The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (28 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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F
enimore spilled the remains of his drink on his tie. He quickly brushed it away.
“Oh, I don't mean I
really
knew,” she said. “But I had this vague suspicion. I could never face it.” She sighed. “I'm so glad it's out in the open.”
“But, but …” Fenimore sputtered.
“Why did I let sleeping dogs lie?”
That damned expression. “Yes, by God.”
“I couldn't face it, Andrew. And I had no proof.”
“The bullet.”
“I didn't know that was proof.”
“Come
on
, Lydia.”
“No, I didn't. I know nothing about firearms. Edward was a Quaker. He never used them. He hated hunting. I just had this vague suspicion—and it was so unbelievably horrid. I just pushed it away—out of my mind.” She turned and looked up at Jennifer for understanding.
Jennifer nodded, encouragingly.
Fenimore closed his eyes.
The pause lengthened. In the silence, Lydia remembered that night long ago. It was as vivid as a scene from a recent video.
The band was playing those wonderful tunes by Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman. They had danced for hours, stopping only now and then for a drink. Gin. Gin and tonics. They were overheated, exhilarated. Owen pulled her outside. It was May. There was a moon. The grass at the Club had been recently cut. The air was full of its heady scent and the fragrance of May flowers. Owen led her to his car. They were laughing about something. Something witty he had said about someone at the dance. He jumped into the backseat, pulling her in after him. They began to kiss lightly, in fun. She was weak from the laughter, the dancing, and the gin. Suddenly his kisses became serious …
.
“I'm sorry, Andrew,” Lydia said. “I couldn't face it. I'm a coward. I feel so guilty.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now,” she held his gaze, “it's all taken care of.”
Fenimore reached for the scotch.
As they were leaving, Jennifer suddenly remembered the ladder. She told Lydia about the cookie recipe, and how they thought they had solved the mystery of the missing coin. They had come back to the house to look for a ladder when they found that she had come home. “Could we borrow one now?” she asked.
“But it's dark,” objected Fenimore.
“Nonsense,” Lydia said. “What are flashlights for?”
For lots of things, thought Fenimore, remembering the last time he had used one.
Lydia entered eagerly into the search, outfitting Jennifer with a long-sleeved shirt, a protection against mosquitoes, and a tool belt belonging to Jenks from which hung a hammer, chisel, and screwdriver. She handed Fenimore a flashlight, and sprayed both her visitors with a liberal coating of insect repellent. “This was used by the soldiers in Vietnam,” she assured them.
“If it's that old, it may not be very effective,” muttered Fenimore.
The women ignored him.
Lydia wanted to come too, but Fenimore put his foot down, citing her precarious health. Secretly, he was glad to see the return of her natural good spirits. He had been concerned about the impact of his news. But her reaction seemed one of elation—the euphoria of someone from whom a great burden has been lifted. For the first time he realized the full extent of her fear.
As Fenimore and Jennifer set out across the field, the ladder swinging between them, the only sound disturbing the August night was the incessant, metallic clatter of the katydids. There was no moon, but plenty of stars. They crowded together as if there wasn't enough room in the sky. The insect repellent seemed to be working.
“Do you think that's possible?” Jennifer asked.
“What?”
“To know something and not know it—at the same time, like Lydia.”
“Of course. Freud built an entire career on that premise. Our subconscious is full of things we've repressed over the years. Things we don't want to remember or admit to ourselves—and they only emerge under certain circumstances. If those circumstances never occur, they remain dormant, buried forever.”
“Do you think Lydia and Owen were lovers?”
“Probably. That's why she feels so guilty.”
“About the affair?”
“No. About Susan. She put her only grandchild's life in jeopardy when she couldn't face the possibility that Owen …”
“Oh, I see.”
As they neared the cottage, Fenimore said, “Let me go first.” They had to be especially careful in the dark not to trip over the rubble or fall through one of the gaping holes. The ladder didn't make it any easier. Reaching the fireplace safely, they placed the ladder against the brick chimney.
“I'll go first,” Jennifer said. Before Fenimore could object, she scurried up the rungs until she was within reach of the top brick. Number 33 ½. Fenimore held the ladder steady. Gently she tried to wiggle the brick. It refused to budge. She pressed harder. No luck. “Flashlight!” she ordered.
Fenimore handed it up.
She played the beam over the slit between the top half brick and the one beneath. They were sealed tight. The finest silk thread or thinnest onionskin paper could not fit between them. Admitting defeat, she backed down slowly.
“There's still the other side,” Fenimore said optimistically.
Jennifer was already moving the ladder across the cavernous fireplace. This time when she reached the top, she held her breath. It was their last chance. She groped for the brick. “It's moving!” she cried.
“Be careful. I don't want it to fall on my head.” He couldn't keep a tremor of excitement out of his voice.
Gently, she moved the brick from side to side. But she couldn't get it to move forward. She yanked the screwdriver from her belt and wedged it into the slit between the bricks. Pressing upward and pulling toward her at the same time, it gradually began to edge outward. Press, pull. Press, pull. “It's coming!”
Fenimore gripped the ladder.
Press, pull. Press, pull. “It's out!” Simultaneously, it fell—narrowly missing Fenimore's foot.
“Hey!”
Jennifer reached into the cavity.
“Anything there?”
“I don't know yet. Hold on … yes … I've got it!” She turned sharply and the ladder swayed away from the chimney.
“Watch it!”
It fell back against the bricks with a smack and Jennifer scrambled down. At the bottom, she opened her hand. In the dark, all Fenimore could make out was a small box. He turned the flashlight on it. About two-and-a-half by three inches, made of hard
wood. Teak? Jennifer lifted the lid. Among a few strands of dirty cotton lay a large copper coin. The back, bore the Liberty Head with her frightful hairdo. Jennifer turned it over. On the face was a laurel wreath encircling the words “ONE CENT.” Below it was the date 1793. And at the bottom was a spray of leaves with a small blossom—the rare “strawberry leaf.”
Their eyes met in exultation.
“
S
o you see, pirates come in all shapes and sizes.” Fenimore was catching Doyle and Horatio up on the latest developments. The Main Line detective had called that morning and filled him in on the details Bannister had provided after an all-night grilling session.
But Doyle wasn't satisfied; she still had questions. “Don't tell me those crooks moved all that soil to find one little coin?” she challenged him. “And how did they do it? And who switched Mrs. Ashley's medicine? And why did Jenks come to the tea party smelling of fish? And what was he burying in the garden?”
“Elementary, my dear Doyle.” The doctor was in one of his impossible
grand
moods. With relish, he ticked off the answers to her questions.
“Bannister's goons were looking for pirate treasure, based on rumors of Uncle Nathan's sea chest. The soil, after being dug up, was removed by motorized schooners, which looked like all the other oyster and fishing boats that ply the Ashley River. If the signal read ‘all clear'—”
“What signal?”
“Remember the patterned brick end on the far side of the cottage?”
She nodded.
“The blue brick that formed the left foot of the letter ‘A' was loose. It could be easily removed by anyone with a ladder.”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Doyle remembered the ladder near the cottage. “That brick was missing the day I made my first visit,” she said. “And when I was a prisoner, that hole in the brick wall was my only source of light.”
“Exactly. And when the brick was missing, that was the ‘all clear' signal for the captain of the schooner. Through his telescope he could see that one leg of the ‘A' was shorter than the other. They shot at you that day because a schooner was expected to make a soil pickup and they wanted to frighten you off.”
“They succeeded.” Mrs. Doyle remembered her painful sprint.
“When they made their pickups at night, someone flashed a flashlight through the hole to signal them. One night I saw those flashes and mistook them for heat lightning.”
“That's what scared me!” Horatio broke in, remembering the night he was lost near the cottage. “What about those coins, Doc, the ones we found when the house blew up?”
“Next to worthless. They were ‘Large Cents.' In colonial times these coins were so plentiful housewives used them to flavor homemade pickles and to close the eyes of the dead.” (Fenimore had done some research in numismatics.) “They may have been part of Uncle Nathan's famous hoard, but he knew the only coin worth anything was the strawberry leaf.”
“And the medicine?” Doyle prompted.
“Peter pulled that switch, but he didn't know that the pills he substituted could have killed Lydia. Bannister had assured him that they would just make her a little dizzy.”
“Bastard.” Doyle rarely swore.
“Peter was clever at substitutions,” Fenimore continued. “Bannister had instructed him to try to scare me off. On the spur of the moment, he concocted that warning note. He saw Amory's
list of mysteries lying on a table, ripped off the title,
Death of a Ghost
, substituted ‘Doctor' for ‘Ghost,' and planted it in my fish pond prize.”
“He should put his talents to better use,” Doyle said.
“But Peter wasn't responsible for all the pranks … .”
“Pranks? Crimes, you mean.”
“Bannister's henchmen sabotaged Susan's diving equipment, gave me that flat tire, and supplied the rattlesnake for Susan's room.”
“What about Jenks?”
“Ah, Jenks. You had him pegged from the beginning as the evil genius behind this whole thing, didn't you, Doyle?”
She flushed, realizing that she
had
been prejudiced against him ever since he had joked about her jogging prowess.
“During the party,” Fenimore continued, “there was a plumbing emergency—an obstruction in one of the bathroom pipes. Agatha had sent Jenks up to fix it. He had been cleaning a fish at the time, hence his fishy smell.”
“But what was he burying in the garden?”
“The remains of said fish.” He smiled triumphantly. “Mrs. Ashley had instructed Jenks to always bury any leftover fish parts—heads, tails—in her flowerbeds. They make excellent fertilizer.”
Mrs. Doyle sighed. “You win.” She gave up Jenks reluctantly.
The Doctor, the Nurse, the Teenager, & the Bookseller's Daughter Go a-Wassailing
I
t was the week before Christmas, and Fenimore was taking the day off. He, Jennifer, Horatio, and Mrs. Doyle had been invited down to the Ashley farm for a wassail party. Lydia and Susan had opened the house and decorated it for the Christmas season as a special favor to the Historical Society—and Miss Cunningham.
The foursome had set off in a festive mood. Fenimore was feeling especially good because he was missing the staff Christmas party at the hospital. When the administrator had approached him in the hall to ask if he was coming, Fenimore had said, “Sorry, I have a previous engagement.” The administrator's look of stern disapproval was better than any Christmas present.
The festive mood had remained with them all the way to Winston. As they got out of the car and approached the house, huge snowflakes began to descend—the first snowfall of the season. Jennifer automatically stuck out her tongue to catch them.
“Well, at least down
here
they're pure and unpolluted,” Fenimore commented.
Horatio made a snowball and hurled it at his “Aunt.”
Unperturbed, Mrs. Doyle brushed it off her sleeve and remarked, “Thank heavens all the birds are gone.”
“Not quite.” Fenimore pointed to a pair of mallards seated on the riverbank.
Mrs. Doyle turned quickly away. “There's Jenks,” she said.
Sure enough, ambling toward them with his familiar bowlegged gait, Jenks saluted them with an uncharacteristically cheerful, “Halloo!”
The air smelled of snow and wood smoke. As they drew near the front door, it was thrown open by Lydia. She had been watching for them.
“Come in, come in, before you catch your death. We have a lovely fire.” She ushered them inside. Susan's bright head appeared behind Lydia's, and Tom's dark one rose above Susan's. The couple's engagement had been announced, and the wedding date had been set for May.
When they stepped into the living room there was a quick intake of breath. The only light in the old farmhouse was shed by candles and the ruddy glow of the fire. A huge fir tree dominated one corner, decorated with natural ornaments—holly, pine cones, nuts, and berries. The aroma of apples, nutmeg, honey, and cinnamon mingled with the scent of melting candles and fresh pine boughs. For a moment they were all cast back to an earlier time.
“Well, well.” Amory entered, bearing a basket of kindling. “The party has finally begun.” He beamed at them all, and Fenimore wondered how he could have suspected him of any wrongdoing.
Lydia and Susan found seats for everyone. Agatha came in from the kitchen laden down with food as usual. Tom and Susan helped make space on the table for the refreshments. As soon as Agatha had put down her burden, she embraced Mrs. Doyle. Mrs. Doyle looked around for the omnipresent teapot. It was nowhere to be seen. Instead, on a table near the fire, set in a bed of holly, a cut glass punch bowl stood with cups glittering around its rim. Its steaming contents smelled delicious.
“Is that wassail?” asked Jennifer.
Agatha nodded.
“What's floating in it?” Fenimore inspected the brew with a scientist's eye.
“Roast apples and toasted bread,” Agatha told him.
“The toast was my idea,” Lydia came over to the bowl. As she ladled the liquid into cups, she explained, “I'm a big Dorothy Sayers fan. She was a medieval scholar as well as a mystery writer, you know. And according to
The Lord Peter Wimsey Cookbook,
in the Middle Ages wassail always had pieces of toast floating on top.”
“With all due respect to Ms. Sayers …” They turned to see Percy, a.k.a. the Reverend Oliver Osborne. He had slipped in unnoticed during the wassail discussion. “I'll take mine
without
the toast,” he said. “It might absorb some of that good alcoholic content.”
While they exchanged warm greetings with Oliver, Miss Cunningham burst in. “We read all about Bannister in the papers,” she bubbled. “And to think he was Lydia's lawyer for all those years!”
“Let's put that behind us,” Fenimore said, helping her off with her coat, “and enjoy the holiday season.”
“Is it still snowing?” Jennifer asked eagerly.
“Not much.” The librarian had lost none of her talent as a wet blanket.
The guests were told that Lydia's wedding gift to the young couple was the land on the river where the cottage had been. They were going to begin building a new house in the spring.
“We've already gotten rid of the debris and cleaned out the cellar,” Tom declared.
Fenimore was struck by the young man's changed countenance. Where was that perennial scowl? If love had such powers of transformation, maybe there was something to it.
“We've arranged for an archeological dig at the site before we build,” said Susan. “Even if we don't find more treasure, there may be other colonial artifacts hidden there.”
Treasure. It was the first time Fenimore had heard the word since the close of the Bannister case. He wondered about his own treasure. The map still burned a hole in his pocket.
As they helped themselves to the medieval brew, the visitors from Philadelphia caught up on the local news. Agatha announced that her husband had finally scraped together enough capital to buy a piece of land to start a fishing camp. And Oliver told them he had at last come up with a way to produce a winning team to satisfy his alumni. “Girls,” he said. “We're going to accept them next year.”
At first Lydia had tried to think of a way out of her promise to donate some land for the playing fields. But after thinking it over, she said, “I decided it would be fun to look out my windows and see the girls playing field hockey in my backyard. I was a pretty good halfback in my day.”
Miss Cunningham announced that she had obtained a state grant for a computer system to be installed at the library, and an assistant librarian to operate it. From the gleam in her eye, it was obvious she was looking forward to having a lackey around to bully and make miserable.
Mrs. Doyle was glad to see that Amory's moodiness had disappeared. Later she discovered the reason. “I'm flying home to Iowa for the holidays,” he told her.
Lydia showed them her new laptop computer. “A Christmas present to myself,” she said. “I bought it so I can do work for the Colonial Society when I'm down here on the farm.”
“Et tu Brute?”
muttered Fenimore. Suddenly he felt the need for fresh air. He looked around for Jennifer. She was chatting animatedly with Susan and Tom. He went over and suggested a walk in the snow.
“I have a better idea,” she said, eyes shining. “Susan's just been telling me that the creeks are frozen. Let's go skating.”
“The skates are in the hall closet,” Susan said. “I'm sure I can find some to fit you.”
“Whoa! I'm no Hans Brinker,” Fenimore protested. “The last time I was on skates was in college.”
“It's like bike riding, you never forget it.” Susan began rummaging in the closet. In a few minutes she had outfitted each of them with a pair of skates. As she pushed them out the door, Lydia looked after them wistfully.
The door had barely shut behind them when Jennifer said, “Let's go treasure-hunting!”
“What?”
“You said you could only get to that ‘X' on your map by boat. Well, now the creeks are frozen. We can skate there.”
“You're crazy. It's almost dark.”
“Come on.” She started to drag him to the car, then stopped. “Do you have the map?”
“Yes, but …”
She dragged him the rest of the way.
Once they reached Possum Hollow Mall, Fenimore found the bridge easily. There were no crabbers to interfere with their crossing in December. On the other side of the bridge, he parked and they got out. The soft mud that had stuck to his and Horatio's shoes a few months ago was rock solid. It took only a minute for them to put on their skates. They skated in silence until they got the hang of it. But Susan was right, the skill came back quickly, and soon they were skating with ease.
Fenimore chuckled. “For a minute I thought Lydia was going to come with us.”
“You and your old dames!” Jennifer burst out, unexpectedly.
“You and your young blade!” Fenimore retorted.
Jennifer dragged one skate, slowing her pace, to look at him.
“Greg,” Fenimore said, and was horrified at the petulance of his tone.
Coming to a full stop, Jennifer's blades sent up sparks. “Greg Nicholson?”
Fenimore looked confused.
Her laughter pealed though the still cold air like sleigh bells. “He's my cousin. I told you my uncle has a boys' school in New England. Greg is his youngest son. He was caught smoking pot with some of his buddies one day, and my uncle thought it would be a good idea to get him away from his peers for a while. They sent him down to us for the summer to work in the store. He's only sixteen.”
“He looks twenty-six.”
“Kids age faster these days. He wasn't much help. He's too lazy.”
They started skating again. Fenimore, suddenly exhilarated, skated faster. “But he was good with the computer,” he called back to her.
“I said he was lazy, not stupid. Once he's out of school, some internet company will snap him up and he'll probably be a millionaire by the time he's thirty.” She caught up with him.
“Shhh.” He touched her arm. “Listen.”
They paused. The moon was just beginning to rise over the marsh.
“What are we listening for?” she whispered.
“The absence of sound.”
No bird calls. No katydids. No wind. Not even a dog barking. Fenimore imagined this stillness to be like the stillness of outer space, or the end of the world. He took her arm. They skated together until the ice became too rough, and—needing both arms for balance—they were forced to separate.
“Aren't we getting near that ‘X' on your map?” Jennifer asked.
Fenimore paused to get his bearings. It was hard to keep track of all the twists and turns in the creek. He pulled out the map and studied it in the moonlight. The “X” was about a half-mile from Possum Hollow Road. “It should be coming up soon,” he said.
Jennifer charged ahead, disappearing around the next bend.
Fenimore was just beginning to worry when she came tearing back.
“I think I've found your treasure. Come on.” She grabbed his
arm, pulling him after her. Around the bend loomed the dark bulk of a small building—a cottage, the same shape and style as Lydia's cottage. It was covered with ivy. Jennifer clambered up the bank and began tugging at the brittle vines.
“What are you doing?” He followed more clumsily.
In a few minutes they had cleared a wide swath of brick wall. Clearly visible in the moonlight was the date 1754 worked in blue bricks—and above it, the initials “A.F.”
“For Adam Fairfax, I'll bet,” said Fenimore, remembering the local family name.
“Or,” said Jennifer, “Andrew Fenimore.”
Fenimore's head jerked up. He stared at the starry sky. Was that Reebesther Smith laughing?
Back at the house, Horatio left the festivities to go upstairs to the bathroom. When he came out, he passed one of the guest bedrooms and caught sight of the old sea chest. With a swift look up and down the hall, he ducked into the room. Taking out his penknife, he twisted it twice in the rusty lock. The lock sprang open. Slowly, he lifted the lid. A familiar scent met his nostrils. Camphor. His mother used it with a liberal hand when she stored stuff in the summer. Inside lay a pile of blankets, neatly folded. Pink, blue, yellow. Moth balls, the size of marbles, were scattered over the top.
What did you expect, man?
He shut the lid and resnapped the lock. They were starting to sing carols down below. One voice carried more clearly above the others. Susan? Mrs. Ashley? He went to the head of the stairs and peered down.
Doyle.
“Jesu, joy of man's desiring …” One of his favorites. As Horatio descended the stairs, he joined in the singing.

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