The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (9 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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He nodded.
“Have you noticed any strangers about the farm—in, say, the past six months?”
“Not at the farm, but …”
“Where?”
“At the old wharf. This farm goes right to the water's edge, you know, and there are two wharves. The first—the newer one—is near the house. That's the one Miss Susan and her boyfriend dive from. The other, the older one, is at the far edge of the farm, near
the cottage. We don't use it anymore. It's rotten. I once thought of buying it from Mrs. Ashley, with a few acres, and setting up a fishing camp, but I never could put the cash together.” He paused, contemplating his lost dream. “Well, one night I decided to go to the old wharf for a little late fishin'. They usually bite pretty good around dusk. And I saw this fellow sittin' on the wharf. He had a flashlight, though it wasn't dark yet. When he saw me comin', he lowered himself into a dinghy and took off—rowing hell-bent for leather.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No. And I didn't think too much about it. Thought he just didn't want to get caught trespassin'. We get a lot of fishermen in the spring and summer. And in the fall they're the muskrat trappers. Muskrats are big down here. Mrs. Ashley lets the trappers use her place in season. So I didn't think much of it. I did wonder though. I thought he must be a stranger, because people around these parts give that place a wide berth.”
“Why is that?”
“It's s‘posed to be haunted. Old Nathan Ashley died there, and before he died this black dog showed up. He never owned a dog in his life. It crouched on the bottom of his bed snappin' and growlin'. Wouldn't let any of his kin near him. Finally, Old Nathan reared up and roared, ‘Leave him alone. He'll go when I go.' And the funny thing is, he did. Vanished into thin air.”
Fenimore thanked Jenks and went in search of Jennifer. He found her behind the tea tent dusting her hands. She had just loaded the last carton of books into Miss Cunningham's van.
“Learn anything?” she asked, as they made their way to the entrance of the tent.
“Not much.” He had dismissed the black dog as pure folklore.
They found Mrs. Ashley getting ready for the late-afternoon tea party. She looked as fresh as when she had first greeted them. Where did she get her energy? As soon as she saw them, she came over.
“My dears, you
are
staying for tea?”
“I'm sorry, Lydia. I'm on call tonight, and I have to get Jennifer home.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “Was it a
successful
day, Andrew?”
“In a way,” he said. “Lydia, I beg you and Susan to come back to town until we clear up this matter.”
“But, Andrew, we always spend the summer here.”
“Let the Jenkses look after things.” He took her hand. “I mean it,” he said earnestly.
She looked to Jennifer for support.
But Jennifer said, “It really isn't safe, Mrs. Ashley.”
“Well, I …”
“Good. That's settled,” Fenimore said. “We'll be off then. And thanks for a beautiful day.” He was sincere. With a few exceptions, he had enjoyed himself immensely.
“It was lovely.” Jennifer started to shake hands, but Lydia kissed her impulsively on the cheek.
“Come again soon,” she said. “Both of you.” She glanced at the teddy bear. “All of you.” She turned back to her chores with renewed vigor. It wasn't until they reached the car that Fenimore realized the import of Lydia's last remarks. She had absolutely no intention of coming back to town.
As they drove off into the sunset, the last thing they saw was the girl who had sold them the strawberries by the roadside. She was running across the field from the river—pigtails flying. It was a picturesque sight.
W
hen they found the road to the expressway, Fenimore settled back and said, “Now I'm going to test your powers of detection.”
“Oh, goodie,” Jennifer said.
“Let's look at our suspects one by one, and you tell me what you think of each of them. We'll start with Tom Winston.”
“Oh, he's too disagreeable.”
“What?”
“If he were trying to pull off some evil scheme, he'd disguise it by being more amiable.”
“Hmm.” Her reasoning was a bit backward, but he understood what she was getting at. “How about Amory?”
“Oh, no. He's too agreeable.”
“What?”
“If he were carrying out some Machiavellian plot, he'd be tensed up. His mask of amiability would slip at least once, and it never did.”
“Hmm. What about Miss Cunningham?”
Jennifer laughed. “She's a terror all right. Reminds me of Mrs. Danvers in
Rebecca,
or Miss Haversham in
Great Expectations.
”
“Well, did she or didn't she?”
“I doubt it,” Jennifer spoke thoughtfully, “but I'm not certain. In her bitter, twisted way she might be jealous enough of Mrs. Ashley—of her money, her land, her social position …”
“Did you learn anything while you were helping her load her books?”
“She did say one curious thing. When a copy of
Treasure Island
fell out of a box, she picked it up and stroked it lovingly. Then she said, ‘This was my favorite book as a child, but my mother took it away from me. She told me it was a boy's book.'”
“Her mother probably forced her to read
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
.”
“Now it's my turn.” Jennifer cast him a sly glance. “What about Susan?”
“Susan? Ridiculous.”
“Why? She has total access to the house and barn. Who could more easily have planted the smoke bomb, stolen Jenks's key, unlocked the cellar door, or hidden Mrs. Ashley's medicine?”
Jennifer had certainly been paying attention if she remembered Lydia's missing medicine. He had barely mentioned that in the car. “But what could be her motive? She knows her grandmother is going to leave her everything when she dies.”
“Maybe she can't wait.” Jennifer grinned wickedly. “She's also very attractive,” she added.
“What's that got to do with it?” He was outraged.
“ … and she's very fond of you.”
“Preposterous! Why she could be my …”
“Daughter.” Jennifer finished for him. “Haven't you heard about Charlie Chaplin and Oona O'Neil? Caesar and Cleopatra?”
“Yes. And none of that applies to me.” He glanced at her sharply. She was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Then there's Susan's boyfriend, that college kid.”
“Peter Jordan. Some of those pranks did have the whiff of the fraternity about them.”
“And what about Oliver?” Jennifer continued.
“Old Perce? Out of the question.”
“The old school tie, eh?” she challenged.
“But Perce—Oliver wouldn't harm a fly.”
“You obviously aren't familiar with the pressures of academic life. When it comes to athletics, the alumni have no mercy. If a school goes too long without a winning team, they might threaten to withdraw their offspring en masse. Oliver has his eye on a new post in Manhattan. He'll never get it if he doesn't produce some good teams. In fact, if he doesn't get those playing fields from Mrs. Ashley, your old buddy might be out of a job—a failure in the eyes of his former classmates. Many a man has turned to crime with far less provocation.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“My uncle is headmaster of a boys' school in New England. One season his soccer team lost every game. He got an ulcer and almost had a nervous breakdown.”
“Nonsense. Not ol' Perce.”
“Oliver.”
“What about the Jenkses?” Fenimore said hastily. “Now there's a likely pair. A regular rural Bonnie and Clyde. Plenty of opportunity. They reside at the scene. Could have stolen the medicine, planted the smoke bomb, left the cellar door unlocked, delivered the note with the rancid meat attached, and staged the carcass with Lydia's photograph … .”
Jennifer was shaking her head vigorously. “Not Agatha Jenks. No one who can bake tarts like that could possibly be an evil schemer.”
“Bah,” retorted Fenimore. “Some of our most famous criminals were wonderful cooks. Take Lucretia Borgia …”
“Recent research has revealed that she was a lovely person who nursed the sick and helped the poor. She just had a bad press—like Richard III,” answered Jennifer.
“What about those sweet little old ladies who tried to poison Cary Grant with their delicious confections?”
“
Arsenic and Old Lace
was fiction, not fact. But if you feel that way you better not eat Agatha's cake.”
“Umm.”
“That leaves Fred Jenks,” said Jennifer.
“He seems like an honest fellow. Although he does have a motive. He told me he once wanted to start a fishing camp at Lydia's old wharf but he could never put together the capital.”
“How is that a motive?”
“Lydia would certainly plan to leave something in her will to a couple who have been in her service for so many years.”
“Oh.” Jennifer didn't seem to think much of this theory. “Then there's Mrs. Ashley herself,” she said gleefully.
Fenimore almost ran off the road but managed to hold to it and ask between clenched teeth, “And what might her motive be?”
“You.”
“
Me?
”
“Sure. To get your attention. She may have made up the whole thing. Set up the accidents and written the note, to entice you down to her farm to play detective this summer. Liven things up. It can't be very exciting living in the boondocks. Besides, she's obviously very fond of you … .” Again, that sly look.
“Jennifer Nicholson, she's old enough to be my …”
“Mother. I know, but haven't you heard of Clytemnestra and …”
Fenimore laughed aloud. “You're mad.”
Beep, beep, beep …
. The bleat of the pager filled the car. Fenimore pried it off his belt and held it out to Jennifer.
She read off the number.
“The Ashley farm!” he said and pressed the accelerator.
“Aren't you going to call her first? It may be something minor.”
“I can't take that chance.”
“You really should get a cell phone.”
He didn't answer. Peering ahead, he searched for the nearest exit.
Once off the main road, they carefully followed the country roads back the way they had come. It was dark and they had to be careful not to miss a turn—keeping in mind Susan's confession
about the twisted road signs. As they passed through Winston, most of the houses were dark, except for an occasional bedroom light. But as they approached the Ashley farmhouse, all the windows blazed. Parked at an angle out front was an ambulance, doors flung wide, waiting to take someone in.
Fenimore and Jennifer jumped from the car and ran to the house. The door was ajar, and they could hear voices on the other side. When they stepped in, their eyes met a chaotic scene. Clusters of people talking excitedly, others milling around aimlessly. Fenimore scanned the room for Lydia's prostrate form. He was shocked to see her moving swiftly about giving directions—the only one in command of the situation. Then who was sick? Or injured? Or—worse? His eyes moved to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Two paramedics knelt beside it, blocking his view. He looked over their shoulders at the mound on the sofa. It was covered by a grey blanket, except for one small square of tanned back—and a limp, wet braid.
“
D
octor! So glad you got our message … .” Amory was at his side. “It happened right after you left. One of the Biggs children found her by the river. Came running across the field …”
Fenimore and Jennifer exchanged glances, remembering the image of the little girl running across the field in the sunset.
“Can I do anything?” Fenimore spoke urgently.
“No. She's all right. Thank God. Tom Winston was on the scene and provided CPR. She's going to be OK. But what a scare …”
Fenimore noticed Amory's face had lost its ruddy glow. It was the color of putty. And his eyes were unusually bright.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
For the first time, Amory's cordiality seemed out of place—and irritating. “No thanks,” Fenimore brushed him aside. “Let me talk to Lydia.”
As he moved across the room to intercept her, he caught sight of Tom Winston. Standing at the end of the sofa, hands hanging loose, he was watching the medics wrap Susan more closely in the blanket and ease her onto the gurney. They were swift and expert.
Tom's expression was of someone in deep shock. Fenimore went up to him. “Are you all right?”
Tom forced his eyes to focus on him.
“You look as if you could use some brandy.”
The young man shook his head vaguely. Fenimore beckoned to Amory, who hurried over. “Here's someone who needs that drink. See if you can find Tom some brandy.”
“Right, Doctor. I'll bring it right away.” Off Amory trotted, the perfect host, even in the midst of disaster.
Lydia spotted Fenimore and came over. Until that moment, she had been in complete control. But at the sight of her physician and friend—the only person she knew could take charge—her face began to crumple.
“Now, now.” He led her to a chair. “When you're feeling better you can tell me everything.”
It took only a few minutes for Lydia to regain her composure. She asked the expected question. “Why Susan? Why would anyone want to harm her?”
“I thought it was an accident,” Fenimore lied.
She ignored that.
When he answered, his tone was flat, “To get at you. When they failed to frighten you, by attacking you personally, they changed their target to Susan, the person you care about most.”
She understood, and spoke emphatically. “Then they've won. I'm going to call Owen tomorrow and tell him I'm ready to sell.”
“Owen?”
“Owen Bannister. My lawyer.”
Fenimore swore to himself. He had forgotten all about Bannister. He was the one who had been urging Lydia to sell in the first place. He should have gone to see him before this.
The paramedics were carrying their burden to the door as easily as if it were a scarecrow. The little procession moved past Fenimore and out the door. Jennifer came and stood beside him. She wished she could atone for the flip remarks she had made about
Susan in the car. Reading her thoughts, he said, “Let's talk to some of these people and see if we can learn more about what happened.”
Agatha Jenks was standing in the doorway, bearing a tray with a teapot and cups.
“Let me take that.” Fenimore placed it on a table nearby where people could help themselves. “Now, tell us everything you can remember, Mrs. Jenks.”
“Well, it was about five o'clock. I had packed up my cakes and pies, and was getting ready to go to the big tent to help Mrs. Ashley serve tea, when there was this commotion. One of the Biggs children—the youngest girl—came running up from the river. She was crying, half-hysterical. Could hardly talk. They finally got out of her that Miss Susan had had an accident. The Reverend Osborne took off like a shot. He has long legs, you know. But by the time he got there, Tom Winston was already giving her CPR. Next thing I see is the tractor chugging up the riverbank with the Reverend at the wheel and Tom huddled over somebody in the cart in the back. As they came closer I saw it was Miss Susan. Tom carried her into the house while the Reverend and Mrs. Ashley brought up the rear. Mrs. Ashley was wringing her hands, poor soul. It was just like one of the soaps. The ambulance came soon after that. Susan was still unconscious, but she was breathing all right. But if it hadn't been for Tom …” Mrs. Jenks dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron.
“Where did Tom find her, Mrs. Jenks?” Fenimore asked.
“By the new wharf. The one near the house. She was half-in and half-out of the water. She'd pulled off her goggles and mask. Nobody knows for sure exactly what happened. And I guess no one will until she comes to and tells us.” Agatha looked at the empty sofa that still bore the impression of the young girl's form. No one seemed anxious to sit there.
“You're right, Mrs. Jenks. I'd better get over to the hospital and
talk to Susan.” He hurried over to Amory. “Are you going back to town tonight?”
“I suppose—if I'm no longer needed here.”
“Would you do me a favor and take Jennifer home? I don't want to leave her stranded. I'm going over to the hospital. I want to be there when Susan wakes up and find out exactly what happened.”
“Of course. Good idea. Don't worry about Jennifer. I'll be glad to take her home.” He bobbed off to attend to someone else's wants.
Fenimore took Jennifer aside and told her he'd arranged for her transportation home.
“Can't I come with you?”
“Better not. I don't know when I'll be done. It may be a long night. I'll call you tomorrow.”
She turned away.
“Jen …”
She turned back.
“I'm sorry the day ended like this.”
On his way out of the house, he stopped to speak to Tom. The young man was seated, sipping some brandy. “Feeling better?”
He nodded.
“Mind telling me about it?”
“I'd been looking for her all afternoon,” he said. “Then somebody told me she'd gone diving. Damned fool. No one should dive alone. She knows that. I went down to the wharf where she usually dives, and …” he faltered.
“Go on.”
“There she was—sprawled on the bank.” He paused. “I didn't know how long she'd been there. I just did the first thing that came to me—CPR. She started breathing almost right away. Then the Reverend came rushing up and I told him to get the tractor. It was near the barn. We got her in the cart and up to the house and someone had already called the ambulance. Then they came and …” He suddenly ran out of words.
Fenimore touched his shoulder. “She's going to be all right, Tom. Thanks to you.” He stayed with him a few more minutes, even though he was anxious to get to the hospital. By the time Fenimore left, Tom was looking much better.
When Fenimore finally reached his car and started up, the right rear tire dragged. “Damn.” He had a flat.

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