2 The Spook Lights Affair

by Marcia Muller

  Quincannon did as he was bid, parking the buggy next to a Concord carriage in the lean-to. He unhitched the livery plug and turned it into the corral where a roan horse was picketed. He would deal with the animal’s needs later, he decided, and returned to join Meeker and his persimmony wife.

  The interior of their home was something of an assault on the eye. The end walls where the two cars were joined had been removed to create one long room, which seemed too warm after the outside chill; a potbellied stove glowed cherry red in one corner. The remaining contents were an amazing hodgepodge of heavy Victorian furniture and decorations that included numerous framed photographs and daguerrotypes, gewgaws, gimcracks, and what was surely flotsam that had been collected from along the beach—pieces of driftwood, odd-shaped bottles, glass fisherman’s floats, a section of draped netting like a moldy spiderweb. The effect was more that of a junk-shop display than a comfortable habitation.

  Quincannon accepted the offer of a cup of tea and Mrs. Meeker went to pour it from a pot resting atop the stove. Meeker invited him to occupy a tufted red velvet chair, which he did and which was as uncomfortable as it looked. The investment broker chose to pace rather than sit, the ferrule of his stick making hollow thumps despite the carpeting on the floor of the car.

  Quincannon took a sip of his tea, managed not to make a face, and put the cup down on an end table. “Now, then—these manifestations. They have all occurred late at night, I understand.”

  “After midnight, yes.”

  “When the fog is generally at its thickest.”

  “Yes, but not thick enough to have impaired my visibility, or my wife’s, or my daughter’s. Be assured of that. We saw what we saw, and no mistake.”

  “Will-o’-the-wisps,” Mrs. Meeker said from her perch near the stove.

  Meeker cast another glare in her direction, which she returned in kind. Again he was the first to look away. “I expect you’ll want to speak to my daughter,” he said to Quincannon. “She should be home from school fairly soon. Hers is a rather long commute from Sisters of Bethany. I’ve been thinking of buying her her own carriage—”

  “Unnecessary extravagance, if you ask me,” his wife said.

  “You weren’t asked. Be quiet, can’t you?”

  “Oh, go dance up a rope,” she said, surprising Quincannon if not her husband.

  Meeker performed his puffing-toad imitation again and started to say something, but at that moment the door burst open and the wind blew in a pair of individuals, one after the other. The girl who came in first was pretty and plump, bundled inside a beaver coat and matching hat. The young man behind her, swathed in a greatcoat, scarf, gloves, and stocking cap, was none other than Lucas Whiffing. Sabina’s description of him—lean, callowly handsome, blue-eyed, with a neatly oiled mustache—made that apparent even before Mrs. Meeker voiced her displeasure.

  “Patricia! What’s the matter with you? You know Lucas is not welcome in this home.”

  “Don’t blame her, Mrs. Meeker,” Whiffing said congenially. “I met Patricia when she arrived on the interurban and asked to accompany her.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I understand your guest called at my home earlier, asking to speak with me.” Whiffing’s gaze shifted. “You are Mr. Quincannon, the detective?”

  “I am.”

  “Detective?” Patricia said. She had a thin, piping voice, the sort that grated on Quincannon’s nerves after long exposure. “What is a detective doing here?”

  “Your father hired him to investigate the silly things that have been interrupting our sleep,” Mrs. Meeker said, and sniffed. “Of all the waste of money.”

  “Oh. The ghost, you mean?”

  “Whatever it is we’ve seen these past two nights, yes,” Meeker said.

  Whiffing seemed to find the matter amusing. “A detective to lay a ghost. Are you a believer in such things, Mr. Quincannon?”

  “I have an open mind on the subject. And you, Mr. Whiffing? Are you a believer?”

  “Only in what I can see with my own eyes.”

  “And have you seen the alleged apparition?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I have,” the girl said. She had shed her coat and was warming her hands in front of the stove. “Seen it and last night, heard its unearthly shrieks. It’s a real ghost, Lucas. Truly. Of a man who died in one of the cars, or in a railway accident.”

  “Bosh,” Mrs. Meeker said.

  “You’ve seen and heard it, too, Mother.”

  Whiffing asked Quincannon, “Are you planning to spend the night, sir, in the hope of seeing it yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “And if you do see it, what will you do? Chase it down?”

  “Whatever is necessary to find out its true nature.”

  “I shouldn’t think ghosts can be caught.”

  “They can’t, but fake ghosts can.”

  “And you believe this one is a fake? How does one go about faking spook lights and sudden disappearances? And for what purpose?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Patricia said, “Mother, why don’t you offer Lucas some hot tea? He must be as chilled as I am.”

  “If I must.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t stay,” Whiffing said. “I came only to find out what Mr. Quincannon wants of me. Perhaps if we were to step outside, sir…”

  Meeker said, “That won’t be necessary. You may speak privately right here.” He herded his wife and daughter into one of the connecting cars and shut the door behind them.

  “Well, then,” Whiffing said when he and Quincannon were alone. “Is it something to do with what happened to poor Virginia St. Ives that you want to speak to me about? Has her body been found?”

  “Not yet. But it soon will be.”

  “Oh? Where do you suppose it is?”

  “Where it was taken on Friday night.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Where Mrs. Carpenter and I expect to find it.”

  “You know why it was taken, too, I suppose?”

  “I have a very good idea.”

  Nothing of alarm or worry showed in Whiffing’s expression. He smiled faintly, as if puzzled. Unflappable, eh? Well, Quincannon thought, we’ll see about that.

  “I understand you’re a friend of the girl’s brother, David St. Ives.”

  “Whoever told you that is mistaken.”

  “And a friend and school chum of Bob Cantwell.”

  Still nothing changed in Whiffing’s face. “I vaguely remember Bob. But I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “No? How long has it been since you’ve seen Jack Travers?”

  “Who? The name isn’t familiar.”

  “It should be. You’ve spent many an evening in the company of all three men at the House of Chance, the Purple Palace, and Madame Fifi’s Maison of Parisian Delights, among other Tenderloin gambling and bawdy houses.”

  Whiffing’s smile wasn’t quite as fixed or puzzled now; it sagged slightly at the corners. “That is simply not true. I don’t make a habit of frequenting such places.”

  “Their owners say you do.”

  “Then they are also mistaken. Really, sir, what is the point of all these remarks? Just what is it you’re accusing me of?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” Quincannon said, “if you have nothing to hide.”

  “I haven’t. Nothing whatsoever. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” Whiffing drew the collar of his coat up over his ears and moved to the door. “Good luck with your ghost hunting, sir,” he said then, and bowed slightly, and went away into the gathering darkness.

  22

  SABINA

  Where are you, Virginia?

  Sabina almost gave voice to the words, but of course it would have been a waste of breath. Wherever the girl was, she was not about to respond to a shouted demand. The only way to find her cunning hiding place was another, even more intensive search of the barn’s cavernous interio
r.

  At the Studebaker buggy, Sabina went to one knee with the lantern to peer at the undercarriage. Not there, and not beneath the spring wagon’s bed, either. There were no possible places of concealment in the workroom, or in the harness room at the rear. Another climb up to the loft? No point in it, she decided. The few hay bales there hadn’t been stacked, and they weren’t large enough individually for Virginia to have hidden herself behind one.

  That left the three horse stalls. The loose, moldering hay in two of them might be deep enough to conceal the girl, but she would have had to burrow all the way down to the bottom to avoid Sabina’s surface poking. And if she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been able to breathe.

  Unless …

  Sabina’s memory jogged. The other lantern in the room upstairs—why was it missing its chimney? It would have smoked badly without it and was therefore useless. But the chimney alone could have another purpose, if Virginia had had the presence of mind to think of it and to snatch up the glass before fleeing down here.

  A pitchfork leaned against the stanchion between two of the stalls. Sabina eyed it briefly, but decided using it might do more harm than good. She leaned into the nearest of the two deep-hayed stalls, sweeping the lantern close over the surface of the hay. Nothing caught her eye. But when she made the same sweep in the adjacent stall, the light glinted off something toward the rear. Glass. Chimney glass canted backward and all but hidden by mounded straw, which was why she’d missed it on the first search.

  She set the lantern out of harm’s way behind her and then reached down into the hay and caught hold of the makeshift breathing tube. “All right, young lady,” she said as she yanked it free. “Come on out of there.”

  There was a stirring, then a sputtering cough, and Virginia St. Ives rose up out of the hay like a dusty female Lazarus. She pawed particles of straw from her mouth and eyes, glared furiously, and said three words that Sabina was surprised she knew and that might even have shocked John. Then she scrambled upright and tried to lunge free of the stall.

  Sabina blocked her way, pushed her back. This served only to infuriate the girl; she launched herself forward again, fingernails slashing like talons. One of the sharp nails narrowly missed gouging a furrow in Sabina’s cheek. The near miss raised her ire and she smacked Virginia across the face, as hard a slap as she’d ever administered to anyone. The blow was struck in self-defense, but the stinging pain in her hand was thoroughly satisfying. It was only a small measure of what this spoiled, destructive child deserved.

  The force of the slap had driven all the fight out of the girl. She sat half sprawled against the stall’s back wall, her hand pressed to her reddened cheek, her expression already defeated and sullen. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, I did. It was only a foretaste of what you’ll get when I deliver you to your father.”

  Virginia’s lower lip began to tremble. “I hate you. I hate you!”

  “I don’t like you very much, either, after what you’ve put your family and me through.”

  A little silence. Then, petulantly, “How did you know?”

  “That you were still alive? I’ve known that for some time. Your primary mistake was deciding to lure me out to the overlook to witness your fake suicide, instead of following the original scheme to have it be Grace DeBrett. She would have been a much more credulous witness. But I suppose in your mind fooling a professional detective made the game even more exciting.”

  No response.

  Sabina said, “I’ll admit it was a clever trick you and your lover concocted on the cliff, but also a foolhardy and dangerous one. You’re fortunate you didn’t fall off that night, traipsing around in the dark and fog on a slippery strip of ground.”

  “I don’t have a lover. I … I did it all myself.”

  “It’s too late to try to protect him, Virginia. It took two to make the trick and the rest of your plan work. You had to have help getting away from Sutro Heights afterward without being seen and then all the way down here. While you were at the ball, Lucas Whiffing came in a borrowed or rented buggy, didn’t he? And parked it somewhere outside before he slipped onto the property. Then while I was sounding the alarm, the two of you made your escape and he drove you straight down here. You must have paid a previous visit to reconnoiter, bring in the supplies you’d need, and arrange the servant’s room upstairs as your hideout—doubtless the day last week you didn’t return home until late.” And after Lucas had dropped her off, Sabina thought but didn’t bother adding, it had taken him most of the night to drive alone back to Carville. That was why he’d looked so haggard when she spoke to him Saturday morning.

  Virginia offered no further denial. She said, “Lucas,” in a yearning whisper. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “For the time being.”

  “He was supposed to’ve come for me by now. He … oh, God.” Now she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult, once I learned of your conversations with Arabella Kingston and paid a call on her. You had to be hiding someplace private that no one knew about while you waited for Lucas to get his hands on enough money to finance your travels. The money from the Wells, Fargo robbery. He’s the one who stole it in the first place, isn’t he?”

  “He … he didn’t steal it. He’s not a thief.”

  “A thief, yes. And worse, much worse.”

  “I don’t believe you. He’s kind and gentle … he loves me and I love him.”

  “But when your father forbade you to see him, he beguiled you into faking your suicide and running off with him.”

  “He didn’t beguile me. It was my idea.…”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re not canny enough to realize your father would hire more detectives to hunt for you unless he believed you dead. He might have done that anyway, despite the suicide note, without a body to prove you were no longer alive.”

  Pouty silence.

  “Where did you intend to go?” Sabina asked. “South? East?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  “And what then? Live together in sin and luxury?”

  “Not in sin! We were going to be married.”

  “It doesn’t really matter. You’re not going anywhere now except back home where you belong. And Lucas isn’t going anywhere except to prison for his crimes.”

  Now Virginia did start to cry. Tears rolled down her straw-flecked cheeks; she made no attempt to brush them away.

  “We should have left right away,” she said in self-pitying tones. “That’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t care about the money, but Lucas said we needed it, that I’d never be happy living poor.…”

  No, it was Lucas who would never have been happy living poor. Not that venal young man. He may have cared for Virginia, but when he knew he could never have her and access to the St. Ives family fortune by marriage, he’d wasted no time plotting his devious alternate scheme.

  Sabina stepped back and picked up the lantern. “Dry your eyes,” she said then, “and come out of there. I’ve had enough of this place and I expect you have to, if you’d admit it.”

  “I won’t go back with you. You can’t make me.”

  “Oh, yes, I can and will. If you give me any more trouble, I’ll take you to the sheriff in Burlingame. Would you rather meet your parents quietly, like a lady, or in handcuffs like a common criminal?”

  To punctuate the threat, delivered in sharp words, Sabina took the derringer from her coat pocket and pointed it in Virginia’s general direction. The girl gasped, her eyes widening.

  “You … you wouldn’t dare shoot me,” she murmured.

  “I might, if you provoke me enough.”

  It was a white lie, of course, but Virginia believed it. After a few seconds she muttered something unintelligible, pushed upright, and came out of the stall. Sabina watched her warily, but there was no defiance left in the young ninny. She stood in a bedraggled slum
p, brushing straw from hair and clothing, avoiding eye contact. And she offered no resistance when Sabina took her arm and prodded her out of the barn, repocketing the derringer on the way.

  An hour and a half must have passed, for the hired hansom was now parked on the driveway and the beaky-nosed driver was just coming down the front steps of the house. He saw Sabina with her charge and hailed her. She called back to him, asking him to wait a few minutes more, then steered Virginia to the outside staircase.

  “There’s nothing I want from up there,” the girl said in sullen tones.

  “So you say now. But we’ll pack it all up nonetheless.” Besides, Sabina’s reticule was still in the room.

  The packing took no more than five minutes. Under Sabina’s watchful eye, Virginia stuffed her unpacked belongings into the two carpetbags, and the foodstuffs, eaten and uneaten, into the paper grocery sacks. The driver’s eyes widened when they appeared, Virginia carrying the bags and Sabina the sacks, and he had a close look at their disheveled appearances. But he had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself as he helped them load everything into the cab’s luggage compartment.

  The girl said nothing during the ride back into Burlingame. She sat slumped against one shaded window, her chin on her chest and her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Sabina was grateful for the silence. She was tired, feeling peevish, and in need of a bath and fresh clothing, neither of which she would have for hours yet.

  It was full dark by the time they reached the Southern Pacific depot. There was still time to make the evening train for San Francisco, and for Sabina to first send a telegram to Joseph St. Ives informing him that Virginia was alive and well and asking that he meet their train. She only hoped that he would receive it in time to honor her request. The sooner she was rid of the company of his duplicitous daughter, the happier she would be.

  23

  QUINCANNON

  Alone in the parlor, Quincannon smoked his stubby briar and waited for the hands on his stemwinder to point to 11:30.