“You’ll face the music. No, Bronson, you can’t squeeze out of it this time.”
A car had drawn up in front of the house. Running to the window, I saw three policemen crossing the street. I hurried to the front door to open it for them.
“Here’s your man,” my father said as the policemen tramped into the living room.
Turning the revolver over to one of the officers, he disclosed what had occurred. Bronson was immediately placed under arrest. He was granted ten minutes to change into street clothing and prepare for his long sojourn in jail.
“I am being persecuted,” he whined as he was led away. “This is all a trick to build up circulation for the Examiner. If there is such an organization as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums, Sidney Dorner is the man who heads it!”
I felt very grateful to the fugitive who had come to our aid at such a timely moment. I wished to help him if I could, but I knew he could not escape arrest. Sidney Dorner realized it too, for he made no protest when told that Sheriff Daniels must be called.
“I’m ready to give myself up,” he repeated. “I was a member of the Hoodlums, but I never went along with them once I learned that we meant to defraud the truck farmers. I hope I can prove my innocence.”
Within a few minutes, Sheriff Daniels arrived to assume charge of his prisoner. Entertaining no sympathy for the man, he told Dad and I that likely Dorner must serve a long sentence.
“He’s wanted for setting fire to the Franklin barn,” the sheriff insisted. “Arson is a grave offense. Unless he can prove an alibi for himself, he hasn’t a chance.”
“Can’t you tell where you were at the time of the fire?” my father asked Dorner.
“I was at a place called Fisher’s Cafe.”
“That’s right, Dad,” I said. “Don’t you remember? We saw Dorner leave the place, and he was followed by two men—probably members of the Hoodlums organization.”
“We did see a man matching Sidney’s description shortly after midnight,” my father agreed.
“You wouldn’t swear he was Sidney Dorner?” the sheriff asked.
“I’m not sure. At the time, Mr. Dorner and I had never met, and we only observed the man from behind as he left the café and walked across the parking lot outside,” my father admitted truthfully. “However, it’s obvious that a man scarcely could have gone from Fisher’s Cafe at that time and still set fire to the barn. My daughter and I drove directly there, and when we arrived the building had been burning for some time.”
“All of which proves nothing unless you can show that Sidney Dorner actually was at Fisher’s Cafe after midnight.”
“Could the owner of the place identify you?” I asked Sidney.
“I doubt it,” Dorner answered. “It might be worth a try, though.”
“Perhaps I can prove that you weren’t near the Franklin farm at midnight,” I exclaimed as a sudden idea came to me. “Sidney, you heard the Moresby clock strike the hour?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How many strokes were there?”
“Thirteen,” Dorner answered without hesitation. “I counted them and figured the Hoodlums were having one of their get-togethers.”
“What is this?” the sheriff demanded in bewilderment.
“We can prove that the Moresby clock did strike thirteen on that particular night,” I resumed. “It was a signal used by the Hoodlums, but that’s not the point.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just this. The Moresby clock can’t be heard at the Franklin farm.”
“True.”
“One can still hear the clock at Fisher’s Café, but not a quarter of a mile beyond it. If Mr. Dorner heard the thirteenth stroke, he couldn’t have had time to reach the Franklin farm and set the fire.”
“That’s an interesting argument,” the sheriff said, smiling. “And you plead Sidney’s case very earnestly. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll investigate all these angles you’ve brought up, and if the evidence supports your theory, I promise he’ll go free.”
“That’s fair enough,” my father conceded.
The sheriff did not handcuff his prisoner. As we were leaving the house, Sidney Dorner turned to thank me for defending him to the Sheriff.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, taking a rectangular metal object from beneath his baggy coat. “Here’s something for you.”
“A rusty automobile license plate,” I said. “What is this for?”
“Found it in the swamp not far from that abandoned car I told you about.”
“Then it must have been thrown away by the driver of the hit-skip car.”
“That’s how I figure,” Sidney Dorner said. “If you can learn the owner of this license plate, you’ll know who killed that orphan’s folks.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Lights blazed on every floor of the Greenville Examiner building, proclaiming to all who passed that another special edition was in the process of birth. Pressmen industriously oiled the big rotaries ready for a big run of papers; linotype men, compositors, reporters, all were at their posts, having been hastily summoned from comfortable beds.
In Dad’s office, I sat at a typewriter hammering out copy. Jerking a long sheet of paper from beneath the roller, I offered it to my father.
“My contribution on the Moresby Clock angle,” I said with a flourish.
My father rapidly scanned the story, making several corrections with a blue pencil.
“I should slug this ‘editorial material,’” he remarked with a grin. “Quite a plug you’ve put in for Sam McKee—suggesting that he be given back his old job as caretaker of the tower.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“The old man will get his job back—I’ll see to that,” my father promised. “But the front page of the Examiner is not the place to express wishful thinking. We’ll reserve it for news if you don’t mind.”
Crossing out several lines, my father placed the copy in a pneumatic tube and shot it directly to the composing room. He glanced at his watch, noting aloud that in precisely seven minutes the giant presses would start rolling.
“Everything certainly has turned out grandly,” I sighed happily. “Harold Browning and Clark Bronson are sure to be given long prison sentences for their shady activities. You’ve promised to see that Mr. McKee gets his job back, so that part will end beautifully. He’ll adopt Amelia, and I won’t need to worry about her anymore.”
“What makes you think Sam will adopt an orphan?” my father asked.
“He’s wanted to do it from the first. He has no family. Not even a brother or sister, as far as I know. He hesitated because he had no steady work, and not enough money. By the way, Dad, how long will it take to learn the owner of that automobile license plate that Sidney Dorner gave us?”
“Jack is trying to get the information now. All the registry offices are closed, but if he can pull some official out of bed, there’s a chance he may obtain the data tonight. I’m not counting on it, however.”
The door of the office swung back, and City Editor DeWitt hurried into the room.
“Everything set?” my father inquired.
“We need a picture of Clark Bronson, and there’s nothing in the morgue.”
“Shep Murphy has one you might use,” I said. “It was taken when Bronson came here the other day. He objected to it because it showed that one arm was shorter than the other.”
“Just what we need!” DeWitt said. “I’ll rush it right out. Except for the picture, the front page is all made up.”
The door closed behind the city editor, but before my father could settle comfortably into his chair, it burst open again. Jack, breathless from running up several flights of stairs, faced my father.
“I’ve got all the dope!” he announced.
“You learned who drove the hit-skip car?” I demanded eagerly.
“The license was issued in Clark Bronson’s name.”
“Then Amelia’s
identification at the picnic was correct!”
“Write your story, Jack, but make it brief,” my father said. “We’ll make over the front page.”
Calling DeWitt, he gave the new order. In the composing room, headlines were jerked, and a story of minor importance was pulled from the form to make room for the new material.
“We’ll roll three minutes late,” my father said, glancing at his watch again. “Even so, our papers will make all the trains, and we’ll scoop every other sheet in town.”
Jack wrote his story, which was sent paragraph by paragraph to the composing room. Barely had he typed “30,” signifying the end, when the lights of the room dimmed for an instant.
“There go the presses,” my father said, finally ceasing his restless pacing.
Within a few minutes, the first paper, still fresh with ink, was laid upon Dad’s desk. I peered over his shoulder to read the headlines announcing the arrest of Bronson and his followers.
“There’s not much here about Seth Burrows. What do you think will happen to him, Dad?”
“That remains to be seen. He’s already wanted for forgery, so it should be fairly easy to prove that he worked with Bronson to defraud the Camp Board.”
“I’m worried about the orphans’ camp. So much money has been spent clearing the land and setting up equipment.”
“Probably everything can be settled satisfactorily in the end. It may take time and litigation, but there’s no reason why a clean title can’t be obtained to the land eventually.”
I felt very well pleased with the way everything had turned out. Only one small matter remained unexplained. I had been unable to learn the significance of the watch fob found in Sidney Dorner’s stable.
“I can tell you about that,” Jack said. “The fob belonged to Harold Browning. He admitted it at the police station. The little boy in the picture is his nephew.”
Both my father and I were exhausted. With the Examiner ready for early morning street sales, I thought longingly of home and bed. Yet, as Bouncing Betsy rattled down a dimly lighted street, I revived sufficiently to say:
“How about a steak at Fisher’s Cafe, Dad?”
“I don’t feel like eating at this late hour.”
“That’s not the idea, Dad. I’m suggesting a raw steak for that left eye of yours. By morning it will be swollen shut.”
“It is quite a shiner,” Dad agreed, gazing at his reflection in the car mirror. “But the story was well worth the cost.”
“Thanks to whom?”
“If I say thanks to you, Jane, you will be expecting compensation or something of the sort.”
“You make me sound positively mercenary. I wasn’t thinking of anything as crass as a bit of kale.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“You know that little task I keep pestering you to take care of?”
“What little task?”
“It concerns a proposal of marriage to one Doris Timms.”
“Oh, that.” I could feel Dad turning crimson in the darkness. “Jane, I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll get around to making an honest woman of Mrs. Timms in your own good time, but don’t forget that you still owe me a hundred dollars for getting that crackpot Seth Burrows out of your hair.”
The End
Robbery at Roseacres
A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Six )
By Celia Kinsey writing as Alice Simpson
NOTE: BY CELIA KINSEY WRITING AS ALICE SIMPSON.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Robbery at Roseacres: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2018 Alice Simpson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Inspiration for this series: This series is an adaption of Mildred Wirt’s Penny Parker Mysteries which have fallen into the public domain. Although the author has made extensive alterations and additions to both the plots and characters, readers familiar with Ms. Wirt’s books will recognize many elements of both from the originals.
Cover images ©Freepik.com and ©incomible (Bigstock.com)
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One of Rogues on the River
Chapter One
When my dearest friend, Florence Radcliff, announced that her mother, Mrs. Reverend Sidney Radcliff, was insisting that Flo should take charge of the running of the Palette Club—an art club for teenaged girls and young women—I’d been convinced that Old Flo was talking out of the side of her hat.
My friend Florence is not artistic. I’ve seen children of the tender age of five or six come up with more sophisticated works of art. Nevertheless, Flo’s mother prevailed. Mrs. Radcliff generally prevails, particularly when it comes to strong-arming her only daughter into doing the things she would rather not. That is how Florence came to be the official chairwoman of the Palette Club.
With Florence as Chairwoman, it was inevitable that I would become Vice-Chairwoman. I am far from being womankind’s answer to Monet, but at least when I paint something, there’s an elephant’s whisker’s chance of other people knowing what it’s meant to be without a lengthy explanation coupled with standing back from the canvas several car lengths and squinting just so. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
It was a lazy Saturday afternoon—the usual meeting time of the Palette Club—and I should have been at home, ensconced in my upper-story bedroom, sitting at my typewriter and toiling away at my latest novel: Lady Ramfurtherington’s Revenge.
Instead, I was in the rather niffy-smelling basement of St. Luke’s—Reverend Radcliff’s headquarters—attempting to reproduce in oil paint a wilted basket of daffodils accompanied by assorted bruised fruits and a smattering of motheaten silk foliage Flo had dug out from under a pile of disused hymnals stored in a recess behind the baptismal font.
“Don’t forget,” I whispered to Florence, who occupied the easel next to me. “We start for Roseacres the very second these girls are done insulting their canvases.”
“Insulting their canvases? Speak for yourself,” Flo hissed back. “I can’t tell if that’s a basket of daffodils you’re painting or a pile of old rags.”
“I’m just blocking in the main colors,” I said. I looked at my painting with a more critical eye and gave up defending it. “You’re right,” I said. “Out of us all, Abigail Whitely is the only one who’s any good.”
Abigail Whitely was new to Greenville. She was only a sophomore in high school, but already nearly seventeen. Even though the school year would be over for the summer in another month, Abigail had been enrolled at Greenville High school for only a couple of weeks.
Abigail lived with a large family in a rent-by-the-week cottage at a tourist camp on the outskirts of Greenville. I’d wondered more than once how many times she’d been moved from place to place. I expected that frequent moves must account for her being
unusually old for her grade.
“About Abigail—” said Flo, lowering voice even further.
“What about her?”
“Some of the girls don’t seem to like Abigail very much.”
I had noticed, but I wasn’t sure why Abigail hadn’t been accepted by the other girls nearer her age. Of course, Flo and I had been friendly to her, but we were ancient ladies of twenty-six, and most of our club members were still in high school or barely out.
“Why do you think the girls dislike Abigail?” I whispered back to Flo.
“There doesn’t seem to be any special reason for it.”
“Her poverty, perhaps?”
“I don’t think it’s that. Abigail is so quiet that the other girls have not yet become acquainted with her.”
At the other side of the room, Abigail Whitely was putting on her hat and picking up her handbag in preparation to leave. She was a sober-faced girl who wore a faded blue dress which seemed to draw all color from her thin face. I noticed that she avoided meeting anyone’s eye. She never said a word unless spoken to first.
I stood up.
“Abigail, don’t go yet,” I said loudly. Heads swiveled behind easels and brushes stopped moving. “I propose that we get out of this stuffy old basement. How about we adjourn the Palette Club meeting to Roseacres. Flo and I were planning on going there this afternoon anyway. Why don’t you all come along? What does everyone think? Abigail, what about you?”
A smile of surprise and pleasure brightened Abigail’s face.
“Oh, I should love to go, only I don’t think—” She hesitated, looking around the room waiting for someone else to second the invitation. No one did.
I gave Florence a little pinch.
“Yes, do come, Abigail,” Flo said. “We plan to sketch the old wishing well.”
“I have enough drawing material for both of us,” I added.
“If you really want me, of course, I’ll come,” Abigail said. “I’ve heard all about Roseacres and would very much like to see it.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 15