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

by Alice Simpson

“We’ve been assigned to the corner of Madison and Clark streets,” Florence answered as she separated the yellow benefit tags into two evenly divided piles. “It shouldn’t take us long to get rid of these.”

  The cause was a worthy one. The campaign to raise sufficient funds with which to purchase and equip an orphans’ summer campsite, had been underway many weeks and was headed by Mrs. Vanhee, a prominent club woman.

  I parked Bouncing Betsy at the designated street corner, and we went to work with a will. Flo and I had lived most of our lives in Greenville, and we both had an extensive circle of acquaintances. Accosting nearly everyone who passed, I soon disposed of all my tags and went to see how many Flo had left.

  “They’ve gone fast,” Florence declared as the morning wore on. “We have only one left.”

  “Don’t sell that tag!” I said impulsively. “I have it earmarked for a certain person—Old Sam McKee.”

  “The caretaker at the Moresby Clock Tower?”

  “Yes, he always liked children, and I think he would be glad to help.”

  “But why drive so far?” protested Florence. “I’m sure we could dispose of it right here, and much quicker.”

  “Oh, I have a special reason for going to see Mr. McKee. I’ll tell you about it on the way there.”

  “What’s up now, Jane?” Flo asked as we rattled toward the Moresby Tower in Bouncing Betsy.

  “Just a little argument I had with Dad last night. I maintain that the big clock struck thirteen last night at midnight. He thinks I’m a wee bit touched in the head.”

  “Which you must be. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “What’s so crazy about it? Didn’t you ever hear a clock strike the wrong number?”

  “Of course, but not the Moresby clock. The works were purchased in Europe at great expense. It’s supposed to be one of the best clocks in the country.”

  “Even a good clock can make a mistake, I guess. Anyway, we’ll see what Sam McKee has to say about it.”

  I brought Bouncing Betsy to a quivering halt opposite the tall Moresby Tower. Glancing upward at the octagonal clock face, I saw that the hands indicated twenty minutes to twelve.

  “Rather an awkward time to call,” I said, swinging open the car door, “but Sam probably won’t mind.”

  As we walked toward the tower entrance, I noticed that the grounds surrounding the building were not nearly as neat as when I had seen them last. The shrubs were untrimmed, the lawn was choked with weeds, and wind-blown newspapers had matted against the tall and unkempt hedge. A stone toolshed with a heavy wooden door—more appropriate for a castle than a toolshed—sat the very edge of the grounds. The small structure was surrounded by a pile of discarded paint cans, rusted and broken tools, and an old set of bed springs which were in the process of shedding their covering and disgorging their horsehair entrails.

  “I wonder if Mr. McKee has been ill,” I said to Flo as I knocked on the tower door. “He always took such great pride in looking after the yard.”

  “At least he seems to be up and around,” Florence said. “I can hear someone moving about inside.”

  We waited expectantly for the door to open. When there was no response, I knocked again.

  “Who’s there?” said a deep voice from the other side of the door.

  I knew that it was not Sam McKee who spoke, for the caretaker’s high-pitched tones were unmistakable.

  “We came to see Mr. McKee,” I called through the panel.

  The door was opened by a stout, red-faced man of perhaps forty, who wore a soiled jacket and unpressed corduroy trousers.

  “McKee’s not here, anymore,” he informed us. “You’ll probably find him at his farm.”

  Before the man could close the door, I planted my foot on the threshold and asked if Mr. McKee had given up his position as caretaker because of sickness.

  “Oh, he was getting too old to do his work,” the man answered. “I’m Clarence Fitzpatrick, the new attendant. Visiting hours are from two to four each afternoon.”

  “We didn’t come to see the clock,” I persisted.

  “What did bring you here then? You a friend of Sam’s?”

  “Not exactly.” I peered beyond the caretaker into an untidy living room clouded with tobacco smoke. “We thought we might sell him one of these tags. Perhaps, you would like to contribute to the orphans’ camp fund?”

  I extended the bit of yellow cardboard, bestowing Mr. Fitzpatrick with my most dazzling smile.

  “No, thanks, Sister,” he said, refusing to take the tag. “You’ll have to peddle your wares somewhere else.”

  “Only twenty-five cents.”

  “I’m not interested. Now run along and give me a chance to eat my lunch in peace.”

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” I said. “Oh, by the way, what happened to the clock last night?”

  “Nothing happened to it,” the caretaker retorted. “What d’you mean?”

  “At midnight it struck thirteen times instead of twelve.”

  “You must have dreamed it,” the man said. “What are you trying to do, anyhow—start stories so I’ll lose my job?”

  “Certainly not,” I protested. “I truly believe that the clock did strike thirteen—”

  “Well, you’re mistaken, and I’ll thank you not to go around telling folks such bunk! The clock hasn’t struck a wrong hour since the day it was installed. I take better care of the mechanism than Sam McKee ever did.”

  “I didn’t mean to intimate that you were careless—” I began.

  I did not complete the sentence, for Clarence Fitzpatrick slammed the door in my face. I got my toes out in the nick of time.

  Chapter Five

  “Well, Jane, you certainly drew lightning that time,” Florence remarked dryly as we retreated to Bouncing Betsy. “I thought Mr. Fitzpatrick was going to uproot the tower from its foundation and hurl it at you.”

  “How could I know he was so touchy?” I asked in a grieved tone.

  “You did talk as if you thought he had been careless in taking care of the big clock.”

  “I never meant it that way, Flo. Anyway, he could have been more tolerant.”

  I slid behind the steering wheel and jammed my foot on the starter. Bouncing Betsy, realizing that her young mistress was in no mood for trifling, responded with instant action.

  “I guess you’re satisfied now that the clock never struck thirteen,” Florence teased as the car fairly leaped forward.

  “I should say not! I’m more convinced than ever that something went wrong with the mechanism last night. Fitzpatrick knew it too, and for that reason didn’t want us asking questions.”

  “You die hard, Jane. From now on, I suppose you’ll go around asking everyone you meet: ‘Where were you at midnight of the thirteenth?’”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Most folks just take things for granted in this world. But there’s one person who would pay attention to that clock.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam McKee. We’ll drive out to his farm and ask him about it.”

  “It’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry,” Florence protested.

  “Oh, you can spend the rest of your life eating,” I overruled her. “Business before pleasure, you know.”

  Sam McKee, one of Greenville’s best-known and well-loved characters, had been caretaker at the Moresby Clock Tower from the day of its completion, and we could not but wonder why he had been relieved of his post. The old man had personally installed the complicated machinery, caring for it faithfully over the years. In fact, his only other interest in life was his farm, located a mile from the city limits, and it was there that I hoped to find him.

  “Watch for a sign, ‘Sleepy Hollow,’” I instructed Flo. “Mr. McKee has given his place a fancy name.”

  A moment later, Florence, seeing the marker ahead, said: “There it is. Slow down!”

  I slammed on the brakes, and Bouncing Betsy responded by shivering in every one of her ancient joints. Floren
ce was thrown forward, barely catching herself in time to prevent a collision with the windshield.

  “Why don’t you join a stunt circus?” she said irritably. “You drive like Demon Dan.”

  “We’re here,” I said. “Nice looking place, isn’t it?”

  We pulled up near a small, neatly-kept cottage framed in well-trimmed greenery. An even, rich green lawn was highlighted here and there by beds of bright red and blue flowers.

  After admiring the grounds, we rang the front bell. When we got no response, we went around to the rear and pounded on the kitchen screen door.

  “Mr. McKee’s not here,” said Florence. “Just another wild goose chase.”

  “Let’s try this out-building,” I suggested, indicating a long, low structure made of cement building blocks which was roofed with tin. A sign dangling above the door proclaimed that it was the foundry and machine shop of one Sam McKee, maker of bells and clocks.

  Through the open door, I saw clouds of smoke and a spry old man directing the movements of a muscular youth who pulled a large pot-shaped crucible of molten metal on an overhead pulley track.

  “Mr. McKee,” I shouted to make myself heard above the noise of running machinery.

  The old man, turning his head, waved us back outside.

  “Don’t come in here now!” he warned. “It’s dangerous. Wait until we pour the bell.”

  The old fellow pulled control chains attached to the crucible. The container twisted and finally overturned, allowing the molten metal to pour into a bell-shaped mold. As the last drops ran out of it, a great cloud of steam arose, enveloping both the old man and his helper.

  “Won’t they be burned?” Florence murmured in alarm, scurrying backward.

  “Mr. McKee seems to know what he’s doing,” I said.

  In a moment, the steam cleared away, and the old man motioned that we might come inside.

  “You’ll have to excuse my manners,” he apologized. “Pouring a bell is exacting work, and you can’t stop until it’s done.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” I asked, staring at the steaming mass inside the mold. “It’s sort of like making a gelatin pudding, isn’t it?”

  “Reggie and me never thought of it that way,” the old man said. “I learned from an old Swiss bell maker when I was a lad. And I apprenticed under a master; you may be sure of that.”

  “How do you make a bell?” Florence asked.

  “You can’t tell in five minutes what it takes a lifetime to learn,” the old man answered. “Now a bell like this one I’m making for the Methodist Church at Blairstown takes a heap o’ work. Reggie and me have worked a solid week getting the pattern and mold ready for that pouring job you just saw.”

  “Do you ever have any failures?” I asked.

  “Not many, but once in a while a bell cracks,” Mr. McKee said. “That happens when the mold is damp, or not of proper temperature. If gasses collect, you may get a nice healthy explosion, too.”

  “Does it take a long while to finish a bell after it’s been poured?” I asked him.

  “A large one may require a week to cool, but I’ll have this fellow out of the mold by tomorrow night. Then we’ll polish her off, put in the clapper, and attach the bell to a sturdy mounting. If the tone is right, she’ll be ready to install.”

  “How do you tell about the tone?” Florence asked.

  “This one should have a deep, low tone. Other things being equal, a large bell gives a deeper tone than a small one. Pitch depends upon diameter, and timbre upon the shape and the alloy used.”

  “I never realized there was much to a bell than its ding-dong,” I said. “But tell me, Mr. McKee, do you find this work more interesting than taking care of the Clock Tower?”

  “Looking after that place wasn’t work. It was more like a rest cure. I took the job because, twelve years ago when the tower went up, we couldn’t find a competent man to look after the clock.”

  “And now you’ve gone back to your old trade?”

  “Oh, I liked it at the tower,” Sam admitted. “I’m a bit old to do heavy work such as this. More than likely I’d have gone on putting in my time if Mr. Bronson hadn’t wanted the job for a friend of his.”

  “Mr. Bronson?” I asked. “Do you mean Clark Bronson, the real estate man?”

  The old bell maker nodded as he gazed moodily out the window toward the distant tower.

  “Yes, it was Bronson that eased me out of that job. He has a lot of influence, and he uses it in ways some might say isn’t always proper. I can make a fair living as long as I have my health, so I’m not complaining.”

  “We met the new caretaker this morning,” I said after a moment. “He wasn’t very polite to us, and the grounds have gone to wrack and ruin.”

  “Did you notice the flower beds?” Mr. McKee asked. “Half choked with weeds. Clarence Fitzpatrick hasn’t turned a hand since he took over there six weeks ago.”

  “I suppose he spends most of his time looking after the big clock,” I said.

  “Clarence Fitzpatrick spends most of his hours smoking that vile pipe of his and entertaining his roustabout friends,” Sam snapped. “He doesn’t know as much as a child about complicated clock machinery. What he can’t take care of with an oil can goes unrepaired.”

  The conversation had moved in precisely the channel which I desired.

  “No doubt that explains why the clock hasn’t always been striking quite right of late,” I said. “Last night I was almost sure I heard it strike thirteen instead of twelve times. In fact, I had a little argument with my father about it.”

  “You were correct,” Mr. McKee assured me. “I was working late here in the shop and heard it myself.”

  “There! You see, Florence,” I said.

  “Mr. McKee, what would cause the clock to strike wrong?” Flo asked.

  “I was wondering that myself,” he admitted. “In all the ten years I was at the tower, it never once struck an incorrect hour. I think something may have gone wrong with the striking train.”

  “Pardon my ignorance,” I said, “but what in the world is the striking train?”

  “Oh, we apply that name to the center section of the mechanism which operates the clock. The going train drives the hands, while the quarter train chimes the quarter-hours, sounding four tuned bells.”

  “Just as clear as mud,” said Flo. “Does the clock strike wrong every night, then?”

  “Last night was the first time I ever heard it add a stroke,” Mr. McKee answered. “I’ll be listening though, to see if Fitzpatrick gets it fixed.”

  Florence and I had accomplished the purpose of our trip, and so, after looking about the shop for a few minutes, left without trying to sell the old man a camp-benefit tag.

  “Why didn’t you ask him to take one?” Florence asked as we climbed into Bouncing Betsy.

  “I don’t know. It just came over me that Mr. McKee probably doesn’t have much money now that he’s out of steady work.”

  “He must make quite a lot from his bells.”

  “But how often does he get an order? I’d guess not once in three months if that often. It’s a pity Clark Bronson had to push Mr. McKee out of the tower job. It’s too late to go home for lunch. I’ll treat you to one of the biggest hamburger sandwiches you ever wrapped your teeth around, How’s that?”

  “I’ll take anything so long as you pay for it,” Florence said.

  We lunched at Fisher’s Cafe without incident and then started for Greenville by a different route.

  “Say, where are you taking me, anyway?” Florence demanded suspiciously. “I’ve never been on this road before.”

  “Only out to the Dorner farm,” I said. “We have a little detective work to do.”

  During the bumpy ride, I gave Flo a vivid account of the adventure my father and I had shared the previous night.

  “And just what do you expect to learn?” Florence asked at the conclusion of my tale. “Are we expected to capture Sidney Dorner with
our bare hands and turn him over to the authorities?”

  “Nothing quite so startling. I thought possibly Mrs. Dorner might talk with us. She seemed to know a lot more about the fire than she would tell.”

  “I don’t mind tagging along. It doesn’t seem likely, though, that the woman will break down and implicate her husband by telling anything to the daughter of the owner of the Greenville Examiner.”

  I parked Bouncing Betsy at the entrance to the lane, and we walked to the cabin.

  “It doesn’t look as if anyone is here,” Florence said, rapping for the second time on the front door.

  “I’m sure there is,” I whispered back. “As we came up the lane, I saw the curtains move.”

  Florence knocked a third time, so hard that the door rattled.

  “At any rate, no one is going to answer,” she said. “We may as well go.”

  “All right,” I agreed, although I had no intention of giving up so easily.

  We walked down the lane until a clump of bushes screened us from the cabin.

  “Let’s wait here,” I said. “I have a hunch Mrs. Dorner is hiding from us.”

  “What’s to be gained by waiting?”

  Flo grumbled, but she crouched beside me, watching the house. Ten minutes elapsed. Both Florence and I grew very weary of huddling behind the bushes. A spider dropped down on a thin filament, took a good look at me, and, mesmerized by my magnetic personality, paused spinning to twist in the wind inches from my face.

  Then, the cabin door opened, and Mrs. Dorner peered into the yard. Seeing no one, she took a wooden water bucket and started with it to the pump which was situated midway between cabin and stable.

  “Now’s our chance,” I whispered. “Come on, Florence, we’ll cut off her retreat, and she can’t avoid meeting us.”

  Chapter Six

  We hurried up the lane and approached the pump in such a way that Mrs. Dorner could not return to the house without meeting us. Not until the woman had filled the water bucket and was starting back did she notice us.

  “Well?” she demanded defiantly.

  By daylight, the woman appeared much younger than I had taken her to be the previous night. Not more than thirty-two, she wore a shapeless, faded blue dress which had seen many washings. Rather attractive brown hair was drawn back into a tight, unbecoming knot that made her face seem grotesquely long.