“You woke up in the alley,” I said.
“Yes, after that I watched a place I’d learned about on Fourteenth Street. Figured I had all the dope. But as I started out to call for the police, someone hit me with a blackjack. That’s the last I remember until I came to at that shack in the woods.”
After we left the hospital, we headed for the ark.
“I confess I don’t know how to appeal to Noah’s reason,” my father said as we approached the gangplank. “Sheriff Anderson insists the ark is a nuisance and must go.”
I paused at the edge of the stream. It had started to rain once more, and drops splattered down through the trees, rippling the quiet water.
“Poor Noah!” I said to Dad, “he’ll be unwilling to leave his home or his animals. This ark never can be floated either.”
“I’d be glad to pay for his lodgings elsewhere,” my father said.
“I hardly think that’s a solution. He’ll never leave his animals behind.”
I crossed the gangplank and called out Noah’s name. There was no answer. Not until I had shouted many times did the old fellow come up from the ark’s hold. His arms were grimy, his clothing wet from the waist down.
“Why, Noah!” I was astonished by his appearance.
“All morning I have labored,” Noah said wearily. “All the commotion last night excited Bessie so badly that the critter kicked a hole in the ark. Water has poured in faster than I can pump it out.”
“Well, why not abandon this old boat?” my father proposed, quick to seize an opportunity. “Wouldn’t you like to live in a steam-heated apartment?”
“With my animals?”
“No, you would have to leave them behind.”
Noah shook his head. “I could not desert my animals. At least not my dogs and cats, or my birds or fowls. As for cows and goats, they are a burden almost beyond my strength.”
“A little place in the country might suit you,” I suggested.
Noah showed no interest.
“Or how would you like a big bus? You could take your smaller pets and tour the United States,” I said.
Noah’s dull blue eyes began to gleam. “I had a truck once,” he said. “They took it away from me after I had made a payment. I’ve always hankered to see the country. But it’s not to be.”
“Oh, a truck might be arranged.”
“It’s not that.” Noah leaned heavily on the railing of the ark. “You might say I made a covenant to keep this place of refuge. The Great Flood soon will be upon us—”
“There will be no flood,” my father interrupted.
I looked at Noah. He was growing a bit red in the face. So was my father.
“Perhaps this is a job for the Reverend Radcliff,” I said in Dad’s ear and hastily bade Noah goodbye.
The next day, accompanied by Flo and Reverend Radcliff, I returned to the ark.
It had required considerable cajoling to get the Reverend Sidney Radcliff away from his discourse on the Little Horn of Revelation and out of his study. It had taken further coaxing to get him down to the docks, into the Maybelline, and across the Grassy to Bug Run. It had not helped that it was raining again.
Eager to escape the damp and the mosquitoes, Reverend Radcliff wasted no time in getting right to the point.
“As a minister of the gospel and a Bible scholar,” Reverend Radcliff said to Noah, “I can say with complete confidence that the Holy Word is clear. There will never again be a world-wide flood.”
“I’d be happy to leave this ark if only I could believe that,” sighed Noah. “I’m getting older, and it’s a great burden to care for so many animals. But I must not shirk my duty just because I am tired.”
It was clear that Noah could not be influenced by mere words, so when I looked up at the sky and saw that although rain still fell, the sun had straggled through the clouds and was creating a beautiful rainbow, I took it as a sign.
“Noah!” I said, pointing up at the rainbow. “Don’t you remember the Bible quotation: ‘And I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.’”
“‘And the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh,’” Noah whispered, his fascinated gaze upon the rainbow.
“There, you have your sign, your token,” Reverend Radcliff said briskly.
“Yes, yes,” whispered the old man. “This is the hour for which I long have waited! Behold the rainbow which rolleth back the scroll of destiny! Never again will the flood come. Never again will destruction envelop the earth and all its creatures.”
“How about it, Noah?” I said. “If I make all the arrangements to get you a truck will you leave the ark and take your animals on tour?”
The old man did not hesitate. “Yes, I will go,” he said. “My mission here is finished. I am content.”
We slipped quietly away from the ark before Noah could change his mind. When I looked back at the ark, Noah still stood at the railing, his face turned raptly toward the fading rainbow. As the last trace of color disappeared from the sky, he bowed his head in worshipful reverence. A moment he stood thus, and then, turning, walked with dignity into the ark.
“Poor old fellow,” I said to my father later that evening, as we sat around the supper table eating Mrs. Timms’ Madras curry with saffron rice. Mrs. Timms had gulped down her supper in about ten minutes and hurried off to meet her friend Mrs. Amhurst to see a picture show at the Pink Lotus, so for once I had Dad to myself.
“I suppose by ‘poor fellow’ you mean Noah,” my father said. “But I deserve sympathy, too. Haven’t I just been knicked to the tune of one very expensive truck?”
“You don’t really mind, do you, Dad?”
“No, it’s worth it to have the old fellow satisfied. After all, that ark did bring me a big story for the Greenville Examiner. After a big scoop like that, a man can feel entitled to a period of rest.”
“You mean he could afford to turn his attention to his private life? Say, properly propose marriage to the woman of his dreams?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Dad and returned his attention to his curry. His face was very red, and I don’t think it was just the fact that Mrs. Timms had employed a rather heavy hand with the red pepper.
“I think you know exactly what I mean,” I said. “And I, for one, will not stand idly by while you let such a queen among women slip through your fingers. I refuse to bring you any more sensational news stories until you make an honest woman of Doris Timms.”
I meant it, too.
The End
Mr. Fielding Goes Missing
A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Eight)
By Celia Kinsey writing as Alice Simpson
NOTE: BY CELIA KINSEY WRITING AS ALICE SIMPSON.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Mr. Fielding Goes Missing: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2019 Alice Simpson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Inspiration for this series: This series is an adaption of Mildred Wirt’s Penny Parker Mysteries which have fallen into the public domain. Although the author has made extensive alterations and additions to both the plots and characters, readers familiar with Ms. Wirt’s books will recognize many elements of both from the originals.
Cover images ©Freepik.com and ©incomible (Bigstock.com)
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter
Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
Flo and I laughed and shouted as we clung to the little iceboat speeding over the frozen surface of the Grassy River.
“Jane, we’re going too fast!” screamed my friend, Florence Radcliff, as she ducked down to protect her face from the biting wind.
“We’re only going about forty miles an hour,” I shrieked. “This boat can travel at sixty if the wind is just right.”
Bundled in a fur-lined parka, sheepskin coat, and goggles, I manned the tiller. When I’d left the house, Mrs. Timms, our longtime housekeeper, had said that I looked for all the world like a jolly Eskimo.
The Icicle was my pride and joy. I’d built the iceboat myself—spars from a wood lot, the sail from an old tent.
“Slow down, Jane,” Flo pleaded.
“Can’t,” I shouted. “We’re going into a hike!”
As one runner raised off the ice, the boat tilted far over on its side. Florence shrieked with terror and held on tight to prevent being thrown out. I tried to avert disaster by a snappy starting of the main sheet.
For a few terrifying seconds, the boat rushed on, runners roaring. Then, as a sudden puff of wind struck the sail, the steering runner leaped off the ice. Instantly, the Icicle went into a spin from which I could not recover.
“We’re going over!” screamed Florence, scrambling to free her feet.
The next moment the boat capsized. Flo and I both went sliding on our backs across the ice. I landed in a snowdrift at the river bank, my parka awry, goggles hanging on one ear.
“Are you hurt, Flo?” I called out, scrambling to my feet.
Florence lay sprawled on the ice some thirty feet away. Slowly she pulled herself to a sitting position and rubbed the back of her head.
“Maybe this is your idea of fun,” she complained. “As for me, give me bronco busting. It would be a mild sport in comparison.”
I tugged Florence up and started dusting snow from her clothing. “This is great fun, Flo. We have to expect these little upsets while we’re learning.”
The sail of the overturned iceboat was billowing out like a parachute. Slipping and sliding, I ran to pull it in.
“Take the old thing down,” urged Florence, hobbling after me. “I’ve had enough ice-boating for this afternoon.”
“Oh, just one more turn down the river and back,” I coaxed.
“No!” Flo said firmly. “We’re close to the clubhouse now. If we sail off again, there’s no telling where we’ll end up. Anyway, it’s late, and it’s starting to snow.”
I reluctantly acknowledged that Florence spoke pearls of wisdom. Large, damp snowflakes were drifting down, dotting the thick blue woolen mittens Mrs. Timms had knitted me last winter. The wind was stiffening, and the cold penetrated my sheepskin coat.
“It will be dark within an hour,” added Florence. Uneasily she scanned the leaden sky. “We’ve been out here all afternoon.”
“Guess it is time to go home,” I admitted. “Oh, well, it won’t take us long to get the Icicle loaded onto the car trailer. We’re lucky we upset so close to the clubhouse.”
Flo and I took down the flapping sail. After much tugging and pushing, we righted the boat and pulled it toward the Greenville Yacht Club. The Yacht Club was closed for the winter, and the building looked cold and forlorn. I had parked Bouncing Betsy in the snowy parking lot, which was convenient to the river.
Bouncing Betsy is my ancient Peerless Model 56. She used to be a sleek and glossy black, but now she’s more of a dapple grey. I originally bought her for thirty-five dollars in a fit of economy after my husband died rather unexpectedly and left me with little more than fond memories of our short union. Now that I’m a moderately successful lady novelist—authoress of such works of popular fiction as Perpetua’s Pride, Lady Ramfutherington’s Revenge, and my current work-in-progress: Fiona Finds a Way: A Tale of Love and Betrayal in Old New York—I cling to Old Bets out of pure sentimentality. I can’t bear to resign her to the scrap heap. We’ve been through far too much together.
“Wish we could get warm somewhere,” Florence said, shivering. “It must be ten below zero.”
Pulling the Icicle behind us, we climbed up the slippery bank. Snow now swirled in clouds, nearly obscuring the clubhouse.
“I’ll get Bouncing Betsy and drive her down here,” I said, starting toward the parking lot. “No use dragging the boat any farther.”
Abandoning the Icicle, Florence followed. A dozen steps took us to a wind-swept corner of the deserted building. Rounding it, we both stopped short, staring.
“Great fishes! What happened to Old Bets?”
My faithful automotive companion of lo these many years sat in the snowy parking area of the yacht club, her entire right side dented in and her front bumper askew.
“Poor Old Betsy,” I wailed, pounding my mittens together. “She’s been savagely attacked.”
“Look at those tracks,” Florence said. “It looks like an automobile lost control and slid off the road into the parking lot.”
I followed Flo’s pointing finger. A set of deep ruts in the snowy bank supported Florence’s theory.
“I don’t think that was any ordinary automobile,” I said. “I think it was a large truck and heavily loaded, too.”
“It looks like it lost part of its load when it collided with Betsy.” Flo pointed toward a ditch that bordered the parking area.
I went to investigate the little ravine. Through a screen of bare tree branches and bushes, I glimpsed a large wooden crate, broken in half and partially obscured by the deep snow into which it had tumbled.
I moved closer to investigate, Flo close at my heels.
“Do you smell what I smell?” I asked Flo as we approached the crate.
“Do you smell whiskey?”
“I’m not sure what whiskey smells like,” I said. “You, on the other hand, having a father who keeps a bottle of bourbon in the garden shed, will doubtless be more knowledgeable.”
Florence’s father, the Reverend Sidney Radcliff, is no longer a drinker, not that he was ever habitually sozzled or anything of that nature. Since the passage of the Volstead Act, Reverend Radcliff adheres strictly to the letter of the law. His wife, Mrs. Reverend Sidney Radcliff, sees to that.
My dig at Flo about the bottle in the garden shed was referring to Reverend Radcliff’s one small act of rebellion against Prohibition. Sadly, since Flo filched his bottle, containing the remaining three quarters of an inch of bourbon, so that I could use it to impersonate a drunken intruder to the Moresby Clock Tower—don’t ask, it’s too complicated to relate here—the Reverend has had to make do with the weak tea and lemonade Mrs. Radcliff provides the inmates at the parsonage.
“Perhaps you could pick up a resupply for your father,” I suggested to Flo.
“Wouldn’t touch the stuff,” Florence said. “It’s probably pure poison. I did tell you what happened last week at the Church Christmas Bazaar?”
“You did,” I said.
Apparently, someone had spiked the punch at the St. Luke’s Christmas Bazaar, which Mrs. Radcliff took charge of each year.
I suspected that it was the work of the son of one of Reverend Radcliff’s parishioners, Harold Amhurst. A few years back, Harold been responsible for a similar stunt during St. Luke’s Spring Social. On that occasion, I’d been disposed to take a tolerant view, since there’s nothing quite so amusing as a gaggle of old dears gradually growing spifflicated.
However
, the Christmas Bazaar had ended on quite a more sobering note. Several of Reverend Radcliff’s parishioners had been hauled off to the hospital on stretchers, and dozens of others had also become ill to varying degrees.
Mr. Townsend, who already had a liver complaint, was still admitted to Mercy Hospital. Another stricken parishioner, Mrs. McCall, told Flo, when she paid her a visit to administer chicken soup and see to the cleaning of Mrs. McCall’s glass eye, that she (Mrs. McCall) hadn’t been out of bed for a week and was still seeing double. I considered seeing double quite a feat considering that Mrs. McCall had vision in only one eye, but the old lady had always possessed a flair for the dramatic.
“Is your mother still convinced it was Mrs. Pruitt who poisoned the punch?” I asked Flo.
“She is,” said Flo, “and nothing will convince her otherwise.”
Mrs. Arnold Pruitt is Mrs. Radcliff’s archrival for supremacy as Grand Dame of Greenville’s civic circles. They’ve been involved in a war of words for years. It all started when Mrs. Pruitt suggested that Mrs. Radcliff might not be the organizational force she once was owing to it being “her time of life.”
This spurious claim resulted in Mrs. Radcliff starting a whisper campaign questioning the moral fiber of Mrs. Pruitt and suggesting that in the not-so-distant past Mrs. Pruitt had been a woman of loose character who danced with numerous members of the male sex in return for monetary compensation.
This claim had a modicum of truth to it, in the strictly literal sense. However, as Flo told me, the real story was that Mrs. Pruitt had been a dancing instructress at an all-boys school where she taught Victorian waltzes to the under-twelve set. Broomstick partners outfitted with little muslin skirts (for modesty) had been involved, according to Florence, so, while Mrs. Radcliff contrived to make Mrs. Pruitt’s past into an affair of Bacchanalian proportions, the woman’s real history was entirely respectable.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 46