“It’s just a New Ostend wine,” I reassured her. In Vanderbraak Centre, you did not have to worry—I hoped—about knowing the exact bouquet of whatever you drank. East Coast wines, even I have to admit, aren’t that wonderful. But I applaud their spirit, especially given the cost of Californian or smuggled French vintages.
“That I can discern.” She set the glass down for a moment, and I half wondered whether she had a lithograph strip to test for poison, but it wasn’t twenty years earlier when I had had to worry about such matters.
“What have they found out about Miranda?” I asked.
“They have found little. The piano studio is closed off, and the technicians come and the technicians go.” She shrugged. “The ghost, it is sometimes there, and sometimes not, but it says little. At times, when it is quiet, and when I leave the studio and it is in the hall, I can hear the screams. So I must stay in my studio or depart. It is most disturbing. Some of my students will not come.” She took a sip of the wine. “Doktor Geoffries, he says that the studio may not be used for some time. It is a pity.”
“How did she die?”
“She was stabbed, many times. The person who murdered her wore a large overcoat from the prop department. They found it with blood on it.”
“Did they find a knife?”
“I do not know. Doktor Geoffries thinks it was a prop knife, but no one has said.”
“That makes it sound like someone familiar with the building.”
“One would think so.”
“Still … there must have been two hundred people in the building. Why didn’t anyone hear anything?”
“In the studio, Johan?”
“Oh.” I understood. The reason they insulate all the studios is so that no one can hear students and performers practicing. So poor Miranda could have been screaming her lungs out, and no one would have heard. “It had to be someone who knew that.”
“Most certainly.” Her lips quirked after she sipped her wine.
I understood her expression. Although the music faculty was not large, there were still a good dozen full- and part-time professors and lecturers, and that didn’t include nearly a hundred music and theatre students. It also didn’t include another few hundred people around the university and Vanderbraak Centre who also knew the Music and Theatre building. Besides, anyone with a motive could have scouted the building during the week when classes were ongoing. Just wear a dark coat and cravat and walk around looking preoccupied.
“You would like?” asked Victor, appearing at Llysette’s elbow and winking.
“La même, comme ça,” she answered, offering him a smile but not a wink in return.
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he answered, except he pronounced it “mam’selle.” He turned to me. “And you, Doktor Eschbach?”
“The soup and cheese, with the shepherd’s bread.”
Victor bowed.
“You like Victor?” I asked after the owner had departed.
“His French is not that good, but it is a help, Johan. The others, except you, for them France is an embarrassment.”
“People don’t like to admit their weaknesses.”
“Not for us poor French. Your government did not wish to lose a single ship to Ferdinand’s submersibles. Nor one of your few precious aircraft carriers. Not in 1921. Not in 1985.”
“That was after my time in service.”
“You do not talk much of it.” Llysette downed the rest of her glass, and Victor appeared to refill it. He also set a small salad in front of Llysette and a side plate with the shepherd’s bread in front of me. Behind her back, he shook his head sadly at me, as if to say that it was a pity she did not savor the wine.
“What is there to talk about? I flew reconnaissance for several years during the time Ferdinand did nothing.” My throat was dry, somehow, and I swallowed the rest of the iced tea and signaled for a third, hoping Llysette would drop the subject, but she continued as if I had never spoken.
“And the English and the Irish? What could they do? Now they must wait for the inevitable. You Columbians will wring your hands. You will talk in the League of Nations. You will not act.” She took a forkful of greens and glanced toward the square, where Constable Gerhardt was admonishing a hauler for bringing his twelve-wheeler into the square, either that or for the plume of unhealthy black smoke from the steamer’s burners. “His panzerwagens, they rolled down the Marne road and through Troyes, and you did nothing. Even at the gates to Versailles, nothing.” Llysette sniffed.
“Speaker Colmer was not known for his love of overseas adventure, and Europe is still far away, even with the new turbojets. As for Speaker Michel …” I had to shrug.
“Did not the pictures—” Llysette broke off. We’d had the discussion before, and nothing we said would change the past. Finally she said, “I prefer the comfort of the dirigibles. They are less stressful on the voice.”
“And far less crowded, but expensive.”
“Once I would not have had to worry,” she pointed out.
Victor’s son set my soup in front of me and a cup of chilled consommé before Llysette. I nodded, and he departed.
“Still … Johan, when will you Columbians act?”
“When it is too late.” I laughed, not without a bitter undertone. “We believe in letting each man go to the devil in a coffin of his own making. Or each nation.”
“And women also?”
“That is becoming more popular, although some still suggest that women’s coffins be made by their fathers and husbands.”
“My own coffin I must make. For alas, I have no husband, and Ferdinand’s regiments killed my father, old and ancient as he was.”
There was little I could say to that, not at the moment. So I took a small spoonful of the soup, a properly flavorful Dutch broth. The cheese was a white New Ostend cheddar, extraordinarily sharp, the way Victor knew I liked it. I nodded at the tang, then broke off a piece of the crusty bread. Llysette took the consomme in precise spoonfuls, interspersed with the red wine.
“Johan, why is it that you showed no interest in Professor Miller? She always wished to talk with you.”
I finished chewing the bread before answering. “I could not say, not exactly. But she seemed to show a certain lack of discipline. In any case, she appeared far more interested in Gerald Branston-Hay.” The first part was certainly true—I couldn’t say exactly why I hadn’t been attracted. The second part was a polite way of saying that she was a lazy and round-bottomed widow who was required to support herself in any way she could, but who was really looking for a husband. My background and hers certainly would not have fit.
“Considering that the good Doktor Branston-Hay is thoroughly married,” Llysette laughed, “you retain the manners of a public servant.”
“At your service, my lady.” I gave her a head bow. Like Llysette, I had wondered about Miranda’s more than passing interest in Gerald Branston-Hay, as conveyed by Llysette. The man must have had some charm, although I had seen more manners than charm in my assorted conversations with him. I refrained from mentioning that I knew Llysette had spent more than a luncheon or two with him. “Professor Branston-Hay is indeed a gentleman of the old English stock.” I finished my soup.
“Ah, yes. He is very polite.” Llysette’s voice was measurably cooler.
“And far more reserved than Professor Miller, I presume.”
“She is, she was, not reserved, I think.”
I glanced at my watch, my father’s old Ansonia that still kept perfect time, and rose.
Llysette glanced at the clock on the post centre. “Do you not have a half hour before your two o’clock?”
“Ah, yes, dear lady, but duty calls. I must stop by the post centre before class because I must attend a meeting of the curriculum review committee after class.”
“This is the committee which nothing does?”
“The very same.”
“Yet you attend when nothing will be done; is this not so?”
“Absolutely. Then we can claim that we have met, and that the best course of action was to do nothing.”
“Like your government.”
“Exactly. Except it appears that people get killed at universities, while I cannot recall the last time a public servant was murdered, not when it was apparent. Will I see you for dinner?”
“Not this evening, Johan. I must complete previews for student juries.”
“I had hoped …”
“You always hope, Johan. One of your best traits.” She smiled.
“Thank you.” I bowed and turned.
Although I had hoped that the monthly pension cheque had arrived, the only item in my postbox was a long, narrow brown envelope, the type I had seen too many of in Columbia. Of course, it had no return address. I took a deep breath and locked the box.
“Ye find anything interesting?” asked Maurice from behind the counter.
“You know better than I would. You saw it first.” I grinned at the post handler. He grinned back.
I hurried back to my office, grateful for the cool breeze.
I smiled toward Gilda as I passed the front office, but she was engaged in a conversation about nouveau-Dutch painting with Andrei Salakin, and with his accent, listening alone was a full-time occupation. Once back in my office, I closed the door firmly.
Except for the clipping from the Columbia Post-Dispatch, the brown envelope was empty. I laid the short clipping on the desk.
COLUMBIA (RPI)—Representative Patrice Alexander (L—MI) announced a shadow investigation into charges that the Austro-Hungarian Empire has infiltrated Columbian universities. “Through such blatantly transparent ruses as the Austro-Hungarian Cultural Foundation and the Global Research Fund, Ferdinand VI is encouraging the dissemination of pro-Hapsburg values.” Congresslady Alexander also disparaged “so-called scientific research aimed at undermining traditional Columbian values.” She claimed the investigation will bring to light a de facto collusion between Speaker Hartpence’s “trained liberals” and Ferdinand’s “pandered plunderers.” Neither the Speaker nor President Armstrong was available for comment, although the president is known to have received a visit from Ambassador Schikelgruber shortly after Congresslady Alexander’s announcement.
Schikelgruber, one of the few political ambassadors from the empire, was always sent to smooth things over. He was supposedly captivating and charming, and cultured. His mother had been a fair actress and his father a landscape painter.
I didn’t need a detailed explanation. Schikelgruber was there to put pressure on the president to put pressure on the Congresslady, since they were of the same party, and Ralston had sent me the clipping to highlight his concerns about such “infiltration.”
Ralston McGuiness was the president’s special assistant for budgeting—no one special to anyone outside the Presidential Palace, just the one man who not only recognized the growing, almost tyrannical, power of the Speaker but also knew how to use the few powers of the presidency to check that power. Now he finally had a president willing to try and good old idealistic Johan, willing to offer a little observation, a little assistance.
I was beginning to wonder if my idealism were going to be my undoing. Ralston’s clippings were showing an increasingly effective campaign against the Speaker, a power struggle that had so far gone unnoticed in the press but, clearly, not by the Speaker nor by the Spazi who worked for the Speaker. I folded the clipping back into the envelope and placed it in the left breast pocket of my coat, then picked up the leather folder which held the notes for my two o’clock class. Gilda was still listening patiently to Andrei when I left, but I made a point to wave and flash her a smile. She probably deserved it.
My two o’clock class, Environmental Politics 2A, was in Smythe 204, a hot room on the southwest corner of the second floor. I always had to open the windows. Peyton Farquharson taught Ecology I-B immediately before me, and his Louisiana heritage was always clear enough by the temperature of the room. He was leaving as I entered.
“Good afternoon, Johan. Terrible business about Miranda Miller.”
“Absolutely awful.”
“Did you know her? Was she close to your ‘friend’?”
I smiled politely, ignoring the reproof implied by his choice of words, knowing that, with his Anglican-Baptist background, he really was being as tolerant as he was able. “Llysette and Miranda were colleagues, but not what one would call close.”
“And at her recital, too, I understand.”
“It was upsetting. At least Llysette didn’t find out until after she finished singing.”
“Yes, it would be difficult to sing right after a murder. Do you have any idea how it happened?”
One of my students, Peter Paulus, nodded to me, and stepped back. I was sure he wanted to ask the reason for the low grade on his first paper. None of them were used to my requirement for short papers throughout the term. Most academics simply lectured all term, then required a single massive research project or logical proof and a final exam that was more regurgitation than thought.
“The rumor is that she was stabbed, but the watch officers did not tell me.” I inclined my head. “I have a student with a problem, I can see.”
“Good luck with young Paulus,” concluded Farquharson. “He is inclined to inflate the magnitude of his difficulties.”
“I have noticed.”
I waited for Paulus, but he was scarcely bashful.
“Professor Eschbach, could I trouble you to explain this comment?” He pointed to the brief phrase I had written in the margin of his greenbook—“Mere assertion.”
I held a sigh. “Mister Paulus.” They hated my use of English formality, but it worked, at least for me. “As I have explained a number of times in the course of the past few weeks, when you make a broad assertion, you must prove it with either example, fact, or logic. You have left this statement dangling in the breeze, so to speak.”
“But, Professor, it is true that Speaker Taft’s failure to adequately capitalize the Environmental Subministry—”
“I know, Mister Paulus. I spent considerable time in Columbia City, and a fair amount of it supervising the Environmental Subministry. You never explain how much funding would have been adequate and why, or the actual results of such underfunding. Did you mention any programs that were reduced? Or initiatives that were canceled? You just wrote that it contributed to the rise of Speaker Hartpence’s Reformed Tories. How? What demographic trends did the new Speaker tap? Did the president play a role as titular head of state? Was the environmental funding issue merely a political ploy between the two? What changes in funding have happened under the new government?”
“I see, Doktor Eschbach. Thank you.” He nodded and walked to his desk in the rear of the classroom. His tone indicated that he hadn’t really the faintest idea of what I meant. Someone had told him, or he had read, that the environmental funding issue had led to the fall of the Taft government, and that was that. Black or white. It was in the book, so it must be true. Never mind about why it happened, or even, heaven forbid, if it might not be true. Thank God I only had him for Environmental Politics.
But I supposed people in every country are like that. So long as the trains run on time and the lights go on when they press the switch plates, how many really understand the power base of their system? After all, who really cared that the presidency was the only remaining check on the power of the Speaker? Or that the only real tool the president had was his budget examiners and their ability to uncover blatant favoritism? Who cared that the Spazi obtained more and more real power every decade? After all, they didn’t really bother most people, just those involved in treasonous acts. But when the Speaker controlled both the Congress and the Spazi, and one defined treasonous acts and the other had the right to detain and punish such acts, that power could become very disturbing, as Elspeth and I had found out when I had applied for permission for her treatment in Vienna.
By the time I had opened the
windows, I was perspiring. I wiped my forehead on the soft linen handkerchief I carried mainly for that purpose and surveyed the room. About a dozen of my twenty-three students had arrived. All the men, except mister Jones, wore cravats, but not all wore jackets, and the women wore knee-length skirts or trousers. Most wore scarves.
I opened the case and took out my notes, waiting for the rest of the class or the chimes of the post centre clock. I tried not to think of the president’s special assistant or the Spazi steamers, but I couldn’t escape the conviction that they were both waiting for me to make some sort of mistake.
CHAPTER FOUR
Llysette had indicated rather clearly that she was tied up for the evening, although student previews would not last that late, but I certainly had no claim on her, not unless I wanted to formalize our relationship, and I did not feel all that comfortable about that at present. So I reclaimed the Stanley from the faculty car park as the post centre clock struck five and headed down Highland toward the square and home.
After deciding against stopping for a case of ale from McArdles’, I turned past Samaha’s and pulled up at the west side of the bridge to wait for another steamer, a bulky Reo, to finish crossing. For some reason I recalled the time in London when I’d driven a steam lorry. I suppose it was the waiting. You always wait in those assignments. People think intelligence and undercover work is glamorous, but it takes a lot of patience.
Marie had left before I arrived home, as usual, but the table was set, and there was a veal pie in the oven, with a small loaf of bread and some sliced cheese. I fumbled together some lettuce, peppers, and carrots with some oil and vinegar for a salad. The table gleamed, as did the white-enameled windowsills.
Ghosts of Columbia Page 3