“Can’t imagine why.”
“Where’d you go off to on leaving the golf game?” she asked.
“Into Portland, to look up an all-night seamstress.”
As we walked back to the hotel, I told her about my vigil with Nan in Portland and how we spent the night on the bench. I was hoping to ignite something resembling jealousy, but the excitement of the explosion had rendered her immune.
“Aren’t you going to ask me where I was last night?” she asked.
“Fending off the advances of that kid caddie? You should have known you were playing with fire.”
“What makes you so sure I resisted?” she asked. “But it wasn’t me who needed to do the fending. I’d gone for a late-evening stroll with Naggie when we saw Mrs. Field and close behind her Mr. Branscombe. He was obviously following her, and she seemed well aware of it. Naggie insisted we follow along, too. At the farm, Mrs. Field waited for him and immediately began flirting shamelessly. Mr. Branscombe responded in kind. Then she suggested a visit to her ‘snuggery.’ You’ll never guess what she was referring to.”
“The shack beyond the pond. Where you engineered my thrashing.”
“How’d you know that?”
“It was Mrs. Field’s plan. She figured Branscombe is the Mr. Bed in the notebook, the one who appears to meet with an assortment of young women. She would seduce Branscombe and then Ed and I would pounce when he was ‘about to get the goods.’ But I neglected to let her know I’d gone off to Portland. And apparently Ed was distracted by Annie’s wanderings.”
“Well, Naggie and I observed all. Mrs. Field led him to the shack. Then left him outside while she went in to prepare herself. We watched from the window as she looked in the wardrobe and under the bed, becoming increasingly distressed as she did so.”
“That’s where Ed and I were supposed to hide. What happened next?”
“Mr. Branscombe became impatient and tapped on the door. Mrs. Field put him off with some excuse but then he rapped more forcefully. It seemed he was determined to have his due.”
“But you stopped him before anything happened, didn’t you?”
“Why, Harry! You sound genuinely concerned. Rest assured, your lady friend saved herself by barring the door. Branscombe soon tired of the game and went away.”
“Then how is it she arrived back early this morning looking as if she’d been through a battle?”
“Naggie thought it would be amusing to maintain the siege in Branscombe’s stead. Every few minutes we pounded on the door. After about an hour of this, Mrs. Field tried to exit from one of the little windows—but only managed to wedge herself in. That’s how we left her.”
“You left her dangling from the window?” I asked.
“We planned to come back in the morning, but she must have gotten out on her own.”
“Then where did you spend the night?”
“In Naggie’s room. We ordered some of your wine and I fell asleep there.”
She was looking at me as if expecting some sort of response. “At least now I know why Mrs. Field was so angry with me,” I said.
“She’s angry because the one time her teasing was reciprocated, she had no escape. Naggie says she’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing. By the way, Harry. You never spoke with Bridget about the towel, did you?”
“I never claimed I did. I only posed the question.”
She made one her noises, one of the several I take to mean disapproval.
I went back to the hotel, where a rattled Branscombe was mollifying guests anxious to learn which amusements were safe from demolition. As per Emmie’s instructions, I told him I had been swimming and seen Richard Merrill blown to smithereens. This was not the bit of news he was hoping for. He went into his office and closed the door.
Just after I’d bathed and dressed, there was a tap at the door. It was Nan.
“I came to report a rather odd bit of news,” she said. “That man your wife came to Portland to…”
“Spawn with?”
“Yes, Mr. Leverton. He’s downstairs making inquiries into the explosion, asking about Richard Merrill and… Miss Meegs. He’s also the man I saw in the brown suit yesterday afternoon, the one watching you from the woods. I imagine he’ll be coming up to interview you, since you seem to be the only witness. Though how that’s possible when we heard the explosion together here at the hotel remains a mystery.”
“He’s worried about Miss Meegs, is he? This means I was right all along.”
“You sound surprised,” she observed.
“Only at his audacity. Well, we’ll see who does the interviewing. Do you know that old abandoned farm? Just past the casino?”
“Yes, I know it well. It was my uncle’s at one time. Now the bank owns it.”
“Do you remember the little shack just beyond the pond?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. That was our playhouse.”
“Excellent. Well, you tell this Leverton you know where I am, then lead him there. Alone. But take your time, so I can have everything ready.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Harry? I’ve not seen you like this.”
“Yes, I’m quite all right. Just don’t want to miss this opportunity. Now I must fly.”
I went down the back stairs to ensure I didn’t run into Leverton on his way up. Outside, I found Ed sitting on the grass and contemplating the ocean.
“Ed! I’m glad I found you. I need your help to lay a trap.”
“Hello, Harry. Annie asked me to leave the room. Said she sleeps better when I’m not there.”
“Forget Annie for now, Ed. We have work to do.”
“You’ve solved the arson?”
“Well, I found someone who might know something. But we may need to beat it out of him….”
“Beat it out of him?”
“Only if absolutely necessary. I don’t have time to explain.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ed and I were lying in wait in the shack. Me in the wardrobe and him under the bed. Or at least most of him under the bed. His feet stuck out the end a good foot or so, so I draped a coverlet over them.
It wasn’t long before Nan showed up with the prey and led him into the trap. I could see just enough through the crack of the wardrobe doors to recognize Leverton.
“I thought you said Reese was here?”
That was my cue to pounce. I swung open the doors and did just that. Unfortunately, I swung them with such force the wardrobe itself was knocked off balance. As I fell on Leverton, it fell on me.
On righting myself, I found Leverton knocked out cold and Ed struggling in vain to escape from under the bed. The coverlet I’d flung on his feet had worked supremely well at ensnarling them and he’d resorted to tossing the iron cot this way and that to free himself.
Nan alone seemed above the tumult. Guided by her customary thrift, she scanned the floor for the silver spilling from our various pockets, plucking up the coins like a chicken pecking seed.
I freed Ed and then he helped me put Leverton on the bed.
“Now we need to tie down his arms and legs,” I told them.
“I think perhaps a sounder course would be to fetch a doctor,” Nan suggested unhelpfully.
“He’s all right. Just shaken up enough to know we mean business.”
I found some rope and managed to tie down both arms and one leg. Then I picked up a bucket that had been placed under the hole in the roof and tossed the contents in Leverton’s face. He woke up spitting. And not without reason. There was much in that bucket that didn’t look like rain water.
“For Christ’s sake!” he shouted. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Maybe you can tell us that, Pink!” I shouted back.
“Pink?” Nan asked.
“Didn’t I tell you? He’s a Pinkerton. Reason enough to treat him rough.”
“I suppose in some circles, but I’m not sure our local authorities would count among them,” she said.
“I just want some answers. If h
e responds truthfully, we can let him go.”
“What answers?” Leverton asked.
“Well, first, why are you so desperate to meet with my wife?”
“Your wife?”
“M.E. Meegs. The pen name of my wife. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t,” he insisted. “This Meegs wrote a story about a Pinkerton detective named Leverton. A ridiculous story about rescuing immigrant girls from white slavers out on Long Island.”
“Yes, she made you the hero of the Long Island cave mystery.”
“Long Island cave mystery?” Nan asked.
“The only real mystery lying in the fact there are no caves on Long Island,” I explained. “She’s a little weak on geography.”
“Well, I’ve taken a good deal of grief on account of her damn story,” Leverton told us. “I wanted to ask her if she could offer some explanation for wanting to set me up.”
“Is that why you followed her to Portland?”
“I didn’t follow her to Portland. I came to Maine about a case of embezzlement in Westbrook.”
“But that’s several miles away,” Nan pointed out.
“I finished that a couple days ago. Then I stopped by my cousin’s. She lives in Portland. She suspected her husband was having a liaison with a young woman out here. I told her I’d look into it, then find he’s registered here as Richard Merrill and spends almost all his time in his room. And when he emerges, he’s always in the company of Miss Meegs. Miss M.E. Meegs.”
“And you’re saying that’s all just a coincidence?” I asked.
“I’m not responsible for this ludicrous plot. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to extricate myself from your family’s fiction.”
“It’s harder than you’d think,” Ed told him.
“Now I have to go tell my cousin her husband’s dead, killed while I was supposed to be watching him.”
“He’s not dead,” I said. “We put him on a street car back to Portland this morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Did you happen to see who planted the charges?”
“No, must have done it last night. I wonder what the point was?”
“Mosher thinks someone’s trying to kill him. That’s why he was out here under the false name. Didn’t your cousin tell you?”
“No, he must never have told her.”
“Did you see anyone else about this morning?”
“Just that beachcomber, the mulatto.”
“I wonder if we could untie Mr. Leverton now?” Nan inquired.
“All right, as long as he agrees to stay away from my wife.”
“Happily.”
Leverton had suffered a severe sprain during my assault, and I can’t say I wasn’t glad to have provided him this memento of our meeting. We helped him hobble to the car stop and then Nan offered to accompany him into town.
17
When we returned to the hotel, the clerk informed Ed he had a wire. It was from the insurer, anxious to hear what progress we’d made.
“Have we made any progress, Harry?”
“Of a sort, I suppose. We know May Goodwin might have identified the arsonist, or at least thought she had. And, from the clues she left in her notebook, that she was most likely blackmailing him. Therefore, we can plausibly conjecture she was killed by him, or, perhaps, someone else she was blackmailing.”
“It would be hard to explain all that in a wire.”
“Then reduce it to two words: ‘Arrest imminent.’”
“Is it?”
“Depends how broadly you define imminent.”
I left him to send his wire and went upstairs. Emmie had ordered our lunch sent to her room and during the meal I told her about our capture and interrogation of Leverton. And his reason for following Mosher.
“What an extraordinary coincidence.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Assuming he’s telling the truth.”
“Is there any reason to doubt it?”
“You’d know that better than I.”
“For god’s sake, Harry, I’ve told you repeatedly, I’ve never met him. But he must be the man I’ve seen lurking about.”
“Seems he was spying on you while you were spying on him.”
“I thought he must be the man harassing Mr. Mosher, the Mr. Well referred to in the notebook.”
“Connecting the ‘William Tell’ line with the arrow we encountered in Mosher’s office?”
“Yes. But if he isn’t Mr. Well, who is?”
“I’m not sure. Leverton mentioned seeing the beachcomber near the site of the explosion. But let’s get clear about the part you played.”
“Oh, all right. While Mr. Mosher was bathing, I was watching from the top of the cliff. I tripped over a wire and found it connected to a small bundle of explosives.”
“Where?”
“Just off the path, beside that old cottage. It looked as if someone had dropped it there. Then I followed the wire to the other end and found the detonator.”
“And then came up with the plan to fake Mosher’s death?”
“About then. When he returned from the beach, I placed the bundle of explosives near the steps, and when we were sure no one else was about…”
“You set them off.”
“Actually, Mr. Mosher insisted on doing that. He seemed very pleased with the results.”
“Why were you holding the plunger when I arrived?”
“I was moving it to a more obvious location. So it would be found. You don’t think this beachcomber set the explosives?”
“Not likely, but he may have seen something.”
“Seen our Mr. Well, perhaps,” she said. “I’ve little doubt he planted the explosives with the intent of killing Mr. Mosher. Where do we find this…?”
“Stanley Chambers. He has a shack on that beach where we had lunch with Naggie. I questioned him earlier about the arson and he wasn’t terribly forthcoming. But we might have better luck now.”
“I’ve never met a beachcomber, outside a work of fiction.”
Like me, you’re probably finding it difficult to imagine Emmie existing outside a work of fiction. But that’s not the sort of thought you share with the character in question.
We walked down the shore road to the scene of the fire, then clambered down to the beach. It was the height of the afternoon and we found Chambers napping in the shaded interior of his shack, with the door open.
“Look, Harry,” Emmie whispered.
She was pointing inside, toward the back wall of the little room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but then I saw it. A crossbow.
“Who’s there?” Chambers had woken, evidently alarmed at finding his sanctum invaded. He jumped up holding a stout club, and most likely would have landed some damaging blows had Emmie not leapt a foot skyward at his exclamation and sent us both to the ground in a confused heap.
Convinced he had the situation in hand, he helped Emmie to right herself.
“Pardon me, ma’am. But I wasn’t expecting visitors.” When I started to get up, he suggested it might be better if I remained seated.
“I do apologize,” Emmie tendered in her most angelic voice. “It was frightfully rude. But I’m afraid I’ve allowed myself to become embroiled in a nasty bit of business.”
“With him?” he asked, pointing at me.
“Him? Well, that’s another matter entirely. No, I was speaking of the dastardly murder of Richard Merrill this morning. Perhaps you heard the explosion?”
“Oh, yes. Knocked all my pretty bottles off their shelf.” He pointed to a pile of colored glass just to the right of his door.
“Oh, my. Well, I should explain. You see, I had offered to help Mr. Merrill. He knew someone was trying to kill him, and I, rather presumptuously, told him I could protect him. Alas, it was not to be.”
“No need to cry, ma’am. I saw you put the man on the trolley this morning.”
“Did you
?”
“Yes, that Mr. Mosher.”
“Oh. You must think I’m a horrible liar, but the truth is, I’m not sure who I can trust.”
“Well, then don’t trust me, ma’am. I’m a horrible liar, too.”
They shared a laugh and from then on the conversation was a good deal more convivial. He invited us inside and insisted we sit on his makeshift cot.
“That I had offered to protect Mr. Mosher is perfectly true,” Emmie told him. “You see, there really have been a number of attempts on his life.”
She told him about the bull, the dunking, and the arrow. As she did, she looked over at the crossbow. He picked it up.
“You think this shot the arrow at Mr. Mosher?” he asked.
“Well, how many crossbows does one see?”
“First one for me.”
“Do you mind if I ask where you found it?”
“I saw a dog dig it up. A funny-looking dog. Dug it out of the sand right down the way. But then he left it behind.”
Emmie described Naggie’s chow and he confirmed that was the dog.
“Knew right where it was buried. Just ran to the spot and started digging.”
“Was anyone with the dog?” she asked.
“A lady called to him from up the cliff and he ran to her. So I went and picked it up.”
“What do you plan to do with it?”
“Sell it. What I always do. If I can’t eat it, or wear it, or fix the house with it, I sell it.”
“Just how much would you be hoping for?” she asked.
“Hoping for? Ten dollars. But you can have it for five.”
“Give Mr. Chambers ten dollars, Harry.”
To his amusement, I did so. Emmie, meanwhile, was admiring the pile of glass.
“Look, Harry.”
She’d picked up a blue pharmacist’s bottle. It had a paper label and written in a rough hand was the inscription “Oil of Pennyroyal. Take as needed.”
“Where’d you find this?” I asked Chambers.
“On the beach, down from the hotel.”
“When?”
“Not yesterday. Maybe day before.”
“The day May Goodwin was found dead?”
“Maybe so.”
“Ah, how much?”
Fair Play’s a Jewel (Harry Reese Mysteries Book 5) Page 14