The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2

by Alice Simpson

  Mrs. Sanderson’s kindly face tightened into hard lines.

  “Abigail,” she said firmly, “this is an opportunity for you, and you ought to be smart enough to realize it. Mr. Coaten will give you good clothes and schooling. Pop and I can’t do that.”

  “You’ve given me too much already,” Abigail said, her gaze falling to the floor.

  “I’ve been patient with you, but now I’m going to have my say. We can’t keep you anymore.”

  “You’re telling me to go?” Abigail looked as hurt as if Mrs. Sanderson had slapped her across the face.

  “I’m asking you to sign whatever it is that Mr. Coaten wants you to.”

  Abigail looked over at me helplessly, her lips trembling. She was about to cry, and I did not blame her. There seemed but one course open to her, for she had no money and no relatives to take her in, should the Sandersons throw her out. Seeming fully aware of Abigail’s predicament, Mr. Coaten smiled triumphantly. He whipped out a fountain pen and a folded, neatly-typed paper.

  “Abigail, don’t sign unless you really wish to,” I said.

  “But I’ll have no home—”

  “You may stay with me, at least until I find a place for you. You are not entirely without friends.” I turned a steely eye on Mr. Coaten. “May I ask why you are so eager to obtain a guardianship over Ted and Abigail? What do you expect to gain by it? And why must the decision be made in such haste? Could it be that you are concerned that it may be discovered that you have some very selfish motivation for what you are passing off as an entirely selfless act?”

  “My dear lady—” Mr. Coaten’s voice was soft, but his eyes glinted angrily. “I expect to gain nothing.”

  “I gathered a different impression when I overheard you and your friend talking a few nights ago at Roseacres.”

  “Roseacres?” At first, Mr. Coaten did not appear to understand, then, as my meaning dawned upon him, he arose from the couch.

  “I have no wish to discuss this matter with you—a stranger. For some unknown reason, you are prejudiced against me and have deliberately influenced Abigail to go against the Sandersons’ desires.”

  “It’s a question for our own family to settle,” Mrs. Sanderson added.

  “I’ll be going, then,” I said. “Abigail, would you like to take your things with you now, or send for them later?”

  “Do you really think you could take me in at your place?”

  “Of course. I never extend an insincere invitation.”

  “Then I’ll come with you, Mrs. Carter.” Abigail stood to her feet, removed a battered suitcase from beneath one of the daybeds, and began to toss garments into it.

  “Abigail, you can’t go like this, Mrs. Sanderson protested. “Why won’t you listen to reason?”

  “Let her go.” Mr. Coaten had lost all semblance of softness. “She’ll come crawling back in a day or two, glad to accept my offer.”

  As we all watched in silence, Abigail swiftly packed her suitcase and told me that she was ready to leave.

  “Mrs. Sanderson,” she said, squeezing the woman’s hand in parting, “you and Pop have been wonderful to Ted and me. I’ll never forget it—never. Someday I’ll repay you, too.”

  “This is the way you do it,” Mrs. Sanderson retorted bitterly. “By defying my wishes.”

  There was nothing more to be said, so Abigail and I left the cottage, carrying the suitcase between us.

  “I shouldn’t have done it like that,” Abigail said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever manage to make a living and finish high school at the same time. Ted likely will side against me, too.”

  “Don’t think of anything tonight,” I advised, although I, too, was worried. “We’ll find something for you. Dad may have an opening on the Examiner—”

  I was about to say ‘typing pool’ when I remembered that Abigail could not type. If worst came to worst, I supposed she could join the crew of scrubwomen who cleaned the Examiner offices every night after the staff had gone home for the evening, although I couldn’t imagine how she’d manage that and keep up with her studies.

  Mrs. Timms had long ago ceased to be surprised by almost anything that I did, so when I arrived home with a strange girl in tow, she did not ask many questions. Abigail was comfortably established in the guest room and made to feel that she was welcome. However, when I explained the situation to Mrs. Timms, she was not at all certain that I had done right by helping the girl to leave home, nor was my father encouraging about the prospects of finding employment for Abigail.

  “Can she type or take shorthand?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I admitted.

  “The Examiner can’t be made a catch-all for your unemployed friends. My advice is to send her back to the Sandersons.”

  “I can’t do that, Dad. You don’t understand.”

  “Well, let it ride for a few days. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I tried to conceal from Abigail that her presence in the household had created tension. In the morning, Abigail went off to school, returned for lunch, and then attended the afternoon session. By the time she arrived home in the evening, she’d become increasingly gloomy.

  “Mrs. Carter, this can’t go on indefinitely,” she protested. “I’ll have to get a job somehow, even if I have to drop out of school to do it.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Ted hasn’t come to see me either,” Abigail went on. “I—I’m beginning to think I should go back and sign that paper.”

  “Don’t even consider it,” I said firmly. “You need a diversion to keep your mind off the problem. Let’s take a drive out to Roseacres and see if Mrs. Covington has succeeded in buying her furniture back.”

  When we arrived at Roseacres several windows on the lower floor of the house had been opened to admit fresh air, and the blinds no longer were drawn. For the first time since Mrs. Covington’s return, the old mansion had a “lived in” appearance. However, although I knocked many times, the mistress of Roseacres did not come to the door.

  “She can’t be here,” Abigail said at last.

  “The windows are all wide open,” I pointed out. “I doubt that Mrs. Covington would go very far away without closing them.”

  We wandered out to the wishing well, and then made a complete tour of the grounds. Mrs. Covington was nowhere in the yard.

  “Shall we go?” Abigail asked.

  “I’ll knock on the door just once more,” I said. “I can’t help feeling that she is here.”

  Circling the house to the side entrance, we again knocked and waited.

  “Listen!” I said.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I thought someone called out or groaned—the sound came from inside the house.”

  “You must have imagined it.”

  “Maybe I did,” I acknowledged, “but I don’t think so.”

  Testing the door, I found it locked

  I called out: “Mrs. Covington, are you at home?”

  An answer came back, but the words were unintelligible. The sound had come from the direction of the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m a reformed burglar,” I said to Abigail, “but sometimes drastic times call for drastic measures. Do you have a hairpin?”

  I took the hairpin from Abigail, bent it into a hook and inserted it into the keyhole of the old-fashioned lock. I was far from confident in my abilities as a lock picker, but it had been a romantic ambition of mine, the summer I turned fourteen, to become a lady jewel thief. I’d fancied becoming a female Robin Hood who stole from wealthy fugitives of justice to give to the deserving and downtrodden poor. I’d spent that entire summer experimenting with various household objects as improvised burglar’s tools. Hairpins had not been my favorite implements, but this time a hairpin would have to do.

  The bolt turned on my eighth try. I pushed the door open and ran to the kitchen with Abigail trailing close behind. Mrs. Covington, still garbed in night clothing, lay on the d
aybed, her face ashen. Her breathing was labored.

  “My heart—” Mrs. Covington whispered. “An attack—last night.”

  “Abigail, run as fast as you can and get Doctor Hamilton,” I said. “I’ll stay here.”

  As soon as Abigail had departed, I busied myself trying to make Mrs. Covington comfortable. I rearranged the disordered blankets and fanned air toward the woman, making it easier for her to breathe.

  “My pearls,” Mrs. Covington whispered. “They’re gone.”

  At first I did not take her words seriously, thinking that the old woman was not entirely rational.

  “You have the necklace,” I said. “Don’t you remember? We found it yesterday, hidden in the roof of the old wishing well.”

  “Gone—” Mrs. Covington repeated. “It gave me such a shock—I had hidden the pearls in the teapot. This morning—”

  I bent closer, a sudden chill going right through my body. Mrs. Covington was in full possession of her faculties.

  “I went this morning to look at them,” Mrs. Covington completed with difficulty. “But the pearls were gone. They’ve been stolen. Now I have nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I tried to quiet the old lady by assuring her that the pearl necklace must be somewhere in the house, although I really did not believe it. Mrs. Covington was far from dotty and hiding a valuable pearl necklace in a teapot and then moving it to another location without remembering when or where would indicate the height of dottiness.

  “No—no, it is gone,” Mrs. Covington insisted. “A thief entered the house during the night. The shock of it brought on this attack.”

  Spent by the effort required to speak, Mrs. Covington closed her eyes and relaxed. Thinking that she had gone to sleep, I left the bedside for a moment. A quick look around revealed that the kitchen window was open, and, far more alarming, the screen had been neatly cut from its frame. An empty china teapot stood on the kitchen table.

  It was true. The pearls had been stolen, and the shock of it had nearly killed Mrs. Covington. But who could have known that she had the necklace in the house? Florence and Abigail were beyond suspicion, and for a moment I could think of no others who had knowledge of the pearls. Then, with a start, it came to me that the story had been told the previous night at the Sandersons. Ted had known about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe he would do such a contemptible thing—even if he had more than once stolen a chicken to put in the Sandersons’ pot.

  My unhappy reflections were broken by the arrival of Abigail with Doctor Hamilton. For the next half hour, we were kept more than busy carrying out the doctor’s instructions.

  “Mrs. Covington, in a way you have been very fortunate,” the doctor said as he finally prepared to leave the house. “Your attack has been a light one, and with proper care, you should be on your feet again within a week or two. I’ll arrange to have you taken to the hospital at once.”

  Mrs. Covington tried to raise up in bed. “I won’t go!” she announced. “Hospitals cost money—more than I have to spend.”

  “It won’t cost you anything, Mrs. Covington. I’ll arrange everything.”

  “I refuse to be a charity patient. I’ll die first! Go away and take your pills with you!”

  “Then if you refuse hospital care, I must arrange for a nurse.”

  “I can’t afford that either,” the old lady snapped. “Just go away, and I’ll get along by myself. I’m feeling better. If I could only have a cup of tea—”

  “I’ll make it for you,” Abigail offered.

  I signaled to the doctor, indicating that I wished him to follow me into another room. Once beyond the hearing of the old lady, I outlined my plan.

  “Mrs. Covington likes Abigail very much,” I said to the doctor. “I think she might be perfectly satisfied to be looked after by her.”

  “The girl seems sensible and efficient,” Doctor Hamilton replied. “But would she be willing to stay?”

  “I think she might, for she has no home of her own at the moment.”

  Relieved to have the problem solved so easily, the doctor declared that the plan could be tried for a few days at least.

  “I’ll drop in again late tonight,” he promised, picking up his bag.

  Abigail agreed at once to remain with Mrs. Covington for as long as her services were required. The old lady, too, seemed pleased by the arrangement.

  “It’s very good of you,” she murmured to Abigail. “I can’t pay you, though. Not unless my pearls are recovered.”

  “Your pearls?” the girl echoed in astonishment.

  I explained what had happened.

  “How dreadful!” she gasped. “Who could have taken the pearls?”

  Apparently it did not occur to her that her own brother, Ted, might be regarded with suspicion.

  Later in the day, with Mrs. Covington’s permission, I made a full report of the theft to local police. An officer visited Roseacres, but aside from establishing exactly how the house had been entered, he obtained few useful clues. I told the policeman that so far as I knew only I, Flo, the Sanderson family, Ted, and Abigail had known that the pearls were in the mansion.

  “We’ll keep the entire Sanderson family under surveillance,” the officer promised. “I’ll let you know if anything develops.”

  Another problem immediately confronted me. An inspection of the cupboards in the kitchen at Roseacres revealed that there was barely enough food to last a day.

  “Buy whatever you need,” Mrs. Covington instructed. “You’ll find money in the top bureau drawer.”

  By diligent search, Abigail and I found one dollar and twenty-four cents, which I felt certain was all the money the old lady possessed.

  “The medicines Doctor Hamilton ordered will take almost this much,” I told Abigail. “Something must be done.”

  I appreciated Mrs. Covington’s desire for secrecy. However, I knew it would not be possible to enlist others to help her without revealing her secret. I was prepared to provide what was needed entirely on my own, but I feared such heavy-handed generosity would leave Mrs. Covington so in my debt that she’d never forgive me for it. Deeply troubled, I placed the problem in Mrs. Timms’ hands.

  “Why, that poor woman. To think that she is sick and hasn’t the things that she needs. I’ll send a basket of food at once. I am sure many people will be eager to help.”

  Mrs. Timms busied herself at the telephone, and within a few hours, all manner of useful gifts began to arrive at Roseacres. Neighbors came to help Abigail with the housework and to care for the widow.

  As was inevitable, the entire story of Mrs. Covington’s poverty, including the loss of the pearl necklace, circulated throughout Greenville. Since there no longer was any excuse for secrecy, I revealed to members of the Pilgrimage Committee what had become of the old lady’s furniture and why she had refused to open her house during Festival Week. To my delight, a fund immediately was raised for buying back the valuable antiques. Mr. Butterworth, pleased to cooperate, agreed to sell the furniture for exactly the price he had paid.

  The days drifted slowly along. Under Abigail’s faithful care, Mrs. Covington soon was able to sit up in a wheelchair. Much subdued since the heart attack, she had little to say even when a moving van arrived with her household furnishings. But one afternoon while I was inserting new candles in the glass candelabrum she so much admired, the old lady watched me from her chair by the window.

  “You and Abigail have fixed the house up so nicely,” she said. “You’ve been very kind to me, and so have all the folks in Greenville.”

  “You have a great many friends, Mrs. Covington. You just never gave them a chance to show it before.”

  “Perhaps I have been unfriendly. I didn’t mean to be. Now that I’d like to show my appreciation, there’s no way to do it. If only the police would get busy and find the rascal who stole my necklace—”

  “Mrs. Covington, there is a way you could show the people of Greenville how you feel—
but I’m sure you wouldn’t care to do it.”

  “By opening my home for the Pilgrimage?”

  “That’s what I had in mind, but of course—”

  “When is the Festival? I’ve lost track of time since I’ve been sick.”

  “It starts day after tomorrow, but I’m afraid the Festival may be a failure, for not half enough tickets have been sold.”

  “Would it help to include this house in the Pilgrimage?”

  “It would save the Festival. I fear, however, that you’re not well enough to go through with it.”

  “Fiddlesticks! I’d like nothing better than a big party. What pleasure is it sitting in a wheelchair staring at a cracked wall? Now you go ahead and plan it just the way you like.”

  With time so short, I flew into action. I contacted members of the Festival Committee, and immediately a new publicity campaign was launched. It was announced that Roseacres would be included in the Pilgrimage and that the grand costume ball at the mansion would be open to the public.

  “The affair is certain to be a success,” I told my father. “Although I do wish though that the Wild West Show wasn’t playing Greenville at the same time. By the way, have you made any further progress in proving that George Roth’s Wild Bill Hickock stones are fakes?”

  “I’ve not made much headway,” my father admitted. “A report came back on that tool you picked up at Truman Kip’s workshop.”

  “What was the verdict, Dad?”

  “Professor Anjus, the expert who examined the chisel, says he believes the stones could have been marked with it.”

  “Then Truman Kip may be the guilty person.”

  “It’s not at all certain. In all events, I still hold to my original theory that the hoax was masterminded by Bill McJavins of the Wild West Show.”

  “I certainly hope Mr. Roth fails in trying to sell the stones to the museum.”

  “So do I. Unfortunately, unless I dig up an irrefutable piece of evidence very quickly, the transaction will likely take place.”

  I had not given a great deal of thought to the affair of the stones, for I had been too preoccupied with Mrs. Covington’s illness. In truth, I was far more concerned about Mrs. Covington’s missing pearls. The police had made no progress in tracing the necklace and expressed little optimism that the thief would be captured.