Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “The doctor should be here shortly,” Loring said to Poppy as he finally put away his pencil and notebook. “I still wish you’d agree to go to the hospital.”

  “There’d be a record of it, and that could lead to questions I’d like to postpone,” said Poppy, and heard the doorbell ring. “Missus Flowers will get it; she’s still in the kitchen.” She adjusted herself on the settee, feeling as if she were swimming in molasses: every movement was an effort and felt as if it were taking five times as long as it usually would. “Doctor ter Horst knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “That’s probably a good thing, under the circumstances,” said Loring, studying her with concern.

  Missus Flowers paused in the doorway to announce that Gideon ter Horst had arrived in answer to Aunt Jo’s semi-hysterical summons on the ‘phone some forty minutes earlier. Poppy sighed, overcome by fatigue; she leaned back against the cushions of the side-chair and looked over at Inspector Loring, who was drinking a second cup of coffee which had been hastily prepared by Missus Flowers. It was twenty-nine minutes after two, and the entry-hall clock was about to sound the half-hour. “I hope you’ll explain all this to the doctor,” she said. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”

  “Small wonder,” said Loring, and went to shake the portly, middle-aged physician’s hand. “Good to meet you, Doctor ter Horst. As you see, Miss Thornton has had a … difficult experience.”

  Ter Horst raised his caterpillar-like brows. “Something to do with her work, I gather, from what Missus Dritchner told me.”

  “That, and her cousin,” said Loring. “There are a number of injuries, mostly to her wrists and ankles, and a knot on her head. If you’ll prepare a full description of what you find after you complete your examination, I’ll stop by your office around noon today to pick it up.”

  “Is this part of a criminal investigation?” ter Horst asked, some of his smooth bed-side manner slipping. “By the sound of it, this is more than an accident. Missus Dritchner said nothing about that.”

  “No doubt,” said Loring drily.

  “I was tied to a chair in a warehouse basement,” Poppy said, pushing herself upright. “Stacy either did it himself, or arranged for it to be done. I’ve gone over the whole event with Inspector Loring for nearly an hour.”

  “Are you certain? I don’t mean to doubt you, but that wasn’t my understanding when your aunt ‘phoned me,” ter Horst said, looking about uncomfortably. “Missus Dritchner explained it somewhat differently, but she was very upset. She’s afraid something dreadful has happened to Eustace.”

  Loring set his cup of coffee aside. “That’s possible, but not likely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that he was the instigator of Miss Thornton’s ordeal,” said Loring, a bit more tersely than he might have done at another hour.

  The doctor did his best to mask his shock. “When did this happen?”

  “It began yesterday afternoon,” said Loring. “Miss Thornton managed to get out of her bonds on her own, but the door to the room she was in was barred and locked, and it took some hours to locate her.” He said nothing about how he came to find her. “She’s had a trying night.”

  Ter Horst nodded three times. “I see that she’s been … cleaned up.”

  “Missus Flowers washed most of the blood away and dosed the cuts and scrapes with iodine, as you can see, but that’s only good first aid. There may be more hurts that need your attention.” Loring glanced at his watch. “I have a preliminary report from her, but I’m relying on you, Doctor, to provide me with —”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” said ter Horst impatiently. “It’s never a good idea to delay treating deep injuries. I’ll let you know if I decide to admit her to the hospital, probably Smithson Memorial, if it’s necessary. Whatever happens, for the next few days, she’s going to be groggy and easily distressed; when someone goes through something so distressing, it is to be expected that he or she will experience difficulties. Don’t force her to relive what happened until she is ready to do it.” His demeanor became more officious. “I will keep you informed of how she is recovering, of course.”

  “I appreciate that,” Loring said, in his most professional voice. “Aside from being a member of the press, Miss Thornton is now an important witness in an on-going investigation; the District Attorney will be relying on her testimony once we apprehend the perpetrator, whom I suspect is her cousin.”

  “Gracious!” ter Horst exclaimed, using the strongest language he dared. “Does Missus Dritchner know?”

  “Not yet,” said Loring. “I don’t think she wants to hear from Poppy about Stacy’s role in this. After she ‘phoned you, she had Missus Flowers take over Poppy’s care, and went up to bed. She refuses to believe that any of what has happened is due to Stacy. Miss Thornton has given me a preliminary report, and based on what she has said, I will be issuing a state-wide bulletin for Stacy’s apprehension.”

  “I can hear you,” said Poppy, not nearly as loudly as she would have liked.

  “This sounds fairly dire,” said ter Horst, rubbing his chin. “You may rely on my discretion, but I must tell you that I don’t like the sound of this. It could become a scandal.”

  Poppy put her hand to her eyes. “Become?” she echoed incredulously. “It already is.”

  “And it may become worse,” Loring said, half-decisively, half-apologetically. “There is an indication that Stacy has left the state, if not the country; it is my intention to find him and bring him here to face justice, or make certain others do it.”

  “What a dreadful business,” said ter Horst.

  “Not an easy thing to do, if he has really left the country,” Poppy remarked, suddenly fighting off her exhaustion.

  “I should be able to discover that tomorrow,” said Loring, speaking to her as if ter Horst was not in the room. He took a step nearer to her. “It may take time, but we’ll find him. I’ll contact the Department of State if it comes to that. We might not be able to bring him here to answer for what he has done, but we’ll make sure that we keep tabs on him.”

  Poppy managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  Hovering near the ceiling, Chesterton Holte decided he had done as much as he could for Poppy at present, and he had already decided that he should go into the dimension of ghosts to discover if Knott or Moncrief had anything to add to what they had already told him. He wondered if Moncrief had remembered enough to know what it was that Poppy had been talking about: something to do with Stacy, Derrington, and Louise. Gideon ter Horst knew what he was doing, and Inspector Loring would make sure that Poppy had proper care, so he slipped away into the dimension of ghosts, looking for Moncrief and Knott amid the shades and shadows that filled that place. He drifted through a large swarm of what seemed to be new ghosts, a few of them clearly still in shock from their deaths. Wasn’t that always the way of it, he thought, sensing the penetration of the bullets that had struck them down, and recalling his own dazed state when the Germans had executed him.

  An uncertain while later, Holte found Moncrief in an energetic eddy, a shapeless blot of distress that revealed how troubled he was. “Moncrief,” he called out silently.

  “Holte?” Moncrief responded, and his agitation lessened. “What’s happened?”

  “Someone — probably Stacy Dritchner — has tried to do away with Poppy Thornton,” said Holte voicelessly; he had decided that directness was preferable to obfuscation.

  “Stacy? He tried to harm his cousin?” There was a sense of genuine horror in this question.

  “It certainly looks like it,” Holte responded.

  “And what does Stacy say?” Moncrief seemed wary as he asked this.

  “Nothing. It seems he left the country.”

  “Stacy left the country?” Moncrief repeated, dazed.

  “It looks like it,” Holte said.

  A silence greater than the ordinary silence of the dimension of ghosts descended between the two.

  “
When did that happen? How did it happen?” Moncrief ventured at last. “What is going on here?”

  Although he was shaky on the actual passage of time, for the sake of convenience, Holte answered, “Yesterday evening, some time after four. I don’t yet know what the underlying purpose is, but it has something to do with counterfeit or illegal antiques. And perhaps something to do with your murder.”

  “With my murder? How? What are you talking about?”

  Holte took a little time to frame his answer. “I’m not sure, but it may be as important as Poppy thought it was when I left the world of the living.”

  “We should find Knott. He might know about this.” Moncrief sidled in the eddy, his anxiety increasing as he brought his whole focus to bear on his companion. “Damn you, Holte! Why do you always distress me so?”

  “I don’t intend to,” Holte soothed, a bit taken aback by how emphatic a non-voice could be.

  “But you do.” It was clear that Moncrief was sulking. “Every time you seek me out, you bring me more bad news.”

  “My apologies.” Holte drew back a little from Moncrief; when he became aware of Moncrief’s attention once again being directed toward him, Holte resumed his questioning. “Where do you think Stacy would be likely to go?”

  Moncrief took a little time to answer. “I have no idea. He has business associates in Greece and Europe, but that’s probably the first place investigators would look for him, so if he has committed a criminal act, he isn’t apt to go either of those places. It takes a long time to apprehend fugitives in a foreign country, but these days, the government is persistent if the crime is important enough, and there is an extradition treaty in place.”

  “What about South America?” Holte hoped he sounded casual instead of probing.

  Moncrief made a non-sound that might have been a laugh. “Louise must have told you about that — Stacy was always saying that in a pinch, he could run away to Rio.” He hesitated. “I suppose he might have done that. What does Louise think?”

  “I don’t think the police have spoken to her yet.” He consoled himself with the thought that it not a lie but a half-truth to say that.

  “They should. She can tell them where he’s gone. They were always thick as thieves.” Moncrief went silent again, then changed his tone. “I guess we should talk to Knott about that, too. If we can find him. He’s been keeping to himself; trying to remember. He’s determined to find out if he’s right about Derrington.”

  The two ghosts drifted off among the vast crowd of other ghosts, trying to pick up a trace of Percy Knott in the constantly shifting crowd. Eventually they came to an out-of-the-way spot amid the general confusion where they discovered Knott on the verge of slipping back into the world of the living.

  “Going somewhere?” Holte made the inquiry as unchallenging as possible.

  Knott wavered and then came into greater cohesion. “Sorry. I was about to try to find Warren Derrington.”

  “So Moncrief tells me. Do you mean you have some idea where he might be?” Holte asked, a bit too quickly.

  “No; I mean I think he might have killed me, and I want to find out,” said Knott.

  “You’ve remembered?” Holte was surprised. “That was quick.”

  “No, I mean I’ve almost remembered, and I want to find out if I’m right. I might see if I can get through to Miles. He may know more than I thought.” There was a tinge of belligerence in his remarks, and a firmness in his purpose that Holte had not seen since Knott entered the dimension of ghosts.

  “What makes you think it was Derrington?” Moncrief interjected before Holte could pose his own question. “Do you recall seeing him? I wish I could bring back something about how I died, and who did it.”

  “I believe I can recall his voice. I want to hear him speak, to be certain.”

  “And how were you planning to do this?” Holte wondered.

  “I think I could haunt him, get him to reveal himself — you know, Banquo’s trick in Macbeth. You seem to do that well enough yourself,” Knott replied.

  “It’s not quite the same thing,” said Holte.

  “Not entirely, but it’s a step in the right direction.” There was a mulishness about Knott that warned Holte that it would be difficult to dissuade him.

  “Well, if you find him,” Holte said as nonchalantly as he could manage without sound, “would you be good enough to let me know where he is? I understand that Miles Overstreet may have gone to Canada, but I don’t see Derrington doing that.”

  “Or Stacy,” Moncrief added.

  This had the power to command all Knott’s attention. “Stacy? Is he missing, too?”

  “He is,” said Holte. “It is likely that he left Philadelphia around four yesterday afternoon.” He knew better than to bring up the possibility of more time passing among the living than could be reckoned in this non-place.

  “Is the law after him?” Knott pursued. “What has he done now?”

  Rather than explain about Poppy’s imprisonment, Holte said, “That’s what they’re trying to determine. There is an active case with the police that involves Stacy Dritchner.”

  “And Derrington?” Knott asked. “That’s encouraging.”

  “So, if you can find him, will you let me know? It could help the police and the District Attorney.” He did his best to make his request be a positive one.

  Moncrief once again interjected a thought, revealing that he was having trouble concentrating. “Stacy may have left the country, according to Holte. That’s going to slow things down, if it’s true. You could help speed up the search. That could help all three of us.”

  “That’s assuming I can find Derrington and that I can make him tell me what I want to know.” Knott moved about in a way that, had he not been noncorporeal, would have been pacing. “All right. I’ll give it a try, and I’ll get back to you when and if I learn something useful.” And then he slipped away, back into the world of the living.

  For a short time neither Holte nor Moncrief moved bodilessly, or spoke without sound. Then Moncrief asked, “Do you think we should follow him?”

  “How? He didn’t tell us where he was going.” He wafted through a sudden influx of Russian ghosts, all in a dazed state of recent arrival. “Right now, I can’t decide what more I can do beyond making sure that Poppy is recovering from her — ” He could not find an appropriate word to describe her state of mind following her experiences in the warehouse basement.

  “From her hours of tribulation.” It was not as clear as he had hoped, but it provided a flavor of what she had endured.

  “Shock?” Moncrief suggested. “Ordeal?”

  Holte did a kind of shrug. “I want to be useful to her.”

  “So you’ve said.” He began to fade, but summoned up enough presence to plead, “Will you look after Louise for me? She’s gone through so much…” The rest was lost in the soundless buzz and rumble that was what passed for conversation among ghosts.

  Holte replied, “If I can find her, I’ll try.” It was the best he could promise, he assured himself as he prepared to return to the world of the living.

  EPILOGUE

  POPPY WAS SITTING AT HER TYPEWRITER IN THE LIBRARY, JUST PUTTING THE LAST touches on her story that summed up the whole of the Moncrief investigation so far; it was four nights since she had been freed from the storeroom, and the bump on her forehead was fading from purple to greenish yellow. Her ankles and wrists were still bandaged but no longer painful; the soles of her feet, cushioned by woolen socks, no longer hurt. When he had called the morning after her ordeal, Lowenthal had ordered her to write an account of it, and had given her three days to do it. She would have to deliver it first thing the following morning to meet his deadline, but she could sleep for at least six hours, and that seemed like true luxury. Although she did not want to admit it, she was far from recovered from what had happened to her. Her wrists and ankles still ached and every muscle she possessed complained when she moved, but she was committed to do h
er work, no matter how much effort it took. She rubbed her eyes and inwardly commanded herself to disregard her fatigue.

  Maestro was curled up in the wing-backed chair on the far side of the fireplace, one charcoal paw over his eyes. The rest of the house was quiet, and outside the night was still.

  The library lamp blinked, and Chesterton Holte semi-materialized in front of her. “So you’ve finished your first full day back on the job. How is the work going?” he asked as if they were resuming a conversation instead of starting one.

  “Well enough, I hope,” she said, unalarmed by his presence. “I’m pleased you’re here. I want to thank you for all you did to get me out of —”

  “You’ve thanked me enough. I was doing my … job,” he responded. “As you are doing yours.”

  Feeling a bit nonplused, she changed the subject. “You’ve been in the dimension of ghosts again, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” he said, turning toward Maestro’s laconic hiss. “Why do you bother?” he asked the cat; for an answer, Maestro got up, stretched, and recurled himself on the chair with his back to the desk; his tail twitched in disapproval.

  Poppy was enough of a reporter that she could not keep from asking, “Did you tell Poindexter and Moncrief and Knott what happened?”

  “I did … Well, not Poindexter; he’s gone on. But Knott told me that he thinks it was Warren Derrington who killed him, but he isn’t sure.” He moved around to her side of the desk to look over the page in the Smith.

  “How can anyone forget something like that?” Poppy removed the three sheets from the typewriter, separated the carbon from the front and copy sheets, then stacked them with the two typewritten pages already arranged next to the typewriter. “I guess I’ll find out, one of these days.”

  “Like everyone else,” he said, and asked, “What was it you wanted to tell me about Stacy and Derrington and Louise Moncrief?”

  Poppy looked over at him. “What do you mean?”