The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  If she had been so careful, what was he hoping to find, anyway? The room was bound to be clean.

  Ashley was about to push the drawer back in when he suddenly recalled a ploy he had used himself a time or two. An amateurish trick, to be sure, certain to be discovered by any master detective. But it was worth a try—Jo was no doubt herself an amateur.

  He smiled smugly to himself as he pulled the drawer out again, this time all the way out of its rails until he held the drawer in his hands. He examined the underside with one hand. Disappointed to find nothing, he stood a moment longer, then quickly turned and set the drawer down on the bed. Then he spun around, bent down, and scanned the vacant cavity of the dresser where the drawer had been.

  Yes! There was something there, along the back side of the dresser.

  He reached far back. His fingers felt a small white paper packet. He pried it loose and brought it out and set it in the palm of his hand. He opened the unsealed flap of the tiny envelope, sniffed, then peered inside to see about a teaspoonful of a white, crystalline powder. He moistened his finger and took up a few grains to taste, thought better of it, brushed them off, and sniffed it again. It smelled bitter, but even the most innocent of concoctions could be that.

  More to the point, was this envelope Jo’s? And why was it thus concealed?

  Ashley examined the packet more closely, noticing for the first time a tiny bit of handwriting on one corner. He had missed it before because the words were few, written small, and in a light pencil. He had to hold it under the lamp to read it clearly. There were but two words: Friar’s cowl.

  Ashley rubbed his chin in contemplation. Where had he heard that name before?

  He set the question aside for the moment as he realized he might now be able to determine ownership. If he could find a sample of Jo’s handwriting, he could at least clear up that part of the mystery.

  Going on hastily to the next drawer, he was rewarded in his quest as his eyes fell upon an appointment calendar. Thumbing through it quickly, the pages were oddly blank through August, the first notation being August 27: Arrive Port Strathy. Other engagements followed that: Dinner at Smiths. . . . Market with Mother. . . . Lady Joanna to leave for London.

  It was clear this belonged to Jo. Ashley wasted no more time. He took the calendar and packet together, held them up to the lamp, and even in the poor light there could be no doubt the handwriting was the same. It did not answer every question, but at least he now knew that whoever the calendar belonged to was also the owner of the envelope of powder.

  He removed his handkerchief from his pocket, poured out a small portion of the substance from the envelope into it, then carefully wrapped up the handkerchief. He wished he had something less porous to put it in, but this would have to do. He dropped it into his pocket, then carefully replaced the packet in its original hiding place, making sure the tape held it firm, then picked up the drawer off the bed and slid it back into the dresser.

  Still puzzling over the words on the envelope, Ashley went on with his search. He examined the remainder of the bureau, drawer by drawer, though the contents were scant. In the bottom drawer, however, hidden inside a stocking and shoved far to the rear, his fingers felt something Logan had mentioned in a quick whisper to him the day he had arrived, and which he had later heard about from Hilary’s own lips. Of course, in and of itself it would hardly be incriminating. Yet it was an interesting place to find it.

  He closed the drawer, sat down again, still perplexed by the nagging uncertainty of the strange envelope. If only he could place that powder! He should know it. He had done extensive study of—

  All at once Ashley jumped to his feet.

  He spun around, his hand on his forehead.

  Of course! he exclaimed half-aloud. That’s it! Dear God, I hope I’m not too late!

  He rushed out of the room, forgetful of the lamp still on and not even locking the door. In a full sprint he ran down the corridor, turned and flew down the stairs two at a bound.

  50

  Conspiracy Uncovered

  In the ballroom, the moment “Scotland the Brave” had begun from the band, Logan interrupted Hilary’s warm visit with the Mackenzies with the request for her favor on the dance floor, to which she assented with a smile and curtsy.

  “I don’t know very many of your northern dances,” she confessed. “Though I’m having a good time trying.”

  “‘The Gay Gordons’ is one of the easiest and most enjoyable of all,” said Logan, “especially to the national anthem. I never tire of it.”

  “You’ll show me what to do, then?”

  “Just keep in step with me, and watch the other couples as we move in a large circle,” said Logan, taking her left hand in his left, and her right hand as his arm came over her shoulders. “And when we need to turn, I’ll give you a push or pull. Okay . . . here we go . . . right, left, right, turn . . . back, two, three, four. Change directions! . . . two, three, turn . . . back, two, three, four. Now I spin you slowly with my right hand . . . once, twice, three times . . . and now waltz position for a little quick-step around . . . perfect! You see, nothing to it!”

  Hilary laughed.

  “Now, here we go again!”

  By the time the song was half over, they had gone through the dance four or five times and Hilary’s feet were obeying her smoothly. But in the middle of the next two-step sequence, Ashley suddenly burst into the large room, glanced around hurriedly, then rushed toward them the moment he had found them among the many guests and dancers.

  “Logan!” he called out, breathless, trying to keep his voice down so as not to arouse suspicion, yet obviously worked up. “Come with me.”

  “Why, Mr. Jameson—”

  “No need for that any longer, Logan. She knows. But you must come . . . immediately! There’s no time to lose!”

  Leaving Hilary alone in the middle of the floor without even an explanation, Ashley led Logan back the way he had come, not even pausing to allow the latter to explain the hubbub to the astonished guests nearby.

  Once in the hallway, Ashley began to grill Logan with questions as they made their way toward the stairway.

  “I have been observing a great many things,” he said as they hurried along, “not the least of which is your wife’s deteriorating emotional state. It has occurred to me that the problem may have other than an emotional cause. Tell me, has she been taking any medications lately?”

  “None that I know of. An aspirin or two perhaps.”

  “Anything for her ankle?”

  Logan paused in thought. “The doctor did give her a liniment.”

  “A liniment . . . hmm. That’s interesting. I suppose it could . . .”

  “But all this began long before she hurt her ankle.”

  “Can you say when, exactly?”

  “It came on gradually. Perhaps around the time of Lady Joanna’s death. Well, no—actually I recall some incidents even before that . . . nausea, depression. But I couldn’t give an exact day.”

  “Perhaps two months ago?” asked Ashley, still walking rapidly along.

  “That could be. Mid . . . late September. Yes, I suppose that’s about right.”

  “What about von Burchardt? What do you know of him?”

  “Only what he told us. Seems a nice enough chap.”

  “When was the first time you saw him?”

  “Just the day before you got here, Ashley. Why?”

  “I don’t know, Logan. I don’t know. I’m still trying to piece all this together. I’m grasping at anything.”

  “Why the urgency?”

  “I may not have the full picture yet, but I have found some things that will interest you. For one thing, do you recognize this?”

  Ashley pulled the locket from his coat pocket.

  “Thank the Lord!” exclaimed Logan. “That’s the locket . . . the one Allison gave little Joanna thirty years ago! Where did you find it?”

  “It may or may not surprise you to learn that
it was in a drawer in Jo’s room.”

  “But I thought Hilary—”

  “I did not say how it reached Jo’s room,” rejoined Ashley. “I just said that’s where it was. We’ll have to figure that out later. What about Lady Joanna. Just why did she go to London?”

  Logan hesitated a long while before answering. When he at last spoke it was not without sadness in his tone. “She never said exactly. But though I’ve never wanted to admit it before, I think the reason was indeed just as Hilary’s story implies, that she had doubts about Jo from the very first.”

  “You think your mother-in-law apprehended something deeper than you did?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say it, but I think I blinded myself to what she saw because of how Allison took to Jo at first. She was so pleasant, made Allison feel happy and whole. I wanted to think everything was resolved. Joanna tried to tell me once. She got as far as suggesting that we ought to investigate Jo’s credentials further, and I nearly blew up at her. It was the first time I can recall us having words with each other. After that, Joanna kept mostly to herself, probably thinking that if something was to be done about the situation, she would have to do it herself.”

  “And what became of it?”

  “Well, you know the rest. One way or another—I don’t know how—Joanna located Hilary . . . their meeting . . . the journal. But Joanna’s secrets died with her.”

  “Then Hilary showed up here . . . and you called me?”

  “Yes,” said Logan with a sigh. “I think I always sensed something amiss, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. That’s probably why I insisted that Hilary stay.”

  By this time they had arrived in the corridor that led to Jo’s room. “Well, we’re almost there,” said Ashley. “I can guarantee what I have to show you will not be pleasant.”

  Ashley opened the door. It was exactly as he had left it.

  He walked straight to the bureau, pulled the top drawer out, again set it on the bed, then said to Logan, “Look in there.”

  Logan obeyed.

  “Take it out. I want you to find it just as I did a few moments ago.”

  Following Ashley’s example, Logan reached in, unfastened the small envelope, and brought it out into the light.

  “What’s inside?” asked Logan.

  “I’ll tell you in a moment. But first I must ask you just a few more questions. First, is there anything Allison has been taking besides aspirin? Think, man—anything!”

  Logan was silent, shaking his head slowly.

  “All I can say is that I know of nothing.”

  “Okay, then perhaps . . . I don’t know. It could be the liniment,” he said, speaking softly almost to himself. “But then there’s the time problem. Still, it could absorb internally.”

  “What’s this all about, my friend?” asked Logan.

  Pondering but a second more, Ashley looked up, took a breath, then plunged ahead with his startling revelation.

  “Logan,” he said, “what you are holding in your hand is one of the most lethal poisons in existence. Just two milligrams of aconite internally is instantly fatal.”

  “But Allison’s fine! What does a deadly poison have to do with her?”

  “I said internally that’s how it works. The point here is that Allison is not fine! She has been more ill than we have had any idea—that is, if I am correct.”

  “You think this white powder is responsible?”

  “Yes, I do believe so. Aconite can also be absorbed through the skin. In past times they actually used the stuff in lotions and potions, in minuscule amounts of course, as a pain killer, for things like neuralgia—to deaden an area of muscle tissue.”

  “But how would Allison—”

  Before Logan could say a word further, suddenly Ashley’s hand shot to his head as if remembering the missing piece to the puzzle.

  “Logan!” he exclaimed. “When I was dancing with Allison just a while ago I couldn’t help noticing that her hands had paint stains on them.”

  “She’s been painting with Jo whenever she feels up to it.”

  “But why doesn’t she clean it off her hands?”

  “She always said it was the mark of a true artist to let some of the color remain behind.”

  “That’s bunk! What artist have you ever heard of who only cleaned his hands halfway! What do Jo’s hands look like?”

  “Now that you mention it, they’re always pure white.”

  “Precisely my point! That’s got to be it, Logan!” He glanced almost frantically about the room, his eyes coming to rest on the top of the dressing table. The two tubes! . . . the palate! . . . the small cups! Of course! That had to be it! She mixed the poison right here!

  “Logan!” he exclaimed. “It’s the paints!”

  “But how could—”

  “In strong enough amounts, even a little on the skin, for a prolonged period of time . . . the cumulative effect!”

  The swift rush of evidence bombarded Logan’s consciousness, ripping the scales from his eyes. In another instant he was jolted into potent wakefulness.

  With an outburst of righteous fury his hand slammed down upon the desk beside which he was standing. Without another word, he turned, flung wide the door, and—his hand still clutching the deadly packet, his eyes filled with fire, and his nostrils flared in indignation—strode from the room as a man possessed, prepared to do battle.

  Ashley followed behind, not even pausing for a backward glance at the chamber from which such vile deception had secretly originated.

  Had he looked in the opposite direction down the corridor, he might have seen a silent witness to their discovery, who had followed them, hiding in waiting, watching from a secluded shadow as Logan exited. The full effect of the revelation registered plainly upon his face; then he stealthily returned by another route to the room where his co-conspirator was at that moment attempting to consummate her wicked design.

  51

  Flight

  Logan stormed into the ballroom with such a fierce expression on his countenance that almost immediately the music ceased and all heads turned in his direction. As he strode purposefully into the room, he seemed to grow in stature, until the very resplendence of the ancient clan chieftainship came to dwell bodily upon him. With eyes aglow he quickly scanned the faces of his loyal people, searching for the tares among the wheat, that he might root them out and bring them to a righteous justice.

  From where she stood, once again engaged with Frances Mackenzie, Hilary perceived at once—however calm and good-natured a man her father was—that the kettle of his wrath had boiled over. She rushed toward him.

  “Where is Jo?” his voice thundered, not at Hilary, but to any who might care to listen.

  All eyes scanned the hall. She was not to be seen.

  “Has anyone seen the Viscount von Burchardt?” growled Logan. “I have evidence of a plot in my home, and I want to speak with him!” He gestured with his hand as he emphasized each word.

  There was no sign of the Austrian.

  As if in a single moment, Hilary, Logan, and Ashley each became aware that neither was Allison present. They glanced at one another, dawning dread in their eyes, then all three rushed toward the door into the main corridor of the house.

  As he went, Logan shouted out orders.

  “Hilary, you check the west wing—ground floor, then first floor. Ashley, go to the library.”

  Before he had well finished his words, they were gone.

  “Jake” Logan went on, “I have no idea where they might be. Take a look outside . . . the stables . . . the barn. Moryson, run down to the kitchen and tell the cook that Mrs. Macintyre is missing. Tell her to enlist what help she can to look in that quarter of the house.”

  The two men went.

  “Now, let’s see . . . Creary, come with me. Mr. Davies, would you wait out by the main stairway, in front of the door? If anyone brings news, dispatch it about the house that the rest may be brought back. Let’s go, Doug!�
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  They exited, leaving the ballroom in a storm of buzzing and bewildered anxious questioning.

  Logan ran first to the drawing room, then the dining room, then the family parlor. Each was empty.

  When he and Creary ran back along the corridor toward the front door, Hilary was just descending the staircase. In another moment Ashley ran up from the direction of the library.

  “Moryson told me to say he went to look in the East Wing,” said Davies.

  “The East Wing?” repeated Logan. “There’s nothing there but—”

  At that very moment the sound of a revving car engine was heard, then the grinding of spinning tires across the graveled courtyard.

  Logan spun around, as if debating whether to go after it.

  “There is a little sitting room just where the East Wing connects with the inner courtyard,” said Hilary. “I think I’ve seen Jo there a time or two.”

  “It’s worth a try!” said Logan, leading the way. “We’ll have to let the car go.”

  The small band followed him, but had difficulty keeping up. By the time they reached the spot and walked in the open door, Logan was already kneeling beside Allison where she lay on a sofa at the far end of the room.

  “Jo brought me here to help me rest,” Allison was saying in a weak voice. “She was just about to give me this”—she pointed to a glass sitting on a nearby end-table filled with some colorless liquid—“when that man rushed in. She said it would help me sleep.”

  “What man? Von Burchardt?”

  “Yes . . . him.”

  “What did they do . . . where are they now?”

  “I don’t know. He said something to her about the game being up,” she went on in a weak voice. “Then she tried to come back over and was going to give me the medicine. But he grabbed her hand and pulled her away. He said, ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’”