Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Loring gave a single laugh. “Well, I have to call it something, and you don’t like guardian angel; invisible friend will have to do.”

  “I’m not a three-year-old, Loring,” Poppy said, aggravated by his antics. “You don’t have to humor me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Esther demanded, trying to decide whether or not to be offended by this line of talk.

  “You mean you hadn’t noticed?” Loring asked Esther. “Strange things happen with the lights when Poppy’s around—and once in a while, they flash Morse code when she isn’t around, for which I am most grateful.”

  “So am I,” Poppy interjected, hoping to end this line of talk.

  Loring did not take her hint; he continued to speak to Esther. “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but she comes by information that no one but the dead should know, and has yet to tell me her source.” He looked over at Poppy. “I don’t mind how you get your leads, but I wish you would be more open with me.”

  Poppy gulped. “My source is confidential,” she said.

  “I understand that,” said Loring. “But you can’t expect me not to be curious, or to turn a blind eye to blinking lights.”

  “Shall you and I have a little coffee, Inspector?” Esther suggested, leaning toward the tray to pick up the coffee pot. “It goes well with rum.”

  “Thank you, yes, I will,” he said to Esther, then turned back to Poppy. “Okay. I don’t know how you do it, but I can’t help notice what’s going on. I thought at first it was some kind of parlor trick, but no longer. When it stopped during the summer, I decided it was over, but it’s happening again.” He almost looked abashed for being so direct. “I’m supposed to be observant, just as you are Poppy.”

  Poppy took a second sip of cognac to buy a little time to think. “I think you’re making too much of it Loring. But I won’t tell you not to do your job.”

  “You should drink your chocolate, Poppy,” her aunt recommended, not wanting to get pulled into Poppy’s and Loring’s dispute. “It’s getting cold.”

  “You don’t need to provide interference for me Aunt Esther,” Poppy said, even while she dutifully reached for the smaller pot.

  “I’m not doing that, I am trying to create a genial atmosphere for our snacks. You may resume your altercation once I’ve gone to my room, but for now, I’d like it if you would call a halt to your disagreements.”

  “Thank you Aunt Esther.” Glad of this reprieve in spite of herself, Poppy poured out hot chocolate into the big cup, the set the smaller pot on the tray. “What a good idea; it is getting chilly in here.”

  “All right,” said Loring, “I’ll table this for now, but bear in mind that I’m alert to what goes on around you.” His smile was warm, and his eyes hovered on her while she lifted up her cup of rich chocolate.

  “Tartlet?” Esther offered, holding out a plate of them to Loring. “The darker ones are blueberry, the lighter are quince. The orange ones are apricot.”

  “Thank you Miss Thornton,” he said, and took one off the plate and bit it in half, saying around the pastry, “This is excellent.”

  “I should hope so,” said Esther with feeling.

  Poppy moved her glass of cognac a little farther out on the edge of the table in order to have more room for her cup; the seductive aroma of the tartlets carried a warmth of their own to her, or that was how Poppy accounted for the flush that spread over her face. “How much more do we have to go over Loring?”

  He accepted this return to business without any show of discomfort. “I have a couple of questions about Eastley, and I’d like your advice on how to handle the press, now that the GAD investigation is coming out in the open.”

  “I’ll do what I can; and—” She stopped as she heard Holte whisper, “I’ll try to be more careful around him.”

  “And what?” Loring prompted.

  Poppy gave herself a little shake. “And I hope it all goes the way you want.” She had a first sip of her tea and was pleased to find it warm enough but not too hot.

  “Thank you,” said Loring, then slyly added, “But I’d like to know what you were really going to tell me.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you two,” Esther said in exasperation as she poured her brandy into her coffee. “Let it go for now. Enjoy the drink and fodder; leave the fencing for later.” She selected a quince tartlet and bit into it. “Have some more of these. I don’t want them going to waste.”

  Loring gave Esther a sheepish look. “You’re right, Miss Thornton. I’m sorry.” He held up one hand. “Truce.”

  “Fine with me,” Poppy chimed in.

  “Then have something to eat,” Esther enjoined them triumphantly. “You can wrangle later.”

  Obediently, Poppy selected an apricot tartlet, and, having finished his first, Loring chose a second, and began to eat.

  “There, you see? Much more pleasant.” Esther drank a little of her brandy-laced coffee and smiled at her companions, satisfied with her peace-making.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WHAT HAD BEEN DRIZZLE ON SATURDAY TURNED TO SERIOUS RAIN ON SUNDAY. AS the day went on, the wind rose, relentlessly spattering drops against the windows of Esther’s house and lashing away at the three new birches in the back garden. Esther herself had gone with Judge Stephanson to an early afternoon concert featuring a small chamber orchestra playing Baroque music—“Including, ironically enough,” she told Poppy over their improvised breakfast, “Handel’s Water Music”—and would not return until she had had dinner with him. “Heat up as much of anything left over that you like, and help yourself to the remaining wine and spirits. I doubt I’ll be in much before nine.”

  Although she had not made any plans to go out on this day, Poppy found herself pacing the halls like a caged animal, unable to light anywhere and concentrate. On her third circuit of the ground floor, she noticed a shimmer in the air in front of the study. She stopped and stared at the elongated oval of shine, shrugged her shoulders, and stepped into the study, closing the door behind her. “What is it?” she asked of the air.

  “I’ll be going into the dimension of ghosts this evening. Is there anything you would like me to ask about? Anyone you want me to talk to?” He became a bit more defined.

  “If you can find out if there is anything suspicious about Eastley’s death, I’d like to know about it. If it was just a foolish accident, then I won’t waste my time on it.” She thought a moment. “I’d also like to know anything you can find out about what Knott is up to these days.”

  “All right, but why Knott?” Holte asked, mildly amused at his inadvertent joke.

  “Because Knott is looking for Derrington; isn’t that what you’ve told me?” Poppy said, thinking it the obvious response, “and he might have a lead on what has happened to Warren. It’s like trying to untie a…knot, isn’t it? You need to find an end to the cord, and that’s what I hope Knott is. If he’s located Derrington, then perhaps we can find Louise and Stacy through him.”

  “That’s a logical trail,” Holte agreed. “I’ll do my best.”

  She sat down at the desk. “I can’t ask any more than that, can I?”

  Holte floated nearer to her. “Don’t fret, Poppy. I can deal with Loring, if it comes to that. I’m honored that you would come to my defense, but you needn’t.”

  “I should have realized that he would continue to try to account for how you notified him of where Stacy had confined me. He isn’t going to believe ostensible explanations, is he?”

  “No,” said Holte, coming so near to her that the edge of the desk appeared to cut him in half just below the waist. “But don’t let that worry you; he’s only trying to show you how interested he is in you; it’s his manner of flirting. He’s not actually all that concerned about me, but he knows that something strange is going on.”

  “I ought to have seen that before now.” She shook her head and stared at the place where there was a pale bit of air, about a foot from where she sat. “It’s the weather that’s get
ting me down, that and my Monthlies. If they hadn’t come together, I wouldn’t be in this horrid frame of mind.”

  “The rain will pass, and so will the other,” Holte said. “Why not take the rest of the day off and read, or listen to the radio? Or you could raid the kitchen for high tea and pour yourself a glass of whatever you like. You’re entitled to take a little time off on the day of rest.”

  “I guess I could do some research. Aunt Esther must have a book on the end of the Ottoman Empire somewhere in her library, where I can find out more about the Armenians.” She sighed. “I hate it when I droop around like this. I should buck up.”

  “Not for me,” said Holte. “Have a hot toddy and put your feet on a pillow. Read something that isn’t connected to work,” he encouraged her. “I saw a copy of The Marsden Case in the drawing room bookshelves.”

  “I’m not all that wild about Ford Madox Ford. But you’re right, there are a number of good novels on the shelves in there. I think she’s got This Side of Paradise. I haven’t picked that up yet, and I hear Fitzgerald is worth reading.” She rose from her chair. “You’re right; I need to shake off these Black Dogs.”

  “You’ll feel better, doing something pleasurable,” said Holte at his most encouraging.

  “I hope you’re right.” She opened the door to find Maestro crouched down to sniff at the sill. “Move, cat, I don’t want to trip over you.”

  A low growl rumbled in Maestro’s throat; he stared beyond Poppy and hissed.

  Rather than reprimand him again for his bad behavior, she bent down and picked him up. “Come along to the kitchen and I’ll slice you some left-over turkey while I make a fresh pot of coffee; I’ll put a little brandy in it, as Aunt Esther did last evening. At least I’ll be doing something useful,” she added to Holte. “Maybe I’ll call Hank and ask him about the Belle Helene. He might have some suggestions for finding her.”

  Holte watched her go, keenly aware of the frustration she was experiencing. The search for Stacy, Warren Derrington, and Louise had bogged down two months ago, and now resolution of the mysteries that surrounded their absence seemed likely to go on for a long time, and while the GAD case took her mind off the more personal investigation, Poppy could not let go of it. He was willing to do what he could do to bring the missing trio before a jury so that Poppy would be free of it at last, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. He made another circuit of the house, then slipped into the swirling, invisible dimension of ghosts, moving through the vortexes of energy that provided the ghosts a place to assemble.

  After an indeterminate length of time in which Holte passed through whirlpools of ghosts, he came upon Madison Moncrief, once more in the company of Julian Eastley, riding the circulating energy around a group of New Guinea natives who had succumbed to parasite infestations. As Holte approached them, Moncrief was the first of the two to look about.

  “Holte? Is that you?” Moncrief greeted him with what would have been a wave had he possessed a body with hands to perform it. “What brings you back here? Don’t try to fob me off. I don’t believe that you’re here on a lark.”

  “No, it’s not a lark; when is it ever that? How have you two been doing?” Holte drifted up to the two of them. “Getting better, Eastley?” he asked the glum presence that was Eastley.

  “I can hardly tell,” Eastley replied. “Whatever this place is, it’s nothing like I thought the afterlife would be, and I’ll warrant I’m not the only one here who feels that way.”

  “No argument there,” Holte conceded. “As I remember it took me almost a year before I—”

  “And it takes some others far longer,” Moncrief interrupted, making a non-gesture for silence in Holte’s direction.

  “Is this place ever going to change? Is it always like this?” Eastley complained.

  “Sometimes it’s less active and sometimes more, but that’s about the extent of it,” Holte told him. “You may get used to it, in time.”

  “How can anyone get used to…nothingness?” Eastley cried in his non-voice.

  “Don’t encourage him, Holte. He’s been difficult enough without anyone egging him on.” Moncrief drifted a short distance away. “What is it you want this time?”

  “Have you seen Knott anywhere?” Holte asked as bluntly as he could.

  “Not for a while now, I don’t think. He may have stopped by, oh, a little while ago, but I can’t be sure about that. Like you, he comes and goes.” Moncrief did the equivalent of sighing. “You know how it is here—no way to tell time. No sun, no moon, no hunger or thirst, no beard to shave, no weather. It all runs by in a kind of grey, misty blur. Occasionally there’s an increase in activity, but it doesn’t last long. I am beginning to understand how boring this place really is.”

  “Boring is the word for it,” Eastley seconded.

  “Do you know where Knott has gone? Specifically?” Holte persisted.

  “If he told me, I don’t remember what he said,” Moncrief said, sounding deeply fatigued.

  “Nor I, but I don’t know the fellow,” said Eastley. “Perhaps somewhere in the Caribbean?”

  Holte paid attention. “What makes you say that?”

  Eastley made a hitch of his noncorporeal shoulders. “He—Knott—said that he thought Derrington might be meeting up with Louise in Jamaica, or Cuba, or Santo Domingo, or some such place. I remembered it because he hoped to find Louise as well as Derrington. I miss Louise.”

  “Yes,” said Moncrief with exaggerated patience. “I know.”

  “Has he had any luck with finding any of them yet?” Holte was finding it difficult to concentrate, and began to wonder how much time had passed in worldly terms since he had entered the dimension of ghosts.

  “Not that I know of,” said Moncrief. “If he comes back, I’ll try to ask him, assuming it crosses my mind to do so.”

  Holte was tempted to try to learn more from Moncrief and Eastley, but understood that they were not going to be able to tell him anything useful. “You might mention that I’ve been here, and I’d like to talk to him. If you remember.”

  “That I will,” said Moncrief, already fading back into the invisible swirl of ghosts, Eastley following after him.

  Holte hung in the crowded, noisy silence and nothingness, his thoughts becoming more disordered as he wafted along the rim of the energetic vortex that had developed as the ghosts from New Guinea became more distraught; their shared anguish was increasing steadily, and Holte was being drawn in to their torment. Finally he was able to shift to a less turbulent part of the dimension of ghosts, and found himself in the company of a group of Danish sailors whose ship had gone down off Bermuda in a fierce squall.

  “It was tossing ships about like matchboxes,” said one of the ghosts; since there was no language, only thought, Holte had no trouble understanding him. “Our steamer’s ridden out heavy seas before, but this was a bitch of a hurricane. Never seen anything like it in all my years at sea. We might as well have been a kite without a tail or a tether. Waves rising up like mountains, pounding down on us. Pumps working like Hercules to keep the water out of the cargo holds. The hull moaning and screaming like damned souls. The storm put us on our beam- ends, and we couldn’t right ourselves. Something amidship broke and down we went, cargo and all. So here we are.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Holte said automatically. “When did this happen?”

  “Two weeks, maybe. Or a week. I can’t really tell. The storm wasn’t fierce when it finally made landfall on Georgia, but for those of us out near Bermuda, it was hellish. There’s another one building up, I hear, bigger than the one that took us down. Not a good time to be in the western Atlantic.”

  “Were there any attempts made to rescue you?” Holte inquired.

  “Not that I know of, but it wasn’t safe for rescuers any more than it was safe for us.” He swung around in the whorl of energy that was developing nearby. “The owners’ll be out a lot of money, but that’s the risk you take, with the sea.” His voice beg
an to garble, and he quickly wafted away from Holte.

  “Wait!” Holte cried voicelessly.

  The ghost of the sailor stopped. “What is it?”

  “Have you found any newcomers here off of pleasure boats—any yachts—in the hurricane that’s bearing down on Jamaica, or Cuba?”

  The sailor shook his noncorporeal head. “Not bloody likely. Nothing smaller than a steamer could ride out the hurricane we went through, and the one brewing tops it. A yacht hadn’t a chance in the one that took us down, and less than that in the one that’s building up. They’ll be lucky if anything washes up on any shore.” He drifted to the edge of the vortex once more and was gone.

  Holte hung in place, his thoughts racing. If the Belle Helene had been caught in the storm, that could mean that Miles Overstreet was now among the ghosts. He moved more quickly through the dim masses, hoping against hope that he could locate Overstreet among all the others. Finally, after an incalculably long hunt, he came upon Overstreet, floating confusedly in the agitation around him as other victims of the hurricane arrived in the dimension of ghosts. Holte moved nearer to him, and hung just out of reach, not wanting to add to Overstreet’s apparent perturbation.

  “WhereamIwhereamIwhereamIwhereamI,” he was muttering, so disoriented that he could not negotiate the streams and eddies that made up the dimension of ghosts.

  “Overstreet!” Holte cried out.

  “WhereamIwhereamIwhe—” He stopped. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  Holte approached him carefully, knowing how skittish the newly arrived ghost could be; Holte himself had been edgy for quite a while when he had first entered the dimension of ghosts. “You’re Miles Overstreet, assistant to Percy Knott,” he said again, more calmly. “You don’t know me. I’m Chesterton Holte. I’m Canadian. I died in 1916, in Belgium. German soldiers shot me, and I ended up here.”

  Overstreet spiraled—not a good sign in new ghosts—and struggled to order his thoughts. “Where am I?”