“I’m interested in furniture,” I explained. “Old pieces—antiques if we can find them.”
“Come into the back room,” the girl said. “Mr. Butterworth bought a number of very fine pieces just a few days ago. From one of Greenville’s best homes, too.”
“Where was that?” Florence asked.
“I didn’t hear him mention the name. It was from a house that has been closed up for many years. The owner returned only a short time ago and is clearing out everything in anticipation of selling.”
I did not doubt that the furniture under discussion had been obtained from Roseacres. I was certain of it when I saw the rosewood and mahogany chairs, imported mirrors, porcelain ornaments, massive four-poster beds, sofas with damaged coverings, and handsome chests and bureaus. I ventured to price a few of the items. The amount asked was so low that I knew Mr. Butterworth must have paid an extremely small sum to the widow. I made an excuse for not purchasing, and Florence and I escaped to the street.
“There’s no question about it,” I said as we set off for Roseacres. “Mrs. Covington sold all her beautiful things to Mr. Butterworth.”
“He can’t have appreciated their value, or he never would offer them at such low prices,” Florence added. “Anyone who buys those things will obtain wonderful bargains.”
“Don’t let on to Mrs. Covington that we’ve learned about the furniture,” I warned Flo as we neared Roseacres. “It’s really none of our affair if she sells her belongings.”
Mrs. Covington had been expecting us and had everything in readiness to explore the tunnel. While we searched it from end to end, she waited hopefully at the wishing well.
“Have you found anything?” she called several times.
“Not yet,” I would reply each time.
Florence and I laboriously examined every inch of the bricked passageway, but with fading hope. The walls were firm, giving no indication that anything ever had been hidden behind or within them. To have excavated the hard-packed dirt flooring was a task not to be considered without the aid of sharp shovels or a team of strong men or, preferably, both.
“I think there’s nothing here,” I whispered to Flo. “I doubt that the pearls ever were hidden in this tunnel.”
“Mrs. Covington will be terribly disappointed. What shall we tell her?”
“We can pretend to keep on searching. Maybe if we prowl about this place for a few days, we’ll have luck.”
“The pearls were hidden near the wishing well. We have that much to go on.”
“They may have disappeared years ago. Someone might have stolen them, or they could have been crushed by shifting soil and stone. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel very hopeful about ever finding them.”
We emerged into the basement. We were preparing to climb the stairs to the first floor when Mrs. Covington’s voice reached our ears almost as plainly as if she were in the cellar.
“Florence! Jane! Are you all right?”
Startled by the clearness of the call, I paused on the stairway.
“Her voice came through as plainly as if she were in this room,” Florence said. “You don’t suppose Mrs. Covington has ventured into the passageway?”
Thoroughly alarmed, we raced up the stairway and out of the house into the yard. To our relief we saw that Mrs. Covington was standing by the wishing well, peering anxiously down.
“Oh, here you are,” she said as we hurried up to her. “I was beginning to get worried. The last time I called you did not answer.”
“We were down in the basement,” I explained. “Mrs. Covington, your voice came through to us as plainly as if you were in the passage.”
“I’ve always known that sound carried from the well to the house,” Mrs. Covington said. “In fact, in past years I found it amusing to listen to conversations carried on by persons who never dreamed that their words were overheard.”
“Then that explains why so many wishes which were made here at the well came true,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You were the Good Fairy behind it all.”
“Now and then, if it pleased my fancy, I arranged to have a wish granted,” Mrs. Covington acknowledged, smiling grimly. “That was in the days when I had money—” she broke off and ended— “more than I have now, I mean.”
“Mrs. Covington, you must have heard those wishes we made the day of your return to Greenville,” Jane said after a moment. “Were you responsible for sending a basket of food to Abigail’s people?”
“I am afraid I was.”
“And did you grant Abigail’s second wish?” Florence asked. “Did you have anything to do with getting her brother, Ted, a job?”
“Judge Harlan is an old friend of mine,” Mrs. Covington explained. “I merely wrote him a note suggesting that he would do me a great favor by helping the boy if he found him worthy.”
Although Mrs. Covington’s admission cleared up much of the mystery which had surrounded the old wishing well, I was dumbfounded, nevertheless. Never once had anyone in Greenville connected Mrs. Covington with any particularly charitable deed.
As if guessing my thoughts, the woman said sharply: “Now mind, I’ll not have you telling this around the town. I’m through with all such silly business, and I don’t propose to have busybodies discuss whether or not I am addle-brained.”
“Why, Mrs. Covington,” protested Florence. “It was a kind, generous thing to do. Surely, doing good deeds is beyond reproach.”
“Generous? Fiddlesticks! I did it because it pleased me and for no other reason. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Mrs. Covington then questioned us at length about our exploration of the tunnel. Her disappointment over the failure to find the pearls was keen, but she tried not to show it.
“I knew it was a fool’s errand coming to Greenville to look for that stupid necklace,” she said. “Like as not, it never was hidden at Roseacres, my sister’s letter to the contrary. She always was a liar, even when we very young. I intend to forget about the whole affair.”
“Oh, Mrs. Covington, don’t give up so soon,” I said. “Florence and I have only just started to search. We may find it yet.”
“You’ve been very kind. I’ll remember it always when I am far away.”
“Then you intend to leave Greenville?”
“I must sell Roseacres. I have no other course open to me.”
“Not to George Roth, I hope!” I said.
“I have no intention of dealing with him if anyone else will make an offer, but so far, I have found no other person who is interested in the property.”
Mrs. Covington drew a deep sigh and, without much enthusiasm, invited us to come with her into the house. We tactfully declined.
“We’ll come again tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” I said as Florence and I turned to leave.
“Do,” replied Mrs. Covington. “We might make one last final search for the pearls.”
En route to Greenville, we talked over the situation and agreed that the prospect of finding the necklace was a slim one.
“I am sure if she had money, she would remain here,” Florence said. “And it will nearly kill her if she is forced to deal with George Roth. She heartily dislikes the fellow, and I don’t blame her one bit.”
I left Flo in the business section of Greenville to do some shopping for her mother and drove on to the Examiner office. My father, who had taken the bus to work, was ready to leave for home, so I offered to convey him there in Bouncing Betsy.
“Anything new about George Roth and those stones he hopes to sell to the Historical Society?” I inquired absently as Old Bets rattled along the congested streets.
“Nothing you haven’t heard already,” Dad told me. “Roth expects to make the sale and probably will. The museum people have put themselves on record as saying that the stones bear authentic writing.”
“Then it appears that your original hunch was incorrect. Too bad you played down the story in the Examiner.”
“I may have made a
mistake. All the same, I am pinning my hopes on the expert from Brimwell College.”
“What expert, Dad?”
“I guess I neglected to tell you. The Examiner hired Professor Anjus from Brimwell to inspect the stones. His opinion doesn’t coincide with that of the museum experts. He has pronounced them fakes.”
“If the experts can’t agree, then how can one prove anything?”
“It is something of a tangle,” my father admitted. “I turned that tool you obtained from Kip over to Professor Anjus. He expects to make exhaustive tests and to report to me within a few days.”
I had not told my father how I came to possess the tool from Mr. Kip. I had not intended to steal the tool—my five-dollar bill abandoned on his workbench notwithstanding—but I was not hopeful that a jury of my peers was likely to see it that way, not unless Truman Kip confessed to his involvement in the scheme or other more compelling evidence came to light.
We had reached the outskirts of Greenville, and I called my father’s attention to several large billboards which disfigured the side of the highway.
“Look!” I pointed to a particularly garish poster. “A Wild West Show is coming to town next week.”
“That’s it!” Dad said, his eyes riveted to the signboard. “The motive. I couldn’t figure it out, but now I have the clue I need. Jane, we’ll put a crimp in George Roth’s little game, or my name isn’t Anthony Fielding.”
Chapter Nineteen
I was completely mystified by my father’s statement that he’d just discovered the clue he needed to take down Mr. Roth.
“Don’t you get it?” he asked, waving his hand toward the big signboard. “The discovery of those stones purporting to be the work of Wild Bill Hickock was perfectly timed. It’s all a publicity stunt for this coming show.”
“How could that be? I found one of the rocks myself, and I know I wasn’t hired by any Wild West Show.”
“It was pure luck that you stumbled into the stone, Jane. If you hadn’t, someone hired by the show would have brought it to light.”
“But where does George Roth figure in, Dad? You don’t think he’s connected with the publicity scheme as you call it.”
“Roth wouldn’t have sufficient imagination to pull off a stunt like that,” Dad said. “No, he may actually believe in the authenticity of the stones. At any rate, he saw an opportunity to make a little money for himself and seized it.”
“Why should a Wild West show go to the trouble of having stones carved and planted in various fields? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The resulting publicity should draw state-wide attention to the show, Jane. It’s just the sort of idea which would appeal to a clever publicity agent. Every newspaper in Greenville except the Examiner has fallen for it, giving columns of space to the story.”
“I still don’t see how the show will gain. Its name never has been mentioned in connection with the finding of the stones.”
“Of course not, Jane. That would be too crude. But at the proper time, the publicity agent will twist all of the stories to his own purpose.”
“Dad, in the past you have accused me of putting forth crazy ideas. I think the score is even now.”
“I’ll have that show traced,” Dad declared, ignoring my references to the stability of his mind. “Since it is coming to Greenville next week it can’t be far away now. I may find it worthwhile to call on the publicity agent and have a little chat with him.”
During Dad’s outburst, I had pulled to the shoulder of the road. I looked back up at the billboard again and read the dates.
“Dad, the show will play here during Pilgrimage Week. What a shame. It’s certain to take away customers from a much more worthwhile event.”
“There may not be any Wild West Show. Not when I get through with the outfit!”
As soon as we arrived at home, Dad called the newspaper office, delegating City Editor DeWitt to obtain complete information about the western show and to report to him. All evening he talked of nothing but his theory until both Mrs. Timms and I confessed that we were a bit weary of the subject.
“I shall write an editorial for tomorrow’s Examiner,” Dad announced. “Even if I haven’t absolute facts, I’ll drop a few broad hints about those fake stones.”
My father’s editorial, cleverly worded but with very definite implications, was composed that night and telephoned to the newspaper office. I had the pleasure of reading it at breakfast the next morning.
“You certainly did yourself proud, Dad. However, I imagine the museum people aren’t going to be too pleased. Nor certain other folks in this town.”
“Let me take a look at it,” Dad said, reaching for the paper.
As I handed the paper over to him, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it. George Roth stood on the porch.
“Good morning,” he said. “Is your father here?”
“Yes, he is eating breakfast. Won’t you come in?”
Mr. Roth walked ahead of me into the living room.
“Good morning, George,” Dad called out from his chair at the breakfast table. “Will you have a cup of coffee with us?”
Ignoring the invitation, Mr. Roth entered the dinette, blocking the doorway. From his pocket, he took a copy of the morning Examiner.
“Fielding,” he said curtly, “I’ve just read your editorial, and I demand an explanation. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Written a pretty fair stickful—or so my daughter tells me.” Dad smiled, to all appearances undisturbed.
“You’ve deliberately tried to smear me.”
“I don’t recall that your name was mentioned in the editorial.”
“No, but you know I expect to sell those two stones to the museum. This editorial of yours may spook my buyer.”
“Then it will have fulfilled its purpose. Those stones are fakes. If you aren’t aware of it, I suggest that you acquaint yourself with the true facts.”
“Those stones bear genuine inscriptions carved by William Hickok himself. There’s no connection with any cheap western show, and I defy you to prove otherwise.”
“Consider your challenge accepted,” my father said evenly. “I expect to publish the true facts very shortly in the Examiner.”
“If you prevent me from making a sale to the museum, I’ll sue you!” George Roth threatened. “That’s all I have to say. Good morning.”
In his anger, he turned so quickly that he ran into me. Without bothering to apologize, he brushed past me and left out the front door.
“What a dreadful man!” said Mrs. Timms, who had been eavesdropping from the kitchen.
“I rather expected him to call, although not quite so early in the morning,” Dad said, reaching for a slice of toast. “His attitude doesn’t bother me in the least.”
“He may actually sue you if you don’t make good on producing facts,” I pointed out. “How are you going to do it?”
“DeWitt informs me that the same Wild West Show is playing at Bryan this week. I’ll drive over there today and see what I can learn.”
Bryan is a small city located sixty-nine miles from Greenville. I talked Dad into taking me with him.
By early afternoon, Dad and I were at the outskirts of Bryan. Two large blue and red show tents had been set up in a muddy field at the edge of town. A band played lackadaisically, and townspeople were pouring past the ticket-taker, an ancient cowboy dressed in buckskins and a motheaten ten-gallon hat and wearing a rather rusty six-shooter in a holster around his waist.
“This all looks rather intriguing,” I said.
“Go buy yourself a ticket,” Dad said, smiling. “I’ll meet you here by the entrance in an hour.”
“Don’t you want to see the show, Dad?”
“I’ve outgrown such foolishness. I’ll find the publicity agent and have my little talk with him.”
Inside the tent, things got off to a lackluster start. Two groups of cowboys—most of them appearing almost as elderly as the ticket-taker and
riding equally elderly mounts —ambled into the arena from opposite directions. A couple of the cowboys tried to urge their horses on to greater efforts, but the animals appeared to be collectively suffering from an acute case of equine deafness. Later on, when the explosions started, I would come to see the wisdom in choosing such hard-of-hearing mounts.
Despite their torpor, the horses were the best actors in the ring. One group of decrepit cowboys wore white hats, and the other wore black. They all carried six-shooters, which even from a distance looked more like toys for little boys than the real thing.
One of the white hats murmured something unintelligible, and one of the black hats replied with a long rambling speech only half of which was loud enough to hear. The most exciting part of his rebuttal was when one of the horses decided to answer the call of nature onto the boots of one of the other white hats who’d unwisely decided to dismount.
The upshot of the speeches—as far as I could tell—was that Wild Bill Hickok was soon to arrive and straighten everybody out.
After ten more minutes of unenthusiastic and mostly inaudible argument between the white hats and the black hats—and a second horse deciding to do his business—another cowboy entered the arena.
I immediately recognized this new arrival as the ancient ticket-taker, although he’d added an item to his costume. Stuffed beneath his moth-eaten ten-gallon hat, he now wore a bright red wig, cut into a fashionable bob. The wig looked like it had been purloined from a department store mannequin and then rolled about in the dust and stomped on a few times in a futile attempt to make it look less absurd on the head of a wrinkled old man dressed in buckskins and a fringed vest.
“I’m Wild Bill Hickok!” shouted the bewigged cowboy. “Prepare to die, you yellow-bellied, lily-livered no-good—”
I could see why the ancient ticket-taker had landed the starring role. His delivery was wooden, but at least I could hear every word.
Unfortunately, his performance was marred by a fit of coughing, so we never did discover what further insults Wild Bill intended to heap upon the heads of the assembled white and black hats.
The old cowboy hauled a bandana out of his vest pocket and proceeded to direct explosively productive coughs into its wrinkled recesses. I wondered how long this would go on before someone would step in and deliver the remainder of his lines on his behalf, just to keep the show moving along.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 26