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

by Alice Simpson

  “Then you received the necklace?”

  “It should have gone to me, but my sister was determined I never should win such a victory over her. In a fit of rage, she hid the pearls. Father tried to force her to tell what she had done with them, but she was very headstrong. She ran away from home, married a scamp, and sailed with him to South America. She died there less than two years after my own marriage.”

  “What became of the pearls?” I asked.

  “Our family believed that she took the necklace with her. For many years we assumed that Virginia’s worthless husband had obtained possession of it and sold it. He denied any knowledge of the pearls, but we never accepted his story as true. Then, a few weeks ago, a letter came from South America. It had been written by Virginia’s husband shortly before his death.”

  “He confessed to the theft of the necklace?”

  “No, indeed. He merely enclosed a letter written by Virginia years before. It was addressed to me and had never been sent because her husband deliberately withheld it. Just selfish and cantankerous, that man was. The letter told where the pearls had been hidden. I imagine that Virginia’s husband had planned to gain possession of them someday, but fate defeated him. So, on his deathbed, he sent me the original letter which I should have received forty years earlier.”

  “Where were the pearls hidden?” Florence asked. “You haven’t found them yet?”

  “No, and I doubt that I ever shall.” Mrs. Covington sighed. “Virginia’s letter was not very definite. She begged my forgiveness for having caused so much trouble and said that she had hidden the necklace near the old wishing well.”

  “Didn’t she tell you where?”

  “There were several words which had been blotted out. I suspect Virginia’s husband did it to prevent anyone but himself from learning the exact location of the pearls. I imagine he intended to come back here someday and take the pearls for himself. By the time he finally sent the letter on to me, he may have forgotten what he had done. That’s only my guess, of course. As the letter reads, my only clue is that the pearls were hidden near the wishing well.”

  “That explains why you were removing the flagstones the other night,” I said.

  “Yes, I’ve searched everywhere I can think of except in the old tunnel. When you girls went through it tonight, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “No hiding place,” I told Mrs. Covington. “Of course, we weren’t looking for anything of the sort. If we could explore the passageway by daylight—”

  “Can’t we help you find the pearls, Mrs. Covington?” Florence interrupted. “It would be such fun searching for them.”

  “I’ll be very happy to have your help,” the old lady smiled. It appeared we had been forgiven for our grievous breach of both basic civility and the law of the land. “Upon one condition. You must tell no one. Already I am the laughingstock of Greenville, and if this latest story should get around everyone would talk.”

  Flo and I both vigorously assured her that we would tell no one about the pearls.

  “Another thing—” Mrs. Covington hesitated and then went on. “I suppose you understand now why I never invited you into the house. It wasn’t that I meant to be inhospitable.”

  “Because the place isn’t fixed up?” Florence came to her aid. “Why, Jane and I would have thought nothing of it. This is a cozy kitchen with a cheerful fire. I think it’s nice.”

  “I probably shan’t be here long. My purpose in returning to Greenville was to find the pearls. I’ve nearly made up my mind that they are lost forever.”

  “Oh, don’t say that! Tomorrow, with your permission, Florence and I will explore the tunnel. We may have luck in finding the pearls.”

  “I shall be very glad to have your help, my dear. But please, I beg of you, don’t tell anyone what you have seen tonight, particularly the barren state of this house.”

  “We understand,” I said.

  The fire had burned low. We promised to return the following day and bade Mrs. Covington goodbye. Once outside the mansion, we paused beside a tree so that I might remove the heavy coveralls which I still wore over my frock.

  “What a night!” I said to Flo.

  “For once, Jane, one of your crazy adventures turned out beautifully,” Florence said. “We’ll have a wonderful time searching for that necklace. She certainly is odd, though.”

  “Mrs. Covington?”

  “Yes, imagine being so sensitive about how the interior of your house looks. Who would expect it to be fixed up nicely after standing empty so many years?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked as I hopped on one foot in an attempt to extricate the other from the coveralls.

  “Forgetting what?” Florence asked.

  “Remember that first day we peeped into the house through the window?”

  “Why, yes, what about it?”

  “Your memory isn’t very good, Florence. Don’t you remember the sheet-draped furniture we saw?”

  “That’s right. I had forgotten. What do you think became of it?”

  “If I had just one guess, I’d say—Mr. Butterworth.”

  “Who is Mr. Butterworth?”

  “A second-hand dealer who buys old furniture, newspapers, rubber tires—practically everything except old milk bottles.”

  “Not that funny-looking man we saw enter this house the other day.”

  “The same. It’s my guess that Mrs. Covington sold all of her valuable antiques—probably for a fraction of their true worth.”

  “How foolish of her. Why would she do that?”

  “There can be but one explanation. Mrs. Covington isn’t wealthy anymore. She’s living in dire poverty and desperate to keep people from discovering the truth.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The realization that likely Mrs. Covington had sold her valuable antiques to the second-hand dealer was as disconcerting to Florence as it was to me. I did not believe that Mr. Butterworth would pay even a fractional part of the furniture’s true value, and, apparently, the widow’s only reason for parting with her treasures was an urgent need for money.

  “Of course, I may have guessed wrong about it,” I admitted as Florence and I started toward home. “Just to check up, I’ll call at Mr. Butterworth’s shop tomorrow and see what I can learn.”

  “I wish we dared tell someone about the condition of the house,” Florence said. “If Mrs. Covington really is in need—"

  “We gave our solemn promise not to reveal anything we saw. For the time being, our hands are tied. We mustn’t tell anyone what we have learned.”

  The next day, Florence and I met downtown.

  “I have the address of Mr. Butterworth’s shop,” I told Flo. “It’s not far from here.”

  The building proved to be a typical second-hand store with old tables and chairs piled in the windows along with cut glass and bric-a-brac. Once inside, we wandered about until the shop girl asked us if we were searching for anything in particular.

  “I’m interested in furniture,” I explained. “Old pieces—antiques if we can find them.”

  “Come into the back room,” the girl said. “Mr. Butterworth bought a number of very fine pieces just a few days ago. From one of Greenville’s best homes, too.”

  “Where was that?” Florence asked.

  “I didn’t hear him mention the name. It was from a house that has been closed up for many years. The owner returned only a short time ago and is clearing out everything in anticipation of selling.”

  I did not doubt that the furniture under discussion had been obtained from Roseacres. I was certain of it when I saw the rosewood and mahogany chairs, imported mirrors, porcelain ornaments, massive four-poster beds, sofas with damaged coverings, and handsome chests and bureaus. I ventured to price a few of the items. The amount asked was so low that I knew Mr. Butterworth must have paid an extremely small sum to the widow. I made an excuse for not purchasing, and Florence and I escaped to the street.

 
; “There’s no question about it,” I said as we set off for Roseacres. “Mrs. Covington sold all her beautiful things to Mr. Butterworth.”

  “He can’t have appreciated their value, or he never would offer them at such low prices,” Florence added. “Anyone who buys those things will obtain wonderful bargains.”

  “Don’t let on to Mrs. Covington that we’ve learned about the furniture,” I warned Flo as we neared Roseacres. “It’s really none of our affair if she sells her belongings.”

  Mrs. Covington had been expecting us and had everything in readiness to explore the tunnel. While we searched it from end to end, she waited hopefully at the wishing well.

  “Have you found anything?” she called several times.

  “Not yet,” I would reply each time.

  Florence and I laboriously examined every inch of the bricked passageway, but with fading hope. The walls were firm, giving no indication that anything ever had been hidden behind or within them. To have excavated the hard-packed dirt flooring was a task not to be considered without the aid of sharp shovels or a team of strong men or, preferably, both.

  “I think there’s nothing here,” I whispered to Flo. “I doubt that the pearls ever were hidden in this tunnel.”

  “Mrs. Covington will be terribly disappointed. What shall we tell her?”

  “We can pretend to keep on searching. Maybe if we prowl about this place for a few days, we’ll have luck.”

  “The pearls were hidden near the wishing well. We have that much to go on.”

  “They may have disappeared years ago. Someone might have stolen them, or they could have been crushed by shifting soil and stone. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel very hopeful about ever finding them.”

  We emerged into the basement. We were preparing to climb the stairs to the first floor when Mrs. Covington’s voice reached our ears almost as plainly as if she were in the cellar.

  “Florence! Jane! Are you all right?”

  Startled by the clearness of the call, I paused on the stairway.

  “Her voice came through as plainly as if she were in this room,” Florence said. “You don’t suppose Mrs. Covington has ventured into the passageway?”

  Thoroughly alarmed, we raced up the stairway and out of the house into the yard. To our relief we saw that Mrs. Covington was standing by the wishing well, peering anxiously down.

  “Oh, here you are,” she said as we hurried up to her. “I was beginning to get worried. The last time I called you did not answer.”

  “We were down in the basement,” I explained. “Mrs. Covington, your voice came through to us as plainly as if you were in the passage.”

  “I’ve always known that sound carried from the well to the house,” Mrs. Covington said. “In fact, in past years I found it amusing to listen to conversations carried on by persons who never dreamed that their words were overheard.”

  “Then that explains why so many wishes which were made here at the well came true,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You were the Good Fairy behind it all.”

  “Now and then, if it pleased my fancy, I arranged to have a wish granted,” Mrs. Covington acknowledged, smiling grimly. “That was in the days when I had money—” she broke off and ended— “more than I have now, I mean.”

  “Mrs. Covington, you must have heard those wishes we made the day of your return to Greenville,” Jane said after a moment. “Were you responsible for sending a basket of food to Abigail’s people?”

  “I am afraid I was.”

  “And did you grant Abigail’s second wish?” Florence asked. “Did you have anything to do with getting her brother, Ted, a job?”

  “Judge Harlan is an old friend of mine,” Mrs. Covington explained. “I merely wrote him a note suggesting that he would do me a great favor by helping the boy if he found him worthy.”

  Although Mrs. Covington’s admission cleared up much of the mystery which had surrounded the old wishing well, I was dumbfounded, nevertheless. Never once had anyone in Greenville connected Mrs. Covington with any particularly charitable deed.

  As if guessing my thoughts, the woman said sharply: “Now mind, I’ll not have you telling this around the town. I’m through with all such silly business, and I don’t propose to have busybodies discuss whether or not I am addle-brained.”

  “Why, Mrs. Covington,” protested Florence. “It was a kind, generous thing to do. Surely, doing good deeds is beyond reproach.”

  “Generous? Fiddlesticks! I did it because it pleased me and for no other reason. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  Mrs. Covington then questioned us at length about our exploration of the tunnel. Her disappointment over the failure to find the pearls was keen, but she tried not to show it.

  “I knew it was a fool’s errand coming to Greenville to look for that stupid necklace,” she said. “Like as not, it never was hidden at Roseacres, my sister’s letter to the contrary. She always was a liar, even when we very young. I intend to forget about the whole affair.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Covington, don’t give up so soon,” I said. “Florence and I have only just started to search. We may find it yet.”

  “You’ve been very kind. I’ll remember it always when I am far away.”

  “Then you intend to leave Greenville?”

  “I must sell Roseacres. I have no other course open to me.”

  “Not to George Roth, I hope!” I said.

  “I have no intention of dealing with him if anyone else will make an offer, but so far, I have found no other person who is interested in the property.”

  Mrs. Covington drew a deep sigh and, without much enthusiasm, invited us to come with her into the house. We tactfully declined.

  “We’ll come again tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” I said as Florence and I turned to leave.

  “Do,” replied Mrs. Covington. “We might make one last final search for the pearls.”

  En route to Greenville, we talked over the situation and agreed that the prospect of finding the necklace was a slim one.

  “I am sure if she had money, she would remain here,” Florence said. “And it will nearly kill her if she is forced to deal with George Roth. She heartily dislikes the fellow, and I don’t blame her one bit.”

  I left Flo in the business section of Greenville to do some shopping for her mother and drove on to the Examiner office. My father, who had taken the bus to work, was ready to leave for home, so I offered to convey him there in Bouncing Betsy.

  “Anything new about George Roth and those stones he hopes to sell to the Historical Society?” I inquired absently as Old Bets rattled along the congested streets.

  “Nothing you haven’t heard already,” Dad told me. “Roth expects to make the sale and probably will. The museum people have put themselves on record as saying that the stones bear authentic writing.”

  “Then it appears that your original hunch was incorrect. Too bad you played down the story in the Examiner.”

  “I may have made a mistake. All the same, I am pinning my hopes on the expert from Brimwell College.”

  “What expert, Dad?”

  “I guess I neglected to tell you. The Examiner hired Professor Anjus from Brimwell to inspect the stones. His opinion doesn’t coincide with that of the museum experts. He has pronounced them fakes.”

  “If the experts can’t agree, then how can one prove anything?”

  “It is something of a tangle,” my father admitted. “I turned that tool you obtained from Kip over to Professor Anjus. He expects to make exhaustive tests and to report to me within a few days.”

  I had not told my father how I came to possess the tool from Mr. Kip. I had not intended to steal the tool—my five-dollar bill abandoned on his workbench notwithstanding—but I was not hopeful that a jury of my peers was likely to see it that way, not unless Truman Kip confessed to his involvement in the scheme or other more compelling evidence came to light.

  We had reached the outskirts of Greenville, and I called my fathe
r’s attention to several large billboards which disfigured the side of the highway.

  “Look!” I pointed to a particularly garish poster. “A Wild West Show is coming to town next week.”

  “That’s it!” Dad said, his eyes riveted to the signboard. “The motive. I couldn’t figure it out, but now I have the clue I need. Jane, we’ll put a crimp in George Roth’s little game, or my name isn’t Anthony Fielding.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was completely mystified by my father’s statement that he’d just discovered the clue he needed to take down Mr. Roth.

  “Don’t you get it?” he asked, waving his hand toward the big signboard. “The discovery of those stones purporting to be the work of Wild Bill Hickock was perfectly timed. It’s all a publicity stunt for this coming show.”

  “How could that be? I found one of the rocks myself, and I know I wasn’t hired by any Wild West Show.”

  “It was pure luck that you stumbled into the stone, Jane. If you hadn’t, someone hired by the show would have brought it to light.”

  “But where does George Roth figure in, Dad? You don’t think he’s connected with the publicity scheme as you call it.”

  “Roth wouldn’t have sufficient imagination to pull off a stunt like that,” Dad said. “No, he may actually believe in the authenticity of the stones. At any rate, he saw an opportunity to make a little money for himself and seized it.”

  “Why should a Wild West show go to the trouble of having stones carved and planted in various fields? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The resulting publicity should draw state-wide attention to the show, Jane. It’s just the sort of idea which would appeal to a clever publicity agent. Every newspaper in Greenville except the Examiner has fallen for it, giving columns of space to the story.”

  “I still don’t see how the show will gain. Its name never has been mentioned in connection with the finding of the stones.”

  “Of course not, Jane. That would be too crude. But at the proper time, the publicity agent will twist all of the stories to his own purpose.”