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

by Alice Simpson

  “Don’t you think we’re showing ourselves there too frequently?” Florence protested. “There’s such a thing as wearing out one’s welcome.”

  “Oh, we needn’t try to break into the house, but if we don’t go there, we’ll never learn any more about the mystery.”

  Florence and Abigail were not particularly eager to climb the hill, so we retraced our steps down the riverside trail until we reached Bouncing Betsy.

  Five minutes later we were parked in the circular gravel drive in front of Roseacres. When I switched off Betsy’s motor, I was startled to hear voices raised in anger. The sound came from the direction of the old wishing well.

  “Someone is having a fearful argument!” I said, clambering down from Betsy and hurrying off in the direction of the voices, Flo and Abigail close at my heels.

  We emerged into the clearing which contained the wishing well. Mrs. Covington and George Roth were sitting together on a garden bench. The widow was speaking in a high-pitched voice, reprimanding the caller for having misled her regarding the record stone found on her land.

  “Let’s not go any closer,” Florence murmured, holding back.

  “Not go closer?” I said. “This is why we came. I thought Mr. Roth might be here, and I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Your conduct has amazed and disappointed me,” Mrs. Covington was saying. “When I allowed you to remove the stone from my property, you promised that you would deliver it to the museum.”

  “I may have mentioned such a possibility, but I made no promise,” Mr. Roth replied. “You sold the rock to me. It is now mine to do with as I see fit.”

  “You deliberately tricked me. I am less concerned with the money than with the fact that you are trying to force the museum to pay for something which I meant them to have for free.”

  “Mrs. Covington, you sold the rock for two dollars. Unless I am very much mistaken, that money meant more to you than you would have the townspeople believe.”

  Mrs. Covington arose from the bench and glared at her visitor.

  “Mr. Roth, you insult me. Leave my property this minute and never set foot on Roseacres again.”

  I half expected Mrs. Covington to follow up this order with a threat to set the dogs on him if he had the audacity to return. Mrs. Covington had no dogs, of course, but she looked angry enough to acquire a ferocious pack of canines for the express purpose of dispatching Mr. Roth should he ever defile Roseacres again with his presence.

  “I’ll be very happy to depart,” Mr. Roth said with the infuriating calm that only the truly despicable can carry off in the face of being caught red-handed. “I came here only because you sent for me. However, if you were inclined to take a sensible viewpoint, I might make you a business proposition.”

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Roth?”

  “I refer to this house here. If you’re disposed to sell it, I might make you an offer.”

  Mrs. Covington had started toward the house, but at these words, she turned back and regarded Mr. Roth speculatively.

  “What is your offer?” she asked.

  “I’ll give you fifteen hundred for the house and grounds.”

  “Fifteen hundred? For a house which cost at least forty thousand to build over a hundred years ago? Aren’t you being outrageously reckless?”

  “Old houses are a drag on the market these days, Madam. You’ll find no other buyer in Greenville, I am quite sure. In fact, I wouldn’t make you such a generous offer except that I think this place might be fixed up as a tourist home.”

  “A tourist home!” Mrs. Covington was furious now. She went so far as to stomp her foot in frustration as she shouted, “You would make this beautiful mansion into a cheap hotel. Go away, and never, ever show your face here again!”

  “Very well, Madam. However, I warn you that my next offer for the property will not be a nearly so generous one.”

  “Generous! Your price would be robbery. You’re just like your father, who was one of the worst skinflints I ever knew.”

  Mr. Roth had nothing more to say. With a shrug, he turned and strode from the yard. Mrs. Covington gazed after him for a moment, then sank down on the stone bench and began to cry. When she turned her head and saw that she was not alone, she hastily dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  “Oh, Mrs. Covington, don’t feel badly,” I said. “We heard what he said to you. Mr. Roth should be ashamed of himself.”

  “That man doesn’t affect me one way or the other.”

  We stood around awkwardly for a moment before Abigail wandered to the wishing well and looked down into the water.

  “Do you know, I’m tempted to make another wish,” she said. “Would it be very selfish of me?”

  “Selfish?” Florence asked.

  “The last one came true. I shouldn’t expect too much.”

  “Do make your wish, Abigail,” I told her, “but don’t anticipate quick action. I’m still waiting for mine to come true.”

  Abigail drew a bucket of water from the well, filled the dipper which always hung on a nail of the wooden roof and drank deeply.

  “I wish,” she said, “I wish that Ted might find a job. If he could get work, maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to accept charity from Mr. Coaten or anyone else.”

  “Now you make one, Jane,” Florence urged to cover an awkward silence.

  “I can’t think of anything I want,” I said.

  “Well, I can,” Mrs. Covington announced unexpectedly. “In all my years of living at Roseacres I’ve never once made a wish at this old well, but now I shall.”

  Mrs. Covington grasped the bucket of water. With a grim face, she slammed the entire contents back into the well.

  “Just a little token, Oh Wishing Well,” she muttered. “My desire is a most worthy one. All I ask is that George Roth be given the comeuppance he deserves.”

  “We’ll all second that wish,” I said.

  “There,” Mrs. Covington concluded, looking exceedingly pleased with herself. “That makes me feel better. Now I’ll forget all about that man and go about my business.”

  “I think it was selfish of him to take the attitude he did about the stone,” I said, in an attempt to keep the topic alive, but Mrs. Covington seemed to have lost all interest in the subject. She started for the house. Midway up the flagstone path, she paused to say: “There is a patch of paperwhites blooming out by the back fence. Pick all you like and take some home if you care for them.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Covington,” Florence responded politely.

  After the door had closed behind the old lady, we lingered around the wishing well.

  “She means to be kind,” Florence said finally, drawing figures in the dirt with her shoe. “But isn’t it funny how she never invites us into the house?”

  “It’s downright mysterious,” I said. “You notice George Roth didn’t get inside, either.”

  “Why does she act that way?” Abigail asked.

  “Jane thinks she’s trying to keep folks from discovering something,” explained Florence. “The old lady is a trifle odd.”

  We told Abigail how we had observed Mrs. Covington removing the flagstones surrounding the base of the wishing well.

  “There’s been more digging,” I said, “See.”

  I pointed out a place where additional flagstones had been lifted and carelessly replaced.

  “Mrs. Covington must have been at work again,” Florence agreed. “What does she expect to find?”

  “Fishing worms, perhaps,” Abigail suggested with a smile. “Under the flagstones would be a good place.”

  “I doubt Mrs. Covington’s been fishing in her life,” said Flo. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s entirely right in her mind. It just isn’t normal to go around digging on your own property under cover of darkness.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Covington knows what she is about. Her mind is perfectly in order,” I said. “I’m certain she’s
looking for something which is she believes is hidden around this old well.”

  “But what can it be?” Florence said. “Nothing she does makes any sense to me.”

  “She’s one of the most interesting characters I’ve met in many a day,” I said. “I like her better all the time.”

  “How about those flowers?” Abigail suggested, changing the subject. “I’m sure Mrs. Sanderson would be pleased with a bouquet. She loves flowers but never has any of her own.”

  As we started toward the back of the property to pick paperwhites for Mrs. Sanderson, a battered automobile drew up in front of the house. A man who was dressed in a coat and trousers taken from two separate suits alighted and came briskly up the walk.

  “Who is he?” Florence whispered.

  “Never saw him before,” I said. “He looks like a tramp.”

  “Or an old clothes man,” said Abigail.

  The man doffed his battered derby and said, “Is this where Mrs. Covington lives?”

  “Yes, she is inside,” Florence replied.

  Bowing again, the man presented himself at the front door, hammering it loudly with the brass knocker.

  “Mrs. Covington will make short work of him,” I said. “She’s an expert at getting rid of unwelcome visitors.”

  Mrs. Covington opened the door almost instantly.

  “Mr. Butterworth?” she asked, without waiting for the man to speak.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come in,” invited Mrs. Covington, her voice impersonal.

  The caller stepped across the threshold, and the door swung shut.

  “Did you see that?” Florence whispered in awe.

  “I certainly did. That fellow—whoever he is—has accomplished something that even Greenville’s society ladies could not achieve. I was puzzled before, but now, let me tell you, I’m completely tied in a knot.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As I was leaving the grocer’s the following morning after picking up a few things for Mrs. Timms—she’d made it clear that I was to compensate for my decimation of the family larder by doing all her marketing for her until her wrath had cooled—I heard Abigail Whitely calling out my name.

  Abigail was breathless from running by the time she caught up with me.

  “Mrs. Carter, the most wonderful thing has happened,” she said.

  “Your Texas friends have left town?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that wonderful. They’re still here. This news is about my brother, Ted. He has a job.”

  “Why, that’s splendid. Exactly what you wished for yesterday afternoon at the well.”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange? This makes twice my wish has come true. How do you account for it?”

  “I suppose your brother could have obtained the job by chance,” I said. “That would be the logical explanation.”

  “But it all came about in such an unusual way. Judge Harlan saw Ted on the street and liked his appearance. So, he sent a note to the camp asking if he would work as a typist in his office.”

  “Ted is accepting?”

  “Oh, yes. The pay is splendid for that sort of work. Besides, it will give him a chance to study law, which is his life ambition. Oh, Mrs. Carter, you can’t know how happy I am about it.”

  After I’d reported to Mrs. Timms and turned over the flour, the raisins, the cooking oil and the package of macaroni, I went straight to the Radcliffs’ and reported my conversation with Abigail to Florence. We were pleased that Ted Whitely had obtained employment, but it did seem peculiar to both of us that the judge would go to such lengths to gain the services of a young man of questionable character.

  “Perhaps he wants to help him,” Florence speculated. “Ted is at the critical point of his life now. He could develop into a very fine person or just the opposite.”

  “It’s charity, of course. But who put the judge up to it?”

  “Mrs. Covington heard Abigail express her wish.”

  “Yes, she did,” I agreed, “but I don’t think she paid much attention. She was too angry at George Roth. Besides, Mrs. Covington doesn’t have a reputation for doing kind deeds.”

  “If you rule her out, there’s nothing left but the old wishing well,” Florence pointed out.

  “I might be tempted to believe it has unusual powers if ever it would do anything for me,” I grumbled. “Not a single one of my wishes has been granted.”

  “A mystery does seem to be developing at Roseacres.”

  “True, but I’ve not learned anything new since I made my wish. Mrs. Covington is still laying back her ears and refusing to cooperate with the Pilgrimage Committee.”

  The Festival Week program which so interested me had been set for the twenty-sixth of May and the days immediately following. Gardens were expected to be at their height at that time, and the owners of seven large but ordinary old houses had agreed to open their doors to the public. Both Flo and I had been conscripted by Mrs. Radcliff to sell tickets for the tour of homes, but sales resistance was becoming increasingly difficult to overcome.

  “The affair may be a big flop,” I told Flo. “No one wants to pay a whole fifty cents to see a house which is just like one’s own, only bigger. Now, Roseacres would draw customers.”

  “The women of Greenville are simply consumed with curiosity to get inside Roseacres,” Flo agreed, “but I don’t foresee Mrs. Covington changing her mind.”

  “Neither do I.

  Two days elapsed during which nothing interesting happened. Abigail told me that Ted was well established in his new job and that Mr. Coaten seemed displeased about it. My father reported that George Roth was making progress in his efforts to sell the stone found at Roseacres to the Greenville Historical Museum, although no money had yet exchanged hands. Other than that, there were no new developments.

  “Florence, let’s visit Truman Kip again,” I proposed after the Palette Club meeting on Saturday afternoon.

  “What good would it do?” Florence demurred. “You know very well he doesn’t like to have us around.”

  “He acted suspicious of us, which made me suspicious of him. I’ve been thinking, Flo—if the writing on those two stones were faked, it must have been done with a chisel—one which would leave a characteristic mark. Every tool is slightly different, you know.”

  “All of which leads you to conclude—?”

  “That if Truman Kip did the faking, he would have a tool in his workshop that would make grooves like those on the stones. An expert might be able to compare them and tell.”

  “Do we consider ourselves experts?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But if I could get my hands on the tool, I could turn it over to someone who knows about such things.”

  “So, you propose to go out to the Mr. Kip’s workshop today and steal a chisel from him?”

  “Certainly not, I’ll buy it from him. Perhaps I can convince him I want to chisel a tombstone for myself or something of the sort.”

  “I used to think you were just plain crazy, Jane Carter,” Florence declared sadly. “Lately you’ve reached the stage where adjectives are too weak to describe you.”

  A half hour later we had arrived at the Kip ramshackle headquarters. The door of the workshop stood open, but when we looked inside, there was no sign of the old stonecutter. Several tools lay on a bench where Kip had been working, and I stepped inside to examine them.

  “Here is a chisel. It seems to be the only one around, too. Just what I need!”

  “Jane, you wouldn’t dare take it! As a daughter of a member of the clergy, I forbid you!”

  “Oh, do you, now? You forbid me?” I said, playfully pocketing the chisel and laying the princely sum of five dollars on the workshop in its place. “I’m impounding it in my official capacity as a detective—yes. I’ll leave more than enough money to pay for it. Then after I’ve had it examined by an expert, I’ll return it to Mr. Kip.”

  I was only pulling Flo’s leg. I did truly
intend to convince Mr. Kip to sell it to me, but until he arrived, I intended to wind Old Flo up a bit more.

  “Oh Mystery, what crimes are committed in thy name,” Florence said. “If you land in jail, my dear Jane, don’t expect me to share your cell cot.”

  I was about to remove the chisel from my pocket and reclaim my five-dollar bill when a shadow darkened the doorway.

  It was Truman Kip. He was spifflicated in the extreme. One look at his face told me that the old stonecutter was not one of those jovial, friendly drunks who gets outside of a few and thinks every man, woman, child and dog he encounters is his best and dearest friend.

  Mr. Kip stood in the doorway of the workshop and stared at us for several seconds before he picked up a shovel which leaned against the wall next to the open door.

  “You’s burglars,” he slurred, raising the shovel over his head.

  I waited no longer.

  “Run!” I hissed to Flo and dragged her to the only escape, the front door of the ramshackle building which opened onto a small stoop overlooking the river.

  As we emerged, I was surprised to see dark storm clouds scudding overhead. The sun had been completely blotted out, and occasional flashes of lightning brightened a gray sky.

  I took Flo by the hand, and we ran until we were halfway up the hill to Roseacres before I let Florence stop to take a breather. We stood in silence, listening for sounds of pursuit, but I heard nothing but distant thunder. Evidently, Mr. Kip had decided against pursuing us in his sozzled state.

  “It’s going to rain before we can get to Greenville,” Florence said uneasily, looking at the clouds. “We’ll be drenched.”

  “Why not go by way of Mrs. Covington’s place? Then, if the rain does overtake us, we can dodge into the summer house until the shower passes over.”

  As I looked down on the stonecutter’s riverside workshop through an opening in the undergrowth, I observed that the river level was higher than when last I had seen it. Muddy water lapped almost at the doorstep of Truman Kip’s workshop. A rowboat tied to a half-submerged dock nearby swung restlessly on its long rope.

  “I should be afraid to live so close to the river,” Florence said. “If the water comes only a few feet higher, Kip’s place will sail south.”