Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Read online

  “A Hudson? And dark-green. That sounds pretty grand; grander than mine, certainly.” He was pleased enough on her behalf, but there was a hesitance in him now that made it apparent to Holte that Loring had recalled the separation between their places in society, as well as their financial situations. “What made you choose it? Are you wanting to cut a dash?”

  “More practicality than grandiosity, I’m afraid. I chose it because it’s closed.”

  “That’s a reasonable precaution for a woman in your line of work.” He cleared his throat. “Very sensible of you.”

  Poppy did not bother to show resentment at the notion that she would need protection that others did not, for his remark closely matched her reason for purchasing the Hudson. “I know the way out,” she assured him. “You needn’t escort me. After all, I’m surrounded by policemen, so I ought to be safe, and you don’t want to bring attention to what we’ve been talking about.”

  Loring couldn’t argue with that. “Then I’ll wish you a good evening, and look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  “I hope so. My cousin Hank is in town, and Aunt Jo is having nineteen guests—at this morning’s count—to celebrate his birthday, and who knows what she might want us to do tomorrow?”

  “This would be Stacy’s brother? Why haven’t I heard about him?” Loring could not keep from asking. “Older or younger?

  “His oldest. Cosmo and Reginald both died young, so only Hank and Stacy are left.” She made herself stop talking before she fell into a complicated explication of family dynamics. “Hank will be forty-seven today.”

  “Hank?” Loring laughed aloud. “Really? You can’t tell me your aunt gave him such a commonplace name, can you?”

  “He was christened Galahad; Aunt Jo was in her Arthurian phase when Hank was born. He’s preferred Hank since he was five, I’ve been told, and I don’t blame him. He’s a yacht designer, sort of by accident, but he’s taken to it very well. And recently, he’s been helping to design aeroplanes. He lives in Maine. He was widowed in 1917, and remarried a couple of years ago. This is our first real chance to get to know his new wife. She’s beautiful and has truly excellent manners, or so Aunt Jo insists.”

  While this answer aroused Loring’s interest, he kept this in check and only asked, “Do you think he knows anything about Stacy?”

  Poppy stood still. “I very much doubt it. They are son number one and son number four, and the gap between them—sixteen years—was much too wide to cross. And they’re vastly different in style. Hank is upright to a fault, and dependable.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Loring, adding, “So it would be useless to talk to Hank?”

  “Go ahead, if you like, but wait until the weekend; Aunt Jo is going to keep him busy from now until all the guests leave tonight.”

  Loring thought for a moment, then said, “Okay. Tomorrow at the Firebird. Shall we say two-thirty?”

  “I’ll try,” Poppy responded. “But don’t fret if I’m late.”

  “I won’t,” Loring said mendaciously, then went on with a new thought. “If you have a chance, will you think about how I can deal with the Pearses? I feel at a loss, talking to them.”

  “Happy to.” Poppy prepared to leave the police station. “Until then, JB, and thanks”

  “Tomorrow.” Loring waved to her as she went out the door, wholly unaware that Holte was observing his every move.

  As she finished rubbing a bit of rouge into her cheeks, Poppy gave herself a last, critical stare in the mirror. She put her thoughts of Loring aside and left her room to venture down to dinner.

  FOUR

  THE BIRTHDAY PARTY ENDED A LITTLE PAST ONE IN THE MORNING. MOST OF THE guests departed merrily tipsy, and replete with the magnificent dinner and the superb cake that Josephine had offered them in honor of Galahad’s turning forty-seven. By the time Hawkins had closed and locked the front door, the clock had struck one, and Josephine put a hand up to tuck in a stray tendril of hair that had escaped from the coronet braid on the crown of her head. Her beige wool-crepe dinner dress with midnight-blue piping still looked flawless, but her eyes were dark with fatigue.

  “Well, they seemed to enjoy themselves,” she said to Galahad, who was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his dinner jacket; he, too, looked tired.

  “As well they should. It was a resplendent evening, Mother. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Everything was perfect.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Josephine said, beaming with pride.

  Galahad kissed his fingers in salute to her. “I’ll remember this evening for the rest of my life.”

  Cecily, gorgeous in a backless dinner gown of apricot peau de soie, took hold of her husband’s arm and bent down to remove her right high-heeled sandal, then stepped back and took the left off on her own. “Yes, Jo,” she said, rubbing her left foot through her silk stocking, “it was a splendid party. I believe your guests will be praising it for weeks.”

  Josephine radiated her delight. “How very kind of you, Cecily. Yes, I think we can say it was a success.”

  Hawkins suppressed a yawn, and said, “A very grand occasion, Missus Dritchner. I’m proud to have been part of it.” He paused, and added, “But if it is all the same to you, I’d like to retire. With your permission?”

  “You have it, and my thanks,” said Josephine, more fatigued than grand. “You needn’t rise until eight. I’m going to let Missus Flowers and Missus Boudon do the same, and we’ll set breakfast back to nine, and have it buffet-style for a change. That should simplify things in the kitchen.” She looked at Hawkins, who was starting toward the kitchen corridor. “Hawkins, will you tell Missus Flowers and Missus Boudon of the schedule change? And inform Eliza that she may wait until ten in the morning to finish the clean-up. Thank you.”

  Hawkins nodded. “My pleasure, Missus Dritchner,” he said, and continued on his way.

  Galahad watched Hawkins, and said, “He’s remarkable, isn’t he? He changes so little. He’s a little greyer now than he was when I was at Harvard, but otherwise, he’s much the same as he was more than twenty years ago.”

  “It’s remarkable,” Josephine agreed. “It was good of him to escort Primrose North across the street. Denton made his excuses around ten, as I recall. I shall hate it when Hawkins retires. I can’t imagine that anyone else could do his job half so well as he does.”

  Before his mother turned mawkish, Galahad changed the subject. “I had a pleasant word with Edna Blanchard. Her husband is improving.”

  “She always says that, and I take it to mean that he is not getting any worse,” Josephine said. “It’s a pity that he should have become so great an invalid, but strokes can be like that.”

  Galahad continued his account. “Wilbur Millard brought me up to date on the Moncrief murder. What a tangle it is; I think Hadley and Grimes has been remiss in their dealings with the police. With Louise leaving as she did, it’s made for quite a scandal.” As soon as he said it, he realized that he should have kept that last part to himself.

  Josephine frowned again, her indignation mounting. “That woman! Of all the effrontery. Dragging Eustace’s good name through the mire because she left the city about the same time Eustace did! And her husband not in the grave yet.”

  “It will blow over, Mother. These things always do.” Galahad had put his foot on the first tread of the stairs, but stopped.

  “Do we have to bring all this up again?” Josephine complained.

  Hank acquiesced. “I talked for a while with Isadora Pearse—she seems exhausted—and she told me that she’s worried about her son GAD. He’s due back from Europe but has not returned, and she’s afraid something might have happened to him. Is there anything to it? Is GAD really missing, or is she making a mountain out of a molehill?”

  “Isadora is a fool, and she’s obsessed with protecting GAD, and he’s all she’s been able to think about for the last two years; I can’t blame him for running off to Europe for the summer, seeing how she’s been cosseting
him. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t let him go farther than Constitution Hall, and even then, she would chafe,” said Josephine emphatically. “She wants to wrap that boy in cotton batting because HOB died. What nonsense. Imagine if I had done that to you, when your brothers—” she glared at the parlor entrance, and changed her tone as she went on, “I don’t know. There may be reason for her worries, yet no one can say for sure. One hears whispers, of course, and there are suspicions, but it’s all guesses, and Isadora’s constant maunderings only serve to make things worse. That boy! He’s determined to save the world. If only HOB were still alive, or Auralia had been born a boy, GAD would be free to tilt at whatever windmills he chooses, but now that he’s the heir, he has obligations here, not off among foreigners, in who knows what God-forsaken place, helping refugee Albanians or Armenians or some such barbarians! Just imagine if I had carried on the way that Isadora does when Stacy disappeared.” She gave an emphatic shake to her head. “Isadora is far too anxious about GAD. She imagines disasters around every corner. Not that I blame her, of course. She has a more volatile nature than many women I know, and just now, she is centered on GAD, which, to my mind, explains his absence. Can you imagine a woman more given to emotional outbursts than Isadora Pearse?” Her vehemence faded. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, except commiserate when needed. You did that, I’m sure.”

  “I tried,” said Galahad. “And I wouldn’t dismiss her concerns too readily: she may well have good cause to worry. GAD has always been a bit…odd.”

  “I know you sympathized with her,” Josephine said fondly, and went to turn off the entry hall lights. “You two go up. I’ll follow you in a minute or so; I have to find Duchess.”

  “She’s in the parlor,” said Cecily, pointing out the direction the spaniel had taken. “I saw her come in just before the Pearses left.”

  “Oh. Thank you, Cecily. I thought she might be in the music room; she often goes there when we have company in the house.” Josephine whistled softly, hoping for Duchess to respond.

  “She licked up some of the cake on a plate that was set aside on the footstool in front of the wing-backed chair,” Cecily added.

  “Greedy little rapscallion,” Josephine said at her most indulgent. “She’ll need a long walk in the morning.”

  “Why not call her? She’s not likely to hear your whistle,” Cecily suggested, starting up the stairs, her high-heeled sandals hanging by their straps from her hand. She passed her husband, but slowed her ascent. “It was a lovely evening, Jo.”

  “Thank you, Cecily. I believe we carried it off well.” Josephine shook her head, a bit distracted. “Duchess is a bit hard of hearing these days; or she pretends to be. She’s nine next month. No, I’ll just have a peek in the parlor. I assume that Maestro is in the library with Poppea.” This last comment was said in a faintly condemning manner as she went to the parlor door. “It’s that job of hers.” She said job as if it were an obscenity. “She works all hours of the day and night, and hardly ever goes to parties. She spends hours in the library, typing away, and passing her days with the most disreputable people—reporters and even criminals! It will be the ruin of her. I’ve tried and tried to convince her to give it up, and improve her social life, but she’ll have none of it. She refuses to think of her future.”

  “She certainly went to this party, Mother, and she didn’t begrudge any of the guests her company. I saw her make the rounds of the guests at least twice, and didn’t say much about what she does at the paper.” Galahad was a couple of stairs below his wife. “She was with us until midnight, Mother, and half the guests left about then.”

  “So they did,” Josephine said, willing to make concessions on Galahad’s behalf. “This is a week-night, and there were a few who plan to rise early, which we will not have to do, thank goodness. You needn’t be up with the larks unless you want to be. I plan to wait an hour past my usual time.” She made a sign that she was almost ready to go up to bed by snapping her fingers at the dozing Duchess, who, she found, had curled up behind the parlor’s wing-backed chair; the dog shook her head, sneezed, and doddered over to Josephine, still half asleep, but attempting to wag her tail. “I’ll say good night to you now and will see you in the morning.”

  “Sleep well, Mother, and thank you again,” Galahad said, resuming his upward climb while Josephine bent down to pet her spaniel.

  “Let me wish you many happy returns of your day.” She straightened up and smiled. “I hope you will let me plan a better occasion for when you turn fifty. Fifty. Where do the years go—weren’t you just starting out in business with Amanda?” When she realized this might be seen as a slight to Cecily, she added, “Nothing against you, my dear. But there are still times it seems like only yesterday,” she amended, and took a little time to admonish her dog, “You cake thief. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” She bent down again to rub Duchess’ head as a way to soften her rebuke.

  Duchess wagged her tail and made a moan in pleasure, then dutifully followed Josephine up the stairs, waiting patiently while her mistress made a detour, stopped at the library door, and knocked. When she heard no response, she knocked again, a bit more loudly, and called out, “Poppea?”

  “Who’s there?” came Poppy’s reply in a slightly distracted voice.

  “Poppea, are you still in there?” Josephine spoke up firmly.

  “I am,” she told Aunt Jo. “I’ll be going to bed shortly. It was a wonderful party. I’m sorry I had to leave when I did. A deadline is a deadline.” This was not quite the truth, but near enough for both aunt and niece.

  “Well, have a good night’s sleep; you’ll probably be up before I am, so I’ll also wish you a good day,” said her aunt, and did not wait for Poppy’s response, for having discharged her hostess-duties, she felt ready to reward herself with quiet. She went on toward her bedroom, Duchess at her heels.

  Inside the library, Poppy rolled the papers out of the Smith typewriter, put the top sheet, the carbon paper, and the onion-skin copy in established stacks on the left side of the machine, saying to Chesterton Holte as she did, “I’ll tend to the rest in the morning. For now, I’m getting sleepy; I don’t think well when I’m sleepy.”

  Holte drifted over toward her. “Three pages?”

  “Perhaps not quite so many. About the arrest of Miles Overstreet in Chateauguay. That’s near Montr—”

  “Montreal.” He did not bother to remind her that he was from Halifax in Nova Scotia, and was familiar with Quebec.

  Poppy paid no attention. “—and the disinclination of the Canadians to expedite his extradition. That means all manner of red tape, if they choose to hold onto him a while. It’s more make-work than real news at this stage, but those following the case will want to see that there is progress. I hope Lowenthal keeps me on this assignment as long as he can. So I’ve been gleaning as much as I can turn up.”

  “What will Inspector Loring say? Are you going to ask him about it?” He was tweaking her a bit, but hesitated when he saw the frown-lines deepen between her brows. “What’s the matter? You aren’t going to tell me that he isn’t singling you out for information he rarely gives out to others.” Poppy went to the couch in front of the fireplace and sat down, reclining slightly on one arm, wholly unaware of how pretty she looked: she was in an evening ensemble of teal handkerchief linen that featured a cowl neckline which fell far enough to reveal the square topaz pendant her father had given her for her birthday shortly before he had left on his last trip to Europe; the long bell-sleeves broadened three inches above her wrist, revealing a simple gold bracelet. The ankle-length skirt, of the same material, had a trumpet-flare at her knees and showed off her gold Chanel shoes. Her bobbed hair was prettily waved, and even now, after a tiring evening, her face had a tranquility about it that was rare for her. “Inspector Loring is very good to me, and I know it, and it’s not just because the two of you got me out of that basement. There are times I’m afraid that I’m taking advantage of
him.”

  “Taking advantage? He offers it to you, you don’t impose on him. Isn’t that convenient for you?” Holte inquired. “And for him?”

  “Yes and no,” said Poppy. “It’s awkward to have him…take our occasional meetings away from his office or mine. Some of them are in discreet places, but a few could be construed as clandestine, and that could get both of us into hot water if someone wanted to make something of them. It could be assumed that there is more to our friendship than professional concerns would require. Ye gods! If it got about that we—” She sat up, her hands gathered in her lap, the tranquility gone from her face. “If there are rumors that there is a…a romantic involvement, it throws a great deal of my work on the counterfeit antiques investigation into question, and it makes it seem to some of my…colleagues that I offer favors to get inside information.”

  “But you don’t, and Inspector Loring would be the first to say so,” Holte observed. “He likes your information almost as much as he likes you.”

  “Then his coming to my defense would make thing worse,” Poppy said, her shoulders tense, so that it seemed that she had left the hanger in her blouse. “His denial of any connection beyond the professional one would make almost everyone at the Clarion absolutely certain that there was something more than inquiries going on.”

  “Is the staff there really so cynical about their own colleagues?” He did his best not to sound too incredulous.

  Poppy noticed that the light on the ceiling flickered. “Not about most of their male colleagues, but for female reporters, the situation is different.”

  “But you’re not just a reporter, you are the victim in a case Loring is investigating, and the two of you have good cause to consult, particularly since the crime concerns a member of your family. Why would the other Clarion reporters doubt that you have good reason to speak with Loring? They know you talk to Denton North, don’t they? And for the same reason. What might they disapprove of with Loring?” Holte was perplexed by her refusal to permit herself to recognize the growing attraction she and Loring felt for each other, and her explanation was even more bewildering.