“My cameo pin!” she cried. “Oh, Jane, it slipped from my dress and now it’s gone!”
CHAPTER 15
In dismay, we watched the trinket settle slowly to the bottom of the pool.
“Oh, my beautiful pin,” moaned Florence. “Aunt Lucinda gave it to me for my birthday. I wouldn’t have lost it for anything in the world.”
“I guess it was my fault,” I admitted.
“No, it wasn’t. I must have been careless about fastening the clasp. When I leaned over, it slipped off. Well, it’s gone, and that’s that.”
The cameo pin had fallen into the deepest part of the pool, not far from where the alligator lay. I could not see its final resting place because of the lily pads and plants which cluttered the water.
“If that old alligator would just behave himself we could wade in and get it easily,” I said.
“Fancy trying it!”
“I’m afraid he would take special delight in snapping off an arm or a leg. And we don’t dare ask anyone to help us get the pin, or we’ll be ejected from the grounds as trespassers.”
“We may as well forget about it, Jane. Come along, this place is giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
“No, wait, Florence. We might be able to fish it out with a stick.”
“I don’t think we’d have a chance.”
“I won’t do any harm to try.”
I searched the woods until I found a long slender tree branch with a curve at the end. I leaned out over the high concrete rim at the edge of the pool as I prodded for the pin.
“I can touch it all right! I’ll pull it over to the side.”
“Be careful you don’t tumble in,” Florence warned, as she clung to my waist. “If you should lose your balance—”
I hooked the cameo pin in the curve of the stick and began raising it inch by inch up the side of the pool.
“If I can get it up high enough reach down and snatch it,” I said. “Oh, bother, there it goes!”
The pin had slipped away from the stick and settled once more on the bottom of the pool.
“You can’t get it, Jane,” Florence insisted. “You’re making the alligator all excited by prodding around.”
“I don’t care about him. He can’t get out. I’ll try once more if I can locate the pin. It seems to be hiding from me now.”
The water was so disturbed that I could see neither the pin nor the bottom of the pool. I waited several minutes for the silt to settle.
“There it is!” I said. “It moved over quite a way to the right.”
“Oh, let the pin go,” Flo said.
“No, I think I can get it. Look, there seems to be something else on the bottom of the pool.”
“Where?”
I pointed. Flo still could not distinguish anything until I parted the lily pads with my stick.
“Yes, I do see something now,” Florence said. “What can it be?”
“Doesn’t it look like a metal ring?” I asked.
I had suddenly lost all interest in the cameo pin.
“Yes, it does. Someone probably threw it into the pool.”
“But it looks to me as if it’s attached to the bottom of the tank, embedded in the cement,” I said. I bent closer to the water, trying to see.
“Be careful,” Florence warned nervously. “That alligator might come up and snap off your nose.”
I ignored her and leaned even further out over the pool to prod the ring with my stick.
“It is attached! Florence, do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“It’s the ring of a trapdoor!”
“A trapdoor!”
“You can see for yourself that it’s an iron ring.”
“It does look a little like one from here,” Florence admitted. “But whoever heard of a trapdoor in a lily pool? Only you would even think of such a thing. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Does anything on this estate make sense?”
“The ring might have something to do with draining the pool,” Florence said without replying to my question. “I suppose a section of the pool could be lifted up and removed. But I’d never call it a trapdoor.”
“I wish we could tell for sure what it is. Maybe the alligator has a room down under the pool where he spends his winters!”
“You’re simply filled with ideas today,” Florence said. “What about my pin? Shall we let it go?”
Reminded of my original task, I set to work once more, trying to draw the cameo to the edge of the tank. I was so deeply engrossed that I jumped as Flo touched my arm.
“Listen, Jane, I think someone is coming!”
From the path at the right we heard approaching footsteps and the murmur of voices.
I struggled to my feet, dropping the stick.
“We mustn’t be caught here,” I whispered.
Scarcely had we secreted ourselves in the shrubbery directly behind the pool, when Cybil Furstenberg and the head gardener arrived in the clearing. They seated themselves on a bench not far from where Flo and I hid in the bushes.
“I had to talk with you,” Cybil said to the old man. “The police came this morning and asked so many questions. Mother put them off, but they’ll be back again.”
“They didn’t learn about the alligator?” the gardener asked.
“No, they came here, but only stayed a few minutes. I don’t think they noticed anything wrong.”
“Then that’s all right.”
“Their investigation is only beginning,” Cybil said. “Mother and I both believe it would be wise to get rid of the alligator.”
“Wise, but not easy,” the gardener replied.
“You’ll see what you can do about it?”
“Yes. I’ll try to get rid of him.”
“Then I guess that’s all,” Cybil said, but she made no move to leave.
She sat staring moodily at the pool.
“Anything else on your mind?” asked the gardener.
“I—I wanted to ask you something, but I scarcely know how.”
The gardener waited, watching the girl’s face.
“You never liked Thomas Atwood,” she began nervously.
“What are you driving at?” the man demanded. “You’re not trying to hint that I had anything to do with Thomas Atwood’s disappearance?”
The two stared at each other, but Cybil’s gaze was the first to fall.
“No, no, of course not,” she said.
“I don’t know any more about his disappearance than you do,” the gardener told her. “I didn’t even see him on the day of the wedding.”
“But he came here. The wedding ring was found near the pool. Surely, you must have at least heard something. I know you were in this part of the garden.”
“Well, I didn’t hear anything,” the man said sullenly. “The only people I saw were that newspaper photographer and the young woman who accompanied him.”
“Please don’t take offense,” Miss Furstenberg murmured, getting up from the bench. “I’ve been terribly upset these past few days.”
She walked slowly to the edge of the pool. There she stopped short, staring down at an object which lay on the flagstones at her feet. It was the stick which I had dropped only a moment before.
“What have you found?” the gardener asked.
He took the damp stick from Cybil’s hand.
“Someone has been here prying around,” he said. “This was used to investigate the water in the pool.”
“And whoever it was must be close by, even now,” Cybil said. “Otherwise the stick would have dried out in the sun.”
“You go back to the house,” the man commanded. “I’ll look around.”
Florence and I looked at each other and wordlessly made a swift retreat toward the river.
CHAPTER 16
We heard no movement behind us as we darted down the path. I dared to hope that we had eluded the old gardener. Then, as we came within sight of the river, Florence stumbled over a vine.
Although she stifled her outcry, the dull thud of her body against the ground seemed to reverberate through the forest. A black crow on the lower limb of an oak tree cawed in protest before he flew away.
I pulled Florence to her feet, and we went on as fast as we could, but I knew the sound had betrayed us. Now I could hear the gardener in hot pursuit, his heavy shoes pounding on the hard, dry path.
We reached the river bank and looked about for the boat. I had instructed the boy to wait on the opposite shore, and he had followed my instructions. I gestured frantically, but the boy did not understand the need for haste. He picked up his oars and rowed toward us at a very deliberate pace.
“Oh, he’ll never get here in time,” Florence said. “Shall we hide?”
“That’s all we can do.”
But we had waited too long to conceal ourselves. Before we could dodge into the deeper thicket, the gardener reached the clearing.
“So, it’s you again!” he glared at me.
“Please, we didn’t mean any harm. We can explain—”
“This stick is explanation enough for me!” the man shouted, waving it above his head. “You were trying to find out about the lily pool!”
“We were only trying to get a pin which I dropped into the water,” Florence said, backing a step away.
“I don’t believe you!” the gardener snapped. “You can’t fool me! I know why you came here, and you’ll pay for your folly! You’ll never take the secret away with you!”
The gardener hurled himself toward us and seized my arm, giving it a cruel twist.
“You’re coming along with me,” he announced.
“Let me go!” I shouted.
“You’re going with me to the house. You’ve been altogether too prying. Now you’ll pay the price, both of you.”
The gardener was no match for both of us. As he tried to seize Florence by the arm, I twisted free.
I grasped the man’s felt hat, jammed it hard down on his head, obscuring his view. While he was trying to pull it off, Florence also wriggled free from his grasp.
Flo and I ran to the water’s edge. The boy and his boat had drawn close to shore. Without waiting for him to beach the boat, we waded out over our shoe tops and climbed aboard.
“Don’t either of you ever come here again!” the gardener yelled after us. “If you do—”
The rest of the threat was carried away by the wind.
“What’s the matter with that man, anyhow?” asked the boy who rowed the boat. “Didn’t he want you on the estate?”
“On the contrary, he invited us to remain, and we declined.” I grinned. “Just temperament, that’s all. He can’t make up his mind which way he would like to have it.”
I busied myself pouring water from my sodden shoes and trying to decide if they were a total loss. Hopefully, Mrs. Timms would be able to work her magic and restore them to their former glory—or at least to minimally respectable appearance.
The visit to the estate had not turned out at all as I had planned. I had failed to talk with Miss Furstenberg, and it was certain that from now on servants would keep a much closer watch for intruders. The only useful information I had gleaned resulted from overhearing the conversation between Cybil Furstenberg and the gardener. Miss Furstenberg talked with him as if they were well acquainted. She must have thought he knew more about Thomas Atwood’s disappearance than he would tell. She also seemed to be afraid that the police would ask too many questions. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have suggested getting rid of the alligator.
The boat reached shore, and we stepped out on the muddy bank.
“Will you need me again?” the boy asked.
“I may,” I said, “but I can’t tell you exactly when. Where do you keep your boat?”
“Up the river just beyond that crooked maple tree. I hide it in the bushes, and I keep the oars inside a hollow log close by. You won’t have any trouble finding it.”
We said goodbye to the lad and scrambled up the bank.
“I’m sure I’ll not be going back to that place,” Flo said. “I just wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t broken away.”
“We might have been locked up in the stone tower. Then another one of my theories would have proven itself.”
“Oh, you and your theories! You can’t make me believe that gardener didn’t mean to harm us. He is a very sinister character.”
“Sinister is a strong word, Flo. But I’ll agree he’s not any ordinary gardener. Either he’s been hired by the Furstenberg family for a very special purpose, or else he’s gained their confidence and means to bend them to his own ends.”
“His own ends! Why, Jane, what do you mean? Have you learned something you haven’t told me?”
“Only this. I’m satisfied Old Peter is no gardener. He’s wearing a disguise.”
“Well, what won’t you think of next! You’ve been reading too many detective stories, Jane Carter.”
“Have I? Then there’s no need to tell you—”
“Yes, there is,” Florence cut in. “Your ideas are pretty imaginative, but I like to hear them anyway.”
“Considerate of you, old thing. You don’t deserve to be told after that crack, but I’ll do it anyhow. When I pulled the gardener’s hat down over his eyes, I felt something slip! He wore a wig,” I said. “That’s why he looked so startled when I jerked the hat.”
“Did you actually see a wig?”
“No, but he must have had one on his head. I felt it give, I tell you.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past that fellow. But if he isn’t a gardener, then who or what is he?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to do some intensive investigation.”
“Just how, may I ask?”
I gazed speculatively toward the drawbridge, noting that the old watchman had been deserted by the group of reporters. He sat alone, legs crossed, his camp stool propped against the side of the gearhouse.
“Let’s talk with him, Flo. He might be able to tell us something about the different employees of the estate.”
We walked over to where the old man sat, greeting him with our most pleasant smiles.
“Good morning,” I said.
The old man finished lighting his pipe before he deigned to notice us.
“Good morning,” I repeated.
“Mornin’,” said the watchman and went back to smoking.
“We’re just out for a hike,” I said. “We get tired of all the ordinary places, so we thought we would walk by here.”
“We’re interested in your bridge,” added Florence. “We just love bridges.”
“This one ain’t so good, anymore,” the old man said disparagingly.
“Doesn’t it get lonely here?” ventured Florence. “Sitting here all day long?”
“It did at first, Miss. But I got used to it. Anyway, it beats leanin’ on a shovel for the gov’ment. I got a little garden over yonder a ways. You ought to see my tomatoes. Them Ponderosas is as big as a plate.”
“Do you ever operate the bridge?” Florence asked.
“Oh, sure, Miss. That’s what I’m here for. But it ain’t safe for nothin’ heavier than a passenger car.”
“I’d love to see the bridge lowered.” Florence stared curiously up at the tall cantilevers which pointed skyward. “When will you do it next time, Mr.—?”
“Davis, if you please, Miss. Thorny Davis they calls me. My real name’s Thorndyke.”
The old man pulled a large, silver watch from his pocket and consulted it.
“In about ten minutes now, Mrs. Furstenberg will be comin’ back from town. Then we’ll make the old hinge bend down agin’.”
“Let’s wait,” said Florence.
Thorny did not object when I peeped through the half-open door and into the gear house. Inside was a maze of machinery—an electric motor and several long hand-levers.
Thorny Davis listened intently like an old fox who had picked up the distant baying of the pack.
“That’s her car a-comin’ now,” he said. “I can tell by the sound of the engine. Well, I reckon I might as well let ’er down.”
Thorny arose and knocked the ashes from his corn-cob pipe. He opened the door of the gear house and stepped inside.
“May I see how you do it?” I asked. “I always was interested in machinery.”
“The women will be runnin’ locomotives next,” Thorny complained. “All right, come on in.”
The old watchman pulled a lever on the starting rheostat of the motor which responded with a sudden jar and then a low purr. It increased its speed as he pushed the lever all the way over.
“Now the power’s on. The next thing is to drop ’er.”
Thorny grasped one of the long hand-levers and gently eased it forward. There was a grind of gears engaging, and the bridge slowly crept down out of the sky.
I did not miss a single move. I noted just which levers the watchman pulled and in what order. When the platform of the bridge was on an even keel, I saw him cut off the motor and throw all the levers back into their original positions.
“Think you could do ’er by yourself now?” Thorny asked.
“Yes, I believe I could,” I said.
The old watchman smiled as he stepped to the deck of the bridge.
“It ain’t so easy as it looks,” he told me. “Well, here comes the Missuz now, and we’re all ready for her. Last time she came along, I was weedin’ out my corn patch, and was she madder than a wet hen.”
As the black limousine rolled up to the drawbridge, I ducked behind the open door of the gearhouse, so that Mrs. Furstenberg would not recognize me. I needn’t have bothered with subterfuge, for when I peeked around the door I saw that the lady gazed neither to the right nor the left. The car crept forward at a snail’s pace, causing the steel structure to shiver and shake as if from an attack of ague.
“Dear me, I think this bridge is positively dangerous,” Florence declared. “I shouldn’t like to drive over it myself.”
As the old watchman again raised the cantilevers, I studied his every move.
“For a woman, you’re sure mighty interested in machinery,” he remarked.
“Oh, I may grow up to be a bridgeman, some day,” I said, “that is, if I don’t decide to drive a locomotive. I notice you keep the gear house locked part of the time.”
The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Page 9