A Pint of Murder

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Will you be staying on here?” he asked for the sake of starting conversation.

  “I don’t know. My mother wants me to. The place I lived before wasn’t grand enough to suit her.” Gilly tossed a pillow on the bed and slapped it viciously into place. “Mama’d be willing to let me slave eighteen hours a day so she could bring those old biddies up here to tea once a year and show them what sort of style her daughter lives in.”

  There didn’t seem to be any tactful reply Rhys could make to that, so he said nothing. They made up the rest of the beds together, then he ran the dry mop around the painted floorboards while she dusted. At last Gilly remarked, “Well, at least we’ve got these rooms looking halfway decent. I never could manage that in my little dump, no matter how hard I tried.”

  “Still you were sorry to see it go?”

  “In a way, yes. It was only a shack and the Lord knows it didn’t hold many happy memories, but that house was mine. Not like this place, which is supposed to be half mine but will always be Aunt Aggie’s as far as I’m concerned. Without my own place, I’m—floating. I felt more adrift watching that fire than I did when my husband walked out on me. Though neither of them was anything much to anchor onto,” she added with less rancor in her voice than might have been expected.

  “If it weren’t for Elmer being here—” She flushed, and began rubbing the dustcloth violently over one of her great-aunt’s mahogany side tables. Then she dropped the duster and leaned toward him, her thin fingers smudging the top she’d been working so hard to polish. “Madoc, is that why you’re here? Is it about my house?”

  He nodded. “Partly, yes.” Why was she looking so terrified? “Gilly, you know that fire was set, don’t you?”

  “I was always so careful,” she whispered.

  “Do you know who set it?”

  “No! No, I don’t. Honest, Madoc.”

  “Do you know how it was set?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything. But I’d left Bobby asleep by himself, and I know I couldn’t have—” Gilly Bascom was not the difficult sort of hysteric. She merely dropped into one of the green plush chairs and huddled there in an agony of silent suffering. Rhys was in the bathroom fetching her a tumbler of water when an enormous man and a skinny boy burst into the house and up the stairs.

  “Ma! Hey, Ma, where are you?” the boy was yelling. He had a fishing pole in his hand and almost took the Mountie’s eye out with the end of it as he raced past without noticing that a strange man was in the house. “Ma, look what I caught! Mama, what’s the matter?”

  “Gilly, what’s the matter?” echoed the young giant who must be Elmer Bain.

  “N-nothing. I was remembering about the poor g-goldfish. We’ll get some more, honey.”

  Gilly was blowing her nose on the duster, trying to laugh at her own breakdown. A good mother in spite of the hair. The child was showing her his catch of trout, not very big ones but creditable enough for a beginner.

  “Elmer taught me how to clean ’em, even. I did it all by myself. Mostly, anyhow.”

  “Thank goodness for that! Elmer, you were great to take him. Come on, let’s show Janet and ask her how to cook them. I’d hate to spoil such beautiful trout. Boy, won’t they taste good!”

  Either expecting Rhys would tag along or more likely forgetting all about him, Gilly led the others across the side yard toward the Wadmans’. The Mountie gazed after them somewhat wistfully for a moment, then shrugged and got back to work. He might never get another chance like this for an unchaperoned tour of the Mansion.

  Here was the library where Janet had discovered those papers Bain wanted, stuck in a book with a giveaway title. How could Marion Emery have missed so pointed a clue if she’d searched as thoroughly as she claimed to have done?

  Here was the kitchen where Agatha Treadway had died, and here were the cellar stairs. He went down. The basement was surprisingly bright and clean-looking for a house of this vintage. He’d have expected a floor of fieldstone or trodden dirt, but this was a whitish composition he’d never seen before. He soon realized how it had stayed so fresh-looking: The surface was flaking off on his boot soles. Another of the late inventor’s brainstorms, no doubt. Looking at the leprous blotches he’d collected, Rhys wondered more than ever why Jason Bain should lust after one of Charles Treadway’s patents.

  And here were the rows of shelves where Mrs. Treadway had kept her home-canned provender. Had he been inclined to doubt Janet Wadman’s tale of the mismatched string beans, he’d have waived disbelief now. His own mother was no slouch with a preserving kettle, but Agatha Treadway had been an expert of experts. Every jar was meticulously filled, its wire bail clamped firmly over its grooved glass lid. Every little red tongue of every rubber sealer ring stuck out bright and pert. Janet had told him Mrs. Treadway would never have been foolish enough to use the same ring twice, and clearly she hadn’t.

  He found the thirteen jars of string beans, each one with its contents unmistakably snapped in contrast to the poisonous pint that Fred Olson had so thankfully turned over to his colleagues. They’d got hold of the lab report on the pint that had killed Mrs. Treadway. The finding of botulism had been clear, but there was no statement as to whether the vegetables had been cut or broken. By now, of course, that first specimen would have been discarded and whoever did the analysis wouldn’t be able to remember. Even should the technician care to venture an opinion, which wasn’t likely, it probably wouldn’t count for much as evidence.

  If Dr. Druffitt had lived, there’d be another story. A jury would have listened to him. He’d been at the scene, he’d collected the evidence. Mrs. Treadway had been his patient and his wife’s aunt. He’d have had sound reason to recall every detail about that deadly jar. Rhys would have one clear-cut case of murder to work on, instead of two probables and no proof.

  He might be able to get an exhumation order on Henry Druffitt, though the family would surely fight him on account of the scandal, but what was the use? There was the medical certificate all in order. Dr. Brown was still reasonably compos mentis, for what that was worth. Olson said Mrs. Druffitt was home by the time Dr. Brown arrived to make his examination, and from what Rhys had heard of that courtly old gentleman, he’d be the last to notice anything that might distress a lady.

  As to that dent in Henry Druffitt’s skull, Rhys didn’t doubt that it had in fact been the wrong shape when Janet and Fred Olson felt it, but it was surely the right shape when he was buried. Either the obliging Ben Potts or the enigmatic temporary assistant Neddick would have made sure of that.

  CHAPTER 12

  RHYS HUNG AROUND TILL Gilly and her menfolk came back and gave him a halfhearted invitation to join the fishfry, then he politely declined. He had other fish to fry. A Mountie’s lot is sometimes not a happy one. He had no intention of denying himself such fringe benefits as came his way, such as a chance to look at Janet Wadman while he ate.

  Like any good housewife, Janet was profuse in her apologies as she set a feast before him. “I’m sorry it’s such slim pickings around here tonight. I just can’t seem to think straight, much less cook right. Dot Fewter never did come back. She’s going to stay down with Mrs. Druffitt tonight. I suppose the poor woman’s afraid to sleep in the house alone. At least Dot’s better than nobody.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Rhys. “This food is delicious, Janet, and I shall help you with the dishes. Where’s your brother? Doesn’t he want to eat with me?”

  “He was too excited to eat with anybody. Mama Dupree—that’s his wife’s mother—called up and said they’d just told Annabelle she could leave the hospital, so he hared right on down there without even stopping to wash his hands, much less eat his supper. It doesn’t matter, Mama Dupree will give him something. She sets a beautiful table.”

  “No better than yours, I’m sure,” said Rhys with all sincerity. “Then Bert will be bringing his wife here tonight?”

  “Oh no. Annabelle’s going to stop on with
her folks for a week or so. She wouldn’t be able to stand the ride up here yet, and she still has to see the doctor a couple more times at the hospital. I expect Bert will sleep over with them and drive back about daybreak. That’s what he usually does.”

  “Then who will do the chores tomorrow morning?”

  “Sam Neddick, I expect, if Bert’s not back in time. Sam lives right next door, you know, in the loft over Mrs. Treadway’s barn. I guess I told you that before. I do feel awful about that business with Sam. I should have warned you. We’re so used to him, I just didn’t think.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself, Janet. I only wish I knew how he does it.”

  “He’s a snoop, for one thing. Can’t you manage another spoonful, Cousin Madoc? I don’t know why I keep calling you that.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” Rhys passed his plate without further coaxing. “What are the chances of getting anything out of Sam, do you think?”

  “Slim, unless there’s something he wants you to know.”

  “You don’t surprise me. But Janet, if your brother’s going to be away all night and Dot isn’t coming, that means you’ll be here alone, unless—” Her Majesty the Queen might not care to have him pursue that line of thought much further. Anyway, Janet didn’t seem worried.

  “I’ve stayed alone at least two nights a week for the past month. One more won’t kill me, will it?”

  He sincerely hoped not. “You’re sure this was a bona fide call?”

  “What? Oh, you mean—” Janet laughed uncertainly. “No, we’ve known for the past few days the doctor was planning to release her any time. I took the call myself, and it was Mama Dupree on the line all right, and the kids were all excited, I could hear them asking when Daddy was coming, and Grand-pop Dupree was right there telling her what to say and she was shushing him the way she always does. That sort of bedlam would take a lot of faking. Besides, when I went to tell Bert, he came straight in and phoned Annabelle at the hospital to make sure, because Mama Dupree does get things twisted sometimes. She needs a hearing aid and won’t admit it. And Annabelle said yes and to come as quick as he could because she couldn’t stand being away from him and the kids one more minute than she had to. I don’t know why I’m going on like this.”

  Rhys gave her one of his shy smiles. “It’s natural enough. Would there be any more tea in the pot?”

  “I guess likely.” She smiled back, a good deal more attractively. “What were you planning to do after supper?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “I don’t know anything about detecting.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I do. Suppose for the sake of argument that I really were a visiting cousin. What would be the program then?”

  “Sit around and chin about the relatives, I suppose. Or I could show you over the farm or maybe take a walk down by the pond. It’s pretty there when the fireflies come out, provided the mosquitoes don’t join them.”

  “There’s a little breeze tonight that should help to keep the bugs down. I vote for the pond. Where is it?”

  “Straight down at the end of the road, only the road doesn’t go that far.”

  “How far goes the road go?”

  “Depends on what sort of mood Bert’s in when he’s out with the mower. Officially it stops just past our house.”

  “Then nobody lives beyond you?”

  “No. There’s never been any family on the hill except the Treadways and the Wadmans that I know of.”

  “Then who owns all the land around here?”

  “We do. Marion and Gilly will get everything from the Mansion down to the town road, and the rest is ours, pretty much. Bert’s and Annabelle’s, anyway. I’ve been meaning to sign my share over to them ever since I was twenty-one, but they keep talking me out of it. They’d like to see me come back here and settle some day, which is natural enough, I suppose. There aren’t many of us Wadmans left, and now Annabelle won’t be able to have any more.”

  She looked sad about that. Rhys changed the subject by asking, “And when were you twenty-one?”

  “Last October. I’m getting to be an old woman.”

  “That makes you about seven years younger than me, so I must be a very old man.”

  They laughed together. Seven years was a comfortable enough span between a man and a woman. Rhys wrenched his mind back to real estate.

  “Then Gilly’s and Marion’s inheritance is a sizable one. There’s considerable acreage in that parcel.”

  “Yes, but the land’s not worth much,” said Janet. “We got the best of it. Theirs is mostly ledge. That’s why the Mansion is built so close to the property line. It was the only place they could dig deep enough for a foundation. Anywhere else you’d hit rock within a foot or two. You can’t build on it, can’t farm it, couldn’t even graze anything except maybe sheep or goats.”

  “Has anyone ever tried?”

  “A contractor came over from Moncton a few years back, pestering Mrs. Treadway to sell him a strip down by the road. Now that we have the highway, Pitcherville’s not quite so far off the beaten path, and a lot of people who have buildable land are figuring to make their fortunes in a few more years. Mrs. Treadway would have sold, but after the man had done a little exploratory digging he backed off.”

  “And nobody else has come forward?”

  “I shouldn’t suppose another builder would care to get stung any more than the first one did. Madoc, are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

  “Janet, I could not be surer. Why don’t you go rest yourself in the rocking chair while I give you a demonstration of how we supersleuths wash dishes?”

  “Don’t be silly. You can dry if you want.”

  “I’ll wash and you dry, so you won’t get your bandage wet.”

  “All right. Then I can wipe off what you miss.”

  “I never miss. We Mounties always get our grease spots.”

  “Just don’t get them on your suit. Here, let me give you an apron.”

  His chosen profession had led him into many vicissitudes. Rhys supposed he could handle a ruffled lavender-checked apron. Janet was amused, and who was more entitled to a spot of innocent merriment than this dear, brave young woman who had been through so much? Than this dear, brave young woman who’d been next door when Mrs. Treadway succumbed to botulism and in the next room when Dr. Druffitt got his skull bashed in? Rhys reminded himself that Janet was as likely to be guilty as anybody else, but he wasn’t listening to himself and knew he wasn’t. He wore the apron and washed the dishes and found the experience pleasant.

  When they’d finished the task and got the kitchen tidy, Rhys untied the apron and handed it back to Janet. “Now what shall it be, relatives or fireflies?”

  “I expect you’d like the walk.”

  “If you feel up to it.”

  “Oh, I think I could stagger that far. Maybe the fresh air will do me good.”

  The sun was modestly gathering a few clouds around itself before taking the evening plunge. They strolled down the path from the house, not saying much. Over by the Mansion, Elmer and Bobby were having a game of catch. For a while they could hear shouts and laughter and the yapping of whichever dachshund wasn’t upstairs nursing her pups. Then they couldn’t hear much except wood thrushes singing their version of “The Bell Song,” and some crows having a political argument.

  The path got rougher as it began to descend. Rhys, being a loyal officer of the Queen, found it his bounden duty to give the weak and afflicted a helping hand. The weak and afflicted accepted his aid with a smile that showed a dimple he hadn’t realized she possessed. Decidedly, Janet Wadman needed a great deal more investigating. He wondered if she’d care for a rendition of “Rose Marie.” Not being Nelson Eddy, he wisely abstained, but retained possession of the afflicted’s hand as Her Majesty would naturally expect him to.

  The pond, he found, was worth coming to see. It had all the requisite panoply of peaceful waters, overhanging leafy branches, exquisite w
ater lilies clustered about picturesque snags of fallen forest giants, and even the fringe benefit of a green heron fishing in the shallows on the opposite shore. They watched the tall bird catch his supper, flip the small fish expertly down his throat, then flap off to digest his meal at leisure in some cool roost.

  “You have a nobler nature than I, Janet,” said Rhys at last. “I don’t think I could ever sign away my share of a spot like this.”

  “Neither could I,” Janet admitted. “Perhaps it’s well we don’t own it. Our land stops back there on the ridge.”

  “Then who owns the pond?”

  “It’s still part of the Treadway estate, far as I know. The Treadways were Loyalists who came up here from Boston at the time of the American Revolution. New Brunswick was formed as a Loyalist colony, as you doubtless know. Anyway, they got a big land grant at that time. Bert could probably tell you how many acres. They sold some of it off to the lumber companies over the years, and our farm to my great-grandfather when he came out here from England, but they kept title to this little strip around the pond. Great-grandfather didn’t need it, you see, because we have that other little pond out by the lower pasture for the cows to drink from, and I guess nobody else ever wanted it. The pond’s not good for much, except to look at.”

  “Don’t you ever come here to swim?”

  “Oh yes, though you have to be on the lookout for snapping turtles. Some of those old snappers could nip your toes off. But the water’s lovely, though it never warms up much. It’s fed by underground springs, you see. Oh look, there’s the first lightning bug. And,” she slapped at her bare arm, “the first mosquito.”

  Rhys didn’t want to leave, but duty compelled him to suggest, “Shall we start back before we get eaten alive?”

  The “we” was pure gallantry. The mosquitoes were ignoring him in favor of Janet’s more succulent epidermis, as what sensible bug wouldn’t?

  They climbed back to the ridge where the breeze was brisker and the mosquitoes fewer. It was impossible not to pause and look back. Dusk was deepening now, and the fireflies were putting on some impressive pyrotechnics.