Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

  “You didn’t see the one who did it?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back before I continued.

  “Not clearly. But what does it matter? I’m not much interested in the truth of what happened. I view the occurrence merely as inspiration for a work of fiction. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?”

  “I thought maybe I knew that man, the one who got pushed into the water. What became of him? In real life I mean, not in the story”

  “I have no idea what happened to him,” I said. “And I haven’t even attempted to formulate the continuing plot of ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.’ Who knows where my imagination will have led me by installment seven.”

  “But what happened after the man fell into the water?” The man persisted.

  “I can’t tell you much. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I know about the true affair is in the story, excepting the pearl-handled revolver discovered in the hero’s pocket, of course. I thought that the gun was a nice touch. I’m toying with the idea of making the hero a duke on the lam because he killed his brother, the crown prince of Bolatestein, in a dual over a woman.”

  Mr. Firth tipped his hat and made an exit. I watched through the plate glass window as he left the office and walked to his large, shiny car. I had never seen the man before, but his visit left me with a vague unease. I strongly suspected that he knew far more about the matter of the sailor pushed from the bridge than he pretended.

  I soon dismissed the matter from my mind, turning my thoughts to the problem of the missing lunch. I made a tour of the building, venturing everywhere save into the basement with the rats. Any person foolhardy enough to venture down there with a packet of sandwiches would end up meeting a similar fate to Mrs. Pruitt’s villainous Malcolm McGrew.

  As I had half expected, I found neither my lunch nor whoever had taken it. I went out for a bowl of soup and grilled cheese sandwich at Philip’s Bean Pot. When I returned once more to my work in the deserted Press building, I occasionally caught myself listening for footsteps.

  At a quarter ‘til five, Flo came from officiating at the Greenville library’s Tiny Tots Story Hour. She and I retired to her private office to discuss plans for the next week’s paper.

  “Flo,” I said, “did you ever hear of a man named Paul Firth?”

  “I have. Why do you ask?”

  “He was here earlier to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. He didn’t seem to think much of it. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not very much. He lives on a farm about two miles from the south edge of Greenville. A place called the Willows.”

  “Oh, he’s a farmer? He doesn’t look much like one.”

  “He isn’t a farmer. He merely lives on one. According to the report, he has prospered by leaps and bounds.”

  “Then how does he make his money?”

  “No one seems to know. When Firth came here a year or so ago he didn’t appear to have anything, but recently he bought a fine car, and he spends money rather lavishly.”

  “He asked about Richard Hamsted, although he didn’t inquire after him by name,” I said. “I got the distinct impression that Mr. Firth was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason.”

  “Those who know Firth say he’s a sly old fox.”

  “That’s the way he impressed me, Flo. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I believe my tattoo story may end up causing quite a stir in Greenville.”

  “Was Firth annoyed by it?”

  “I think so, Flo, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may not be a friend of Richard Hamsted, but he certainly was anxious to learn what became of him.”

  “You didn’t ask him any questions?”

  “No, his visit took me by surprise. Suppose we run out to Firth’s farm tomorrow.”

  “What purpose would there be in that?”

  “Firth may be able to tell us interesting facts which will throw light on the mystery. He may understand the significance of the octopus tattoo.”

  “You’re rather overly optimistic, I think.”

  “But you’ll go with me?”

  “Yes,” promised Florence. “I’ve always had a curiosity to see the Willows. Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Well, Jane,” Dad said next morning at the breakfast table. “I finally bought the cottage.”

  “You bought a cottage?” I said. “Where? When? Why?”

  “I’ve been talking about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing the Examiner’s advertisers that you never listened.”

  “I’m all ears now, Dad,” I assured him, absently reaching for another piece of toast. “Tell me all about it.”

  “The cottage is located on the Grassy River. Four rooms and a boathouse. Incidentally, I’ve hired a man to look after the place and keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Jim.”

  “Are you planning to live at the cottage this summer?” I asked.

  “No, I merely bought it for weekend trips. I plan on a bit of fishing now and then. You may enjoy going with me.”

  “Oh, Dad,” I groaned. “How can I? These days I don’t even have time to wash my neck. Running a story paper is more work than I anticipated.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d ever made washing anything your top priority,” Dad said. “I’ll give you the address of the cottage, at least. If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and look the place over.”

  “I’ll get there somehow,” I promised, pocketing the card. I pulled out a typed, folded sheet of paper which I placed in front of my father. “Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?”

  “No more checks.”

  “This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I’m trying to store up a few supplies so that eventually I can publish Carter’s All-Story Weekly in my own plant. I have the money in hand to cover the bill.”

  Dad signed the order.

  “Have you engaged your pressman, yet? Their wages come rather high, you know.”

  “It takes everything the Weekly makes to meet its current bills. But one of these days I’ll get the paper out in my own plant. Just wait and see!”

  “Have you heard back from Litchfield Press, yet?” Dad asked.

  I told him that I had not. I did not tell him that I was fast losing hope that the response, assuming I got one, would be a positive one. I already had a bundle of rejection slips secreted in my nightstand drawer. Litchfield Press really was my last hope for seeing Perpetua’s Promise in print.

  Later, when I studied the address card given to me by my father, I noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from the Willows. Often, Florence and I had talked of calling upon Paul Firth, but both of us had been kept busy at the Weekly office and other responsibilities. Now that a linotype operator had been hired to set type, we both had a little more free time. I decided that if I could get Flo to accompany me, I’d visit both the new cottage and the Willows that evening.

  At four-thirty Flo and I were walking through a dense maple and oak woods which rimmed the Grassy River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves, but even so, the day was unseasonably hot and sultry.

  “I wish it would rain,” remarked Florence, trudging wearily beside me. “I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year.”

  “Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,” I said. “I think I see the place through the trees.”

  Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly-painted white cottage. When we arrived at the front door, no one seemed to be about, so we pushed it open and went in.

  It was a tiny dwelling. The front door opened into a long skinny living room with a cobblestone fireplace, and beyond that was the kitchen with a dining alcove. Off to one side were two minuscule bedrooms.

  When we went outside again, a short, wiry man was coming toward the cottage from the river.

  “You’re Miss F
ielding?” he asked, looking at Florence.

  “No, I am,” I corrected him. “Or rather, I used to be Miss Fielding. I’m Mrs. Carter, these days, but you can call me Jane. You must be Anchor Jim.”

  Anchor Jim had a tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship imprinted on his arm.

  “That’s me,” the man said. “Go ahead an’ look around all you like.”

  Florence and I wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor Jim giving the motorboat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of varnish.

  “We thought you might take us for a ride,” I told him. “It must be cool on the water.”

  “I sure would like to, Mrs. Carter—Jane,” said Anchor Jim regretfully. “But I dasn’t get ’er wet now. Not until this varnish dries.”

  “You’re a sailor, aren’t you? Where have you sailed?”

  “The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o’ Mexico. I’ve been everywhere.”

  Flo and I chatted with Anchor Jim for a time, but although we asked all manner of questions, we gained very little definite information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself, save in generalities.

  “We may as well go on to Paul Firth’s place,” I said to Flo. “It’s getting late.”

  Anchor Jim’s varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up sharply.

  “I wouldn’t go there if I was you gals,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The weather don’t look so good. She might blow up a gale before sundown.”

  “Oh, we’re not afraid of a little wind or rain,” I said. “Come along, Flo.”

  Anchor Jim said nothing more, but he looked far from pleased that we were following through with our plans to visit the Willows.

  We walked a riverside path which I knew would lead to the main road and Paul Firth’s farm.

  “Odd sort, isn’t he?” I said to Flo as we walked along.

  “Anchor Jim?”

  “Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn’t tell us much about himself.”

  We crossed the river by means of a swaying suspension bridge and came out from beneath the solid canopy of tree branches festooned with early spring leaves. I paused to look up at the sky.

  “Aren’t those clouds odd? Just watch them boil.”

  “They must be filled with wind,” said Flo. “Anchor Jim said he thought a storm would blow up.”

  “It’s not far away, either. Unless we step right along, we’ll surely get caught in it.”

  “Perhaps we should forget the Willows and start for home.”

  “We wouldn’t make it before the storm breaks,” I said. “If we hurry we may reach Firth’s place before it gets truly unpleasant.”

  We hurried along the winding path. The air remained sultry and very still. The sky had changed to a peculiar yellowish color.

  I watched, with increasing alarm, as a writhing, twisting, funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.

  “Listen!” I said to Flo.

  There was a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm moved forward.

  “A tornado!” gasped Florence. “It’s coming this way!”

  “Run!” I said, seizing Flo’s hand. “We still have a chance to make Firth’s place. Hopefully, he has a storm cellar.”

  A white farmhouse, a red barn and a silo stood at the back of a weed-infested field. Clearly, Mr. Firth was no farmer. One side of the property was bounded by the willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.

  Flo and I crawled beneath a barbed-wire fence and cut across the field. The sky was darker now and the roar of the wind ominous. The tail of the funnel whipped along the ground, veering to the south, then coming toward us again.

  “We’ll never make the house,” I said. “Let’s hunker down here in this ditch.”

  “We can make it,” Flo insisted, “but only if we run.”

  Flo raised another wire strand for me to roll beneath. The sleeve of my dress caught on the sharp barbs, tearing a large hole as I jerked free.

  Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of wind.

  I glanced frantically about for a place of refuge. A low, circular cement hump rose from the ground not many yards distant. It as an old-fashioned storm cellar.

  “We’ll get in there, Flo!” I shouted. “Come on!”

  We ran across the yard to the cave. The entrance was guarded by a door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped in the hasp.

  “Thank goodness, we can get in,” gasped Florence. “Hurry!”

  I tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so suddenly that I nearly tumbled backward.

  The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular opening protruded the head and shoulders of Paul Firth. His face was convulsed with rage.

  “What are you trying to do?” he demanded. “Speak up!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Speak up!” Paul Firth commanded as Flo and I stared at him in astonishment. “Why are you trying to get into my cave?”

  “Listen to that wind!” I said, recovering my powers of speech. I pointed at the sky.

  “A tornado!” exclaimed Firth in a stunned voice.

  “And it’s coming this way,” added Florence. “Let us down into the cave!”

  Instead of stepping aside, the man came up the stone steps. Slamming the door of the cave, he padlocked it.

  “Quick! Into the house!” he ordered.

  “We’ll be much safer underground,” I protested. “That twister could easily lift a building from its foundation.”

  “Do as I say!” commanded Paul Firth. “The cave is half-filled with water. You can’t go down there.”

  He ran toward the house. Flo and I followed, overtaking him as he reached the porch.

  “Get inside!” he ordered.

  We scurried through the door, and he closed it behind us. Barely had we reached shelter when the wind struck the house in full force, fairly shaking it to its foundation. Windows rattled, a tree bough came crashing down on the porch, and the air outside was filled with flying debris.

  As a hard object shattered a pane of glass, there was a terrified scream from the kitchen. A moment later a girl ran into the room. She stopped short as she saw Flo and me. It was Rosie Larkin.

  “Stop that silly screeching!” Firth ordered Rosie. “The center of the storm is passing to the south. Now get back to your work!”

  “Yes, sir,” Rosie mumbled.

  Still looking at Florence and me, she slowly retreated. However, as Paul Firth went to the window, Rosie made strange signs to us behind his turned back. She obviously did not wish us to speak to her, for she raised a finger to her lips begging us to keep silence.

  The wind increased. A gate was wrenched from its hinges and carried across the yard. Across the road, a tree was uprooted with a crash. Rosie fled to the kitchen with a stifled scream.

  “That stupid girl drives me crazy,” Firth muttered. “I don’t know why I ever hired her.”

  “You can’t blame her for being frightened,” Florence said. “This is a dreadful storm.”

  “The worst is over now,” said Firth. “You’ll be able to go in a few minutes.”

  Firth did not invite us to sit down. He paced from window to window, watching the clouds. Rain came in a heavy downpour, then slackened somewhat. The wind no longer tore at the doors.

  “You’ll be able to go any time now,” said Firth. “I can let you have an umbrella.”

  “It’s still rather bad,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I believe we’ll wait a few minutes longer.”

  Firth looked exceedingly displeased with our continued presence in his living room.

  “Who sent you here?” Firth demanded. “Why did you come?”

  “My father has a cottage close by, along the river,” I said. “We were returning from there whe
n the storm broke.”

  My explanation seemed to satisfy the man. He shrugged and fell again to pacing the floor.

  The rain ceased, and Flo and I left the house after politely thanking the man for the protection of his home during the storm.

  As we rounded the corner of the house there was a light tap on the window. I looked up to see Rosie’s face pressed against the pane.

  “She’s signaling for us to wait,” I said to Flo. “I guess she wants to talk with us.”

  We stepped into the doorway of a woodshed. In a moment Rosie slipped from the house, a coat thrown over her head.

  “I hope old Firth doesn’t see me,” she said. “Let’s get out of sight.”

  Florence and I followed Rosie into the woodshed and closed the door behind us.

  “How long have you worked here?” Flo asked.

  “Ever since I met you girls on the boat. I answered an advertisement the next morning and got this job.”

  “Do you like it?” I asked. “I imagine farm work is hard.”

  “There’s nothing much in the way of farming going on here, so the work is easy enough, but I hate the place! That’s why I wanted to talk with you. Do you know of anyone who needs a girl? I’ll work for very small wages.”

  “I don’t know of anyone at the moment,” I said.

  “I can’t stay here much longer,” Rosie said, a note of desperation in her voice. “Mr. Firth is so overbearing and mean! He can’t bear noise either. If I so much as rattle a dish he berates me.”

  “Does he pay you a decent wage?” Florence asked.

  “Six dollars a week. I can’t complain on that score. But there’s something about him—I can’t explain—it gives me the creeps.”

  “Firth is a peculiar type,” I admitted. “He didn’t act very friendly toward Florence and me. By the way, why does he keep the storm cellar padlocked?”

  “That’s something I wish you would tell me.”

  “He wouldn’t allow us to enter it even when the storm was coming.”

  “Firth always keeps the cave padlocked,” said Rosie. “He goes there every day, too. Sometimes he spends hours beneath ground. It rather frightens me.”