Free Doyle After Death by John Shirley

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.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œSomething happened to the guy. But his soul was there, we saw it fly off . . . so I guess he’s still around somewhere.”
    â€œYes. Too bad it’s so difficult to communicate with one of the sparks.”
    â€œWas he living with anyone here? Housemates, spouse, anyone like that?”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œWhere did he live?”
    â€œCottage 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 . . .”
    â€œSo you liked Harris? Anyone who didn’t?”
    â€œOh, 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?”
    â€œSorry. If it doesn’t involve bluffing, I’m not much good with cards.”
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œSorry. Just a little softball in junior high school. Harris Morgan have any run-­ins with your local toughs?”
    â€œToughs? 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.”
    â€œYou don’t think they could murder someone?”
    â€œWhat happened to Harris—­his body’s energy pattern was removed, you know. That’s something a ­couple of cloddish thugs fresh from Earth