“What’s the matter, Jane?” Flo asked me. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Lower than the center of the earth. Mrs. Timms thinks I’m a disgrace. My father thinks I’m touched in the head. I’ve telephoned Jack three times this morning, but he doesn’t answer his phone.”
“I’m sure he’s just busy,” Flo said.
“I’m sure he’s busy, too. But busy doing what? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Bowling?”
“On a Sunday morning? Not very likely. And are you sure Shep isn’t on the bowling team? Something fishy is going on.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Flo insisted, “and I was mistaken about Martin not being on the bowling team. I telephoned him last night and asked him about it. He is their star bowler, just as Jack said.” Flo wouldn’t meet my eye as she made those claims, which only served to deepen my suspicions. What was everyone hiding from me? Was Jack getting ready to hand me the icy mitt and no one wanted to be the one to break the news to me?
“What you need is a nice adventure,” Florence continued, finally meeting my eye. “How about another trip out to Roseacres tomorrow night?”
“I’ve had enough of wells!”
“Jane, you can’t mean it. After discovering those loose bricks, you’ll just forget about them? That’s very unlike you.”
“I can’t bear the thought of dragging in again looking like an insane person,” I groused.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow night about eight-thirty,” said Flo, completely ignoring my protests.
As usual, my spirit of adventure got the best of me and by a quarter ‘til nine the following night, Flo and I were back at Roseacres. The house was completely dark.
“Maybe Mrs. Covington is out for the evening,” I suggested.
“In that case, we’ll have to be especially careful,” Florence warned as we approached the old wishing well. “She might return at any moment and find us.”
I had brought the rope ladder, an extra length of rope, an assortment of tools, a flashlight and a pair of stout water-proofed boots and a suit of warm coveralls which my father used when he worked on his car—which was almost never due to his tendency to do himself grievous bodily harm whenever he attempted mechanical tasks. Consequently, the coveralls were nearly brand new. They wouldn’t be after I was done with them. I inserted myself into the coveralls and prepared to descend a few feet into the well.
“Do be careful,” Florence said. “If you should fall you might kill yourself.”
“You think of the most cheerful things. I’m not taking any chances, though. I’ll tie myself to the ladder with this extra piece of rope.”
I got into position, and Florence handed down the flashlight. I carefully inspected the brick wall.
“I believe there is an opening,” I called up to Flo. “I really do. Here, take this flash. I can’t work and hold it.”
While Florence directed the beam from above, I tugged at the bricks. Unable to move them, I called up for the small crowbar which I had brought with me from home. I pried one of the bricks loose with ease. When I pushed my arm through the opening, I encountered only empty space.
“It’s a narrow tunnel, I think. Take this brick, and I’ll try to pry out the others.”
Within ten minutes, I had handed up enough bricks to make a knee-high pile.
“You do realize we’re practically destroying Mrs. Covington’s well,” Florence said uneasily. “How will we ever explain this?”
“I can put the bricks back again,” I assured her. “They were meant to come out, so they must be meant to go in again. Now, hand me the flashlight.”
Balancing myself precariously on the ladder, I directed the light through the opening I had created. A long narrow tunnel which I judged to be about five feet below the ground extended as far as I could see.
“I’m going to try to get in there,” I called to Florence. “Toss me a life preserver if I fail.”
I swung my feet from the ladder to the ledge. Retaining a hold on the ropes, I edged myself backward into the hole.
“It’s much easier than it looks,” I called up to Flo. “Come down, if you want to explore.”
Florence hesitated, and then climbed down into the well. I helped her from the ladder into the tunnel.
“I think this leads to the house,” I told Flo. “I know lots of these old places had escapes, but I never heard of a tunnel opening into a well.”
The bricked passageway was so low that for the first twelve feet we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees. Gradually, the tunnel deepened until we were able to walk in a stooped position.
The tunnel abruptly ended in front of a heavy door which looked to be at least as old as the house. It did not move easily, but together Florence and I were able to swing it open.
“Where in the world are we now?” Florence asked.
I directed the flashlight beam ahead to a series of four steps which led down from the tunnel into an empty room which was barely six feet across. So far as I could see, it had no exit.
“It looks as if we’re at the end of the trail,” said Florence. She sounded relieved that we would not be able to continue further.
“This must be part of Roseacres.” I descended the steps into the tiny room.
“But there’s no way out of it except through the tunnel.”
“There must be if we can find it,” I insisted.
I began to explore the walls, and Florence followed my example. Our search was soon rewarded. I discovered a small brass knob embedded in the rough board paneling. I pulled on it, and a section of wall slid back.
“Now we really are in Roseacres! The basement, I think.”
We silently stepped through the opening and tiptoed around the dark, damp room. The walls had been boarded over, but there was no solid foundation beneath our feet, only a hard dirt floor. A steep stairway led up from the basement.
“Do you suppose Mrs. Covington is at home?” I whispered.
There was no sound from above.
“Shall we go upstairs, or back the way we came?” I asked Flo.
“Let’s risk being caught,” Florence decided after a moment’s hesitation. “I’d rather be sent to jail for housebreaking than to climb into that well again.”
We crept up the stairway. The landing was blocked by another door. I tested it, and finding it unlocked, pushed it gently open. Again, we listened.
“The coast is clear,” Florence whispered. “I’m sure Mrs. Covington isn’t here.”
I stepped across the threshold, tense with anticipation. Ever since Mrs. Covington’s return to Roseacres, I had longed to see the interior of the grand old mansion. And now, through a strange quirk of adventure, my ambition was to be gratified.
I allowed the flashlight beam to play over the walls of the large high-ceilinged room. The walls were bare, although there were darker rectangles on the faded wallpaper showing where pictures must have once hung. Systematically, I continued to move the light about in search of furniture. So far as I could see, there was none.
“How very odd that the room is empty,” Florence whispered at my elbow.
The floorboards squeaked beneath our weight as we tiptoed to a doorway opening into a still larger room with a beautiful circular stairway ascending to the second floor.
“This must be one of the parlors,” I said.
“But where is the furniture?”
My flash cut squares across the room, but the only furnishings were a wobbly-looking chair with horsehair peeking out of the cushions and a cheap, rickety table drawn up close to the fireplace.
“Why is the house empty?” Florence asked in a whisper.
“Perhaps she’s moved all the furniture to another floor,” I suggested. “Maybe she intends to have the place repapered soon. It certainly needs it.”
Flo did not answer. There was a shuffling of feet on the front porch. We froze against the wall. Before we could retreat to the basement stairs, the living
room door opened. Light from the porch lamp spilled in across the bare floor.
Mrs. Covington stood framed in the doorway. We had made no sound, yet the mistress of Roseacres seemed to sense that she was not alone.
“Who is it?” she called sharply. “Speak up! Who is hiding here?”
Chapter Seventeen
My voice shook as I acknowledged our presence in the dark room. I had no excuse for housebreaking.
Mrs. Covington struck a match and lit three half-burned candles which were set in a huge glass candelabra mounted to the wall.
“Oh, so it’s you!” she exclaimed as the flickering light fell upon our faces. “May I ask why you have broken into my house?”
“We’re thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, Mrs. Covington,” I said.
“Indeed, we are,” added Florence. “When we started to investigate the wishing well, we didn’t intend to enter the house.”
“Suppose you explain,” suggested the mistress of Roseacres.
“It’s a long story. May we sit down somewhere?”
The request embarrassed Mrs. Covington. She hesitated and then indicated that we were to follow her. She led us through another empty room to the kitchen where she lit another candle. Its soft illumination revealed an old oil stove, a couple of chairs, a porcelain table and a cot which obviously served both as a couch and bed.
Mrs. Covington offered no explanation or apology. She took wood from a box, piled it into the fireplace, and soon had a cheerful blaze on the hearth.
Flo and I drew our chairs up to the fire and explained how we had come to enter the old mansion. Mrs. Covington listened attentively to our story but did not appear especially surprised.
“I’ve always known about that old tunnel,” she said when we had finished. “It was built by the first owner of this house, many, many years ago, and I doubt if it ever was used. I tried to find the entrance from the basement a few days ago but was unable to locate it.”
“We saw you with your lantern at the wishing well,” Florence confessed. “That was what aroused our curiosity.”
“I was looking for the other tunnel entrance. I found it without much trouble, but it was so deep down in the well that I dared not risk trying to get into it. I’m no spring chicken, and I have no desire to break my neck. Although I considered hiring a man, I hesitated, because I knew it would cause talk. I suppose you think me an odd old woman. Perhaps I am, but I have a very good reason for some of the things I do. I came to Greenville to search for something which has been lost many years.”
“What are you searching for?” Florence asked.
“Something secreted by my sister, Virginia. Since you girls already have learned so much, I will tell you all. Perhaps you have heard of the Covington pearls?”
We shook our heads.
“I forget that you are so very young,” Mrs. Covington said. “Your mothers would remember. At any rate, the necklace was handed down in our family for many generations, always to the daughter who was the first to marry. Virginia, my younger sister, dreamed that the pearls would go to her. Naturally, I hoped they would come to me instead. As it came about, I was the first of the family to marry.”
“Then you received the necklace?”
“It should have gone to me, but my sister was determined I never should win such a victory over her. In a fit of rage, she hid the pearls. Father tried to force her to tell what she had done with them, but she was very headstrong. She ran away from home, married a scamp, and sailed with him to South America. She died there less than two years after my own marriage.”
“What became of the pearls?” I asked.
“Our family believed that she took the necklace with her. For many years we assumed that Virginia’s worthless husband had obtained possession of it and sold it. He denied any knowledge of the pearls, but we never accepted his story as true. Then, a few weeks ago, a letter came from South America. It had been written by Virginia’s husband shortly before his death.”
“He confessed to the theft of the necklace?”
“No, indeed. He merely enclosed a letter written by Virginia years before. It was addressed to me and had never been sent because her husband deliberately withheld it. Just selfish and cantankerous, that man was. The letter told where the pearls had been hidden. I imagine that Virginia’s husband had planned to gain possession of them someday, but fate defeated him. So, on his deathbed, he sent me the original letter which I should have received forty years earlier.”
“Where were the pearls hidden?” Florence asked. “You haven’t found them yet?”
“No, and I doubt that I ever shall.” Mrs. Covington sighed. “Virginia’s letter was not very definite. She begged my forgiveness for having caused so much trouble and said that she had hidden the necklace near the old wishing well.”
“Didn’t she tell you where?”
“There were several words which had been blotted out. I suspect Virginia’s husband did it to prevent anyone but himself from learning the exact location of the pearls. I imagine he intended to come back here someday and take the pearls for himself. By the time he finally sent the letter on to me, he may have forgotten what he had done. That’s only my guess, of course. As the letter reads, my only clue is that the pearls were hidden near the wishing well.”
“That explains why you were removing the flagstones the other night,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve searched everywhere I can think of except in the old tunnel. When you girls went through it tonight, did you notice anything unusual?”
“No hiding place,” I told Mrs. Covington. “Of course, we weren’t looking for anything of the sort. If we could explore the passageway by daylight—”
“Can’t we help you find the pearls, Mrs. Covington?” Florence interrupted. “It would be such fun searching for them.”
“I’ll be very happy to have your help,” the old lady smiled. It appeared we had been forgiven for our grievous breach of both basic civility and the law of the land. “Upon one condition. You must tell no one. Already I am the laughingstock of Greenville, and if this latest story should get around everyone would talk.”
Flo and I both vigorously assured her that we would tell no one about the pearls.
“Another thing—” Mrs. Covington hesitated and then went on. “I suppose you understand now why I never invited you into the house. It wasn’t that I meant to be inhospitable.”
“Because the place isn’t fixed up?” Florence came to her aid. “Why, Jane and I would have thought nothing of it. This is a cozy kitchen with a cheerful fire. I think it’s nice.”
“I probably shan’t be here long. My purpose in returning to Greenville was to find the pearls. I’ve nearly made up my mind that they are lost forever.”
“Oh, don’t say that! Tomorrow, with your permission, Florence and I will explore the tunnel. We may have luck in finding the pearls.”
“I shall be very glad to have your help, my dear. But please, I beg of you, don’t tell anyone what you have seen tonight, particularly the barren state of this house.”
“We understand,” I said.
The fire had burned low. We promised to return the following day and bade Mrs. Covington goodbye. Once outside the mansion, we paused beside a tree so that I might remove the heavy coveralls which I still wore over my frock.
“What a night!” I said to Flo.
“For once, Jane, one of your crazy adventures turned out beautifully,” Florence said. “We’ll have a wonderful time searching for that necklace. She certainly is odd, though.”
“Mrs. Covington?”
“Yes, imagine being so sensitive about how the interior of your house looks. Who would expect it to be fixed up nicely after standing empty so many years?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked as I hopped on one foot in an attempt to extricate the other from the coveralls.
“Forgetting what?” Florence asked.
“Remember that first day we peeped into the house throu
gh the window?”
“Why, yes, what about it?”
“Your memory isn’t very good, Florence. Don’t you remember the sheet-draped furniture we saw?”
“That’s right. I had forgotten. What do you think became of it?”
“If I had just one guess, I’d say—Mr. Butterworth.”
“Who is Mr. Butterworth?”
“A second-hand dealer who buys old furniture, newspapers, rubber tires—practically everything except old milk bottles.”
“Not that funny-looking man we saw enter this house the other day.”
“The same. It’s my guess that Mrs. Covington sold all of her valuable antiques—probably for a fraction of their true worth.”
“How foolish of her. Why would she do that?”
“There can be but one explanation. Mrs. Covington isn’t wealthy anymore. She’s living in dire poverty and desperate to keep people from discovering the truth.”
Chapter Eighteen
The realization that likely Mrs. Covington had sold her valuable antiques to the second-hand dealer was as disconcerting to Florence as it was to me. I did not believe that Mr. Butterworth would pay even a fractional part of the furniture’s true value, and, apparently, the widow’s only reason for parting with her treasures was an urgent need for money.
“Of course, I may have guessed wrong about it,” I admitted as Florence and I started toward home. “Just to check up, I’ll call at Mr. Butterworth’s shop tomorrow and see what I can learn.”
“I wish we dared tell someone about the condition of the house,” Florence said. “If Mrs. Covington really is in need—"
“We gave our solemn promise not to reveal anything we saw. For the time being, our hands are tied. We mustn’t tell anyone what we have learned.”
The next day, Florence and I met downtown.
“I have the address of Mr. Butterworth’s shop,” I told Flo. “It’s not far from here.”
The building proved to be a typical second-hand store with old tables and chairs piled in the windows along with cut glass and bric-a-brac. Once inside, we wandered about until the shop girl asked us if we were searching for anything in particular.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 25