Doyle After Death (6 page)

I was feeling tired, all of a sudden, and shivery. “Someone want to tell me what a ‘formulated semblance' is?”

“Hmph,” said Brummigen. “We should show you what
formulation
itself is, around here, first. Let's go back to town. You and Doyle can confer on this later . . .”

“What do we do with the remains?” I asked, looking at the bent, blackened man-­shape on the ground. “Burial?”

The Lamplighter shook his head. “Now that the spark is gone, it will erode in the rain and crumble into the underlying substance, from which all things arise and fall back. Look, even now . . .”

I saw what he meant—­the man-­shaped framework was looking pitted, rusty, its gaps widening.

I looked at Doyle. “When you came into Brummigen's place you said there'd been another murder—­this is the second one?”

“So it now seems. I wasn't sure, with the one we found on the beach. A vagabond chap. Half mad, homeless back in the Before . . . back on Earth. Here he wandered in some confusion, but if he'd had time, his mind would have knit back together. Lunatics find their way here, if they wish to, and they heal. Fiona had gotten to know him a little, but I met him only briefly. He simply wouldn't leave the strand . . .” He gestured in the direction of the sea. “Then we found some of his clothing and nearby . . . remains much like this one. Do you know, we never learned his name, except for ‘Ron.' Almost no life history. Three days on the sand, down there, wandering through the fog, and then . . .”

Brummigen looked toward the ocean. “At first we thought he'd simply immolated himself somehow. Occasionally someone will abandon their old body, and . . . well, it doesn't leave a residue like this. It seemed strange. The soul was not there. It had already escaped—­or been released by someone. Doyle suspected foul play. I thought it was just another freakish mystery of the Before.”

“And now, Major?” Doyle asked.

Brummigen looked at the wire-­formed remains. “I think it was murder.” He turned to Diogenes. “Thoughts, Lamplighter?”

Diogenes took a long ten seconds before responding. “They are both unnatural renderings of the soul. They are predation. Apart from that, shadow lies across it. I cannot see more; nor could I say more if I could see more.”

I've learned you can't make Diogenes explain, when he is not inclined to. Somehow, I don't know how, Diogenes is doing the right thing by keeping quiet.

“Come on, then, Fogg,” said Doyle. “We'll have a cup of tea, and you will rest. Tomorrow morning you'll see what formulation is. Much will be revealed . . .”

We started back down the hillside, the Lamplighter leading the way, Brummigen beside me, Doyle following, looking at the trail curiously as he went—­perhaps, like Holmes, alert for more clues. “Major, who is it who's gone missing, lately?”

“Most recently—­Morgan Harris. And to me, those remains resemble him, in a general way. Hard to tell, of course, for sure. Not much there. But I'd guess it was Morgan. He was a botanist wandering the swamps, the forests, trying to understand the plant life . . . or plant afterlife. Could be he wandered too close to something.”

“Like what?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. He did make a few cryptic remarks at the bar. Something about ‘the wrong seeds are sometimes sown.' Said it twice, staring in the mirror behind the bar. Funny duck, that guy, anyway. I feel like . . . that was probably what was left of him, back there . . .”

Morgan Harris
. First thing you learn in Homicide Investigation 101: The identity of the murder victim is a good place to start . . .

“Where can I find out about this Harris?” I asked.

Doyle paused, glancing back at me. “You're quite the . . . what's the American term? Quite the go-­getter. Well, then. Go see the mayor tomorrow, if you're so inclined. I'm already fairly aware of Morgan Harris. You'd best get up to speed. I shall need you to provide a more quotidian perspective, ha ha . . .”

I blinked. Quotidian?

Doyle turned away, whistling tunelessly to himself, and continued down the hill. After a moment I followed, underneath the Great Darkness, but hurrying toward the contemplative lights of Garden Rest.

 

FOURTH

T
he old wooden door of the two-­story brick building was studded with rusty bolts and the ivory door handle was worn with use. On the door a small brass plaque read

H
IS
H
O
NOR,
W
INN
C
HAUNCEY

M
AYOR OF
G
ARDEN
R
EST

The mayor himself, wearing an old-­fashioned mayor's sash over a blazer, answered my knock, looking hazily surprised but not unfriendly.

Chauncey was a tall, gaunt man with lined red cheeks, and a long neck displaying a prominent Adam's apple. He seemed to have settled on his mid-­forties for his afterlife appearance, perhaps for the avuncular gravitas of it. He had a shock of white-­streaked black hair, for the late 1930s, a yellow ascot, and shiny black shoes.

The mayor looked me over, thick gray-­black eyebrows bobbing. “Ah, one of the new chaps!” His accent suggested southern England.

“Morning,” I said. “Are you Mayor Chauncey?”

“I am, in point of fact, Mayor Chauncey, yes.”

We shook hands. His long fingers seemed fragile, and warm. “Yes sir, I'm new. Nick Fogg. Some others come over from the other side recently, besides me?”

“Oh yes, indeed, two yesterday evening. A rather dotty Jamaican fellow shot in a robbery. Oh and a lady—­a nice young lady from Minnesota, the victim of a drunk driver. Of course millions die, but relatively few come through Garden Rest. They all have their destinations.” He cleared his throat. “Right. Here for an orientation chat, are you? Cup of tea?”

“I just had some coffee but I can always use some orientation, especially when I'm . . .” I started to say hung over, but remembered that, blessedly, I wasn't feeling one, since a hangover couldn't happen here. “I'm really here to ask about Morgan Harris.”

“Oh—­that! Well, come in, come in . . .” I had to duck my head to get through the low doorway. He ushered me to a dim, musty hall with exposed rafters within reach overhead, and age-­darkened brick walls.

As he closed the door behind me, I said, “Funny how
lived
-­in the buildings here seem.”

“Well, I've been here a long time, and before me—­oh, was that a bit of humor? ‘Lived in?' ” He gave a polite smile. “Flash of wit, ah? Most amusing.” He led me down the hall to a sitting room where a tea ser­vice was laid out on a low table by a cold fireplace. “I expect you'll get the lecture from the major about how we're not
ghosts
, per se, we're living ­people, and all that.”

“Got that one already,” I said, as we sat on a small, creaking blue velvet sofa, and he reached for the tea. “And about how we're ‘aftered.' I just might start a committee to work up a better term than
aftered.
”

“Might you!” Mayor Chauncey seemed pleased as he poured himself some tea. “Good-­
oh!
Don't care for the term myself. Brummigen has us all but indoctrinated with it but the term hasn't quite the mellifluency one would like. Doyle wanted to go with
re-­spirited
, but that's yet more awkward, seems to me.”

“Re-­spirited sounds like
recycled
, as if we're all old pop bottles.”

“Don't know the term
recycled
.”

“I think the term became commonplace in the mid 1970s.”

“Ah. I passed on in 1972.” His lips compressed and his eyes went out of focus, for a moment, as he remembered his death. “Yes. Leukemia, don't you know—­thankfully cancer is something we don't have here.” He brightened, and rubbed his hands together. “Well! I'll find us some volunteers and we'll sit on your committee soonest!”

He seemed to be perfectly serious. Me, I hadn't been serious about the committee. But it might be useful at that. “Ah—­okay. Let me know.”

“Sure you won't have some tea, nice crumpet? I expect you call them English muffins. Almost tastes like one. Not my main morning meal, of course, but soothing.”

“No thanks, you go ahead. Mr. Mayor—­”

“Oh, do call me Winn. It's Winnie, you know. I was born in 1926, the year
Winnie-­the-­Pooh
came out. My mother was rather too keen on Winnie the Pooh. I prefer Winn. Just save the ‘Mr. Mayor' for that committee.”

“Winn—­Major Brummigen thinks the remains we found might be those of Harris Morgan. Since Morgan's been missing. The major said they were about the right general shape. Doyle thought so, too.”

“Doyle is a wise man—­wiser now than in his earlier life. Did you ask the Lamplighter for confirmation as to the identity of the remains?”

“No—­would he know for sure?”

“The Lamplighter went along with you, I'm told, to
sort out
the remains—­I'm surprised he didn't say who it was. But he often goes with the ‘less is more' doctrine. If he didn't contradict the major, the corpse, if that's the word, was probably what was left of Morgan Harris. In the sense of what remained of Harris's physical materialization.” He sipped his tea from a fragile blue-­flowered china cup, the tips of his ungainly index finger and thumb pinching its small handle with expertise. “Ah. Almost Earl Grey.”

“The Lamplighter . . . Diogenes . . . was a step or two ahead of us, when the major said it. Maybe he didn't hear . . .”

Chauncey chuckled dryly. “Oh he heard, dear boy. You may be sure of that.”

“You don't seem surprised I'm asking about Morgan Harris. You're well-­informed.”

Chauncey lifted a silver cover and delicately picked up a crumpet. Replacing the cover with exacting care, he said, “Part of my job to be well-­informed. But of course, it's a small town, word gets around. The major told me you were . . . undertaking an investigation. It would be exciting were the whole business not so disturbing.” He chewed a bite of crumpet and sipped a little tea, looking toward an ivy-­covered window. “Still, I'm not convinced Morgan was murdered. That is—­that this unfortunate outcome for him is intentional.”

“Something happened to the guy. But his soul was there, we saw it fly off . . . so I guess he's still around somewhere.”

“Yes. Too bad it's so difficult to communicate with one of the sparks.”

“Was he living with anyone here? Housemates, spouse, anyone like that?”

“No, he was a friendly chap but he had solitary habits. Obsessed with his work. Tramping around, trying to talk to the trees—­claims to have had some manner of conversation with the trees. Might have been his imagination, however. Never heard of Garden Rest's plants talking. The birds, of course—­and the occasional dog. Heard a horse make a remark once. But trees? No. Just as well—­wouldn't care for it, I don't think. Unsettling.”

“Where did he live?”

“Cottage on the edge of the swamp. Doyle can show you. I expect it's all right for you to poke around there. We don't extend ourselves to search warrants here, but we do like to protect a homeowner's privacy. In Morgan's case, it appears he won't be coming back . . . sadly . . .”

“So you liked Harris? Anyone who didn't?”

“Oh, everyone liked Harris Morgan. He was a bit dotty perhaps, with his insistence on developing a botanical theory for the afterworld. The Lamplighter once said that trees here are more like living ideas than trees. Not sure what he meant. But surely ordinary botanical classifications wouldn't apply. Still, Morgan Harris was harmless enough. Rather a good bridge player. I don't suppose you play bridge?”

“Sorry. If it doesn't involve bluffing, I'm not much good with cards.”

“We'll have to teach you to play bridge. You'll have plenty of time to learn. Oh, I say—­any experience with cricket? We need another batsman. Haven't had a good game in ages.”

“Sorry. Just a little softball in junior high school. Harris Morgan have any run-­ins with your local toughs?”

“Toughs? Oh, we don't have anyone really tough. I suppose you met Randy and Mo. Distasteful, capable of twisting an arm . . . but not really tough.”

“You don't think they could murder someone?”

“What happened to Harris—­his body's energy pattern was removed, you know. That's something a ­couple of cloddish thugs fresh from Earth couldn't possibly know how to do.”

“Who would know?”

“Perhaps Diogenes. But if anyone is truly above suspicion, it is he.”

“Anyone else shady around?”

He shrugged. “A few paranoids—­and there's a fellow who likes to wander about and look in ­people's windows. Sneaks into their houses sometimes! Rather a septic personality.”

“Oh yeah? Who's that?”

“Chap named Bolliver, Hale Bolliver. Goes about grinning to himself as if he's got a secret. I have hinted that he might want to move on to another part of the afterworld but he only says, ‘Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you.' ” The mayor sighed. “He and that
Moore
chap. ­Couple of paranoids. We like to be tolerant—­­people experience many phases of their afterlife here. But we may have to evict him from the community, if he doesn't give up on this Peeping Tom business—­a village exclusion can be arranged.”

Bolliver.
I filed the name away in my head. “About Harris—­he work with anyone on this botanical survey?”

“There's our former mayor—­Garrett Merchant. They did a bit of trekking about in the boonies together.”

“Garrett Merchant? Used to be a billionaire big shot in industry back on Earth?”

“The very fellow. Dead . . . ah, that is,
aftered . . .
twenty years now. Built himself a rather overwrought retreat up just past the swamp in the Sighing Hills. His own Buckingham Palace but without the unifying style. He was quite a figure here in town for a while. Not here three years before he was mayor. Tried to organize all sorts of things—­grand projects that didn't take. They just weren't . . . Garden Rest.”

“Projects. Like what?”

“Merchant wanted to build a great coliseum for games! A grand, huge thing, bigger than the Roman Colosseum. And he tried to reorganize our money system.
Did
have some success building rather more elaborate houses for ­people. He recruited two of our best builders to work for him. Harris Morgan did some gardening, and some independent botanical work around Garrett's mansion. If
botanical
is the word, plants not being quite what they were in the Before. Garrett's estate—­as he calls it—­cannot be seen from town, with the hills and trees between, but it's
enormous.
Gets bigger all the time.”

“Garrett Merchant mixed up in anything unsavory—­or violent out here?”

“Garrett? No, he's a great big bluff laughing fellow, quite affable, never in any trouble. He was sometimes a bit sullen when his projects didn't catch on, but nothing
grim
came of it.” He laid a finger to one side of his nose. “Now, we
have
had some violent chaps here—­but they're long gone, many years ago. Expelled from the community. And I've had word they're . . . well, one of them is a forgetter: a spirit who wanders about, don't you know, not sure who he is or what he's about. Not embodied. Waiting for sorting out from on high, I reckon . . .”

I nodded, though I didn't quite understand. “Anybody work for Merchant who could be trouble? How about these builders?”

“Solid fellows. One named Higgs. Roscoe Higgs. Can't recall the other chap's name. Long? Charles Long? Perhaps that was it.”

“There any town records on local ­people? ­People who've come—­and gone? Something I could consult?”

“Yes, the Old Journals. I'm afraid we haven't got the information systems you're used to. Computers are unknown here, at least in Garden Rest. More than two thousand miles from here, there's a place rather tastelessly called City of Phantasmic Devices—­they claim to have some variant of computers working up there. I suspect they're fooling themselves. Here, well, I can give you permission to pore over the town journals if you're . . . well, there are
rules.
Later this week, when you are assimilated, I'll give you a tour of the records room, cue you on the regulations. The books may help—­sometimes they choose to help.”

“The books choose?”

“Yes. You'll see. Doyle will show you . . .”

“Okay. So—­one thing more about Morgan Harris. He had no romantic involvements? With either sex?” “He had, actually, a bit of a liaison with a . . . what do you call it now . . . a transsexual person. But she left town, rather abruptly. He seemed to keep to himself after that, nursing a sense of rejection. Said she hadn't told him she was going.”

I got up to leave a few minutes later, feeling strangely fatigued though it was early in the day. At the door, the mayor licked his lips, hesitated, and then asked me, “I say, old boy—­you didn't come over to this side with any
tobacco,
at all, did you?”

“I
've got things to reveal to you,
right here
and
right now
, Fogg,” grated Bull Moore through clenched teeth, his piggish little eyes almost lost under his thick eyebrows.

It was jolting, seeing Bull walk up to me. Winn had mentioned a Moore—­it hadn't occurred to me it might be the Moore I'd known in the Before.

I was more surprised by the sight of this thick-­necked, tuft-­bearded, bald-­shaven, broad shouldered man—­a man I'd known in Las Vegas—­than by purple oceans or birds that chanted at me.

I just never expected to see the crazy son of a bitch again.

Especially not here and now. I was peacefully standing in the morning light, waiting for Arthur Conan Doyle and Major Brummigen at the end of a street that ended in a swamp and then Bull came striding up. “Here and now, Fogg!” He looked around to be sure we were alone, though we stood at least thirty yards from the nearest house. The cobbled side street, leaving the cottages behind, continued through a field of soft, misty grasses, till ceasing a few strides from the edge of the swamp.