Two candles were set on the highboy across from the telephone table in the entry hall, their light doing little to dispel the gloom. The glow of more candles in the rear parlor caught Poppy’s attention and she went toward them.
Josephine was sitting near the fireplace, a crocheted throw over her knees, an open book on her lap, a cup of tea on the table beside her, and her reading-glasses perched precariously toward the end of her nose; there was a silver candelabra on the table as well, set so that it would drip no wax into the tea. She looked up over the rims. “Poppy, dear, is that you?”
“Yes, Aunt Jo.” She came into the parlor and dropped into the chair opposite her aunt’s. “It’s been quite a day.”
“How was your dinner with Mildred?” Josephine asked, closing her book and removing her glasses.
“Oh, you know Milly. She lives her life in italics.” Poppy stretched out her legs and set her purse and briefcase on the floor next to her. “She says she’s happy; she certainly looks it, and prosperous, too. Her clothes must have cost at least three hundred dollars, and her perfume was French and sixty dollars a bottle, or I know nothing about scent. From what she told me over dinner, her husband’s doing well, her twins are extraordinary, and I’m delighted for her.”
“You could have her way of life for your own, you know,” Josephine prompted her. “I wish you’d reconsider.”
Poppy shook her head ruefully. “It wouldn’t work, Aunt Jo. Milly and I aren’t very much alike even though we’re friends. What suits her would quickly pall for me.” Without warning she yawned, and didn’t see the shocked look on her aunt’s face. “It was a long day today, and it will be a long day tomorrow.”
“Well, with the lights out, you might want just to go up to bed, then; catch up on your rest. Missus Flowers took a branch of candles to her quarters almost an hour ago,” said Josephine. “Get some sleep for a change. I shudder to think the kind of day you must have had. You’re walking as if your feet are sore, and that means you have been out and about again.”
Poppy did her best to smile, wanting to change the subject. “How long has the power been off?”
“An hour and a half or a little more. I telephoned the radio station, to see if they knew anything, as you taught me to do, and they said they would look into it.”
“Have they called back?”
Josephine shook her head. “Not yet.”
“They probably will,” said Poppy. “Ten minutes after the lights come back on. But they may know what happened, and will tell you about it.” She pushed herself up from the chair, picked up her things, and went to the door. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Aunt Jo.”
“Remember Eustace will be here at dinnertime tomorrow,” Josephine said; she picked up her glasses once again. “I do hope you’ll be in.”
“Is he still coming?” Poppy asked in some surprise.
“Why wouldn’t he be coming?” She sounded genuinely bewildered. “He’s been planning this trip for more than a month.”
Caught up short, Poppy tried to smooth out her answer. “Well, he’s coming for the Moncriefs party, and now that it’s been canceled — ”
“Canceled? Whatever for?” She gave Poppy a narrow stare. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
It was just what Poppy had surmised: her aunt knew nothing about the events of the day. “Because,” she said as she came back into the parlor to Josephine’s side, “Madison Moncrief … died this morning.”
“Madison Moncrief is dead? That’s absurd.” Josephine stared at Poppy, her expression changing from derisive to concerned. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I’m surprised it isn’t in the evening paper.”
Poppy kept silent, thinking that by morning, Josephine would have a volley of questions to ask over breakfast. She didn’t want to point out the short notice on page one, a bit below the fold, knowing it would give her aunt real distress to see it.
“I haven’t read either paper yet, not with the lights out, but such an event must surely be sufficiently deserving of notice. The Moncriefs aren’t generally inclined to seek public attention, but they’re not nobodies, are they, so a death in their family ought to be reported,” said Josephine, and continued, “Madison’s a young man. How could he die now?” she asked Poppy. “He’s always been the picture of health. Do you know what happened?”
“Yes, Aunt Jo, I do.” She reached out and took her aunt’s hand. “The police think it might be suicide.”
Josephine laughed angrily. “Suicide? That’s the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard,” she declared. “Madison Moncrief isn’t that kind of man. Louise can’t have told them that, can she? It’s a mistake.”
“It’s a complicated story, Aunt Jo. If you like, I’ll tell you tomorrow evening, when I learn more. Right now, all I know for sure is he’s dead and it wasn’t an accident. I’ve been assigned to cover the case.” She patted Josephine’s hand before releasing it. “The police don’t know much yet. When I left the house, the police hadn’t yet spoken with Louise.” The twenty minutes she had answered questions for Inspector Loring were still fresh in her mind: had the marriage been sound? It certainly seemed to be so. Was everything solid in their finances? As far as Poppy knew, yes. Had there been any difficulties, any tension between them recently? There was the miscarriage, but nothing else that Poppy knew of, but she wasn’t one of their circle of intimates, and most of her information was second-hand from her cousin. There had been no gossip about them that she was aware of, at least not recently. What about outside interests? Did the inspector mean hobbies or lovers? Both, if they applied. It had taken Poppy a little time to recall what she knew about either kinds of interests but she was able to tell Loring that Madison built ships in bottles and sailed a forty-foot sloop in the summer; Louise attended horse shows and races and raised orchids at their seaside house. As to lovers, there had been rumors a year ago, about Louise and a man from New York, but nothing came of them; Poppy had not paid much attention to the whispers.
“She’ll set them to rights about Madison. Suicide! Preposterous! I knew his mother, and she would never have allowed such a thing.” She gathered her throw around her as Poppy walked away. “Go get some sleep, my dear. Thank you for telling me; I’ll send a sympathy note and appropriate flowers around in the morning, and I’ll call Eustace as well, to find out if I should expect him.”
“Tell him I’m sorry about Madison when you talk to him,” Poppy said, making her retreat. “You don’t have to mention I’m on the story.”
“No. Certainly not. There are candles on the table at the top of the stairs. Take one along to your room,” Josephine called after her, then added reluctantly, “There’s a letter for you in the entry hall, from Esther. The postmark is Vladivostok. Why does she go to such remote places? No doubt you’ll want to read it.”
“Will do. Thanks, Aunt Jo.” She picked up the letter before she went up the stairs to the landing and saw Maestro curled at the top of the flight, next to the table with the candles, in just the right place to be tripped over; Poppy stopped and looked down. “You are a nuisance, Maestro,” she told him affectionately, before she bent to move him out of the way as she resumed her climb up the remaining steps. “You don’t want to get stepped on, do you?” The cat uncoiled himself and hissed at something behind her. “Seeing spooks?” she asked Maestro, adding to the vacant air, “I suppose you’re here.”
“That I am,” said Chesterton Holte, as the shell-sconced light at the top of the stairs momentarily flickered, blinked twice, and faded.
“A nice trick,” she said, trying to rid herself of the eerie sensation his antics caused her. “I’ll remember to look for it.”
“About the only one I have — that and static on the ‘phone line,” he said as Maestro fled down the hall ahead of them, spitting and growling to himself. “I’m sorry I can’t carry something for you.”
“So am I,” she said, picking up a candle in a boat’s lantern.
“You’re
thinking I’m an illusion again,” he said, his outline blurring; he made an effort and his presence became a bit clearer. “What can I do to impress my reality — tenuous though it is — upon you?”
“You’ve certainly impressed the cat,” she said as she turned toward her room. “I suppose I’ll have to accept you for the time being.”
“And that is no answer,” he told her, remaining more or less at her side. “May I come along and explain about Madison Moncrief.”
She gave it a moment’s thought. “Why not? You’ll probably do it whether I agree or not, so come along.” She decided to read Aunt Esther’s letter in the morning, when it was light, and she would have a better chance of making out Esther’s unorthodox penmanship. She led the way down the corridor. “Not that you don’t know where my room is.”
“Second door on the right after the green bathroom; the first door’s a linen closet,” he confirmed. “Windows face east and north.”
Turning the doorknob was awkward; she used the hand in which she carried her purse and briefcase. “I should have remembered: of course you know,” she said, and stepped through her door, Maestro twining around her ankles in a figure eight. “Damned cat,” she said affectionately, as he abruptly froze on the threshold.
“If you fall over him, I’m sorry, but I can’t catch you,” Holte said, sounding unusually contrite.
“Noncorporeal. You’ve told me,” she said, setting down her purse and briefcase on the bench at the foot of her bed. “Repeatedly.”
Maestro lingered at the door, pacing unhappily, then let out a plaintive yowl; Poppy went and let him out, then returned to the bed. Lit by the single flame of the candle, she found her bedroom unfamiliar and perhaps sinister. She bent to unbuckle her ankle-straps, then stepped out of her shoes, examining her swollen feet. “I could do with a little noncorporeal just now. Ye gods, my dogs are barking; Aunt Jo was right.”
“Yes, there are advantages to not having a solid body — not many, but a few,” he said, and almost sat on the chair in front of her vanity; Poppy shuddered and looked away. “Does this bother you?”
“It does. You hover there, about three inches above the seat and act as if you’re actually on it.” She set the candle on the nightstand and looked back at him. “Now you’re sunk about four inches into the chair.” With an impatient wave, she said, “Just do whatever you want. Sit cross legged in mid-air, if that makes you happy.”
“I would like you to feel comfortable,” he said. “I suspect you’d prefer it if I matched your corporeal notions of comfort more carefully than I’ve done.”
“So I’ll be more likely to believe in you?” she guessed. “For now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when you hang in the air.”
In response he rose from the chair and spread out about four feet off the floor as if reclining in a hammock. “This will suffice me if it doesn’t bother you.”
“Go ahead,” she said in a tone of capitulation. “And tell me what you found out from Madison Moncrief.”
“Well, you’ll have to understand that he’s still pretty disoriented — everyone is when they leave the body, Moncrief more than most, because his departure was unexpected. But he has been able to recall a little of what happened; he’ll remember more in time.” He looked around as if he expected to be overheard, then went on, “He said he was drinking some cognac — the real thing, from France — as he usually did before retiring. He had a meeting scheduled for the morning, and was reviewing what he would have to present, and he thinks he fell asleep, which was most unlike him. He’s fairly certain he spilled the cognac.”
“Where did he spill it?” Poppy asked, planning to discover if the police had learned anything about such a spill.
“He believes it was on his trouser-leg, and the snifter fell on the carpet next to his chair. He said his thoughts were woolly.”
“Woolly?” Poppy repeated.
“You know: thick, slow, muzzy.” Holte sat up and folded his arms. “He also said there was a funny taste in his mouth.” He watched her, seeing how she evaluated this information.
“Was he drugged, then?”
“It’s likely,” said Holte carefully.
“Who’d want to drug him?” Poppy asked while she flexed her toes, interested in hearing more in spite of her wish not to.
“He isn’t sure about it,” said Holte, with a kind of melancholy amusement. “But that’s not surprising under the circumstances. He told me he had a slight memory of being hefted onto his feet, and the noose slipped around his neck, but he doesn’t know who did it, or even if it happened.”
“Drugged and hanged by someone else. Or could he have been drunk and despondent, and hanged himself.” Poppy looked over at Holte.
“He said he’d only had half of what was in the snifter.”
“But how many times had he poured into it? Was that his first drink, or his third? How long had he been drinking that evening? You say he claimed it was French, but could it have been something cooked up in a basement vat?” Poppy sighed as she set her shoes in front of the nightstand; she wanted to get undressed and into bed, but was unable to bring herself to do it while Holte was in the room. “If he were drunk, he might have — ” She broke off. “But if he were that drunk, how could he get on the table? And where did the rope come from?”
Holte unfolded his arms. “Your cousin should be able to tell you whether or not Moncrief was inclined to drunkenness. Ask him, and decide for yourself.” Still in his sitting posture, he drifted toward the door. He hesitated, then said, “He liked his work, but felt that one of the partners had it in for him, but that didn’t make any sense to him, because Quentin Hadley had got him into the firm, and Grimes isn’t involved with that side of the business.”
“You mean he was set up?” Poppy asked sharply, as all her journalistic nerves began to tingle.
“I don’t know, and Moncrief doesn’t know, either — but he’s confused. That’s why I wasn’t sure I should mention it.” He regarded her narrowly. “It might be nothing, you know.”
“It might,” she agreed. “Are you leaving?”
He nodded. “You’re tired, and you have a busy day tomorrow. I saw the memo Lowenthal gave you; you’ll have another early morning.”
“So I will,” she said, and watched him slide through the door. As soon as she was sure she was alone, she rose and unbuttoned her jacket, then went to the closet for a hanger. Tomorrow, she decided, it would be the russet dress with the peplum jacket. Her blouse was sadly wilted and would have to go into the hamper, but the dress would not show the wear of the day as the blouse had. Satisfied, she removed her underclothes and drew on her nightgown. Before getting into bed, she remembered to blow out the candle and to put the alarm clock on her vanity table, set for ten minutes to six.
EIGHT
ARCHIBALD HUBERT WYMAN, M. D., PHD., CHIEF CORONER FOR THE CITY OF Philadelphia, stood on a low platform behind the podium facing the cramped room filled to capacity with journalists of every stripe, some from as far away as Boston and Washington. In the smoke-fogged chamber, he looked every one of his fifty-six years, his eyes sunken in shadowed and pouched sockets, his greying hair not quite neat, his suit a bit too large for him. A veteran of the Great War where he had headed up a graves registration unit in France, he was one of a small group of anatomists who had done extensive studies of ‘Flu victims, which gave him a straightforward way with death. “Good morning, gentlemen, Miss Thornton, Missus Ackersley. If I may have your attention?”
The rumble of conversation straggled into silence as the seventeen men and two women turned in his direction, almost all with notebooks and pencils at the ready.
“First, let me tell you at once that the results of my examination of the body of Madison Moncrief are not complete, and I have not yet fixed on a cause of death. I am not satisfied that he killed himself, and it is possible that his hanging was staged to appear to be suicide but in actuality was something else — but exactly what else I
have yet to determine. There are questions to be answered before I can give you my findings, whatever they may be.” An energetic buzz of speculation passed through the assembled reporters; Wyman held up his hand for silence. “As you know, Mister Moncrief was found yesterday on the floor of his dining room; he had been hanging from a brass chandelier in his dining room; the chandelier was broken, it appears that his weight was too much for it. One of his household staff found him. The chandelier will be removed for testing. Tests on Mister Moncrief’s blood showed faint traces of alcohol and what may — and I mean may — be an opium derivative, but it is so far unidentified. Samples of his blood have been sent by courier to New York for further analysis.”
“You mean he was poisoned?” one of the reporters asked on behalf of them all.
“I mean it is possible that there was an opiate-like substance in his blood. Nothing like arsenic or strychnine; it may have been a strong sleeping pill — I’m waiting for word about that from his doctor.” Wyman cleared his throat. “It could have been given to him, or been self-administered. I’ll know more about that when the test results are returned to me.”
“It was an unfamiliar poison?” another voice inquired.
“That’s what I said.” He glowered at the reporters and continued, “The condition of the body was consistent with hanging, though how he came to hang is still uncertain. There was a welt on his neck and a rope-burn next to his left ear. His tongue was distended, and his eyes showed a network of burst capillaries usually associated with death by strangulation. Other than these injuries, and post-mortem broken bones that resulted when the chandelier broke and the body dropped to the floor, striking the dining table in the process, Mister Moncrief was generally in good health, with a scar on his shoulder, that I have been informed was the result of a sailing accident some seven or eight years ago. There was a stain on his right trouser-leg from the mid-thigh to the calf, composed of alcohol and what seems to be the same unidentified possible opiate found in his blood. His bladder had released as well, leaving urine trails down the insides of his trouser-legs. The police are continuing their investigations until such time as the cause of his death is determined. At present this is the extent of what I know to be the facts of his death.” He put the accordion file back down, signaling his readiness to take questions.
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