I rapped on the door. Mrs. Covington must have noted our approach, for she responded to my knock immediately.
“Good afternoon,” I began, “we were driving by and thought we would drop in to see you again.”
“How nice of you.” Mrs. Covington smiled. “Look over the garden as much as you please.”
“The garden—” Florence faltered, glancing over at me.
“Or make wishes at the well,” Mrs. Covington went on hastily. “Go anywhere you like, and I’ll join you as soon as I get a wrap.”
The door closed gently in our faces.
“Who wants to see a tangle of weeds and overgrown shrubbery?” Florence demanded in a whisper. “Why didn’t Mrs. Covington invite us into the house?”
“Why indeed?” I said. “There can be but one reason! She has a deep, dark secret which she is endeavoring to hide from the world!”
Chapter Seven
“Deep, dark secret, my eye!” said Florence. “Jane Carter, sometimes I think that every inhabitant of Greenville suggests mystery and intrigue to you.”
“Then you explain why Mrs. Covington doesn’t invite us into her house,” I challenged Flo. “And why did she turn away the members of the Pilgrimage Committee?”
“Perhaps the place isn’t fixed up the way she wants yet.”
“That’s no reason to keep all visitors out. Of course the place would need work after being neglected for so long. No, Mrs. Covington must have a more compelling reason for secrecy than that, Flo, and I’m curious to learn what it is.”
“You’re always curious,” Florence teased, taking me by the arm. “Come along. Let’s get a drink at the well.”
While we were lowering the bucket into the brick-lined cavern, Mrs. Covington joined us, a woolen shawl thrown over her head and shoulders.
“I’ve not had time to get much work done yet,” she apologized. “I really must hire a man to clean up the grounds.”
A team of ten strapping men accompanied by an exceptionally strong mule would have been more suited the size of the job, but I decided not to point that out.
“Then you have decided to stay?” I asked.
“For the present, I shall. How long I remain depends upon how a certain project turns out.”
I waited hopefully, but Mrs. Covington did not elaborate on what this mysterious “certain project” entailed. Instead, she inquired about the other members of the Palette Club.
“I do like to have young people about the place,” she declared brightly. “Do tell your friends to return to sketch at Roseacres whenever they wish.”
“A rather strange thing occurred after our last visit,” I said. “One of the younger members of the Palette Club, Abigail Whitely, made a wish here at the well, and it came true.”
“What was the wish?” the old lady asked. A smile flickered across her face, but she hastily extinguished it.
“Abigail is an orphan, and she made a wish that the family who took her and her brother in might have more food to eat. Last Saturday evening, two baskets were left on the stoop of the cottage they are renting at the Dorset Tourist Camp. Florence and I were responsible for one of them, but we can’t account for the other.”
“Very interesting,” Mrs. Covington said. “In years past, a great many wishes which were made here did come true, so I can’t say that I am very surprised.”
“To what do you attribute the granting of so many wishes?” Florence asked. “That can hardly be chalked up to coincidence.”
Mrs. Covington smiled. “There are a great many things in this life that one cannot explain.”
After our spell of unseasonably warm weather, it had turned cool, and a chill, penetrating breeze blew up from the river. Florence shivered and drew her jacket collar closer about her neck, remarking pointedly that the weather had turned colder and shivering rather more dramatically than the conditions called for. Even then, Mrs. Covington did not suggest that we come into the house. A moment later, however, she excused herself and went inside alone, leaving us to wander the garden on our own.
“It does seem odd that she’s so secretive,” Florence said as soon as the door had shut behind Mrs. Covington. “I’m inclined to agree with the members of the Pilgrimage Committee. Her manners aren’t the best.”
“Perhaps you’ll eventually decide that I am right,” I said. “Take my word for it; there’s something inside the house she doesn’t want anyone to see. Shall we walk down to the river and call upon Truman Kip, the stonecutter, before we go?”
“You intend to tell him who stole his chicken?”
“No, I’ll let him discover that for himself. I want to talk to him about that big rock he hauled to the museum.”
Florence protested that she could not imagine what useful information I might expect to gain, but she followed me through the rear yard of Roseacres and down a gently sloping path which led to the river.
“I hope you know the way,” she said dubiously as the overgrown trail became steeper and rockier, and we were forced to proceed at a snail’s pace.
“Oh, we can’t miss the cabin. Kip’s place is the only one around here,” I assured her.
We emerged on an open hillside and looked down upon the winding river below. Recent rains had swollen the Grassy to the very edges of its banks, and from a distance Truman Kip’s shack appeared to be situated dangerously close to the water.
“Wouldn’t you think he would soon be flooded out?” Florence said as we paused to catch our breaths. “I shouldn’t care to live so near the river.”
“Oh, the water never comes much higher. A few years ago, the city built some sort of flood control system which takes care of the overflow should there be any.”
We regained our breaths and then started down the slope again. I was leading the way, not paying much attention to the rutty path. I caught my shoe in a small hole, causing me to trip and fall sideways. Immediately, I felt a sharp pain in my arm where I’d struck a rock as I fell. Florence helped me to my feet, brushing dirt from my skirt.
“You’ve ripped your stocking,” she pointed out, “and torn a hole in your sweater.”
“Never mind my stocking,” I said. “Never mind my sweater. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t my head. Let’s sit down and rest a minute.”
I sat down on the large smooth rock as I gingerly examined the bruised place on my elbow. Florence sat down beside me, futilely plucking burs from my ruined sweater.
“I’m all right now,” I said a few minutes later as I got up to go on. “Flo! Do you see what I’ve been sitting on?”
“A rock?”
“This stone looks exactly like the one at the museum.”
“All the rocks around here are pretty much the same, don’t they?”
“Certainly not, there are any number of varieties. This one is quartz unless I’m mistaken, and it closely resembles the one at the museum.”
“Maybe you can find some writing on it,” Florence teased. “It only weighs two or three hundred pounds. Shall I lift it for you, so you can examine the underside?”
“Don’t bother lifting it,” I said as I examined the stone more closely. “I’ve already found it.”
“Found what?”
“The writing. I knew this stone looked just like the one at the museum.”
“You’re letting your fertile imagination get away from you again, more likely,” Florence protested as she bent down to have a closer look. “There is writing on the stone!”
Carved letters, so dimmed by age and weathering that they scarcely remained legible, had been cut unevenly across the hard surface.
“Killed in a gunfight by my bullet. One Richard Mabry. William Hickock. April 14, 1872,” Florence read aloud.
“I expect there’s a number carved at the top,” I said, scrubbing away at the desiccated moss. “There was on the other one.”
“If it’s such an old rock, why was it not discovered before?”
“It looks like there’s the number ’40’ on
this one,” I said. “Maybe the rock is here because Wild Bill liked to leave memorial stones at every location where he’d killed a man, although I’m still inclined to trust my father’s instincts as a newspaperman that this is all a hoax. Still, this stone could have set out here for years before anyone discovered it. This trail is so rarely used, we might be the first people in months to have walked it.”
“I suppose it might be a hoax,” Flo said, “but shouldn’t we still tell someone what we’ve discovered?”
“The stone may be a fake, but that’s not for us to try to figure out. We’ve made an important discovery, and the museum is sure to be interested.”
“Don’t forget that this is on Mrs. Covington’s property,” Florence reminded me. “We’ll have to tell her about it first.”
We retraced our way to Roseacres. Mrs. Covington answered our knock, but she looked none too pleased by our unexpected return.
“What is it?” she asked, blocking the doorway so that we could not see beyond her into the living room.
I told her of finding the memorial stone on the hillside.
“Did you know such a rock was there?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen any stone with writing on it,” Mrs. Covington said. “Goodness knows there are plenty of boulders on my property, though.”
“Another stone similar to it was found last week on the Pitts farm,” Florence added. “Do come and see it for yourself, Mrs. Covington.”
Before Mrs. Covington could reply, there were heavy footsteps on the veranda. George Roth had approached without being observed. He doffed his hat with exaggerated politeness and smiled an oily smile.
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” he said, bowing again to Mrs. Covington. “You were saying something about a rock which bears writing?”
“We found it on the hillside near here,” I explained. “It appears to be the work of Wild Bill Hickok.”
“Then it must be a mate to the stone discovered by Mr. Pitts!”
“That is a logical explanation.”
“Will you take me to the spot where you found it?” Mr. Roth said, his voice rising. “I am tremendously interested.”
“Of course,” I said, but without any enthusiasm whatsoever.
I glanced over at Florence, who did not look particularly elated either. George Roth’s arrival detracted from the pleasure of our discovery. I was vaguely ashamed of my suspicions, but I feared Mr. Roth might try to claim credit for finding the stone.
As if to confirm my uncharitable suspicions, George Roth remarked that should the newly discovered stone prove to be like the one found at the Pitts farm, he would immediately have it hauled to the Greenville museum.
“Isn’t that for Mrs. Covington to decide?” I said. “The rock is on her land, you know.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” Mr. Roth nodded, brushing aside the matter of ownership as if it were of slight consequence.
Mrs. Covington had gone into the house for a coat. She reappeared and followed Mr. Roth, Flo and I down the trail to where the huge stone lay.
“Did you ever notice this rock?” I asked the mistress of Roseacres.
“Never,” she replied, “but then I doubt that I’ve walked this path since I was a child. Even in those days, it was quite overgrown.”
When we reached the stone, George Roth stooped to examine the carving, excitedly declaring that the carving was very similar to the marking of the Pitts stone.
“For all we know,” Mr. Roth said, “this rock may be one of the most valuable relics ever found in our state. From the historical standpoint, of course. The stone has no commercial value whatsoever.”
“I imagine the museum will want it,” I said. “The curator was quite excited about the discovery of the first stone.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Mr. Roth turned toward Mrs. Covington to ask: “You would not object to the museum having this stone?”
“Why, no,” she replied. “It has no value to me.”
“Then with your permission, I’ll arrange to have it hauled to Greenville without delay. I’ll buy the stone from you.”
“The museum is entirely welcome to it.”
“There is a possibility that the museum will refuse the stone. In that event, you would have the expense of hauling it away again. By purchasing it outright, I can relieve you of all responsibility.”
Giving Mrs. Covington no opportunity to protest, the real estate man forced a crisp two-dollar bill into her unwilling hand.
“There,” he said jovially, “now I am the owner of the stone. I’ll just run down to Truman Kip’s place and ask him to do the hauling for me.”
The wind was chilly, and after Mr. Roth had gone, Mrs. Covington went back to the house, leaving Florence and me to await Roth’s return with the stonecutter.
“I knew something like this would happen,” I told Flo. “Now it’s Mr. Roth’s stone, and the next thing we know, he’ll be claiming that he discovered it, too.”
Florence nodded gloomily, replying that only bad luck had brought the real estate agent to Roseacres at such an inopportune moment.
“I have a sneaking notion he came here to try and buy Mrs. Covington’s house,” I said. “He thinks Roseacres would make a good tourist hotel.”
We waited patiently for over half an hour. Neither George Roth nor Truman Kip appeared, so at last, we decided it was a waste of time to remain longer.
I arrived at home shortly before the dinner hour. My father had arrived home ahead of me. To my surprise, he’d already heard about the discovery of the stone at Roseacres.
“Word certainly travels fast,” I said to my father. “I suppose George Roth must have peddled the story the minute he reached town.”
“Yes, he called at the Examiner office to report he had found a stone similar to the one unearthed at the Pitts farm.”
“He found it? I knew that old publicity seeker would steal all the credit. Florence and I discovered that rock, and I hope you say so in the Examiner.”
“I intend to say nothing at all about the stone in the Examiner,” my father said. “Roth let it drop that he will offer the stone to the museum for two hundred dollars.”
“Well, of all the cheap tricks,” I said, my indignation mounting. “He bought that rock for two dollars, pretending he meant to donate it to the museum. Just wait until Mrs. Covington hears about it.”
Then I told Dad how I had found the rock by stumbling against it in descending the steep path to the river.
“Roth always did have a special talent for making money the easy way,” Dad said. “I’ll be sorry to see him succeed in cheating the museum.”
“You don’t think Mr. Klein will be foolish enough to pay Mr. Roth hundreds of dollars for that rock? Where would the historical society get that kind of money?”
“I am afraid he may, although it seems unlikely that he’d get the full two hundred for it. However, Mr. Klein appears convinced that the Pitts stone is a genuine specimen, and I know for a fact that a few years back the Historical Society had a very generous bequest from an anonymous donor. I’m guessing George Roth knows it, too; otherwise he wouldn’t have considered setting his price so high.”
“You still believe the writing to be fake?”
“I do, I’d stake my reputation upon it. I said as much to George Roth today, and he rather pointedly hinted that he would appreciate it if I’d keep my theories to myself.”
“I guess he doesn’t understand you very well.” I smiled. “Now you’ll be more determined than ever to expose the hoax—if a hoax it is.”
Mr. Roth’s action infuriated me. I believed he had deliberately deceived Mrs. Covington. I immediately telephoned Flo.
“I’ve learned something you’ll want to hear,” I told Florence. “No, I’d rather not tell you over the phone. Meet me directly after dinner. We can go for a sail on the river.”
My father had a small sailboat which he kept at his summer cottage on the Gra
ssy. Occasionally, he’d go for a sail, but his editorial duties at the Greenville Examiner occupied so much of his time that I got far more enjoyment from the craft than he did.
Florence agreed to a sail, and later that evening, as I drove Bouncing Betsy to the river with Flo in the passenger seat, she listened indignantly to my account of how George Roth would likely make a handsome profit at Mrs. Covington’s expense.
“Perhaps Mrs. Covington still can claim ownership of the stone,” she suggested.
“Not without a lawsuit. She sold the rock to Mr. Roth for two dollars. Remember his final words: ‘Now I am the owner of the stone.’ I’m convinced he intended to trick her right from the start.”
We turned into the private dirt road which lead to my father’s cottage. A chill breeze came up from the river, but we’d prepared by dressing warmly.
“It’s a grand night to sail,” I told Flo as we took the narrow path down to the small boathouse. “We should get as far as Roseacres if the breeze holds.”
We launched the dinghy, and Florence raised the sail while I took charge of the tiller. As the canvas filled, the boat heeled slightly and began to pick up speed.
“Now use discretion,” Florence admonished me as the dinghy tilted farther and farther sideways. “It’s all very well to sail on the bias, but I prefer not to get a dunking.”
During the trip up the river, we were kept too busy to enjoy the beauty of the night. However, as the boat approached Truman Kip’s shack, the breeze suddenly died, barely providing steerage way. Holding the tiller by the pressure of my knee, I slumped into a half-reclining position.
“Want me to steer for a while?” Flo asked.
“Not until we turn and start for home. We’ll have the current with us then, which will help, even if the breeze has died.”
Truman Kip’s cabin was entirely dark. High on the hillside stood the mansion at Roseacres and there, too, no lights shown from the windows.
“Everyone seems to have gone to bed,” I said. “It must be late.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 20