“Good morning, Aunt Jo,” said Poppy, getting up to give her aunt a kiss on the cheek. “You didn’t have to rise early for me.”
“Yes. Well, we’ll see about that,” Josephine said, a bit obscurely.
“I’m sure we will, Aunt Jo,” said Poppy, used to her aunt’s early-morning pronouncements. She sat down again and had a bit more coffee.
“You were up late last night, weren’t you?” Josephine pursued. “Past midnight, no doubt.”
“Yes. I didn’t go to bed until about one-thirty,” said Poppy, aware of what was coming.
“I don’t know what to think,” Josephine declared. “When I was young, ladies didn’t keep such hours except after balls. You need your beauty sleep.”
“A lost cause, I’m afraid,” said Poppy, turning as Missus Boudon came in with her coddled eggs and toast. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll bring more coffee directly. And you, Missus Dritchner. What may I get for you this morning?”
Josephine pretended to think. “Well, it’s Wednesday, so oatmeal to start, with brown sugar and milk,” she said, as if this were a novel treat instead of what she had had almost every morning for sixty-four of her sixty-nine years. “Then two rashers of bacon and a basted egg. And a pot of strong, black tea: the English tea this morning, if you please.”
“Very good, ma’am,” said Missus Boudon, who whistled for Duchess as she went back into the kitchen.
“That woman is a treasure,” said Josephine.
“She is,” Poppy agreed, unscrewing the top of the egg-coddler and picking up her spoon.
The two women sat silently while Poppy ate her breakfast and Josephine opened the Constitution, the Philadelphia Clarion’s morning companion paper. It was a smaller, less modern publication than the evening newspaper of the Addison Newspaper Corporation; the Constitution put emphasis on business and political affairs, with six columns of type and no trace of banner-headlines.
“Oh, dear,” said Josephine as she skimmed page two. “I see that Judge Hammersmith has handed down another unpopular opinion. Not at all like Judge Flanders. Alfred used to go hunting with Judge Flanders.” Her late husband — now twelve years dead — had had a brother-in-law on the bench, and Josephine had retained her interest in such things for his sake. “Judge Flanders is more inclined to pay attention to public opinion than Judge Hammersmith has ever been.”
“Because Judge Hammersmith doesn’t answer to the public, he answers to the law and the Constitution,” said Poppy around a mouthful of buttered toast.
“So he claims,” Josephine said, clearly not accepting this explanation.
“And no doubt he’s had good reason to go against public sentiment,” Poppy couldn’t keep from adding.
“That’s his contention,” Josephine sniffed in open doubt, looking up as Missus Boudon brought her a bowl of oatmeal, a jug of milk and a small bowl of brown sugar, on a lacquered tray.
“Tea will be ready shortly.”
“Thank you, Missus Boudon.”
Missus Boudon offered another smile. “More coffee, Miss Poppy? Something more substantial.”
“Yes, coffee, please, and a glass of tomato juice if we have any to spare.”
“We do,” said Missus Boudon with a hint of disapproval.
Before the cook could leave the breakfast room, Josephine stopped her. “Oh, that sounds lovely. Will you bring me a glass, as well?”
“Certainly,” said Missus Boudon, as she went through the swinging door back into the kitchen.
“While you were up last night, did you notice anything unusual?” Josephine said rather abruptly, as if the question had only now snapped into her mind.
“Unusual how?” Poppy asked carefully.
“Oh, I don’t know. Odd. Peculiar. Uncanny.” She poured milk on her oatmeal. “Out of the ordinary.”
“Why do you ask?” Poppy felt a twinge of uncertainty now, and tried to decide how much to tell her aunt.
“Duchess was restless for an hour or so. Not in her usual way, meaning she wants a treat, or to be let out. No, this was more distressed, uneasy, fretful. I feared someone might have broken into the house. But it was nothing I could discover. What my grandmother called seeing spooks. No doubt that accounts for it.” She laughed to make it clear how ridiculous she thought this to be.
“Oh,” said Poppy, to show she was listening.
“I heard Maestro crying at one point, and I thought perhaps — ” She broke off as if she had said something rude. “It was probably some wild animal out at the dustbins, or perhaps a stray dog. Don’t you think?”
“It sounds plausible; there’re plenty of stray dogs around, and more than a few wild animals, although you wouldn’t expect them to come this far into town,” said Poppy, glad to agree on a topic more acceptable than she thought Chesterton Holte would be. “Or maybe it was a wandering raccoon. You know what nuisances they can be.”
“I gather you didn’t notice anything?” Josephine pursued.
“Nothing like that,” Poppy answered, uncomfortably aware of her evasion. “But I’m pretty preoccupied when I work.”
“I know, dear. It’s your father in you. He was like that from the time he was born: once something caught his interest, the rest of the world vanished. He spent half of my wedding reception watching tadpoles in the fishpond. Not even the promise of cake could tempt him away from the tadpoles.” She managed an uneasy smile, as she often did when talking about her youngest brother. “Esther encouraged him, of course,” she added, her disapproval of her older Suffragette sister turning her features to harsh lines.
“I remember how he worked; his concentration was prodigious,” said Poppy. “He could wrestle with details for hours.” She had been starting her junior year of high school when her father had left to cover the war in Europe, and she still recalled their last meeting with poignance.
Fortunately Missus Boudon chose that moment to return with a tray holding tea for Josephine and more coffee for Poppy, and two glasses of tomato juice, allowing the two women to interrupt what could rapidly become painful memories. “Tomato juice, as requested. When do you want your bacon, ma’am?”
“Ten minutes, I should think. I want to enjoy the oatmeal.” She smiled as she watched Missus Boudon leave the room.
Poppy added a little more sugar to her coffee and looked at her aunt. “I won’t be back until about eight-thirty tonight; if you don’t mind, have supper without me,” she said.
“Do you have an engagement?” Josephine asked hopefully.
“I’m meeting Mildred Fairchild at Wendover’s for an early dinner.”
“Mildred Fairchild — how nice,” Josephine approved faintly. “Please convey my regards to her and her mother.”
“I will,” said Poppy. She took a long sip of coffee and tried not to think about her freakish incident of the night before. Perhaps she’d tell Milly about it when she saw her. Then again, she thought, best not.
“I’ll let Missus Flowers know that you’ll be late. And Missus Boudon.” Josephine sighed in a display of ill-usage. “You don’t have to work, you know. Your father left you well provided for. I still think you should consider traveling.”
“I want to work, Aunt Jo.” It was a discussion that they had had often enough to have become a ritual. “I’d be crazed with boredom if I didn’t do something more than entertain and keep house, or spend my time on trains and ships. I like being a reporter; if I had to give it up, you might as well bring on the straight-jacket.”
“Entertaining and keeping house are excellent employments for any woman’s time,” said Josephine firmly. “And travel with the apposite companion is an appropriate occupation for a lady if she no longer has a household to keep: if you feel you must work, when you returned from Europe or Asia, you could write a book.”
“They may be the best, but I’m not suited for any of those things, and well you know it. I can’t plan a menu, I don’t care about inventories. I want to be useful, not decora
tive. Not at all characteristics most men are looking for. ” Poppy finished her coffee and wiped her mouth with her napkin, which she slipped back through its ring for use tomorrow morning, reached to the empty chair beside her to retrieve her briefcase and purse, then smoothed her skirt.
“How can you be certain, when you never give any of them a chance?” Josephine turned distressed eyes on Poppy as she rose from the table and came to kiss her aunt on the forehead. “Yes, it’s all very well for you to try to sweeten a bitter pill, but if you’re left an old maid, don’t put the blame on me. You’d think with Esther for an example, you’d understand — It’s not as if I haven’t tried to — ”
“ — make a proper lady of me, yes, Aunt Jo, you certainly have. And I adore you for it. But I haven’t the talents. You know I don’t.” She moved past the table and to the hall door. “I’ll call you later.”
“How do you know you haven’t the talents, when you’ve made no effort to acquire them?”
This was the stalemate position they always reached; Poppy abandoned the topic. “I hope you have many good things planned today.”
“The Jeffries and I are going to see to the new planting in the back garden, if the weather holds. And I’m expecting Eustace tomorrow evening, so I have to put his room in order for him.” There was a remote look in her eyes: whenever she mentioned either of her surviving sons — the oldest and the youngest — she also remembered Cosmo, who had been killed in the Great War at age thirty-four, and Reginald, who at twenty-eight had died of the ‘Flu.
At the mention of her cousin, Poppy smiled. “Ye gods, I forgot he was coming. How long does he plan to stay this time?” She came back to the table.
“I don’t know, precisely. I so rarely do with Eustace. He’s supposed to attend some sort of grand function at the Moncriefs on Friday, but I have no idea what his other plans may be. I’m assuming he will stay for the whole of the weekend, but he hasn’t let me know.” Fondness and vexation mixed in Josephine as she spoke of her perplexing youngest son, now thirty-two. “He’s been doing very well in New York, you know. International Business Associates is thriving.”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned that once or twice,” said Poppy, with a wonderfully straight face.
“He’s a very devoted son,” said Josephine with strong determination, as if she expected Poppy to argue with her.
“Yes, he is. And with such a mother as you, he should be.” She reached down for her cup and sipped the last of the coffee. “Sorry, Aunt Jo. I really have to leave, or I’ll miss the streetcar and be late into the office.”
“You could have Hawkins drive you in, or take a cab.”
“Aunt Jo, I need to know things about the streetcars and the buses, and the way most people travel about the city. Reporters don’t like to see one of their number riding about in high-style; it creates a bad impression.”
“But a lady shouldn’t have to — ”
Poppy held up her hand. “I’ve got to go. Lowenthal puts great importance in promptness, and I’ve been ordered to arrive early, and I need to be on my way.” This was as much regret as she was willing to express. “I don’t want to get on his bad side if I can help it. He would like to have an excuse to keep me on the society desk forever.” She picked up her brief-case. “Drink my tomato juice for me, if you please.” She offered her aunt an apologetic smile.
“Oh, all right,” said her aunt.
“Remember: I’ll call you after lunch.” It was her usual promise, and most of the time she kept it. “Have a pleasant morning.”
“We’ll have a dinner party while Eustace’s here; Missus Flowers and I will work out the details today, after I talk to Eustace,” Josephine called after Poppy. “You’ll be expected to attend.”
“That’s fine. Tell me when and I’ll make sure I’m here,” Poppy called back. She had paused at the coat closet to take out her raincoat, and, after a moment’s consideration, her umbrella, before she hurried out to the streetcar passenger kiosk, to begin her journey into the heart of Philadelphia and her work at the Philadelphia Clarion.
FOUR
CORNELIUS LOWENTHAL, SEATED BEHIND HIS CLUTTERED DESK, APPEARED massive, his large, square head with a choir-boy face, his barrel chest, and thick arms dominating his body. This was emphasized when he rose, for it revealed his short, skinny legs in well-cut trousers. His thinning, ruddy hair was already looking storm-tossed from his mauling it with his fingers; usually it took until after the morning meeting at ten o’clock for this to happen. “There you are, Thornton,” he said, stabbing his index finger in her direction a she came through the door to his office. He glanced at the clock on the wall: it read seven fifty-three. “Just made it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Poppy said, handing him her story on the Fine Books Society. “The auction information is in the third paragraph, as you stipulated. It and the next two can be used separately, if you like.”
Lowenthal took the four sheets of paper and glanced through them. “I’m going to cut half of this, you know.” He sat back down, his wooden office chair tipping with the force of his movement.
“Yes. I expect you will. But you said you wanted more information than you knew what to do with, and this gives you plenty,” Poppy reminded him, used to his intimidating exterior and aware that he was much more bark than bite. “So there you have it. Every scrap of information I could glean in three hours over tea.”
“That’s what I asked for,” he agreed, flipping through the pages again. “You sure about the names?”
“I checked the spellings twice. If you like, I can telephone their chairwoman and ask her to confirm them,” said Poppy, her mouth a little tight.
“Nope. That won’t be necessary. I’ll have Miss Stotter do it if there are any questions.” He sighed. “What’s your current assignment?”
“You haven’t given me one; you have the most recent in front of you,” Poppy reminded him. “Mister Pike’s secretary said you had one for me. She called me this morning.”
Lowenthal nodded and sighed again. “I do have an assignment or you — Pike and I agreed. Gafney is covering the Dales Warehouse arson investigation, Harris is on the Porto trial, and Westerman is out sick, worse luck. And anyway, he’s been assigned to the Chapin Street murders. Which leaves you.”
The mention of the second-rung crime reporter grabbed Poppy’s attention. “Is there a story you want me to cover? More than a bicycle theft? A real crime story?”
“I don’t want you to cover it — far from it — it’s not the way we like to do it, but sometimes press of circumstances — In this case it could be an advantage — and right now, you’re my only available reporter with any crime experience who isn’t already assigned,” he said. “The trouble is, it involves acquaintances of yours.”
“A crime involving my acquaintances?” she echoed, trying to think who this might be, and what it was about the crime that had so rattled her editor. She decided to try the direct approach. “What kind of crime?”
He stared at the framed photographs on the wall as if to remove himself from their discussion. “It’s a hell of a thing — a hell of a thing.” He shook his head, one hand tugging at his hair, creating more havoc. “You know the Moncriefs, don’t you?”
Poppy looked startled. Where had that come from? “If you mean Madison and Louise Moncrief, they’re friends of my cousin Eustace. I know them to say hello. Why do you ask?”
“I need you to get over to their house, and quickly. I take it you know where it is,” Lowenthal said, his rather prominent blue eyes evading hers.
“Yes, I know where it is,” said Poppy bluntly. “What’s this all about?”
“Well,” said Lowenthal slowly, “it seems that Madison Moncrief has hanged himself, according to the first reports. At least he was found dead this morning by the housekeeper; they say he was in the dining room. Used the chandelier, according to the police. It’s not exactly a crime, but it takes a crime reporter to cover it, just in case. Think you
can handle it, he being someone you know, that is.”
“The chandelier?” Poppy asked, appalled; the chandelier was a treasure of Viennese crystal and brass, originally fitted for gaslight, now electrified, and the pride of Madison and Louise’s house. “Ye gods.”
“The report didn’t say, it just gave the basics. Madison Moncrief found hanged in the dining room. Missus Moncrief was asleep in bed — on some kind of medication.”
“She’s recovering from a — she lost a pregnancy a little over a week ago; she’s only been home from the hospital for a few days, and from what I’ve heard, she’s been very upset: small wonder, considering,” said Poppy awkwardly, the whole implication of this catching up with her. “They were going to give some kind of party on Friday. I remember thinking she was awfully brave or awfully foolhardy to plan such an event so soon after her tragic loss. I can’t imagine that her physician would approve such a strenuous — ” She made herself stop babbling. “My cousin Eustace is arriving from New York to attend it.”
“It isn’t going to happen now,” said Lowenthal with certainty. “Not with Madison Moncrief dead.”
Poppy took a long, deep breath and steadied herself. “Do they know how — ? Could there have been foul play?” That seemed so much more plausible than Madison Moncrief committing suicide; foul play made his death much more acceptable. “Was there any sign of a break-in or other violence? Was there a note?”
“That’s what I want you to find out,” said Lowenthal. “I want a preliminary story by two. Get as much out of the police as they’re willing to give, and boil it down to the essentials, so we have it for the metropolitan edition. We’re not going to make the first edition on this one, but the second, yes, if you hurry. You can put together something more complete tomorrow; for now you need to get just basics from the cops, no speculation, unless it’s something shocking. For that, we can chase the paper if we have to, but I really don’t want to, not if it’s a suicide, which Wyman says it probably is, but coroners like suicides — over and done with quickly. If it turns out that’s what it is, I’ll save you three inches on page one, below the fold. If it’s murder, you’ll get four inches above the fold; our readers like murders, especially society murders.” He looked at the clock. “Seven minutes past eight. You better get going. You can draw taxi fare from petty cash on your way out. Hop to it.”
Haunting Investigation Page 3
