The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  “How many years do you figure that old guy has racked up?”

  “I couldn’t say, but I’m sure he’s earned every one of them.”

  We descended to the fourth floor, and I rapped firmly on the door that Sally Joan had specified. After a moment, it was opened by a slender woman in an austere navy blue dress. Her graying brown hair was tied tightly back, giving full display to a long, sharp nose and tightly drawn lips that, I’d venture, didn’t spend much time in smile mode. Whatever the heck a ghost chanter was, this lady looked right for the part.

  Her greeting was hardly warming. “I don’t know you men.”

  “True enough, good woman.” Mr. O’Nelligan, ever the diplomat, politely explained the who and why of our presence, ending with “Whatever assistance you might render would truly be appreciated.”

  I wouldn’t exactly say that Mrs. Pattinshell softened her bearing, but she did unclench it slightly. “Oh, that’s right, the Cobble girl mentioned that someone might be making further inquiries. Come in if you must.”

  Stepping inside, we were met by the smell of previously burned incense. In contrast to the near chaos of the apartment we’d just left, Mrs. Pattinshell’s living space was precise and uncluttered. The low-lit room we now entered had been set up with a round table draped in black lace, behind which stood a high-backed chair, upholstered in plush red. In response to our entrance, an ominous-looking Siamese cat catapulted itself off the seat and scurried across the faded Persian rug straight out of the room. Three simple wooden chairs, pushed into corners, seemed to be the only other furniture. The walls were a bleak burgundy, and the one decorative touch was a painting that depicted several barely human figures struggling to extract themselves from a swirling mist.

  “Very cozy quarters,” Mr. O’Nelligan offered.

  I would have traded “cozy” for “creepy,” but I kept that thought to myself.

  Mrs. Pattinshell dragged two of the wooden chairs to the table, gestured for us to sit, and settled herself in the plush one opposite.

  My partner got the ball rolling. “Tell us of your skills, madam.”

  The woman studied him for a moment. “Your accent suggests that you hail from Ireland.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Ireland is a ghost-ridden country. I imagine my work would be intriguing to you—even beyond your investigative interests.”

  Her style of speech was refined and exact, but I knew Mr. O’Nelligan could hold his own with her.

  “I’m sure I will find it intriguing,” he said. “Not to mention enlightening. Much can be learned from the metaphysical sciences.”

  Mrs. Pattinshell nodded noncommittally. “My abilities as a ghost chanter first revealed themselves when I was a child. I’ll tell you of my earliest experience. My father made his living as a lawyer, but in his leisure time was a member of a barbershop quartet…”

  My partner smiled. “Ah! A crooning barrister.”

  “Rather incongruous, I know,” said Mrs. Pattinshell, “but that’s how it was. Anyway, one evening Father and his friends were practicing in our parlor, while I was in the adjoining room working at my school lessons. Partway into their rehearsal, I heard a high, wispy male voice—higher even than my father’s tenor—mingling with the other voices. The quartet was practicing ‘Sweet Rosie O’Grady,’ but the fifth voice was singing an entirely different song. From what I could make out, the lyrics had something to do with a baker’s daughter and a hungry suitor. When the quartet finished singing, the other voice ceased as well. I hastened in from the other room to catch a glimpse of this new singer, but there was only my father and his three friends. When I asked where the fifth man was, they all looked confused and claimed that there was no such person. As I became more insistent, my father grew quite angry and banished me from the parlor. I learned from then on never to speak to my parents of these matters.”

  I tried to interpret her story. “So you’re saying, Mrs. Pattinshell, that the extra singer was—”

  “A spirit, yes,” she finished for me. “Someone who has passed beyond the veil. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, although as these experiences persisted and intensified, I came to understand the truth.”

  “This must have all been rather overwhelming,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  The woman gave him a razor-thin smile. “Only the weak allow themselves to be overwhelmed.”

  “Still, for a child to encounter such things…”

  “Sometimes I think I was never a child,” Mrs. Pattinshell said, pride evident in her voice.”To continue, over my lifetime numerous spirits have sought my ear to pass on songs that were significant to them when they lived—songs from their work or play, songs they may have learned as children, or perhaps even composed themselves. I never see these spirits, mind you, but I do hear them. Sometimes I know exactly who they are. I can make out a name or get a sense of who they were in life. Other times, I’ve no idea who’s singing to me.”

  “Why songs?” I heard a smirk creep into my voice. “Why not plays or lectures or naughty limericks?”

  Mr. O’Nelligan’s eyes flung a warning shot across my bow, but it was too late. Our hostess’ face had turned into a mask of contempt.

  “You’re a self-assured young whelp, aren’t you?” she said to me. “Tell me, do you really know how the universe works? We are surrounded by mysteries you cannot begin to comprehend. A strident mind is a foolish one.”

  My strident, foolish mind searched for a proper retort but came up short.

  Mrs. Pattinshell continued. “To answer your rather impertinent question, I’m not sure myself why only songs come to me. Perhaps it’s because during my first year of life we lived next to an opera house.”

  Now, that really struck me as ludicrous, but I sure wasn’t going to say so.

  Much to my annoyance, Mr. O’Nelligan still clung to the topic. “So, madam, once the deceased have offered up their songs to you, what do you do with them?”

  Mrs. Pattinshell shrugged lightly. “That depends on the situation. Sometimes I simply listen and let them pass. Other times, as when a client requests to hear a song from a loved one, I’ll write it down or record it as I sing aloud.”

  “Quite fascinating,” my partner said. “So you can actually summon a particular spirit to sing to you?”

  Sure, if the price is right, I wanted her to say. For a tidy sum, I’ll hear Napoleon whistling “Dixie.”

  Instead, she said, “Yes, with great concentration I can sometimes connect to a particular singer.”

  “How do you acquire your clients?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  “I place advertisements from time to time. Additionally, Lorraine, bless her, would aim people my way.”

  “Right. Lorraine…” I reentered the fray. “We understand that she helped set you up here. Even paid your rent.”

  The woman’s haughtiness drained away, and she suddenly looked frail and flustered. “She helped some, yes … but only partially, you understand! You mustn’t think that I’m some sort of … I’m a widow, you know. I don’t have the resources that other people—”

  “Don’t distress yourself, dear lady.” Mr. O’Nelligan’s voice was as soothing as a lullaby.”Certainly, a widow’s life is not always easy. How long ago did your husband pass away?”

  “It’s been thirteen years, come November.” Having regained her composure, Mrs. Pattinshell now offered a sour little smile. “Has he even once in all that time sung to me? No, he has not.”

  I let that slide. “But Lorraine…”

  “Lorraine treated me well. I, by way of exchange, provided her with a good number of songs.”

  “She requested you contact certain deceased persons?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  “No, she just accepted whatever songs I thought might be of interest to her. She was always very eager to receive a new one.”

  “I imagine that Lorraine’s passing must have been difficult for you,” my partner said.

  “Of cours
e. We shared much common ground, she and I. Neither of us suffered fools lightly.” Here, Mrs. Pattinshell favored me with a glance. “Lorraine was a strong, talented female. The world is often unreceptive to such as us.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan nodded just right. “So true, madam. Now, you are aware that the younger Miss Cobble suspects wrongdoing in the death of your friend?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you share that viewpoint?”

  Mrs. Pattinshell took a moment to answer. “It does seem queer to think of Lorraine as a suicide.”

  “Uncharacteristic, perhaps?”

  “Oh, yes, I should say so. Then again, what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him?”

  “First Corinthians, is it not?”

  “Why yes, I believe it is! You know your Good Book, Mr. O’Harrigan.”

  “It’s O’Nelligan,” my friend calmly corrected. “As to my biblical erudition, I know more than some, less than others. Tell us, on the day Lorraine Cobble died, did you have any contact with her?”

  “None whatsoever. I’ve been over this all with the police.”

  “We understand, but we’re obliged to make our own inquiries.”

  “I suppose. Of course, if there was some wrongdoing regarding Lorraine’s death, then I hope you get to the bottom of it. Alas, I’m afraid I can’t offer you much in terms of information. I’m a very private person, you see, and my interactions with Lorraine were fairly limited. I hadn’t seen her for perhaps a week prior to her death.”

  “Did she seem to be her normal self at that time?”

  “She did.”

  I felt like we’d run our course here. “Well then, thanks for your time, ma’am.”

  “Yes, thank you,” echoed Mr. O’Nelligan. “Perhaps as things unfold, we’ll have occasion to contact you again.”

  “If you must.”

  Mrs. Pattinshell stood and led us to the door. Then—weirdly, I thought—she extended her hand, palm down, to my partner, who automatically took it in his own and planted a kiss. She didn’t make the same offer to me, I noticed.

  As the door shut behind us, I turned to my friend. “What was that last little bit of flourish?”

  “Mrs. Pattinshell appears to have rather classic sensibilities, as do I. An extended feminine hand requires the appropriate attention.”

  I was about to question the femininity of that spooky old dame but realized that she might well be listening behind her door. We made our way back to the upstairs apartment, where Sally Joan met us with a hastily composed list of her cousin’s contacts.

  “I’ve jotted down some names and numbers from Lorraine’s address book,” she explained. “It includes some of the Mercutio crowd. You can go down there directly and see who’s hanging around.”

  I looked over the list. “You’ve got here another tenant who lives on this floor—Cornelius Boyle. You wrote ‘Civil War veteran’ next to his name.” I suddenly remembered our hallway ghost. “Is that true?”

  Sally Joan smiled. “Mr. Boyle is one hundred and five years old! Isn’t that amazing? He was a drummer boy in the war. Lorraine would get him to sing old soldier tunes to her. She arranged for him to move into the building.”

  “So your cousin liked to collect people who could give her songs,” I said.

  The young woman frowned. “That’s not the kindest way to put it, Mr. Plunkett. Nor accurate, really. Like I’ve told you, Lorraine had a charitable side.”

  “Sure, it just seems that—”

  Mr. O’Nelligan cut me off at the pass. “Does Mr. Boyle live alone here?”

  “Yes, he’s amazingly self-sufficient,” Sally Joan said. “Plus, he does have a granddaughter who comes by nearly every day to see to his needs.”

  “I believe we glimpsed the gentleman in the hallway not twenty minutes ago. Perhaps we might stop in to see him now.”

  Sally Joan glanced up at a wall clock. “Oh, it’s past four. Lorraine told me that he always takes a nap promptly at four, but maybe you can catch him tomorrow. As you’ll see, he’s still very sharp considering his age.”

  We went over a few more details and arrived at an agreement regarding our fee. Sally Joan gave us a quick tour of the rest of Lorraine’s living space—basically more jumble with a musical theme. Then I asked to see the rooftop.

  * * *

  THE THREE OF us stood in the last place where Lorraine Cobble had drawn a breath. The flat roof was a tangle of chimney caps and exhaust vents, surrounded on all sides by the Village’s sea of buildings. I could make out the Hudson River in the near distance. Just as Sally Joan had described, the edges of the rooftop were bordered by a sort of low wall, about two and a half feet high. Even a blind man wouldn’t accidentally step off here into thin air. If Lorraine hadn’t thrown herself off, then someone had definitely assisted her plunge.

  A vigorous wind forced Mr. O’Nelligan and me to clamp down our hats as Sally Joan silently led us over to one edge of the roof. Staring into the alleyway below, we saw nothing but trash cans and a crate or two, but all of us were no doubt picturing the sprawled, shattered body that had lain there two weeks before.

  Mr. O’Nelligan was the first of us to step away from the edge. When I eventually turned, I saw him paused in the middle of the roof, framed against the cloud-streaked sky. He stood there alone, eyes shut and lips slightly moving, and I realized that he was offering up a prayer.

  And, knowing him, a vow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After leaving our newly minted client, we decided to track down Minnie Bornstein, the dead woman’s former associate, since her shop was only a few minutes’ walk from there. First, though, I wanted to talk with the detective who had investigated Lorraine’s death. Of course, I could have made the call from the apartment, but I preferred not having Sally Joan’s big earnest eyes trained on me as I did it.

  “Well, what think you?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked as we walked on in search of a phone booth. “Based on what we’ve heard thus far?”

  “I think I should have firmly begged off of this case, that’s what I think. But no, I had to cave in like a mine shaft. My guess is we’ll poke around for a couple days, learn a whole heap of nothing, and report back empty-handed. What the hell, I suppose we’ll get to pocket a few bucks for our troubles.” Remembering my friend’s refusal to accept compensation, I added, “At least I will.”

  “Ah, now, I know you’re not as mercenary as you make out, Lee Plunkett. Do you truly see nothing of merit in Miss Cobble’s speculations?”

  “What speculations? All I heard was a kid cousin’s reluctance to accept her idol’s suicide.”

  “I’m not sure that Sally Joan quite idolized her. After all, she did acknowledge her cousin’s shortcomings.”

  “Yeah, well, it’d be hard not to. From my limited observation of Lorraine Cobble, I’d say she was one difficult woman.”

  My partner smiled ever so slightly. “I see … a damsel who distressed.”

  I hopscotched over his wit. “Anyway, the theory that she killed herself—for whatever reason, knowable or not—seems like the path of least resistance.”

  “True, but what glory has ever been gained by such a path?”

  I tossed up my hands. “Glory? Look here. Quests, glory, shining knights … that’s all your department. Me, I’m strictly the no frills, no thrills type.”

  “An uncommon description for a private detective, isn’t that?”

  “Uncommon, but in my case accurate.”

  “Come now, lad, I know the true hero that lurks within your breast.”

  “Then you know that he’s real content to just stay there and not stumble out into mayhem. So what makes you so certain there’s a homicide here?”

  “I’m not certain at all, but I do think there’s cause for exploration. I was taken by Sally Joan’s depiction of her cousin as someone with a grand passion for life. A valid argument can be made that such a woman would not simply throw her life away.”

 
; “People do impulsive things all the time—especially hot-blooded people.”

  “Quite true,” my partner admitted.

  “Okay then. Couldn’t that be the story here?”

  “It might well be. I’m merely questioning. Such is the nature of man—to ever question.”

  “Then mark me down as the last of the unnatural men. There’s nothing I love more than a big, fat, uncomplicated answer that I don’t have to probe for.”

  This got a laugh from my Irishman. “Ah, dear Lee! Ever the jester.”

  “Yeah, that’s me all over. Mr. Chortles of 1957.” I sighed. “All right, I did sign up for this, come what may, so bring on the parade. Complete with Civil War drummers and ghost chanters.”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Pattinshell … She certainly makes an extraordinary claim.”

  “Which your haunted Irish heart no doubt embraces.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Just for the record, I don’t think we got anything at all from that one—except maybe the heebie-jeebies. Sally Joan didn’t offer much more. As for evidence … well, there isn’t any.”

  “There’s the letter.”

  “Sure, the one that can’t be found,” I said. “Not much help, is it? Besides, the fact that Lorraine Cobble had a meeting that morning might have nothing to do with her death twelve or thirteen hours later.”

  “It might or it might not. Now, in addition to that letter, there’s also a second significant piece of correspondence. The one that does not exist.”

  “By that you mean…”

  “I mean a suicide note. Or, more specifically, the lack of one. Frequently, in cases of self-inflicted death, the deceased has left a note stating reasons, regrets, or apologies.”

  “Frequently, but not always. Certainly not when the suicide was spur of the moment.”

  “Quite true.”

  I stopped in my tracks and caught my companion by the elbow. “Then what are we arguing about?”

  Mr. O’Nelligan raised his eyebrows. “Is it arguing we’re engaged in? I see it more as healthy discourse.”