The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

by Robin Hathaway

  She took off her shoes and stretched out on the bed. Flipping open the bird book to “Marshland Fowl,” she began to read.

  In what seemed like five minutes later, she heard a tap on the door. The light in the room had changed from bright sunshine to a dusky glow. She looked at her watch. Two hours had passed. “Marshland Fowl” had proved an effective sleeping pill. “Come in,” she called.

  Agatha came in with a small vase filled with flowers—white daisies, red poppies, and blue asters.

  “How beautiful!” Mrs. Doyle exclaimed. “Mrs. Ashley must have a green thumb.”

  “Oh, she does. She can make anything grow—when she doesn’t have so many worries.” She clicked her tongue.

  “Worries? What worries?”

  “Oh, somebody’s set on taking this place away from her. I don’t know why anyone would want it. Except the family, I mean—for sentimental reasons. The land’s not the best for farming. And the property’s too far away from the city for developers.”

  “Is she going to sell it?”

  “I don’t know. She said she was, right after Miss Susan had her accident. But I haven’t heard anymore about it.”

  “Where is Susan? Is she staying here?”

  “Yes. But she’s in and out. An active girl. She likes to drive the tractor and work in the fields. Until recently, scuba diving was her favorite pastime. But her grandmother put an end to that after the accident. Mark my words, if it hadn’t been for Tom Winston that child wouldn’t be alive today. He gave her CPR, you know. He’s been sweet on her for years, but she never gives him the time of day. She has lots of beaus. She and Tom are distant cousins. But the Winstons and the Ashleys have been at odds for years—something to do with some land back in colonial times. Can you imagine holding a grudge that long? And now he’s come up with this newfangled way of picking cranberries. I don’t see what was wrong with the old way. And he wants that piece of Ashley land near the river more than ever. He’s furious at Mrs. Ashley for not selling it to him. But with Susan it’s different. He can’t be angry with her. The looks he gives her when he thinks she’s not looking …” Agatha raised her eyebrows.

  Mrs. Doyle made no attempt to stem this flow. Agatha lived in an isolated spot and was thrilled to have a new audience. And that was one of the reasons Mrs. Doyle was here, wasn’t it? To listen to all the gossip—even if it was over two hundred years old.

  Finally Agatha came to a halt. “Well, listen to me chattering away when I should be fixing dinner. I just dropped up to give you those flowers and tell you that dinner will be ready at six o’clock. Mrs. Ashley tells me you’ll be eating with us.”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. I like my dinner early so I can …” She was about to say “watch TV,” but she quickly changed it to “ … get to bed early.”

  “Mind?” Agatha beamed. “I haven’t had such good company in years,” which made Mrs. Doyle wonder about Mr. Jenks.

  When the housekeeper had gone, Mrs. Doyle decided to inspect the premises. First she looked out her windows. Through one window she saw a broad sweep of marshy field, interrupted here and there by old fencing badly in need of repair. The other window provided a view of the Ashley River looping in and out of the tall grasses in thin, silvery curves. She remembered the doctor telling her how pirates and smugglers had frequented these parts. Now she understood why. That river had more curves than a dish of spaghetti. Perfect hideouts for pirates and their booty. For a moment she thought she glimpsed a black flag fluttering in the breeze, just like the ones on the pirate ships in her swashbuckling romance novels.

  In the distance, she could just make out the shape of another house near the river’s edge. It was half-hidden by the evening mist that had begun to rise off the river. That must be the old wharf, she thought, and the cottage that was supposed to be haunted. Something about a black dog? She wondered if it ever howled at night. Poppycock.

  Before she went down to dinner, she took an exploratory trip to the other end of the hall. She glanced into what she guessed was Susan’s room. It was across from Mrs. Ashley’s, and—like the rooms of most college girls—in total disarray: clothes tossed around, books and magazines scattered. In the middle of the bed sat Snoopy, dressed in a scuba diving costume, complete with goggles and flippers. On the table by the bed lay the latest Dick Francis mystery.

  “Grandmother!” A young woman’s voice came unexpectedly up the stairwell.

  Susan.

  Mrs. Doyle moved quickly down the hall and backed into her room. If she was seen, the girl would automatically think she was coming out. An old trick, but it usually worked. Before going down to dinner, Mrs. Doyle memorized a few more habits of marshland fowl.

  CHAPTER 23

  The elevator stopped so smoothly that Fenimore was unaware of it until the door slid open. Stepping into a large foyer carpeted in thick gray pile, he faced a double glass door. Over fifty names were etched on the panels—members of the law firm “Bannister, Dunlap, and Bannister.” Lydia Ashley’s lawyer, Owen Bannister, was near the top. The only other decorations were two framed lithographs of Philadelphia by Joseph Pennell and a generic potted plant.

  When he opened the door, a perfectly turned-out receptionist greeted him with just the right blend of gracious welcome and business brusqueness. He was kept waiting the allotted number of minutes to convey that he was expected, but not eagerly awaited. He couldn’t help thinking of his own humbler establishment.

  As he was ushered into Owen Bannister’s private office, the word “established” rushed to mind. The room was filled with solid antique furniture, lightened by an occasional contemporary lamp or chair carefully chosen to blend with the older pieces. A silver picture frame graced the substantial oak desk. It contained a black and white photograph of a middle-aged woman in riding habit. Mrs. Bannister in earlier days, Fenimore guessed. Arranged behind the lawyer, like a bulwark, were rows of thick red and tan volumes of the law.

  The man emulated the room. He had a square, compact figure, abundant gray hair, and a strong, cultivated voice punctuated by forceful gestures perfectly timed to produce the greatest effect. It was impossible to imagine Owen Bannister ruffled, any more than you could imagine the Rock of Gibraltar or Mt. Everest ruffled. Like those two works of nature, he was just there. As his father had been there before him, and his father before that. A natural phenomenon to be dealt with. Three Philadelphia lawyers were a match for the Devil. Where had he read that? Was one Philadelphia lawyer a match for Fenimore? That was the question.

  “How may I help you, Doctor?” Bannister got the ball rolling.

  “As I told you when I called, I’m here on behalf of your client, Lydia Ashley.”

  He nodded. The nod said: Get to the point. I’m a busy man.

  Fenimore decided to tell Bannister the minimum. Only what was absolutely necessary to get the information he was after. “I would like to know why you are urging my patient, Lydia Ashley, to sell her farm in south Jersey, when you know that she and her granddaughter clearly want to keep it.”

  Bannister spoke quickly and positively. “Because it’s economically advantageous.” He brought his hand down firmly on his desk. “Doctor, I’ve watched too many people hang on to their property for sentimental reasons and have it decrease in value year after year until they’re left holding an empty bag. I don’t want to see that happen to Mrs. Ashley. This fellow comes along from a perfectly reputable company, wanting to buy the property for a very specific purpose—a refuse disposal plant. No one else may ever want that property again for generations. Certainly not at that price. It was my duty to advise her to sell.” He stood up and walked to the window that looked out on a panoramic view of the city—the massive Victorian facade of City Hall in the foreground; a backdrop worthy of Hollywood. “There are other farms in other locations which are equally charming and just as historic.”

  “But they weren’t settled by her husband’s ancestors, and they won’t include the title to the land from Willia
m Penn with his family’s name on it,” Fenimore said.

  With a dramatic move, the lawyer turned to face him. “Will that title pay Mrs. Ashley’s medical or nursing home bills? From what I understand, Doctor, her health is precarious at best. Or will it pay for her granddaughter’s education, should—God forbid—anything happen to her grandmother before she finishes college?”

  Watching him, Fenimore was reminded of a movie—Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution. Perhaps Owen Bannister had seen it too.

  Fenimore sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’m afraid I’ve let my own regard for history blind me to the more practical issues.” He rose. “I guess there’s nothing more to be said.”

  He offered the lawyer his hand.

  As Bannister shook it, he said, “As a friend, I’m sorry I can’t advise Lydia to keep her farm. But I would not be serving her best interests if I did.” This was more concern than Fenimore had expected from him. “One of the more onerous parts of the law business is—sometimes you have to bite the hand that feeds you. You have to tell your client things they don’t want to hear. But then, that’s true in your profession too, Doctor.”

  Fenimore acknowledged this. After a few more forays into small talk, he thanked the lawyer for his time, and left.

  On the way down in the silent elevator, Fenimore tried to imagine Owen Bannister in the role of vaudeville villain, twisting his long moustache and laughing evilly behind his hand as he cheated the Widow Ashley and her Granddaughter out of their rightful property. He was unsuccessful.

  CHAPTER 24

  When Mrs. Doyle had been on the farm three days, her TV-WITHDRAWAL symptoms became acute. At breakfast she broached the subject to Agatha. “Do you mean to tell me no one in Winston has a TV?”

  “Oh, they have ’em, but the reception is terrible. There’s only one person in town who can get a really good picture … .”

  “Yes?” With a great effort Mrs. Doyle tried to hide her eagerness.

  “Miss Cunningham—the librarian. She has one of those dish antennas, but she only watches the educational channels.” Agatha made no attempt to disguise her contempt.

  “Do you think she’d let me watch hers some evening?”

  Agatha looked at her in surprise. Then she remembered Mrs. Doyle had never met Miss Cunningham. She said. “Well, if you can stand her, I guess she’d let you.”

  Mrs. Doyle only chose to hear the last part of Agatha’s statement. Ashamed to have let the housekeeper see how great her addiction was, Mrs. Doyle changed the subject. Nevertheless, later that morning, she was hotfooting it along the road to Winston and the Historical Society Library.

  Despite the fever generated by her mission, she did take time to notice the beauty of the town: the wide main street, the grand old trees, and the brick colonial houses. It seemed completely untouched by modern times. In her mind’s eye she could see the women in their long skirts, fringed shawls, and snow-white caps, hurrying to market with baskets over their arms. And the men in their ruffled shirts and shoes with buckles, clustered on street corners discussing the latest outrage of the king. It was a perfect setting for a TV mini-series about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson. A wonder one of the networks hadn’t discovered it before this. (Mrs. Doyle had not yet heard about the natives’ tendency to tamper with the road signs.)

  When she entered the Historical Society Library, it was Miss Cunningham who greeted Mrs. Doyle, although Mrs. Doyle was unaware of it. It was such a small library, serving such a small community that Miss Cunningham was both director and staff.

  “I wonder if you could help me … .” Mrs. Doyle began hesitatingly. “I’m looking for a book on marshland birds.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re the woman who’s staying at the Ashley place,” she said, speaking with all the authority of the village grapevine. “How is life at the Palace?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s it like living with Her Highness?”

  Wishing to get past this rude woman, Mrs. Doyle asked sharply, “Is Miss Cunningham in today?”

  “Speaking.”

  Mrs. Doyle couldn’t believe that an educated woman with such a responsible position would behave in such a discourteous way. She began to wonder if she could spend a whole evening with her. Then the image of the handsome Irish detective in her favorite TV show rose before her. She also remembered the other purpose of her visit to Winston—to talk to everyone and try to find out who might be harassing Mrs. Ashley. Miss Cunningham certainly fit into that category. By spending an evening with the librarian Mrs. Doyle would be killing two birds with one stone. (Not the best role for a bird watcher, she thought wryly.)

  “Mrs. Ashley is very hospitable,” she said mildly.

  “Do you dine with her?” Miss Cunningham demanded. “Or do you eat your meals in the kitchen with the Jenkses?”

  “Well, you see, Mrs. Ashley likes to garden at dusk because it’s cooler then. And the Jenkses and I are starved by six o’clock, so …” she finished lamely.

  “So that’s how she gets around it.” She smiled her unpleasant smile. “And when does Susan dine?”

  “Oh, she eats at odd times. She’s a vegetarian and fixes her own meals.”

  “Of course.” Miss Cunningham nodded knowingly. “Let me see what I can do for you.” She went over to the Nature section. After a few moments she returned with a book, Tideland Birds of South Jersey.

  “Just the thing. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Having gotten the nastiness out of her system in an early burst, she was now ready to be helpful.

  “Well …” Mrs. Doyle pretended an unnatural shyness. “There is one thing, but …”

  “Go on. Go on.” Timid people irritated Miss Cunningham. She liked people who spoke up and came straight to the point.

  “You see. I’m used to watching TV at home and I miss it down here. There’s one program I especially enjoy. It’s on tonight. Agatha told me that you’re the only person in town who can get a good picture, and …” she trailed off.

  Miss Cunningham shrugged. “You’re welcome to watch it at my house if you like. I can take TV or leave it, but I know some people can’t live without it.”

  Mrs. Doyle was too pleased to take offense.

  “What program do you wish to watch?”

  She named the program, and forgetting herself, said, “That detective is such a handsome Irish hunk.”

  Miss Cunningham wrinkled her nose at this description, and Mrs. Doyle was afraid she might withdraw her offer. “What time is it on?” she asked coldly.

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “That late!”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. Does that interfere with your bedtime?”

  “No. I usually read until about eleven,” she said, making it clear that Mrs. Doyle should not linger after the program was over.

  “I can’t thank you enough for the book—and the invitation.”

  Miss Cunningham’s eyebrow shot up, indicating that no invitation had been offered. She was merely fulfilling a request that had been forced upon her.

  Nevertheless, Mrs. Doyle left the Library with a light step and the feeling of a mission accomplished.

  It was part of Mrs. Doyle’s plan to drive into town with Mrs. Ashley twice a week so she could use a pay phone and have a private chat with Dr. Fenimore. Today was one of those shopping days. When Mrs. Doyle returned from the library, she found Mrs. Ashley and Susan waiting for her.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized.

  “Quite all right, Mrs. D,” Mrs. Ashley said. “Agatha told me it was an emergency.” Her eyes twinkled. “How is dear Miss Cunningham?”

  “Is she always so vinegary?”

  Mrs. Ashley laughed. “She’s been on a non-sugar diet her whole life, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you succeed in your mission?” Susan grinned. Apparently Agatha had told them the object of her visit.

  Mrs. Doyle
nodded sheepishly. “I have a date with my Irish detective tonight.”

  “Cheers!” cried Susan.

  “Shall we be on our way?” Mrs. Ashley ushered them into the dilapidated station wagon as if it were a coach-and-four, and they catapulted down the poor excuse for a driveway. Another hazard of this assignment that Dr. Fenimore had failed to mention was Mrs. Ashley’s driving. Mrs. Doyle breathed a sigh of relief when they reached Salem safely.

  “Why don’t you ever let me drive, Grandmother?” Susan grumbled as they shakily emerged from the car in the supermarket parking lot.

  Mrs. Doyle didn’t stay to hear the answer. She made a beeline for the nearest telephone booth. As soon as Fenimore answered, without preamble she barked, “You forgot to tell me the Ashleys don’t have TV!”

  His laugh forced her ear away from the phone. When it had died down, she said quietly, “Are you quite finished?”

  “Sorry, Doyle. I couldn’t help …” He was off again.

  She was about to hang up when he managed to pull himself together and ask in a relatively normal voice, “How’re things going down there? Anything new?”

  “Nothing much.” She told him about her conversation with Agatha Jenks, and mentioned her planned visit to Miss Cunningham’s (leaving out the reason, for fear of setting off another explosion).

  “Watch out for Miss Cunningham.” There was no hint of laughter in his tone now.

  “Why? What have you found out?”

  “Not I. The handwriting analyst. That warning note …”

  “She wrote it?”

  “Not quite as simple as that. The phrase ‘Death of a Ghost’ was written in her hand, but they think someone else crossed out ‘Ghost’ and inserted ‘Doctor.’ above it. They’re still working on it. We don’t want to confront her with this yet. It would raise her suspicions and ruin your chances of uncovering more evidence. Meanwhile, just don’t take any chances with Miss C.”