Vintage Love (242 page)

“You must have something in mind,” he insisted.

She made a hapless gesture. “I thought I ought to go through these things. I might discover something to take some of the mystery out of Moorgate’s past.”

He looked impatient. “By that you mean something about the murder of Jennifer by her husband, and the subsequent drownings.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

He eyed the trunk with disdain. “You won’t find anything there.”

“You seem very certain.”

“I am. I was told they have been gone through before with the same purpose in mind. You’ll find trying to solve the mystery of Moorgate unrewarding.”

“I’ve already done that,” she said ruefully. But she knew she had found that one note hidden in the volume of Shakespeare. Surely there might be others. Yet Fred could be right. They would not necessarily be in any of the attic trunks or boxes. If there were diaries or other notes they might be hidden in the library.

Later, with that in mind, she went over each book in the library, and even searched the shelves for hidden material or secret compartments. There were none. Her search of Moorgate had been a failure. But she did not dare to lose hope.

Another disquieting event was her first trip in the power boat with Fred. She felt he operated the boat much too fast, and was reckless of the many coastal ledges of rock in the area. She pointed out to him that a ripped hull would quickly sink the boat. But Fred was infected with a new owner’s enthusiasm, and gave her little heed.

He could not understand her terror of the bay and of the boat itself. After the first trial trip she always managed to find an excuse to avoid going out in the craft with him. Fred was not exactly pleased by her attitude, but he did not attempt to persuade her to go. Several times he took Shiela with him on trips, and Lucy was aware that the other girl was a much better sailor than she herself was. Shiela was losing no chance to impress Fred with the similarity of their likes and interests.

Suddenly the weather changed and there was a succession of wet and foggy days and nights. She learned that this was fairly common in the area at that time of year. The change of weather brought a change of mood in her and once again she knew the strange depression which had infected her from the moment when she had first arrived at Moorgate.

It was on one of the foggy mornings that Jim Stevens drove up to Moorgate. She had not seen him since the day they’d talked at the cemetery and Fred had driven by. In fact, she had decided it would be best to avoid him or his mother, since her friendship with the young lawyer seemed to upset her husband so much. But now Jim was at the door, and there was nothing to do but open the door and greet him.

He had his usual smile for her. “I’m taking the chance of intruding at an awkward time,” he said. “But I’ve made a find that I think you’ll be interested in.”

“What sort of find?” she asked, stepping back to allow him to enter.

He came into the foyer and at once his eyes fixed on the portrait of Jennifer. “I don’t remember seeing that before,” he said.

“It was stored in the attic,” Lucy said. “I felt it should be brought down. It’s Jennifer Woods.”

“Yes, I recognized the painting,” he said. “But I knew it hadn’t been down here. It is a striking study, isn’t it?”

“Very,” she agreed. “Jennifer was a beauty.”

“The painting is a witness to that,” he said.

“Will you have some coffee on this damp morning?” she asked with a smile as she led him into the living room.

“I’d like coffee,” he said.

He still hadn’t explained about his find. When she returned from the kitchen with a tray and the coffeepot and cups he was standing by the French windows staring out at the fog-shrouded garden. He turned as she came into the room.

“The fog makes everything bleak, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, placing the tray on a coffee table and seating herself by it. “And I understand you have a lot of it at this season of the year.”

“Late summer can be wretched,” he said. “But we usually have a fine September.”

He sat on the divan beside her. “Cream and no sugar,” he said.

She passed him a cup. “You said you had made a discovery you thought would interest me,” she said.

Jim smiled over his coffee cup. “Yes. Or I should say that mother made the discovery. As you know, she’s the one who traces her ancestry back to the Clays.”

“Yes, you mentioned the relationship was on your mother’s side,” Lucy said.

“I told mother about our conversation in the graveyard,” Jim went on. “And of your conviction that Graham Woods might be innocent of the murder of his wife. It caught mother’s imagination and she began making a complete search of all the documents passed down to her by the family.”

Lucy was all attention. “And she found something?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. “An old letter written by one of the family at that time to Frank Clay. Apparently the man who wrote the letter was a merchant in the town and knew both Dr. Graham Woods and Frank Clay very well.”

He produced the ancient envelope with its address in faded brown ink and held it out for her to see. “This letter was written after the hurricane, and the bodies had been found. It appears that the writer was one of the directors of the cemetery in which the doctor and Jennifer are buried.”

“What does it say?” she asked.

“It rambles a good deal,” Jim said. “But the gist of it is that Frank Clay wanted permission to erect the monument we’ve seen in the cemetery. But he also wanted to note on it that Graham Woods had caused Jennifer’s death. The letter refuses him this privilege.”

“I can well understand that,” Lucy said.

“It shows the state of mind Frank Clay must have been in,” Jim said. “And the writer of the letter also discusses the question of murder. That is why I feel the document should be especially interesting to you.”

She frowned. “Does it accuse Graham Woods of the murder, agreeing with Frank Clay?”

“I’m afraid so,” the young man said. “The writer recalls an angry scene between Jennifer and her husband in his store one day when Dr. Woods refused to allow her to buy a dress. He made a remark to the proprietor, saying that he hadn’t any intention of buying her further frills to entertain Frank Clay.”

“That needn’t have meant anything,” Lucy protested. “It was a stupid remark, but it may have only been made in a joking manner.”

“That’s not all,” Jim Stevens said. “The letter-writer tells of seeing Dr. Woods lose his temper in an argument with the livery-stable operator. He claims Graham Woods sprang on the man and would have throttled him if he hadn’t been restrained by others at the scene. He describes him as a man with a vicious, uncontrolled temper, in spite of his merits as a doctor.”

“That still doesn’t prove that Graham Woods throttled his wife,” she said.

“Not directly,” the young lawyer admitted. “But it suggests that he was a type capable of murder. You must admit that.”

“I’m not ready to admit anything,” she said, though she knew this evidence did count against Graham Woods.

“The letter-writer sums up by agreeing that Graham Woods must have killed his wife, but points out that nothing will be gained by engraving the accusation on the monument’s marble face. And the cemetery directors refused to give their permission for it. They suggested that merely the birth and death dates of Graham Woods be noted under his name without comment. All the laudatory words on the monument could be directed to Jennifer. And that, as you know, is what was done.”

“It’s an interesting find,” Lucy said, gazing at the letter which Jim Stevens had taken from the envelope. “But I don’t think it casts much new light on the case.”

“As a lawyer I must disagree,” Jim Stevens said. “You may change your mind when you read the letter for yourself. The impact is far greater at first hand. It clearly indicates that Frank Clay was not alone in his belief that Graham Woods murdered Jennifer.”

Lucy said, “But this letter was written some time after the event. And after Frank Clay had villified the doctor’s reputation with his insistence that he was a murderer.”

“But the charge did have some basis other than Clay’s upset feelings,” Jim argued. “The letter-writer shows himself to be a man of sober conscience. The whole purpose of the letter is to make Frank Clay refrain from including his accusation on the monument. This proves the letter-writer to be a responsible type.”

“I won’t argue that,” she said. “But as far as I’m concerned, it only means that Frank Clay had successfully sold his theory of murder and accidental death by drowning. Nothing more.”

The young man gave her a resigned glance. “In other words, you prefer to stick with your own theories.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Read the letter anyway,” he said, handing it to her.

She took it, saying, “I’m sure it won’t change my views.”

“I just wanted you to know about it,” he said, rising. “I can’t expect to draw your conclusions for you.”

She was also on her feet. “You’ll want it back.”

“Mother would like to keep it,” he said. “But there’s no hurry. Show it to Fred. I know he couldn’t care less about the past. But since this has to do with Moorgate in a sense, it may mean something to him.”

“I’ll make sure he sees it,” she promised.

She saw him to the door, and just as he was about to get into his car Shiela Farley appeared in the driveway. She had apparently come over by the short cut. Seeing her, Jim Stevens stopped to speak to her for a moment. Then he waved to Lucy again, got into the car, and drove away.

Shiela came up the steps to join her. “I didn’t know you had company,” she said.

“Unexpected company,” Lucy was quick to tell her. “He arrived without any warning.”

The dark girl smiled knowingly. “We’re like that here. We don’t stand on formality. I came over to leave a message for Fred. He invited me to go boating this afternoon. But it’s going to be too foggy, so I’m driving to Saint John on an errand for Dad.”

“I’ll tell Fred if he phones,” Lucy said. “Sometimes I don’t hear from him during the day.”

“It must be lonesome for you.”

“Now that you’re here, stay for some coffee,” Lucy said. “It’s all ready. I made some for Jim and me.”

“All right,” Shiela said, and went inside with her.

As they sat in the living room having their coffee Lucy explained why Jim had called on her. She even showed Shiela the letter. She had an idea the dark girl might tell Fred of finding Jim at the house, and she didn’t want any more misunderstandings.

Shiela seemed to take little interest in the explanation, or in the old letter. She said, “I know Jim is very wrapped up in the history of the town. He has a great deal of charm, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I like him,” Lucy said quietly.

“He and Fred used to be good friends,” Shiela said. “But they don’t see much of each other these days. I wonder why?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Well, friendships are often like that,” Shiela said with a smile. “They begin and end abruptly. It’s especially true in small towns like this.”

“I’ve not been here long enough to know,” she said carefully.

“You’ll find out,” the other girl assured her. “How are you making out in this strange old house? Father is always wondering about you.”

“Things have been quiet lately,” Lucy said.

“That’s nice. Father is convinced you are psychic, though he’s surely no expert. I’ve an idea he expects you to explore the other side for him. Lately he’s been much occupied with thoughts of death. He’s not well, and I suppose it’s to be expected.”

Lucy felt she could not take much more of Shiela’s shallow talk. She had a desperate urge to be alone and have quiet. And she was anxious to give some time to the letter Jim Stevens had left with her. At last, to her relief, she rose to go. At the door Shiela again reminded Lucy to give her message to Fred. And then she left to take the short cut back home.

As soon as she had gone Lucy sat down with the letter and read it slowly. The writing was in a fine, faded hand and the phrases were quaint, compared to the directness of modern letter-writing. But it did cover all the ground which Jim had mentioned, and the impression left by the letter was that the writer had known Dr. Graham Woods well and considered it likely that he had been the slayer of his wife. She put aside the letter with a troubled sigh and studied the portrait of the long-dead doctor on the opposite wall. The sensitive face did not look like a murderer’s to her. But then, there was no telling about such things.

Shortly after one o’clock she had a phone call from Fred at the St. Stephen hospital. “I won’t be home this noon as I planned,” he told her.

“Shiela was here and mentioned that you’d invited her to go boating with you this afternoon, but she thought it too foggy. She’s driving to Saint John.”

“I know that,” he said rather shortly. “She reached me by phone here. I understand you had a visitor this morning.”

Lucy felt a moment of small panic. So Shiela hadn’t lost any time in spreading the word about Jim being at the house. In a taut voice, she said, “Shiela was here, and Jim Stevens dropped by for a few minutes to show me a letter his mother had found. He left it for me to let you see it.”

“Thoughtful of him,” Fred said. “Too bad he couldn’t have arranged to make the call when I was at home.”

“You’re home so little.”

“That’s true,” Fred agreed. “But then you seem to do well enough when I’m not there.” And with that statement, her husband hung up at the other end of the line.

The exchange left Lucy feeling utterly desolate. Fred had lapsed into another of his weird jealous moods. There wasn’t a question that Shiela had taunted him into it. She had made it her business to get to him first. Shiela was still working hard to snare Fred for herself and it seemed she might have a good chance of doing it.

While she was at the phone, Lucy dialed Dr. Matthew Boyce’s number. It was an almost automatic response with her to get in touch with the old doctor whenever she had a problem like this.

Reaching him, she asked, “May I come over for a little while?”