The Oblivious Heiress: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Four) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 4)

by Alice Simpson

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Several minutes elapsed before Paul Firth opened the door. He looked first around the yard then noticed the envelope. He muttered to himself as he picked it up.

  As he read the message his face became convulsed with rage. Still muttering, he crumpled the paper and thrust it into his pocket. Then he went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  With Paul at home, I dared not try to see Mrs. Timms. As I hesitated, debating what to do next, Anchor Jim came from his hiding place. He had not seen me.

  “Jim!” I called softly.

  The sailor turned. I could see in his expression that he recognized me. He immediately turned and ran in the opposite direction across the yard. Keeping low behind a hedge, he sprinted toward the river.

  “Jim! Come back!” I called again.

  He fled through the fields, without even turning his head back to look at me. Soon he was hidden by tall trees and bushes.

  The farmhouse door swung open. I barely had time to step behind a large maple before Paul Firth came down the path. He went directly to the barn and, a few minutes later, backed out his automobile.

  As soon as the car had disappeared down the main road, I ran to the kitchen door and knocked. When it was not opened immediately, I thrust my head inside and called out for Mrs. Timms.

  “Here I am,” answered Mrs. Timms, hurrying in from the dining room. “I hope you’ve come to take me home, Jane!”

  “No, only to receive your report.” I sank into a chair beside the stove. “You don’t act very pleased with your new job.”

  “It’s a dreadful here. I was crazy to say I would stay.”

  “Haven’t you learned anything?”

  “I’ve learned that Paul Firth is one of the most disagreeable men I ever met in my life. There’s no satisfying him. He requires a slave, not a housekeeper!”

  “But what about the storm cave?” I asked. “Were you able to find out what Firth keeps in it?”

  “Of course not. The padlock always is locked, and he keeps the key in his pocket.”

  “But he does have something hidden there? He goes down into it at night?”

  “I’ve seen him enter the cave only once since I came here.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night after I had gone to bed. I heard the door close, so I went to the window and watched.”

  “How long did he stay there, Mrs. Timms?”

  “About three hours I’d judge. It was after two o’clock when he returned to his room.”

  “What can he have hidden in the cave?”

  “Nothing, in my opinion,” Mrs. Timms said. “I think he cooks something. At least he builds a fire.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I could see smoke seeping out from the cracks of the cave door.”

  “Cooking? Surely, he doesn’t have a still down there.”

  “I doubt it very much. I’ve never seen him show any signs of being a drinker. Probably, you’ve built up a great mystery about nothing.”

  Mrs. Timms began to wash the dirty plates stacked in the sink. I picked up a towel and automatically wiped and stacked them away.

  “This house is still being watched,” I told Mrs. Timms. “Only a few minutes ago I saw Anchor Jim sneak up to the door.”

  “Anchor Jim!”

  “Mr. Mortimer never caught him, it seems. But why should the fellow come here? What message did he leave Firth?”

  “I heard a knock on the front door,” Mrs. Timms said. “Firth answered it, and when he came back into the kitchen he was in a dreadful temper.”

  “The letter upset him?”

  “I didn’t know he had received one.”

  “Yes, Anchor Jim left it on the doorstep. It may have been a threatening note. I’d give a lot to know what it said.”

  “Firth has been very nervous ever since I arrived here,” Mrs. Timms said. “If he hears any unusual sound in the yard he immediately becomes alert.”

  “As if he were afraid for his life?”

  “Yes, he does act that way. I doubt if he’ll stay here much longer. His clothes are all packed in suitcases.”

  “That is important information,” I said. “Oh, dear, if only we knew why he’s being threatened, and why he intends to leave! I believe I’ll go upstairs and inspect his room.”

  “You’ll learn nothing there,” Mrs. Timms insisted. “Firth is a careful man. He leaves no papers lying about.”

  “It will do no harm to look.”

  I climbed the creaking stairs, followed by Mrs. Timms.

  “This is his room,” said the housekeeper, opening a door. “I haven’t made the bed, yet.”

  Mrs. Timms busied herself smoothing covers while I wandered about. The room had no rug. It was furnished with an old-fashioned dresser, a washstand, and a bed with a high headboard.

  I opened the closet door. The hangers were dangling together, without clothing. Everything had been packed into two suitcases which stood against the wall.

  “I’ve already inspected the luggage,” said Mrs. Timms as I bent to open one of the bags. “You’ll find nothing except clothing. I tell you, Paul Firth is a very cautious man.”

  “I can believe it. This room is as bare of evidence as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”

  “Just what do you hope to find?”

  “Well, I don’t know. What’s this?” I said as I picked up a sheet of notebook paper from the dresser.

  “Don’t get excited over that.” Mrs. Timms laughed mirthlessly. “It’s only a grocery list which Firth made up. He doesn’t trust anyone to spend his money for him.”

  “Is this Firth’s writing?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Mrs. Timms, I’ve seen this writing before! I’m almost certain of it. There’s a marked resemblance!”

  “A resemblance to what, Jane?”

  “To a threatening note I received. I guess I never told you. Someone left a message on my desk at the old Press building, warning me to give up Carter’s All-story Weekly.”

  “And you think Paul Firth left it there?”

  “This looks like the same writing.”

  “Probably, you are mistaken, Jane. Why should he have any interest in your story magazine?”

  “He came to the office one day, questioning me about a fictionalized account of a sailor with an octopus tattoo. I included a scene where the sailor gets pushed from the bridge by a person unknown. When I admitted that the story was based on true events, Mr. Firth seemed to take a suspicious interest in the fate of the man who got flung into the river. I shall keep this grocery list and compare it with the note.”

  I carefully folded the paper and slipped it into my dress pocket. Mrs. Timms had finished making the bed and was ready to leave.

  “I’ve learned everything I can for you,” she said. “Now I hope you’re willing to let me return home.”

  “Please stay another day,” I pleaded. “I feel in my bones that we’re about to make an important discovery.”

  “Those bones of yours! Tell me, how is Rosie Larkin getting along?”

  “Well, she tries hard, but I’ll admit Dad doesn’t like the arrangement.”

  “Then I must return. It’s nonsense for me to stay here.”

  I was paying scant attention to Mrs. Timms’ words. I had picked up the waste paper basket and was examining the contents. There were a few advertising circulars, an unaddressed envelope and a crumpled ball of paper. I carefully smoothed it out.

  “Mrs. Timms, look at this!”

  There was no writing on the paper, only a crude drawing of an octopus.

  “This must be the paper which Anchor Jim left on the doorstep only a few minutes ago,” I said.

  “You think it may have been intended as a warning to Paul Firth?” Mrs. Timms looked at the drawing rather dubiously.

  “I’m sure of it, Mrs. Timms! Don’t you see? The drawing is a badly-executed copy of the tattoo which both Anchor Jim a
nd Richard Hamsted had on their backs!”

  “Yes, it does look the same as Jim’s marking,” Mrs. Timms conceded. “But what does it mean? Why was it sent to Firth?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “One thing is clear. That boatman your father hired is a downright hoodlum.”

  “He’s wanted by the government. We know that. But Firth may be a rascal, too. Why should Anchor Jim threaten him unless he’s done something he shouldn’t?”

  “Why indeed? This is a case for the police, not one for you or me,” Mrs. Timms said with finality. “I am ready to leave here whenever you are. I’ve decided not to bother giving Firth notice.”

  “You can’t go now. You can’t!” I moaned. “Stay until after Thursday, at least. I’m positive everything will be cleared up by then.”

  “Why Thursday?”

  “Well, I have a little matter coming up on that day. Besides, I’ve sent off a letter which may help solve the mystery. Please, Mrs. Timms, do me this one favor, and I’ll never ask another.”

  “Has Jack asked you to go to the pictures with him, yet?” Mrs. Timms asked.

  “He has not, and I can hardly be blamed for that.”

  “How can he ask you, when you’ve been avoiding him?”

  “I haven’t been avoiding him,” I insisted. “I’ve just been very busy working on getting the next issue of Carter’s All-Story Weekly ready to go to press.”

  “It is my impression,” said Mrs. Timms, “that you have had ample time to go gallivanting all over Greenville in the company of tattoo artists and sailors and who knows what other unsuitable types.”

  “You are a snob, Mrs. Timms.”

  “I am not. You know very well that Jack Bancroft is sweet on you, but you’ve turned him down so many times that he may have decided to save his breath and his pride.”

  She was right, but I was loath to admit it.

  “I’ll find a spare moment to stop by the Examiner offices,” I said grudgingly, “and see if I can’t cage another invitation to go to the pictures.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll stay until Friday. Not a day longer. However, I warn you, if I see Anchor Jim prowling about, I shall summon the sheriff.”

  “That’s all right with me,” I said. “I must skip now before Firth gets back from town. Just keep your eye on him and report to me if anything unusual happens.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I had never found it necessary to explain fully to my father what had become of Mrs. Timms. I had mentioned rather carelessly that the housekeeper was helping at the Firth home for a few days, and Dad had accepted the substitution of Rosie Larkin without too many questions, although I could see he wanted to ask far more than he did.

  I wondered if I had not been as stealthy as I had imagined on the night I had observed my father and Mrs. Timms locked in embrace on the davenport. Perhaps, they now suspected that I knew about their clandestine romance but were uncertain how to address the delicate subject. It was useless to speculate on how long they’d been gathering rosebuds behind my back. I would endeavor to be patient and allow them to reveal their secret when they were ready. Unfortunately, there was a serious problem with this waiting-it-out strategy: patience is not my greatest virtue.

  At breakfast on Wednesday morning, Dad waited until Rosie had gone to the kitchen and then demanded: “How much longer is this to continue? When is Mrs. Timms coming home?”

  “Friday morning, Dad. Don’t you like Rosie’s cooking?”

  “It’s awful,” he whispered. “These eggs taste as if they had been fried in lard.”

  “They were,” I said. “Rosie was brought up to be frugal. She never wastes butter.”

  The discussion was brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of Rosie. My father immediately switched to another subject, that of a barbecue picnic which he gave each summer to the Examiner employees. I had forgotten that the outing was scheduled for that evening at the cottage.

  “I’m glad you reminded me, Dad,” I said. “I’ll be there with bells on to eat my share of roast beef. Mind if I bring Harry Horner?”

  “Invite him if you like,” Mr. Carter said. “But no others. This is a newspaper picnic, not a bread line as you made it last year.”

  I worked as usual at the Press building on getting out the next issue of Carter’s All-Story Weekly. I was busy figuring advertising space when I found myself in need of an extra sheet of paper. I had run out, and I didn’t want to bother going down to Flo’s office in search of more, so I tried to open the lower drawer of my desk where I thought I’d seen a few pieces.

  The drawer was stuck fast. I tugged at it several times, finally pulling it out entirely. A folded newspaper clipping dropped to the floor.

  The clipping was yellow with age and bore the picture of a young man. The face was vaguely familiar, although the name beneath it read, Marcus Jewel.

  But it wasn’t Marcus Jewel. It was Marcus Roberts as a young man. He must have changed his name. He looked very much the same, just older.

  The two-column headline read: MARCUS JEWEL BEGINS TEN YEAR SENTENCE IN NEW YORK STATE PRISON FOR MISAPPROPRIATION OF BANK FUNDS

  The clipping had been cut from a New York City paper and was dated twenty years earlier. It reported Marcus Jewel’s conviction, following an admission that he had stolen two-thousand dollars belonging to the Berkley Savings Bank.

  I studied the picture again. I had not the slightest doubt that the young man of the story and Marcus Roberts were the same individual. Evidently, the clipping had been saved by the former publisher, and in some manner had become lodged beneath the drawer and left behind.

  I was sure no one in Greenville knew that Roberts served a term in prison. He’d moved to Greenville years ago with his daughter and, to all appearances, had led an upright life. I returned the clipping to the drawer and locked it.

  I was now almost certain why Roberts was being blackmailed, but why should he ruin his career rather than face exposure? Other men made mistakes in their youth and started over again. His misdeed had happened so long ago. If the truth were to come out, it would undoubtedly humiliate him, but it would certainly not ruin him.

  I gathered together my belongings and went in search of Harry and invited him to attend the picnic.

  “Thank you mightily,” said the pressman, “but I’m not dressed for it. These pants are so shiny you could use ’em for a mirror.”

  “Don’t you worry about your clothes, Harry. Besides, it will be so dark no one will notice. Dad gave you a special invitation.”

  “Did he, now? Well, if you think he really wants me, maybe I’ll go.”

  “You wash up while I get the car,” I urged. “We’re rather late.”

  Within ten minutes, Harry met me at the front entrance. His hair was combed, he wore a frayed coat and had contrived to polish his shoes.

  “Mr. Horner,” I said as we drove toward the river road, “did you ever hear that Marcus Roberts had been in trouble before he gave up his paper?”

  “You mean financial?”

  “No, I meant something of a more personal nature. I’ve been thinking over your theory that Roberts was blackmailed.”

  “Maybe I oughtn’t to have said what I did. It was just my own idea.”

  “I’m inclined to believe there may be something to it. Now supposing that Roberts had stolen money or had been in prison—”

  “It couldn’t have been that,” Harry insisted. “Roberts was so honest he bent over backward to avoid even the appearance of any wrongdoing.”

  I was tempted to tell Harry about the clipping but decided not to. It was clear that the employees of the Morning Press had never had the slightest inkling of Mr. Roberts’ prison record.

  The picnic was well underway by the time Harry and I arrived at the river cottage. A caterer had taken complete charge, and, with his crew of helpers, prepared to serve nearly two hundred boisterous, hungry newspaper employees.
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  My father was making his annual speech of appreciation to his staff, and, as I stood listening to him, Jack Bancroft came up beside me.

  “We don’t want to hear any speeches,” Jack said. “Let’s go look at the moon.”

  “Can’t we see the moon from here?” I asked. “I certainly seem to be able to see it perfectly well.”

  “A moon to be appreciated properly must be seen from a sandy beach. Preferably from a nice comfortable shoulder.”

  “Oh, alright,” I said, remembering my promise to Mrs. Timms, “but don’t count on any shoulders becoming involved.”

  I did not say, “Don’t you dare even think about trying again to kiss me, Jack Bancroft,” but I wanted to.

  I raced ahead of Jack, along the beach to the suspension bridge. I was halfway across when he overtook me, rocking it so violently that I had to cling to him for support.

  “Stop that, Jack Bancroft! You’ll break the bridge!”

  “Then don’t try to run away from me. Will you let me show you the moon?”

  “No, I know you, Jack. You say that to all the girls.”

  “If I do, it’s just as a rehearsal. I’ve hoped that someday I might get a chance to show it to you.”

  “What a line you have,” I said. “But I won’t play. As a moon-shower your technique is terrible. Better practice some more.”

  Jack chuckled, slipped his hand into mine, and led me on across the bridge.

  “If you won’t look at the moon,” he said, “then take a squint at Old Man River.”

  “I believe I prefer the moon, after all,” I said as I raised my eyes to the disc of light sailing serenely through the star-pricked sky. “It is beautiful.”

  My reverie was broken by Jack’s voice. His hand tightened on mine.

  “Jane! Look over there!”

  On the river bank, I saw the forms of two struggling men silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “Oh, Jack, they’re fighting!”

  “To the death,” said Jack grimly. “Come on, before it’s too late!”