“Thank you. It’s been a shock. I never thought that Madison would do anything so — Mother’s been telling us that you have been one of the reporters on the case,” said Stacy.
“Yes, from the first,” said Poppy in a deliberately neutral voice. “I got the assignment early yesterday morning.”
“She went to the house while the police were there,” Aunt Jo said with a disapproving moue.
Derrington studied her face. “How unpleasant for you.”
Poppy managed not to say something dismissive and instead told him, “Crime often is, Mister Derrington.”
“Crime?” Stacy exclaimed; for once his smooth facade cracked a bit. “I thought they had decided it was suicide.”
“But it might not be suicide?” Derrington asked.
Poppy realized everyone was looking to her for an answer. “The coroner has yet to determine a cause of death, and the police are considering making an investigation. Once there is a finding on the cause of death, they’ll proceed appropriately,” she said, hoping it wasn’t too much information for the two men, that she hadn’t exceeded the limits Inspector Loring had imposed on her.
Maestro sauntered into the parlor, his fluffy tail held aloft like a flag.
“I told you Madison Moncrief couldn’t do away with himself,” Aunt Jo announced with an expression of triumph.
“Nothing is certain yet, Aunt Jo,” said Poppy, going to the smaller of the two couches that flanked the coffee table. She sat down, wishing she had decided to wear her new, low-heeled pumps home, so as to ease her feet. “We’re all waiting for Doctor Wyman to get the results of the tests he’s having made on Moncrief’s clothes.”
“So unsavory, to think that his clothes are being examined, to say nothing of his body,” Aunt Jo grumbled. She glanced toward the rear door. “Oh, where is Missus Boudon with the drinks and canapés?”
“Probably making allowances for my arrival in the food she’s preparing; I didn’t know I’d be home for dinner,” said Poppy. “And I apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” said Stacy. “I’m glad you were able to come home early.” There was just enough speculation in his tone to prompt Poppy to answer.
“Oh, it’s a trade-off. Lowenthal expects me to do a thirteen-hour day tomorrow, and so he’s letting me have a little extra time now.”
“Isn’t that a little high-handed?” Derrington asked.
“Not for a managing city editor, it’s not,” said Poppy. She was about to launch into a short description of the nature of her newspaper work when the double-doors opened again, and an angular fellow with tawny hair and chiseled features, in a conservative three-piece suit, burst in.
Maestro hissed and took refuge behind Josephine’s chair.
TEN
“WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE, TOBY?” STACY ASKED, AND WAS ANSWERED WITH A look that bordered on revulsion; Stacy smiled innocently.
“Do you have to ask? You, of all of us, should know, shouldn’t you?” Tobias inquired stiffly of Eustace. “Good afternoon, Aunt Josephine, Poppea.” He swung around to face the other man in the room. “And you’re — ?” he asked.
“Warren Derrington.” The two men shook hands warily. “A friend of Stacy’s from New York. We met at Haverford, Stacy and I. Dritchner, Derrington, you know how it is.” He tried to sound genial, but was unable to pull it off.
Tobias looked him over critically. “Tobias Thornton. I’m Missus Dritchner’s nephew and Poppea’s brother.”
“Not to be rude, Toby, but what are you doing here?” Stacy asked.
“You really are a knuckle-head, Eustace,” said Tobias. “This dreadful business with Madison Moncrief, of course. I thought even you would remember that I have some connection to the Moncriefs. His stepbrother, Russell, has come home to be with the family through this difficult time; his grandmother requested an escort for the lad, and I was assigned to accompany him, since I have relatives in the city and my stay to look after young Moncrief will not put a charge on Alexandrian Academy. I will have to be here for a week; the funeral hasn’t been scheduled yet.” He looked about importantly. “When I first arrived in the city three hours ago, I had planned to leave Russell with Louise, but when I saw Julian Eastley was at the house, I thought better of it and took the youngster along to his maternal grandfather and grandmother. They’re very close with Russell, you know, and have been since his grandparents took him in after his father and mother — Louise’s stepmother, you know — died of the ‘Flu.”
“Julian Eastley!” Derrington scowled at the name, ignoring the rest of Tobias’ account. “What on earth would he be doing at the house?”
“I don’t know. Neva’s with Louise, so his presence is only awkward instead of scandalous; I am aware that there are mitigating circumstances, and that there is good reason for Louise to want a man’s presence just now,” said Tobias and drew up a leather-upholstered wing- chair. “Eastley is hardly the sort of person who’d make a sympathy call, I would have thought, and I doubt I am the only one with such an opinion.”
“Probably not, but I wouldn’t call his presence unexpected,” Poppy observed; out of the tail of her eye she saw Maestro slink into the parlor and sidle along the baseboards, hackles up, staring at the air behind the smaller sofa. “He’s a fixture in the Moncrief house, as I understand.”
Stacy cocked his head. “Nothing to worry about, Toby. Eastley has been stringing after Louise since before the Great War, as all her friends know. Madison never minded him coming about; he understood about Eastley’s idolization of Louise, that there was no harm in it. You could have settled Russell with Louise without a qualm, Toby. There’s not a jot of impropriety in Eastley’s presence.”
“Stacy, for heaven’s sake,” Derrington chided. “The man’s a hero.”
“That’s inconsiderate, Eustace,” Tobias reprimanded him as if he were one of his students. “Eastley’s far from the only man whose lungs were burned in the trenches.”
“More than his lungs were damaged,” said Stacy, putting his full attention on Tobias. “But he’s not alone in that, either.”
“All of you — please!” Josephine admonished them as Missus Boudon came in bearing a large tray with a platter of canapés and four bottles of genuine spirits from Europe — Scotch, brandy, cognac, and gin — an assortment of glasses, a glass pitcher of water, a bowl of ice- cubes, a pair of silver tongs, a bottle of tonic-water, and a stack of small plates.
The room went fairly silent for a second or two, and then Tobias said, “I trust I may command a room from you, Aunt Josephine?”
“Of course you may, Tobias. I’ll tell Missus Flowers to make up the Blue Room. And I’m sure she’s already set a place for you at the dinner table.” She beamed at him, delighted to have so much of her family around her even for so unhappy an occasion as Madison Moncrief’s death. She moved forward in her resplendent chair. “Come; tell me what you would like to have? Ordinarily I’d begin with Poppy, but she lives here, so I imagine Mister Derrington should have first choice, he being the only full guest in the house who isn’t family.”
Derrington shrugged clumsily. “I … a gin-and-tonic would be very nice, Missus Dritchner.”
Aunt Jo prepared it with three ice cubes and held it out to Derrington, who took the glass and returned to his chair.
“Tobias is older than you, Eustace,” Aunt Jo pointed out, “So he shall have his choice next. What do you want, Tobias?”
“I shall have ice water,” Tobias announced, stiff with disapproval. “Drinking alcohol is illegal, Aunt Josephine.”
“Don’t be tiresome,” she replied, but put two ice cubes in his glass and filled it with water, then gave it to Tobias. “If you will be such a stickler.” She smiled at Stacy. “Scotch, I suppose, no ice?”
“Yes, Mother, if you would?” Eustace confirmed, offering her one of his best seraphic smiles.
Poppy asked for cognac. “Go light on the amount, please. I want to be clear-headed first thing tomorrow.�
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Aunt Jo served herself brandy as well, but without water or ice. She raised her modest snifter. “To welcome guests,” she declared, and had the other four echo her.
Missus Boudon picked up the platter of canapés and offered them around the room, saying nothing until Stacy asked her what time dinner would be ready. “You have two hours yet, Mister Eustace,” she said. “Your mother asked me to serve at seven-thirty.”
“A bit earlier than usual,” said Tobias, not quite approving. “I would have thought eight would be a more appropriate hour.”
Poppy held her tongue with difficulty, not wanting to wrangle with her brother so soon after his arrival. She sipped at her drink, thinking that Tobias was a stuffed shirt.
“Mister Eustace and Mister Derrington have been traveling,” said Aunt Jo. “They’ll want to retire early, to recruit their strength for tomorrow.”
“Dinner will be ready at seven-thirty.” Missus Boudon reiterated, then nodded to Aunt Jo, and set down the platter. “I’m going back to attend to dinner, Missus Dritchner.”
“Yes, thank you, Missus Boudon.” Aunt Jo sipped judiciously at her drink.
“Are we going to change?” Poppy asked as Missus Boudon left the room.
“Oh, I hope not,” said Stacy. “I think we can consider dinner en famille, don’t you? Besides, Warren would have to go home to fetch his dinner jacket, and what’s the point of that? His home is in New York.”
Derrington shrugged uneasily. “I don’t want to be a — ”
Tobias bristled. “You may do as you like. I will change.” He regarded Stacy with hauteur. “You’re becoming very lax in the niceties, Cousin.”
“The nineteenth century’s been over for more than two decades, Toby,” said Stacy, unfazed by Tobias’ umbrage.
“Do as you like, gentlemen,” said Aunt Jo. “But remember, we sit down at seven-thirty.”
Poppy set her snifter on the end-table leaving most of the cognac untouched; she rose, motioning to Stacy and Derrington to remain seated. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go freshen up. This is a special occasion, though it is a sad one.”
Tobias shot her a look of cautious approval. “Of course we’ll excuse you, Poppea.”
Poppy resisted the urge to object to his officiousness, and said only, “I’ll see you all at dinner.” She turned toward Aunt Jo. “The cognac is excellent, as always. Your man in Canada does well by you. Thank you.” She could feel the sizzle of disapproval from Tobias; as she left the parlor, she heard Maestro hiss.
“You can understand, can’t you, why I preferred to haunt you?” Holte said in her ear as she went up the stairs.
“He can be a little … stiff,” Poppy allowed quietly.
“How diplomatic of you,” Holte marveled, then said more bluntly, “By the way, you might want to look into the death of James Poindexter, five months or so ago, while you’re looking into the Moncrief case.”
“Poindexter.” Poppy stopped her upward climb. “I remember that. It was judged a suicide, wasn’t it?” As she heard herself, she felt her curiosity spark. “Why should I look into it?” She kept her voice low, not wanting to be overheard conversing with the air. “Is there something irregular about his suicide?”
“Suicide? no such luck. There’s a connection between him and Moncrief, and you can solve two crimes if you can unearth — no pun intended — the perpetrator of both. They both worked for the same firm, for a start.”
“Were either of them so obliging as to tell you who that perpetrator is?” Poppy inquired.
“No.” Holte sounded disappointed.
She turned down the gallery to her bedroom. “Are you going to keep digging up — no pun intended — previous suicides to keep me on the case? That’s Lowenthal’s decision, not mine, and not yours.”
“I just told you — If you take the time to study the two cases you’ll see that they are linked, and so are their deaths.”
“You’re certain of that? That they’re linked?” She felt suddenly tired, and simultaneously, spurred to action, yet she could not summon up any enthusiasm for another complication in this case, not with dinner so near.
“I am. I’ve told you: it’s difficult for ghosts to dissemble to one another.”
“So Poindexter told you because he knows Madison Moncrief?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He waited while she opened the door. “Moncrief took over Poindexter’s post at Hadley and Grimes. That could be a good place to begin your investigation. Did you know Poindexter?”
She considered what Poindexter was like, saying, “I knew him as one knows people on sight, but not in terms of personality or character. As I remember him, he was studious and earnest, a bit stodgy, but nothing artificial about him. I was told he was something of a roisterer when he was a student — but I don’t know anything specific about it. He was a widower, and it was supposed that he killed himself — ”
“By hanging,” Holte interjected. “Alone in his house.”
“Hanging,” she repeated.
“Hanging,” he confirmed. “By himself.”
“All right. Hanging due to grief and loneliness, or so the coroner determined. If there was a note, they never found it, but everyone said he had been melancholy for some time.” As she said it, the explanation seemed thin and unconvincing.
“I see you take my point. It probably means extra work for you, but it could be a coup, if you can carry it off. The public would lap it up: nefarious doings at an old, respected accounting firm. Two men dead. Possible scandal. Lowenthal wouldn’t dare send you back to the Society page after such a story.” He became a clearer image as Poppy closed the door and went to open the draperies to let in the last of the afternoon sun; he stared directly at her. “So you do believe me. Moncrief and Poindexter would appreciate it.”
“But would Lowenthal, if it doesn’t pan out? His opinion is more important to me, don’t you think?” Poppy asked, as she picked up the shopping bag set on her vanity stool. She pulled out the two boxes and sat on the bed, bending over to unbuckle the ankle-straps on the pair she was wearing. “Oh. That feels good.” She kicked the offending shoes off her feet.
“Which pair will you wear tonight?” Holte asked.
“The Chanel, with the long puce skirt and my mulberry sweater with the gold embroidery platten. It shouldn’t show up Stacy and Mister Derrington, or be woefully underdressed for Toby.” Before she sat up, she made sure the seams of her silk stockings were straight. “Aunt Jo likes to observe the traditions when we have guests.”
“Will your brother actually dress for dinner?”
“Yes. They do every evening at the Alexandrian Academy — black dinner jackets in the fall and winter, white in the spring and summer. His wife tells me he hardly ever dines at home — but you probably know that, don’t you? You said you observed him before you came to me, and there was your remark on the stairs.” She opened the Chanel box. “I think Toby would be mortified if he didn’t have on the right clothes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wears a dinner jacket to an afternoon picnic.”
“I wouldn’t think that would be the right clothes for a picnic,” said Holte. “Picnics aren’t sufficiently formal for dinner jackets.”
“You know what I mean.” Poppy removed her skirt from its hangar in the closet, then opened her chest-of-drawers to take out her sweater. “Missus Flowers is so good. If it were left to me, every drawer would be in chaos.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
The question startled her. She considered it, and said, “Yes, if you would. Please. It’s silly, isn’t it, but I’d prefer you didn’t watch me.”
“With pleasure. I’ll return in twenty minutes, if that’s sufficient?” Before she could answer, he vanished.
By the time he came back she was finishing up her hair, checking it in the mirror. When she saw the shadowy shimmer that marked his appearance, she was no longer startled. “You’re three minutes late.”
“Apologies
. It isn’t easy keeping track of time when there are no clocks, or other timekeepers about. Time doesn’t mix well with noncorporeality, I’m afraid.” He became more visible, his figure taking greater definition. “So, have you given any more consideration to the Poindexter matter?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
He sank down a few inches so that his feet appeared to touch the floor. “It’s worth exploring, at least, don’t you think?”
“I’ll let you know in the morning, after I’ve slept on it.” She applied perfume to her neck and wrists, then got up from her vanity table.
“Very nice,” he approved as she went to the door. “The shoes are especially good.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“Hardly,” he claimed. “A mere observation. Spies are taught to be observant.”
“Well, thank you, whatever your reason,” she said as she let herself out; a few seconds later he came flowing out through the wood. “Ye gods, that’s unnerving.”
He chuckled and floated along beside her until she reached the foot of the stairs. “I’ll be about, but you won’t see me.”
“Maestro will,” she told his fading image.
ELEVEN
IN THE HOURS AFTER DINNER, CHESTERTON HOLTE DRIFTED ABOUT THE ROOMS, slipping through walls, hanging just below the ceiling, observing the occupants closely, flickering lights as he went. It was a bit after midnight, and now most of the living were asleep except for a small group of mice now scurrying about the kitchen, making the most of the bits and scraps of dinner. He had watched Stacy reading in bed — Antic Hay — half an hour before, and Derrington working a crossword puzzle and attempting to postpone sleep. He had heard Josephine say her prayers before she turned out the light, and had watched as Missus Boudon left the house, wrapped in an old cloth coat, the collar raised against the damp. He had followed Missus Flowers through the house as windows were checked, their draperies drawn, doors were closed, and those giving access to the outside were locked before she went off to her cottage. Before she retired for the night, she drew a hot bath for herself; Holte departed before she got into the steaming water. At Poppy’s door, he found Maestro rolled into a ball, his tail over his nose. Holte’s approach roused him enough for the cat to open his eyes in a baleful stare and hiss.
Haunting Investigation Page 9
