Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“Only to my mother.”
Gilly snorted. The Mountie sighed. “Is there any hope of your persuading her to keep the secret?”
“Are you kiddin’? Ma must of told at least seventeen people already.” Dot sounded rather proud of her mother’s prowess as a newscaster.
And those seventeen had told seventeen more and by now he was being discussed over every back fence in Pitcherville, no doubt. The best-laid plans of mice and Mounties went oft agley.
“Then, ladies, may I ask you one great favor?”
“What’s that?” said Gilly suspiciously.
“Could you pretend that you still think I’m Annabelle Dupree’s cousin, and let things go on as they have been?”
“You mean let you go on staying at the Mansion, and call you Mr. Rhys, and all that?”
“If you please. Madoc Rhys happens to be my real name, by the way.”
“And you don’t want us to tell Marion, or even Elmer?”
“Not even Elmer. Believe me, it’s for your own sakes as well as mine that I’m asking.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer any more questions just now.”
Rhys wasn’t really trying to be enigmatic; he simply needed time to think. He did not care to explain the situation to Gilly Bascom here and now, and he’d much prefer not to tell Dot Fewter anything, ever. No doubt she’d find out fast enough anyway.
He only wished he knew how this Sam had found out who he was, and why the hired man had been so quick to broadcast the information. Was Sam trying to get a warning to somebody he didn’t dare approach in person? Was the message intended for Rhys himself, a tactful way of letting him know he had a fat chance of getting anywhere in Pitcherville?
Had the leak come inadvertently from Fred Olson or from Janet herself? Did Neddick have The Sight? There was a lot of Highlander blood in the Maritimes. Rhys felt an eldritch stirring under his own skin. It was a bad sign when a case started going sour like this right at the start.
Gilly Bascom had, after all, been properly brought up. Realizing Rhys meant what he said about not explaining, she did the right thing and changed the subject. “My mother’s sore at you, Dot. She was expecting you back to clean the bedrooms after Uncle Clarence and Uncle Edgar left.”
“Oh rats, I clean forgot! An’ that reminds me I left my satchel with my overnight things in it at her house. I’ll have to go back an’ get it. Maybe I can give Janet a hand gettin’ dinner an’ then ast Sam to drive me back down. I could run a mop around for your mother an’ then come back to the Wadmans’ for supper.”
Dot appeared delighted at the prospect of all this backing and forthing. Not knowing that her jubilation was mainly due to the prospect of getting to eat at the Wadmans’ twice in one day, Rhys deduced that she was anticipating the joy of spreading fresh gossip between the hill and the village. She was her mother’s daughter, no doubt of that. Though probably, he thought with venom, not her father’s.
He dropped both his passengers at the Mansion and went over to the Wadmans’ alone. At least he could break the bad news before Dot Fewter beat him to the draw. He found Janet sitting out in the porch swing with a book, looking somewhat less beaten.
“How did you make out with Marion?” she asked. “I saw the pair of you go off together.”
“Marion was no problem. As for the rest, it’s a bust. Where’s your brother?”
“Down at the barn milking, I should think. Why, what’s wrong?”
“I was hoping I might get to him before your hired man does. This Sam chap has told Dot Fewter that I’m a plainclothes policeman, and Dot has told her mother. Have you any idea how he got his information?”
He was watching the tired, fine-boned face as he spoke, but saw only anger and resignation.
“It’s my fault,” said Janet bitterly. “I should have warned you about Sam. Don’t ask me how he did it, but I might have known he would. He just picks things out of the air.”
The haunted look was back. Rhys felt an urge to take her capable little hand and pat it, but discipline is strong in the Force. He gave her a few kind but noncommittal words instead, and headed for the barn. Bert was there, not milking yet but raking straw and manure out of the stalls. He kept his cows as clean as his sister did the kitchen. A decent, thrifty, hard-working lot, the Wadmans.
“Hi, Cousin Madoc. Come to see how a farmer earns his living?”
“I don’t have to be shown, thanks. I’ve raked enough muck in my time. You can drop the cousin bit, Bert.”
“Huh?”
“Then your man Sam hasn’t got around to telling you yet? Not to beat around the bush, I’m a detective inspector from the RCMP.”
Bert held the identification card at arm’s length, squinting to read it because his eyeglasses were back at the house. When he handed it back, all he said was, “Does Janet know?”
“Janet’s the reason I’m here.” As neatly as if he were filing a report, Rhys explained. Bert shook his head in disbelief.
“Why the hell didn’t she tell me?”
“She figured you’d be safer not knowing.”
“Safer? My God, nobody’s after us, are they?”
“Since you ask me, I’d say it’s entirely possible. Have you any idea where I might find this Sam of yours?”
“Hell, he’s not mine. Sam’s his own man if anybody ever was. You might try the upper pasture. I’ve been after him to reset some fenceposts there.” He pointed out the way, and Rhys followed it.
Rhys didn’t really suppose it mattered whether he found Neddick or not. Rhys had run across this sort before, humans with a beast’s awareness but not always an animal’s innate sense of decency. More like wolverines than anything else. He’d learn exactly as much from the hired man as Neddick wanted him to know, and he’d have that information carried to him somehow whether they ever met face-to-face or not.
Sam Neddick was an unlikely suspect in this case, anyway. If he’d wanted Mrs. Treadway dead, she’d simply have died and there’d be no loose ends left hanging for a clever woman like Janet Wadman to catch hold of and wonder about. Henry Druffitt’s death might be more Sam’s style, but a handyman ought to know enough to make the right kind of wound.
On the face of it, this looked to be one of those dumb-luck jobs a scared rabbit like Gilly or a clumsy opportunist like Marion might pull off and maybe succeed in, but he knew better than to form any theory yet. He still had too many unknown factors to resolve, such as Charles Treadway’s patent washtub.
He wished Elizabeth Druffitt hadn’t been so expert about getting rid of him as soon as Jason Bain showed up. It had been a superb demonstration of what a ruthless, quick-thinking woman could do, though. He could see Elizabeth killing for money except that she apparently didn’t stand to get any and wouldn’t have needed it. Her own parents’ bequest and her thrifty ways ought to keep her eating even though the doctor had turned out so inept at bringing home the bacon.
With her penchant for family feuds, her tightfistedness, and her domineering ways, Elizabeth Druffitt should in fact make a likelier victim than a murderer. Was somebody trying to get at her by first eliminating the aunt and the husband? It would seem an oddly roundabout approach.
As Rhys had more or less expected, the upper pasture was empty, although a row of raw fenceposts showed that Sam had been there not long before. A whiskey-jack was giving the job a critical inspection. Rhys watched the Canada jay for a few minutes, then wandered back to the gray hulk of the Mansion. He found Gilly Bascom alone in the house, making beds.
“Here, let me do that.” Rhys twitched a quilt over the sheets as deftly as any housewife. “There’s a lot of work to a place this size.”
“And darned little help, I can tell you. Thanks, Madoc.” Gilly pushed a lock of two-toned hair back under her headband. She was still wearing the black velvet ribbon though she’d changed the black dress for a print coverall that would better have suited an older and taller woman.
“Will you be staying on here?” he asked for the sake of starting conversation.
“I don’t know. My mother wants me to. The place I lived before wasn’t grand enough to suit her.” Gilly tossed a pillow on the bed and slapped it viciously into place. “Mama’d be willing to let me slave eighteen hours a day so she could bring those old biddies up here to tea once a year and show them what sort of style her daughter lives in.”
There didn’t seem to be any tactful reply Rhys could make to that, so he said nothing. They made up the rest of the beds together, then he ran the dry mop around the painted floorboards while she dusted. At last Gilly remarked, “Well, at least we’ve got these rooms looking halfway decent. I never could manage that in my little dump, no matter how hard I tried.”
“Still you were sorry to see it go?”
“In a way, yes. It was only a shack and the Lord knows it didn’t hold many happy memories, but that house was mine. Not like this place, which is supposed to be half mine but will always be Aunt Aggie’s as far as I’m concerned. Without my own place, I’m—floating. I felt more adrift watching that fire than I did when my husband walked out on me. Though neither of them was anything much to anchor onto,” she added with less rancor in her voice than might have been expected.
“If it weren’t for Elmer being here—” She flushed, and began rubbing the dustcloth violently over one of her great-aunt’s mahogany side tables. Then she dropped the duster and leaned toward him, her thin fingers smudging the top she’d been working so hard to polish. “Madoc, is that why you’re here? Is it about my house?”
He nodded. “Partly, yes.” Why was she looking so terrified? “Gilly, you know that fire was set, don’t you?”
“I was always so careful,” she whispered.
“Do you know who set it?”
“No! No, I don’t. Honest, Madoc.”
“Do you know how it was set?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything. But I’d left Bobby asleep by himself, and I know I couldn’t have—” Gilly Bascom was not the difficult sort of hysteric. She merely dropped into one of the green plush chairs and huddled there in an agony of silent suffering. Rhys was in the bathroom fetching her a tumbler of water when an enormous man and a skinny boy burst into the house and up the stairs.
“Ma! Hey, Ma, where are you?” the boy was yelling. He had a fishing pole in his hand and almost took the Mountie’s eye out with the end of it as he raced past without noticing that a strange man was in the house. “Ma, look what I caught! Mama, what’s the matter?”
“Gilly, what’s the matter?” echoed the young giant who must be Elmer Bain.
“N-nothing. I was remembering about the poor g-goldfish. We’ll get some more, honey.”
Gilly was blowing her nose on the duster, trying to laugh at her own breakdown. A good mother in spite of the hair. The child was showing her his catch of trout, not very big ones but creditable enough for a beginner.
“Elmer taught me how to clean ’em, even. I did it all by myself. Mostly, anyhow.”
“Thank goodness for that! Elmer, you were great to take him. Come on, let’s show Janet and ask her how to cook them. I’d hate to spoil such beautiful trout. Boy, won’t they taste good!”
Either expecting Rhys would tag along or more likely forgetting all about him, Gilly led the others across the side yard toward the Wadmans’. The Mountie gazed after them somewhat wistfully for a moment, then shrugged and got back to work. He might never get another chance like this for an unchaperoned tour of the Mansion.
Here was the library where Janet had discovered those papers Bain wanted, stuck in a book with a giveaway title. How could Marion Emery have missed so pointed a clue if she’d searched as thoroughly as she claimed to have done?
Here was the kitchen where Agatha Treadway had died, and here were the cellar stairs. He went down. The basement was surprisingly bright and clean-looking for a house of this vintage. He’d have expected a floor of fieldstone or trodden dirt, but this was a whitish composition he’d never seen before. He soon realized how it had stayed so fresh-looking: The surface was flaking off on his boot soles. Another of the late inventor’s brainstorms, no doubt. Looking at the leprous blotches he’d collected, Rhys wondered more than ever why Jason Bain should lust after one of Charles Treadway’s patents.
And here were the rows of shelves where Mrs. Treadway had kept her home-canned provender. Had he been inclined to doubt Janet Wadman’s tale of the mismatched string beans, he’d have waived disbelief now. His own mother was no slouch with a preserving kettle, but Agatha Treadway had been an expert of experts. Every jar was meticulously filled, its wire bail clamped firmly over its grooved glass lid. Every little red tongue of every rubber sealer ring stuck out bright and pert. Janet had told him Mrs. Treadway would never have been foolish enough to use the same ring twice, and clearly she hadn’t.
He found the thirteen jars of string beans, each one with its contents unmistakably snapped in contrast to the poisonous pint that Fred Olson had so thankfully turned over to his colleagues. They’d got hold of the lab report on the pint that had killed Mrs. Treadway. The finding of botulism had been clear, but there was no statement as to whether the vegetables had been cut or broken. By now, of course, that first specimen would have been discarded and whoever did the analysis wouldn’t be able to remember. Even should the technician care to venture an opinion, which wasn’t likely, it probably wouldn’t count for much as evidence.
If Dr. Druffitt had lived, there’d be another story. A jury would have listened to him. He’d been at the scene, he’d collected the evidence. Mrs. Treadway had been his patient and his wife’s aunt. He’d have had sound reason to recall every detail about that deadly jar. Rhys would have one clear-cut case of murder to work on, instead of two probables and no proof.
He might be able to get an exhumation order on Henry Druffitt, though the family would surely fight him on account of the scandal, but what was the use? There was the medical certificate all in order. Dr. Brown was still reasonably compos mentis, for what that was worth. Olson said Mrs. Druffitt was home by the time Dr. Brown arrived to make his examination, and from what Rhys had heard of that courtly old gentleman, he’d be the last to notice anything that might distress a lady.