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

by Alice Simpson

  “We turn left here,” Dad said as we came to a dirt road. “Speed up a bit, or the tires may stick and watch sharp for soft places.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” I laughed, thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

  Soon the car came to the entrance of a narrow, muddy lane, and there my father called a halt.

  “We’ve come to the end of the trail,” he announced.

  “Have the tracks ended?” I asked in disappointment as I applied brakes.

  “Quite the contrary. Turn into this lane.”

  A small cabin sat back from the road amongst the trees. Despite the late hour, a light still glowed in one of the windows.

  “The man who set the fire must live there,” I said. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

  As I spoke, I heard the roar of a fast-traveling automobile approaching from the direction we had just come.

  “Pull over,” my father instructed. “And flash the tail light. We don’t want to risk being struck.”

  As it approached, the automobile suddenly slackened speed, finally skidding to a standstill beside Bouncing Betsy.

  “That you, Sidney Dorner?” boomed a loud voice. “Stand where you are and don’t make any false moves!”

  Chapter Three

  “Good Evening, Sheriff,” my father said evenly as he recognized the heavy-set man who stepped from a county automobile. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else this time.”

  Sheriff Daniels put away his revolver and moved into the beam of light.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “Thought you might be Sidney Dorner, and I wasn’t taking any chances. You’re Fielding of the Greenville Examiner?”

  “That’s right,” said Dad, “Looking for Sidney Dorner?”

  “I’m here to question him. I’m investigating a fire which was set at the Franklin place.”

  “You’re a fast worker, Sheriff,” Dad said. “My daughter and I just left the Franklin farm, and we didn’t see you there. What put you on Dorner’s trail?”

  “Our officer received an anonymous telephone call from a woman. She reported the fire and said that I’d find my man here.”

  “Could it have been Mrs. Franklin who notified you?” my father inquired.

  “It wasn’t Mrs. Franklin,” answered the sheriff. “I traced the call to the Greenville exchange. Thought it must be the trick of a crank until our office got a report that a fire had been set at the Franklin farm. By the way, what are you doing around here, Fielding?”

  “Oh, just prowling,” Dad replied, and explained briefly how he and I had chanced to be at the scene of the fire.

  “If you followed a horseman to this lane there might be something to that anonymous telephone call,” the sheriff declared. “I’ll look around, and then have a talk with Dorner.”

  “Mind if we accompany you?” inquired my father.

  “Come along,” the sheriff said.

  I had to break into a jog to keep step with the two men as we strode down the muddy lane. A light glowed in the curtainless window of the cabin, and a woman was seated at a table. The sheriff, however, circled the house. Following the trail of hoof prints, he went directly to the stable, quietly opening the double doors.

  Once inside, Sheriff Daniels switched on a flashlight. The bright beam revealed six stalls, all empty save one, in which stood a handsome black mare who tugged restlessly at her tether. Her body dripped with sweat, and she shivered.

  “This horse has been ridden hard,” the sheriff observed, reaching to throw a blanket over her.

  “Here’s something interesting,” commented my father. Stooping, he picked up a dark piece of cloth lying in plain view on the cement floor. It was sewn in the shape of a headgear, with eye holes cut in the front side. Sheriff Daniels took the cloth from Dad, examining it closely but saying very little.

  “Ever hear of any night riders in this community?” my father asked the sheriff.

  “Never did,” the sheriff replied emphatically. “And I sure hope such a story doesn’t get started.”

  “All the same, Sheriff, you can’t just laugh off a thing like this. Even if the November elections weren’t coming up—”

  “I’m not worried about my job,” the other broke in. “So far as I know there’s no underground organization in this county. All this mask proves is that Sidney Dorner may be the man who set the Franklin fire.”

  The officer turned to leave the stable. Before he could reach the exit, the double doors swung open. A woman, who carried a lighted lantern, peered inside.

  “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Sheriff Daniels, ma’am,” the officer answered. “You needn’t be afraid.”

  “Who said anything about bein’ afraid?” the woman belligerently retorted.

  Coming into the stable, she gazed at us each in turn with undisguised suspicion. She was thin, slightly stooped and there was a hard set to her jaw.

  “You Mrs. Dorner?” the sheriff inquired, and as she nodded, he asked: “Sidney around here?”

  “No, he ain’t,” she answered defiantly. “What you wanting him for, anyhow?”

  “Oh, just to ask a few questions. Where is your husband, Mrs. Dorner?”

  “He went to town early and ain’t been back. What you aimin’ to lay onto him, Sheriff?”

  “If your husband hasn’t been here since early evening, who has ridden this horse?” the sheriff demanded, ignoring the question.

  Mrs. Dorner’ gaze roved to the stall where the black mare noisily crunched an ear of corn.

  “Sal has been rid!” she exclaimed, as if genuinely surprised. “But not by Sidney. He went to town in the flivver, and he ain’t been back.”

  “Sorry, but I’ll have to take a look in the house.”

  “Search it from cellar to attic,” the woman said angrily. “You won’t find Sidney. What’s he wanted for anyway?”

  “The Franklin barn was set afire tonight, and your husband is a suspect.”

  “Sidney didn’t do it! He wouldn’t even think of it. The Franklins is good friends of ours. Somebody’s just tryin’ to make a peck o’ trouble for us.”

  “That may be,” the sheriff admitted. “You say Sidney hasn’t been here tonight. In that case, who rode the mare?”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” the woman insisted.

  “Didn’t you hear a horse come into the yard?”

  “I never heard a sound until your car stopped at the entrance to the lane.”

  “I suppose you never saw this before, either.” The sheriff held up the black hood which he’d picked up in the barn.

  Mrs. Dorner stared blankly at the cloth. “I tell you, I don’t know nothin’ about it, Sheriff. You ain’t being fair if you try to hang that fire onto Sidney. And you won’t find him hidin’ in the house.”

  “If your husband isn’t here, I’ll wait until he comes.”

  “You may have a long wait, Sheriff,” the woman retorted, her lips parting in a twisted smile. “You can come in though and look around.”

  Neither of Dad nor I cared to follow the sheriff into the house. We were not welcome there, and I did not blame Mrs. Dorner for viewing us as interlopers. My father and I bade the sheriff goodbye and tramped back down the lane to Bouncing Betsy. We both expressed the belief that Sidney Dorner would not be arrested during the night.

  “The woman knows a lot more than she’s willing to tell,” my father said, as he slid into the car seat beside me.

  “Dad, do you think it was Sidney who set fire to the Franklin barn?”

  “We have no reason to suspect anyone else. All the evidence points to his guilt.”

  I backed Bouncing Betsy around in the narrow road and headed back toward Greenville.

  “But that was the point I wanted to make,” I said. “There is no reason to suspect anyone else, but doesn’t it seem to you that the evidence was almost too plain?”

  “What do you mean, Jane?”

  “Well, I was just thinking, if I ha
d been in Sidney Dorner’ place, I never would have left a black hood lying where the first person to enter the barn would be sure to see it.”

  “That’s so, it was a bit obvious,” my father admitted.

  “The horse was left in the stable, and the hoof tracks leading to the Dorner place were easy to follow.”

  “All true,” my father agreed.

  “Isn’t it possible that someone could have tried to throw the blame on Sidney?”

  “There might be something to the theory. Still, Mrs. Dorner didn’t deny that the mare belonged to her husband. She claimed that she hadn’t heard the horse come into the stable, which was a lie. Furthermore, I got the impression that Sidney knew the sheriff was after him and intends to hide out.”

  “It will be interesting to learn if Mr. Daniels makes an arrest. Do you expect to print anything about it in the paper?”

  “Only routine news of the fire,” my father replied. “There might be much more to this little incident than appears on the surface, but until something bigger develops, we must wait.”

  “If you could gain proof that night riders are operating in this community, what then?”

  “In that case, I should certainly launch a vigorous campaign. But why go into all the details now? This is Sheriff Daniel’s baby, and we’ll let him take care of it for the time being.

  We were now at the outskirts of Greenville. As we approached the tall stone clock tower, I raised my eyes to the dark windows. Just then the big clock struck twice.

  “Two o’clock,” my father observed, taking a quick glance at his watch. “Or would you say three?”

  “There’s no argument about it this time, Dad. All the same, I intend to prove to you that I was right about it striking thirteen.”

  “How?” my father asked, covering a wide yawn.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, favoring the grim tower with a dark scowl. “But just you wait—I’ll find a way!”

  Chapter Four

  “I declare, getting folks up becomes a harder task each morning,” Mrs. Timms groused as she brought a platter of waffles with apple chutney and a plate of cumin-flavored scrambled eggs to the breakfast table. “I call and call until I’m fairly hoarse, and all I get in response are a few sleepy mutters and mumbles. This food is stone cold.”

  Mrs. Timms has eccentric culinary predilections—at least as far as what one would expect of a woman of a certain age who has never traveled any farther beyond the countryside surrounding the city of Greenville than Chicago and then only once every decade or so.

  Mrs. Timms’ sister, Henrietta, is married to a man in the diplomatic service until very recently stationed in India. Henrietta is fond of mailing care-packages to her landlocked sister, who is equally fond of receiving them. These care-packages are typically bursting with culinary spices of the warmest variety.

  There was a time when our household ate curry three times a week, which is suicide for the digestive health of a man with as sensitive a stomach lining as my father. Surprisingly, Dad has consistently forbidden me from so much as breathing a word of his discomfort. That should have been my first clue that he was a man in love.

  “It’s good all the same, Mrs. Timms, even if it is a trifle on the cool side,” I said, pouring myself a large-size glass of orange juice. “There’s not a woman in Greenville who can equal your cooking.”

  “I’m in no mood for blarney this morning,” Mrs. Timms warned. “I must say quite frankly that I don’t approve of the irregular hours kept in this house.”

  “Jane and I did get in a trifle late last night,” my father admitted, winking at me.

  “A trifle late! It must have been at least four o’clock in the morning when you came in. Oh, I heard you tiptoe up the stairs even if you did take off your shoes.”

  “It was only a few minutes after two,” I corrected. “I’m sorry, though, that we awakened you.”

  “I hadn’t been asleep,” Mrs. Timms replied, somewhat mollified by the apology. “I’m sure I heard every stroke of the clock last night.”

  “You did? How many times would you say it struck at midnight? I mean the Moresby Tower clock.”

  “Such a question!” Mrs. Timms protested, thoroughly exasperated.

  “It’s a very important one,” I insisted. “My reputation and five gallons of gas are at stake, so weigh well your words before you speak.”

  “The clock struck twelve, of course.”

  “There, you see, Jane,” my father grinned triumphantly. “Does that satisfy you? You know Mrs. Timms is a woman of unimpeachable honesty.”

  “Mrs. Timms,” I persisted, “did you actually count the strokes?”

  “Certainly not. Why should I? The clock always strikes twelve; therefore, it must have struck that number last night.”

  “I regret to say, you’ve just disqualified yourself as a witness in this case,” I said, helping myself to the last spoonful of eggs on the platter. “I must search farther afield for proof.”

  “What are you talking about, anyhow?” Mrs. Timms protested. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  As we finished breakfast, I explained to Mrs. Timms how the disagreement with my father had arisen. Mrs. Timms displayed scant interest in the tale of the clock but asked many questions about the fire at the Franklin farm.

  “That reminds me,” my father interrupted before I had finished the story. “I want to phone Sheriff Daniels before I start for the office. Excuse me, please.”

  Pushing aside his chair, he went to the telephone in the hall. I trailed him, hovering over his shoulder. However, my father’s brief comments told me almost nothing.

  “What did you learn?” I asked as he hung up the receiver. “Was Sidney Dorner arrested last night?”

  “No, it turned out about as we expected. Dorner knew the sheriff was looking for him. Anyway, he never returned home.”

  Jamming on his hat, my father started for the front door. I pursued him to the garage, carrying on a running conversation.

  “This rather explodes my theory about Sidney not being guilty,” I said. “If he were innocent, one would expect him to face the sheriff and prove an alibi.”

  “Dorner can’t be far away,” my father said, climbing into his car. “The sheriff will nab him soon.”

  I held open the garage doors and watched as my father backed down the driveway, scraping the bark of a tree whose gnarled trunk already bore many scars. Before I could go back into the house, Florence Radcliff, a dark-haired, slightly plump girl, who is my most loyal friend, sauntered into the yard.

  Flo and I have been friends since we were crawling about in diapers eating unidentifiable substances off the floor—not that there were many unidentifiable substances on the floors during the administrations in power during our infancies. Mrs. Radcliff runs nearly as tight a ship, cleanliness-wise, as Mrs. Timms.

  “Hi!” Flo greeted me cheerily. “About ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I asked.

  Florence regarded me indignantly.

  “If that isn’t just like you, Jane Carter! You make promises and then forget them. Don’t you remember telling Mrs. Vanhee of the Woman’s Club that we would help sell tags today, for the Orphans’ Home summer camp?”

  Flo is constantly being conscripted into the service of some charitable cause or another. Flo’s father, the Reverend Sidney Radcliff, is a prominent member of the local clergy, and her mother, Mrs. Sidney Radcliff—I’ve never heard anyone address Flo’s mother by her first name—is an equally prominent fixture in practically every local charitable cause there is.

  Consequently, Mrs. Radcliff is continually in a state of trying to be in three places at once, and as it is not humanly possible to be in three locations simultaneously, even for someone with as forceful a personality as Flo’s mother, Mrs. Radcliff selects the most glamorous of her obligations and relegates the remainder to Flo. If there are any shut-ins to be administered soup or any deserving poor to be outfitted with cast-off clothing, th
ese tasks inevitably fall to Flo. I’ve known Florence to go so far as to stop in twice a month to clean an elderly parishioner’s glass eye.

  “Now that you remind me,” I told Flo, “I do have a vague recollection of loose talk regarding peddling tags for the Orphans’ Home summer camp. How many has your mother obliged us to sell?”

  “Twenty-five at not less than a quarter each. I have the tags, but we’ll have to work fast, or the others will take all the easy customers.”

  “I’ll be with you in two shakes,” I promised, heading for the house. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Timms where I am going.”

  I returned a moment later with the keys to Bouncing Betsy.

  “Get in the car, Flo.”

  “If you can call this mess of junk by such a flattering name.”

  Flo kicked one of Bouncing Betsy’s patched tires with a derisive tip of her patent leather pump, risking damage to its flawless shine. Unlike me, Florence keeps her footwear in a condition that meets with even the approval of Mrs. Timms.

  “Don’t speak so disrespectfully of my dearest friend—excepting you, of course,” I chided, sliding into the high, uncomfortable seat. “Bouncing Betsy is a good car even if she is a bit creaky in the joints. She still takes us places.”

  “And leaves us stranded,” Florence added with a sniff. “Now that you’re rolling in kale, I don’t understand why you don’t splash out on a conveyance more befitting your elevated station. Oh, well, let’s go—if Old Betsy can manage it.”

  I stepped on the starter and waited expectantly. Bouncing Betsy’s motor sputtered and coughed, but true to form, would not start. Just as we were convinced that we would have to walk, there was an explosive backfire, and Old Bets began to quiver in every joint. Every time she shudders to life she pops a rivet or two.

  “You should sell this old junk heap to the government for a cannon,” Florence teased as we rattled down the street. “What do you burn in this smoke machine? Kerosene?”

  “Never mind the slurs. Where do we start our business operations?”