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

by Alice Simpson

  Mrs. Covington no longer seemed ashamed of the barren condition of the old mansion as she led us through the great empty rooms. By daylight, notwithstanding the stained condition of the walls, the house seemed more elegant than ever. There was a large fan-shaped window of stained glass which I had not noticed before, and dozens of candle holders attached to the walls.

  “How gorgeous this place would look if all the candles could be lighted at one time,” I said.

  “And if the house had a little furniture in it,” added Mrs. Covington. “You know, a few days ago I did a very foolish thing. I was a bit hard pressed for money. On an impulse, I sold all my furniture to Mr. Butterworth. Do you suppose he will sell it back to me?”

  “I should think he would certainly consider it,” I said.

  “I like Greenville, for I was born here,” Mrs. Covington went on, talking as if to herself. “By selling the pearls, I can refurnish the house, have the grounds restored to their original beauty, and live as I formerly did.”

  “Oh, I do hope you decide to stay here,” Florence said.

  Mrs. Covington started a fire in the kitchen stove and put a kettle of water on to boil. Soon the tea was ready, and she served it with generous slices of yellow sponge cake.

  “I suppose everyone in Greenville considers me a crotchety old woman,” Mrs. Covington said as we sipped our tea. “I haven’t been very friendly because I didn’t want folks to know I had sold my furniture. Some days ago, a group of women came to see me about opening the house for some sort of festival tour—”

  “Pilgrimage Week,” I supplied.

  “I turned them down, not because I wasn’t eager to help, but because I couldn’t let folks know all my furniture was gone. I wonder if they would still care to include Roseacres in the tour of houses?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Covington, it would practically save the Festival! A cheap Wild West Show is coming to town the same week. I know for a fact that the Festival tickets aren’t selling very well.”

  “Everyone wants to see Roseacres,” Florence told her.

  “If I can buy back my furniture, I’ll be glad to open the house to the public,” Mrs. Covington said, her eyes twinkling as she looked at me. “That was the wish you made at the well, I believe?”

  “That it was, and you can make it come true.”

  “It’s little enough to do in return for the favor you have bestowed upon me.”

  “Nothing will please me more than to see this old house in all its glory. May we light all the candles at one time?”

  “If you like.”

  “And wouldn’t it be fun to hold a grand ball here with everyone dressed in colonial costume,” I went on. “Can’t you just see the place with beaux and their ladies dancing a quadrille?”

  “I’ll talk to the members of the Festival Committee tomorrow,” Mrs. Covington promised. “My first call, however, will be upon Mr. Butterworth.”

  Long shadows were falling, and we soon arose to depart. During the walk into Greenville, Abigail became rather sober, and I surmised that she had forgotten about the excitement of discovering the Covington pearls and was consumed with thoughts of her dreaded interview with Mr. Coaten.

  “You’re really afraid to meet that man, aren’t you?” I said to Abigail.

  “Not exactly afraid,” Abigail responded. “He’ll be waiting, though, I’m sure. I just don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Will it be easier for you if I go with you to the camp?”

  “Oh, I wish you would, Mrs. Carter.”

  Florence soon parted with us, and Abigail and I went on to the tourist camp. Mrs. Sanderson immediately informed us that Mr. Coaten had called earlier in the afternoon and was expected to return.

  “I hope you didn’t make trouble about signing the papers,” she said severely. “He acted quite upset.”

  “I broke our appointment,” Abigail said. “So far I’ve not made up my mind what to do.”

  There followed a lengthy argument in which Mrs. Sanderson assured the girl that she was making a serious mistake by antagonizing such a kind, generous man as Mr. Coaten. I took no part in the conversation, although I had to clamp my tongue between my teeth to keep myself from interfering.

  “You’ll have to stay to dinner now,” Abigail whispered to me. “Mr. Coaten is certain to come, and I can’t stand against them all at once.”

  I had no desire to remain for a meal, but leaving Abigail to face the onslaught alone was out of the question. Ted soon came home from working at Judge Harlan’s office, and he too expressed displeasure because his sister had broken the appointment with Mr. Coaten.

  During dinner, the subject was studiously avoided. To my consternation, Abigail began to tell the Sandersons about everything that had occurred at Roseacres. I had not thought to warn Abigail to keep the discovery to herself. I had assumed she would know to exercise discretion in protecting Mrs. Covington’s privacy.

  At the mention of the pearl necklace, Ted’s fork clattered against his plate.

  “You actually found a string of pearls? Real ones?”

  “They must be worth a small fortune,” Abigail assured him. “Mrs. Covington intends to sell them and use the money to refurbish Roseacres.”

  Ted was about to ask another question, then seemed to reconsider.

  “More stew?” Mrs. Sanderson asked as an awkward silence fell.

  “No thanks, Mom,” he answered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll skip out. I have a date uptown with a fella.”

  Mrs. Sanderson made no reply, and the boy left the cottage. Not long after Ted’s departure, someone tapped lightly on the door. Mr. Sanderson thrust his head out the open window.

  “It’s Mr. Coaten,” he announced in a hoarse whisper. “What are you going to tell him, Abigail?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, gazing helplessly at me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mrs. Sanderson hastily removed her apron and opened the door to admit the caller.

  “Good evening,” said Mr. Coaten. His gaze roved from one person to another in the crowded little room, coming to rest upon Abigail. He seemed not to notice me as being out of place at all.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our appointment this afternoon,” Abigail said stiffly. “The truth is, I’ve changed my mind about signing that paper.”

  “I’ve tried to talk sense into her,” Mrs. Sanderson broke in. “I don’t know what’s come over the girl lately.”

  Mr. Coaten seated himself on the daybed, smiling at Abigail in what I’m sure he imagined was a friendly way. I found the man greasy, but Ted and the Sandersons didn’t appear to share my opinion.

  “I understand how you feel,” Mr. Coaten said. “You are afraid you don’t know me well enough to agree to the adoption.”

  “I never heard of you until you came to Greenville,” said Abigail.

  “Abigail, that’s no way to talk!” Mrs. Sanderson reprimanded her. “What would we have done without Mr. Coaten? He’s given us money, bought groceries, and made everything so much easier.”

  “I appreciate everything. It’s just that—well, I don’t care to be adopted,” Abigail said. “I like things as they are.”

  Mrs. Sanderson’s kindly face tightened into hard lines.

  “Abigail,” she said firmly, “this is an opportunity for you, and you ought to be smart enough to realize it. Mr. Coaten will give you good clothes and schooling. Pop and I can’t do that.”

  “You’ve given me too much already,” Abigail said, her gaze falling to the floor.

  “I’ve been patient with you, but now I’m going to have my say. We can’t keep you anymore.”

  “You’re telling me to go?” Abigail looked as hurt as if Mrs. Sanderson had slapped her across the face.

  “I’m asking you to sign whatever it is that Mr. Coaten wants you to.”

  Abigail looked over at me helplessly, her lips trembling. She was about to cry, and I did not blame her. There seemed but one course open to her, for s
he had no money and no relatives to take her in, should the Sandersons throw her out. Seeming fully aware of Abigail’s predicament, Mr. Coaten smiled triumphantly. He whipped out a fountain pen and a folded, neatly-typed paper.

  “Abigail, don’t sign unless you really wish to,” I said.

  “But I’ll have no home—”

  “You may stay with me, at least until I find a place for you. You are not entirely without friends.” I turned a steely eye on Mr. Coaten. “May I ask why you are so eager to obtain a guardianship over Ted and Abigail? What do you expect to gain by it? And why must the decision be made in such haste? Could it be that you are concerned that it may be discovered that you have some very selfish motivation for what you are passing off as an entirely selfless act?”

  “My dear lady—” Mr. Coaten’s voice was soft, but his eyes glinted angrily. “I expect to gain nothing.”

  “I gathered a different impression when I overheard you and your friend talking a few nights ago at Roseacres.”

  “Roseacres?” At first, Mr. Coaten did not appear to understand, then, as my meaning dawned upon him, he arose from the couch.

  “I have no wish to discuss this matter with you—a stranger. For some unknown reason, you are prejudiced against me and have deliberately influenced Abigail to go against the Sandersons’ desires.”

  “It’s a question for our own family to settle,” Mrs. Sanderson added.

  “I’ll be going, then,” I said. “Abigail, would you like to take your things with you now, or send for them later?”

  “Do you really think you could take me in at your place?”

  “Of course. I never extend an insincere invitation.”

  “Then I’ll come with you, Mrs. Carter.” Abigail stood to her feet, removed a battered suitcase from beneath one of the daybeds, and began to toss garments into it.

  “Abigail, you can’t go like this, Mrs. Sanderson protested. “Why won’t you listen to reason?”

  “Let her go.” Mr. Coaten had lost all semblance of softness. “She’ll come crawling back in a day or two, glad to accept my offer.”

  As we all watched in silence, Abigail swiftly packed her suitcase and told me that she was ready to leave.

  “Mrs. Sanderson,” she said, squeezing the woman’s hand in parting, “you and Pop have been wonderful to Ted and me. I’ll never forget it—never. Someday I’ll repay you, too.”

  “This is the way you do it,” Mrs. Sanderson retorted bitterly. “By defying my wishes.”

  There was nothing more to be said, so Abigail and I left the cottage, carrying the suitcase between us.

  “I shouldn’t have done it like that,” Abigail said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever manage to make a living and finish high school at the same time. Ted likely will side against me, too.”

  “Don’t think of anything tonight,” I advised, although I, too, was worried. “We’ll find something for you. Dad may have an opening on the Examiner—”

  I was about to say ‘typing pool’ when I remembered that Abigail could not type. If worst came to worst, I supposed she could join the crew of scrubwomen who cleaned the Examiner offices every night after the staff had gone home for the evening, although I couldn’t imagine how she’d manage that and keep up with her studies.

  Mrs. Timms had long ago ceased to be surprised by almost anything that I did, so when I arrived home with a strange girl in tow, she did not ask many questions. Abigail was comfortably established in the guest room and made to feel that she was welcome. However, when I explained the situation to Mrs. Timms, she was not at all certain that I had done right by helping the girl to leave home, nor was my father encouraging about the prospects of finding employment for Abigail.

  “Can she type or take shorthand?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I admitted.

  “The Examiner can’t be made a catch-all for your unemployed friends. My advice is to send her back to the Sandersons.”

  “I can’t do that, Dad. You don’t understand.”

  “Well, let it ride for a few days. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I tried to conceal from Abigail that her presence in the household had created tension. In the morning, Abigail went off to school, returned for lunch, and then attended the afternoon session. By the time she arrived home in the evening, she’d become increasingly gloomy.

  “Mrs. Carter, this can’t go on indefinitely,” she protested. “I’ll have to get a job somehow, even if I have to drop out of school to do it.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Ted hasn’t come to see me either,” Abigail went on. “I—I’m beginning to think I should go back and sign that paper.”

  “Don’t even consider it,” I said firmly. “You need a diversion to keep your mind off the problem. Let’s take a drive out to Roseacres and see if Mrs. Covington has succeeded in buying her furniture back.”

  When we arrived at Roseacres several windows on the lower floor of the house had been opened to admit fresh air, and the blinds no longer were drawn. For the first time since Mrs. Covington’s return, the old mansion had a “lived in” appearance. However, although I knocked many times, the mistress of Roseacres did not come to the door.

  “She can’t be here,” Abigail said at last.

  “The windows are all wide open,” I pointed out. “I doubt that Mrs. Covington would go very far away without closing them.”

  We wandered out to the wishing well, and then made a complete tour of the grounds. Mrs. Covington was nowhere in the yard.

  “Shall we go?” Abigail asked.

  “I’ll knock on the door just once more,” I said. “I can’t help feeling that she is here.”

  Circling the house to the side entrance, we again knocked and waited.

  “Listen!” I said.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I thought someone called out or groaned—the sound came from inside the house.”

  “You must have imagined it.”

  “Maybe I did,” I acknowledged, “but I don’t think so.”

  Testing the door, I found it locked

  I called out: “Mrs. Covington, are you at home?”

  An answer came back, but the words were unintelligible. The sound had come from the direction of the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m a reformed burglar,” I said to Abigail, “but sometimes drastic times call for drastic measures. Do you have a hairpin?”

  I took the hairpin from Abigail, bent it into a hook and inserted it into the keyhole of the old-fashioned lock. I was far from confident in my abilities as a lock picker, but it had been a romantic ambition of mine, the summer I turned fourteen, to become a lady jewel thief. I’d fancied becoming a female Robin Hood who stole from wealthy fugitives of justice to give to the deserving and downtrodden poor. I’d spent that entire summer experimenting with various household objects as improvised burglar’s tools. Hairpins had not been my favorite implements, but this time a hairpin would have to do.

  The bolt turned on my eighth try. I pushed the door open and ran to the kitchen with Abigail trailing close behind. Mrs. Covington, still garbed in night clothing, lay on the daybed, her face ashen. Her breathing was labored.

  “My heart—” Mrs. Covington whispered. “An attack—last night.”

  “Abigail, run as fast as you can and get Doctor Hamilton,” I said. “I’ll stay here.”

  As soon as Abigail had departed, I busied myself trying to make Mrs. Covington comfortable. I rearranged the disordered blankets and fanned air toward the woman, making it easier for her to breathe.

  “My pearls,” Mrs. Covington whispered. “They’re gone.”

  At first I did not take her words seriously, thinking that the old woman was not entirely rational.

  “You have the necklace,” I said. “Don’t you remember? We found it yesterday, hidden in the roof of the old wishing well.”

  “Gone—” Mrs. Covington repeated. “It gave me such a shock�
�I had hidden the pearls in the teapot. This morning—”

  I bent closer, a sudden chill going right through my body. Mrs. Covington was in full possession of her faculties.

  “I went this morning to look at them,” Mrs. Covington completed with difficulty. “But the pearls were gone. They’ve been stolen. Now I have nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I tried to quiet the old lady by assuring her that the pearl necklace must be somewhere in the house, although I really did not believe it. Mrs. Covington was far from dotty and hiding a valuable pearl necklace in a teapot and then moving it to another location without remembering when or where would indicate the height of dottiness.

  “No—no, it is gone,” Mrs. Covington insisted. “A thief entered the house during the night. The shock of it brought on this attack.”

  Spent by the effort required to speak, Mrs. Covington closed her eyes and relaxed. Thinking that she had gone to sleep, I left the bedside for a moment. A quick look around revealed that the kitchen window was open, and, far more alarming, the screen had been neatly cut from its frame. An empty china teapot stood on the kitchen table.

  It was true. The pearls had been stolen, and the shock of it had nearly killed Mrs. Covington. But who could have known that she had the necklace in the house? Florence and Abigail were beyond suspicion, and for a moment I could think of no others who had knowledge of the pearls. Then, with a start, it came to me that the story had been told the previous night at the Sandersons. Ted had known about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe he would do such a contemptible thing—even if he had more than once stolen a chicken to put in the Sandersons’ pot.

  My unhappy reflections were broken by the arrival of Abigail with Doctor Hamilton. For the next half hour, we were kept more than busy carrying out the doctor’s instructions.

  “Mrs. Covington, in a way you have been very fortunate,” the doctor said as he finally prepared to leave the house. “Your attack has been a light one, and with proper care, you should be on your feet again within a week or two. I’ll arrange to have you taken to the hospital at once.”