Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “When do you expect your Aunt Esther to arrive this evening?” Holte asked. “And does Miss Roth know when that will be?”

  “I suppose she does.” Poppy stared down at her feet. “I wish you were corporeal enough to manage a foot rub.”

  “My apologies,” said Holte, thinking that even something so minor as that would be a most welcome reminder of the advantages of having bodies. “About the housekeeper?”

  “Miss Roth has worked for Aunt Esther for nearly ten years. She started out as a maid and eventually became housekeeper. That was at the end of the Flu, I believe, when trained help was as hard to find as trained anyone. She’s lived in for four years; her quarters are at the back of the house, facing the garden with a patio.” She started to stand, but changed her mind. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lie here for a bit.”

  “You were up late last night,” said Holte.

  “Ye gods!” Poppy exclaimed, straightening up in an effort to seem more indignant. “Don’t tell me you were watching me?”

  “No more than usual,” was his oblique answer.

  Poppy lay back, her left arm behind her head to serve as a pillow. “How comforting,” she muttered.

  Holte sank an inch or two into the chair. “Your lunch with Inspector Loring appears to have been a success. Did you know about graves’ registration?”

  Poppy shook her head slowly. “No. I thought he was probably in intelligence—he hasn’t volunteered much about his activities until today. But a lot of soldiers don’t say much about what happened to them.”

  “The same thing is true among the ghosts. If it takes them longer to remember, that means they need more time to go on to the next stage. Most of what they don’t remember is what they are trying to forget. Unpleasant things.”

  Poppy gave a crack of laughter. “Does that include you?”

  “It looks that way to me,” he said, more solemnly than he had intended.

  She heard the somberness in his answer, and nodded slowly, taking the time to consider what it might mean. Staring up at the ceiling, she thought about what might have happened to her father, and she found her recollections of him so overwhelming that she very nearly wept. After a few minutes, she said, “I’d better get changed.”

  “Don’t worry, Poppy; it isn’t as hard to do as you might imagine. There isn’t much else to do in the dimension of ghosts but remember.” He had deliberately lightened his tone, and he was rewarded with her rueful smile.

  “What about you? You are spending a lot of time here. Is that slowing you down in going on?” Poppy asked as she got up and went to her closet to bring out her dinner ensemble: a drop-waisted dress with an ankle-length skirt in dusty-rose silk twill, neat but not girlish. She carried this back to the bed and dropped it onto the narrow, upholstered chest at the foot.

  “One of the main reasons we ghosts remember is to allow us to balance the books. We can’t, or don’t, go on until we do, and to that, we have to come to terms with our lives.” He rose out of the chair to half-way to the ceiling.

  She looked around for his ephemeral presence, and finally saw his shimmer on the level with the tops of the windows. “Do you know how much longer your…book-balancing is likely to take?”

  Holte did something not quite visible that was probably a dismissive wave with his non-existent hand. “Not yet. I’m still dredging up memories, trying to find the balance-point. I don’t have any notion of how long it will take me to go on. But I’m trying to talk about the things I can remember a little more: the Bastins warned me that refusing to speak could make it more difficult for me. Their son won’t say anything about the Great War, and he’s in a madhouse.”

  “Can ghosts go mad?” Poppy asked him, at once curious and abhorred by the idea.

  “Not the way the living can, or none that I have seen or know of ever heard of that happening. Maybe if they were mad to begin with, in life, they might hold onto the madness for a time. Ghosts can become…less connected to their lives, and then it can take them decades to move on. I’ve seen the ghost of a young lieutenant in the Confederate Army who still cannot bear to consider what happened to him and his men at Gettysburg. I’ve been told by others that he was one of the junior officers with Pickett, but he can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  “He’s been in the dimension of ghosts for fifty years?” Poppy exclaimed. “Ye gods!”

  “He’s not the only one, but taking so long is rare.” He paused, then said in a more subdued manner, “I think Poindexter may have gone on.”

  Poppy was startled by this news. “But from what I understood, he had not remembered who killed him, or even why.”

  Holte moved up from the chaise horizontally. “I’m not aware that he did, but he may have put it behind him, let it go, thought about other things. Some ghosts do that. Maybe he was not as disappointed at having his life end as it did as Moncrief, or Knott is. Maybe he simply decided to let it go. Many of us do, when it is too painful to grasp the truth.”

  “Ghosts can do that?”

  “A few can. Sibyl seems to have done it. I haven’t been able to find her in the dimensions of ghosts for a while. I can understand why she might want to put her life behind her.” The mention of his dead wife made Holte uncomfortable, making him fade in and out like a weak projector light at the flickers.

  “I’m sorry?” Poppy said in a rush of sympathy. “Is that the appropriate comment?”

  Holte swung around and slid toward her, now seven feet off the floor and almost horizontal to the ceiling. “I wish I knew.” He dropped down from the height as if sliding down a waterfall feet first. “Is there anything that I can do to help you? About the Pearse boy?”

  “I don’t know. Since it’s not a family matter…” She motioned him to turn around, then unbuttoned her suit-jacket. As she removed it, a possibility occurred to her. “Maybe you could find out if GAD is still alive? If he’d dead, someone in the dimension of ghosts should be able to help you find him. And if he has died, where we might look for his remains. Would you do that?”

  “If you like.” He floated down two more feet. “Would you like me to find out if there is any news about Stacy?”

  She was surprised to discover that part of her had no wish to know, but that impulse was quickly overshadowed by her desire to make him answer for what he had done to her. “If you can do it without too much trouble. There’s no reason for you to spend all your time looking for my reprehensible cousin.” While she continued changing clothes, she said, “I’d so like to put that all behind me, but until Stacy is located, I can’t. And neither can the law.”

  “True enough, about the law.” Holte hung an arms-length away from Maestro, and was rewarded with a warning hiss. “He doesn’t try to attack me anymore,” he remarked, a bit wistfully.

  Poppy shrugged. “He knows it won’t do any good.”

  “Clever cat,” said Holte, and swooped away from the disgruntled animal.

  Poppy watched this as she removed her skirt. “I’m beginning to think you like aggravating Maestro,” she said to Holte.

  “Well, I prefer it to being ignored.” He slipped into a small alcove with a bay window at the end of the room. “You have a very nice view of the garden.”

  Poppy slid her dinner dress over her head and shimmied it down her body until it hung properly. “That’s better,” she announced. “But I’ll have to comb my hair again.”

  “Then you’re dressed?” Holte inquired.

  “I am: you may turn around.” She curtsied a little. “You see? Not too formal, but not office-appropriate, either.”

  “Don’t tell me that Aunt Esther bothers about that; she hardly seems the type,” Holte said, a bit stunned by this news.

  “Oh, no, she doesn’t care if you think of changing for dinner as a matter of propriety. But after knocking about the world as she does, she likes to indulge in the niceties of society, and this is one way she can do it. It’s a reminder that’s she’s at home instead of in Moro
cco, or Siberia, or Peru.” Poppy went to her vanity table and inspected her reflection; she picked up her boar’s bristle brush and went to work on the froth of short curls, going on while she brought her hair into order. “I need to go to Hannah’s Beauty Box in a week or so. This is getting a bit too fly-away.”

  “Isn’t that the fashion? Fly-away hair?” Holte watched while Poppy coaxed her hair into more ordered waves.

  “In a way, it is, but it can’t be wild. A little recklessness is fashionable, but wholesale riot is not.” She stared into the mirror, looking for flaws. After a minute, she nodded. “This will do.”

  “You’re satisfied?” Holte asked her.

  “Yes. Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” she countered as she got up from the vanity table and went to fetch her more comfortable shoes: Louis XIV heels and ankle straps, maroon leather. She sat back on the bed to put them on. “I like to present a reasonable appearance, if only for myself.”

  “I think you look quite charming, but I’m not conversant with the current styles.” He slid toward the window. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Meaning in a few hours, or next month?” Poppy smiled at him.

  “Probably tomorrow. There are some things I’ll check on, and I’ll give you a report on what I find out. Have a pleasant dinner.” His faint image vanished like thin fog in the morning wind.

  Poppy watched the air where he had been, then left the room, taking care to leave the bathroom door across the hall open for Maestro’s convenience. She shut the door at the top of the stairs and made her way down to the parlor, where she found Esther sitting at the phone table in the entry-hall alcove, deep in conversation with someone involved with the coming party; it was clear that Esther had changed into dinner-clothes—a smart ensemble of a long, olive-green, trumpet skirt in linen topped by a linen jacket with a print of tropical leaves on it that Poppy had not seen before. Poppy waved, and saw Aunt Esther wave back while she continued her discussion.

  “There is a door on the side of the house, near the kitchen garden. There’s a shed to the right of the raised beds. I’ll arrange to have the door left open. My man-of-all-work will help you, if you will give me an hour when you will arrive on Thursday night.” Esther pointed to her lapel brooch, which contained a watch, indicating she would not be long.

  Poppy sat down on the couch, and sniffed the air: there was beef in the oven—that much was obvious—and some kind of sauce just forming up. Beyond that, an aroma of scalloped potatoes mixed with the beef. It would be a very good, but unusually ordinary dinner, she thought. She saw Aunt Esther take a cigarette from the box on the phone table, and light up using a kitchen-match from the slide on the bottom of the box. The odor of tobacco burgeoned in the parlor.

  “Yes. I’ll have that amount ready for you, in cash…One hundred twenty-nine dollars, to be handed over upon delivery…I’ve always had the full amount, and I will now…Very good. Thank you.” Aunt Esther hung up. “Well, at least we’ll have reasonable drinks. Most of what I’m getting are French wines, along with a few of the better Italian ones. I already have brandy and scotch on hand, and may be able to get some rum. I wish I could get some good English gin, but at least I have a fair amount of port on hand. Miss Roth will be picking up groceries for the party later today. If there’s anything you want specially, please let her know. Missus Sassoro will begin preparations tomorrow.” She came over to the couch and sat on the end opposite Poppy. “There’s always so much to plan for.”

  “Would you like some help?” Poppy offered.

  “Goodness, no, unless you want to give some,” said Aunt Esther. “I’m enjoying myself, including the complaining.”

  Poppy laughed. “Then go right ahead. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your pleasure.”

  Miss Roth appeared, her manner politely efficient as usual, carrying a tray with a bottle of cognac on it, two small balloon glasses, a basket of Winesap apples, and a paring knife on it. She set it down on the side-table and said, “Dinner will be ready in eighty minutes. Missus Sassoro is marinating the pork shoulder in vinegar and maple syrup. I should be finished tending to the sitting room by noon tomorrow.”

  “Just the way I like pork served.” Esther smiled her approval. “Was she able to find some chard?”

  “At the Italian market, yes, though she says it’s a little past its prime. She said the string beans looked particularly good, and asked me to pick some up tomorrow; she’ll make a side-dish for the party. She’ll serve them with bacon and slivered almonds.” Alexandra Roth made a sweep of her arm that took in the whole room. “I’ll clean in here tomorrow afternoon. You may want to take your drinks in the grape arbor tomorrow afternoon; I’d like to close this room off until Friday afternoon.”

  “That sounds nice,” Poppy interjected. “Drinks in the grape arbor.”

  “Weather permitting; I can tell it’s on the turn, and we may want to stay indoors,” said Esther, and turned to Miss Roth. “We should be able to find some place that won’t interfere with your cleaning.”

  “Thank you. You’re such a reasonable employer.” Miss Roth chortled, enjoying a joke with herself.

  “How are we going on party strategies?” Esther asked. “I don’t like to leave anything to the last minute if it can be helped.”

  Miss Roth was prepared for the question. “I’ve interviewed six waiters, and selected two for the party. They’re ordered to be here by five, ready to work. You know one of them from the dinner last Thanksgiving: Howard Dale. The other is new—a young fellow named Abner Bridges.”

  Esther thought a moment. “Is Dale the one with the blond moustache? There’s a birthmark on his left hand?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Roth, who, if she were surprised by Esther’s recalling the man, showed no sign of it.

  “Oh, good. He’s quite reliable, as I recall, and not at all officious.” She sat back on the couch, indicating that Miss Roth could go. When she did not leave, Esther asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Well, Galliard tells me that the creeping juniper along the walkway ought to be pruned back. With so many coming on Friday, he’s afraid someone might trip. I would recommend it, as well.”

  “It is a little woodsy out there,” Poppy agreed. “Hawkins mentioned it to me while I was moving in. We brought the two large trunks up the front, the driveway being too steep for him to bring them in the side.”

  “Then by all means, tell him to take care of it.” Esther said, with a wave of her cigarette that gave Poppy the unnerving sense that Chesterton Holte might be hovering somewhere in the room; she dismissed the notion, reminding herself that he was in the dimension of ghosts.

  Emboldened by Esther’s implied permission, Miss Roth went on, “We’re going to need another block of ice for the cooler. The refrigerator is almost as full as it can get, and Missus Sassoro needs to keep—”

  “Yes, yes,” Esther interrupted impatiently. “Order the ice first thing in the morning. You know what’s needed. And have Galliard cut the flowers for three good bouquets, one for the dining room, one for the entry-hall, and one for this room. I rely on all of you to attend to it. You needn’t wait for my permission.” She glanced at Poppy. “If you must consult someone, my niece will be here when I’m gone; she’ll know what to do. But ordinary maintenance I leave to you, and Missus Sassoro, and Galliard—I don’t want you pestering Miss Thornton about it. But I want you to regard her as my lieutenant, and give her your full attention.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” said Miss Roth, and left Aunt Esther and Poppy to their drinks and apples.

  As soon as she was sure that Miss Roth was in the kitchen, Aunt Esther said, “The three of them are wonderful—Roth, and Sassoro, and Galliard—but like all staff, they tend to let things slide a bit when I’m not here. You will be my deputy. I know you’re familiar with how a household is to be run. I’ll say this to Josephine’s credit: she knows how to hold household.”

  “That she does,” Poppy agreed, not completely favorab
ly.

  Aunt Esther caught her tone, and chuckled. “Well, yes,” she conceded, “Jo is trying to live in 1910, not 1924, and she is fighting the future with all she’s got, but when it comes to running her home, she’s really quite good at it. Even Max said so, and he rarely noticed such things.” Her face grew forlorn. “Ah, Max.”

  The mention of her Uncle Maximilian—missing now for eleven years since he went off to the South Pacific to study the natives—saddened Poppy; her father had been very close with his older brother, and this reminder made her feel sad. “I’ll give you that,” she told her aunt, then added impulsively, “Do you miss him?”

  “Of course I do. Your father and I were planning to do a search of the islands on Max’s itinerary and collaborate on a book about it, no matter how it turned out. But the Great War came along, and then Oliver died…” Esther stopped. “If I had to lose another brother, I’d just as soon it were Regis. Max had spirit—may still have it if he’s alive. Once Cordelia died, Regis was worse than a badger with a sore tooth; acting as if his wife had died to disaccommodate him, and now, he’s no credit to old age.” Regis was the oldest member of Esther’s generation, a retired railroad president and breeder of champion show-dogs, now living in western Pennsylvania in the care of two nurses.

  “I remember Uncle Max. I liked him. He was fun.”

  “Yes, he was.” Satisfied with this exchange, Esther reached for the cognac and one of the glasses. “One finger or two?” she asked Poppy, withdrawing the corked lid.

  Poppy sighed. “Better make it one. I still have work to do tonight.”

  “One it is,” said Aunt Esther, and set to pouring.

  TWELVE

  SLIPPING INTO THE DIMENSION OF GHOSTS, CHESTERTON HOLTE FOUND HIMSELF more disoriented than he had ever been before. The greyish nothingness of the place was somehow more mystifying, the numberless ghosts caught in its invisible tides more restless than when Holte had left. He moved through the churning masses, searching for Madison Moncrief, in the hope of learning something from him; he hoped that Moncrief would be willing to assist him. At last, after a timeless drifting, he came upon Moncrief in an energetic helix, and addressed him in the silent manner of ghosts. “Moncrief, are you the only one around?”