The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (11 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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J
ennifer was free. But instead of going out, she suggested Fenimore come to their apartment for dinner. Her father wanted to see him. He had some historical material about Winston, New Jersey, that he thought would interest Fenimore.
When Fenimore arrived, Jennifer took him into the library, one of his favorite rooms. Bookcases with glass doors reached from floor to ceiling. There was a fireplace, worn leather furniture, and beautiful antique lamps with shades of scarlet, amber, and green. At dusk, when the lamps were turned on, they were reflected in the doors of the bookcases.
On the walls hung old prints and maps—many of Philadelphia. Tucked inconspicuously in one corner, within easy view of the most comfortable sofa and chair, sat a television set and a VCR—the only evidence that the Nicholsons had entered the modern era.
Mr. Nicholson rose from his chair when Fenimore came in. He was of average height, but stooped—the result of years spent bending over old books and manuscripts. His poor posture made him look older than he was; although only sixty, he looked closer to seventy. His hair was nearly white, but his eyebrows had refused
to turn. They were as dark as Jennifer's hair. The combination gave his face a dramatic look, as if he were made up for a play but the makeup artist hadn't finished with him yet.
“Come sit down, Doctor. What will you have to drink?” He went over to a small cabinet near the television set and waited for his answer.
“Scotch and water, please.”
“Jennifer?”
“Wine, Dad. I'll get it.” She disappeared into the dark recesses of the apartment, from which delicious aromas came. She returned shortly with crackers, cheese, and her wine.
As soon as they were settled, Mr. Nicholson began, “I was very interested in Jennifer's account of your trip to south Jersey, Doctor. I haven't been there for some time, but it used to be a favorite haunt of mine—a gold mine of early colonial ephemeral—letters, diaries, maps, journals. Unfortunately for me, there was a wily curator at the historical society there—Sam Cooke. Gone now. But he didn't let much slip by him. Every now and then I'd pick up something, but usually he got there first.” He went over to a table and picked up a small volume with pasteboard covers, tied together with faded green ribbon. He handled the book as if it were made of fine crystal. “Here's one he missed. This is the diary of a young woman who was engaged to marry an Ashley in 1734. Unfortunately, before the wedding took place, the young man contracted a fever and died. But his fiancée must have been very resilient because in less than a year, she married someone else.”
“What was her name?”
His eyes flashed under the black brows. “Phoebe Winston.” He placed the book in Fenimore's hands.
Now he remembered. Lydia had told him this story. He carried the book with equal care over to one of the reading lamps.
“See what you've done, Dad. Now he won't talk to either of us for the rest of the evening,” Jennifer said.
Her father chuckled. “He won't get far with that. Those fancy ‘F's and ‘S's, and the creative spelling make it as hard to read as a
foreign language. I don't think the lady spells the same word the same way twice in her entire diary.”
Fenimore looked up. “The Ashley family knows of this diary?”
“Yes, indeed.” He nodded. “Mrs. Ashley offered me a handsome sum for it a few years ago. But I couldn't bear to part with it. Perhaps I will sell it to her one day.”
“How did you come by it?”
“Browsing in the attic of an old house near Winston. That's the way we find most of our acquisitions. People die. Their estates are sold. Most of their relatives don't care about old books. And unless someone like Cooke or myself shows up, they go to the local junk dealer, or worse—to the county dump.”
Fenimore tried to keep his eyes away from the diary and make conversation. Sensing his struggle, Mr. Nicholson said, “I'll tell you what, Doctor. If you promise not to look at it anymore tonight, I'll lend it to you for as long as you'd like.”
Fenimore smiled. “That's very kind of you, but aren't you afraid something might happen to it? I have no special security system at my house.”
“Rare books are seldom stolen. They're too hard to resell. The average thief can't tell a valuable book from an ordinary one.”
Fenimore was amazed.
“Look here.” Mr. Nicholson went over to a small desk in a corner of the room and opened a drawer. “Do you know what this is?” He handed him a slim volume—the brown velvet binding rubbed off like powder on his hand.
Fenimore opened to the title page and read:
COMMON SENSE
by
Thomas Paine
The black type dug deeply into the paper, indicating that it was printed on an early platen press.
Mr. Nicholson reached over, and turning the page, pointed to the date, 1775. “A first edition,” he said.
Fenimore could not prevent his hand from trembling. “But you took it from an unlocked drawer. Surely this should be in a museum—or at least a safe.”
“Your average thief is interested in those.” He pointed to the television set and VCR. Taking the book—which was as important as that shot at Lexington heard round the world—he returned it to the unlocked drawer.
“Dinner's ready,” Jennifer announced. She had been waiting patiently for her father to finish his story, even though she had witnessed the performance many times before.
The dinner was simple but delicious, accompanied by a good wine. And conversation was never a problem because of their mutual love of history and old books.
During dinner the phone rang. Jennifer answered it. “It's for you, Dad.”
Mr. Nicholson took the phone. After listening for a minute, he said, “No, I'm sorry,” and gave the caller the name of a rival bookseller. He hung up and turned back with a laugh. “Someone wanted a copy of
Gone With the Wind
in Japanese.”
“Do you get many calls like that?” Fenimore asked.
“Not many. But they're like your patients, Doctor. They always save the emergencies for dinnertime or weekends.”
Midway through the evening, Fenimore remarked, “You certainly passed your love of books on to your daughter.”
He looked at her affectionately. “Yes. The disease is hereditary, I'm afraid. Her mother was also a bibliophile; the poor child never had a chance. But I don't suppose I would really want her cured of it.”
Jennifer was eyeing them both mutinously. “I don't see what's wrong with it, as long as I don't spend a king's ransom.”
“That's true,” her father sighed. “It could have been worse. You could have been born with a predilection for jewelry … or real estate.”
“You liked that edition of
Northanger Abbey
that I picked up at the Strawberry Festival well enough,” she said.
Around nine o‘clock, Fenimore announced that he had better be getting home. With Phoebe's diary tucked safely in his pocket, he followed Jennifer down the narrow staircase to the first floor. It was a balmy summer evening. The one-way traffic flowed rhythmically west on Walnut Street—red taillights bobbing like small balloons above the black asphalt. The traffic light at the corner flashed red … yellow … green, several times before Fenimore released her.
When she returned to the apartment her father had thoughtfully gone to bed.
O
n the way to Salem, Mrs. Doyle tried to come up with a convincing reason for her stay with Mrs. Ashley. She must not excite any special curiosity among the residents of Winston—at least no more than any visitor to a small town would. As the flat farmland jounced past the bus window, she worked out her plan, holding firmly to her conviction that the closer you stick to the truth the less chance you have of being found out. As the bus rolled into Salem, she felt her plan was nearly perfect.
Mrs. Ashley was waiting in the wooden shelter that passed for a bus terminal. She smiled a warm greeting when she saw Mrs. Doyle. They had been acquainted for years, because of Mrs. Ashley's frequent office visits. As they drove to the farm, rattling over every bump in Mrs. Ashley's ancient station wagon, Mrs. Doyle outlined her plan.
She had been sent down to Winston by her employer for a complete rest. Her employer should remain anonymous. (Dr. Fenimore's reputation for amateur detecting was too well known in the area.) Mrs. Doyle's story was that she was overworked and needed to get away. Her hobby was bird-watching, and she would take long walks in search of new varieties. She asked Mrs. Ashley
to let her eat in the kitchen with the Jenkses, instead of with Mrs. Ashley and Susan, because the Jenkses could provide her with more local gossip about the neighbors.
Mrs. Ashley readily agreed, and said she would help her meet as many of the local gentry as possible. As they pulled up to the farmhouse, they shared the camaraderie of fellow conspirators.
Agatha Jenks had been watching for them. She came running out of the house to help Mrs. Doyle with her suitcase.
“Agatha, this is Kathleen Doyle. She's been overworking lately and her poor nerves are worn to a frazzle.” Mrs. Doyle was pleased that Mrs. Ashley was falling in with the plan so easily. “She's been sent to us by her physician for a complete rest.”
Agatha led them into the house. “Oh, you'll get plenty of rest down here, Mrs. Doyle,” she said cheerfully. “There's nothing to do and no place to go. We don't even have a TV.”
Mrs. Doyle blanched. Dr. Fenimore had neglected to mention that little detail. She could already feel the TV-withdrawal symptoms beginning. But she rose to the occasion. “I think it's a lot of nonsense—all this talk about my nerves. It's very kind of everyone to worry about them, I'm sure, but I really don't think …”
“Now you just sit right down there, while I get you a cup of tea and something to eat,” Agatha said.
Agatha had drawn her into a huge, spotless, kitchen. At the back was a brick walk-in fireplace with its old spit still intact. But Agatha was boiling water in a kettle on a modern electric stove.
“You must be all worn out after your trip.” Agatha placed a cup of her steaming brew before her. “Those buses shake you up something terrible. You wonder if your insides aren't turning black and blue.”
“Well, I'll leave you to Agatha,” Mrs. Ashley said. “She'll take good care of you. After tea, she'll show you to your room. Perhaps you'll want to take a little nap before dinner.”
“You're so kind,” said Mrs. Doyle, hoping Mrs. Ashley wasn't going to overdo it and make an invalid of her. “All this fuss. It's
really not necessary.” She took a sip of tea. “Delicious. What is that flavor? Cinnamon or nutmeg? A special recipe, Mrs. Jenks?”
“That's right. It's straight from one of those old cookbooks.” She pointed to a row of crumbling volumes on the windowsill.
“My, how interesting. You must show me some.”
“Do you like to cook, Mrs. Doyle?”
Stick to the truth, Doyle, she reminded herself. “A little. But I'm not very good at it. I do love to read recipes, though.”
“Well, here you are.” Agatha passed one of the most tattered books to Mrs. Doyle.
Recipes & Home Remedies—1792,
the title read. “Some people read mysteries or romances before they go to bed. I read cookbooks.” Agatha chuckled. “That's my favorite. It's the oldest. A few of the pages are missing, but most of it's intact. All my recipes for the fairs and festivals come from that. There's a wonderful one for Christmas punch—or ‘wassail' as they call it. And another for apple butter. Did you know that apple butter is good for burns?” She showed her the “Home Remedy” section.
“Is that a fact? Some of those home remedies aren't to be sneezed at. My grandmother used to say if you rub garlic on your corns …”
Mrs. Ashley, pleased that the two women were getting along so well, left by the side door to work in the garden. When Andrew had called, she had thought it was excessive of him to send Mrs. Doyle down as a companion/watchdog. But now that she was here, Mrs. Ashley had to admit she felt better—more secure. Not for herself, of course, but for Susan. She pulled happily at a clump of weeds.
Agatha led Mrs. Doyle up the wide front stairs. Mrs. Ashley's room was at the top. She could see her medicine bottles arranged along her bureau. They turned right and went along the hall, past the old-fashioned bathroom (the tub had feet) to a smaller room. It was very quaint—with eaves that dove in at odd angles, and windows with rippled glass that distorted the view of the river and fields. A pink canopy hung over the bed, and on the bureau stood
a china pitcher and bowl decorated with pink roses. The wallpaper also bore a pattern of pink roses. What more could she want? A TV, that's what. Wait till I get my hands on that man!
When Agatha left her, Mrs. Doyle unpacked. It didn't take long. She hadn't brought much. She hadn't had time! One skirt, a couple of blouses, underwear, a nightgown, her toothbrush, and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. Oh, and in the back pocket of her suitcase, at the last minute, she had stuffed a small paperback book,
Birds of North America
—an important part of her disguise. And a pair of binoculars.
She took off her shoes and stretched out on the bed. Flipping open the bird book to “Marshland Fowl,” she began to read.
In what seemed like five minutes later, she heard a tap on the door. The light in the room had changed from bright sunshine to a dusky glow. She looked at her watch. Two hours had passed. “Marshland Fowl” had proved an effective sleeping pill. “Come in,” she called.
Agatha came in with a small vase filled with flowers—white daisies, red poppies, and blue asters.
“How beautiful!” Mrs. Doyle exclaimed. “Mrs. Ashley must have a green thumb.”
“Oh, she does. She can make anything grow—when she doesn't have so many worries.” She clicked her tongue.
“Worries? What worries?”
“Oh, somebody's set on taking this place away from her. I don't know why anyone would want it. Except the family, I mean—for sentimental reasons. The land's not the best for farming. And the property's too far away from the city for developers.”
“Is she going to sell it?”
“I don't know. She said she was, right after Miss Susan had her accident. But I haven't heard anymore about it.”
“Where is Susan? Is she staying here?”
“Yes. But she's in and out. An active girl. She likes to drive the tractor and work in the fields. Until recently, scuba diving was her favorite pastime. But her grandmother put an end to that after
the accident. Mark my words, if it hadn't been for Tom Winston that child wouldn't be alive today. He gave her CPR, you know. He's been sweet on her for years, but she never gives him the time of day. She has lots of beaus. She and Tom are distant cousins. But the Winstons and the Ashleys have been at odds for years—something to do with some land back in colonial times. Can you imagine holding a grudge that long? And now he's come up with this newfangled way of picking cranberries. I don't see what was wrong with the old way. And he wants that piece of Ashley land near the river more than ever. He's furious at Mrs. Ashley for not selling it to him. But with Susan it's different. He can't be angry with her. The looks he gives her when he thinks she's not looking …” Agatha raised her eyebrows.
Mrs. Doyle made no attempt to stem this flow. Agatha lived in an isolated spot and was thrilled to have a new audience. And that was one of the reasons Mrs. Doyle was here, wasn't it? To listen to all the gossip—even if it was over two hundred years old.
Finally Agatha came to a halt. “Well, listen to me chattering away when I should be fixing dinner. I just dropped up to give you those flowers and tell you that dinner will be ready at six o'clock. Mrs. Ashley tells me you'll be eating with us.”
“Yes, if you don't mind. I like my dinner early so I can …” She was about to say “watch TV,” but she quickly changed it to “ … get to bed early.”
“Mind?” Agatha beamed. “I haven't had such good company in years,” which made Mrs. Doyle wonder about Mr. Jenks.
When the housekeeper had gone, Mrs. Doyle decided to inspect the premises. First she looked out her windows. Through one window she saw a broad sweep of marshy field, interrupted here and there by old fencing badly in need of repair. The other window provided a view of the Ashley River looping in and out of the tall grasses in thin, silvery curves. She remembered the doctor telling her how pirates and smugglers had frequented these parts. Now she understood why. That river had more curves than a dish of spaghetti. Perfect hideouts for pirates and their booty.
For a moment she thought she glimpsed a black flag fluttering in the breeze, just like the ones on the pirate ships in her swashbuckling romance novels.
In the distance, she could just make out the shape of another house near the river's edge. It was half-hidden by the evening mist that had begun to rise off the river. That must be the old wharf, she thought, and the cottage that was supposed to be haunted. Something about a black dog? She wondered if it ever howled at night. Poppycock.
Before she went down to dinner, she took an exploratory trip to the other end of the hall. She glanced into what she guessed was Susan's room. It was across from Mrs. Ashley's, and—like the rooms of most college girls—in total disarray: clothes tossed around, books and magazines scattered. In the middle of the bed sat Snoopy, dressed in a scuba diving costume, complete with goggles and flippers. On the table by the bed lay the latest Dick Francis mystery.
“Grandmother!” A young woman's voice came unexpectedly up the stairwell.
Susan.
Mrs. Doyle moved quickly down the hall and backed into her room. If she was seen, the girl would automatically think she was coming out. An old trick, but it usually worked. Before going down to dinner, Mrs. Doyle memorized a few more habits of marshland fowl.
T
he elevator stopped so smoothly that Fenimore was unaware of it until the door slid open. Stepping into a large foyer carpeted in thick gray pile, he faced a double glass door. Over fifty names were etched on the panels—members of the law firm “Bannister, Dunlap, and Bannister.” Lydia Ashley's lawyer, Owen Bannister, was near the top. The only other decorations were two framed lithographs of Philadelphia by Joseph Pennell and a generic potted plant.
When he opened the door, a perfectly turned-out receptionist greeted him with just the right blend of gracious welcome and business brusqueness. He was kept waiting the allotted number of minutes to convey that he was expected, but not eagerly awaited. He couldn't help thinking of his own humbler establishment.
As he was ushered into Owen Bannister's private office, the word “established” rushed to mind. The room was filled with solid antique furniture, lightened by an occasional contemporary lamp or chair carefully chosen to blend with the older pieces. A silver picture frame graced the substantial oak desk. It contained a black and white photograph of a middle-aged woman in riding habit. Mrs. Bannister in earlier days, Fenimore guessed. Arranged
behind the lawyer, like a bulwark, were rows of thick red and tan volumes of the law.
The man emulated the room. He had a square, compact figure, abundant gray hair, and a strong, cultivated voice punctuated by forceful gestures perfectly timed to produce the greatest effect. It was impossible to imagine Owen Bannister ruffled, any more than you could imagine the Rock of Gibraltar or Mt. Everest ruffled. Like those two works of nature, he was just
there.
As his father had been
there
before him, and
his
father before that. A natural phenomenon to be dealt with.
Three Philadelphia lawyers were a match for the Devil
. Where had he read that? Was
one
Philadelphia lawyer a match for Fenimore? That was the question.
“How may I help you, Doctor?” Bannister got the ball rolling.
“As I told you when I called, I'm here on behalf of your client, Lydia Ashley.”
He nodded. The nod said: Get to the point. I'm a busy man.
Fenimore decided to tell Bannister the minimum. Only what was absolutely necessary to get the information he was after. “I would like to know why you are urging my patient, Lydia Ashley, to sell her farm in south Jersey, when you know that she and her granddaughter clearly want to keep it.”
Bannister spoke quickly and positively. “Because it's economically advantageous.” He brought his hand down firmly on his desk. “Doctor, I've watched too many people hang on to their property for sentimental reasons and have it decrease in value year after year until they're left holding an empty bag. I don't want to see that happen to Mrs. Ashley. This fellow comes along from a perfectly reputable company, wanting to buy the property for a very specific purpose—a refuse disposal plant. No one else may ever want that property again for generations. Certainly not at that price. It was my duty to advise her to sell.” He stood up and walked to the window that looked out on a panoramic view of the city—the massive Victorian facade of City Hall in the foreground; a backdrop worthy of Hollywood. “There are other farms in other locations which are equally charming and just as historic.”
“But they weren't settled by
her husband's
ancestors, and they won't include the title to the land from William Penn with
his
family's name on it,” Fenimore said.
With a dramatic move, the lawyer turned to face him. “Will that title pay Mrs. Ashley's medical or nursing home bills? From what I understand, Doctor, her health is precarious at best. Or will it pay for her granddaughter's education, should—God forbid—anything happen to her grandmother before she finishes college?”
Watching him, Fenimore was reminded of a movie—Charles Laughton in
Witness for the Prosecution.
Perhaps Owen Bannister had seen it too.
Fenimore sighed. “You're right, of course. I'm afraid I've let my own regard for history blind me to the more practical issues.” He rose. “I guess there's nothing more to be said.”
He offered the lawyer his hand.
As Bannister shook it, he said, “As a friend, I'm sorry I can't advise Lydia to keep her farm. But I would not be serving her best interests if I did.” This was more concern than Fenimore had expected from him. “One of the more onerous parts of the law business is—sometimes you have to bite the hand that feeds you. You have to tell your client things they don't want to hear. But then, that's true in your profession too, Doctor.”
Fenimore acknowledged this. After a few more forays into small talk, he thanked the lawyer for his time, and left.
On the way down in the silent elevator, Fenimore tried to imagine Owen Bannister in the role of vaudeville villain, twisting his long moustache and laughing evilly behind his hand as he cheated the Widow Ashley and her Granddaughter out of their rightful property. He was unsuccessful.

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