Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Good evening,” said a voice that Poppy had not been expecting to hear.

  “Genevieve?” Poppy asked, surprised that neither the butler nor the housekeeper had picked up the receiver. “This is Poppy Thornton.”

  Genevieve Pearse made a squeak of recognition. “Poppy. How are you? I’ve been following your stories in the Clarion. Gosh.”

  “Is that a good gosh, or a bad gosh?” Poppy asked, rapidly revising her plans for dealing with the Pearses; she came close to smiling as she heard a crackle of static on the line.

  Genevieve laughed. “A good gosh, of course. Are you calling about GAD?”

  Poppy was relieved at Genevieve’s understanding. “Actually, yes, I am. I’m very glad you answered the phone.” This next part she knew would be tricky. “I’ve had some news from…a colleague of mine, about GAD. This colleague has connections in Eastern Europe, and he sent me a…clipping from the paper in Brno, and I was hoping to get your parents’ opinion of it.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Fortunately he provided a translation.”

  Genevieve took a sharp breath. “My mother and father are out tonight—they’re dining with Senator Cummings. Mother wanted to cancel, but father—well, you know what he’s like. He told her that she must come with him. Do you want me to tell them that you called?”

  Poppy’s thoughts ran ahead of her tongue so rapidly that she almost stuttered when she answered. “I d-don’t th-think I can wait,” she replied. Then, as if the idea were new to her, Poppy said, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to listen to me and pass on what I tell you to Sherman and Isadora? That way, one or the other of them can give me a call in the morning.”

  “That would be hunky-dory,” said Genevieve in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Thanks,” said Poppy, and readied her comments and questions for GAD’s favorite sister. “I gather you know that GAD is in jail in Brno?”

  “I do. We all do,” said Genevieve.

  “And have you heard that GAD is at risk for being charged with attempted murder?” Poppy asked, more carefully.

  “I thought it was inciting a riot,” said Genevieve, clearly shocked.

  “Both charges are being discussed,” said Poppy. “The thing is, there’s a problem with the magistrates in Brno: they want GAD out of their city, and country. The charges may be dropped if GAD leaves Czechoslovakia, and in fairly short order. They—the magistrates—want assurances that GAD will return to the US as soon as possible.” She paused to let this sink in. “The trouble is that GAD can’t afford passage, and your father—”

  “—won’t provide it,” Genevieve finished Poppy’s sentence for her. “I know all about that. Mother is very upset about that, which only makes father more obdurate. Everyone but Tatiana is walking on eggs because of it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Poppy said quite sincerely. “Do you know that GAD wants to remain in Eastern Europe with the Living Spectres for a year, so he can write a book about them?”

  “No,” Genevieve exclaimed. “Good gracious, why?”

  “I think it’s because he believes that no one in this country is concerned about what happened to the Armenians of the Ottoman Empire in 1915 and 1916. There were very few who escaped the massacre of their people, and those who did have been displaced refugees who are not welcome in most of Europe.” Poppy paused, to give Genevieve a chance to comment; when Genevieve remained silent, Poppy went on, “Hasn’t he said something about this in his letters home?”

  “Yes, but father said that GAD is exaggerating, trying to make a case for his irresponsible behavior,” said Genevieve.

  “Well, excuse my bad manners, but that’s absurd. GAD is sincere and is willing to put his freedom, and possibly his life, on the line for Father Avaikian’s group. That’s a very courageous thing to do, whether you agree with GAD or not,” said Poppy, with feeling.

  There was another brief burst of static on the line.

  “Do you know this for sure?” Genevieve asked.

  “Close enough to for sure,” said Poppy. “I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  There was a second of silence from Genevieve, then she whispered, “Then why does father keep saying that GAD’s making too much over these Armenians?”

  Poppy answered honestly. “I wish I knew, Gigi. GAD’s doing everything your father claims to admire: standing up for the down-trodden, speaking out against injustice, and all the other civic virtues. You know him much better than I do.”

  “I thought I did,” said Genevieve softly.

  Poppy decided that she had said enough; Genevieve was upset and Poppy had no wish to make her distress worse. “Anyway, I’d like to know what has brought your father to his intractable position, because he is putting GAD at greater risk than is necessary. If you’d be kind enough to tell your parents what I’ve told you, and ask them to call me to provide a comment, I’d be most grateful.”

  Genevieve said something almost inaudible, then dared to raise her voice. “This source who provided this information—your colleague? Is he reliable?”

  Poppy listened to the static for a second, and answered, “For the time I’ve known him, he’s never steered me wrong.”

  “All right,” said Genevieve. “I’ll talk to mother and father when they return tonight. How early may they call you in the morning?”

  “Here, after seven am; at work, after eight-thirty. I’ll be leaving the house a little after eight.” She paused. “Thanks, Gigi. I hope this works out.”

  “So do I,” said Genevieve, and without waiting for any leave-taking, hung up.

  Poppy replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat in the alcove for a minute or two, reviewing everything that had been said. She half-expected Holte to semi-appear to talk over what she and Genevieve had said. When that did not happen, she rose from the small telephone table and went into the parlor to wait for the arrival of her aunt, and any news from the National Geographic Society about the funding of her journey up the Amazon.

  FORTY

  AUNT ESTHER STUDIED THE PHOTOGRAPH THROUGH NARROWED EYES. “I WISH the focus had been a little bit better, but I have to agree with you, Poppy: it’s either Stacy or his doppelganger, and I don’t believe in doppelgangers.” She had read through the various reports and other documents, and now thumbed through them one last time. “What was the name he gave the photographer again?”

  The clock in the entry hall struck six-thirty; neither Poppy nor Esther paid it any attention.

  “Esteban Driscoll, claimed to be from Arizona. He said most of his friends call him Steve. He had a passport that confirmed what he was saying.” Poppy found this new development in the search for Stacy a bit off-putting; the idea of shedding one identity for another struck her as distasteful. “But Esteban Driscoll seems so…artificial.”

  “It’s quite a western affectation, I agree, but it has its uses. E. D. It would match any monograms he might have on his clothing and luggage, and Esteban sounds a lot like Stacy without being obvious. I never thought he wasn’t intelligent, but the uses he turns his brains to—” Esther looked around the parlor “Goodness, it’s getting late. I would have thought we’d have finger-food by now. I wonder if I should venture into the kitchen to find out what’s going on?”

  “You could pour us both a drink—I’m feeling ready for one, after going through all this paperwork.” Poppy began to gather up the papers and photograph and return them to their manila envelope.

  “We should have something to eat,” Esther said, and smiled a little as Maestro dashed through the kitchen door, into the dining room, and finally slowing down in the parlor; there were sounds of dropping metallic things in the kitchen, and exclamations of distress. “You know, I didn’t much like the idea of a cat in the house when he first arrived, but he’s grown on me. And Missus Sassoro says he’s caught over eight mice since he’s been allowed run of the house, so he’s earning his keep. He actually deigned to allow me to scratch his chin yesterday. I’ve been honored, I guess.
” She got up from her chair and went to the high-boy to retrieve two bottles and two glasses. “I’m assuming you want cognac?”

  “Yes, please,” said Poppy, watching Maestro curl up on the ottoman.

  Aunt Esther had just finished pouring their drinks when Miss Roth burst into the sitting room, a tray in her hands with two covered dishes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Miss Thornton.” She was slightly out of breath. “We had a problem in the kitchen; that’s why we chased the cat out. It’s taken care of now, but it’ll put dinner back half an hour. I’m so sorry.”

  “What on earth happened?” Esther asked, picking up the two glasses to make room for Miss Roth to put the tray on the coffee table.

  “One of the pot-holders caught fire, and it spread a bit before Missus Sassoro and I got it out. For a little while, I wished we’d had a garden hose in the kitchen, but it would have made a soggy mess, so it’s just as well there wasn’t one. There’s some smoke-tracks on the wall, and the paint on one of the counters blistered, but there’s nothing more drastic than that.” Having taken a step back after setting down the tray, Miss Roth looked ready to bolt from the room.

  “Where was the pot-holder, that it could catch fire?” Esther asked with no show of distress.

  “It was on the counter next to the stove,” said Miss Roth. “As near as we can figure, the hanging loop was near enough to the burner that it smoldered and then charred and…” Her words trailed off.

  “Ye gods, didn’t you smell it?” Poppy wanted to know.

  “With salmon baking, and French onion soup about to go into bowls with cheese, a little charring wasn’t easily detected. I am sorry, Miss Thornton. So is Missus Sassoro.”

  “What else are we having, beyond the salmon and the soup?” Poppy asked, wanting to help calm Miss Roth.

  “A cabbage boiled in milk with pine-nuts, and rum-baba for dessert,” said Miss Roth, glad not to have to talk about their attempts to restore order to the kitchen. “There was going to be a side-dish of deep-fried potato croquettes, but I’m afraid they’re a total loss.”

  “I suppose there was a grease-spatter around the burners that would account for the pot holder bursting into flame?” Esther asked. “I gather the pot-holder is a dead loss too, and perhaps the deep-fryer as well?”

  “Yes, Miss Thornton. The hanging-loop was next to the deep-fryer, which was starting to spit. It must have had enough oil on it to be vulnerable to the burner. It and the deep-fryer will have to be replaced.” Miss Roth summoned up her courage and said, “If you need to take the cost of the loss of food and equipment and any repainting that needs to be done out of my salary, go right ahead. I should have been more alert. Missus Sassoro had her hands full. I should have noticed—”

  “Miss Roth, I’m not going to do anything so paltry.” Aunt Esther sounded a bit bored. “Work out what needs to be done and give me a list tomorrow evening, if you would. Right now, once the basic damage is cleaned up, there’s not much more any of us can do until Galliard has a look at it, and that won’t be until Sunday night. The house didn’t burn down around us, you and Missus Sassoro took matters into your own hands successfully, and all I need to think about now is dinner being a little late on an evening when I have nothing more planned than finishing work on my revised journey’s budget.” She studied Miss Roth’s face, looking for indications that she was regaining her composure. “Would you like me to inspect the kitchen?”

  “Thank you Miss Thornton, not yet; by the time you finish your dinner, the kitchen will be more presentable,” said Miss Roth, sounding almost like her usual self. “I’ll go tell Missus Sassoro that you’re willing to have dinner postponed.” She almost ran from the parlor, leaving Esther and Poppy to remove the covers on the dishes.

  Esther took a generous swig of brandy. “God, I hate fires.”

  Poppy was a bit surprised at this announcement. “You didn’t sound like it.” Poppy removed the lid from the nearer plate and uncovered a half-dozen pastry shells filled with chopped baby clams in cream sauce with minced scallions and pepper.

  “You don’t imagine that I’d have strong hysterics in front of the staff, do you?” Esther took umbrage at the very thought.

  “No, but I would sympathize if you did,” Poppy said, setting the lid aside. “What’s under the other lid?”

  “Celery sticks stuffed with cashew-butter, by the look of it. Not quite up to Missus Sassoro’s standards, but since she stopped the house burning down, I won’t complain.” Esther took more brandy and reached for the bottle to refill her glass. “I’m a bit shaken. You start on the finger- food. I’ll need to get a little more brandy into me before I’ll trust my stomach with food.”

  Poppy was feeling a bit jittery herself, and had a taste of her cognac. “It’s a frightening thought, being in a burning building.”

  Esther made a determined effort to get beyond her quaking nerves. “The world is filled with things that are frightening; they’re all around us. We might be killed at any moment by any number of accidents or calamities: lightning could strike, an auto might hit you as you walk down the street, you could choke on a fish-bone, an aeroplane might fall out of the sky, a cut finger could lead to deadly infection, you could slip on a muddy patch and crack open your skull, you could be bitten by a venomous serpent, and so forth. Any sensible person is aware of the risks, but learns not to dwell on them. That doesn’t mean we ought to succumb to those fears, as you well know. We should get on with living and do our best to disregard the hazards of mortality.” She had another go at her brandy. “I’ll be better shortly.”

  Poppy took one of the pastry shells and had a tentative bite of it, agreeing as she did that it was not up to Missus Sassoro’s standards. “Still, it’s pretty tasty.”

  Esther took another, smaller sip and put her glass down. “Let me have one of those shells. I don’t think I can stand the crunch of celery yet.”

  “The cream sauce is a little bland, even with the pepper,” Poppy said as she held the plate out in Esther’s direction.

  “Consider me warned,” said Esther, taking one. “I’ll inspect the kitchen after we have dinner, in case there’s something still too hot in there.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Poppy offered as she put the plate back down.

  “No reason to; I’m not a poltroon, you know.” She bit into the pastry shell, and said around its flaking edges. “I see what you mean. Bland.”

  “The texture is nice,” said Poppy, trying to mitigate her criticism.

  Esther nodded, then swallowed. “It has been a trying few days for her, and the rest of us.”

  Poppy did not respond for a short while, and when she did, she asked, “Do you think we’re ever going to find Stacy? The photograph doesn’t help us find him, does it?”

  “I think that depends on Stacy; if he’s arrogant enough not to change his appearance again, then perhaps our Department of State can circulate his likeness throughout South America and find a way to bring him back,” said Esther, wiping her fingers. “Why do you ask? Do you want him found, or not?”

  “I don’t know,” said Poppy, and watched the lamp on the high-boy flicker. “If I could be certain that he would be held to account for what he has done, then yes, I would. But I don’t want him back if he’s going to find some way to squirm away from any charges brought against him. I’d rather be frustrated than abashed.”

  “That may require you to testify against him in open court,” Esther warned. “Jo would be infuriated if you did that.”

  “I know, and I wouldn’t like either her wrath or the exposure of the court. But without my testimony, his conviction would not be a sure thing—and it might not be assured with it—but given that the others he may have succeeded in killing can’t appear in court, I would have to undertake to represent them all.” She remembered what Holte had told her about Stacy, about how many deaths he had caused, and she shuddered.

  “It isn’t only the murders that could earn him prison time.
If the federal government gets its hands on him, he won’t be able to wriggle out of the charges against him; you can rest assured of that. There’s too much evidence of wrong-doing for him to claim he didn’t understand what was going on. Fraud, along with forged documents, and cheating on Customs with those counterfeit antiques; that’s not acceptable.” Aunt Esther shook her head vigorously. “You’re right: they might not be able to get him for his attempt to kill you, but I don’t think he’ll get off scott-free. That’s assuming he’s caught at all. He could end up on the run for a long time.”

  “That bothers me, too. If he plans to spend his life avoiding capture, who knows if we can find a way to…” Her words faded, and she sighed.

  “Yes. It’s a daunting prospect.” Esther had another sip of brandy, and said, “You’ve hardly touched your cognac. At least try to swallow a little of it.”

  “If you like,” said Poppy, and dutifully had some. “Have you heard from Aunt Jo about any of this?”

  “Not a word since the post card incident. Josephine Dritchner, who in her way is as much his victim as anyone, is still locked on the conviction that Stacy has done nothing wrong, and she despises me for my doubts on that issue. There are times a sister is a more obdurate opponent than any man I can think of.” Esther took another of the pastry shells. “For an improvisation, these aren’t too bad, once you get used to them.”

  “What about the celery sticks?” Poppy asked.

  “Not yet. I’m still too queasy from Miss Roth’s account of fire in the kitchen. Would you like some?”