Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I suppose so.” Poppy was concentrating on maneuvering around a taxi, and said nothing more to Holte as she finally pulled up about two feet beyond where her aunt stood; she put the Hudson in neutral and set the brake. “So sorry I’m late, Aunt Esther; I had work to finish at the paper,” she exclaimed as she leaned over to open the passenger door.

  Esther said something that Poppy could not hear over the honking of a black sedan passing on her left. Esther signaled to a porter, who came promptly to assist her. “Put the trunk in the…trunk, and the suitcases on the back seat, please,” she said, handing him a very generous dollar tip. “Is there a key for the trunk of your auto? I suppose you keep it locked—if you’ll provide the key?” she asked as she pulled the passenger door wide and held out her hand for it. “It won’t take long to load.”

  Poppy fumbled to get it off of her key-chain, then offered it to Aunt Esther. “Here. The rear door is open on your side.” She thought she heard Holte chuckle, but with the clamor of the train station all around her, she could not be sure.

  The porter got the trunk open and shoved Aunt Esther’s trunk inside, then slammed the lid down and locked it before coming to put the suitcases in the back and to return the key to Aunt Esther. He touched the brim of his cap and closed the door, then went to help a middle-aged man get his luggage out of the auto behind Poppy’s Hudson; Esther waved to him.

  “How was your journey?” Poppy asked as she signaled with her arm to pull away from the curb.

  Esther removed her modified trilby and set it on the seat beside her. “Most of it was wretched. I wish now that I had kept with my original plan and returned to America via the Pacific instead of coming back through the Soviet Union and Europe to cross the Atlantic. We had squalls three days out of Southampton.” She made a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Soviet Union. Now there’s an irony for you. It would be difficult to find a self-proclaimed country that is more divisive.” She ran her fingers through her jaw-length hair and removed her glasses to clean them with a pale-blue linen handkerchief. “If the Ottoman Empire hadn’t gone the way of the Dodo, some Soviet ambitions might have been better-focused in dealing with their own people than they are now. And with Lenin dead, the men in power are at one another’s throats, and the Russian people are paying the price.”

  “In what way?” Poppy asked, a dawning notion of preparing an independent article on what her aunt had observed, forming in her thoughts. “What is happening to the people?”

  A Dodge Brothers Model 9 went by them, speeding through the crowd at more than thirty miles an hour, swerving in and out of the slower-moving vehicles, accompanied by hoots and shouts from the vehicles around it.

  “That’s a foolish fellow,” Aunt Esther remarked, keeping track of the Model 9’s erratic progress along the street. “He’s not going to go much faster than if he keeps to the speed of those around him, and he is risking an accident, going in and out of traffic like that.”

  “He’s not the only one on the road who drives recklessly,” said Poppy, pointing out a model A Ford that was weaving through lanes ahead of them.

  “That’s no excuse,” Aunt Esther said, for once sounding very much like her sister Josephine. “They’re being irresponsible.”

  “This from a woman who flies aeroplanes.” Poppy fell in behind a delivery van, and settled into a steady twenty miles an hour. The afternoon sun glinted off the radiator cap at the front of the hood, forcing Poppy to squint in order to see anything beyond shine. “About the Soviet Union?”

  Aunt Esther made an irritated gesture. “Oh. Yes.” She thought for half a minute, and then answered Poppy’s question. “For one thing, the Soviets could have done something to stop the slaughter of the Armenians, had they not been squabbling internally, back when the damage was being done. If the Soviets had taken the time to put pressure on the Ottomans, then the worst abuses might have been prevented, and perhaps the Ottoman Empire would not have fallen so abruptly. Those poor people were killed by the thousands, and no one seemed to mind, or to notice, and the Great War is no excuse for that lack. The few Armenians who escaped the massacre have been left to wander all around eastern Europe, or parts of the Middle East, where there is little acceptance of Orthodox Christians. I saw a group of them in Vienna: they were called Living Spectres by their leader, having no work, no homes, and no prospects of either. The Armenian Orthodox priest who looked after them, a fanatic of sorts, told them that their suffering would bring them glory in Paradise, for they would wear the crowns of martyrs. I believe his name was Ahram Avaikian, and his people venerated him for saving their lives. They had taken a vow of pacifism, which is understandable, considering what had happened to so many of their people—it was that or open rebellion, and they were in no position to undertake armed conflict. They were housed in hovels and survived on bits of charity provided by the Austrians, who are having troubles of their own. I have a couple of photographs I took of the camp where about a hundred Armenians were living in conditions that would embarrass a Hottentot; I was hoping to have the National Geographic Society run an article about the plight of Armenian refugees, but I haven’t been able to convince them of the significance of the crisis, which just goes to show you how appalling their situation has become.” She shook her head. “There are times I am embarrassed to be a human being.”

  “Would you like me to speak to my editor about an article from you?” Poppy ventured.

  “On the Armenians? Certainly. But I doubt he’ll be interested. If the National Geographic Society won’t run such a piece, I doubt the Clarion would, either. But don’t let me discourage you. I’d be pleased to find out I was wrong.” She gazed out the window. “It’s strange. I rarely get homesick until I return here, and then it hits me that I’ve missed this place. While I’m away, it rarely crosses my mind.”

  “Anywhere in particular you’d like to see?” Poppy asked, wanting to show her pleasure in her aunt’s company. “I could drive you by.”

  “Not yet. Give me a day or two, and I’ll have pangs for those parts of the city that have changed since I left, like those lakes you told me the city would be draining.” Esther smoothed the front of her pewter-colored jacket. “I must be quite bedraggled.”

  “You look wonderful,” said Poppy, adding diplomatically, “But your skirt is a little wrinkled.”

  “A little?” she scoffed. “I appreciate your kindness, if not your candor. I need to do something about my appearance before I step out in public. Is there a beauty shop that will take me on short notice, I wonder? I wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking I had traveled in steerage.”

  “Would you like to go home, Aunt Esther?”

  “Home, yes, if you don’t mind. You’re going in the right direction.”

  “I did assume,” said Poppy.

  “With good reason. We’ll set Galliard to unloading—he knows we’re coming. I sent the staff a telegram last night, so they could prepare for my arrival. We can get my things out of this auto, and set my employees to work, and I’ll change clothes.” Esther sniffed her sleeve and made a face. “I feel as if I’ve been wearing these for an age. I can’t wait to shed them, and to get out of my stays. I suppose I should invest in a few of those new brassieres they’re selling now; so much more comfortable than corsets, they tell me.” She leaned against the back of the seat, her eyes closing a little. “Then I want to have a drink, and after that, a good meal somewhere pleasant, and when we get back from dining, I plan to soak in the tub until my fingers pucker.”

  “Will you want to be up for breakfast?” Poppy asked, doing her best to work out how to respond to her aunt.

  Esther sat up. “Naturally I’ll want breakfast. I’ll have Missus Sassoro serve it at seven- thirty, if she’s willing to arrive so early; only Miss Roth lives in, as I suppose you know better than I at this point.” She took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “Good gracious, Poppy, I’m not such a ninny that five months of travel leaves me worn to the bone.”

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sp; “I didn’t suppose you were,” said Poppy. “But you’ve covered—what is it?—well over ten thousand miles in the last two months; and from what your letters have described, not all those miles were easy ones.”

  Aunt Esther laughed again. “Don’t imagine me such a hot-house flower that I need to indulge myself in fainting fits, if that’s what’s bothering you. I recover reasonably quickly, even at my age.” She reached over to pat Poppy’s arm. “Not that I don’t appreciate your concerns, because I do, but I’m not used to coddling myself. Neither are you, I gather.”

  “I’m nowhere near as adventuresome as you are,” Poppy said, a bit wistfully.

  “That’s not what my sister says,” Aunt Esther told her.

  “She’s written to you?” Poppy asked, puzzled. “When did she do that?”

  “In mid-June, I think. The letter caught up with me in Vienna, toward the end of July. I spent six days, doing research, and I found more than a dozen letters waiting for me when I arrived, four from you, and two from Jo among them; she asked me if I might consider having you live with me, since you were making such a fuss about Stacy’s so-called prank.”

  Poppy was taken aback. “Aunt Jo never said anything about that to me. I assumed the idea was yours.”

  Esther could see Poppy stiffen, and continued more companionably. “When I read Jo’s letters, I decided it would be a fine solution to the animosity that plainly was developing between the two of you. I’m capable of reading between the lines, especially when the lines are Jo’s. She insists that you made too much of what she called Eustace’s escapade, saying that no one could have foreseen that he would be unable to return to set you free which, she insisted in her second letter, he had every intention of doing. She’s never going to understand what a weasel Stacy is, but I could tell from the first that he had his mother mesmerized, and still does. Only Jo could think that locking you in a warehouse basement was intended to be a joke.”

  “I was tied to a chair, as well,” Poppy said.

  “Jo believes you exaggerated your danger, so I thought I could defuse the situation by providing you a bolt-hole, and I’m pleased to have you in my house. It wants more regular occupation than I can provide, and you are not going to be traipsing about the world, as I do. The staff is a good one, and attentive; there’s no question of them being irresponsible. They manage the place very well when I’m gone, but it’s not the same as having someone in residence to maintain the place properly. You’re one of the family, and you understand how I like things done. I know you’ll do your usual capable duty, and guard my house from neglect or anything untoward.” Esther clapped her hands twice, as if seeking the attention of all Philadelphia. “There. I’ve said it. You’re helping me as much as I am you.”

  “Well, however it came about, I’m looking forward to living in your house. It is…cozier than Aunt Jo’s.” Poppy felt nonplussed by what Aunt Esther had revealed, and wondered what Holte made of it, assuming he was still in the auto.

  “That’s good, because I’m looking forward to having you with me. I’ll be glad of your company,” she reiterated with gusto.

  A bit unsure of herself, Poppy tried to hide her confusion with practical information, “That’s reassuring, because I’ve already moved fourteen boxes over from Aunt Jo’s to your house. I’m in the larger bedroom on the second floor, as you recommended to me. I like it—all the trees around it, and so much light.”

  “You can have the study, if you like. It’s too small to be useful for entertaining, and in any case, I use the front parlor for guests, and the sitting room for myself in the evening, but that’s—” She stopped speaking as a clamor of horns announced a minor accident ahead on the road; slewing around in her seat, she peered out the rear window. “Goodness, how long has the traffic been this bad?”

  “Not as long as you might think. The last two years have seen the largest increase, almost all of it automobiles and trucks. There’s talk of widening some of the streets, but nothing much has come of it so far.” She held her arm out the window, angled up to indicate a right-hand turn, and endured the aggravated honk from a taxi two autos behind them. “We should be at your door in another ten minutes, barring mishaps.”

  “At least the roads have been improved,” said Aunt Esther. “Missus Sassoro can probably put together a bit of finger-food to help us stave off hunger until we can decide where we want to dine.”

  “Would you rather stop now?” Poppy asked. “If you’re hungry, we could get a sandwich or two at Louie’s.”

  “No reason to do that, but it’s kind of you to offer.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I should make an appointment with Doctor Sawyer I need a new pair of reading glasses. The ones I have now are three years old, and my eyes have aged more than I’d like to admit. I should attend to it sooner than later.” She squinted at a couple on the sidewalk. “Gracious! Have skirts really gotten so short?”

  “Is your need urgent? For new glasses?” Poppy slowed down behind a delivery wagon drawn by four Fjord ponies with hogged, two-tone manes and braided, two-toned tails.

  “Somewhat. I have a fair amount of writing I need to do in the next couple of weeks, and I don’t want a constant headache. Having my hair done is as much vanity as necessity. I’m beginning to look like the leaves for a bonfire.” She watched a group of school- children accompanied by two harried adults make their way across the intersection ahead. “Things seem so…so normal, don’t they? The fashions have changed a bit—the skirts, for example, and so many young women with short hair: I don’t mean you, Poppy; your hair is modern but not extreme. But the children still look like children, and the delivery wagons are pretty much unchanged. The autos are more interesting than they were when I left.”

  “Unchanged compared to what?” Poppy sensed Holte behind her once more, and resisted the urge to speak to him.

  “Compared to the Soviet Union, and a good portion of Europe, where damage is still obvious from the Great War and the Revolution, as well as the Flu.” Aunt Esther glanced around the street now that they were nearing her neighborhood. “They finally took down the Black Crow?” She pointed to a space between buildings, like a missing tooth in a smile, where a century- old tavern had stood.

  “Last autumn; about two weeks after you left. The city declined to make it a landmark, so the owners sold it. The buyers say there’s going to be a department store there by next summer, like the ones in New York City. They’re taking Gimbels as their model.” Poppy positioned herself for another right turn.

  “That’s a good plan, I suppose, if the city doesn’t load the design up with requirements. With Prohibition, the Black Crow would not have been able to keep its doors open for very long in any case.” She took a last look at the place where the tavern had been. “Does anyone know yet how foolish it is to outlaw alcohol? The government has created a whole new area of crime, more fools they.”

  “I hate to say it, but you sound like Aunt Jo.” Poppy turned into the side-street and started up a gentle rise toward a cluster of trees that crowned it.

  Aunt Esther shrugged philosophically. “I suppose she and I have to agree on a few things.” She coughed once. “Incidentally, is there really a police inspector you’re sweet on, or is Jo being a snob again?”

  Poppy’s chuckle did not quite come off. “There is an inspector, yes, but Aunt Jo is worried about nothing. I like him well enough, but I have my work to consider.” She held her arm out once more, bent down along the side of door, indicating that she was slowing down in preparation to pulling over. “I do like the setting here. You’re high enough up to have a view of the river, and the neighborhood is pretty.”

  “I agree,” said Aunt Esther. “It’s good to be home. Park in the driveway for now, so Galliard can unload the trunk.”

  EIGHT

  ON FRIDAY THE MOVE WENT MORE SMOOTHLY THAN EITHER AUNT JO OR AUNT Esther had anticipated, or that Poppy had hoped for. Half of Saturday and all of Sunday, Poppy had busied herself with u
npacking and arranging, assisted by Miss Roth, so that by that evening, as she was sitting in the parlor with Aunt Esther, enjoying a companionable glass of cognac and a plate of spiced lamb with mint jelly in pastry shells, she felt deeply satisfied, even though her arms ached and she was slightly featherbrained with fatigue.

  “All in all, a most satisfactory day,” Aunt Esther pronounced as she put her feet up on the rotund leather poof in front of the sofa.

  “I hope so,” said Poppy, lifting her gaze from the plate of appetizers.

  Aunt Esther poured out a second tot of cognac into her bell-shaped glass, and said, “I gather you’re almost settled in.” The parlor was on the north side of the house, and by now was darkening with the coming of sundown. Aunt Esther had done her version of dressing for dinner by donning a long skirt of iris-blue wool crepe and a long-sleeved sweater in a slightly lighter shade, which she had ornamented with a strand of high-quality pearls. She smiled over the rim of her glass. “Cheers.”

  “I think I am, for the most part, settled in,” said Poppy, noticing that the newly lit table- lamp was flickering. “I’ve got almost all my clothes put away, my bed is made, my luggage is in the back of the garage, and my Hudson is protecting it for the moment. I’ll need to install some bookcases in the drawing room, if it’s all right with you.” She said this tentatively, glancing at her aunt as she said this.

  “It certainly is all right with me. I’m always happy to see more books in the house. Talk to Galliard about what you want done, and he’ll get to it this week. In the meantime, feel free to make use of any of my books you like. A goodly number are in the study.” Aunt Esther scowled at the lamp. “September lightning,” she accused the wavering lamp-bulb, then went on, “Now that you’re in, would you like to have a small gathering of your friends and colleagues around, to make your move official? I was thinking that Friday evening might be a good time for a buffet. Nothing elaborate, so no one will have to dress excessively, but genial: dinner jackets optional, and the same for long skirts. It will cover an occasion for my return, as well, so don’t think that you’re imposing upon me, for you’re not. I’ll ask Jo, if that’s acceptable to you. She might not come, but it would be a politic gesture. Think it over. You could invite your editor and your police inspector if you’d enjoy having them here.”