“Jane! What have you done to yourself?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “I’m just a little wet. Funny how that just seems to happen when one’s been down in a well.”
“There are times when your jokes don’t seem at all funny,” Mrs. Timms said. “How did you manage to ruin your clothes? I might be able to salvage your dress, but there’s nothing to be done for that coat and those shoes—not to mention your stockings.”
“It’s the truth, Mrs. Timms. I was down in a well. It just so happens that it’s quite wet down wells. And mossy.”
“You can’t expect me to believe you were down a well. Now, tell me exactly what did happen.”
“Would it seem more reasonable to you if I said that I stumbled and fell into a ditch?”
“I rather thought something of the sort had happened. How did the accident occur?”
“It didn’t,” I said and escaped upstairs before Mrs. Timms could question me any further.
I took a hot bath and went to bed. As I lay in bed, I could hear a murmur of voices in the living room below and knew that Mrs. Timms must be discussing me and my disheveled condition with my father. I had distressed Mrs. Timms, but it couldn’t be helped. Sometimes, even when one tells the unvarnished truth, all the listener wants to hear is a bald-faced lie.
I slept soundly and did not awaken until the Sunday morning sun was high in the heavens. I sat up in bed and moved my arms experimentally. They were very sore and stiff. I swung my feet to the floor and groaned with pain.
“Guess I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered to myself. “I must be getting soft, or else it’s old age sneaking up on me.”
I tortured myself for ten minutes doing a few Swedish limbering exercises. Then I dressed and went downstairs. Mrs. Timms had gone off to church while Dad submerged himself in all fifty-eight pages of the Sunday paper. I detoured around the living room to the kitchen and prepared myself a belated breakfast. I was picking the nuts out of a fruit salad I’d found in the icebox when my father appeared in the doorway.
“Jane—” he began.
“Where was I last night? I’ve said it before, and I will now repeat it—I was down a well! A nice deep well with a couple of feet of water in the bottom.”
“When you’re ready to tell me the real story, I shall listen,” Dad said. “But how a grown woman contrives to come dragging home in the condition Mrs. Timms described, I’ll never—”
“Dad, I’m serious about the well story. It’s the unvarnished truth.”
My father shook his head mournfully and muttered something under his breath about getting my head checked. He followed up that offensive remark by saying something about Jack not knowing what he was getting into.
I asked my father if Jack had mentioned anything to him about his recent fascination with bowling.
“Bowling?” my father said. “Baseball, maybe, but I can’t imagine Jack Bancroft taking up bowling.”
Then Dad withdrew to the living room and the remaining unread twenty-five pages of his Sunday paper.
I had lost my appetite for breakfast. I barged out the kitchen door into the yard. I needed to clear my head with a bit of deep breathing in the fresh air.
I had an AWOL gentleman-friend who had either gotten far too enamored with his new hobby, or, even more depressing, had no new hobby and was hiding something from me.
On top of that depressing possibility was the fact that my nearest and dearest refused to take me seriously. My father and Mrs. Timms acted as if they were contemplating hauling me off to have my head examined.
As I sat moping on the front steps, a milk wagon clattered to a stop in front of the house. The driver came up the walk with his rack of milk bottles. I eyed him speculatively.
I had a sudden inspiration. What I needed was an ally in the house. If I could clear the basement of all the old junk and brighten it up a bit, I might be able to convince Florence to fly the coop and come to roost in our basement.
“We have a lot of old bottles in the basement,” I said to the milk wagon man. “Does your company pay for them?”
“Sorry,” the milkman said. “We use only our own stamped bottles. There’s no deposit charge. Customers are expected to return them without rebate. Maybe you could sell your old bottles to a second-hand dealer. I saw one on the next street about five minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“He was on Fulton Avenue when I drove past.”
I thanked the milkman and ran as fast as my stiff limbs would permit to the next street corner. Far up the avenue, I saw the battered old car of the second-hand man. I hurried on and reached the automobile just as its owner came from a house carrying an armful of corded newspapers.
“Excuse me, Mr.—” I said, not even waiting to catch my breath.
“Butterworth, Ma’am, at your service,” the second-hand dealer said, doffing his cap and eyeing my disheveled condition brought on by sprinting down the street.
“Mrs. Jane Carter,” I told him. “Charmed to meet you, Mr. Butterworth. Do you buy old bottles?”
“I buy newspapers, old furniture, rubber tires, copper, brass, or silver, but no bottles.”
I barely registered this discouraging information because I was too busy staring at the man. His appearance fascinated me.
“I saw you at Roseacres. You’re the one person who has been inside the house. I want you to tell me all about it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Butterworth, the second-hand dealer, seemed at a loss about how to respond to my abrupt request.
“Please, tell me how the house looks inside,” I repeated. “Is it as handsome as folks say?”
“Are you a friend of Mrs. Covington?”
“Of course.”
“But you’ve never set foot inside the house at Roseacres?”
I nodded my head. He was not an unreasonable man, this Mr. Butterworth. I’d have asked the same questions myself.
“Then why don’t you ask Mrs. Covington about the interior at Roseacres yourself?”
“Because she never invites anyone into her house,” I explained, patting futilely at my fly-away hair and trying hard to look like a sane and reasonable person. “You’re the only living soul to get inside the place, so far as I know. I’ll venture she sold you something. Am I right?”
“Maybe so.” Mr. Butterworth grinned. “My lips are sealed.”
“Sealed?”
“I promised Mrs. Covington I’d tell nothing of what I saw in the house.”
“Why did you go to the house?”
“Mrs. Covington sent for me.”
“But why? Did Mrs. Covington sell you something?”
“Maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t,” Mr. Butterworth said as he climbed into his overloaded car. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
He again doffed his cap and drove away. I watched his car until it was out of sight and then returned to my own doorstep. I was listlessly throwing acorns to a squirrel when Florence came down the street, dressed in her Sunday best.
“What’s the matter, Jane?” Flo asked me. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Lower than the center of the earth. Mrs. Timms thinks I’m a disgrace. My father thinks I’m touched in the head. I’ve telephoned Jack three times this morning, but he doesn’t answer his phone.”
“I’m sure he’s just busy,” Flo said.
“I’m sure he’s busy, too. But busy doing what? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Bowling?”
“On a Sunday morning? Not very likely. And are you sure Shep isn’t on the bowling team? Something fishy is going on.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Flo insisted, “and I was mistaken about Martin not being on the bowling team. I telephoned him last night and asked him about it. He is their star bowler, just as Jack said.” Flo wouldn’t meet my eye as she made those claims, which only served to deepen my suspicions. What was everyone hiding from me? Was Jack getting ready to hand me the icy mitt and
no one wanted to be the one to break the news to me?
“What you need is a nice adventure,” Florence continued, finally meeting my eye. “How about another trip out to Roseacres tomorrow night?”
“I’ve had enough of wells!”
“Jane, you can’t mean it. After discovering those loose bricks, you’ll just forget about them? That’s very unlike you.”
“I can’t bear the thought of dragging in again looking like an insane person,” I groused.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow night about eight-thirty,” said Flo, completely ignoring my protests.
As usual, my spirit of adventure got the best of me and by a quarter ‘til nine the following night, Flo and I were back at Roseacres. The house was completely dark.
“Maybe Mrs. Covington is out for the evening,” I suggested.
“In that case, we’ll have to be especially careful,” Florence warned as we approached the old wishing well. “She might return at any moment and find us.”
I had brought the rope ladder, an extra length of rope, an assortment of tools, a flashlight and a pair of stout water-proofed boots and a suit of warm coveralls which my father used when he worked on his car—which was almost never due to his tendency to do himself grievous bodily harm whenever he attempted mechanical tasks. Consequently, the coveralls were nearly brand new. They wouldn’t be after I was done with them. I inserted myself into the coveralls and prepared to descend a few feet into the well.
“Do be careful,” Florence said. “If you should fall you might kill yourself.”
“You think of the most cheerful things. I’m not taking any chances, though. I’ll tie myself to the ladder with this extra piece of rope.”
I got into position, and Florence handed down the flashlight. I carefully inspected the brick wall.
“I believe there is an opening,” I called up to Flo. “I really do. Here, take this flash. I can’t work and hold it.”
While Florence directed the beam from above, I tugged at the bricks. Unable to move them, I called up for the small crowbar which I had brought with me from home. I pried one of the bricks loose with ease. When I pushed my arm through the opening, I encountered only empty space.
“It’s a narrow tunnel, I think. Take this brick, and I’ll try to pry out the others.”
Within ten minutes, I had handed up enough bricks to make a knee-high pile.
“You do realize we’re practically destroying Mrs. Covington’s well,” Florence said uneasily. “How will we ever explain this?”
“I can put the bricks back again,” I assured her. “They were meant to come out, so they must be meant to go in again. Now, hand me the flashlight.”
Balancing myself precariously on the ladder, I directed the light through the opening I had created. A long narrow tunnel which I judged to be about five feet below the ground extended as far as I could see.
“I’m going to try to get in there,” I called to Florence. “Toss me a life preserver if I fail.”
I swung my feet from the ladder to the ledge. Retaining a hold on the ropes, I edged myself backward into the hole.
“It’s much easier than it looks,” I called up to Flo. “Come down, if you want to explore.”
Florence hesitated, and then climbed down into the well. I helped her from the ladder into the tunnel.
“I think this leads to the house,” I told Flo. “I know lots of these old places had escapes, but I never heard of a tunnel opening into a well.”
The bricked passageway was so low that for the first twelve feet we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees. Gradually, the tunnel deepened until we were able to walk in a stooped position.
The tunnel abruptly ended in front of a heavy door which looked to be at least as old as the house. It did not move easily, but together Florence and I were able to swing it open.
“Where in the world are we now?” Florence asked.
I directed the flashlight beam ahead to a series of four steps which led down from the tunnel into an empty room which was barely six feet across. So far as I could see, it had no exit.
“It looks as if we’re at the end of the trail,” said Florence. She sounded relieved that we would not be able to continue further.
“This must be part of Roseacres.” I descended the steps into the tiny room.
“But there’s no way out of it except through the tunnel.”
“There must be if we can find it,” I insisted.
I began to explore the walls, and Florence followed my example. Our search was soon rewarded. I discovered a small brass knob embedded in the rough board paneling. I pulled on it, and a section of wall slid back.
“Now we really are in Roseacres! The basement, I think.”
We silently stepped through the opening and tiptoed around the dark, damp room. The walls had been boarded over, but there was no solid foundation beneath our feet, only a hard dirt floor. A steep stairway led up from the basement.
“Do you suppose Mrs. Covington is at home?” I whispered.
There was no sound from above.
“Shall we go upstairs, or back the way we came?” I asked Flo.
“Let’s risk being caught,” Florence decided after a moment’s hesitation. “I’d rather be sent to jail for housebreaking than to climb into that well again.”
We crept up the stairway. The landing was blocked by another door. I tested it, and finding it unlocked, pushed it gently open. Again, we listened.
“The coast is clear,” Florence whispered. “I’m sure Mrs. Covington isn’t here.”
I stepped across the threshold, tense with anticipation. Ever since Mrs. Covington’s return to Roseacres, I had longed to see the interior of the grand old mansion. And now, through a strange quirk of adventure, my ambition was to be gratified.
I allowed the flashlight beam to play over the walls of the large high-ceilinged room. The walls were bare, although there were darker rectangles on the faded wallpaper showing where pictures must have once hung. Systematically, I continued to move the light about in search of furniture. So far as I could see, there was none.
“How very odd that the room is empty,” Florence whispered at my elbow.
The floorboards squeaked beneath our weight as we tiptoed to a doorway opening into a still larger room with a beautiful circular stairway ascending to the second floor.
“This must be one of the parlors,” I said.
“But where is the furniture?”
My flash cut squares across the room, but the only furnishings were a wobbly-looking chair with horsehair peeking out of the cushions and a cheap, rickety table drawn up close to the fireplace.
“Why is the house empty?” Florence asked in a whisper.
“Perhaps she’s moved all the furniture to another floor,” I suggested. “Maybe she intends to have the place repapered soon. It certainly needs it.”
Flo did not answer. There was a shuffling of feet on the front porch. We froze against the wall. Before we could retreat to the basement stairs, the living room door opened. Light from the porch lamp spilled in across the bare floor.
Mrs. Covington stood framed in the doorway. We had made no sound, yet the mistress of Roseacres seemed to sense that she was not alone.
“Who is it?” she called sharply. “Speak up! Who is hiding here?”
Chapter Seventeen
My voice shook as I acknowledged our presence in the dark room. I had no excuse for housebreaking.
Mrs. Covington struck a match and lit three half-burned candles which were set in a huge glass candelabra mounted to the wall.
“Oh, so it’s you!” she exclaimed as the flickering light fell upon our faces. “May I ask why you have broken into my house?”
“We’re thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, Mrs. Covington,” I said.
“Indeed, we are,” added Florence. “When we started to investigate the wishing well, we didn’t intend to enter the house.”
“Suppose you explain,” suggested the mis
tress of Roseacres.
“It’s a long story. May we sit down somewhere?”
The request embarrassed Mrs. Covington. She hesitated and then indicated that we were to follow her. She led us through another empty room to the kitchen where she lit another candle. Its soft illumination revealed an old oil stove, a couple of chairs, a porcelain table and a cot which obviously served both as a couch and bed.
Mrs. Covington offered no explanation or apology. She took wood from a box, piled it into the fireplace, and soon had a cheerful blaze on the hearth.
Flo and I drew our chairs up to the fire and explained how we had come to enter the old mansion. Mrs. Covington listened attentively to our story but did not appear especially surprised.
“I’ve always known about that old tunnel,” she said when we had finished. “It was built by the first owner of this house, many, many years ago, and I doubt if it ever was used. I tried to find the entrance from the basement a few days ago but was unable to locate it.”
“We saw you with your lantern at the wishing well,” Florence confessed. “That was what aroused our curiosity.”
“I was looking for the other tunnel entrance. I found it without much trouble, but it was so deep down in the well that I dared not risk trying to get into it. I’m no spring chicken, and I have no desire to break my neck. Although I considered hiring a man, I hesitated, because I knew it would cause talk. I suppose you think me an odd old woman. Perhaps I am, but I have a very good reason for some of the things I do. I came to Greenville to search for something which has been lost many years.”
“What are you searching for?” Florence asked.
“Something secreted by my sister, Virginia. Since you girls already have learned so much, I will tell you all. Perhaps you have heard of the Covington pearls?”
We shook our heads.
“I forget that you are so very young,” Mrs. Covington said. “Your mothers would remember. At any rate, the necklace was handed down in our family for many generations, always to the daughter who was the first to marry. Virginia, my younger sister, dreamed that the pearls would go to her. Naturally, I hoped they would come to me instead. As it came about, I was the first of the family to marry.”
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