The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  A few moments later Dr. Connally emerged from the house, climbed into his own car, and followed them into town. In ten minutes the two automobiles pulled up in front of the doctor’s office on Port Strathy’s main street next to the mercantile. Dr. Connally ushered them in, led them down a narrow hallway to the back of the building, then, switching on a light, welcomed them to his laboratory.

  “It isn’t much,” he said, “but it does save me having to send out many of my samples and specimens. It takes at least forty-eight hours to use the Aberdeen facilities.”

  He began to clear a place on one of the counters. “Here you go, Mr. Jameson. I hope we have everything you need. I’m not exactly equipped for this sort of thing. I’m not even certain I could make such a test without using a reference book.”

  “I’m sure we’ll manage fine,” said Ashley.

  “I’m still rather curious where a Greek historian comes by a knowledge of forensic medicine.”

  “So am I,” added Hilary with a raised eyebrow.

  “Just picked it up here and there,” said Ashley, coughing nervously. “Now, let’s see,” he went on, changing the subject, “what will we need?”

  With the help of the doctor, he gathered a petri dish, a vial of phosphoric acid syrup, sodium molybdate solution, and a Bunsen burner. He poured a portion of each of the chemicals into the dish, then sprinkled in some of the powdered solution from the envelope. He gave the concoction a stir, then, clamping the dish with a handle, held it out over the flame, moving the dish gently back and forth. Before long the substance in the dish began to turn color, eventually becoming a brilliant violet. The three observers exchanged meaningful glances.

  “Just as I suspected,” said Ashley. “This confirms aconite. Now to see if my further speculation is true. By itself, perhaps, the mere presence of poison would not be considered incriminating by a court of law, but . . .”

  He did not finish the sentence, but instead took from his pocket a small container of the blue paint he had removed from Allison’s own palette in the solarium. He had taken two other colors also, but had particularly chosen the blue because of the tube he had found in Jo’s room, which he assumed was sitting on her dressing table awaiting its fatal addition.

  He repeated the procedure he had used on the powder.

  Because the paint was a diluted concentration, the change when it came was not so startling, but there could be no mistaking the change to violet when the mixture was held over the flame.

  “I can hardly believe it!” said the doctor.

  Ashley had spent too much time prowling about Scotland Yard not to believe it; long ago his naivete about human nature had been abandoned.

  “The tests will be finalized,” said Connally, “when I have completed the analysis of Lady Allison’s blood sample. That will take somewhat longer. I will also send a sample to Aberdeen to confirm the testing.”

  “Will she recover from all this?” asked Hilary with concern.

  “Yes,” replied the doctor, “but it will take time for all the effects to work their way out of her body.”

  “We are fortunate in one respect,” said Ashley. “Had Jo been in a hurry and administered this substance orally, Allison would have died almost instantly—especially in that she possessed the crystalline variety, which is ten to fifteen times more poisonous than other forms. I only wonder where she could have gotten it. Aconite is obsolete these days, extremely difficult to come by.”

  “I have a colleague,” offered Connally, “who served as a medical missionary in Central America. He was appalled at the outmoded drugs still to be had there.”

  “Central America, you say?” pondered Ashley. “Hmm . . . that is interesting.”

  “What is it?” asked Hilary.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe nothing. But when we were having a look about von Burchardt’s yacht, I took a good look at the registration sticker.”

  “And?”

  “I can tell you it wasn’t registered in Austria or Germany. Nowhere in Europe at all. That was when I began to have extreme doubts that our friend Emil was telling the truth.”

  “Where was the boat from?”

  “It was carrying an Argentine registration.”

  Hilary let out a long, low whistle.

  “Argentina,” thought the doctor aloud. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you could still come by such compounds there.”

  “Let’s get home,” said Hilary, turning to Ashley. “I don’t want to be away too long.”

  “Are you coming back to the house, Doctor?” asked Ashley.

  “I have another patient to see in a few minutes. Then I want to prepare some medication for Lady Allison. I’ll return in about an hour.”

  “Thank you again for the use of your facilities.”

  Back in the car, Hilary turned to Ashley as he started up the engine. “It continues to amaze me—the wide range of your knowledge,” she said. “You’re a regular Renaissance Man! How do you fit everything in?”

  “All in a day’s work, you know.”

  “Something tells me there’s more to it than that.”

  “You’re not a mystery buff, are you, Hilary?”

  “On the contrary, I love mysteries. Unraveling them is one of my jobs as a reporter.”

  “It’s my job too.”

  “The mysteries of the past?”

  “Yes . . . of course.” He paused, carefully considering his words. “But I am highly interested in present-day mysteries too.”

  “The clues . . . the poison . . . going about the house at night looking for manuscripts and lockets and evidence?”

  “Have I really been so obvious as a prying would-be Sherlock Holmes about the place?”

  Hilary laughed.

  Suddenly Ashley seemed to grow very serious, as if pondering some weighty matter. He drove up the hill out of town very slowly, his mind far from the actions of his hand. At length he spoke again.

  “So, Hilary,” he said, “you like journalistic mysteries.”

  Hilary nodded.

  “Do you like to read mysteries?”

  “You mean stories?”

  “Yes. Mystery novels.”

  “Conan Doyle . . . Ellery Queen? Yes, in fact, I do.”

  “Would you think it peculiar if I told you I do too?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She paused, then laughed. “Is that what this is all about? Renown Greek scholar secretly a devotee of pulp mystery novels! It’s my scoop of the decade!”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that.”

  “They’re not going to defrock you because you enjoy a good story. Everyone needs a diversion.”

  “But as I said, it’s a more serious compulsion for me than that.”

  All at once he pulled the car to the side of the road and ground to a stop. “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They got out of the car, crossed the road, and continued walking in the direction they had been headed. They were only a hundred yards or so from the crest of the hill, toward which they now made their way, the vast blue North Sea spreading out below them. For a long time Ashley was silent, and Hilary did not press him.

  At last he drew in a deep sigh, exhaled, and then spoke.

  “What I’m about to tell you only one other person in the world knows. It’s one of the best kept secrets in the modern publishing world, and you’ve got to promise me you’ll never tell a soul.”

  “Is it all really so serious, Ashley?”

  “For me . . . yes, it is. My private life is important. Sacrificing it is not something I am willing to do.”

  “Then I promise. But you don’t have to tell me this. I promise, I won’t press if you’d rather—”

  “I want to tell you,” he interrupted, emotion obviously building within him. “I have known I would have to tell you for some time . . . ever since that day I wasn’t exactly truthful with you.”

  “Yo
u had to keep the truth from me, Ashley. I hold none of what happened against you.”

  “I don’t mean about Allison or my knowing Logan or what I was doing here or the ruse about meeting Ian. I wasn’t altogether comfortable with that, but I accepted that I would have to play such a ‘role’ so to speak in order to get at the deeper truth of what was going on. But there were other times, when we were talking more personally, when I could not escape the feeling that I was lying to you.”

  “Oh, Ashley, don’t torture yourself with guilt over such little things.”

  “But don’t you see? Everything I said that day about truth mattering—it really does matter a great deal to me. Living by truth is my whole life. I’ve not had the chance to share with you as much as I would like. But I am a Christian—”

  “I knew that.”

  “How?”

  “It’s obvious. By the way you live, the way you care. You’re a very compassionate individual, Ashley Jameson.”

  “Then maybe it won’t come as such a surprise for me to say that the little things are important to me. And I haven’t been able to get out of my mind that day when we were walking out in the snow. Do you remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “You asked me if I ever wrote anything but history.”

  “I remember.”

  “I said no. I lied to you—point blank. It had nothing to do with Jo or Logan or my so-called investigation at the house. I just lied. And I’ve been uncomfortable with it ever since. Your question caught me off guard. I fumbled around for words, and before I knew it, I’d allowed myself to tell you something that wasn’t true. So now I have to try to make it right.”

  “I understand,” said Hilary. “Just so long as you know that you have in no way injured or offended me.”

  “Understood,” said Ashley. “Besides,” he added, stopping and looking into her face, “now I want to tell you. I want you to know me, because . . . well, the revealing of a close secret to a friend is a rather personal thing to do.”

  “Ashley, is this your rather Victorian way of saying that you care for me?”

  “I suppose it is.” He cleared his throat and chuckled awkwardly. “Of all my varied areas of knowledge, affairs of the heart is one arena in which I am an unskilled and inexperienced participant.”

  Hilary chuckled softly, then slipped her hand through his arm. He smiled, seemed to gather strength from her simple yet heartfelt gesture, then plunged ahead.

  “Like I said, I like mysteries.”

  “As do I,” added Hilary, her heart bounding as she walked by Ashley’s side.

  “Not only do I like to read mysteries, I like to try to solve them. I have a friend in Scotland Yard. Sometimes he lets me in on his cases. That’s how it all started, in fact, years ago, when we were both students in the university. But that caper is another story altogether!”

  “Promise you’ll tell me someday,” said Hilary.

  “Promise. But not only do I like to get involved in real cases, I then . . .” He paused. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. He took another breath. “ . . . I then write down my experiences.”

  “A mystery journal. What a great idea!” exclaimed Hilary.

  “Not exactly a journal. I . . . I change the facts around from the way they really happened . . . add color here and there . . . change the setting . . . change the names.”

  “Ashley! Are you trying to tell me you’re a closet mystery writer, with a drawer full of short stories taken from the police files?”

  “In a manner of speaking . . . yes.”

  “That’s exciting! I love it! Why would you be embarrassed to tell people that?”

  “Because I’ve even had some of my work published.”

  “You have? That’s great! But I’ve never seen your—Of course!” she exclaimed. “You use a pen name!”

  Ashley nodded sheepishly.

  “Ashley Jameson the historian turns out to be none other than a whodunit mystery writer! No wonder you wanted to keep this under wraps! So, what magazines have your stories been in? I’d like to see them.”

  “They haven’t been in magazines, actually.”

  “What then . . . a book . . . an anthology of short stories?”

  “I didn’t say I wrote short stories.”

  “Long stories then . . . what?”

  All at once a portion of the truth broke in upon Hilary.

  “Ashley . . . you don’t mean you write mystery books . . . novels?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s fantastic! Please, stop beating around the bush. What’s your pen name?”

  Ashley sighed. “I’ve come this far, I guess you might as well have the whole enchilada, as they say on the streets of New York. Well . . . here it is—but I’m afraid you might recognize her name. And then what will you think of me?”

  “I’ll think none the less of you!” pleaded an exasperated Hilary. “Just be out with it before I—” Suddenly she paused. “Did you say her?” she asked.

  Ashley nodded.

  “She! Your pseudonym is a woman!”

  “Rather a well-known one I must confess. The name was first given me by my friend at the Yard. I’ve since thought of having him drawn and quartered.”

  “Ashley, you don’t mean . . . ?”

  Again Ashley nodded modestly.

  “But, Ashley, she’s one of the best-selling mystery writers in the country. Over a dozen books! You can’t be . . . but, you are serious!”

  “Now you see why I’ve got to keep it quiet.”

  Hilary’s mouth hung open in dumfounded amazement.

  “I can’t believe it!” she said. “I just can’t believe it! Ashley Jameson, my toe-in-the-sand, tweed suited, soft-spoken Ashley Jameson, stuffy old Greek scholar, is none other than—Lady Hargreave herself!”

  Ashley did not reply. His mind was too full of the revelation he had just made, and his heart was too full of the woman at his side, for words to be possible just now.

  Hilary clung to Ashley even more tightly, then slowly rested her head upon his arm, a quiet smile of contentment on her lips.

  Together they continued walking, in silence, long beyond the gates of Stonewycke, eventually discovering a long disused path down the bluff to the sea. They talked about many things, not the least of which was their future together.

  It was well over an hour before they returned to the car.

  55

  Loose Fragments and Plans

  “Well, I’ll tell you when I first knew something was up,” said Logan. “During that very first luncheon with our old friend von Burchardt. I had a nervous feeling about him all along. Do you remember how he slipped around all my attempts to pin him down?”

  He and Ashley were seated across the table from Allison and Hilary in the inner courtyard where they had just finished a light lunch. The sun was shining and the air, protected as it was from any breath of wind, was unseasonably warm. Ashley and Hilary had arrived back at the house just as Flora was setting the table.

  “I was confused all along,” said Hilary. “Just when the viscount would flash that smile of his, making me sure he was up to no good, I’d see Ashley walking off across the lawn with Jo, and grow so suspicious and infuriated with him that I’d begin to succumb to Emil’s oily charms.”

  “I’ve explained that,” laughed Ashley. “That time we were talking in your room, just after the incident with the music box when you were so distraught—”

  “When I berated you for all your truth and integrity talk—”

  “That’s the time! You were so upset, passion written all over your face, your eyes aglow. . . . Suddenly it dawned on me whose face I was seeing in yours. It was Logan’s! In that moment I knew beyond any doubt that you were his daughter.”

  “So why then did you rush right out and take up with Jo again?” asked Hilary with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Because before I said anything I had to be positively sure. I had to look
at her face again. I even tried to bait her with some leading questions, seeing if I could get a rise out of her, seeing if I could detect anything whatsoever that reminded me of either Allison or Logan. I had seen such confirmation from the flash in your eye that I had to gather my final bit of evidence from Jo’s face.”

  “What did you find?” asked Allison, clearly feeling much better.

  “Nothing. Not a trace. She was a cool one. She could almost have fooled me if I hadn’t gotten to know Hilary so well.”

  “Of course I had to keep my distance from you,” Logan said to Ashley, “when anyone was around. It wasn’t easy getting you off by yourself so we could compare notes. And von Burchardt was a complication I’d never counted on when I called you.”

  “Speaking of von Burchardt,” said Hilary thoughtfully, “do you remember, Ashley, that I told you I asked my friend at the Review to check up on you? At the same time I gave him Emil’s name.”

  “And?”

  “He hadn’t found anything out when we last talked. I ought to give him a call.”

  “Why don’t you, right now?” suggested Logan. “We need to know who we’re up against in this plot against us. And what are their motives.”

  “I will,” said Hilary, rising. “I’ll go call him right now.”

  She left and walked to the library. Fifteen minutes later she returned.

  “I have some most interesting news!” she announced.

  “You got through?”

  “Did I ever! I’m not sure where this leaves us, but one thing is certain—we’re up against something bigger than merely Jo and Emil.”

  “Out with it, Hilary,” chided Ashley. “We’re on pins and needles!”

  “Okay. My associate on the Review, Murry Fitts, did an investigation on our friend the viscount. He hadn’t called me yet, he said, because there were some other names he was trying to get that he thought might tie in. In any case, here’s what he has so far.”

  She paused, flipped through the small notebook she had been holding, and then began. “Emil’s story, as far as it went, is true. A titled Austrian family whose wealth goes back many generations. However, they lost everything during the depression and were quick to espouse Nazi propaganda. The elder viscount was made a minister in the Nazi regime formed in Austria in 1938 when Hitler annexed that country. This von Burchardt was eventually promoted to Hitler’s own inner circle in Berlin. At the end of the war he escaped with many other war criminals and disappeared. He was thought to have wound up in South America.”