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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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“
W
ell, look what the cat dragged in!” Framed in the upper half of her Dutch doorway, Lydia Ashley looked like one of her Puritan ancestors.
“I'm sorry, Lydia. I should have called first. But I was in the neighborhood, and …”
“Nonsense. You came at the perfect time.” She glanced at Horatio.
Noting thankfully that the boy had let go of his nose, Fenimore introduced him.
Lydia swung open the lower half of the door and said, “I'm giving a house tour today.”
“Of your own house?” Fenimore knew Lydia was an accomplished guide for the Colonial Society of Pennsylvania and often gave tours of historic houses.
“Yes,” she said, leading them inside. “It's a trial run, Andrew. I'm giving a tour of my house to members of the Colonial Society next month, and I wanted to practice my spiel on some friends and neighbors first. They should be here any minute.” She glanced nervously at her watch.
“You might want to get rid of that stench outside before they
arrive,” Fenimore said. “Something must have died in one of your fields.”
To Fenimore's surprise Lydia turned a chalky white and leaned against the doorjamb.
“Are you all right?” he asked, aware of his patient's chronic heart condition.
“Want me to take a look?” Horatio asked. Fenimore nodded. The boy darted out the door and headed in the direction of the stink.
Lydia looked after him as he disappeared around the corner of the barn.
“I thought the buzzards made short work of dead animals in this neighborhood,” Fenimore said.
Lydia seemed not to hear, her eyes fixed on the corner of the barn where Horatio had disappeared. Fenimore's eyes were drawn to the same spot. As they stood silently watching, Horatio reappeared, still running.
“What's up?” asked Fenimore as he drew near.
“I wanta show you something.” Panting, the boy spoke only to Fenimore.
Fenimore looked at Lydia. Although still pale, she wore a determined expression. “I want to see, too.”
Horatio shook his head at Fenimore, but Lydia had already taken off. There was nothing to do but follow. Several yards ahead of them, she rounded the corner of the barn. Her short, high-pitched scream stopped them. They rushed forward.
Lydia stood still, facing the back wall of the barn, her hand over her mouth. Fenimore followed her gaze. Embedded in the brick wall was a row of iron hooks, devices for draining and drying animal carcasses in colonial times. All were empty, except one. Hanging from this hook was a large carcass of beef, similar to those glimpsed behind the meat counters in supermarkets. But this one wore a black coat, and something dripped from it into the stone trough below.
The black coat was flies, the drips were blood, and the stench made Fenimore want to gag.
Lydia's eyes were fixed on an object attached to the lower end of the carcass, where the cow's head had been. Fenimore moved closer. Paper. A photograph. A black and white portrait of Lydia Ashley.
Horatio tore it off and gave it to Fenimore.
“
S
omeone's idea of a practical joke?” stammered Lydia, backing away from the carcass.
“Some joke,” said Fenimore, grimly.
There was the sound of a car in the drive.
“Oh, here they are!” Lydia looked toward the house.
“Are you all right?” asked Fenimore.
“I'm fine, Andrew. I'm sorry I screamed … . Tell Jenks to remove that … that … monstrosity.”
“Jenks?”
“My handyman. You'll probably find him in the barn.” She hurried toward the house to welcome her guests.
Fenimore watched Lydia's retreating back. Satisfied that she had recovered from her initial shock, he knelt to examine the neck of the carcass. It was still encrusted with flies, but the blood had ceased dripping and lay in a pool in the trough below.
“Yuck,” said Horatio, kneeling beside him.
Because of the flies and the stench, Fenimore worked quickly. He still had the photo that Horatio had torn off. He wanted to see where it had been attached, and
how
. It was unfortunate that the boy had torn it off. It was evidence. But he had no real regrets.
Horatio's first thought had been for Mrs. Ashley's welfare—and breaking her horrified gaze. His instincts were good.
“Look,” Horatio said. He had spotted some neutral-colored thread protruding from the flesh—the kind you might use to truss a turkey. Apparently the “practical joker” had tacked the photo to the flesh by a simple needle and thread.
Fenimore took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. Covering his hand, he carefully drew the thread out, wrapped the handkerchief around it, and handed it to Horatio. Next, he examined the photo. The upper two corners were torn where the twine had been inserted, but the rest of the picture was intact. Lydia's expression was serious, but serene. Her gray hair neatly waved, she wore a string of pearls and looked slightly younger. He guessed it had been taken about five years ago. Probably when she was elected president of the Colonial Society. The Society would have required an up-to-date photo for their newsletter. He flipped it over.
They both inhaled sharply.
Scrawled across the back in red was the single word “
Sell!
”, as if written by a finger dipped in blood.
They were still staring at the ugly scrawl when a shadow fell across it.
Fenimore looked up.
Jenks?
The small man, resembling a dried prune, jerked his thumb at the carcass. “What the hell?”
Fenimore stood up, the photo turned carefully against his thigh. “Mr. Jenks, I'm Dr. Fenimore. I was hoping you might shed some light on this.”
Jenks could shed light on nothing. He had gone fishing before breakfast and had seen no one and heard nothing. When those nosey parkers had gone, he would reclaim his territory—the barn and its out-buildings—and finish his chores.
Fenimore offered to help take down the carcass, but Jenks said, “I'll take care of it.”
“Before you take it away, I'd like to go over it,” Fenimore said.
The handyman looked puzzled, but said nothing.
Fenimore wanted to check for any identifying marks—a brand from the ranch where the cow had been bred and slaughtered, or a stamp from the wholesale beef house from which it had been bought—or stolen.
Wholesale beef doesn't bleed.
Fenimore waited until Jenks disappeared around the side of the barn before he drew a small plastic bottle of pills from his pocket. Quickly dumping the pills into his pocket, he used the empty bottle to scoop a sample of the cow's blood from the trough. He held the bottle up to the light. Thin and clear. “No clotting,” he said, and for Horatio's benefit, explained, “There are only a few kinds of blood that don't clot. One is ‘stored blood' and another is the blood of a hemophiliac. Stored blood is human blood which has been tested and treated for transfusion purposes and stored in a refrigerator—usually in a hospital. Hemophiliac blood can only be obtained from someone with hemophilia—a disease in which someone can bleed to death from a small scratch because his—or her—blood won't clot.”
“Can a cow be a—whatever?” asked Horatio.
Fenimore pondered that. In Russia, maybe. But only among the most aristocratic breeds. “I'll have to consult one of my veterinarian friends about that,” he said. But one thing he did know—of the two, “stored blood” would be easier to come by.
Fenimore heard a motor start up. He shoved the small bottle into his pocket as Jenks rounded the corner of the barn mounted on the tractor. He was pulling a cart behind.
As they watched, with a few deft backs and fills, Jenks positioned the cart directly under the carcass. Balancing himself precariously on the tailgate, he reached up and cut the rope with one stroke. The jolt caused by the carcass hitting the floor of the cart nearly knocked the small man to the ground. He jumped down, indicating to Fenimore that he was free to do his examination.
Fenimore climbed into the cart and went over the flesh inch
by inch, brushing away the flies every few seconds, trying not to breathe too deeply or too often. He had to ask Jenks and Horatio to help him turn the carcass. An unpleasant job. It bore no marks of any kind.
Next question. How did it get here? The Ashleys may have raised cattle once. But that was over a century ago. It had to have been brought in from outside on wheels, or … Fenimore turned his gaze from the barn to the river. Such a load would need a fairly large boat to carry it. It must weigh over a thousand pounds.
Jenks, anxious to get moving, came up with a large tarpaulin and a spade.
Fenimore jumped down.
“Do you ever get any bigger craft on this river? Any yachts or schooners?” Fenimore asked.
“Sometimes—in the summer.” His expression turned sour. “When the tourists come exploring. Some of them actually come looking for pirate treasure!”
Horatio perked up, but Fenimore's interest in such fantasies had faded in the face of recent events.
Jenks spread the tarpaulin over the carcass and tossed the spade in after it. These two actions transformed the piece of meat into a corpse for Fenimore.
Jenks remounted the tractor.
“Where are you off to?”
The caretaker waved toward the vast expanse of empty field beyond the house and barn.
“Ashes to ashes, eh? Don't you need help?”
For answer, Jenks turned the tractor and took off. They looked after him as he slowly made his way across the field.
F
our cars had joined Fenimore's old Chevy in front of the farmhouse. A yellow Saab, a gray Pontiac, a blue Taurus van, and a mud-spattered Jeep. When Fenimore and Horatio re-entered the parlor, it was empty. But Lydia's lilting tones could be heard in a distant room. With typical determination, she was carrying on the tour.
They edged into the dining room just in time to hear Lydia describe her husband's ancestor's attempt at central heating. Standing in the huge walk-in fireplace, she pointed out two holes in the bricks on either side. “The heat from the fire was carried up through these holes to provide some heat to the master bedroom above,” she explained.
As each guest took a turn examining the holes, Fenimore examined the guests. There were only four: three men and a woman. A tall, dapper man in a blue blazer and white ducks; a stout, balding man in a gray business suit; and a lanky young man wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a sullen expression. The woman was small and sharp-featured, her figure completely hidden under a long skirt and baggy pullover. Fenimore realized that Lydia was still rattled from her earlier shock when she failed to introduce Horatio
and himself to her guests. She was usually meticulous about such matters.
After everyone had had a good look at the fireplace, Lydia summarized the history of the house.
“In 1724, my husband Edward's ancestor, Jonathan Ashley, came to this country on the ship
Amelia …
.” She pointed to a portrait hanging over the mantel depicting a ruddy-faced Englishman.
“Jonathan was a Quaker and had been persecuted in England for his radical religious beliefs, such as refusing to remove his hat for the King. And he applied to William Penn for help.” She hesitated, staring out the window behind the little group. “Ah … where was I?”
“He asked Penn for help,” prompted the dapper man in white ducks.
“Oh, yes,” she continued. “Penn promised Jonathan enough land in the colonies to start a farm and raise some cattle. Jonathan jumped at the opportunity and …” She paused again, as if listening for something.
The group shifted restlessly. Fenimore began to grow nervous for her, as if she were a child in a school play instead of a docent with years of experience guiding historic tours.
Lydia was pointing out an unusual carving in the moulding of the hallway—a tiny heart left by a German carpenter—when they heard a car drive up, a door slam, and rapid footsteps.
“Grandmother!” A slender girl appeared in the doorway, her blond hair drawn back in a long braid. Close behind her came a blond young man. The girl drew up short. “Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot.”
“No, no. That's quite all right, dear,” Lydia said. “You all know my granddaughter, Susan. And this is her friend, Peter Jordan.”
The young man smiled briefly.
Everyone nodded and Susan's first blush receded. Fenimore caught her eye. His reward was a radiant smile. Good Lord, the last time he had seen Susan, she was a gawky thirteen-year-old.
She had come to Fenimore for a school physical exam. Where were those skinny arms and knobby knees now?
Fenimore heard Horatio murmur, “Cool.”
As the young couple made their escape upstairs, Fenimore was shocked by the sullen young man's expression as he looked after them. If looks could kill … His thoughts were interrupted by the man in the blue blazer who had been eyeing the doctor surreptitiously. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“Andy Fenimore. Penn. Seventy-five!” His face was alight with recognition.
Fenimore smiled politely.
“You don't remember Ol' ‘Tap-a-Keg'?”
“Ohmygod, Percy! What are you doing here?”
He put his finger to his lips and shook his head. “Not ‘Percy' down here. I'm the Reverend Osborne and Head at St. Stephen's, the boys' academy. If they ever found out my real name, I'd never hear the end of it.”
“Well, what
do
I call you?”
“Oliver.”
Fenimore laughed.
“I know, it's not much better, but …”
“But you used to be much heavier,” Fenimore said, attempting to excuse his failure to recognize him.
“Yeah. Overdid the beer. The doctor took me off it and I went down like a balloon. Didn't take me off Scotch though.” He winked.
Suddenly, they were both aware of an awkward silence.
“When you're quite finished, we'll go on with the tour,” Lydia said.
Feeling like two schoolboys who had been reprimanded, Fenimore and Oliver fell silent and looked attentive.
Well, well, imagine Ol' Tap-a-Keg settling down in the boondocks. And a “Reverend” at that. His most vivid memory of Percy—ah—Oliver, was after a football game with Princeton (or was it Yale? One of the big ones). Percy was lying on his back in
the grass at Ben Franklin's feet, one hand precariously balancing a paper cup full of beer on his ample stomach. Ol' Tap-a-Keg hadn't acquired his nickname for nothing.
Fenimore looked around for Horatio. He was nowhere to be seen.
As Lydia led them toward the back of the house, they were met by fragrant odors. In the kitchen, a huge table was spread with colonial fare—johnnycake, gingerbread, and corn muffins, with plenty of fresh butter and jam. A large pot of tea steamed beside them with an array of blue and white china cups. Next to the teapot sat Horatio. But he wasn't serving. He was absorbed in coating a muffin liberally with jam. Presiding over the refreshments was a stout, smiling woman.
“Thought you might need refueling before going on with the tour,” she said.
“My housekeeper, Agatha Jenks,” Lydia said.
While the others helped themselves, Fenimore drew Lydia aside. “Are you sure you're all right? You seemed nervous … .”
“I'm perfectly fine, Andrew.”

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