When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  I sat down in the green leather chair. I picked up the glass of scotch Billie had poured for me. I peered at the amber liquid, swirling it around in the glass.

  “There was something about the man that bothered me,” the doctor continued. “I couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something kept revolving in the back of my mind. I seemed to remember reading about him in some rag or other, and I knew what I had read hadn’t been flattering. I decided to check up on him. Things were rather slow at the clinic, and I could afford to take off a couple of days. I turned all my work over to my assistant and started to play detective. It was quite jolly.”

  The doctor grinned a rather puckish grin, as though in apology. “I may not seem the detective type,” he said, “but I know a lot of people—lawyers, policemen, newspaper journalists. Whenever I want a piece of information I can usually go straight to the man who can get it for me. I asked around about our man Lock, and I found out some rather—juicy, I believe, is the word I want—some rather juicy information about him.”

  He paused to light his pipe. He fiddled with the bowl and a match and finally got it to draw. He blew clouds of blue-gray smoke and settled back on the couch.

  “I won’t go into unnecessary detail,” he said. “Let if suffice that one of my journalist friends told me something in confidence that would put Mr. Lock in a very bad light if it were to be made public knowledge. Armed with that information I went to see Lock.”

  “With blackmail in mind?” Billie asked, smiling.

  “Call it that if you like. I had a piece of information and I wanted a piece of information. I felt Mr. Lock would be much more cooperative if I had something to bargain with—my silence for his lack of. Did I put that right?”

  “Explicitly,” I said.

  “What did you find out?” Billie inquired.

  “I wanted to know why Gordon Stuart was so all fired anxious to have this house. It didn’t jive—that’s a good word, isn’t it? Jive—it simply didn’t jive. Why should he want the house when he had everything else? I knew Lock could provide the answer.”

  “And did he?” I asked.

  “That he did—and then some. I got quite a reception. Polite blackmail was not even necessary—I was rather relieved on that score. It seems Stuart and Lock had had a falling out when Lock wasn’t able to perform the legal miracles Stuart thought he should perform. There was much ill feeling on both sides, and Lock was more than ready to tell me anything I wanted to know about his former employer.”

  “Gordon fired him?”

  “Yes. The day after I brought Lock to your flat.”

  The doctor drew on his pipe and blew some more smoke. It hung in the air in thick blue-gray clouds that curled slowly to the ceiling. The red lamps flickered and spluttered. There was more thunder, more wind. Doctor Clarkson was enjoying himself, deliberately prolonging his account.

  “Go on,” I prodded.

  “Stuart was in a pretty desperate shape financially when he hired Lock to represent him. He was—still is—one the verge of bankruptcy, and according to Lock the police will shortly be on Stuart’s trail if he doesn’t get enough money to cover some rather dubious losses. It seems he invested some money that wasn’t rightly his—and lost it. When the people he ‘borrowed’ it from find out, there’ll be hell to pay. He needs money, and he needs it now. That’s why he wants the house.”

  “But—wait just a minute,” I said, confused. “Gordon inherited all of Henrietta’s estate besides this house. There should be more than enough to cover any losses.”

  “Not a penny,” Doctor Clarkson said abruptly.

  “What?”

  “A pile of worthless paper. Henrietta’s ‘fortune’ was non-existent. She was worth several million once, but that was many years ago. Little by little those millions leaked away. This house was all she owned. Many people thought it eccentric of her to stay here when she could have stayed at a plush hotel or some chic apartment—she couldn’t. When she came back to England she didn’t have a shilling.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “I never suspected—”

  “She kept up a grand front. No, you got the house, and Stuart got a pile of worthless paper. It was quite a shock to him, as you can imagine. Quite a shock to everyone concerned. Everyone thought she was loaded.”

  “That explains something,” I said, frowning. “It bothered me that she’d left her entire estate—minus this house—to Gordon. She hated him. She used to rant about him, calling him everything she could think of, and she had a fertile imagination. Leaving the fortune to him didn’t fit. Now I can see what she was up to—a malicious prank, typical of Henrietta. It must have given her great pleasure to make the will and visualize his face when he discovered all he’d actually inherited was a pile of paper. It was exactly the sort of thing Henrietta would have relished.”

  “I still don’t see why he would want this house,” Billie said. “He couldn’t possibly sell it for much.”

  “If what you say is so, he wouldn’t even have enough to buy it in the first place,” I added.

  The doctor held his pipe in the palm of his hand and smiled a sheepish mile. The smoke curled up to the ceiling. Billie and I stared at him and waited for the next comment. I knew it was going to have a punch. I could tell from the twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “What do you know about Henrietta’s jewelry?” he asked me.

  “She had a fabulous collection,” I said. “She showed it to me once. It was unbelieveable. She had—”

  “Had is the working word,” he replied. “In the safe deposit box there was a pile of paste, the whole lot not worth fifty pounds. The real jewels had been sold, and there was a written record of each sale. She had been living off her jewelry for years, selling it piece by piece. With the money she got from them she was able to maintain a front. She was able to travel and keep up the pretense, and she fooled everyone. Even you, apparently.”

  “She certainly did.”

  “Now, here’s the interesting part,” the doctor continued. “Lock and Stuart made a careful study of the sales records for the jewelry, and they compared them with the original inventory of the collection, crossing off each item when they found it had been sold. When they were finished, they discovered that several pieces—the most valuable of the lot—hadn’t been accounted for. They hadn’t been sold, and they weren’t in the safe deposit box. Do you follow me?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Do you see now why Gordon Stuart wants this house?”

  “I see,” Billie said.

  “You mean he thinks the missing jewels are here?” I asked, startled.

  “Indeed I do,” the doctor replied.

  “But that’s absurd.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Henrietta may have been wildly eccentric, but I can’t feature anyone hiding a fortune in jewels in an old house,” Doctor Clarkson said. “Still, they are unaccounted for, and—to Stuart’s way of thinking—it’s perfectly logical that they should be here. She had no place else to keep them. She was here the day she died. Consequently, the jewels should still be here.”

  “That’s not very sound thinking,” I said.

  “Stuart is desperate. He’s like a drowning man clutching at a straw. The jewels would be his salvation, so he’s convinced himself they’re here. Unsound, agreed, but perfectly understandable from a psychological standpoint. He has to have a straw to clutch, or he’d sink.”

  “Who did Henrietta sell the rest of the jewels to?” I asked.

  “An English dealer. He has his office in London. Stuart checked with him, and he verified that he had indeed purchased the jewels from her, over a long period of time, piece by piece.”

  “Isn’t it possible that she could have sold the rest to someone else, someone in Europe, perhaps?”

  “There were no records of any other sales.”

  “Maybe she didn’t keep records. Maybe she sold them hurriedly, on the spot, without going through a lot of red ta
pe. Maybe she needed money immediately and sold the jewels to—to a fence, someone who wouldn’t want a written record of the sales.”

  Doctor Clarkson nodded. “You could be right. Henrietta lost her fortune years ago. It’s likely that she sold the valuable pieces first, maybe ten or fifteen years ago, without even thinking of keeping a record of it. In her day she was something of a compulsive gambler. Perhaps she sold the jewels to pay gambling debts a long time ago.”

  “She used to talk about her gambling days,” I said. “She’d given it up by the time I came to stay with her, but she loved to recount stories of her nights at the casinos.”

  “I’d wager a guess her gambling had a lot to do with the loss of fortune,” Doctor Clarkson replied. “Anyway, if the jewels are not accounted for, there’s bound to be an explanation. We may never know what happened to them, but you can safely bet Henrietta disposed of them some way or other, records or no.”

  “How much were they worth?” Billie asked.

  “They were worth a fortune,” Doctor Clarkson informed us. “As I said, the most valuable of the lot were not sold—at least weren’t sold to the dealer in London: an emerald brooch, a diamond bracelet, a pearl necklace.”

  “She gave the pearls to me,” I said.

  “That acounts for one item, then,” he replied. “There are still six other items not accounted for. A ruby pendant—one of the largest rubies in existence.”

  “And Gordon actually believes they’re hidden here? That’s fantastic! It’s like something out of Wilkie Collins! Sane people don’t stuff a fortune in jewels in some desk drawer or shoe box and hope the right person is lucky enough to find them.”

  “I doubt if Stuart had too much confidence in his sister’s mental stability,” Doctor Clarkson said slowly. “He probably thinks that’s precisely what she would have done with them.”

  “He’s out of his mind,” I said.

  Doctor Clarkson and Billie both looked at me, and I suddenly realized what I had said and the weight it carried. I could feel myself going pale. My hands trembled visibly. I took several swallows of the whiskey. Perhaps he was out of his mind. Perhaps he was completely unbalanced.…

  “That’s possible,” the doctor said.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I just—”

  “This puts a new light on things,” Doctor Clarkson said soberly. “We don’t know that Burt Reed didn’t murder her, but we do know that Stuart had a whopping good motive. He needed money, needed it enough to kill for it. He still needs it, and he thinks he knows where he can get it.”

  “It’s incredible,” I whispered.

  “Incredible, granted, but true. He thinks the jewels are here, and as long as he thinks that, you’re not safe here, either of you.”

  I was silent. Billie and I exchanged glances.

  “It’s up to you, Em,” she said quietly.

  “I’m staying,” I replied.

  “Very well. I’ll stay with you.”

  “You’re both leaving,” Doctor Clarkson said, his voice firm.

  “We’re big girls, Doctor,” Billie told him.

  “Emmalynn,” he said, gruffly. “This is nonsense, absolute nonsense. Stuart’s interest in the jewels aside, we’re all pretty certain Reed didn’t kill Henrietta, and if he didn’t then there’s someone who must be mighty concerned about your memory. This is damn foolishness—no electricity, no telephone—”

  “There’s Boyd.” I protested.

  “That’s not enough. You could both be butchered and he wouldn’t hear way out there in the carriage house.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  We all three stood up. The tension in the air was almost tangible. I stood with my arms folded, obstinate, and Billie stood beside me, loyal. Doctor Clarkson glared at both of us, and then he shook his head. He was scowling darkly, his hands jammed in the pockets of his rust corduroy jacket. He finally shrugged his shoulders and sighed heavily.

  “You’re stubborn,” he snapped, “both of you!”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “All right. I’ve got a gun in the glove compartment of my car. I’m going to leave it with you. I hope one of you can use it.”

  “I’m a crack shot,” Billie said promptly.

  “I’m going back to the cottage now. I’ve got to stop by and see a few of my local patients—I check up on them every time I come down—and then I’m coming back here. There’re dozens of rooms in this house. Since you’re hell-bent on staying here, I’m damn sure going to stay with you.”

  “Really, Doctor—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” he said irritably. “Modern women! Damn! Come along now. I’ll get the gun.

  We followed Doctor Clarkson out to his car. It was cold, and there was a strong wind coming off the water. The sky was as black as pitch, laden with heavy clouds that rolled ponderously. The doctor took his gun out of the glove compartment, snapped it open to see that it was loaded, snapped it shut and handed it to Billie who took it rather awkardly by the barrel. Her hand sagged under the weight of it.

  “You sure you know how to use that thing?” he barked.

  “You want to toss a can up an see me hit it?” she retorted.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said gruffly, climbing into the front seat of the car. “I’ll be back tonight—around nine or ten. ’Til then, be careful.”

  “We will,” I said calmly. “Don’t worry so.”

  “Dammit, Emmalynn, this is serious business.”

  “I know,” I replied.

  “You should realize—”

  “I do,” I said. “We’ll see you tonight.”

  He drove away. Billie and I strolled towards the porch, both tired, both relieved that he had finally gone. The sky split open with streaks of jagged lightning and the first drops of rain began to splatter around us in furious volleys. We darted to the veranda. The rain began to pour in savage torrents, and the noise was deafening. We went inside and closed the door. Billie looked down at the gun in her hand, examining it with a great deal of curiosity.

  “Do you know how to use it?” I asked her.

  “I’ve never shot one in my life,” she said blithely, “but I thought I’d better say I could or we’d never have gotten rid of him.”

  “Billie—”

  “Don’t scold, Em. I’ve got something absolutely marvelous to show you. I found them while you were gone to the store.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE LED ME into the library. The rain splattered violently on the veranda, and we hurried to shut the French widows. I closed the heavy green draperies. The room grew dark and isolated, the red lamps glowing with an eerie light. The sound of the rain pounding was unnerving. I had a strong feeling of claustrophobia, as though the walls were slowly closing in on us. Billie stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes full of excitement.

  “Do you remember ‘The Purloined Letter’?” she asked.

  “The Poe story? Vaguely.”

  “The police searched this house, didn’t they? And they found nothing of any particular interest? Well, in the story everyone was looking high and low for a letter, looking everywhere but the most obvious place. It was right there before their eyes, in a letter rack—”

  “You’ve found a letter?”

  “No,” she said impatiently. “I was just using that to illustrate. I found something far more interesting. You were gone to the store, and I was bored and tried to read Dostoyevsky and couldn’t even begin to get with it, so I thought I’d see if I could find something a little more relaxing, maybe one of those sexy novels you were talking about, in English. I came down here and was browsing around the shelves—such tedious volumes, all either classics or about thinks like astrology or Egyptian mummies—and I noticed a thin little book with a red leather cover and no title standing right beside a book on azaleas, so I took it down.”

  “You’re interested in azaleas?”

  “Em, you�
��re not listening! I took down the book without a title. I wondered what it could be—”

  “And what was it?”

  “A diary, Em! Her diary.”

  “Henrietta’s? But she didn’t keep a diary.”

  “Oh, but she did! Evidently she started it when she arrived here. I was going to read it—think what it might say!—when the doctor came. I put it back on the shelf—” She walked over to the wall of books and pulled the slender red volume down. “I thought you’d want to read it first.”

  We heard a door slam somewhere in the back regions of the house. Both of us jumped. Billie dropped the book on a table and picked up the gun. We heard loud footsteps in the hall outside the library, and in a moment Boyd Devlon stepped into the doorway. His hair clung in damp ringlets about his head, and he wore a dripping yellow mackintosh. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the gun. Billie laughed rather nervously. The hand holding the gun was trembling all too visibly.

  “Did you intend to shoot someone?” he asked, smiling.

  “Not really. I mean—”

  “You startled us,” I said.

  “Sorry. I thought I’d better come in and see if you needed anything. I put all the groceries away when we got back, but I didn’t light the gas stove. If you’re going to cook, I’ll light it now.”

  “Yes,” Billie said, her voice quivering. “Do. I couldn’t possibly manage it after—”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Boyd Devlon said. He paused for a second, studying us, his brow still arched. Little rivulets of water dripped down the yellow mackintosh. He left. Billie sighed, looking down at the gun she still gripped with nervous fingers.

  “I may not be up to this,” she said.

  “Now you are pale,” I informed her.

  “Really? Am I?”

  “As a sheet,” I said.

  “I just heard the footsteps and thought—”

  “Look, we’re both tired. You go on upstairs for a little while. I’ll cook dinner. I’m famished myself—cucumber sandwiches aren’t very nourishing. We’ll eat, and then—”