Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You told Loring that there was something about the three of them.” He gave her time to gather her thoughts.

  She tried to put her mind to what that might have been — that there was some sort of involvement among the three of them. Considering it now, it all seemed absurd; she shook her head. “It was nothing,” she told him, but felt doubt niggle at her.

  “Well, if anything occurs to you …”

  “I need to get this done,” she said brusquely, and set her mind on the page in front of her.

  “Sorry; I didn’t mean to distract you,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite.

  She ordered herself not to be disquieted by Holte until her work was complete, so she took a manila file-folder out of the desk and put the three front sheets into it, then dropped it on the desk. “You’ve never mentioned women when you go to the dimension of ghosts,” she said, her attention drifting again; she inwardly cursed Doctor ter Horst’s prescribed medication for muffling her thinking. “I suppose there are some there.”

  “Yes, of course. Although sometimes it’s hard to tell — noncorporealty does that to you.” He went to the sofa and stretched out a couple of inches above its seat.

  “Then how do you recognize one another?” That question had been bothering her for the last two days.

  “Often we don’t,” said Holte, rather sadly. “Sybil hasn’t recognized me since she died of the ‘Flu in November of 1919.”

  “Who’s Sybil?” Poppy asked, suddenly very curious.

  “My wife.” He looked around the room, sorting out his cogitations. “Once I became a spy, I didn’t spend as much time with her as I should have. She deserved better.”

  “Did you haunt her the way you’ve been haunting me?” She tried to imagine what that must have been like for Sybil, and realized she could not.

  “No. She did not want me about; she didn’t think badly of me for getting killed.” He shifted his posture again. “It wasn’t what we had planned, but the Great War …” His voice faded.

  Fascinated in spite of her remaining work, Poppy pursued his revelations. “Did you do something before you became a spy?”

  “I taught European History in Halifax. I’d taken my degree at Brasenose College in Oxford. They call it the Wedding Cake; if you’d seen it, you’d know why. One of my college-mates approached me about getting me into Europe in 1911 — they were worried about war even then — and since I’m Canadian, they hoped I would be less conspicuous than an Englishman would be; Canadians are often mistaken for Americans, and visa versa.” He contemplated the ceiling for several seconds. “Sybil said I must go, and, not wanting to appear lacking in her eyes, I did. I don’t hold her responsible in any way for what happened.”

  “You’re not blaming her?” Poppy was indignant, and she made herself to calm down; she had been far too mercurial in the last three days, and her concentration had flagged at the most inconvenient times. She determined to pursue what he was telling her, at least for now. “Did she insist that you go?”

  “No, of course not,” he said at once, with undoubted sincerity. “She and I both had romantic notions about what spies do, and she wanted to help defend the Empire; so did I. I was a bit too old for the Army, but the Intelligence Service took men of my age: I was thirty-two when I signed up, and thirty-seven when I was killed.” He regarded Poppy with measured sympathy. “You probably remember what it was like at home: while I was gone, Sybil participated in various war drives, and knit endless numbers of winter vests and socks.”

  “I know,” said Poppy, recalling what it was like, watching her aunts and her instructors filling every empty moment with yarn and needles. “Were you gone for four years?”

  “No. I was gone for two, was given a three-months’ leave, and went back for another two.” He sat up, still not quite on the sofa. “After she died, and I had remembered enough to haunt her, I wanted to apologize for being gone, but she had no memory of me. She still doesn’t.” There was sorrow in his voice, and he took another few seconds to compose himself. “That not unusual. Once she remembers, she’ll move on, unless there are obligations with the living. When those are finished, then ghosts can move on.”

  Poppy had resisted the urge to take notes, but went ahead with another question. “Move on to where?” She did her best to mask a yawn as weariness threatened to overcome her.

  Holte made a gesture that might have been a shrug. “I’ll find out when it happens. For now, I am constrained to be here, with you.”

  “The undiscover’d country from whose bourne no traveler returns?” Poppy ventured. “Is that what comes next?”

  “It seems so. Shakespeare got that right, as he did so many other things,” said Holte. Then he got up. “You look tired. I won’t keep you up.”

  “You’ll be back?” There was a wistful quality to her words.

  “I still owe your father, and I like you more than Tobias.” He floated toward the window.

  She smiled, some of her customary pluck returning. “Ye gods, I should hope so.”

  — end —

  — Afterword —

  During the Great War – which we now call World War I – more combatants died of disease than were killed in battle, as is usually the case in wars. But the Great War ended with a secondary disaster, the Spanish ‘Flu, as it was known, which actually originated in Southeast Asia but was first identified in Spain when it reached Europe. It spread with the returning troops more rapidly than any comparable disease since the Black Plague of 1343-1349. It began in 1918 and continued until late in 1920. The worldwide death toll from it was greater than the number of deaths from the Great War.

  In America, the ‘Flu was first seen in Philadelphia in the winter of 1918, and although there is speculation that there might have been cases in Baltimore and San Francisco before then, it had not been specifically identified. The ‘Flu spread rapidly, and by early 1919, hospitals were being overwhelmed by ‘Flu victims. The death rate was high, this being in a time before antibiotics, and the most that could be offered was palliative care. Coming as it did, immediately after a catastrophic war, the ‘Flu took on an apocalyptic tone to many, and as physicians and nurses succumbed to the disease along with their patients, dread of it led to increasing neglect of those who contracted the disease. In some smaller cities and rural areas, hospitals refused to admit anyone who might have had the ‘Flu, for fear of it infecting all other patients. Those who survived the disease – my maternal grandmother was one of them – often suffered long-term health complications because of it.

  As the ‘Flu abated, the countries of the world struggled to get back to normality at last, with varying degrees of success: in Germany there was horrendous inflation, in France there was regional famine, in Turkey there were political upheavals, in Greece there was an employment crisis, and so on throughout the world. In America, as soon as the ‘Flu was gone and the economy appeared to be stabilized, the 1920s began to Roar in a kind of overreaction to the deprivation and death of the Great War and ‘Flu. This was the Jazz Age, the rise of the film industry, the beginning of Prohibition, the expansion of the road system, and an increase of immigration from many parts of the world.

  From 1922, when America had finally staggered back from those double tragedies, until the crash of the economy in 1929 and the resultant Depression, America was giddily expansive, innovative, and progressive, but there were also a few dark places amid the bright lights and noise: there was an upsurge in crimes and violence, a kind of national paranoia and growing isolationism, a shift in political skullduggery along with corporate shenanigans, and emerging stresses between classes and ethnic groups.

  The 1920s were a pivotal time in American evolution, the result of a confluence of calamity and opportunity, and even now, almost a century later, its echoes can be heard in many of the issues that still confront us today.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Since no writing exists in a vacuum, I would like to thank the following people whose particip
ation in various ways made it possible for this book to make it into your hands: Bill Fawcett, Connor Cochran, Wiley Saichek, Pat LoBrutto, Maureen Kelly, Paul Huckelberry, Denise Hull, Mason Brown, Tiffany Usher, Merle Langerton, and Libba Campbell. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Coming soon from Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  LIVING SPECTRES: A CHESTERTON HOLTE MYSTERY

  10

  “You know the Pearse family, don’t you?” It was not a completely unexpected question, but Poppy could tell that Loring was uneasy about asking it, which puzzled her.

  “A bit, yes. Sherman and Isadora were friends of my father’s. When I was a child, my father took Tobias and me to their house to have Sunday dinners with the Pearse family from time to time. Why?”

  “They have a son — Gameal Augustus Darius, called GAD?”

  “Yes. I knew his oldest sister, Auralia, somewhat — she’s a few years younger than I am — and his late brother, HOB.” She suddenly realized what was going on. “This is about GAD being missing, isn’t it? Something’s happened to him.”

  Loring nodded unhappily. “Pearse was in to report his son missing, and filled me and two other senior officers in on what he knows about his son’s situation, but asked that the information not be released to the public, or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to avoid press attention, so the whole matter is unofficial, as I’ve said. There’s no paperwork on file anywhere. Pearse doesn’t want people prying into his family affairs. But his wife is afraid that GAD has been kidnapped, which is a possibility, though there’s been no real hint of that yet, beyond her dread. Pearse himself is afraid of being barraged by all kinds of claims for money to reveal where GAD is, and what has happened to him if knowledge of GAD’s being missing becomes public, not without cause: the man’s worth ten million if he’s worth a dime. He’d be barraged with demands for money, either offering information or the return of GAD. Pearse is asking us to maintain his privacy until we know more.”

  “Thus you talk to a reporter?” Poppy asked with a suggestion of a laugh.

  “No, thus I talk to a friend of the Pearses, who understands Mister Pearse’s reticence.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned on his hands. “You know if there are secrets in that family, and you can do some snooping if you catch a scent. I’m not interested in scandal, only in things that might have something to do with GAD’s being missing.” He stared into his coffee cup. “And if you decide to do any snooping, I hope, you will report to me if you discover anything useful. Later on, you’ll have an inside story on the case.”

  “If anything comes of it,” Poppy added in as neutral a tone as she could achieve.

  Loring shrugged awkwardly. “It’s the best I can offer.”

  “The same bargain as the one we’ve made for you to continue telling me, sub rosa, about what you have found out about the Moncrief and Knott murders?” She considered this for a few seconds, then nodded. “All right. You’ve been a great help to me before and it’s only fair that I help you where I can. But if the family goes public with their worries, you’ll let me use whatever you find out.”

  He looked directly at her. “Deal; and if you can pass on anything you might pick up from your guardian angel … ?” He let the suggestion hang in the air.

  Poppy gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have a guardian angel,” she reminded him, and inwardly chided herself with the thought that while she had been truthful, she had said nothing about the ghost of a Canadian spy who was helping her in various ways. “I’m not aware of any secrets in the Pearse family, beyond the usual gossip. But I’ll make some inquiries among my … acquaintances — discreet inquiries — to see what’s what.”

  “Okay,” Loring said, and visibly relaxed.

  Poppy regarded him for a moment or two, then asked, “What have you learned so far? So I can start snooping.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup aside. “According to Pearse, GAD went to Europe in the second week of June, and had reservations to return the third week in August. When he left, he told his parents that he would be going into eastern Europe. He mentioned Vienna and Buda-Pest as places he expected to visit before returning on the 28th of August. Throughout July, he sent home letters weekly, the last two coming from Vienna. In his final letter, he declared his intention to spend the rest of his time in Vienna doing what he could to help the Armenian refugees there — he was distressed at their plight, and the state of their living conditions, as well as the lack of indignation that the Europeans felt for them — and believed that someone should do something about it, so he decided he wanted to be useful before he —”

  “Aunt Esther said something about the Armenians. She spent a few days in Vienna on her way home, and was able to see the conditions in which they were living, which she thought outrageous,” Poppy interjected. “I’ll have a word with her tonight, to see if there’s any light she can shed on where GAD might be.”

  “That’s a good place to start; better than anything we have here,” Loring approved, and took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, he was scheduled to leave from England over two weeks ago, but a telegram from the White Star Line informed his family the day the ship — I forget its name — sailed that GAD was not aboard, and that he had made no other reservations, at least not with the White Star Line. This was quite upsetting to his family, as you may suppose.”

  “I don’t need to suppose — I’ve heard Missus Pearse expostulate on the matter,” said Poppy, thinking back on Hank’s birthday party.

  “Then you know that she is certain that something dreadful has happened to GAD.” Loring saw her nod. “She’s very worried.”

  Poppy thought a moment, then answered carefully, “I know that Missus Pearse has been clamorous in expressing her worries to anyone who will listen, and that her fears grows worse with each retelling. She was at Aunt Jo’s dinner-party last week, and belabored the guests who would listen with her dreads and dismay at GAD’s absence. I think she’s in a panic, but I wouldn’t say so to her face, and she’s fueling it by describing her imaginings.” Poppy sat back in her chair, her pencil dawdling over an empty notebook page. “I’ve also heard rumors that the reason the Pearses let their son travel is that he has been courting a young woman they don’t approve of.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” said Loring. “Do you happen to know who she is?” He shot a disapproving glance at the nearer sconce as it went off, then back on at once. “If that happens again, I’ll ask for a pair of candles.”

  “It’s working fine now,” she said, and before she could stop herself, she added, “It’s not blinking Morse code — that’s something.”

  Loring scowled. “Okay. No candles.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “So tell me who the unsuitable young lady is.”

  Poppy could feel herself blush, worried that Chesterton Holte might be up to mischief, and testing the depth of her knowledge. “Merrinelle Butterworth, or so Isadora Pearse claims. I don’t know it for a fact, but before she was worried that GAD went missing, she was horrified at the prospect of having Merrinelle Butterworth for a daughter-in-law. The Pearses are wealthier than the Butterworths, and that’s saying something, and Old Money besides. Isadora has no intention of letting GAD marry beneath him.” Poppy felt a rush of chagrin. “I’m sorry. That sounded awful.”

  Loring chuckled. “Well, at least Miss Butterworth can’t be called a fortune-hunter. The Butterworths are doing quite well for themselves.”

  Poppy achieved a smile. “Not even Missus Pearse could make that claim, although she’s certain that Merrinelle wants to advance herself socially. Isadora’s main objections to the Butterworths is that the family is still making its money through business, not inherited investments and land. The thought of a nouveau riche bride in the family was more than she could endure. She might not feel that way now.”

  Loring fell into a brief, thoughtful silence before going on. “Mister Pearse was quick to warn us about his wife’s tendency to bruit GAD’s dange
rs about. He has persuaded her not to go to the press with her fears, and for now, she is in agreement with her husband, but he told us that he doesn’t know how long he will be able to keep her from announcing GAD’s disappearance to the world at large.” He had more coffee. “I’m supposed to call on her tomorrow and explain what the police can do to search for him — which isn’t very much, to be honest about it — and that for our work to succeed, her continued silence is necessary.”

  “Since he’s apparently in Europe, I wouldn’t think there is much anyone can do from here.”

  Loring shook his head. “If we don’t make this an active investigation, there’s almost nothing anyone can do, and that includes the State Department. But during the Great War, I made some contacts among various police forces, and I’ll be writing to the men I know, those still in active service, and a few retired, to find out if they have any recommendations for how I might pursue this … non-case.”

  “Is that why you were included by Mister Pearse? That you have connections?”

  “I think so. Most of my job in the Great War was …” He faltered, looking away from her. “Was graves’ registration — finding and identifying the dead, and that included bodies that did not obviously belong to any specific army, mostly parts of bodies.” His eyes turned ancient again, fixed on memories rather than this afternoon.

  Poppy took this in, and had to resist the urge to ask him if he knew anything about the death of her father. America had not entered the Great War yet when B. O. Thornton had been killed, so Loring would not know anything about it. “That’s pretty demanding work.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said bluntly. “But, as Chief Smiley said during our meeting with the Pearses, I have contacts no one else does, and I know how to keep my mouth shut.” He offered a tentative smile. “And so do you.”

  “That won’t be easy if things get out of hand,” said Poppy, frowning. “Because Isadora Pearse is overwrought about GAD, he drives all other considerations from her mind. If she decides she should make a public announcement, she will, and no one, including her husband, can stop her.” She reached for her coffee and tasted it; she found it cooler than she liked, but knew that was her own fault; she could have sipped it while they talked.