The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  “Touché,” my partner muttered.

  The three of us spent the next several minutes tossing more good-natured banter back and forth. With Mr. O’Nelligan in the mix, it was feeling even more like the glorious pre-Spires days of yore. Eventually, Audrey checked the time and announced that she needed to be on her way. I told her I’d walk her outside.

  Mr. O’Nelligan parted with her poetically, as he was want to do. “To draw from Yeats, dear Audrey: Go forth … and seize whatever prey the heart longs for.”

  She assured him she’d do just that, and we headed down the staircase. Outside, we paused on the sidewalk for our good-byes. Audrey took one of my hands and squeezed it tightly.

  “Will you be around later, Lee?” she asked, a certain tentativeness returning to her voice.

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “We haven’t talked over what our next step is. Maybe another trip to Greenwich Village.”

  She nodded and smiled gently. “Well, if you want to go snowshoeing…”

  It was a running joke with us. We’d tried donning snowshoes several winters back and had ended up spending most of the experience on our snow-numbed butts. Now, no matter what the season, we’d reference that fondly remembered failure.

  “I need to restring my pair,” I joked. “Once they’re fixed, just try to hold me back.”

  We laughed together. Not boisterously, but comfortably. If the ghost of Byron Spires wasn’t fully dispelled, it at least was receding into the shadows. We shared a kiss, long enough for the moment, and got in a final squeeze of the hands.

  “Off now toward the steeple,” I said.

  “I’ll put in a prayer for you. A long, drawn-out one.” She was only half-kidding, I think.

  * * *

  AS I REENTERED the office, Mr. O’Nelligan was lowering the telephone receiver.

  “Did someone call?” I asked.

  My partner, seated now behind my desk, didn’t reply for several seconds. When he did, there was a certain far-off quality to his tone.

  “That was Mrs. Pattinshell,” he said.

  “Our dear old spook-crooner?”

  “What she had to convey was brief—yet intriguing.”

  “Did the ghosts send her a snappy new tune?”

  “In a word, yes. Mrs. Pattinshell wanted to sing it to me over the phone, but I told her it would be best if we came down and heard it in person. I’ve arranged for us to meet at her apartment at five P.M. today. You see, the point of origin of this particular song is rather startling.”

  “Well? Who’d she claim sent it?”

  “Lorraine Cobble,” my partner said quietly. “She says it’s the spirit of the murdered Lorraine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For the third time in as many days, we found ourselves in Mrs. Pattinshell’s darkened, Gothic parlor. Again, she was seated behind the round table with its covering of black lace. And again, candle smoke and incense wafted across the room. My partner and I sat opposite our hostess. As with our previous visits, the resident Siamese had shown its displeasure by bursting out of the room like a low, shrieking rocket.

  “Lorraine told me that she wants you to hear this song,” Mrs. Pattinshell said.

  “Us specifically?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked. “Lee and I?”

  “Yes. The song just came to me this morning. Lorraine feels you need to hear it and learn what truth it affords.” She flashed me a look of minimal expectation. “If you are at all capable of doing so.”

  I smiled warmly at her. “We’re all ears.”

  Noticeably unwarmed, the gaunt woman looked away and settled herself in her high-backed chair. “I’ll attempt to retrieve the song now.”

  I pulled out my notepad to jot down the lyrics. Mrs. Pattinshell now closed her eyes and tilted her head back, just as she’d done yesterday. Then her lips parted, and her creaky singing voice pushed out the song. Lorraine’s song. It was a slow, haunting ballad, the melody of which seemed to wander all over the place.

  “O, learn ye now my woeful end, so high above the town.

  Yes, high I stood and saw him come to hurl my poor life down.

  His feathers they were red as blood, his name it was red, too.

  He said he’d have his vengeance soon, and what he said proved true.”

  I glanced over at Mr. O’Nelligan. Was he interpreting this in the way I was? The song continued, the singer’s voice growing more agitated with the final verse.

  “Seek him not within this place, he of the blood-red form.

  For he is fled across the waves where none can brave the storm.

  Yes, he is fled to face God’s wrath, so leave him to his fate.

  And leave me to my paradise, and close the churchyard gate.”

  Having come to the end, Mrs. Pattinshell opened her eyes and straightened herself in her chair. “So there you have it.”

  “You say it comes from Lorraine?” The skepticism had to be obvious in my voice.

  She stared at me. “Lorraine says it comes from Lorraine. I’ve nothing more to add. I’ve fulfilled her request to pass on the song, and now it’s up to you to do with it as you choose.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan studied the woman for a moment. “As you say, madam. Tell me, did Miss Cobble give a reason why she wished us to hear this ballad?”

  “I’ve already told you,” our hostess said sharply. “To learn whatever truth it might offer. Now, I really must get on with the remainder of my day.”

  She rose and led us to the door, not bothering to turn on the lights or say good-bye or, for that matter, extend her hand to Mr. O’Nelligan for a parting kiss. Instead, she just gestured us into the hallway and stood there, as if barring us from reentering. As we headed off, I glanced back and saw her still framed in the doorway, gazing after us. Behind her, incense smoke drifted in the candlelight like the breath of a ghost.

  * * *

  WE HAD DECIDED beforehand to stop in on our favorite 105-year-old before leaving the building. After we’d left Mrs. Pattinshell’s, it was late enough in the day that Cornelius Boyle would already have gotten in his precise four o’clock nap. We climbed up to the fifth floor and knocked at his residence.

  The door swung open and I caught my breath. Standing before us was a figure who, by all rights, should not have been there. Looking no more than nine or ten, he was dressed in a worn blue Civil War jacket and cap, with a marching drum strapped over his neck. Staring up at us with big deep eyes, he raised his wooden sticks and beat a rapid tattoo on the drumhead. My brain did a quick contortion, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. An uncanny explanation rushed in on me: Cornelius has died, and this is his ghost. In death, he’s returned to his boyhood. I stood gaping.

  For all his Irish mysticism, it was Mr. O’Nelligan who responded in the more rational fashion. “Well hello, young lad. Thank you for the musical greeting.”

  The boy smiled and gave another thump on the drum.

  From elsewhere in the room, a stocky, dark-haired woman in her midthirties came forward to stand beside the little drummer. “Who is it, Paulie?”

  “There’s two men, Mama.” Another drumbeat.

  A third party now appeared—the one we’d been expecting to find.

  “It’s all right, Tess. I know these gents.” Cornelius, leaning on his gnarled cane, waved us into the room. “This is my granddaughter Tess and her boy Paulie.”

  “Great-grandson,” Paulie announced. “That’s what I am.”

  “Right you are.” Cornelius reached over and patted the kid’s head. “Paulie here likes to dress up in my old uniform. ’Course, the drum’s not the same one I had back then.”

  “I presumed not,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Since that one was drilled through at Gettysburg.”

  The old veteran smiled. “Ah, you remember.”

  “We studied about Gettysburg in school,” Paulie chimed in.

  “As well you should have,” my partner said. “It’s a significant part of your nation’s history.”

/>   Paulie nodded energetically. “Especially since popcorn was there.”

  Confusion showed on Mr. O’Nelligan’s face. “Well, yes, I suppose … Popcorn can be traced back to ancient Peru, I believe, so perhaps…”

  “No, no, no.” Cornelius chuckled. “I’m Popcorn. Grandpop Cornelius. Get it? Popcorn.”

  “That’s right, he is,” Paulie said definitively.

  “Duly noted, young man.” Mr. O’Nelligan turned to Cornelius. “We would just like to confirm something with you, sir, if we may.”

  The old man touched his granddaughter’s sleeve. “Give us a minute, will you?”

  Tess draped an arm around Paulie’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy, you can help me fix Popcorn’s dinner.”

  Mother and son marched out of the room.

  Cornelius took a step closer to us. “I wouldn’t want to upset them if we’re talking about Lorraine’s death.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We just wanted to double-check something you told us. About the night she died.”

  My partner took up the questioning. “You informed us, Cornelius, that sometime between nine thirty and ten that evening, you saw young Hector Escobar standing down the hallway.”

  “Yeah, I saw him.”

  “He was positioned near the stairs which lead to the roof.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You called out to him. You spoke together briefly in Spanish.”

  “Yes we did. I told you all that yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “You did, sir,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “The thing is, Lee here has spoken with Hector, and the youth denies having been here at the time you’ve indicated.”

  I jumped in. “We’re wondering if you might have been mistaken about seeing him then.”

  “Mistaken?”

  “The hall was pretty dark, after all. We’re wondering if—”

  “I said I saw him, didn’t I?” Cornelius sounded edgy now. “A skinny young Puerto Rican kid who answered to the name Hector. Do you think I made that up?”

  “We’re not saying that,” I said.

  “Another thing, he called me by my name. He called me Mr. Boyle. Yeah, it was Hector.” The elderly man scowled. “You go talk to that kid again. He’s hiding something. I saw what I saw. I’m old as dirt, but I’m not daft.”

  “An observant person would never suggest such a thing,” Mr. O’Nelligan said soothingly. “Thank you once again for entertaining our inquiries.”

  Cornelius gave us a curt nod. “Well, that’s all I can tell you.”

  Paulie now reentered the room, treating us to another erratic drumroll. We took that as our cue to exit.

  * * *

  ON MR. O’NELLIGAN’S insistence, we made another trip to the rooftop. As we’d done on Friday, we walked around the edge with its low bordering wall, pausing at the spot where Lorraine Cobble had stood before her plunge.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked my partner. “We didn’t notice anything last time evidence-wise.”

  “I’m not seeking physical evidence,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  “What, then?”

  He took a while to answer. “This is the exact spot where a woman stepped from one state of existence to another.”

  “Stepped or—according to you—was thrown.”

  “What I mean is that right here is where the veil parted for Lorraine Cobble. One minute she was a human being with desires, flaws, aversions, affections. The next she was…”

  “A specter?” That’s where I thought he was going with this. “A bodiless phantom?”

  His eyes met mine. “In one sense or another, yes. Whether we believe in spirits or simply the echoes of a lost life, an energy was released here. The grand spark that coursed through Lorraine’s body, motivating her thoughts and actions, flew elsewhere the moment she struck the earth below. I’m just observing the magnitude of that fact.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in grand sparks,” I said. “Or in elsewheres.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” my friend said quietly. “In not knowing.”

  “While we’re on the general topic, there’s the matter of Lorraine’s alleged ghost song.”

  “You don’t accept its legitimacy?”

  “Do you?”

  “I found it … worthy of attention. His feathers they were red as blood…”

  I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the lyrics. “His name it was red, too. Who does that bring to mind?”

  “Cardinal, obviously.”

  “So do you think Lorraine is telling us that Cardinal Meriam killed her? Because I sure don’t. Our ghost chanter obviously made the song up.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Just to convince us of her eerie abilities,” I guessed. “Or maybe she sincerely thought she received it from Lorraine, but it was her own psyche feeding her information. Either way, she’d read the letter from Cardinal just like we did, and she knew the threatening tone of it. The song goes, He said he’d have his vengeance soon. Mrs. Pattinshell obviously got that notion from the letter.”

  “Perhaps. If I recall, the song then directs the listener to leave the killer to God’s judgment. To not pursue him. What was that line about the waves?”

  I read it to him. “For he is fled across the waves where none can brave the storm.”

  “Yes, that seems to be a reference to the fact that Cardinal abandoned North America for Australia or New Zealand.”

  “Right. So clearly Mrs. Pattinshell incorporated that info into the song as well.”

  “Explain, though, how would she know that Cardinal had in fact ‘fled across the waves’? Remember, Lee, she told us yesterday that she’d never even heard of Cardinal. Thus, how would she have knowledge of his traveling over the sea?”

  “She could have been lying yesterday.”

  “In order to implicate Cardinal today? Possible, of course. Confounding, but possible.” Mr. O’Nelligan smiled lightly. “There are no easy answers here, are there?”

  “You want me to believe that a dead woman identified her murderer, tossing in a nice melody to boot?”

  “I only want you to believe what your heart and head decree.”

  I sighed. “If you must know, my heart and head are like some two-bit vaudeville team that never quite got its act together.”

  My partner’s laugh would have been louder, I think, if we hadn’t been standing at a place of death.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Not having eaten since breakfast, I talked Mr. O’Nelligan into grabbing some supper nearby. We stumbled upon a little restaurant with a sign boasting “The Best Stew in America!”

  “Can’t pass that up,” I reasoned.

  The food we were served was certainly top-notch and no doubt American. These days, every time I ate stew, an image of my father intruded. There he was as described by his pal Muleface, clutching his heart over a steaming bowl of the stuff and slumping forward. You’d think I might have avoided that particular meal because of this, but no—being a private eye, I lived dangerously. Besides, just before he died, Dad told ol’ Mule that it was the best damned beef stew he’d ever had. As I took in the present warm, tasty spoonful, I wondered how Buster’s last stew would have measured up against this one. Between bites, we planned our next moves.

  “A return trip to Café Mercutio might be useful,” Mr. O’Nelligan suggested. “In addition to a stop at Escobar’s Grocery. Though perhaps this time I should be the one to talk with Hector.”

  “Maybe you should,” I agreed.”Seeing as my previous exchange with the kid involved tackling.”

  My partner nodded. “That was my thinking. Your rough-and-tumble methodology might not be appropriate here.”

  I laughed. “Rough-and-tumble? Yeah, that’s me to a tee. A two-fisted terror.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan pointed his soup spoon at me. “You underestimate yourself, lad. When properly roused, even the mildest creature will bare its fangs.”

  I thought of last
night and my bushwhacking of Byron Spires. “Well, maybe…”

  “Anyway, let’s see if Hector still holds to his story,” my partner said.

  “Or if he wilts under the power of the patented O’Nelligan glare.”

  “Aha! Let no one say that Lee Plunkett cannot turn a phrase.”

  “Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment.”

  “Correct,” my friend said with a smile. “It surely is.”

  The decision was made that my partner would walk over to the grocery while I drove to the coffeehouse. Mr. O’Nelligan would then catch a cab, and we’d reunite at the Mercutio.

  “Our path is thus determined,” my friend said with his usual flourish.

  “By the way, did you reach that acquaintance you said might have some info on the barracks attack? You know, the guy with the excessive name?”

  “O’Hallmhurain? I tried calling him, but never got through. I’ll give it another go later.”

  I pulled out my notebook. “Do you still have the letters with you?”

  He drew the pair of envelopes from his coat pocket and handed them over. I took a couple minutes comparing Cardinal’s letter to Mrs. Pattinshell’s song. Yes, the two certainly made interesting companion pieces, but I wasn’t prepared to admit more than that. I then gave the shorter typewritten note another look-over. It was as terse as I remembered it:

  3/23/57

  I’ll come by tomorrow at 10. A.M.

  “Not much to it, is there?” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  I was about to agree when something caught my eye. I hunched closer over the paper and adjusted my glasses. “Huh. Maybe this is something…”

  “Yes?”

  “Or maybe it’s not. Look here.” I turned the note sideways so we could both see it. “I hadn’t noticed before, but do you see after the ‘10,’ there’s a period?”

  My colleague leaned in. “Why, yes…”

  “Normally, if you were indicating a time, you wouldn’t put a period between the number and the A.M., would you?”