behind her.

  This time she was not startled; she turned around and could just make out a partial outline of Holte reclining two inches above the actual seat. “Good evening to you,” she said pleasantly as she adjusted the choke. “It seems that you’ve been busy today.”

  “In my way, yes, I have.” He came through from the back, taking his place in the passenger seat, about two inches below the upholstery. “What would you like to know first?”

  “Is there any progress in GAD’s situation?”

  Holte chose his words carefully. “That’s uncertain as yet, but there are negotiations going on that should help get the case settled, providing no one does anything foolish. That’s the reason that Blessing is eager to keep Mister Pearse, or any of his underlings, out of Czechoslovakia their presence is more likely to exacerbate the situation than resolve it; GAD is not yet completely out from under the attempted murder charge. The locals have closed ranks around a young group of hooligans, and will not balk at keeping GAD in jail for years to justify their loyalty. But as things stand now, there is reason for cautious optimism.” He saw Poppy nod. “So far, it looks like it can work out to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  “Is GAD still planning to send a letter to me for the Clarion to publish, or is that up in the air?” She rolled down her window and signaled with her arm that she was going to pull out into the alley even as she pressed in the clutch and put the Hudson in gear.

  “That’s one of the things that’s being negotiated; the magistrates want to send GAD home, but he wants to stay in Europe,” Holte noticed that Poppy had not yet turned on her headlights, and so pointed that out to her. “There is another wrinkle in all this: I gather from Blessing that Mister Pearse is not willing to pay GAD’s passage home, and there could be a problem there. I don’t know if that is contingent upon any conditions laid down by Mister Pearse, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “How like Sherman Pearse,” said Poppy, turning on her headlights. “Better.”

  “Mister Pearse is also threatening to send an attorney to Brno to take on the magistrates, but with what goal in mind, I can’t imagine. Blessing doesn’t think that�
��s a good idea.” Holte moved forward through the front seat so that Poppy wouldn’t be tempted to look into the back seat while she was driving.

  “What’s involved in getting GAD released? What you’ve said up til now sounds worrisome. Is it more than a question of bringing him back across the Atlantic, or persuading the Czechs to release him?” asked Poppy, frowning. She had slowed to get around a double-parked Oakland. “I wish drivers wouldn’t do that. It ruins the flow of traffic.”

  “There aren’t any open spaces on this side of the block,” Holte remarked. “I don’t think the driver cares about the flow of traffic.”

  “Anything more about GAD?” Poppy asked, uninterested in excuses for the Oakland’s driver. “Is he still in jail?”

  “He hadn’t been released when I left Brno,” Holte answered cautiously.

  “But arrangements are on-going?” She dropped down to second gear and eased into position to pass the Oakland; it was going to be a tight squeeze.

  “Nothing is fixed, though they are close. Blessing has been appealing to the magistrates to agree to let GAD remain—which GAD wants to do—but with the Living Spectres, outside of the city. I think I told you he plans to write a book about them?”

  “He just might do it; of all his family, he’s the one most capable of it,” said Poppy, half enthusiastically, half uneasily. “Anything else?”

  Holte took a half-dozen seconds to decide how to broach the matter; he took the direct approach. “While I was in the dimension of ghosts, I saw Warren Derrington.”

  “Warren Derrington? Are you sure?” Poppy tapped her horn as she inched around the Oakland.

  “We may be noncorporeal, but we do have ways of recognizing one another,” Holte said, a touch of stiffness creeping into his manner.

  Poppy held up one hand. “I didn’t mean anything against your noncorporeality. I merely meant that you only saw him once or twice, and both times were brief.”

  “True enough. When I asked him if he were Derrington, he said yes, and some of what he told me was persuasive. It’s Warren Derrington, all right. And he’s a bit disoriented. Nothing odd about that.”

  She hesitated, then made herself ask, “I take it this means that he’s dead?”

  “In Cuba, fairly recently,” Holte confirmed. “He died while in the hospital, recovering from injuries he received due to the hurricane. He’s not much good on time.”

  “I understand that time is problematic for ghosts,” said Poppy. “What happened?”

  Holte summarized what he had learned from Derrington, ending with, “It’s possible that Stacy killed him. He told me he either saw or dreamed he saw Stacy and very shortly thereafter left his body.”

  “Stacy killed Knott and Derrington?” Poppy sounded perplexed.

  “If Derrington is remembering correctly, which isn’t necessarily the case, but it seems likely. His account fits with the facts as you know them. That may not be conclusive, but at least it explains a number of things.” He saw that she was attempting to think this through. “I’ll find out more as Derrington becomes accustomed to his new existence, but for now, I’m willing to believe him, and say for certain that Stacy killed Knott. I’m going to reserve judgment about Stacy killing Derrington.”

  “I hate to say it, but that sounds like Stacy, doesn’t it?” Poppy said.

  “Unfortunately, it does.”

  Holte’s agreement gave Poppy an instant of baffled resentment, followed at once by a deep sense of vindication. She shifted into third gear and picked up speed. “If only there were some way I could tell Loring about this.”

  Holte had anticipated this, and was ready with a response. “I’d hold off a while, if I were you, at least until I can nail down some provable factors that he could investigate. If you mention what you know now, it would only lead to more unanswerable questions, and there are quite enough of them already.”

  Poppy took a different tack. “Does Derrington know where Stacy is? Or Louise, for that matter?” She signaled for a left turn.

  “If he does, he didn’t mention it,” Holte told her. “And even if he does, that information could become out of date quickly. I have a feeling that Stacy isn’t in a hurry to put down roots. He might be en route to Valparaiso, or Lima, or Tahiti, for that matter.”

  “I know,” Poppy said. She slowed for the stop sign at the end of the block. “I wish we had better information on where he was going, or with whom.”

  Taking his cue from her, Holte said, “I don’t know if he and Louise are together, or ever were, once they left this country.”

  “Overstreet doesn’t know about that, does he?” Poppy slammed on her brakes as a man on a bicycle appeared in the cross-street ahead; she honked her horn. “Those contraptions should have headlights.”

  “No argument there,” said Holte.

  “Is there any reason to hope that we can locate either Louise or Stacy without Overstreet’s help?” She sounded upset, and Holte could see why.

  “I haven’t come across Quentin Hadley in the dimension of ghosts yet, and I’ve never met his cousin, Nelson, so I’m at a loss as to where to go next, unless Overstreet can remember enough to set me on the right track.” Holte saw the tension in her shoulders, and added, “I’ll keep looking. Word of a Canadian.”

  “I hope you’re serious, because I’m unable to think of anything more to do.” Poppy looked glum. “What a coil we’re in.”

  In an effort to console her, Holte said, “You have the photograph, don’t you. What’s your opinion? Is it Stacy?”

  Poppy shuddered inwardly. “I want Aunt Esther to have a look at it, just in case. If it is Stacy, he’s gained weight, and changed the cut of his hair, and grown a moustache, but I’m almost positive it’s he. There. I’ve said it.”

  Holte mused a bit, then said, “A post card from Brazil and now a photo in Venezuela, as well as a possible appearance in Cuba.”

  “What do you make of it?” Poppy asked. “I think he’s up to something, but I can’t think what it would be.”

  “It’s likely he is,” said Holte as Poppy turned onto Aunt Esther’s street. “But what?”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure I won’t like it,” Poppy muttered. “It could mean that he had something to do with Derrington’s death. If he visited Derrington in the hospital, he might have done something to make sure that he kept his mouth shut.” As soon as she said this, she became convinced that was more than a guess, and she felt a spurt of both anger and guilt rise within her.

  Holte was about to second her words, but thought better of it, and remained silent for the next five minutes in the auto. Finally he said, “I may return to Brno tonight or tomorrow. I want to see how things are progressing.”

  “If they are progressing,” said Poppy.

  “Yes.” Holte paused. “I wonder if I might ask a favor of you—on GAD’s behalf?”

  Poppy did not answer at once. “What is it?”

  “I know you’ve experienced some…inconveniences in dealing with the Pearses, but if you could talk to Missus Pearse about the problem of GAD’s transportation home, work out something that the magistrates of Brno would accept—an open ticket on a reputable ship, perhaps?—that would make it possible for GAD to come home when he has his book completed, then I think it might be possible to get his charges reduced, and have him out of jail.”

  “What does Blessing think about this?” Poppy asked, rolling down the window to signal for a right-hand turn.

  “I haven’t mentioned it to him yet. I only thought of it just now. I would like to have your opinion before I speak with Blessing.” Holte hesitated, sorting out the possibilities that this solution might create. “Do you reckon that Missus Pearse would be amenable to talking with you about this?”

  Poppy shrugged. “No idea. I can phone her this evening, and see if she’ll talk to me at all. If she does, I can try to get an idea from her; she doesn’t want her son in jail, accused of murder, and that may give her some reason to stand up to
her husband without any hysterics or recriminations.”

  “Do you believe that’s possible?” Holte asked as Poppy picked up speed across the intersection.

  “I’m going to find out,” said Poppy. “Just as soon as I get home.”

  “Mind if I listen in?” Holte asked.

  “Mind? I’m expecting you to,” said Poppy as she turned into the long cul-desac that led up to Aunt Esther’s house. Poppy remained silent while she looked for a parking place, hoping that the one directly in front of the house had not yet been taken. She settled for the place across the street, set the brake, turned off both the lights and ignition, collected her purse and briefcase, got out of the Hudson, locked her door, and hurried across the street just as the porch light came on. As she reached the small porch, she heard a meow of greeting as Maestro ran up to strop himself on her legs.

  Before Poppy could bend down to scratch the cat, the door opened and Miss Roth said, “I saw you drive up, Miss Poppy. Come in.” She stepped back to allow Poppy access to the entry- hall; Maestro scooted ahead of her, and toddled off toward the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” said Poppy. “Is my aunt home yet?”

  “Not yet. I don’t expect her for another forty minutes,” said Miss Roth.

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll get into the proverbial something more comfortable,” said Poppy, and went up the stairs with her purse and brief-case in hand, planning what she would put on that would be both appropriate and less constricting than what she had on.

  After hanging up her coat, she got out of her suit, taking the time to examine the hem on the skirt before consigning it to the laundry bag. The jacket quickly followed the skirt, but she decided to keep the blouse. She took her black trousers off the hangar, considered them, and nodded approval. She then removed her silk stockings and garter-belt, then donned the merino-wool trousers. As she buttoned them up, she decided that her rope of pearls would be enough to make her ensemble dressy enough for dinner at home, and went to her jewelry box; she doubled the rope once and dropped it around her neck, taking the time to check her appearance in her pier mirror, and was about to go back downstairs to call Isadora Pearse when she decided to change out of her shoes in favor of a pair of black, low-heeled dancing pumps. Satisfied with the results of her activities, she descended the stairs, calling out as she reached the foot, “Miss Roth, I need to make a phone call. I shouldn’t be long.” Without waiting for an answer, she went into the phone alcove and gave the operator the Pearses’ home number.