We told Abigail how we had observed Mrs. Covington removing the flagstones surrounding the base of the wishing well.
“There’s been more digging,” I said, “See.”
I pointed out a place where additional flagstones had been lifted and carelessly replaced.
“Mrs. Covington must have been at work again,” Florence agreed. “What does she expect to find?”
“Fishing worms, perhaps,” Abigail suggested with a smile. “Under the flagstones would be a good place.”
“I doubt Mrs. Covington’s been fishing in her life,” said Flo. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s entirely right in her mind. It just isn’t normal to go around digging on your own property under cover of darkness.”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Covington knows what she is about. Her mind is perfectly in order,” I said. “I’m certain she’s looking for something which is she believes is hidden around this old well.”
“But what can it be?” Florence said. “Nothing she does makes any sense to me.”
“She’s one of the most interesting characters I’ve met in many a day,” I said. “I like her better all the time.”
“How about those flowers?” Abigail suggested, changing the subject. “I’m sure Mrs. Sanderson would be pleased with a bouquet. She loves flowers but never has any of her own.”
As we started toward the back of the property to pick paperwhites for Mrs. Sanderson, a battered automobile drew up in front of the house. A man who was dressed in a coat and trousers taken from two separate suits alighted and came briskly up the walk.
“Who is he?” Florence whispered.
“Never saw him before,” I said. “He looks like a tramp.”
“Or an old clothes man,” said Abigail.
The man doffed his battered derby and said, “Is this where Mrs. Covington lives?”
“Yes, she is inside,” Florence replied.
Bowing again, the man presented himself at the front door, hammering it loudly with the brass knocker.
“Mrs. Covington will make short work of him,” I said. “She’s an expert at getting rid of unwelcome visitors.”
Mrs. Covington opened the door almost instantly.
“Mr. Butterworth?” she asked, without waiting for the man to speak.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in,” invited Mrs. Covington, her voice impersonal.
The caller stepped across the threshold, and the door swung shut.
“Did you see that?” Florence whispered in awe.
“I certainly did. That fellow—whoever he is—has accomplished something that even Greenville’s society ladies could not achieve. I was puzzled before, but now, let me tell you, I’m completely tied in a knot.”
Chapter Thirteen
As I was leaving the grocer’s the following morning after picking up a few things for Mrs. Timms—she’d made it clear that I was to compensate for my decimation of the family larder by doing all her marketing for her until her wrath had cooled—I heard Abigail Whitely calling out my name.
Abigail was breathless from running by the time she caught up with me.
“Mrs. Carter, the most wonderful thing has happened,” she said.
“Your Texas friends have left town?”
Abigail shook her head. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that wonderful. They’re still here. This news is about my brother, Ted. He has a job.”
“Why, that’s splendid. Exactly what you wished for yesterday afternoon at the well.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange? This makes twice my wish has come true. How do you account for it?”
“I suppose your brother could have obtained the job by chance,” I said. “That would be the logical explanation.”
“But it all came about in such an unusual way. Judge Harlan saw Ted on the street and liked his appearance. So, he sent a note to the camp asking if he would work as a typist in his office.”
“Ted is accepting?”
“Oh, yes. The pay is splendid for that sort of work. Besides, it will give him a chance to study law, which is his life ambition. Oh, Mrs. Carter, you can’t know how happy I am about it.”
After I’d reported to Mrs. Timms and turned over the flour, the raisins, the cooking oil and the package of macaroni, I went straight to the Radcliffs’ and reported my conversation with Abigail to Florence. We were pleased that Ted Whitely had obtained employment, but it did seem peculiar to both of us that the judge would go to such lengths to gain the services of a young man of questionable character.
“Perhaps he wants to help him,” Florence speculated. “Ted is at the critical point of his life now. He could develop into a very fine person or just the opposite.”
“It’s charity, of course. But who put the judge up to it?”
“Mrs. Covington heard Abigail express her wish.”
“Yes, she did,” I agreed, “but I don’t think she paid much attention. She was too angry at George Roth. Besides, Mrs. Covington doesn’t have a reputation for doing kind deeds.”
“If you rule her out, there’s nothing left but the old wishing well,” Florence pointed out.
“I might be tempted to believe it has unusual powers if ever it would do anything for me,” I grumbled. “Not a single one of my wishes has been granted.”
“A mystery does seem to be developing at Roseacres.”
“True, but I’ve not learned anything new since I made my wish. Mrs. Covington is still laying back her ears and refusing to cooperate with the Pilgrimage Committee.”
The Festival Week program which so interested me had been set for the twenty-sixth of May and the days immediately following. Gardens were expected to be at their height at that time, and the owners of seven large but ordinary old houses had agreed to open their doors to the public. Both Flo and I had been conscripted by Mrs. Radcliff to sell tickets for the tour of homes, but sales resistance was becoming increasingly difficult to overcome.
“The affair may be a big flop,” I told Flo. “No one wants to pay a whole fifty cents to see a house which is just like one’s own, only bigger. Now, Roseacres would draw customers.”
“The women of Greenville are simply consumed with curiosity to get inside Roseacres,” Flo agreed, “but I don’t foresee Mrs. Covington changing her mind.”
“Neither do I.
Two days elapsed during which nothing interesting happened. Abigail told me that Ted was well established in his new job and that Mr. Coaten seemed displeased about it. My father reported that George Roth was making progress in his efforts to sell the stone found at Roseacres to the Greenville Historical Museum, although no money had yet exchanged hands. Other than that, there were no new developments.
“Florence, let’s visit Truman Kip again,” I proposed after the Palette Club meeting on Saturday afternoon.
“What good would it do?” Florence demurred. “You know very well he doesn’t like to have us around.”
“He acted suspicious of us, which made me suspicious of him. I’ve been thinking, Flo—if the writing on those two stones were faked, it must have been done with a chisel—one which would leave a characteristic mark. Every tool is slightly different, you know.”
“All of which leads you to conclude—?”
“That if Truman Kip did the faking, he would have a tool in his workshop that would make grooves like those on the stones. An expert might be able to compare them and tell.”
“Do we consider ourselves experts?”
“Of course not,” I said. “But if I could get my hands on the tool, I could turn it over to someone who knows about such things.”
“So, you propose to go out to the Mr. Kip’s workshop today and steal a chisel from him?”
“Certainly not, I’ll buy it from him. Perhaps I can convince him I want to chisel a tombstone for myself or something of the sort.”
“I used to think you were just plain crazy, Jane Carter,” Florence declared sadly. “Lately you’ve reached the stage where adjectives are too
weak to describe you.”
A half hour later we had arrived at the Kip ramshackle headquarters. The door of the workshop stood open, but when we looked inside, there was no sign of the old stonecutter. Several tools lay on a bench where Kip had been working, and I stepped inside to examine them.
“Here is a chisel. It seems to be the only one around, too. Just what I need!”
“Jane, you wouldn’t dare take it! As a daughter of a member of the clergy, I forbid you!”
“Oh, do you, now? You forbid me?” I said, playfully pocketing the chisel and laying the princely sum of five dollars on the workshop in its place. “I’m impounding it in my official capacity as a detective—yes. I’ll leave more than enough money to pay for it. Then after I’ve had it examined by an expert, I’ll return it to Mr. Kip.”
I was only pulling Flo’s leg. I did truly intend to convince Mr. Kip to sell it to me, but until he arrived, I intended to wind Old Flo up a bit more.
“Oh Mystery, what crimes are committed in thy name,” Florence said. “If you land in jail, my dear Jane, don’t expect me to share your cell cot.”
I was about to remove the chisel from my pocket and reclaim my five-dollar bill when a shadow darkened the doorway.
It was Truman Kip. He was spifflicated in the extreme. One look at his face told me that the old stonecutter was not one of those jovial, friendly drunks who gets outside of a few and thinks every man, woman, child and dog he encounters is his best and dearest friend.
Mr. Kip stood in the doorway of the workshop and stared at us for several seconds before he picked up a shovel which leaned against the wall next to the open door.
“You’s burglars,” he slurred, raising the shovel over his head.
I waited no longer.
“Run!” I hissed to Flo and dragged her to the only escape, the front door of the ramshackle building which opened onto a small stoop overlooking the river.
As we emerged, I was surprised to see dark storm clouds scudding overhead. The sun had been completely blotted out, and occasional flashes of lightning brightened a gray sky.
I took Flo by the hand, and we ran until we were halfway up the hill to Roseacres before I let Florence stop to take a breather. We stood in silence, listening for sounds of pursuit, but I heard nothing but distant thunder. Evidently, Mr. Kip had decided against pursuing us in his sozzled state.
“It’s going to rain before we can get to Greenville,” Florence said uneasily, looking at the clouds. “We’ll be drenched.”
“Why not go by way of Mrs. Covington’s place? Then, if the rain does overtake us, we can dodge into the summer house until the shower passes over.”
As I looked down on the stonecutter’s riverside workshop through an opening in the undergrowth, I observed that the river level was higher than when last I had seen it. Muddy water lapped almost at the doorstep of Truman Kip’s workshop. A rowboat tied to a half-submerged dock nearby swung restlessly on its long rope.
“I should be afraid to live so close to the river,” Florence said. “If the water comes only a few feet higher, Kip’s place will sail south.”
“The flood control system will take care of everything. At least that’s what the authorities would like us to think. Dad says he doesn’t place much faith in it himself—not if it’s ever put to a severe test.”
Before we had gotten far, a few drops of rain splattered down. Anticipating a deluge, we ran for the dilapidated summer house which stood at the edge of the grounds of Roseacres, within sight of the wishing well. Completely winded, I sank down on a dusty wooden bench to catch my breath.
“The clouds are rolling eastward,” Florence remarked, scanning the sky. “It may not rain much after all.”
“Flo! Look.”
A dark figure was bending over the yawning hole in the center of the old wishing well.
“What is it?”
“Look over there,” I said, pointing toward the old wishing well. “Mrs. Covington is doing something at the well. Is she trying to repair it or what?”
“She’s examining the inside. If she’s not careful, she may fall. We ought to warn her—”
“Warn her that she might fall in? I believe Mrs. Covington knows what she is about, Flo. Let’s just watch.”
We were so far away that it was not possible to see exactly what the old lady was doing. So far as I could tell she was tapping the inside stones of the well with a hammer.
“I think she’s trying to discover if any of them are loose,” I told Flo. “I’m surer of it than ever after seeing this. Something of great value is hidden in or near the wishing well, and Mrs. Covington has come back to Greenville to search for it.”
“What could be hidden in an old well?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“If there’s something hidden in or around the well, why doesn’t she have a workman make a thorough search?”
“Probably because she doesn’t want folks to suspect what she is about, Flo. That would explain why she works at night and on very dark, gloomy days such as today. She doesn’t wish to be seen.”
“Mrs. Covington searches in such obvious places,” Florence said after a moment. “If anything really is hidden it might be deep down in the well. She never will find it in that case.”
“We might help her,” I suggested.
“You know she would resent our interference.”
“She probably would if we tell her what we intend to do.”
“Just what scheme are you hatching now?”
“You gave me the idea yourself,” I said. “The logical place to search is deep down inside the well. I’m sure the water can’t be more than a few feet deep.”
“So you want me to dive in and drown myself? Thank you, but I prefer to restrict my aquatic exercises to the swimming pool.”
“We have an old rope ladder in our basement.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“It has two iron hooks to claw into the wood of window ledges. Those same hooks will fit very nicely over the side of the wishing well. I’ve been waiting for a chance to use that ladder, and here it is.”
“You actually have the courage to climb down into a well?”
“Why not? But it must be tonight while my enthusiasm is bubbling. Jack’s occupied again with his bowling club, so I’m officially at loose ends. Meet me at nine o’clock and bring a good flashlight.”
Florence stared at me. “You’re actually serious?”
“Indeed I am. Now let’s slip away from here before Mrs. Covington sees us.”
Chapter Fourteen
The night, dark and misty, was entirely suitable for the purpose to which we dedicated it. Dinner over, I obtained the rope ladder from a trunk in the basement. I compressed it into a carpet bag and sauntered through the living room.
“Going on a journey?” my father inquired, noting the bag in my hand.
“Over to Florence’s house,” I told him. “From that point on there’s no guarantee.”
“You’ll be home early?”
“I hope so. If for any reason I fail to appear, don’t search in any of the obvious places.”
Leaving my father to ponder this remark, I hastily quitted the house. The Moresby tower clock chimed nine as I neared the Radcliffs. I parked in the next street and walked to Flo’s house where I stood under the shadow of a tree and did a very poor imitation of an owl. I had to hoot seven times before Flo joined me in the yard.
“I had trouble getting away,” Florence reported. “Mother asked all sorts of questions, and as a last resort, I was forced to lie a little.”
“And what was the nature of this untruth?”
“I told her I had a date.”
“With a man?”
“Yes.”
“Oh? And who was this mystery man? Surely your mother questioned you on his identity.”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Don’t be coy,” I insisted. “If your mother has even an inkling that you were lyi
ng she’s sure to cross-examine me the first chance she gets.”
“I told Mother I had a date with Martin Murphy.”
“Who in tarnation is Martin Murphy? Wouldn’t it have been better to select a real man who might at least be convinced to provide you with an alibi, should one become necessary?”
“I did select a real man,” Flo insisted. “You know Martin. He’s a friend of yours.”
“I do?” I surveyed my brain for any Martin of my acquaintance. “Oh! You mean Shep!”
“He prefers Martin,” Flo said stiffly.
“Does he now? I wasn’t aware of his preference,” I said. “Still, shouldn’t you have chosen a date who wasn’t occupied with a bowling competition this evening.”
“What bowling competition?”
“Jack says there’s a big competition this evening. According to him, Shep is their star bowler.”
“Martin doesn’t bowl,” Flo insisted. “How can he be anyone’s star bowler?”
“You must be mistaken. Jack waxed very eloquent on how essential Shep was to their bowling team’s success. Shep was standing by during this effusive praise and seemed rather embarrassed to be on the receiving end of such adulation. I thought it was very unlike him. Generally, Shep fairly laps up flattery.”
Flo turned suddenly silent and somber, but I couldn’t work out why.
“Are you and Shep stepping out behind my back?” I asked. “Not that I wouldn’t be over the moon about it, but you should have told me.”
“We go to see a picture together from time to time,” Flo admitted flatly.
“Congratulations, Old Girl!”
I slapped Florence between the shoulder blades, and she pitched forward from the force but remained uncharacteristically silent in the face of my manhandling.
“Shall we get going, then?” Flo said soberly.
“Did you bring the flashlight?”
“Yes, here it is. My, but it’s a dark night.”
“All the better for our purposes,” I said.
A single light burned in the kitchen window of Roseacres as we approached. The garden was shrouded in damp, wispy mist and the unkempt grounds had never appeared more desolate.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 23