The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott Read Free Book Online

little smile. “Has he even once in all that time sung to me? No, he has not.”
    I let that slide. “But Lorraine…”
    â€œLorraine treated me well. I, by way of exchange, provided her with a good number of songs.”
    â€œShe requested you contact certain deceased persons?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.
    â€œNo, she just accepted whatever songs I thought might be of interest to her. She was always very eager to receive a new one.”
    â€œI imagine that Lorraine’s passing must have been difficult for you,” my partner said.
    â€œOf course. We shared much common ground, she and I. Neither of us suffered fools lightly.” Here, Mrs. Pattinshell favored me with a glance. “Lorraine was a strong, talented female. The world is often unreceptive to such as us.”
    Mr. O’Nelligan nodded just right. “So true, madam. Now, you are aware that the younger Miss Cobble suspects wrongdoing in the death of your friend?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œDo you share that viewpoint?”
    Mrs. Pattinshell took a moment to answer. “It does seem queer to think of Lorraine as a suicide.”
    â€œUncharacteristic, perhaps?”
    â€œOh, yes, I should say so. Then again, what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him?”
    â€œFirst Corinthians, is it not?”
    â€œWhy yes, I believe it is! You know your Good Book, Mr. O’Harrigan.”
    â€œIt’s O’ Nelligan, ” my friend calmly corrected. “As to my biblical erudition, I know more than some, less than others. Tell us, on the day Lorraine Cobble died, did you have any contact with her?”
    â€œNone whatsoever. I’ve been over this all with the police.”
    â€œWe understand, but we’re obliged to make our own inquiries.”
    â€œI suppose. Of course, if there was some wrongdoing regarding Lorraine’s death, then I hope you get to the bottom of it. Alas, I’m afraid I can’t offer you much in terms of information. I’m a very private person, you see, and my interactions with Lorraine were fairly limited. I hadn’t seen her for perhaps a week prior to her death.”
    â€œDid she seem to be her normal self at that time?”
    â€œShe did.”
    I felt like we’d run our course here. “Well then, thanks for your time, ma’am.”
    â€œYes, thank you,” echoed Mr. O’Nelligan. “Perhaps as things unfold, we’ll have occasion to contact you again.”
    â€œIf you must.”
    Mrs. Pattinshell stood and led us to the door. Then—weirdly, I thought—she extended her hand, palm down, to my partner, who automatically took it in his own and planted a kiss. She didn’t make the same offer to me, I noticed.
    As the door shut behind us, I turned to my friend. “What was that last little bit of flourish?”
    â€œMrs. Pattinshell appears to have rather classic sensibilities, as do I. An extended feminine hand requires the appropriate attention.”
    I was about to question the femininity of that spooky old dame but realized that she might well be listening behind her door. We made our way back to the upstairs apartment, where Sally Joan met us with a hastily composed list of her cousin’s contacts.
    â€œI’ve jotted down some names and numbers from Lorraine’s address book,” she explained. “It includes some of the Mercutio crowd. You can go down there directly and see who’s hanging around.”
    I looked over the list. “You’ve got here another tenant who lives on this floor—Cornelius Boyle. You wrote ‘Civil War veteran’ next to his name.” I suddenly remembered our hallway ghost. “Is that true?”
    Sally Joan smiled. “Mr. Boyle is one hundred and five years old! Isn’t that amazing? He was a drummer boy in the war. Lorraine would get him to sing old soldier tunes to her. She arranged for him to