“I can see why you want to do all you can to prevent that kind of publicity; it’s hard enough to have your son missing—to have to dodge the press to get to the mailbox is an unnecessary burden; if I can do anything to lessen your encumbrance, I will, to the limit of my position,” Poppy said, making a few cursory notes to demonstrate her earnestness. “I’ll do what I can to see you’re not exposed.”
“I’m pleased that you do appreciate our situation; this way, you’ll understand the conditions I’m going to impose upon you for this interview.” His tight smile had the look of an expression he had developed since youth as a way to gain the cooperation of those he regarded as underlings. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, I do; I’ll make note of them,” said Poppy, readying her pencil.
“First, I want you to assure me that you will not speculate on any aspect of the case beyond what I tell you today.”
“I agree, so long as you will permit me to use information Inspector Loring may vouchsafe me in terms of what he is undertaking; I hope that by including the police in my report, it will be clear that the investigation is being properly pursued,” Poppy said, using as direct a tone as she dared. “It could be seen as bias if I don’t include what the police are doing.”
Mister Pearse weighed this and said, somewhat reluctantly, “So long as you distinguish between his comments and mine, I will not protest.”
“What’s second?” Poppy asked.
“That you refrain from mixing any of Merrinelle Butterworth’s utterances with your coverage of my remarks. There has been far too much excitement about her outbursts than is seemly in this situation; I will not allow anyone to trade on our misfortune. Say what she will, neither Missus Pearse nor I was ever apprized by GAD that he had made an offer for Miss Butterworth, and if he had done so, we would have repudiated it and him.” He wagged a finger in Poppy’s direction to emphasize his point.
Missus Pearse dabbed her eyes with the edge of a lace handkerchief; she turned away from her husband and bit her lower lip.
Poppy wrote no Merrinelle in her notebook; much as she would have liked to pursue this assertion, she realized that the quiet vehemence of Mister Pearse’s words made it obvious that this would be a mistake, as would commenting on Missus Pearse’s distress would be. “Is there anything else you require?”
“Yes. You must promise to messenger a copy of any article you may write to us before it is to appear in the Clarion, and to abide by any excisions I make in it.” Now he sounded more implacable than ever.
Poppy chose her words carefully. “Within the limits of my authority at the Clarion, I will endeavor to do so; my editor is the man who has the final decision on that,” she said, knowing her authority was negligible at best; she promised herself to tell Lowenthal about this proviso, as a good faith gesture. “We’d like to have a photograph of GAD, to run with my piece.”
“A photograph?” Mister Pearse said as if he had never heard the word before.
“It makes the information more accessible for most readers. If they have some sense of GAD as a person, they’ll pay more attention to what’s reported,” Poppy said patiently.
“I’ll arrange for one to be delivered to you,” Missus Pearse promised Poppy after a quick scan of her husband’s demeanor.
“If it will help, certainly you shall have it.” Mister Pearse lost a little of his stringent behavior. “Excellent. Then I think we may proceed. Ask away.”
“Can you tell me when you last heard from GAD?” It was a simple question and one that was easily answered.
“It was four pages long, on postage bond, written on both sides of the sheet. It was posted from Vienna,” said Missus Pearse before her husband could answer. “On the 19th of July. It arrived here on the 8th of August. He paid for rapid post, as he has done throughout his travels, not wanting to cause us undue worry.”
Mister Pearse cleared his throat. “He was staying at the Londoner Hotel in Vienna. It caters to those who speak English. We’ve been in contact with the management there, and they have informed us that GAD checked out on the 21st, in the morning.”
Poppy wrote down the dates. “What did he tell you in his last letter, if you don’t mind talking about it?”
Missus Pearse had recourse to her handkerchief once more. “He told us more about the Living Spectres, how much they had endured, how dedicated they were to peace, and—”
“My dear,” Mister Pearse cautioned, nodding in the direction of the door. “We can discuss this shortly.”
With this warning, Missus Pearse went silent as a stout man with curly, bright-red hair and a florid complexion, dressed in a cook’s tunic and tan trousers, came into the conservatory and went to the service closet.
“Ah, Huntsman. I would like you to make a pot of tea and a pot of coffee. As you see, we have company.” Mister Pearse gave Poppy a warning look that indicated she was not supposed to ask questions in front of the staff.
“I prefer the heartier teas, Miss Thornton,” said Missus Pearse in her most courteous voice, “What about you?”
“Coffee, please, with one sugar and a little cream,” Poppy said and resigned herself to a spate of small-talk while the cook went about preparing the requested items at the service closet. “Thank you.”
After a brief, cumbersome silence, Missus Pearse asked, “Do you enjoy your work for the paper Miss Thornton?”
“Generally speaking, yes, I do,” said Poppy, wondering when people would stop asking her that.
“Reporting on crime seems like a…an unusual choice for a woman, especially an unmarried woman of good station in life,” Missus Pearse said.
“Not every woman I’ve met would like it, but it suits me down to the ground,” said Poppy, making no apology for her direct response.
“It must be your father in you,” Missus Pearse murmured.
Poppy was fairly certain that she should ignore that last, but decided to respond. “No doubt he influenced my understanding of journalism early in my life, and I have had the advantage of a very good education, but my father was a travel writer, and had more in common with his sister Esther than with the work I do. Both of them have been providing much interesting information on foreign places—my father in his books, my aunt from our discussions. But my interests are turned in other directions. I find it useful and challenging to report on crime, and I am grateful for having had the opportunity to do work for which I seem best-suited.”
“Does your brother approve of your vocation?” Mister Pearse asked, sounding disgruntled. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“No, he doesn’t, and neither does my Aunt Josephine, which shouldn’t surprise you, Mister Pearse,” said Poppy as genially as she could. “Tobias prides himself on being a traditionalist, and often expresses his disapproval of our mother, who, as you know, was a Suffragette. He—Toby—has relegated me to the category of oddity.” She admitted to herself that this was more than small-talk, but did not abandon it. “What about Auralia? I understand she’s persuaded her husband to run for Congress.”
“Yes. William was not convinced he could win, but Auralia has encouraged him to try; she has told him that he will never know if he can serve if he does not put his name forward. She’s offered to organize a staff for him; he will run in the mid-term election in 26,” said Mister Pearse, not quite proudly. “He’s not from Pennsylvania, you know, but she has talked me into making a contribution for William to begin in planning his campaign. Auralia has assured us that he will do very well in the election. She has already spoken to the local Republican committee about it.” He turned to frown at Huntsman. “How much longer will you be?”
“Less than ten minutes,” the cook promised him. “The water is just coming on to boil, and I have the coffee-grounds ready to put in the strainer. The second hot-plate burner has been turned on and will be fully heated in another three minutes.”
“You may return to the kitchen as soon as you serve us,” said Mister Pearse with
the confidence of a man who did not often have his orders questioned. “And say nothing of this meeting to the staff.”
“Very good Mister Pearse,” said Huntsman, and went on assembling cups, saucers and spoons.
Missus Pearse asked, “Is there any news of Eustace? After Esther’s party, I have wondered what the situation is. Eustace has been gone a long time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Poppy, and knew more was expected of her. “If anyone has had word of him, I haven’t been told of it.”
Hearing this, Missus Pearse sighed. “It’s the not knowing that makes it so unbearable, isn’t it?” She raised her lace handkerchief again. “I have already lost one son, so I know I can stand that if I must. But this—”
“Yes, the uncertainty is difficult to weather,” said Poppy, consoling herself with the thought that she was telling the truth, as far as she could.
“I sometimes think if I knew what had happened, no matter how dreadful, I could deal with it far better than this…this vacuum that is the case now.” Missus Pearse was about to continue, but caught another warning stare from her husband, and so said only, “I am glad you’re doing this interview, since you know from experience how demanding this waiting can be. I rely upon you to keep the line.”
Mister Pearse was frowning. “Are you feeling tired, my dear? Would you like to retire for an hour or so?”
Missus Pearse did not bother responding to this blatant suggestion and said, “Thank you, Sherman; I’m fine. But I do find it trying to discuss this.”
Since Poppy was aware that Isadora Pearse had been expostulating on her fears for her missing son at every opportunity for almost a month, she tried to frame an appropriate remark. “That’s not usual for anyone having to deal with circumstances like these.”
Missus Pearse nodded. “Thank you for understanding,” she said in the tone of automatic good conduct.
Wanting to take control of the conversation once more, Mister Pearse said, “We’re relying on you to bear that in mind when you write about GAD.”
“I’ll do my best, Mister Pearse,” Poppy said, wondering how many times she would have to relieve his anxiety in this regard.
“You’re a sensible young woman, thank the Good Lord,” said Mister Pearse, his manner so deprecatory that Poppy wanted to scream; she contained the impulse, but knew that she would have to say a number of uncouth things in her auto when she was through here. “Breeding always shows, doesn’t it?”
“Such a comfort,” Missus Pearse whispered, making Poppy’s exasperation worse.
“Then let me finish what I’d like to ask you, and be on my way back to the Clarion.” She readied her pencil yet again.
Huntsman put an end to this ponderous attempt at making light conversation. “The tea is almost ready, and the coffee will be in a minute or so.” He had selected a large pot for the coffee, a tall Wedgewood one with a pattern of ivy-wreaths around it. For the tea, he had a bulbous china pot with a celadon glaze; he had a strainer of tea waiting in its open top into which he poured boiling water, saying softly, “Always tea to the water, never water to the tea.” He put the lid back on the pot, resting it above the strainer, and stepped back to set up the grounds-basket in the neck of the coffee pot. As soon as he was satisfied with the level of grounds, he reached for the kettle to pour water through the grounds.
Poppy watched Huntsman as if fascinated with what he was doing, but actually taking a little time to rephrase her next question. “What a wonderful aroma,” she said, to account for her interest in Huntsman’s activities.
In response to this observation, Missus Pearse said, “Yes. If only coffee tasted as good as it smells, I would drink a great deal more of it.”
Poppy attempted to say something in defense of coffee, but was relieved of the problem as Huntsman set trivets on the tray for the two pots, and put them in their place, before carrying the tray ten feet from the service closet to the round teak table in the center of the sitting area.
“Bear in mind that the tea and the coffee are very hot,” Huntsman said before he withdrew.
Once Mister Pearse was sure that Huntsman was out of earshot, he said, “Now, where were we Miss Thornton?”
Poppy consulted her notebook in order to appear attentive. “You were going to tell me something about the contents of his last letter.”
For the last several minutes, the conservatory had been darkening as the clouds thickened overhead; now the first spatters of serious rain tapped on the glass arch above them, sounding like pebbles cascading on a sheet of tin.
“Oh, dear,” Missus Pearse said, glancing up as if expecting the whole roof to fall in.
Mister Pearse would not allow himself to be distracted by his wife’s anxiety. He gave an experimental orator’s cough. “He wrote from Vienna, as you’ve already heard, informing us that he was planning to take some provisions to the Armenian refugee camp outside of the city. He was troubled on their behalf, and wanted to alleviate their suffering as much as he could. A Quixotic gesture, but that is to be expected from GAD: not an ounce of common sense. What would have been far more helpful would have been to address the Austrian government directly, to alert them to the situation with the Living Spectres, but GAD has always been one to want to have his hands on the problems he sees. When he was still at the Alexandrian Academy, he worked with the orphans of parents who had died of the Flu. Your brother informed us of GAD’s project then, and I went at once to speak with him directly. He would not listen to me when I animadverted against such reckless disregard for his own health. This preoccupation with the followers of Ahram Avaikian is more of the same. Folly. Complete folly.”
“Sherman, please,” Missus Pearse protested.
Mister Pearse rounded on his wife, speaking acerbically. “I am aware you do not disapprove of what GAD has done as much as I do, yet you will allow that I have been inordinately patient with him. And, had he not ventured to undertake his so-called rescue mission, he would very likely be back here, in his own country, and beginning his university career, instead of wandering about Austria on a fool’s errand.”
“I will concur with most of your last statement, but I cannot and will not deprecate his inclination to help those less fortunate than himself. You may see it as a failing in him, but I do not.” Missus Pearse got to her feet. “I find I am getting tired, after all, and so I will excuse myself. Please apologize to Huntsman for me: I cannot bring myself to drink the tea. I’m sorry, Miss Thornton, but my nerves are very—” She turned away and escaped through the door into the main corridor beyond, her sobs muffled by her handkerchief.
Mister Pearse had risen and taken a step or two after her. “Isadora…” he said placatingly; when it was apparent that she would not return, he heaved an exasperated sigh and looked directly at Poppy. “I trust no mention of this incident will appear in your account of this meeting.” He returned to his seat. “She’s easily overset and the last weeks have frayed her nerves. You’ll keep this to yourself.”
“I’ll keep it out of my story,” Poppy said, making a note to herself to ask Loring what he thought of Missus Pearse’s state of mind.
Returning to his place on the couch, Mister Pearse said, “Perhaps you’ll let me pour you a cup of coffee before we continue? It would be lamentable to have it and the tea go to waste. Or would you rather have the tea?” He saw Poppy shake her head as he reached for a cup-and- saucer. “Coffee it is then. You said cream and sugar, I think.”
“One sugar and a dab of cream,” Poppy told him, hoping that she could still coax some information out of him.
“Right you are,” he agreed, and prepared her coffee with more cream than she liked. Handing her the cup-and-saucer along with a napkin and a spoon, he went on, “When last I spoke with Inspector Loring, he told me that he had contacted an investigator in London, one who is willing to search for GAD. I am preparing a dossier for this Mister Blessing, which I will send him shortly, so that he has our most current apprehension of GAD’s circu
mstances. Mister Blessing should receive it in six days or fewer, and he will then proceed to Vienna, at which time he will wire me to inform me how he plans to proceed. Miss Butterworth and my wife may fear that GAD has been abducted, but I believe the most prudent thing is to contact the Armenian groups he said he was going to aid, to determine if he is with them, and not embrace any rash theories until that bridge has been crossed. If GAD is not among the Living Spectres—a ridiculous and untempered appellation, in my opinion—then I will authorize Mister Blessing to undertake more drastic measures.”
Poppy was struggling to keep up with what Mister Pearse was saying, but had the presence of mind to ask him, “How much of this am I at liberty to include in my article? I want to make sure your wishes are regarded in my work.”
Mister Pearse paused in the preparation of his own cup of coffee. “Let me reiterate: you are not to mention anything about a possible kidnapping. You may say that a foreign investigator has been engaged to pursue inquiries on the Continent on behalf of GAD’s family, but I would rather you do not use Mister Blessing’s name in your report. I would prefer that you not mention the Living Spectres specifically.”
“My editor may require that I do,” Poppy said, knowing full well that Lowenthal would insist upon it, but she also was pleased that Mister Pearse’s instruction was not as rigorous a limitation as she had feared he might impose. “To the extent that I might influence him, I’ll do what I can to comply.” Saying this, Poppy suspected that Lowenthal would not run Aunt Esther’s piece on the Armenian group if Poppy failed to mention the Living Spectres, or at least the Armenian refugees, in her story. “It may be out of my hands.”
“Just so.” Mister Pearse clicked his tongue in disapprobation. “If the choice is between mentioning the Living Spectres in the article or have no article at all, I won’t oppose it, though I ask that you not sensationalize them.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 28