The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

by Robin Hathaway

  —We Women Magazine of Bridgeton, New Jersey, October 1945

  One of the side effects of watching TV with Miss Cunningham, Mrs. Doyle quickly discovered, was listening to her acid comments during the commercial breaks.

  During the first break, she began: “I don’t know how you can watch this. The outcome is so obvious. A child of three could figure it out.”

  At the next break: “All they do is run around and fall down, or drive around and crash into things … .”

  And at the third break, with a superior smirk: “Simple minds have simple pleasures … .”

  Mrs. Doyle had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “Nobody asked you to watch it with me!” But remembering her mission, she smiled sweetly instead.

  Promptly at eleven o’clock, while the credits were still rolling down the screen, Mrs. Doyle rose to go.

  “Oh, don’t rush off. Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

  To her surprise, Mrs. Doyle thought the invitation sounded sincere. “Well …” Dr. Fenimore’s warning flitted through her mind. After all, Miss Cunningham was the number one suspect in a potential murder plot. Part of a threatening note had been written in her hand. Yet here she was, about to drink tea brewed by Miss Cunningham and eat cookies baked by Miss Cunningham. Curiosity won out over caution. “Don’t mind if I do,” Mrs. Doyle said, and sat down again. Her only regret—that the hot tea wasn’t a cold beer.

  When they were settled with their cups, Mrs. Doyle said, “This is such a lovely colonial town. It’s a wonder more tourists don’t come here.”

  “Oh, we make every effort to keep them out. We don’t want Winston turning into a little Williamsburg.” She wrinkled her nose. “What brings you down here, Mrs. Doyle?”

  “My nerves.” She tried, without success, to look nervous. “I’ve been overworked, and recently I just decided enough was enough. Mrs. Ashley was kind enough to offer me her spare room for a little while.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Ashley?”

  The question caught Mrs. Doyle off guard. “Uh … through the Colonial Society. I handle some of her secretarial work.” (She must remember to inform Mrs. Ashley of this.)

  “So you’re a secretary. Don’t you find it tedious?”

  “Oh, no. When you work for Dr. Fen—” she stopped. She must be tired. She had better leave before she made any more slips.

  “So you work for a doctor. That is more interesting. Mrs. Ashley is always running to doctors. One of her medical entourage was down here for her house tour. Then he turned up again for the Strawberry Festival—a Dr. Fenwick or Fosdick—I forget his name. Seemed a bit of a fool to me. The second time he came down, he had a girlfriend in tow. Perfectly nice, but almost half his age … .”

  Mrs. Doyle suppressed a smile. “Well, when they’re relaxing, even doctors have their foolish moments, I suppose.”

  “I feel doctors should retain their dignity at all times,” Miss Cunningham said stiffly.

  “Was that the day of the accident?” Mrs. Doyle changed the subject. “Agatha was telling me about poor Susan.”

  “Yes. Shocking episode. Susan should never have been diving alone. I don’t know what Lydia could have been thinking of.”

  “Young people don’t always inform their elders about their doings. Maybe Mrs. Ashley didn’t know her granddaughter was diving by herself.”

  “Well, she knows everything else that goes on in this town. I don’t know how she missed that. And Tom Winston—giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Disgusting!”

  Mrs. Doyle recoiled at this sudden spate of venom. “He did save her life,” she couldn’t help saying.

  “Hmph.” The sound implied that when the lifesaving technique is so revolting, it might be better to die.

  “Were you there when they brought her up from the river?”

  “Oh, yes. The Reverend was driving the tractor and Tom was in the back of the cart with her.”

  “Could you see her face?” Mrs. Doyle pretended to a ghoulish delight in every detail.

  “Yes. When he carried her in, her head flopped over his shoulder and I saw her face. She always has a tan, you know. The outdoor type. But it had turned a ghastly gray. And her wet hair was skinned back tight against her scalp. Her eyes were closed, of course, and sunken. Her head looked like a skull.”

  “Mercy.” Mrs. Doyle hung on every word, and clicked her tongue with seeming relish. “How do you suppose it happened? Did you hear?”

  “A defective air hose, I understand.”

  “Do you think someone might have damaged it on purpose?”

  “Oh, no. No question of that.” She was quite positive. “There’s no doubt it was an accident. The thing simply wore out.”

  “Well, I certainly hope she checks her equipment in the future. But these young people—you never know what they’ll be up to next.”

  “Yes. It was different in our day. We had to toe the mark. Except for Lydia, of course. She was wild even then. And her granddaughter takes after her.”

  “Mrs. Ashley—wild? That’s hard to believe.”

  “Yes. You wouldn’t think it now. She’s so respectable,” she stressed the word. “But she had a whole slew of boys on her string—and there’s only one way you can manage that.”

  “How?” This time Mrs. Doyle’s curiosity was honest.

  “Give them what they want, of course. Mark my words, flies won’t come where there’s no honey.”

  “Do you mean to say, Mrs. Ashley had—er—loose morals?”

  Miss Cunningham’s laugh was short and nasty. “It paid off too. Edward Ashley was my beau first. But when you come down to it, there’s not a man alive who can resist easy virtue.”

  Mrs. Doyle shook her head. “Mrs. Ashley. Who would have thought it?”

  “Yes. That’s everyone’s reaction. That’s why I don’t mention it to many people. But you seemed a down-to-earth sort of person. I didn’t think you’d be shocked. And of course there was that year she disappeared to Europe, before she met Edward. We were all sure she was pregnant before she left … .” Miss Cunningham yawned ostentatiously. Like some animals or insects after ejecting their poison, all she wanted to do was crawl back in her hole and rest.

  Mrs. Doyle took the hint. “Well, I must be going. Thank you again. I certainly enjoyed the program—and the tea.” (She was feeling no ill effects so far.)

  “You don’t mind walking home alone this time of night?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. I would think twice in the city. But here I feel perfectly safe.”

  “Well, be careful when you pass the pirate house,” she said maliciously. “It’s two doors down from me, and on moonlit nights, the ghost has been known to rattle its chains.” Miss Cunningham snapped off the porch light before Mrs. Doyle was halfway down the steps. Thoughtfulness was not her strong point.

  Mrs. Doyle walked along the quiet main street. The large shade trees in full June leaf blocked the light of the moon and stars. As she passed the pirate house the only sounds she heard were the crickets in the field beyond and her own footsteps.

  CHAPTER 28

  It was Sunday and Greg’s day to mind the store. Jennifer was spending a lazy afternoon catching up on overdue correspondence and dirty laundry. Once again, she had failed to lure Fenimore to south Jersey on a treasure hunt.

  “But—I’m behind on my journals. I have to keep up.” He squelched her plan with yet another “but.”

  She scanned her bookcase for something to read while waiting for her laundry to dry. She passed quickly over Faulkner, Conrad, and Hardy. Too heavy. She was in a lazy mood and wanted something light—like a mystery. For Kicks by Dick Francis? She’d read it too recently. Strong Poison by Dorothy Sayers? Maybe. Death of a Ghost by Margery Allingham?

  Her eyes swept back to that spine and stuck.

  CHAPTER 29

  Gangs in one form or another have been around for hundreds of years. Pirates were probably some of the original bad gangs … .

  �
��Steve Nawojczyk, Street Gang Dynamics

  Returning from hospital rounds that same day, Fenimore ran into Rafferty on Walnut Street.

  “Where you been keeping yourself?” the detective asked.

  “Working,” Fenimore said. “I sent Mrs. Doyle down to south Jersey to keep an eye on that patient of mine. Now I have double duty.”

  He nodded. “Any new developments?”

  Fenimore told him about the brick.

  Rafferty said he’d take a look at the note and warned him to be careful. Then, abruptly, he drew Fenimore into an empty bus shelter—a glass L-shaped enclosure on the corner. “This gang thing is getting me down. There were two more stabbings this week. And the victims won’t help us. They’re scared shitless … .”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, these guys are vicious. They threaten to maim or kill—not just the victims, but members of their families as well, if they squeal. When we question them, we run into a wall of silence.”

  Fenimore took note of his friend’s worn face and bloodshot eyes. “Come on, Raff. You need a drink.”

  They found a tavern nearby and consoled each other over a few beers.

  For the Birds

  CHAPTER 30

  That same Saturday, Mrs. Doyle rose early. It was bright and clear. A perfect day for birding. After packing away Agatha’s farmhand breakfast, she decided to set out across the fields for that distant house she had spied from her window the day she arrived.

  She was careful to walk at a pace consistent with bird-watching, pausing often to consult her bird book and to scan the sky with her binoculars. She kept the house in her line of vision to avoid getting off course. When she was midway between the Ashley farmhouse and her destination, she was overwhelmed by the utter loneliness of the place. And the silence. It was so different from the city, where you couldn’t walk two paces without bumping into someone and there was the constant background noise of horns, sirens, and backfires. Here there was nothing to block the horizon but a single lonely tree, and no noise other than the low buzz of insects or the occasional cry of a bird. To a veteran city dweller, it was unnerving. The best thing to do, she decided, was not to think about it. She plodded on.

  After about a half-hour, she found herself a few yards from the mysterious house. Up close on a bright day, it looked much less mysterious than from a distance at dusk with a fine mist rising. It was smaller than the farmhouse. Not really a house at all. A cottage. She circled it and found that the far side, the side that faced the river, was decorated with an intricate design. The initials “R & A” and the date “1734” were framed by vine-like coils. It reminded Mrs. Doyle of a sampler her grandmother had stitched as a child. But instead of blue yarn, this design was worked in blue brick. Dr. Fenimore would go wild, she thought. But the cottage had fallen into disrepair. The brick that formed the left foot of the letter “A” had dropped out, leaving one leg shorter than the other, giving it a lopsided appearance. The windows and door were securely boarded up. They returned her curious stare with a blank look. All efforts on her part to find a way in—short of wielding an ax—proved futile. There were no doorknobs, no keyholes, no visible hinges or locks.

  A light breeze caused the tall grasses near the river to sway, bringing the salty, faintly rotten smell of brackish water. Moving away from the cottage, she examined the wharf. Slowly deteriorating, the wooden planks on the creosote pilings had ragged gaps. She peered through one of the holes at the murky water sliding underneath. An iron ring was embedded in one of the pilings—a mooring for the occasional fisherman and his boat.

  Mrs. Doyle circled the cottage once more, scanning the ground. For what? She had no idea. She found a couple of beer cans, some cigarette butts, and half a melon rind—covered with flies. Any one of which could have been left by a careless fisherman. A ladder lay on the ground, cast there by whoever had boarded up the windows, she decided. But it was lying under the wall with no windows—the one with the beautiful brick design. She took a last look around before starting back.

  Zing! The bullet hit the corner of the cottage—about a yard from her head—and ricocheted into the field.

  Mrs. Doyle had not run for anything but an occasional bus for over twenty years. She was amazed at her speed and litheness. She fairly floated over the rough terrain at a speed that would have impressed the most fanatical fitness instructor. It took her only ten minutes to cover the same ground that she had previously covered in thirty. Surely she was a candidate for The Guinness Book of World Records. When she reached the barnyard, she was puffing and had a searing pain in her left side. She had to sit down on the nearest thing—a wooden bucket that was conveniently overturned. Mr. Jenks came around the corner of the barn. Although they had had dinner together every night since she had arrived, they had hardly exchanged a word. Agatha had done all the talking. Now he came over to her.

  “That was some dash, Mrs. Doyle.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw. “Didn’t know you went in for joggin’.”

  Mrs. Doyle’s laugh bordered on the hysterical. “Oh, every now and then I like to stretch my legs,” she said. “The sight of so much open space inspired me after being cooped up so long in the city.”

  “I can see that.” He nodded and switched the straw to the other side of his mouth. “You’re a bird-watcher, I see.”

  “Yes.” She patted the binoculars hanging from her neck and winced at the bruise beneath where the glasses had bounced against her chest during her flight. “Fascinating creatures,” she went on. “I was looking for a special kind of kingfisher … .” She paused and drew a painful breath. “A ‘halcyon,’ I think it’s called. It’s supposed ‘to frequent marshy places.’” Like a schoolgirl, she quoted her textbook.

  “Lots of kingfishers down by the river,” he said. “They’re flashy fellas. I like the more useful martin myself. They feed on mosquitoes. I build houses for them because they do us such a service.”

  “You don’t say.” Was she really sitting on a bucket discussing birds and bugs after such a close brush with death?

  “Yep,” Jenks elaborated. “The average martin eats over a thousand mosquitoes a day. See that house up there.” He pointed to a pole that rose fifteen feet in the air. Perched on top was a birdhouse resembling a dollhouse. But instead of one entrance, it had about twenty little doorways to allow the birds to fly in and out. “I made that,” he said. “I’ve made about a hundred of them over the years. I get the kids to sell ‘em at their roadside stands. Give ’em a bit of a commission.” He talked about his small enterprise as proudly as any Wall Street businessman might talk about his. “I’m workin’ on one now. Like to see it?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Doyle cautiously got to her feet. She had recovered from the immediate effect of her run, but she knew that tomorrow she would feel the aftereffects in her joints. “Tell me, Mr. Jenks, are there many hunters in these parts?”

  “Hunters? Oh sure. They come for the deer in the fall. And then there are the muskrats. Mrs. Ashley lets ’em hunt muskrat on her property when they’re in season. There’s a big muskrat dinner down at the firehouse every year. People come from all over.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” Mrs. Doyle said. “But they ought to learn how to aim.”

  “Aim?” He looked puzzled.

  “One of your muskrat hunters just missed me out there in the field. That’s why you saw me trying to break the record for the hundred yard dash just now.”

  Mr. Jenks stared at her. “You don’t shoot muskrat, ma‘am,” he explained carefully. “You trap ’em. Anyway, muskrat season don’t begin until October.” Then he added, “This is June,” in case the immensity of her ignorance extended to what month it was. “Besides,” he went on, “ever since Mr. Ashley was shot in that hunting accident, Mrs. Ashley hasn’t let a hunter set foot on her property.”

  “Oh.” Slowly the enormity of Jenks’s words sank in, and even though it was June, Mrs. Doyle shivered. Delayed shock, she diagnosed. S
hakily, she started for the house.

  “What about my birdhouse?” he called after her.

  “Later,” she muttered between chattering teeth.

  When she reached the house, she found Agatha in the kitchen. “May I have some brandy?” she asked. “Had a bit of a spell. Must be the heat,” she explained.

  Agatha was very solicitous. She settled Mrs. Doyle in a chair and rushed for the brandy. The spirits did the trick. In a few minutes she was feeling better. She decided to query Agatha about the brick cottage.

  “Oh, I don’t go down there,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s haunted.”

  “Poppycock.”

  “No, really. Mr. Ashley’s great uncle lived there. Nathan Ashley. A queer old fellow. The black sheep of the family. When he was dying …” Agatha’s voice dropped another notch. It was Mrs. Doyle’s turn to learn about the black dog. “And ever since, on moonless nights, when people pass by there, they say they can hear that dog howling. Of course, it might be the owls nesting in the eaves … .”

  “What are you two up to?” Mrs. Ashley came in the kitchen.

  “I was just telling Mrs. Doyle about the black dog.”

  Expecting her hostess to greet this news with a laugh, Mrs. Doyle was astonished to see her turn pale and fall silent. “We don’t want to frighten our houseguest, Agatha,” she said finally. “What are we having for dinner?”

  “Chicken pot pie.”

  “One of my favorites.” Her color returned.

  During dinner, Mrs. Doyle tried to think of an excuse for asking Mrs. Ashley to drive her into town. She wanted to call Dr. Fenimore and tell him about her harrowing experience. But she didn’t want to confide in her hostess. It would alarm her and might even be injurious to her health. She could hardly concentrate on Agatha’s stream of chatter. She kept hearing the zing of that bullet, and seeing the little puff of brick dust rising so close to her head. Gradually some of Agatha’s words filtered through.