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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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L
ydia led her two remaining guests into her study. It was a cheerful room, filled with white wicker furniture, bright throw rugs, and framed prints by Renoir and Dufy. A pleasant contrast to the rest of the house, which was more like a musty museum.
“What brought you down to the boondocks today?” Lydia asked Fenimore curiously.
It was as if that ugly episode behind the barn had never happened.
He told her about his recent inheritance, omitting the “treasure.” Chastened by Mrs. Doyle's reaction, he wasn't about to risk ridicule again.
She grinned. “The Smith tract—I can't believe it. What on earth will you do with it?”
“Nothing. The inheritance stipulates that I leave it alone.”
She nodded. “Reebesther was always big on conservation. ‘The Fish and Flower Lady,' we used to call her.”
“She had her point,” Fenimore said.
Lydia turned to Horatio. “And what about you, young man. What do you think of this area?”
Fenimore held his breath.
“Cool,” Horatio said, promptly.
Lydia looked pleased.
Fenimore helped himself to a wicker chair with plump, rosy cushions by a window. The room was stuffy. He made a move to open the window, but stopped. It was nailed shut. He glanced at Lydia.
“Oh, sorry. I had Jenks do that.” And to Fenimore's surprise, she blushed. “If you're too warm, I'll ask him to come open it.”
Fenimore shook his head. But he scrutinized Lydia more closely. Since she was a patient of long standing as well as an old friend, he was familiar with her medical history. She suffered from a heart condition called
torsade de pointe.
The French name came from a ballet step that her electrocardiogram resembled. The routine included runs or steps in one direction and then runs in the opposite direction.
Although over seventy, she refused to limit her activities. She maintained two homes—a spacious apartment on Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, as well as this farmhouse in south Jersey. Currently, she served as President of the Colonial Society of Pennsylvania—a demanding position—and she was also the guardian of her granddaughter, Susan. Susan's parents had died in an automobile accident when the child was three. Although Susan was now eighteen, Lydia had once informed Fenimore, “It's during the teenage years that a child needs the most supervision.”
After meeting Horatio, Fenimore tended to agree. Although he had to admit the boy's behavior today was above reproach. The house tour couldn't have been very exciting for him. Now he was quietly examining a framed map of the Delaware River.
“Pirates used to roam those waters.” Lydia said, joining him. “Blackbeard is supposed to have camped right there.” She pointed to a dip in the coastline, slightly south of Winston. “The story goes, they brought their sloops into these coves and inlets for repair. One beach still gives up needles they used for mending sails. And years ago, after a storm, many people found Spanish doubloons and pieces of eight.”
Horatio's eyes widened.
Surreptitiously, Fenimore felt for the map in his breast pocket. While Lydia continued to talk to Horatio, Fenimore studied her with his physician's eye. She didn't look well. She had lost weight and her skin had an alarming translucence. “You haven't been to see me for a while,” he broke in.
She turned. “I'm perfectly fit, Andrew.” She bit off the words in an uncharacteristic manner.
Susan poked her head in the doorway. She had changed into a bathing suit. “Want to come with us?” she spoke to Horatio.
Like a pleased puppy, he dashed after her.
F
enimore settled comfortably into a chair in Lydia's study and drew out his pipe. He cast a questioning glance at his hostess.
“Go ahead.” She smiled. “I like a pipe. Edward smoked one occasionally.”
While Fenimore concentrated on filling and lighting, Lydia took the seat opposite him.
“I'm afraid I have a long story to tell you,” she apologized.
“I'm in no hurry.” He settled deeper into the cushions to emphasize his words.
She put her head back and closed her eyes. “I'd better begin at the beginning.”
“What a novel idea.”
Lydia looked at him sharply. Ordinarily she would have laughed. But today was different. She took a deep breath. “Last fall, a man came to see me at the Colonial Society. He offered to buy my farm. He offered me a very large sum of money—many thousands of dollars above the market value. He said he represented a landfill project in Philadelphia. They needed land for a disposal plant. They were looking for a remote tract in an area not too far from the city. My farm was the perfect location. The
need was so acute, they were willing to pay a very high price, he explained.” She paused.
“And?”
“I told him, ‘It's not for sale.' Edward's family received this land as a grant from William Penn in 1690. When Edward died, it was left in trust to me. I look upon my role as a steward or manager rather than an owner. My job is to preserve it for the next generation, which happens to be Susan and her family. Besides, this area is historic and very beautiful. I would never do anything to harm it, or my neighbors.”
“I thought this area was settled exclusively by pirates and smugglers,” Fenimore said.
“All our ancestors were honest yeoman farmers,” she bridled. “Those roughnecks came later.”
At least her color was back. She had been entirely too pale. “Go on.”
“I thought no more about it until a week later when I received a phone call from our family lawyer, Owen Bannister. He urged me to sell. The people representing this project had found out that Owen was my lawyer and contacted him. He said such an opportunity would probably never come my way again, and it would be foolish to hold on to the property for sentimental reasons. He ordered me to think of Susan. Owen told me that the money would be much more useful to Susan than a piece of land in the boondocks with no commercial value and very little residential worth.” She was sitting rigidly on her chair now, looking at him.
“I must admit I wavered,” she said. “But then I talked it over with Susan. She's an unusual child, Doctor. She loves this farm, even more than I do. She's spent every summer here since she can remember. It gives a continuity to her life, this house and land. A solid tie to the past. Her mother spent most of her summers here too. It has a special significance for Susan, I think, because of the loss of her parents.” She looked past him, through the window, at the field spread out against the sky. “I thought of selling it once—after Edward died … .”
“He was killed in a hunting accident, wasn't he?”
“Yes. He was struck by a stray bullet when he was walking the fields one evening. Everyone told him not to walk the fields during hunting season, but he was stubborn. ‘They're my fields and I'll walk them whenever I like!'” she quoted. “The guilty hunter never came forward. But then … he may not have been aware that he hit someone.” She brought her gaze back to the room. “Anyway, Susan was very upset and begged me not to sell. And as far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. But it was just the beginning of the strange occurrences … .”
Lydia rose and began pacing the room, her tone growing more agitated. “The first thing that happened was the fire. Or rather, what we thought was a fire. One evening in March, smoke began pouring from one of our outbuildings, a small shed for storing wood. Jenks, thinking it was on fire, attached a garden hose near the barn and turned it on the shed. Later, when he examined the inside, he found no evidence of fire. Only the remains of a smoke bomb.”
“Kids!” said Fenimore.
“That's what we thought at first. There have been cases of kids' pranks—stealing porch furniture, setting the contents of mail boxes on fire … . But ‘kids' wouldn't explain my missing cellar stair.” She paused in front of him. “Fred was repairing the stairs on my orders, and he is a very careful, methodical workman. He told me, and I believe him, that he always locked the cellar door when he was finished working at the end of the day, and kept the key in his pocket. But one day, in early April, I came down to ready the house for spring, and he forgot to remind me about the stairs. The cellar door was unlocked. I tried to switch on the light, but it was out, so I groped my way down in the dark. The tread to the last step was missing, and I almost fell on my face. If I hadn't been holding onto the railing …”
She collected herself. “Fred was devastated, of course, and swears he locked the door when he had finished working the night before.” She sat down again, but on the edge of her chair. “Later,
when we checked the cellar light, we found the bulb hadn't burnt out—it had been deliberately unscrewed!”
Fenimore was silent, his pipe lying forgotten in the ashtray.
As a patient, Lydia was familiar with his silences. When he was pondering her symptoms, he would often grow quiet for minutes at a time. Then he would briskly write a prescription and send her on her way. Today he had no prescription. When he finally spoke, he said, “That still doesn't explain why you nailed the windows shut.”
Lydia went over to her cluttered desk and drew an envelope from a cubbyhole. She brought it to him. “This came last week.”
He examined the envelope. A cheap, plain variety. The only marks on it were two perforations the size of pinholes at one corner, and an ugly brown stain. Gingerly, he shook out the contents—a grubby sheet of paper, bearing crooked type cut from a newspaper. The kind of note that people learn how to make by reading mystery novels. The letters were pasted together to form the phrase:
SELL BITCH OR ELSE
Seeing no name, address or postage, he asked, “How was this delivered?”
“Through there.” She nodded at the tightly sealed window beside him. “And it didn't come alone.” Her voice trembled. “It was attached to a piece of rancid meat.”
Fenimore stared.
“It was the odor that …”
“Why didn't you tell me about this before?” For some reason, the thought of his friend coming into her cheerful study to find this obscenity enraged him more than all the other incidents she had described.
“I wanted to, but …” She shrugged.
“May I keep this?” He was still holding the envelope.
“Of course.”
He slipped it into his pocket. From another pocket, he drew out the photograph of Lydia. “That explains this.” He flipped it over, revealing the ugly message scrawled on the back.
She recoiled, her color fading.
“Easy.” Fenimore pressed her hand. “At least we know there is some rational reason for all this. Someone has embarked on a deliberate scheme to make you sell your property. Can you think of anyone who might want your farm? Has anyone, a friend or neighbor, showed any special interest in it? Any of those people who were here today, for instance? Think.”
She frowned. After a moment, she said. “My cousin Tom. He's always claimed this farm is rightfully his. His branch of the family has borne a grudge against Edward's branch since before the revolution. They believe the Ashleys cheated them out of their property years ago. The Ashleys were in shipping and controlled the river, hence its name. The Winstons were land speculators and owned most of the town, hence its name. In the early days, there was much friendly rivalry between the two families and some intermarriage. But later, this changed.
“The change came about because of an incident in 1734. Phoebe Winston was engaged to marry Roger Ashley, Jonathan's younger son. Unfortunately, Roger contracted a fever and died before the wedding took place. After his death, Phoebe claimed it had been her fiancé's dying wish that she inherit all his property. This consisted of some valuable acreage on the river and a brick cottage in which they had planned to live after they were married.”
“Was that the cottage you pointed out from your bedroom window?”
She nodded. “But Roger was very young. Only eighteen, I believe. And he had made no will. Phoebe had no proof of her claim. All she had was her own record of Roger's deathbed promise that she had recorded in her diary. Since she was not a legal heir, the property went to Roger's older brother, Francis.”
“Did the Ashley family offer any restitution to Phoebe, in the form of a pension or gift?”
“Not to my knowledge. In those days women had no rights, you know. But she married someone else within the year, and if any of the Ashleys had a bad conscience, I imagine they felt that her marriage, so soon after her fiancé's death, absolved them. The Winstons, however, claimed ever after that the Ashleys had robbed them, and the two families have been on bad terms ever since.”
“Hmm.” Fenimore drew deeply on his pipe. “And where is Tom's farm?”
“Nearby. But his farm is smaller and less desirable than mine, with no access to the river. He's still searching for evidence to prove that part of this farm belongs to him. Recently he patented a machine that harvests cranberries by water power, and he needs some riverfront property more than ever. He's being quite obnoxious about it.”
Fenimore rubbed his chin. “Anyone else?”
“There's Alice. But,” she shook her head, “that's ridiculous.”
“Tell me about Miss Cunningham,” Fenimore urged.
“Well, you met her. She's one of those sour, dissatisfied individuals who make a mess of their early life and spend the rest of it taking it out on other people.”
“On you?”
“Not just me. Anyone who is relatively happy and successful.”
“What does she do?”
“She's a librarian.”
“No, I mean, how does she ‘take it out' on you?”
“Oh, she's always making snide remarks about how run-down my property is. How if it were hers, she'd never let it get into this condition. And what a pity it is to keep it shut up for half the year, blah, blah, blah … .”
“Really gets to you, doesn't she?”
“Sorry.” Lydia bit her lip. “I should be more charitable. Alice had a chance at happiness when she was in her twenties. A nice young farmer from Alloway wanted to marry her, but he wasn't up to her mother's social standards. She turned him down. Now
her mother's gone, and Alice is left with her mother's social standards.”
The good old days, thought Fenimore, when a woman's happiness depended on one thing—marriage. “Anyone else?”
“There's the Reverend Oliver.” She smiled.
It was a few seconds before Fenimore realized she was referring to his old schoolmate, Percy Osborne.
“We've had a running joke for years about my property. He wants some of my land to expand the playing fields for his boys. The school's land is quite marshy. Mine is higher and drier. It would be much better for soccer and baseball. I've told him I'd sell under one condition.”
“Which is?”
“If he takes girls into the school. He had apoplexy the first time I suggested it. But now, with most schools becoming co-ed, I'm half afraid he may take me up on it. I'll have to think up some new excuse.
“What about Amory?” he asked.
“Amory Barnes? Why he just comes down on weekends for some peace and quiet, to get away from the city. He says this area reminds him of home, with its flat fields and open sky. He's from Iowa, you know.”
“No, I didn't.”
“He's a very able assistant at the Colonial Society. He's also an expert on colonial coins … .” She paused. “Heavens,” she murmured, “maybe he's after Uncle Nathan's coin.”
“What's that?”
“Uncle Nathan was that old sea dog I told you about who lived in the cottage at the edge of our farm. Rumors were he was very rich, but he never showed it. Among other things, he collected coins, and he was supposed to own one that was very valuable. There were only four in existence. He said he had hidden it somewhere on the property. Heavens, this was so long ago.” She sat down. “He was also a practical joker. He left a clue to the whereabouts of the coin in an old cookbook. We found the page
in Edward's safe deposit box, but no one could make anything out of it.”
“These jokes of Nathan's,” Fenimore said, “were they anything like the one played on you today?”
“Oh!” She stared. “Do you think he's come back to haunt us?”

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