The Oblivious Heiress: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Four) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 4)

by Alice Simpson

  I went to the foot of the stairs and called out: “Rosie, I’m going outside for a minute. I’ll come back.”

  “All right,” Rosie called back. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I still have a few things to pack up.”

  I left by the side door and paused on the porch for a moment. I looked around the yard and surrounding fields. A thin quarter moon rising over the pine trees gave dim shape to the barn and silo. I could see no one, but Rosie’s revelation that strange men spied upon the house made me attentive to danger.

  I darted across the lawn to the storm cellar. As I had fully expected, the slanting door was padlocked. I turned back toward the house. A clump of lilac bushes some twenty yards from the cave was moving gently as if stirred by a breeze, yet there was no wind.

  I did not pause, but my heart pounded, and an icy current traveled through my limbs. A man was crawling on his hands and knees behind the lilacs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I continued to walk toward the house at a deliberate pace as if nothing were amiss. My first thought had been that it was Paul Firth who spied upon me. However, as the figure straightened I knew I had been mistaken. The man was too tall to be Firth.

  Before I could make out his face, he moved to another clump of bushes and was then once again enveloped by darkness.

  As soon as I reached the kitchen, I blew out the kerosene lamp and stood by the window, watching. I could not see the man. He had vanished completely.

  Rosie came down the stairway, carrying her luggage.

  “It’s all right,” I called out to her. “I blew the light out so that I wouldn’t be seen from outside.”

  “Is someone there?”

  “He’s gone now, I think.”

  “There was someone a moment ago?”

  “Yes, a man, hiding behind the lilacs. I believe he must have been watching the house—or possibly the storm cellar!”

  “Then you see I was right,” Rosie said. “This is a dreadful place, and I’ll be glad to leave it.”

  “I almost wish you were staying,” I replied. “You might be able to learn what’s hidden in that cave.”

  “Not with Paul Firth so suspicious. Anyway, you couldn’t pay me to remain even if he would allow it. I’d rather starve.”

  “You have no place to go, Rosie?”

  “I’ll find work. If not in Greenville, then I can return to the country. Anything will be better than spending another minute here.”

  I groped in the dark for the lamp, relighting it.

  “Rosie,” I said, “how would you like to work at our place for a few days?”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do if it can be arranged. We have a housekeeper, but it occurred to me that she might take your place here.”

  “She’d be very foolish to give up a good job for this.”

  “It would only be temporary. I think I can induce her to make the change for a few days. The question is, can we get Paul Firth to accept her?”

  “I doubt if he’ll hire anyone now that I am leaving. Why do you want your housekeeper in such a place as this, Jane?”

  “To learn what’s going on here. I confess you’ve made me very curious about the storm cave.”

  “Firth would watch her every minute, the same as he did me. It wouldn’t work.”

  “It will if Mrs. Timms can get the job. First of all, we must make Firth so uncomfortable he’ll want someone to take care of the house. Is he a good cook?”

  “Oh, wretched. And the trick of keeping a good fire going is simply beyond him. If we turned the damper, it never would occur to him to adjust it.”

  “Thanks for the idea,” I said. “Let’s hide the breakfast supplies, too.”

  Before leaving the house, we closed the damper on the stove, hid the coffee pot and placed salt in the sugar bowl.

  “If Old Paul doesn’t get his coffee in the morning he’ll simply rave,” Rosie said. “Missing his coffee may be the one thing which would induce him to hire a new housekeeper.”

  As we crossed the dark yard, I observed no one lurking about. Evidently, the man who had hidden behind the lilacs had taken himself elsewhere.

  I took Rosie back to Bouncing Betsy and left her there while I returned down the short pathway to the cottage to retrieve Mrs. Timms. The housekeeper was ready and waiting by the time I arrived.

  “Jane, I nearly gave you up,” she sighed. “Why did it take so long?”

  “I’ve been busy finding you a new position,” I said. “Starting tomorrow morning, how would you feel about working for Paul Firth instead of us?”

  “Jane, I am tired tonight and in no mood for your jokes.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Mrs. Timms. I really do want you to change jobs with Rosie Larkin. You remember I told you about her.”

  Not giving Mrs. Timms the opportunity to speak, I quickly outlined my plan.

  “Early tomorrow morning I’ll drive you to Firth’s farm,” I said. “You’re to knock on the door, and say you’re looking for a job at very low wages. Firth will be so desperate he’ll welcome you with open arms. Then, as soon as he’s off his guard, you learn what is hidden in the storm cave.”

  “How lovely,” said Mrs. Timms. “It has always been my dearest wish to be employed by a raving lunatic.”

  “You exaggerate, Mrs. Timms. I’ll admit that you may find him a trifle paranoid,” I said, “but I don’t believe he’s anything approaching a raving lunatic. I’m fairly certain he’s not violent, at least providing he’s not provoked.”

  “How very reassuring. Next thing you know you’ll be offering to loan me that bludgeon you keep in your handbag.”

  “My cosh? I’d be happy to let you have it for a few days, if you’d find it a comfort,” I told Mrs. Timms.

  “No, thank you very much. I’ve listened to your crazy schemes for years, Jane, but this one takes the prizewinning pound cake.”

  “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  “I most certainly will not!”

  “Oh, Mrs. Timms,” I moaned. “You don’t realize how much this means to me!”

  “This is one of the wildest schemes you’ve ever come up with,” Mrs. Timms said firmly. “And I’m having nothing to do with it.”

  “It isn’t wild,” I protested. “It’s absolutely logical. I would try for the job myself only I know Firth wouldn’t give it to me. Besides, I will be run off my feet getting out the next issue of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.”

  “I refuse to play detective for you, Jane. That’s final.”

  “Well, if you won’t, you won’t. I shall be forced to take Rosie to a charity home. She had intended to start working at our place.”

  “The girl may spend a few nights with us if you like. We have an extra room.”

  “Rosie would never accept such a favor,” I insisted. “She has too much pride. More than anything else she wants a job. Mrs. Timms, please reconsider—I’ll do anything you ask. Anything at all.”

  “It’s a crazy scheme.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “And it’s highly temporary. Only for a few days until Rosie can find another position, and you help me find out what’s inside that storm cellar.”

  “I’ll do it—” said Mrs. Timms.

  I gave a triumphant yelp, but I had started celebrating too soon.

  “—on one condition,” Mrs. Timms continued. “You know how you persist in turning that poor Jack Bancroft down every time he so much as asks you to the pictures.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call Jack Bancroft poor. He’s doing just about as well as any other young newspaperman, which is to say he eats regularly but hasn’t anything extra to put by for the inevitable arrival of old-age and infirmity.”

  “If you aren’t interested in striking a bargain—” Mrs. Timms pursed her lips.

  “No, no,” I hastily amended, “I’ll stop being so facetious. I’m very interested in striking a bargain, but I don’t see why you’re introducing Jack into this conversation.”
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br />   “If you solemnly swear to step out with Jack Bancroft the next ten times he asks you,” said Mrs. Timms, “then I’ll undertake your wretched assignment.”

  “Ten times! You catch me going to the picture with the same fella ten times in a row, and you can consider me practically engaged,” I protested.

  “All the better, then.”

  “But what’s the benefit to you, even if do I agree to go to the pictures with Jack?”

  “It’s a weight on my mind, Jane,” Mrs. Timms insisted. “I keep seeing this image in my head of you growing old all alone.”

  “But you’re growing old all alone,” I said. “Unless of course there’s some mystery man waiting in the wings to sweep you off your feet and carry you away on his white horse.”

  I was instantly sorry that I’d said it—it was unconscionably rude—but Mrs. Timms appeared unfazed. This made me wonder if she and my father already had some secret understanding that they were keeping from me. Perhaps, Mrs. Timms was so eager to marry me off because she wanted me out of the house and my father all to herself.

  “How about three times?” I bargained. “I’ll see three movies with Jack Bancroft. That seems about the going rate for a temporary change in duties?”

  “Ten,” said Mrs. Timms, holding firm.

  “Six?”

  “Ten.”

  “Eight?”

  “I’ll do it for no less than ten dates with Jack Bancroft.”

  “Mrs. Timms!” I said. “You shouldn’t be having dates with Jack Bancroft. He’s much too young for you. What would the members of your Ladies’ Sewing Circle say about you carrying on with a young man of twenty-seven? It would be the scandal of the year.”

  Mrs. Timms was not amused.

  “Oh, alright,” I said. “A deal is a deal, but I’ll not be blamed for not holding up my end of the bargain if he fails to ask me. You’ll try for the job, then, Mrs. Timms?”

  “What will your father say?”

  “Don’t you worry about Dad. Just leave everything to me.”

  During the ride to Greenville, Mrs. Timms was further influenced by Rosie Larkin’ account of Firth’s peculiar actions. Gradually, she began to share my opinion that the man might have reason to fear for his life. However, she did not agree with us that anything of great value was hidden in the cave.

  “Perhaps we’re wrong,” I conceded, “but you must go there with an open mind, Mrs. Timms. Observe everything you can and report to me. Particularly, I want to learn what Firth knows about Richard Hamsted and the octopus tattoo.”

  At half past five the next morning I awakened Mrs. Timms from a sound slumber, reminding her that it was time to start for the Firth farm. Protesting that the idea seemed crazier than ever, the housekeeper snuggled down beneath the covers again.

  “You promised you would go,” I said heartlessly. “Please hurry, because I must get you established before I go to work at the Press building.”

  By the time Mrs. Timms was dressed, breakfast and Bouncing Betsy awaited her. She drank my bitterly strong coffee, polished off my underdone eggs and nibbled at my scorched toast. Then, still protesting, she allowed me to drive her within view of the Firth farm.

  “Is this the place?” Mrs. Timms inquired with distaste as Bouncing Betsy pulled up at the gate to the weedy pasture.

  “Yes, I don’t dare go any closer for fear Firth will see me. You know the story you’re to tell him.”

  “Which one? You’ve suggested so many that my mind is awhirl.”

  “Then make it simple. Just say you’re a widow, you’re looking for a job and that you’re a wonderful housekeeper—that part’s true, at least. I’ll wait here. If you go inside, I’ll know you’ve been given the position.”

  “When will you come for me?”

  “I’ll try to see you tomorrow, but hold the fort until I arrive, even if it’s a week.”

  A bundle of clothing under her arm, Mrs. Timms trudged on down the road. I watched her with misgiving. The adventure was not to Mrs. Timms liking, and it was doubtful that her application for work would be an enthusiastic one.

  I turned off Betsy’s ignition and waited. Mrs. Timms reached the farmhouse. She knocked at the side entrance. The door was opened by Paul Firth.

  The interview took a long while, but at least Firth did not close the door in the Mrs. Timms’ face.

  Then, to my delight, Mrs. Timms followed the man into the house. The job was hers. I could feel in my bones that Paul Firth’s cave would soon yield its secret.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By mid-afternoon, I could take no more.

  “If I have to read one more of Mrs. Dunst’s horrific butcherings of the English language, I shall scream,” I told Flo. “Whoever heard of trying to rhyme hanged with forbad?”

  “I thought you were working on the next installment of ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo’?”

  “I got bogged down on that, too. I just don’t know enough about the life of sailors to write an accurate depiction.”

  “Since when did you favor accuracy over dramatic potential?” Flo said.

  “Since I determined to become a serious novelist. I may be a legitimate woman of letters soon. I expect to get a reply from Litchfield Press. Hopefully, it will be telling me that they wish to advance me five-hundred dollars against the publication of Perpetua’s Promise.”

  Flo was too polite to piffle. A good friend wishes one to succeed no matter how unrealistic the aspiration, and Flo is nothing if she is not a good friend.

  “Flo, I have an idea!” I said. “How about we pay a call on Ellis Pruitt?”

  “Who is Ellis Pruitt?”

  “A tattoo artist who has a little shop on Dorr Street. He takes passport pictures, too. I noticed the place weeks ago.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Tattooing is a fascinating subject. It would add atmosphere and verisimilitude to my story.”

  “Tattooing may be a fascinating subject to you,” said Flo, “but I doubt if the average reader of Carter’s All-story Weekly shares your enthusiasm.”

  “The average reader will when they read my story,” I insisted.

  “I’m sorry I can’t go,” said Flo. “Mother is reorganizing the liturgical linens down at the church, and my expertise is indispensable.”

  I usually believe Flo when she cries off on one of my hair-brained schemes because she must do something for her mother, but I know Mrs. Radcliff. She’s not a woman who needs assistance at organizing anything. That woman would reorganize the seasons if only God would allow it.

  I said goodbye to Flo and set out to Mr. Pruitt’s downtown shop.

  Mr. Pruitt’s place of business was a den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a door. A sign at the entrance proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr. Pruitt would—according to their preference—tattoo or photograph all comers. A glass frame displayed samples of tattooing—bleeding hearts, clasped hands, sailing ships, birds in flight and other artistic conceptions.

  I toyed with the idea of inviting Mr. Pruitt to work his magic on me. Perhaps, a small red rose on my bicep. I soon discarded the notion. I could hear Mrs. Timms’ voice inside my head telling me that gentile young ladies—or any young ladies, save those who worked for the traveling circus and similar establishments—do not disfigure their bodies with tattoos.

  I don’t mind giving Mrs. Timms the odd shock. I believe being occasionally started out of one’s complacency is an excellent tonic for the nervous system. However, I feared that a tattoo would deliver a shock from which Mrs. Timms might not recover, and I had no desire to lead our beloved housekeeper to an early grave.

  I entered the shop. The front end of the long, narrow room was unoccupied, but the sound of hammering attracted me to the rear. A man of some sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf. As he saw me, the hammer dropped from his hand.

  “Good morning,” I said in my friendliest tone. “Are you Mr. Pruitt?”

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bsp; “That’s me.”

  “Excuse me for bothering you,” I said, “but I’m a lady novelist. I’m writing a serial story about a tattoo artist, and I should like to interview you.”

  Mr. Pruitt’s intelligent eyes fixed me with a steady stare.

  “A lady novelist,” he said finally in a long-suffering tone. “You writers wouldn’t respect a man’s privacy—or anything else for that matter, I reckon.”

  “There is one thing I am sure all writers respect, Mr. Pruitt,” I said. “Art. From the samples of your work which I saw out front I am sure you are a great tattoo artist.”

  Mr. Pruitt melted like a lump of butter on a hot stove. I had struck his weakest spot.

  “You flatter me,” he said, a faint pattern of a smile etching his face. “I admit I’m good, although maybe not quite the best in the business. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know about the tattooing business in general, and you in particular, Mr. Pruitt. How do you do it? How did you start? Who was the most famous person you ever tattooed? What is your favorite design? Do you think a tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest? What—?”

  “Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem to be a living question mark.”

  Mr. Pruitt motioned for me to follow him to the front of the shop. He offered me a chair which sat under a row of dirty, smeary bottles of chemicals on a shelf above my head.

  “Now let’s take your first question,” said Mr. Pruitt, seating himself opposite me. “I can’t tell you how to tattoo—that’s a secret of the profession.”

  “How much do you charge for one?”

  “Depends upon how much a fellow is willing to pay. Take this town—it’s a cheap place. Nobody has any money. The King of England paid fifty dollars for his tattoo and what do I get? I’m lucky if it’s a dollar. And mostly hoodlums to work on. You can’t give a man much of a tattoo for a dollar.”

  “Do you ever remove tattoos, Mr. Pruitt?”

  “It’s against the law,” the man replied briefly.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Why?”