Missus Jeanine Reedly, Louise’s personal maid and household cook, was a colored woman in a black uniform with a black apron, and bearing a tray with pound cake, coffee, utensils, cream, sugar, and a bowl of strawberry preserves. She carried this to the low coffee table and set it down. “Is everything all right, Missus Moncrief?”
“Yes, Jeanine. Thank you for bringing this. It looks wonderful.” Louise motioned to Stacy, her eyes still welling with tears. “Would you be willing to pour? And Julian will cut the pound cake. Perhaps Miss Thornton will hand the plates around?”
“I included a plate and a cup for Missus Plowright; she’s supposed to be back from the funeral parlor shortly,” Jeanine ventured.
“That’s very good of you,” said Louise. “I’m sure Missus Haas will send Neva up as soon as she returns.”
Jeanine did a curtsy-like bob and left the room.
“Let’s have some coffee and pound cake,” Louise said, a touch too enthusiastically. “I don’t think I can take any more sympathy just now, Stacy.”
“Whatever you want,” said Stacy, and signaled to Poppy to move closer. “Nothing but small-talk for now.”
Poppy hid a sigh and did as she was told.
TWENTY-TWO
POPPY HAD BEEN HOME FOR TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE SHE HAD DECIDED HOW TO report what she had observed at the Moncriefs’ house without disappointing Lowenthal or aggravating her cousin. She went to the library and sat down at the desk, then rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, striving to organize her thoughts. She half-expected to hear Chesterton Holte speak from behind the draperies or the top of one of the bookcases, but the room remained silent. She began to type, choosing her words with care.
Missus Madison Moncrief has been in shock since the death of her husband two days ago from as yet undetermined causes. Police are conducting an examination of the site of the death, and the coroner, Dr. Archibald Wyman, has ordered more tests on Madison Moncrief’s body as part of the official inquiry. During this difficult waiting period, the young widow has been receiving the consolation and support provided by friends and family, who have come to her aid in her mourning. Missus Moncrief is hoping that the coroner will be able to establish the cause of her husband’s death within the next few days, for that knowledge will be as great a consolation as the company of her sister, Missus Theodore Plowright of Baltimore, and her social companion, the Great War hero, Julian Eastley, have been in this unhappy time. They ask that Missus Moncrief’s seclusion be respected until the funeral has taken place. Those wishing to express their sympathy are asked to delay making condolence calls until the day of the funeral is announced.
Poppy read through it, thinking it was a fairly soggy first paragraph, and tried to decide on how to make it more compelling than what she had written; there had to be a more intriguing way to present the information that did not actually intrude on anything she had seen or heard while visiting at the Moncrief house, which was all true, but lacked excitement. Lowenthal would not be pleased with such a lackluster opening, but anything stronger would incur Stacy’s wrath and put an end to his help at a time when she was depending upon it. She leaned back in her chair, and noticed that there was an unaccountable shadow forming at the edge of the heavy window draperies. “Is that you, Holte?” she asked in an undervoice.
“You look dejected, Poppy,” Chesterton Holte said, becoming more visible. “I gather the case is getting … difficult.”
“That’s one word for it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose to keep from weeping with vexation. “Sorry; the harder I search, the more confusing this whole thing becomes: Hadley and Grimes, Sansome and Company, and all the rest, on top of murder. But I have to make this work, or it will be years before I have any opportunity to report on crime again.” She tugged the paper out of the typewriter and slapped the carriage return. “I need to make this better, before there’s another body.”
“Do you think there is going to be another body?” Holte asked.
“Don’t you?” She did not wait for him to answer. “What do your ghosts tell you? Or don’t you talk about it?”
“I haven’t talked to them today.” He faltered, and slid away from her side. “Would you like me to?”
Poppy smiled broadly, thinking that she was probably certifiably insane, but keeping on so that she would be able to pursue her story. “Would you? Ask Knott what happened to him, and who did it, and what — if anything — his getting killed has to do with Madison’s and Poindexter’s deaths, or Hadley and Grimes.” Listening to herself, she felt an utter fool. “And if you run into my father, tell him I miss him, if you would.” This last left her a little giddy, for she realized that she had come to accept that Chesterton Holte was real, and just what he claimed to be.
“So you truly haven’t given up the ambition to complete the story,” said Holte, moving nearer to her.
“Ye gods, no. How could I? If you were in my position, would you?” She almost stood up to express her indignation at such a question. “I have to do this right, to make sense of it all.” After taking a deep breath she went on in a less strident tone. “Don’t you see? I have to follow the story as far as it goes, and find out all the ways in which the Poindexter’s and Knott’s deaths tie into Madison’s, which isn’t going to happen if I can’t turn up a few real clues. I have an obligation to the Clarion to do the best I can with my investigation.” Just saying this out loud made her feel tired, but she did her best to mask the extent of her sudden weariness. “I need to show them — the other reporters and the police — that I won’t flinch from gruesome cases. And besides, to me there is nothing more gruesome than the Society page.”
“So I’ve assumed,” said Holte. “Which is why I want to do what I can to help you, and to” — here he hesitated — “guard you to the extent that I can.”
Poppy heard something perturbing in these words, and said, “Guard me?”
“What you’re investigating is dangerous; I’ve warned you already, that you are taking a great deal of risk in this.”
“You’ve made that clear. But what kind of a reporter would I be if I wouldn’t take a chance or two?” She knew this was more bravado than courage, but she would not take anything back. “You’ve told me that you want to help me, and now I think there’s a way that you can actually do that. I need to find the connections in the case and show how Poindexter and Moncrief are part of the same larger threat. Are you going to refuse to help me do that?”
“No,” he confessed. “But there are limits on how much more risk I’ll expose you to. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll tell you what I find out.” Holte moved away a little farther, then swung around toward her. “Will you give me your word that you will not leave the house until I get back?”
“If you have a time when you could return?” She was feeling a little steadier now, and she concentrated on her task at hand.
“How do you mean?”
She reminded herself to be patient. “You keep telling me that your take on time as a ghost is different than mine.”
“I’ll try to be back in two to three hours,” he said, starting to fade.
“I have to call Inspector Loring and my editor; I’ll do that while you’re gone,” she told him as he vanished. “Damn,” she muttered, and decided she ought to start with Lowenthal, and rolled another sheet of paper into her Remington typewriter and took a new run at the piece he was expecting from her, and as she did, she hoped that Holte would return with more answers than he had provided so far.
Now that Holte was no longer visible, he slipped away into the dimension of ghosts, doing his best to ignore the worry that was growing within him. What if Poppy had been right, and her lack of information was adding to her peril? It was possible, but he did not like to have to consider it. What bothered him more was that he had not been able to discourage her, and he was convinced that he would not be able to now that she was committed to her assignment. These nagging questions slowed his progress from the corporal
world to that of noncorporeality. When he arrived in the dimension of ghosts it was its usual, slightly faded, foggy reality. Ghosts eddied like whirlpools in a river and clustered together at the edge of an invisible, limitless current that washed throughout the dimension of ghosts. The place was continually shifting, its nature too fluid to remain constant in anything but its discrepancy, and that made locating specific ghosts difficult. It took Chesterton Holte an unmeasurable passage of time to come upon Madison Moncrief in the company of James Poindexter in a small whirlpool of cloudiness, and he made his way toward them.
“Where’s Thornton?” he asked in the ghosts’ soundless language. “Has he been here? I need to talk to him.”
“Gone on,” said Moncrief when he had deliberated the question. “Or gone elsewhere.”
“I need to speak to him — get his advice.” Holte insisted. “For his daughter.” Holte flung up one non-physical hand in consternation. “Is there any way to find out where he has gone?”
Poindexter drooped in resignation. “Not that I’ve discovered. I may learn specifics in the future, but for now, I cannot help you.”
This was not very encouraging, but Holte would not let that deter him. He summoned up as much force as he could, minimal though it was. “If he should return, would you let him know that I would like to talk with him?”
Moncrief nodded vaguely. “If I remember.”
“He is gone on,” Poindexter remarked without interest, sidling away from Moncrief and Holte. “I hope you can find him.”
“He may know something about a murder,” Holte persisted.
“Murder, suicide, accident, disease, and age, one of them eventually brings everyone here. Why is this so unusual?” Moncrief asked.
“It is part of my remaining tasks among the living, and it concerns one of you — ” Holte began.
Moncrief interrupted. “You mean Knott.”
“No,” said Holte. “I mean you.”
“Oh,” said Moncrief, and shifted where he was.
Holte felt his hope waning, but made another sally. “What about you, Poindexter? There’s a chance that your death is connected to Moncrief’s, through your professional dealings. The police may not have made the connection, but your old firm has closed ranks. Do you have any useful recollection about who killed you?”
“I haven’t thought much about it,” Poindexter admitted, non-sounding slightly bored, “You don’t, after a while. It is part of moving on. For me, I’ll have a great deal of time to recall; when my murderer comes here, I will know for sure.”
“But there is nothing that you have … called to mind?” Holte wished it were possible for ghosts to shout; he would be shouting now if he could.
“It was someone I knew, I recall that much. Not Grimes, I’m fairly certain. I will know who he is at once, when he arrives here, as we all do who were murdered. I can wait until then.” Poindexter did something that was very like an expression of unconcern.
“But that may be too late,” Holte exclaimed. “There is danger for one of the living at this moment.”
The two ghosts did something that might have once been laughter. “All of the living are in danger at this moment,” Moncrief said. “But most of them don’t know they are because it’s so remote to them. They think that death is far off, not as near as their next heartbeat.”
Poindexter made a dreamy kind of nod. “I don’t think it crossed my mind that someone might want to kill me until it happened.”
Moncrief added his support. “Most of the living don’t like having to think about such things. Dying seems far away to most of them.”
“But it’s not for some of them, including Louise, and Poppy Thornton,” Holte insisted, his non-voice roughening.
Poindexter seemed to lose his train of thought, and in a moment or so, he asked, “Have you seen Myrna Freemantle? Light-haired, and fey. She wasn’t the same after the ‘Flu, but she still had something special about her.”
“No,” said Holte. “I’m sorry; I don’t know who she is.”
“That’s sad for you,” Poindexter wafted a little farther away, caught up in his reverie. “She was charming.”
“Charming?” Holte inquired, knowing there was nothing useful to be gained in trying to find out why this had come to Poindexter’s thoughts. “I gather you were fond of her.” Then something occurred to Holte, and he tried a new approach. “If Myrna Freemantle were in danger, wouldn’t you want to do something to mitigate it?”
“If I knew anything about it, I reckon I would, if Douglas — her husband and a complete bore — were nowhere about.” Poindexter started to fade once more.
Moncrief suddenly came back into focus. “Has anything happened to Louise? I was sure that Julian Eastley would take care of her, but now that I muse about it, I’m not so sure.”
Holte did his best to remember what he had heard Stacy say about Louise Moncrief, and made an answer he thought Moncrief wanted to hear, and that was close enough to the truth that it would pass muster with her husband. “She misses you, and the inquiry into your death is taking a great deal out of her. She has been trying to remain in seclusion; her sister Neva has come to be with her. But the press is everywhere because the coroner believes that you were murdered, and the police have been told to look for evidence.” Holte studied the other two ghosts, doing his best to discern their emotions; he said nothing about his own doubts about Louise. “The living young woman I am trying to help has been assigned to the story for her paper. The more that is learned about this cluster of deaths — meaning yours, and perhaps Knott’s — the greater her danger is.”
“Knott has just arrived; he’s disoriented.”
“Weren’t we all,” Holte remarked, and anticipated something similar to a chuckle from the other two, but nothing came.
“You’re spending a lot of time with the living,” Moncrief remarked distantly.
“I have a few things to do among them before I move on,” said Holte, striving again to give his non-words emphasis, without success.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Moncrief in his soundless voice. “Something to do with Thornton’s daughter. Or was it his son?”
“If you knew his son, you wouldn’t ask.” Holte felt a spurt of hope; it was possible that he might get something useful, after all.
“Tobias is a bit of a stick, isn’t he?” Moncrief said unexpectedly.
“A self-important stick,” Poindexter agreed.
“Then it’s the daughter Holte’s talking about,” said Moncrief. “I was hoping to see her cousin before I came here. He was planning to do some work for me when he arrived from New York. If he’d arrived a day early, matters might have turned out differently.”
“Her cousin has been providing some service in her inquiries, out of respect for you, and as a gesture of friendship for your … widow. He took Thornton’s daughter with him when he made his sympathy call on Louise,” Holte elaborated now that he had stirred a little interest among these ghosts.
“Louise always liked Stacy; he introduced us, you know.” Moncrief’s non-shape became slightly more visible.
“I remember Louise — a vibrant young woman.” Poindexter became increasingly engaged again, seeming to move closer to Moncrief. “Eustace Dritchner dealt with some of my clients, although I was never quite certain in what capacity. I haven’t had to deal with him directly very often, but his business acumen is keen. He struck me as a clever man on those occasions when I encountered him.”
Holte found this observation perplexing. “Clever in what way?” He had his own opinion of Eustace Dritchner, which he kept to himself.
Poindexter gave a movement that was almost a shrug. “A trifle cynical, intelligent in educated terms, ambitious, glib, personable, a little too facile for my taste, but generally liked and trusted. There are a few who seem to think that he’s not completely on the up-and-up; one hears rumors. He’s well-known in the art-and-culture crowd, but I’m not entirely certain that he cares that much f
or — He warned about inflation in Germany.” His demeanor changed and he moved in on Holte. “Damn you, Holte. You’re making me remember. I do not want to remember.”
“I apologize,” said Holte.
“Yes. Well.” Poindexter was turning huffy.
Not wanting to become involved in a dispute with Poindexter, Holte gave his attention to Moncrief again. “Have you seen much of Knott since he came here?”
Moncrief shook his noncorporeal head. “Not much. He’s still adapting to this place. You know what that’s like.”
“Has he talked to you about his business? Any problems with clients, perhaps? Or trouble with his assistant, Overstreet?”
Poindexter wafted a short distance away. “Overstreet. He’s an odd one.”
“Knott has said nothing about Overstreet. He still hasn’t entirely grasped what happened. I doubt he was expecting his death. If he has any coherent opinion of his condition, he probably still thinks he’s unconscious. As I said, not prepared for what happened.” Moncrief might have been amused, or he might have been puzzled. “But then, neither was I.”
“I hadn’t that luxury,” said Holte, recalling the firing squad that killed him behind a roadside inn on a glorious spring afternoon near Liège.
“At least you knew how you got here when you did,” Moncrief sniffed. “And you knew why you were here.”
Holte tried not to be distracted by Moncrief’s remarks, but conceded, “Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Poindexter made a strange movement in the swirling eddy, and said, “All right. I’ll do what I can to help you if I can keep it in mind. If, in exchange, you will find out who killed me, and why.”
“I’ll do the same,” said Moncrief abruptly, moving out of unseen shadows. “And if you will leave us alone when you’re done we’ll call it equal.”
It was a binding agreement, and all of them knew it. Holte held up his nonexistent hand. “I swear.” With that, he slipped back into the world of the living, and went looking for Poppy, still hoping to provide her some information that would not only be useful, but be enough to convince her to keep out of the investigation.
Haunting Investigation Page 20
