“After the other night, I’ve had enough of that place,” Florence said as we talked over the matter on the telephone later that afternoon. “Mrs. Covington was very rude to us.”
“Even so, we should tell her what George Roth has done,” I insisted. “Let’s go there now.”
“I can’t. I have to finish the Pilgrimage posters I abandoned the other day.”
“I’ll come help you,” I offered. “It will make the work go faster.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Flo said stiffly.
“You think I’ll ruin them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then let’s go to Roseacres immediately after dinner,” I persisted. “I’ll pick you up at your house.”
As it turned out, various duties kept us both so busy that it was dusk before we were on the road to Roseacres. Florence protested that it was much too late to call on the widow.
“Mrs. Covington surely won’t be in bed before eight o’clock,” I told Flo. “If the house is dark, we can drive away without disturbing her.”
When we pulled into the drive at Roseacres, there were no lights in the windows.
“We may as well turn back,” Florence said, transparently relieved.
I slowed Bouncing Betsy to a crawl as my eyes roamed the unkempt grounds. I wasn’t giving up so easily.
“Flo, look! There it is again. The light.”
“Where?” Florence demanded. “I don’t see it.”
As I spoke, Bouncing Betsy rolled past a tall clump of azalea bushes bordering the property. Through the branches, the light appeared to be standing still.
“It’s a lantern covered with a cloth to prevent a bright glow,” Flo said.
“And it’s close to the wishing well. There’s something very odd going on. Let’s drive past the house and park up the road. Then we’ll steal back on foot and see what we can see.”
Chapter Ten
Surprisingly, Florence offered no objection to my proposal. I drove Bouncing Betsy on down the road for a considerable distance and parked her just off the pavement. We set off on foot back to the estate. A high hedge bounded the front side of Roseacres, but we were able to peek through the scanty foliage into the yard.
“It will be just our luck if the light has disappeared,” I muttered. “I don’t see it anywhere.”
“I see it again. Look over there by the wishing well.”
Next to the wishing well was the faint glow of a covered lantern which had been deposited on the paving stones. A shadowy figure was bending over, examining some object on the ground.
“Can you tell who it is?” I whispered to Flo.
“Not from here. Dare we move closer?”
“Let’s risk it,” I said, and led the way through the open gateway.
We kept tall bushes between ourselves and the wishing well as we quietly stole closer. Someone in dark clothing was kneeling on the ground, face turned away from us. The person was trying unsuccessfully to lift one of the flagstones which formed a circular base around the covered well, then the figure straightened, and lifted the lantern from the ground.
“Is that Mrs. Covington?” I whispered to Florence.
“It looks like her. But what can she be doing at the well?”
We remained motionless, watching. Mrs. Covington bent again and finally succeeded in raising one of the flagstones.
“She’s searching for something underneath,” I whispered. “Probably, she works after dark, so she won’t be observed.”
It was obvious to me that the moving light at Roseacres which had attracted our attention the previous night had, undoubtedly, been Mrs. Covington’s own lantern.
Although I now could understand the old lady’s irritation at our intrusion, her actions still mystified me. As we continued to watch, Mrs. Covington laboriously pried up one stone after another.
“We might offer to help her,” Florence proposed half-seriously.
“If we show ourselves now she’ll order us to leave immediately and never to return. I want to find out what this is all about.”
For the next ten minutes, we huddled behind the friendly bush. Finally, Mrs. Covington gathered her tools and went back into the house.
“Obviously, she didn’t find what she was after,” I said. “What do you suppose it can be?”
“Buried treasure, perhaps?”
“Maybe someone hid the family silver?”
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Covington lived at Roseacres all her early years. If there had been anything valuable buried, wouldn’t she have done her searching long ago?”
“If that’s a question, I can’t answer it.” Florence sighed. “What’s our next move? Home?”
“I should say not! Let’s inspect the wishing well.”
I started forward, taking pains to avoid a patch of light which came from the lower windows of the Covington house. Even in the semi-darkness, I could see that many of the flagstones around the well had been removed and then fitted back into place again.
“Just for luck I shall make a wish,” I said to Flo as I lowered the bucket into the pit.
“What will it be this time?”
I drank deeply of the cool water and tossed a penny from my pocket into the well.
“I wish that Roseacres would give us a whopping big mystery,” I said. “Why did Mrs. Covington return to Greenville after being away so many years?”
“This is her ancestral home.”
“True, but didn’t she say whether or not she remains here depends upon certain conditions? Flo, she must have had a compelling reason for returning to Roseacres, and it may have something to do with this old wishing well. We ought to find out what it is.”
“Why ought we? Is it really any of our business?”
“Flo! At times, you’re the most exasperating person. Here we are face to face with something baffling, and you wonder why we should interest ourselves in it?”
“I like a good mystery as well as you, but you know Mrs. Covington won’t care to have us interfere in her private affairs.”
“Probably not,” I conceded. “Oh, well, we can forget all about it if that’s the way you feel.”
“How could we learn anything without provoking Mrs. Covington?”
“I know of no way,” I admitted. “In fact, she’ll probably be irritated when I rap on her door again.”
Florence followed me reluctantly down the path toward the house.
“Ought we bother Mrs. Covington now? She may think we have been spying on her.”
“Which is exactly what we have been doing,” I said. “But I’m not about to admit to it.”
I ignored Flo’s continued pleas to turn back as I boldly clomped across the veranda and knocked on the door. We did not have long to wait. Mrs. Covington appeared, looking decidedly flustered and nervous.
“Who is it?” she asked sharply, and then recognized us. “Oh, I see.”
“Mrs. Covington, do excuse us,” I said. “I’ve learned something which I feel sure you’ll wish to hear.”
“You’ve seen another light in the yard, perhaps?” the old lady inquired, her voice slightly mocking. “There has been no one in my yard either last night or this evening. I appreciate your interest in my welfare, but I can only repeat that I am quite capable of looking after myself.”
“We came to tell you about that big rock which we discovered on the hillside,” I said. “Do you care to hear what George Roth did with it?”
Mrs. Covington hesitated, and then came outside, carefully closing the door behind her.
“It’s quite chilly out tonight,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better to step inside.”
“I don’t mind a little fresh air,” said Mrs. Covington. “Good for the lungs. Now, what is it that you wish to tell me?”
I explained how George Roth had kept the big rock as his own property and was endeavoring to sell it to the highest bidder.
“But he told me he would give the stone to the museum,” M
rs. Covington exclaimed indignantly. “Will you see Mr. Roth tomorrow?”
“I can.”
“If you do, ask Mr. Roth to come here and see me at his earliest convenience.”
As if the matter were completely settled, Mrs. Covington started back into the house. She did not invite us to accompany her. However, possibly sensing that we were puzzled by her lack of hospitality she said apologetically:
“I would invite you in, only the house isn’t fixed up yet. After everything is cleaned and straightened, you both must come to tea.”
Without giving me an opportunity to say that we shouldn’t mind a disorderly house and a cup of tea on such a chilly evening would be very welcome, she gently closed the door in our faces.
“Well, at least Mrs. Covington didn’t slam it in our faces this time,” I said. “We’re making progress.”
“Progress toward what?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said as we started back down the drive toward the main road and Bouncing Betsy. “All the same, I have a feeling that we’re on our way.”
Chapter Eleven
“Morning, Dad,” I said as I slid into a vacant chair at the breakfast table. “What’s news and why?”
“No news.” My father lowered his paper, folded it neatly by his plate and devoted himself to Mrs. Timms’ turmeric-flavored omelet.
“Just fourteen pages of well-set type, I suppose,” I persisted. “Isn’t there anything about that big stone Flo and I found at Roseacres?”
“Not a solitary line. I told you the Examiner would play that yarn down.”
“Why are you so convinced it’s all a hoax?” I asked, reaching across the table for the coffee percolator.
“Must I give you a diagram? After you’ve been in the newspaper business for as long as I have, you don’t need reasons. You sense things.”
“Just like a bloodhound. How about the other papers? Aren’t they carrying the story, either?”
“They are carrying it,” Dad admitted a bit grimly. “The Post used a half page of pictures today and went for the story in a big way.”
“I may be forced to subscribe to a rival paper just to keep abreast of the latest developments,” I teased.
“Nothing really new has come out. George Roth is trying to sell the stone to the museum at a fancy price. The head curator, Mr. Klein, is strongly in favor of the acquisition, but dissension has arisen among the members of the board concerning the financial outlay.”
“So they must believe the stone is authentic?”
“Experts have been known to be wrong,” my father insisted. “I claim no knowledge of stone carving nor do I claim to be an expert on local history, but I do have common sense. For the time being, at least, I shall continue to play down the story.”
I finished breakfast, and before retreating upstairs to put in some hard labor on Lady Ramfurtherington’s Revenge, I telephoned George Roth. I relayed Mrs. Covington’s message, requesting him to visit the old lady as soon as it was convenient. Somewhat to my surprise, he promised that he would call at Roseacres that afternoon.
All day, while I was supposed to be extricating the genteel Lady Ramfurtherington from her apparent fate—days of mind-numbing drudgery behind the ladies’ hat and glove counter at one of our nation’s better department stores while she attempted to recover her inheritance from the dastardly duke who had stolen her heart and promised her his hand in marriage only to run away with her parlor maid and her fortune—I couldn’t stop thinking about Wild Bill’s memorial stones and my father’s theory that they were fakes. It occurred to me that Truman Kip’s opinion might be interesting, for the old man had worked with rocks his entire life.
Late in the afternoon, I telephoned Flo.
“Let’s hike out to Truman Kip’s shack and see if he can tell us anything about the stone we found.”
“All right, but why not invite Abigail, too? She might enjoy accompanying us. I just came home from the library, and she was there pretending to study and looking very troubled about something. If we go right now, we might be able to catch her.”
We found Abigail still at the library exactly as Flo had left her. She immediately accepted our invitation.
As we trudged along the dusty trail en route to the river shack, Abigail spoke of Mr. Coaten and his friend.
“They’ve taken rooms at the Greenville Grand Hotel,” she told us. “Perhaps I am too suspicious, but I don’t trust them. Mr. Coaten never would seem like a father to me.”
“Is he married?” Florence asked.
“His wife remained in Dallas. The Coatens have two children of their own. I can’t understand why they should be so eager to adopt two more nearly grown ones—penniless at that.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. Ted and I are deadlocked. He favors the adoption, but I am against it.”
“I think you are wise to be cautious—and my advice is to stand firm,” I told Abigail. “The Sandersons were kind enough to take you in when you had no other place to go. They have no motive other than fondness for you, so why not stay on with them?”
“That’s the trouble,” Abigail confessed. “They haven’t much money, you know, and Mr. Coaten has offered to give them a hundred dollars if they make no objection to the adoption.”
“Buying them off?”
“In a way, yes. But why should Mr. Coaten be so interested in adopting Ted and me? We’ll certainly be a financial liability.”
The problem was perplexing. Considering everything Abigail had told us, it appeared that Mr. Coaten must be motivated entirely by generosity toward the orphaned children of an old friend. Yet it seemed that if he really was an old family friend he would have interested himself in the fate of Ted and Abigail at the time of Mr. Whitely’s death, not several years after the fact.
We continued on the trail along the river until we came to Truman Kip’s shack. It was a long, one-story frame building which served as both a dwelling and a workshop. The door stood ajar, and the stonecutter was inside grinding a granite block.
“Good afternoon!” I shouted to make myself heard.
The stonecutter jumped and switched off the motor of his grinder.
“You scared me out of a year’s growth,” he grinned. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“Not much of anything,” I said as I glanced around the cluttered workshop. “We were just out for a walk and thought we would stop in for a few minutes.”
A large rock covered with wet sacking stood at the other end of the workshop. I crossed the room to examine it. The damp covering was sprinkled with iron filings.
“What is this for?” I asked Mr. Kip.
“Oh, I’m removing discoloration from a stone. Don’t touch the sacking. Leave it alone.”
“What will you do with the rock after you finish working on it?” Florence asked, crossing the room to stand beside me.
“I’ll sell it,” Mr. Kip said, suddenly less friendly. “I have work to do, and I’m waiting to get at it.”
“Oh, we didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I apologized. “The truth is, we came here to ask you about that stone you hauled for George Roth. Do you think the writing on it is genuine?”
“Sure, it is. Anyone who knows anything about stones could tell it had been lying in the ground for years, and everyone knows that Wild Bill Hickok killed a man in these parts.”
“The aging couldn’t have been faked?”
“What are you trying to get at?”
“My father, who publishes the Examiner, believes that someone may be perpetrating a hoax.”
“A what?” Kip asked, puzzled by the word.
“A joke. He thinks that some clever person may have faked the writing on the two stones.”
“Well, I didn’t have nothing to do with it,” Mr. Kip insisted. “I hauled the rock for George Roth, and that’s all. Now go away and don’t pester me.”
“We’re the same as absent right now,” I said as I backed slowly out the do
or. “Thank you for your splendid cooperation.”
We retreated a safe distance from the shack before pausing to discuss the stonecutter’s rude reception of us.
“He acted as if we were suspicious of him,” Florence said.
“We were suspicious of him. A person needn’t know words like ‘hoax’ to deduce that much.”
“Such a simple fellow, though,” Flo said. “I don’t think he’d be capable of planning a deception like that.”
“It didn’t immediately enter my head that Kip could have any connection with the hoax, assuming that the writing isn’t genuine,” I said. “But why wouldn’t he be a logical person to play such a trick?”
“He may have heard stories about Wild Bill, but he’d never come up with a scheme like that. Besides, what would he possibly stand to gain from it? He’s not the one trying to foist off those rocks on the Historical Society.”
“All true,” I conceded, “but couldn’t someone—George Roth, for instance—have employed him to do it? If he were told to carve a rock in such and such a manner, I’m sure he could carry out instructions perfectly. You may think him very simple, but he knows more about such work than anyone in this community.”
“Oh, Jane, you’re quite hopeless.” Florence laughed. “Just let anyone rebuff you, and immediately you try to pin a crime on him.”
“I’m not accusing Truman Kip of anything—at least not yet. All the same, those two stones were found quite close to his workshop. The Pitts farm isn’t more than three-quarters of a mile away.”
“But why should Mr. Kip be interested in playing such a joke?” Abigail asked. “Or for that matter, any other person?”
“I can’t figure it out,” I acknowledged. “If the stones are fakes, one would judge them to be the creation of a rather brilliant practical joker.”
“Are you sure you didn’t do it yourself?” Florence teased. “After all, you were the one who found the second stone, so that throws suspicion on you.”
I allowed the subject to die. I suggested that we return to Greenville by way of Roseacres.
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 78
