The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “My, you really have been suspicious of my actions!”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “Maybe not. But am I entitled to no secrets at all?”

  “You owe me no explanations whatsoever . . . unless you want me to trust you.”

  “All right then,” said Ashley. “Yes, I have been about at night a couple of times. On that particular night you saw me, I wanted to have a closer inspection of the bridge where Lady Allison had her fall. I have also been snooping around the place in search of both the missing locket and the missing pages of Lady Joanna’s journal, but without success.”

  “Do you suspect—well, that the fall was not an accident?”

  “I haven’t known what to think. Logan told me to leave no stone unturned. And you know what Sherlock Holmes wisely instructed—’Once you have eliminated the impossible, what you have left, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

  “You go in for that sort of cloak-and-dagger thing?”

  “Another secret we unfortunately have no time for.”

  “I’m afraid something we must take time for,” said Hilary, “is Allison’s well-being. I’m worried about her.”

  “So have we all been.”

  “I don’t mean from her illness.” Hilary paused, running the brief conversation with Jo in the gallery back through her mind. At length she spoke again. “Ashley, how well do you know Allison? Do you think she could be suicidal?”

  “What! Impossible! No truth whatever! Why would you ask that?”

  Hilary recounted Jo’s words of earlier.

  “It was not the words themselves,” she concluded, “but the way in which she spoke them that frightened me.”

  “Dear Lord!” breathed Ashley. “We’ve got to get back inside, and fast!”

  “You actually think she could be capable of—”

  “I don’t know. But I shudder to think what might be afoot.”

  He turned, grabbed Hilary’s hand, and walked quickly toward the door to the ballroom. “Whatever happens from now on,” he said, “you keep near Allison if at all possible. I don’t know what I may have to do.”

  Hilary stopped him. “Ashley, there’s just one other thing I have to know. Did you meet Jo, out there near where we left Emil, in the trees, two nights before you arrived?”

  Ashley looked earnestly into her eyes, still clutching her hand. “The only young lady I’ve been with under the stars since coming to Stonewycke is with me this very moment.” He paused, still taking in the light reflected in her eyes. “Now, come,” he went on, “we must go in. Things have begun to move quickly, and we must be vigilant.”

  48

  The Rakes O’ Glasgow

  While Hilary and Ashley had been occupied outside, Jo walked up to Logan and slipped her arm affectionately through his.

  “Father,” she said, “I am worried about Mother.” Her soft voice almost quivered with its distress.

  “We are all concerned,” replied Logan.

  “Something happened yesterday I must tell you about.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mother was working on a particularly involved landscape—”

  “She painted yesterday? I thought I told you no more painting until she was feeling better.”

  “She seemed a little more perky,” said Jo demurely. “She asked me to let her paint.”

  “Go on,” said Logan.

  “All of a sudden she became frustrated and threw down her brush. I tried to encourage her. ‘It’s coming along fine,’ I said. But she shook her head with such despair and then said, ‘It’s not just this. It’s . . . it’s everything! Life! I am miserable . . . I can’t go on like this any longer!’”

  Jo stopped, then glanced up into Logan’s face with all the sincerity she could bring to her command, and said, “Oh, Father, I am so frightened for her!”

  “Those were her exact words?”

  She nodded. “I am hesitant to mention something like this, Father, but don’t you think it might be time to consider some kind of therapy?”

  “That’s preposterous! Allison is strong. We will work this out.”

  At that moment, at the far end of the hall Jo spied Hilary and Ashley entering through the door. Whether or not the look on their faces told her the truth, her eyes flashed darkly. She quickly recovered, however, and went on. Logan had seen nothing of what transpired, and did not yet feel the urgency in her tone.

  “This kind of depression is not uncommon after the death of a loved one,” Jo said convincingly. “Perhaps the right psychiatrist could snap her right out of it. But if these feelings of hopelessness are allowed to deepen—”

  She paused, but only momentarily. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ashley approaching.

  “—they can lead to self-destructive—” she continued, but Logan cut her off.

  “Not Allison. She would do nothing of the kind.”

  “There have been cases of insanity in the family, have there not? I do not like to mention such a thing, but it is a fact that these tendencies are often inherited.”

  “Dorey’s case was entirely different.” Logan paused and appeared to ponder her words. But just then their conversation was brought to a close by Ashley’s appearance.

  “I say, Mr. Macintyre, might I have a word with you?” he said.

  “Professor Jameson,” replied Logan, shaking Ashley’s hand. “Of course, of course. But I must tell you, I promised Allison you would have a dance with her, and she is quite tired. Perhaps you might oblige her that pleasure first, and then we’ll have a little chat.”

  “With pleasure! Where is your wife?”

  “Let me see . . .” said Logan glancing about. “Oh, there she is! Over there, talking with Hilary.”

  Ashley left Logan and walked in that direction. A few minutes later the Viscount von Burchardt entered the hall, though as he made his way toward where Jo stood he kept as much as possible to the shadows. Their brief tryst involved no more than a few whispered words and was unseen by anyone.

  Meanwhile, Allison safely occupied with Ashley, Hilary approached Logan with a smile.

  “You look radiant tonight, my dear,” said Logan.

  “I’ve just been outside,” replied Hilary. “I suppose my cheeks are hot from the walk.”

  “They’re just forming up sets for ‘The Rakes o’ Glasgow.’ Won’t you join me?”

  “These Scottish country dances are mostly beyond me,” laughed Hilary nervously, attempting to mask her internal agitation.

  “Come on. I’ll lead you through it!”

  Logan offered his hand and they walked out onto the floor.

  “Here . . . we’ll just slip in with Mr. Jameson and Allison. They seem to need a fourth couple for this set.”

  As they settled into place, Logan waved down to the other two couples. “Creary . . . nice to see you!” he said. “Jones, you’re looking fit tonight!” Then suddenly the music was underway.

  “You are quite proficient with our dances, Mr. Jameson,” said Allison when the dance was about halfway through.

  “It is not the first time I have been to such a gathering, but I must admit they are rather complicated.” Even as he spoke Ashley missed a step and had to skip and shuffle to get back in time.

  “I’ve made you lose your concentration.”

  “It doesn’t take much, Lady Allison,” laughed Ashley. “I am glad to see that your ankle is recovered.”

  “Yes, it mostly is. I only wish I weren’t always so tired.”

  Ashley found himself staring at the hand which was at that moment clasped in his. Even as they moved across the floor, his brain zeroed in on the fine lines of Allison’s fingers. Then his attention was arrested by the paint stains on her hand, as if she had not cleaned up thoroughly from her last session. Funny, he thought to himself, that she would leave herself so. But now that he thought of it, she had had bits of colored pigment on her hands and fingers ever since he had come. He had just never consciously noted it be
fore now.

  In the midst of his reflections, the music stopped.

  “Good show, Jameson!” shouted Logan. “Thank you. I’m sure my wife is very grateful!”

  “I doubt that! You are talking to a man with two left feet!”

  “You did yourself proud, Mr. Jameson,” said Allison with a sigh, “but I really must sit down. I am positively exhausted.”

  Logan led her to a chair. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up into his face with almost a forlorn expression of sadness. “I’m just not myself. I don’t know . . .” Tears began to well up in her eyes. “Logan, I just don’t know what’s wrong,” she said.

  Logan took her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. But she was right, and he knew it now. Something was wrong.

  49

  The Oxford Don

  Ashley had to move quickly.

  He glanced around. Allison was with Logan. Hilary was engaged in a lively conversation with one of the farmer couples not far away. He should be able to sneak away for a few minutes.

  He inched toward the main door, then casually slipped unobtrusively into the corridor. Not a single one of the guests noticed his departure. His stealthy movements had been noted by only one member of the house, who now realized the curtain was coming down on her three-month engagement. Whether her performance achieved her final goal or ended in failure depended on how skillfully she played this final scene which was about to commence. She checked her pocket, then slid across the dance floor, forcing her mouth into a pretty smile.

  Meanwhile, Ashley Jameson moved cautiously and quietly on his way through the house. The situation was serious. He knew that. In spite of this, however, he could not prevent the excitement that rushed through him as he began to reason through the mystery now facing him. This was not a plot he would write. Actual lives were at stake!

  In many ways, Ashley Jameson was a simple man, despite his intellect, his position, and his noble upbringing. He was a renown authority on Classical Greece, and was also beginning to gain a reputation in the study of the antiquities of his own country as well. Besides his translations of Euripides and Aristophanes, he had published several scholarly essays, and had lectured widely, most notably at Harvard and Berkeley. But he viewed his pursuits as natural extensions of himself, and not a few of his colleagues envied him the ability to handle it all with such ease and matter-of-factness.

  The academic life particularly suited Ashley. At thirty-six years of age, he had found at Oxford the perfect environment to nurture his interests. He thoroughly enjoyed intellectual debates with fellow dons as well as his students, and was most content with a good book in hand in front of a crackling evening fire.

  But there was another Ashley Jameson, one the public never had the chance to view—one unknown even to his colleagues. This was the man who reveled in the intricacies of unraveling a good mystery. Call it a closet interest, a hidden passion, a secondary vocation. Whatever term one applied to the phenomenon, Oxford professor Ashley Jameson had all his life been fascinated with criminology, as his friend, Chief Inspector Harry Arnstein could well attest. They had put their heads together on more than a few knotty London crimes. And though Ashley allowed no credit to come his way, he had been highly instrumental in solving several cases in Arnstein’s file. He was glad to let Harry take the bows, for the Chief Inspector threw plenty of material his way too, even if Ashley had to change the names and circumstances before any other eyes saw it. It was, after all, Harry himself who had first propelled Ashley in the direction of his secret obsession, his private endeavor that gave him such pleasure, but which must always be kept from the public eye.

  He only hoped that his peculiar talent, when put to the test of real life, as it was tonight, would serve him as it had in other areas. He prayed that right here and now his senses would be sharpened and his eyes opened. Logan was his friend. Allison was Ian’s sister. He had promised Logan he would help him, but thus far he felt as if his mind had been on a treadmill. No clues seemed to lead anywhere. Now he knew that his loyalties had extended beyond his friendships with Ian and Logan, but had come to involve Hilary as well. For all their sakes, he prayed he would find something which would uncover the truth.

  Ashley was no romantic in the strictest sense. Perhaps it was unfair ever to expect a woman to compete with his scholarly pursuits and his criminological avocation. He had come to accept the single life as one of the necessary drawbacks to the hermit-like existence within the confines of Oxford, where his books, his typewriter, and his collection of Doyle, Christie, Gardner, Sayers, and Chesterton were his sole companions. He had always considered that it would be asking too much for a woman to enter that world with him. But was it possible he had simply been waiting for the right moment to open the doors of that world to the right woman? Before he could allow himself to even think about such things, however, he had to solve this mystery at Stonewycke, which seemed to be growing more portentous by the minute.

  He rounded a corner, walked up a flight of stairs, down another long corridor, up still another staircase, and at last arrived at his destination. From his pocket he pulled out a ring containing perhaps a dozen keys that Logan had given him. He had already used half of them, at odd moments in various places throughout the castle searching for the journal. But to date he had not been in this room.

  He found the key, inserted it into the lock, turned the latch, stepped inside, and flipped on the lights.

  Ashley took a quick look around, walked across the room, switched on a low-wattage bedside lamp, then returned to the door and turned off the overhead. He doubted the light would penetrate the heavy draperies even if there should by chance be someone outside to observe it, but he could not conduct a proper search without some light, though the less the better.

  He paused to take in a general impression of the place. It certainly had a lived-in look, tidy, yet full, nicely decorated and arranged. It was obvious Jo planned to stay for a good long while!

  The furnishings were all of antique walnut, rather dark, but Jo had apparently added touches of color to brighten the dreariness of the medieval decor—a frilly pink pillow on the bed, baskets of flowers, and several paintings on the walls. Ashley moved about slowly to take in a closer look at these last items. They were mostly all Jo’s own work, and in spite of himself Ashley found he was impressed.

  He halfway expected someone of her nature to create art of a shadowy, surrealistic variety, hinting at ominous intent, like the flash of her eyes that gave mixed signals of warmth as well as deceit. But what he met here was rather a Renoir-style adaptation, where children, gardens, country settings, and simple people predominated. He was particularly struck with a vivid scene of a local Scots woman milking a cow while her two barefoot children looked on. But then as Ashley examined it closer, he realized the signature on the corner of the canvas was Lady Allison’s. She possessed clear talent too, though as he understood it, that ability had remained undiscovered until Jo’s arrival.

  “Perhaps some good will come of all this in the end,” he murmured to himself as he moved on.

  There were no suitcases to be seen. All Jo’s belongings had long since been put away into the wardrobe or one of the dressers. Ashley pulled open the doors of the massive oak wardrobe and ran his hand randomly through the dresses and slacks, skirts, sweaters, and jackets hanging inside. Nothing of apparent interest presented itself, although toward the back of the closet sat a closed suitcase.

  He removed the case, set it on the bed, and opened it. All that was inside was a rolled-up canvas. He took it out and spread it open. It was a painting of Jo’s, of the same style as what he had already seen, except the setting was very different. Scotland was nowhere to be found in this scene of an old adobe building with a red tile roof. “Hmm,” mused Ashley to himself, “looks like Mexico or Central America somewhere.” A large dog was sprawled out on the porch, sound asleep.

  He wondered why she hadn’t put it with the rest. If he were himself ever inclined to
purchase some of her work, he would have chosen this particular piece. The dog was uncannily lifelike, and even in sleep, rather endearing. Her work was good, he had to admit. He could not help hoping his worst doubts would prove wrong.

  Replacing all as he had found it, he next moved to the dressing table. The top was dominated with the usual variety of women’s accouterments. He picked up several items and looked them over. Most were American-made, though some had been purchased in Britain. To one side of the mirror sat two tubes of oil paint, one a cobalt blue, the other China white. They rested on a small tray along with two small plastic cups and a palette knife, apparently awaiting mixing. He began to turn away when it occurred to him that he had seen no other art supplies or equipment in the room—neither brushes nor spare canvas nor kits nor easel. He recalled someone saying that the solarium on the fourth floor had been converted into a studio. He glanced again at the small tray in puzzlement. Why two tubes of paint, and nothing else? he wondered. Aside from their apparent isolation, he could see nothing unusual about them.

  Next he began a search of the drawers. This process was the most distasteful of his entire enforced burglary. As his hands rummaged through Jo’s personal belongings, he felt more than ever the common sneak-thief. Just as he reached the bottom drawer, suddenly his hands stopped dead.

  Had that been a noise in the hallway!

  He cocked his ear toward the door. All was quiet.

  Ashley tiptoed to the light, turned it off, then crept to the door and opened it a crack. The hallway was deserted.

  He returned inside, sat down on the bed in the darkness, and waited. For five minutes he listened intently, but no other sound came. At length he switched the light back on and resumed his search by resolutely pulling out the top drawer of the second dresser.

  It was filled merely with a few handkerchiefs and hair combs. He pulled it out as far as the drawer would come, but nothing else was revealed. It occurred to him that if Jo was clever enough to orchestrate such a cunning deception as had apparently been planned, she would not be so dull-witted as to leave something incriminating out in the open where any visitor to her room might notice it. Surely she would have destroyed all ties to her true identity; even the initials on her luggage had been in keeping with the ruse: J.B.—though that might indeed be her real name.