A Murder on Halloween Night

As Halloween is this week, it seems appropriate to look at an unsolved crime that seems straight out of a seasonal horror movie.

57-year-old Myrtle Morgan of Chattanooga, Tennessee, led a quiet, modest life.  She had been married for years to George Morgan, although he had not resided in their home for some years.  George had suffered injuries while fighting in World War One that eventually required long-term professional care.  For the past ten years, he was a patient at Murfreesboro Veterans Hospital, while Myrtle, who had apparently never worked, subsisted on George’s small disability payments from the military.  Myrtle lived with her daughter, Jacy, and Jacy’s husband Price Stephens, whom everyone called “Buster.”  She also had a son, Jarvis, who was in the military, but had been visiting her on leave.

On the evening of October 31, 1953, Myrtle was alone in the house.  Jacy and Jarvis had taken Price’s nine-year-old sister Betty and Betty’s friend Carolyn to go roller-skating.  Price was having dinner with a neighbor.  Just after 7 p.m., Myrtle phoned a friend for a casual chat.  As the women were talking, Myrtle suddenly said. “Wait a minute.  I heard a noise.  I think it’s Buster’s dirty-faced cat.”

Myrtle put down the receiver to investigate the sound, but she never returned to the phone.  After some minutes went by without Myrtle replying to her friend’s increasingly anxious shouts to her, the woman told her daughter to monitor the phone while she went to a neighbor’s house to ask police to do a welfare check.  However, soon after she left, Myrtle’s phone went dead.

As the police were arriving at Myrtle’s home, Price returned from his dinner.  After officers explained why they were there, Price tried opening the front door, but it was locked from within.  He was finally able to enter the home through an unlatched window, after which he was able to let police in through the front door.

They found an overturned chair in the living room (which was also Myrtle’s bedroom.)  The phone, which was in its cradle, was ringing.  When Price answered it, he heard the voice of Myrtle’s friend, anxious to know what was going on.  Price told her they didn’t know yet, and hung up.  When they reached the kitchen, they found Myrtle’s dead body on the floor.

"Chattanooga Times," November 1, 1953, via Newspapers.com

Myrtle was lying on her back, with a quilt over the body.  Although her dress and underclothing were badly torn, there was no sign she had been sexually assaulted.  However, all sorts of other brutalities had been inflicted on the poor woman.  Her nose and other facial bones had been badly broken, along with her jaw.  Her skull had been fractured badly enough to cause a brain hemorrhage.  There was a hole the size of a 32 caliber bullet through her upper jaw, which initially led to the assumption that she had been shot.  However, there was no exit wound, and no bullets were found in her body, leaving the cause of this wound uncertain.  Although it was theorized that Myrtle had been attacked with some sort of blunt instrument, the murder weapon was never determined.  It was believed that she had died sometime between 7:17--the time when she told her friend about the noise--and 7:25.  Investigators speculated that the murderer entered the home through the unlocked front door and secured the door’s sliding lock.  When Myrtle encountered the intruder, she was chased down the hallway into the kitchen, where the attack took place.  The killer then exited through a broken rear window.  A dresser in Myrtle’s living room/bedroom had been ransacked, although it was unknown what, if anything, had been taken from it.

This proved to be one of those particularly unsettling murders where investigators were utterly unable to come up with a motive for the crime, let alone a suspect.  (It didn’t help matters that the police failed to protect the home, allowing a large crowd of trick-or-treating looky-loos to spend a particularly morbid Halloween gawking at the murder scene.)  No one who knew Myrtle had any idea why someone would want to bludgeon her to death.  All the known burglars in the area were investigated, but nothing was found linking any of them to the killing.  In the weeks before the murder, there had been five rape or attempted rape cases in the area, so it was naturally suspected that this assailant (who appears to have never been caught) was also responsible for Myrtle’s murder, but that theory was fated to remain unproven.

Myrtle’s husband and children have long since passed on, but in the Chattanooga area, at least, this chilling mystery is still very much alive.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Let the show begin!

The hazards of Victorian steam rollers.

When sunken living rooms were a fad.  Personally, I hated them.

Kathy Bates' grandfather and the mummy of John Wilkes Booth.

Let's face it, Lt. Columbo was a dirty cop.  Meh, if we're talking '70s crime dramas, give me James Rockford any day.

The king of the ghost-hunters. 

Decoding a mysterious writing system.

The woman who saved art from the Nazis.

The mystery of Egypt's "Area 51."

The Ragged School Museum.

The town that was terrorized by particularly vicious poison-pen letters.

A ghostly mother-child reunion.

What we know--and don't know--about scarecrows.

The Snow Axe murders.

Two very different Georgian-era childhoods.

The burning of Norfolk, Virginia in 1776.

A controversial Australian geoglyph.

New research about Egypt's Karnak Temple.

A lost city in Mexico.

The church that includes a depiction of Albert Einstein.

The origins of the Hundred Years' War.

The wanderings of Robert Louis Stevenson.

In other news, 31/Atlas is still weird.

No doubt you'll be pleased to hear that scientists are spending all that sweet grant money on cooking spaghetti.  (It just so happens that I'll be making spaghetti this Sunday.  Maybe I should start a Go-Fund-Me.  In the name of research.)

The man who gained fame by walking on his head.

The witches of Dogtown.

The first Canadian novel.

A butchery in Baltimore.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a murder on Halloween.  In the meantime, if Joe Rogan is ever reincarnated as a cat, this will be the result.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Since we’re into the Halloween season, it seems appropriate to share this bit of spooky folklore from the “Baltimore Sun,” October 31, 1998:

It's that time of the year when a barking dog late at night is listened to a little more closely than usual. 

Eerie shadows give a start and the mere rattling of shutters by the wind forces the mind to race ahead and contemplate things that go bump in the night. It's Halloween, that time of the year when regiments of costumed ghosts, goblins, witches and Frankensteins take to the streets to go trick or treating or crowd into church halls for parties.

But just as much a part of Halloween is the telling, and re-telling, of the carefully crafted ghost stories. Despite the narrators' propensity for hyperbole, these tales from the crypt and the nether world of restless spirits, can still raise the hair on the listener's neck no matter what their age. Two Baltimore chestnuts that no doubt will be whispered around darkened rooms and flickering fireplaces tonight will be the tale of the blond hitchhiker named Sequin and the tale of "Black Aggie," the statue that once marked the grave of Gen. Felix Angus and his wife in Druid Ridge Cemetery near Pikesville.

Along Route 40 East, if you should see a tall, pretty blond hitchhiker wearing a low-cut, blue-sequined cocktail dress, don't be surprised. 

“She is the subject of one of Baltimore's best-known tales of the supernatural and she has been with us for many years," reported The Evening Sun in 1976. It was a tale told by an East Baltimore Sunday-school teacher about a "thin blithe girl with violet eyes and blond hair," who used to wait outside of church and pick up teen-age boys. "The whole community gossiped about her and people said she was completely immoral," said the newspaper. One Sunday, she sat in the last pew because she heard that the pastor was distributing clothes for the poor and her dress was soiled and old. As the pastor opened a barrel and removed a blue-sequined party dress, she walked down the aisle and removed it from his hands.  "Thereafter, she never wore anything but that party dress, in all kinds of weather night and day," said the newspaper.

Later that winter, the woman was found frozen to death on a back street wearing the blue-sequined dress. Ten years later, two City College students were driving to a dance along Route 40 when they spotted an attractive blond girl wearing a blue cocktail dress trimmed in sequins. They stopped and picked her up and took her to the dance. She told everyone her name was Sequin and she was never without a dance partner. After the dance, the two boys drove her back to her East Baltimore home.

When she complained of the chilly night air, one of the boys removed his topcoat and draped it over her shoulders. Forgetting the coat, they returned to the house the next day and were greeted by an elderly woman. "Sequin? You must be old friends--she's been dead 10 years," she told the stunned boys. Thinking they had the wrong address, the woman reassured them that it was indeed the right address and a girl nicknamed Sequin once had lived there. "Her real name was Betty, and she's buried in the old cemetery six blocks away," she said. Entering the cemetery, they quickly found the young woman's grave.

“They found the small stone where the woman said it would be. On it was engraved simply 'Betty.' And folded across the mound in front of the stone was the boy's topcoat," reported The Evening Sun. 

Da-da! Cue the spooky organ music.

As early as 1950, newspaper accounts related tales of nocturnal visits by teen-agers to "Black Aggie," a copy by sculptor Pausch of Augustus St. Gaudens' "Grief," which marks the grave of Mrs. Henry Adams in Washington's Rock Creek Cemetery. 

"There are lots of stories about it," a Pikesville policeman told The Evening Sun in 1950. "The kids say its eyes shine in the dark, and things like that.  But that’s a lot of who-struck-John.” 

Or was it? Before Angus' descendants removed "Black Aggie" from the cemetery and donated her in 1967 to the National Collection of Fine Arts at the Smithsonian Institution, a visit to the "jet-black, shrouded angel that kept her grief-stricken watch over the lonely cemetery" was almost obligatory for 1950s-era Baltimore teens. 

Via Newspapers.com

 

"Unseen by the visitors, her eyes glowed briefly red, and a beckoning hand moved slightly on the arm of her throne. For the intruders, it was a rite of passage: Anyone brave enough to spend the midnight hour in Black Aggie's lap was man enough to join their fraternity, and the new-brother-to-be joked bravely as his companions returned to their houses, leaving him in Aggie's chilly embrace." 

Other legends claimed that no fertilizer known to mankind could grow grass in her shadow. "Persons who have returned the gaze of those glowing eyes have been struck blind; young mothers who walked too close by at midnight have suffered stillbirths; countless strollers have quickened their step at the sound of wails of pain and clanking chains," reported The Sun. 

John Hitchcock, who was born and raised in the cemetery and whose father had been superintendent there, told The Sun in 1966: "I have patrolled the cemetery hundreds of times and walked right by the statue at midnight. It has never moved or rolled its eyes or done anything unusual." 

The reason the grass wouldn't grow, he explained, was due to the hordes of teen-agers who trampled it.

"Anyone who goes out there to look at that grave at midnight is out of his ever lovin' mind," he told the newspaper. 

Or were they? 

Da-da! Cue the spooky organ music.

The Return of the Libelous Tombstones

A while back, I did a post sharing some outstanding examples of that little-discussed, but thoroughly endearing phenomenon I’ve dubbed “libelous tombstones.”  Epitaphs are usually solemn and respectful things, but surprisingly often, they are used as vehicles to insult the dead (and the living,) make defamatory remarks, and generally raise hell.  

And I for one applaud them for it.

In the older days, at least, the practice was so common that before I knew it, I had accumulated enough news items on the subject for a sequel.  (Yes, I have a whole file of them, which I suppose is further evidence that my laptop would make fascinating material for anyone studying abnormal psychology.)

Let’s kick things off with this family dispute from the “Yorkshire Argus,” June 23, 1914:

Consett magistrates were asked by Mr. R. W. Rippon, a London barrister, to issue summonses for an alleged libel published upon a large stone cross that had been erected in Benfieldside Cemetery to the memory of the applicant's father. Rippon's complaint was that while his father's name was inscribed upon the front of the stone, the name of his first wife, who was Mr. Rippon's mother, was upon the side in small letters. The name of the second wife of Mr. Rippon’s father, however, had been inscribed prominently and immediately before the name of the appellant's father. 

Proceeding, Mr. Rippon contended that undue prominence had been given to the name of the second wife, white that of his mother had been subjected to a criminal libel.  He therefore asked for a summons against Elizabeth Rogerson, a legatee, the Benfieldside Burial Board, and J. Hamilton, clerk to the board.

In answer to the presiding magistrate, Mr. Rippon said the stone had been erected on the instructions of Elizabeth Rogerson, who had paid for it.

The magistrates eventually suggested that charges should be formalized in writing and be forwarded to the clerk before the next sitting of the court.

"Montreal Gazette," August 2, 1915, via Newspapers.com

The above reflects a somewhat complicated story.  Charles Becker, an ex-New York police officer, had been tried and convicted of the then-notorious murder of bookmaker Herman Rosenthal.  Becker was executed on July 30, 1915.  Becker was no angel--he was part of a police protection racket protecting the illegal gambling operations.  Rosenthal evidently blabbed to reporters, leading to Becker allegedly hiring Mafia hit men to eliminate the overly-chatty bookie.  However, Becker went to the electric chair protesting his innocence to the last, and there are crime historians who believe he was telling the truth.

Further murder accusations were noted in this item from the “Leavenworth Post,” September 17, 1912:

Appleton, Wis., Sept. 17.--Unless a monument over the grave of a little girl in the cemetery at Maine, a small town near here, is removed this week, or the inscription is completely obliterated, the municipal court will be asked to order the father of the child to remove it. The action is the outgrowth of the wording of the epitaph, which is as follows: "Laura lies in this grave and lot; she was shot by Guy and Jakie Scott." Laura Freeman, aged 8 years, and a daughter of Sidna Freeman, a prominent farmer, was accidentally shot and killed by Jack Scott, aged 11 years, last March. George Scott, the boy's father, objects to the epitaph. The inhabitants of the town have taken sides and it might be that there will be serious trouble before the matter is finally settled.

The elder Scott frequently has asked Freeman to change the wording of the stone, but always he has been met with scorn. The men frequently have come near to blows, because of the controversy. Time has temporarily been called, however, pending the decision of the court.

There are many who predict that Freeman will be ordered to change the stone, while others are quite certain that the court will take no action whatsoever.

The “Fargo Forum,” October 7, 1897:

An exchange says this is an inscription upon a Tennessee tombstone: 

L. B., son of J. C. and L.J. Cate, born April 10, 1870. Married Millie Freeman Dec. 21, 1887; was shot and killed by Bill Penick Dec. 11, 1896; caused by Penick swearing a lie on Cate's wife. Aged 26 years, 8 months and 1 day.

Now Bill Penick brings suit against the designer and the maker of the tombstone for libel.

A short and not-so-sweet one from the “Wilmington Journal,” May 10, 1866:

A Trenton paper says: “A walk through the Morrisville burying ground, just over the river, will bring to one's notice a queer epitaph. It is to Samuel McCracken, a former resident of that village, and bears the following addenda to the record of his birth and death: ‘If all the leading politicians and priests go to Heaven, I want to get off at some other station.' To put this on his grave stone was the order of the man by directions found in his will."

The Newport News “Daily Press,” July 29, 1905:

YORK, PA., July 28.-- A conspicuous spot in Greenmount cemetery, in this city, is occupied by a handsome Scotch marble granite monument bearing upon one of its sides a bold inscription, saying: 

A Victim of Chloroform Poisoning and Shock. 

The result of a doctor's negligence. 

Why the inscription is there and what story is back of it no one knows save the man who raised the monument and a few of his most intimate friends.

The monument marks the grave of the wife of a prosperous York merchant. When questioned, he says: "It is all the truth. Some tombstone inscriptions may lie, but that one does not. It is a long and sad story which I do not care to repeat."

Another commemoration to a murder mystery comes from the “Weekly Plain Dealer,” September 10, 1845:

The following epitaph was taken recently from a church yard in Pennsylvania. 

“In memory of Polly Williams, who was found murdered by her seducer, Aug 17, 1810--aged 18 years. 

Behold with pity you that pass by

Here doth the bones of Polly Williams lie 

Who was cut off in her tender bloom 

By a vile retch her pretended groom."

The “vile retch,” a young man named Philip Rogers, was tried for Polly’s murder, but was acquitted, leaving her killing technically unsolved.

A story strikingly similar to the Laura Freeman case was related in the “Boston Globe,” January 10, 1904:

AUGUSTA, Me, Jan 9-"Shot by the son of Elhanan Williams" is the very unusual announcement carved in large letters on a tombstone made not long ago by an Augusta marble dealer and sent to the town of South China. Some indignation has been expressed by the neighbors and friends of the Williams family over the inscription on the stone, in view of the fact that the shooting was purely accidental. 

In the summer of 1902 Herbert B. Plaisted, son of Benj. and Emma F. Plaisted, with his brother, Fred, was out in a boat fishing in China lake. On the shore, about 100 yards away, was Harold Williams, 17, who was visiting there from Waltham, Mass. 

In order that the boys in the boat might hear the of the bullet as it whizzed by them, Williams discharged a 22-caliber rifle in their direction, aiming about 20 feet to one side.

The bullet hit a wave and was deflected, striking Herbert squarely in the forehead just above the left eye. He died a few days later.

Another shout-out to incompetent medical professionals was recorded in the “Jefferson City Tribune,” November 10, 1887:

A tombstone bearing the following inscription was erected in a New Jersey graveyard recently: "In memory of Charles H. Salmon, who was born Sept. 10, 1858. He grew, waxed strong and developed into a noble son and loving brother. He came to his death on the 12th of October, 1884, by the hand of a careless drug clerk and two excited doctors at 12 o'clock at night, in Kansas."

The “Register News-Pictorial,” February 13, 1930:

LONDON, Tuesday. Mr. Justice McNaughton today refused to allow costs against Mr. Walter Ralston, whose wife had unsuccessfully sued him for libel because he had erected a tombstone to her memory after they had separated. He ordered that each side should pay its own costs.

The inscription on the stone has been removed, and Mrs. Ralston has undertaken to have the entry of her “death” deleted from the register.

I will wrap up this collection with the following item from the “El Paso Times,” February 25, 1959.  While it is not exactly “libelous”--”overly frank” might be a better description--it is unique enough to deserve notice.

Auckland, New Zealand (UPI)--A marble tombstone for an English pig that drank himself to death arrived here Tuesday aboard the Orient Liner Orsova. 

The tombstone is the gift of American admirers of a porker named Grover and is on its way to Rottingdean, England. 

Grover the pig broke into his master's wine cellar last December and drank his complete stock of wines before going out in a drunken stupor. 

Radio Announcer Doug China of San Antonio, campaigned to immortalize Grover's accomplishment, and bought the tombstone with donations sent in by listeners to his program.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

And we have mail!

A murder, a lynching, and a scandal.

How the grave marker of an ancient Roman sailor wound up in a New Orleans backyard.

America's most haunted homes.

How to make the perfect 14th century omelet.

The fine art of forgery.

The unsolved disappearance of Merlina the Raven.

The Great Siege of Gibraltar.

The Palace of Westminster fire of 1834.

The Fasting Woman of Tutbury.

The Headless Horseman of Ireland.

Edgar Wallace's really bad book promotion.

The search for the world's oldest story.

A large psychic experiment in 1927.

What it was like to be a ploughman in Early Modern England.

In which Native Americans talk space aliens.

WWII and "The Chronicles of Narnia."

A "dinosaur trackway" in the UK.

The origins of witch iconography.

We still have no idea why we sleep.

The origins of the word, "allude."

The ghost and the lost will.

The Crypt of Civilization.

Believe it or not, there's a reason why scientists want our toenails.

A crazy cat tale.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll have another round of Libelous Tombstones!  In the meantime, here's this surprisingly NSFW Elizabethan ballad.  Note:  It's not about beer.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

All right, it's time to talk about Weird Things Falling From the Sky!  The "Sault Star," January 21, 2008:

SPRUCE GROVE, Alta. An octopus-shaped hole in a frozen golf course pond has left people in a central Alberta town scratching their heads. 

"It wasn't there (Friday)," said Tina Danyluk, whose house backs onto the pond at The Links at Spruce Grove, west of Edmonton. "The whole pond was covered in snow (on Friday) until this morning when we saw the strange marks in the pond." 

The hole, about 1.5 metres wide, was visible Saturday at the golf course, along with at least 20 splash marks, the longest about six metres. Danyluk and others suspect it may have been a meteor.

Astronomer Martin Beech said he wouldn't rule it out, but the marks perplexed him. To punch through ice nearly half a metre thick, the meteor would have to be huge and would look like a bright burning ball with an associated sonic boom, said Beech, who teaches astronomy at Campion College at the University of Regina. "Usually, it's quite a distinctive rumbling sound and people tend to notice that sound," Beech said. No one reported seeing or hearing anything unusual Friday night. Beech added he wasn't aware of any reports of fireballs in the area.

He also noted that such an object wouldn't normally melt thick ice. 

"If it wasn't a meteorite, what the heck was it?" Beech asked. 

Danyluk's neighbour, Aaron Soos, said the marks were puzzling and had people talking all day. "If the pond was not frozen, we wouldn't even see those marks."

The Matchmaking Ouija Board

Elizabeth Byrd was a successful journalist and historical novelist (a side note: her best-known book, “Immortal Queen,” is one of my favorite novels.)  She also had a deep interest in reincarnation and other supernatural matters (one of her non-fiction works was titled, “The Ghosts in My Life.”)  In 1964, the New York paper “The Villager” published her account of an experiment with a Ouija board.  Usually, such dabblings lead to either complete failure or regrettable encounters with dark spirits, but in this case, the board signaled a future happy ending.  That atypical nature of Byrd’s story made it, I thought, worth sharing.

I still recommend avoiding Ouija boards, however.

I walked along Gay Street last week, that tiny curving street that cuddles in the heart of Greenwich Village. Little has changed since I lived there twenty-one years ago. The rows of small houses built in the early nineteenth century are still curtained in organdy frills or primly shuttered. There is an aura of age as subtle as the scent of woodruff. Cars rarely pass on this secretive little street, but when they do, you envision coaches on cobblestones. And on frosty nights, you smell oak and applewood from the still-burning fireplaces of long ago. 

But it was spring when I passed by. An old horse pulled a flower cart. There were geraniums, mimosa--and great bunches of lilac. 

Because of the lilac, I thought of Dandy and the ghost and wondered if the present tenants of Number Thirteen Gay Street were mischiefed by a little French poodle or had found lilacs in the garden where no lilacs grew. Of course, I couldn’t barge in on strangers and ask such absurd questions; but I lingered outside my old home and remembered how it had all happened.... 

I had moved into the basement apartment when my husband went to war in 1943. My floor-through included a rear garden which I shared with Virginia Copeland, the girl above. By the unwritten code of New York neighbors, we didn’t intrude on one another. Months went by before we met. 

From the desk at my window, I could see Virginia in the garden with a miniature French poodle whom she called “Dandy.” I thought the name suited him, for he was a cocky, prancy, elegant little dog in a curly black coat that was fashionably trimmed. He had a black button nose, plump whiskers, and velvety brown eyes. Often he clowned with blown leaves or played with sun shadows, but I noticed he never barked except to welcome Virginia home. He never even barked when her doorbell or telephone rang--which wasn’t often. She was blonde, beautiful, sad-looking, solitary. 

One night, Dandy scratched on my garden door and summoned me up to her apartment. He didn’t bark but his anxiety was evident. She met me at the garden steps--our first meeting--and I saw that she had been crying. It is difficult for a reticent person to pour out the story of an unhappy marriage and a divorce, yet Virginia needed someone to talk to. So we became close friends, she and Dandy and I. 

Two years passed. One windy April night, just for fun, Virginia brought up her old Ouija board from the basement, and we began to ask it questions. Dandy watched us intently and his concentration was so comic that we both laughed. 

I asked Ouija, “Will Virginia marry again?” 

Under our fingers the planchette moved to YES. “What’s the man’s name?” she asked. The planchette moved to CAP. “Are those his initials?” I asked. No answer. 

We varied the question but nothing happened. Finally, relinquishing Cap, Virginia asked if she would stay in New York. 

The planchette moved firmly to NO. PHIL. 

We asked if she would live in Philadelphia. NO. Where, then? 

“Man--PHIL,” Ouija answered. 

So the man is named Phil?” I asked. 

No reply. 

Virginia laughed. “It’s clear as mud,” she said. “I’m going to marry Cap and live with Phil. A wicked life, but busy...” 

So we joked and had coffee and talked about other matters. The wind rose to a gale, unusual for April, and the little house shuddered and creaked. Dandy put his paw onto the garden door and Virginia let him out, leaving the door open. Suddenly we heard him bark and he ran in to us, still barking--the exultant, welcoming sort of bark with which he greeted her when she’d been away. He seemed to be urging something--someone--into the room. Just as he had urged me to follow him two years before. His guest had apparently followed him over to the fireplace and was standing there. Dandy reared up on his hind legs and placed his front paws on its--what? Trousers, I thought. Dandy’s pink tongue seemed to lick an outstretched hand. 

“He must see a bug or a fly,” Virginia said. But there were no insects on this windy April night. Later we agreed we both had the strongest illusion that a man was standing by the fireplace, relaxed, at ease, at home. 

Then Dandy escorted his guest out the door, returned to Virginia and fluffed at her feet. There were shreds of blossoms on his curly coat and at the garden door--undoubtedly lilac. But it was impossible, for lilac did not grow anywhere on Gay Street; and neither of us had lilac in our vases. The mystery charmed us but we soon forgot it. In May, we gave a cocktail party in the garden, and Dandy officiated as host, extending his usual silent welcome, offering a paw to friends. Suddenly he tore past us and made a flying leap onto a young man, who dropped a parcel and caught Dandy in his arms. For a moment two dark heads lay together, two faces pressed. The man’s face was wet with kisses. 

Virginia, startled by the bark, stared incredulously at Dandy in the man’s arms, and then at the fallen parcel. It had broken, and a huge bunch of lilacs spilled out. A friend introduced the young man as Major Capotosto. 

“Everyone calls me Cappy,” he said, and gave Virginia the lilacs. 

Virginia moved through the party in a radiant daze. Later she dined with Cappy and much later that night she knocked on my door. “Guess where he plans to live?” 

“Philadelphia,” I said. 

“Manila. Philippines. Remember what Ouija said? MAN - PHIL.” 

So Cappy was the Gay Street ghost. He and Virginia have been married seventeen happy years. She wrote me: “Dandy lies buried here in our garden where wild orchids trail over his grave. But lilacs would be more suitable. I wish I could grow them here in Manila . . . .” 

So last week, as I passed down Gay Street and saw lilacs on a flower cart, I remembered Dandy and the “ghost” and I paused outside number thirteen, tempted to ring my old doorbell. But what could I say to strangers, to whom the story would probably be ridiculous? Yet, impulsively, I rang the bell. Florence Mitchel, a dark, attractive young actress answered, accompanied by Misty, her French poodle. She was gracious when I explained my pilgrimage into the past and asked me in. Mindful of Virginia I asked who lived upstairs, and she took me to meet Alice Mulligan. 

“How is the garden doing?” I asked Mrs. Mulligan. “Can you grow lilacs now?” 

“You can’t grow anything,” she said. “Not inside, either.” 

She showed me a row of lifeless plants on her potting table in the kitchen. “Except this.” 

She pointed to a miniature orange tree. “It’s supposed to be perishable but it blooms on, year after year. It’s called Calamondin. And it’s native only to the Philippines.”