King Devil

by Charlotte MacLeod

  She began to wish the ginger cat would talk more, would show her a glimpse of the kind of man he was. When Tetsy had excused herself on culinary grounds and Zilpha settled down to grilling Athelney about his family connections, she launched another onslaught.

  “Mr. Clinton, you still haven’t told me when Mr. Jenks died.”

  This time she got an answer. It was the last she could have anticipated.

  “I can’t. I don’t know.”

  “But you worked for him! Aren’t you carrying on his business?”

  The architect took a cautious sip at the strong whiskey and soda Tetsy had mixed for him and set the almost-full glass back in the exact center of a tatted doily on the tabouret beside his chair.

  “All I can tell you is that Ath and I came to the drafting room one Monday morning a little over seven years ago and he wasn’t there. We’ve never seen him since.”

  “How utterly fantastic! What did you do?”

  “Got a power of attorney and kept working.”

  “Goodness, can one do that sort of thing?”

  “We did it.”

  Clinton glanced over at Athelney, saw there was still no hope of escape, and evidently decided he might as well keep talking.

  “We were building three houses when the old man disappeared. Rather than forfeit the contracts and get the firm in dutch, we finished them. By then, Town Meeting had voted on the new schoolhouse, Jenks was low bidder, so we had to honor that commitment. One way and another, we just plugged along. Since we weren’t the legal owners, we couldn’t move the shop, which is why we’re still here where we don’t belong.”

  Clinton essayed another taste of his drink. “At least we’ve managed to build up a better reputation for honest work at fair prices than Jenks ever had when he was running the show. Now we have a chance to make it on our own.”

  “But what if Mr. Jenks should simply come strolling back one day?”

  “I wish he would.” For the first time, Clinton smiled. “He’d be out of luck, that’s all.”

  “Do you mean you wouldn’t let him have the business back?”

  “Not on your tintype! I went to work for old Jenks when I was fifteen, for one dollar a week. As soon as he found out I could handle more than a broom, he started loading more and more work on me, on the pretext of teaching me the business. I didn’t know any better, so I let him get away with it. Then we kept getting busier and Ath came in. He’d had a year at Yale College and was a little more up on things than I was. When Jenks started giving him the old snake-oil treatment, Ath complained to me. We decided we were both being taken for a buggy ride, so we took a lesson from the labor unions and went on strike.”

  “Was that Mr. Athelney’s idea?”

  “No, mine,” Clinton admitted. “Ath didn’t much like it, but he could see we’d never get anywhere without a fight. We went to Jenks and told him we’d both quit cold if he didn’t give us a fair shake. He knew he couldn’t get along without us, so he had to listen. Being Jenks, he was too mean to back down the whole way, though. Instead of giving us all we asked for, he offered to sign a will giving the business to us when he died. He thought that would keep us tied to him, you see.”

  “Then if he hadn’t vanished, you’d still be taking orders from him.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about that part of it. As it is, we’ve been kept hanging by our thumbs for seven years till we could get the old buzzard declared legally dead. I kept expecting him to show up after six years and eleven months and laugh in our faces. Jenks was like that, a petty tyrant with a mean streak a yard wide.”

  “King devil.”

  Clinton looked surprised at the words. Lavinia blushed.

  “I beg your pardon. That’s what Peter Smith calls the weeds that are growing on the original Jonah Josiah’s grave. At least I suppose … could there be any chance—”

  “Not the slightest. We thought of that ourselves, but there was unbroken snow three feet deep over the cemetery when he disappeared. Old Jenks isn’t among the king devils, though I can’t think of a better place to plant him. Look, Miss Tabard, is there any way I can pry my partner away from your aunt?”

  “Please, first tell me one more thing. Exactly when did Mr. Jenks disappear? Can you recall the date?”

  “How could I forget? The last time anybody ever laid eyes on him was January eighteenth, nineteen hundred and one.”

  The ginger cat had reached the limit of his endurance. He sprang from his chair, arching and spitting.

  “Come on, Ath. Miss Tabard didn’t invite us to spend the night.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Don’t you think Mr. Athelney is a perfect love?”

  Zilpha, looking like Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid, with a ruffled white apron protecting her gray silk brocatelle gown, was whisking oil drop by drop from a cut glass cruet into a mayonnaise for the cold lobster. Tetsy was bustling from stove to sink, doing six things at once. Lavinia hovered near the kitchen door, offering to help with the dinner and being ignored. She didn’t even get to join in singing Mr. Athelney’s praises, though when that subject was at last exhausted, Miss Mull did tackle her about Clinton.

  “What’s the runt with the orange sideburns like, Lav? You’re the only one who managed to get more than a growl out of him.”

  “Rather a rough diamond, I fancy,” tinkled Miss Tabard.

  Lavinia felt a perverse inclination to defend the ginger cat. “I found Mr. Clinton sensible and informative,” she replied firmly. “He was telling me how old Mr. Jenks disappeared seven years ago, and they’ve had to carry on the business all this time without knowing whether their employer was alive or dead. Did you know that?”

  Miss Tabard paused for one beat of the whisk, then went on beating her mayonnaise.

  “Yes, Lavvy, Tetsy and I had heard that amazing story. To be quite frank with you, we discussed Mr. Jenks’s strange disappearance at some length before you arrived and came to the conclusion that it was not something to bother you with. We feared you might find the tale a bit scary-making and we didn’t want you to be put off in any way from enjoying your summer in Dalby. So let us all put that not very agreeable Mr. Clinton and his not very pleasant conversation straight out of our minds.”

  Lavinia had never before disobeyed a direct command, but she was so fed up by now that she didn’t care what happened. “But I don’t think it’s scary at all,” she objected. “It’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard. How did you find out?”

  Miss Tabard’s lips tightened ever so slightly. “I daresay we read it in the newspapers. Mr. Jenks was rather a well-known man in his day. Uncle Oswald had got him to do some work at one time, and it was on his recommendation that I had Jenks remodel the Rye Beach place. You wouldn’t remember much about that.”

  “Not much,” Lavinia had to agree. Her chief recollections about that vast wooden barracks were of getting sick on the train both going and coming and of being forced by a spartan nursemaid to paddle barefoot in the freezing cold ocean. She’d shed no tears when her guardian decided Rye Beach was too lacking in atmosphere. The woman on the train had been right, sooner or later Zilpha’s cottages always turned out to be too something. Until she tired of Dalby, however, she would be obsessed by the place.

  “Then you knew Mr. Jenks personally,” she persisted. “Did you ever come to the Hollow while he was living here?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did, to discuss plans for Rye Beach.” Zilpha always got full value out of her architects. “Even then, though I was not considering another purchase, I could see that the Hollow had wonderful possibilities. I said, more or less playfully, that if Jenks ever decided to sell, I should like first refusal. After that, I wrote to him once or twice to remind him that I was still interested.”

  “He was a maddening old beast,” snarled Tetsy.

  Miss Tabard laughed. “He really was, Lavvy. The wretch would lead us to believe he was seriously considering my offers,
then back off at the last minute. I sometimes wondered if he was playing cat-and-mouse with me for his private amusement, although you’ll think me a dreadful woman for speaking ill of the dead.”

  She laughed again at her own wickedness. “In any event, just when I’d been crowing to Tetsy that it looked as though the transaction was at last going through, he popped out of sight and left us to cool our heels for another seven years among that appalling crowd of nouveaux riches in Newport. Now do you understand why I find Mr. Jenks a particularly tiresome subject?”

  “Yes, Zilpha.” As usual, Lavinia was reduced to feeling like a six-year-old caught robbing the jampot. “Shall I set the table?”

  “Oh, dearest, would you? Plain damask tonight, don’t you think, Tetsy?”

  Laying silver, Lavinia thought to herself that Jenks must have been a particularly tough old rooster, to have withstood Miss Tabard’s relentless badgering for so long. She well knew what her guardian could be like when she’d set her mind on something. No wonder Zilpha chose not to dwell on what must have been the closest to a defeat she’d ever encountered. No wonder she’d moved in before the renovations were fairly under way. She must have been straining like a tiger on a leash, after all those years of frustration.

  Forbidden or not, though, Lavinia was determined to hear more of this incredible tale. She’d managed to tree the ginger cat once, perhaps she could find a way to make him talk some more. That might not be easy. She couldn’t go barging into the drafting room, and the man was not likely to accept another invitation to the house even if Zilpha were to ask him, which wasn’t likely after the way he’d behaved.

  She helped Tetsy carry the food to the table and sat down to eat, preoccupied with her own musings until Zilpha called her to order.

  “You’re silent, my dear. Would you exchange a penny for your thoughts?”

  Not for millions would Lavinia have said what was in her mind just then. Panicked, she blinked, looked about her, and caught sight of the water mill across the tiny stream.

  “I was just thinking what fun it would be to explore that quaint old mill,” she lied. “Have you ladies been inside?”

  “Just to peek,” said her guardian. “It looked horribly spider-webby.”

  “Alive with water rats, I’ll wager,” Tetsy added, “and Mrs. Smith says the floor boards are rotten. She warned us against going in.”

  “I had the workmen put some of the furniture we found in the house over there until we can decide what is to be done with it,” Zilpha went on, “but I shouldn’t dream of poking about in it, myself. I’m sure we can all find more aesthetically rewarding pursuits. Now I don’t wish to hurry you ladies, but if you are quite through your desserts I suggest that we clear the table with due speed. We are running a bit late because of our amusing little party, and we must not keep Mrs. Smith waiting.”

  “Please let me do it,” said Lavinia.

  “Thank you, Lavvy.”

  Even Tetsy didn’t interfere. It was clear that she preferred to sit by the hearth with her glass of port and watch the firelight cast ruddy gleams on Zilpha’s spun-silver hair. Lavinia was astonished to watch the decanter being emptied at a rate even Jack Tabard would be hard-put to match. When had this excessive wine-drinking begun? Earlier than tonight, surely. Its effects had already begun to show up in Miss Mull’s thickened figure and overly florid complexion.

  How could an exquisite like Zilpha endure being constantly in the company of so unattractive a person? Tonight, in sharp contrast to Zilpha’s elegance, Tetsy had on a severe tailleur in a hideous shade of tobacco-spit brown, unrelieved even by a stickpin. Her grizzled hair was scraped back into a meager bun.

  It wasn’t that the companion couldn’t afford to look better, or that her social position demanded self-effacement. The Mulls were quite as respectable a family as the Tabards. Tetsy had inherited a small income of her own, on which she hardly bothered to draw the interest because Zilpha always paid for everything. She was an accomplished hairdresser and an expert seamstress; she could have a new gown and a new coiffure every month if she wished. She must look dowdy simply because she wanted to. It seemed an odd sort of thing to want.

  As she carried out a trayful of crystal, Lavinia found the jewel already working at the soapstone sink, swishing Zilpha’s bone china through a dishpan full of hot soapsuds and another of clean rinse water before setting each piece to drip on a linen tea towel. Did Mrs. Smith ever stop to wonder why three able-bodied women couldn’t manage this light task for themselves? Diffidently, Lavinia tried to begin a conversation.

  “Did your son tell you that he and I had a pleasant little chat this afternoon?”

  “That so?”

  Mrs. Smith sluiced suds off her scarlet wrists and reached for the coffee cups. Lavinia persisted.

  “I was amazed at the way he can do sums in his head. He was reeling off answers I couldn’t have done in a million years.”

  At last Jenks’s niece began to thaw. “Nobody’s ever caught him in a mistake. The schoolmaster’s tested him time and again.”

  “It’s a truly remarkable gift. I couldn’t get over how fast Peter multiplied big numbers. We were up in that little burying ground,” she made the mistake of explaining, “reading the dates off the gravestones.”

  The housekeeper’s face turned red as her hands. “I’ve told him to stay out of there. It’s not healthy, hanging around those old graves.”

  “Peter only came for a few minutes,” Lavinia pleaded, “to see what I was doing. I’d been rubbing one of the stones, and I don’t suppose he’d ever—”

  “Rubbing one of the stones? I’ve heard of people doing that to cure warts. Can’t say I’d try it, myself.”

  After that, there was nothing Lavinia could do but go and fetch her rubbing. She held her work up under the hanging oil lamp and spread it out as best she could.

  “You see, the idea is to rub blackened beeswax over your paper to make the carving show up.”

  “Umph. I used to do that with a lead pencil and a penny when I was too young to know any better. Though it wasn’t often I got my hands on a penny.”

  Mrs. Smith uttered a short bark that might have been meant for a laugh and fetched greasy pans from the stove. “Whatever would a person want of a thing like that, I wonder?”

  “My great-uncle collects them.” Lavinia was determined not to get angry. “This Mr. Jenks must have been one of your ancestors, wasn’t he?”

  “Ancestor is kind of a high-toned word for people who have to get their livings cleaning up other people’s garbage. Would you mind standing aside so I can get at the swill bucket?”

  At that, Lavinia gave up. She took the rubbing back to her room. Mrs. Smith went home, lugging the garbage to feed her pig. Rather than let the incident fester, Lavinia told the older women how she’d got her comeuppance. It made a rather amusing little anecdote. Tetsy laughed hardest.

  “She slapped you down in grand style, Lav.”

  “Mrs. Smith is a woman of character.” Zilpha took a pair of gold-handled scissors in the shape of a stork from her workbox and snipped at her petit point with the tip of the beak. “I cannot imagine how we should manage without her. Lavvy, dearest, may not we, too, see this famous rubbing?”

  “If you like, but you must promise not to look at the bottom part. I couldn’t make a good job there because a lot of stiff weeds were growing around the base of the stone. I was about to pull them up, but it turned out that Peter has them all carefully counted.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Tetsy. “I caught him one day trying to count the hairs on a cat. The beast clawed him and ran off, I’m happy to say.”

  Again Lavinia fetched her artwork, this time masking off the lower edge with a sheet of clean paper. “You’d better let me hold it for you. The lampblack smudges dreadfully.”

  Tetsy put up her pince-nez and glared. “So that’s Jonah Josiah the first. Quite a family resemblance, wouldn’t you say, Zilpha?”

  “I
think it’s mostly in the expression around the mouth,” said Miss Tabard lightly. “Lavvy, this is a real find! You must do an absolutely perfect rubbing, and we’ll have it framed for the front hall. Don’t you think that would be an excellent way of establishing the date of the house, Tetsy?”

  Lavinia didn’t wait to find out what Tetsy thought. She went back to her bedroom with the rubbing, wondering how she might camouflage that scratched-in date. There was something too vicious about those altered numerals. Perhaps Hayward Clinton had told the truth about not knowing if his former employer was alive or dead, but it looked as though somebody was very sure indeed.

  She rejoined the ladies and took up some fancy work, but her mind was on something other than French knots. Lavinia’s life had not been so sheltered that she’d never heard of murder for profit. Right in this room, tonight, she’d seen four people who gained by Jenks’s disappearance. Athelney and Clinton inherited his business. Zilpha got the house Jenks might never have sold her. Even Tetsy benefited, since her one aim in life was to see Zilpha’s every whim gratified.

  For all she knew, there might be dozens. Someone must have made a pretty penny out of the sale of his property. Who got the money Zilpha paid? Not Mrs. Smith, surely, since she had to come here and wash pots for her bread. Had he children of his own? If he was as awful as everybody claimed, she could see how greed might win out over filial piety. But who in his right mind would doom himself to a seven years’ wait by hiding the body so well that nobody knew Jenks was dead?

  Perhaps the murderer acted on impulse, then got scared. Was the motive money, or simply exasperation? Lavinia sighed in frustration.

  “Tired, Lavvy?” said Zilpha. “So am I. Country air does exhaust one during the first few weeks. I vote for an early bedtime.”

  Thankfully, Lavinia shut her workbox. “Shall I heat your milk?”

  “I’ll do it!”

  Tetsy, who had seemed to be drowsing, bounded from her chair, her florid face contorted by rage. She brushed past Lavinia, almost knocking her down.