Lethal Legend (15 page)

Ben and Diana dove for the weapon at the same moment, colliding with each other and tumbling down on top of Aaron. By the time they’d disentangled themselves, Aaron was swearing a blue streak, and most creatively, too. Diana fought a blush as she helped him to his feet, but he didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he was not aware of any of them. He was berating someone only he could see for not warning him of this evening’s fiasco.

“They aren’t really sheep’s eyes,” Maggie muttered. “Honestly, such a fuss. No one ever lets me have any fun anymore.”

With the gun safely unloaded and stored in his own jacket pocket, Ben led his brother from the dining room. Diana followed, scooping up the fallen apron on her way out. As she’d anticipated, the servants were clustered just outside the door.

“Find something decent to serve,” Ben told Cora Belle. When she started to protest, he silenced her by doubling her salary on the spot.

“Give me that,” Cora Belle muttered, snatching the apron out of Diana’s hands. “But this is the last time I come back, you mark my words.”

No one paid any attention to her, least of all Diana. With the help of Aaron’s manservant, she and Ben got Aaron back to his carriage house and settled in for the night with a sedative.

“He hasn’t been this bad in a long time,” Ben said when they came back out into the garden. “I had hoped ....”

“You’ll find a cure.” The confidence in her voice concealed her doubts. No one really understood why a person suddenly ran mad, not even someone like Ben, who had studied the subject for many years and visited countless institutions for the treatment of the insane.

“I doubt there is only one cure. Not when symptoms manifest themselves in so many different ways. The treatment that helps Graham control his irrational outbursts of temper has no effect at all on Aaron.”

Lost in his own gloomy thoughts, Ben did not seem to hear the small, startled sound Diana made. Was Graham Somener really that much like Aaron? Had they both avoided being committed to an asylum by a hair’s breadth?

She considered the notion, remembering how unstable Somener’s emotions had been. He had run away to his island, shunning society. Had guilt driven him to the brink of madness? Or had it been the constant badgering of newspaper reporters? She found the latter idea all too plausible. Some of her colleagues were relentless in their pursuit of scandal.

They came to a halt beside a rosebush. Ben visibly shook off his dark mood and plucked one of the pale pink buds. After he’d carefully removed all the thorns, he tucked it behind Diana’s ear.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Cora Belle can—”

“No. For once, I am not at all peckish.” Nor did she have any desire to spend more time with Maggie right now. Her own mother was nearly as bad. Diana fingered the soft rose petals, inhaling their delicate scent. “Do you know what Rocky Mountain oysters are?”

He laughed, then winced. “Yes. Poor bulls.”

“Cowboys consider them a delicacy.”

“Some people will eat anything.”

They walked awhile, talking of inconsequential things, and Diana was in much better humor by the time they returned to the house. She brightened even more when she saw that a Western Union delivery boy had just arrived.

“Reply from Winthrop?” Ben asked when he’d given the lad a generous tip and sent him on his way.

“I hope one of them is.” She held two telegrams and for some reason felt reluctant to open either.

She was not given to premonitions. Surely it was just a gust of wind responsible for the sudden chill snaking up her spine.

It was true that telegrams had brought her bad news before. Devastating news. But that was no reason to think these were anything but mundane replies to the messages she’d sent earlier. One had doubtless been sent by Professor Winthrop. The other would be from Horatio Foxe.

Silently chastising herself for indulging in foolish, unfounded fears, Diana opened the first telegram, read it, and passed it on to Ben. It was indeed a reply from Lucien Winthrop. He’d agreed to talk to her and her “associate” the next day.

“Associate?” Ben quirked a brow at her.

“You, of course. Telegrams do not give one much room for explanations.
Another
argument for installing a telephone.”

“Telegrams,” he pointed out, “can be sent anywhere. To speak to someone on the telephone, both parties have to be on the same exchange. At last report, I believe there were only some 250 telephones in Bangor ... and you are not acquainted with any of the people who have them.”

“Except Mrs. Entwhistle,” she reminded him.

“And why,” Ben asked, “would you wish to further your acquaintance with her?”

“Perhaps I do not, but I cannot decide until I know her better. Surely you want me to have friends. And she was kind enough to invite me to come to the next meeting of the Chautauquan Literary and Scientific Circle. They meet, she tells me, at the Baptist Church.”

Diana was prepared to go on at length, teasing him about the benefits of joining this group, although she had difficulty imagining herself enjoying a series of
assigned
readings. He stopped the game by reminding her that she had not yet opened the second telegram. She did so, still smiling, but her good humor vanished the moment she absorbed its contents.

“Gracious,” she whispered. “A cryptic warning.”

She passed the slip of paper to Ben when he reached out to steady her.

“Stop meddling?” His tone mingled disbelief with budding anger.

“Succinct and to the point, don’t you think?”

“This is a threat.”

“So I gathered.” Diana’s heart raced and her knees had gone wobbly. This manifestation of physical weakness annoyed her and prompted her to square her shoulders and feign a bravado she was far from feeling. “Which one of them do you think sent it, Justus Palmer or Serena Dunbar?”   

“The telegram came to you.”

“Serena, then. But how did she know I was planning to look into her background?”

“More to the point, how did she manage to dispatch a telegram? She’d have had to travel to Belfast to send this.”

“Why Belfast?”

“That’s the nearest place to Keep Island with a telegraph office. If you recall, that’s where Graham went to send for me.” Ben pulled her close, so that her head was nestled against his shoulder. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to travel there tomorrow.”

Diana pulled away from him. “On the contrary. This gives me all the more reason to go! We can stop at the Western Union office while we’re there and find out who sent this telegram. Surely someone will remember, especially if it was Miss Dunbar.”

“I don’t—”

“If someone wants us to cease and desist, that means there’s something incriminating to be found. We can’t stop looking now.”

Ben gave her a long, hard look before relenting. “It is a good thing you arranged for your ‘assistant’ to accompany you to Belfast,” he grumbled, extending a hand in her direction, “because as long as there is any possibility that you are in danger, I do not intend to let you out of my sight.”

“That sounds promising,” she replied in a throaty purr, and went willingly into his arms.

Chapter Seven

After four and a half hours aboard a steamer, it was a relief to Ben to stretch his legs. The city of Belfast was the shire town of Waldo County but had only a quarter of the population of Bangor. It was an easy walk to the Western Union office and not at all difficult to ascertain that Diana’s threatening telegram had indeed originated there. Unfortunately, the operator could not tell them who had sent it. The message, together with money enough to pay to dispatch it, had been stuffed under the door. She’d seen nothing but a vague silhouette through the window glass.

“No help here,” Diana lamented as they turned their steps toward Lucien Winthrop’s house.

The street ran uphill from Belfast Bay, as uneven as it was steep. Diana’s cheeks were pink with exertion and even Ben was a trifle winded by the time they reached their destination. It was a large, white clapboard house surrounded by trees. The nearest neighbors were some distance away.

A factory whistle sounded just as they stepped onto Winthrop’s porch, signaling that it was noon. Ben glanced at his watch, unsurprised to find it read only 11:30. The previous year, when the Legislature had ordered all towns to change to railroad time and adjust their municipal clocks to that standard, a great many individual citizens, including owners of manufactories, had dug in their heels and stubbornly stayed on “sun time.”

“You must be Mr. Spaulding,” said the elderly gentleman who answered the door. Sunlight glinted on the thick lenses of his small, round spectacles, preventing Ben from seeing his eyes. Ignoring Diana, he extended his right hand to Ben. His left retained a firm grip on the head of an ornately carved cane.

“I am the one with whom you corresponded,” Diana corrected him, stepping in front of Ben to grasp the proffered hand, give a quick, firm shake, and release it. “
Mrs.
Spaulding. This is Dr. Northcote.”

Winthrop’s face froze, his expression caught between bemusement and disbelief. “
You’re
D. Spaulding?”

“I am.”

Ben fought a smile. He doubted it had even occurred to Diana that Winthrop would assume she was a man.

Winthrop’s body shifted, as if to block entry into his home.

Drawing herself up straighter, Diana refused to give back down. “I intended no deceit, Professor Winthrop. I simply want to interview you.”

“All women are deceivers.” Winthrop showed no sign of moving, either.

“Be that as it may, I
am
a reporter for the
New York Independent Intelligencer
, as I said in my telegram. I wish to interview you because I am writing a series of profiles of outstanding citizens of this fair state—the rich, the famous, the notorious—”

“Which am I?” Winthrop interrupted.

Caught off guard by the abrupt question, Diana stumbled over her answer. “F-f-famous.” 

“May we come in?” Ben interjected. “Perhaps beg a drink of water? It was a thirsty climb from the steamboat wharf.”

Lucien Winthrop did not seem inclined to take pity on them, but the request successfully redirected his attention to Ben. “You’re the ‘assistant’ she spoke of in her telegram.”

“I am. In addition, Mrs. Spaulding is my fiancée.”

“Northcote, eh? Doctor, she said. Of what?”

“Medicine.”

“Know anything about archaeology?”

“A bit. As a young man I spent many summers searching for Indian artifacts along the coast.” He added a few details, enough to convince Winthrop that although he was an amateur, he had at least made the effort to learn the names of early Maine tribes. He did not mention that his companion on these “expeditions” had been Graham Somener.

Shuffling as he walked and using the cane to maintain his balance, Winthrop at last stepped back and allowed them to enter. “Thirsty are you?” he muttered. “I suppose you expect to be fed, as well.”

He herded them along the hallway and into a parlor, tugging on a convenient bell pull as he passed it. A moment later, an elderly woman, clearly the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.

“Bring tea,” Winthrop barked at her, “and whatever you have prepared for luncheon.”

Diana smiled politely and thanked him for his consideration. Ben was happy to let her take control of the conversation. He enjoyed watching her work.

“You made quite an impression on the members of your audience when you lectured on Indians in Bangor,” Diana ventured after she settled herself in one of Winthrop’s well-worn but comfortable chairs. “I understand you are an expert on local legends and have a particular interest in the ancient peoples of Maine.”

“Did you attend my little talk?”

“Alas, no. But I have recently spoken to someone who did and she encouraged me to contact you.” Diana explained about her visit to the public library and her failure to unearth much information about local archaeologists. She did not mention why she’d been looking. “As soon as the librarian told me about your lecture, I knew I had found the ideal subject for my column.”

 Winthrop didn’t bother to hide his skepticism, but before he could comment his housekeeper returned with food and drink, rolling in a cart containing a teapot, cups, saucers, a platter of sandwiches, and three small plates. Either Winthrop did not have a proper dining room or he was disinclined to use it. After pouring in a rather haphazard manner and passing around the cups, the housekeeper left.

A pleasant expression fixed on her face like a mask, Diana postponed her interview long enough to eat a sandwich. Ben took one for himself, leaned back in his chair, and propped one ankle on the opposite knee, quietly content.

“Do you know anything about a woman archaeologist working near here?” Diana asked.

The sugar Winthrop was about to add to his tea missed the cup and landed in the saucer. Very carefully, he set both down on the small table beside his chair and fixed Diana with a hard look. “A woman archaeologist, you say?” He waited a beat. “And who might that be?”

“A Miss Dunbar. Serena Dunbar. She has begun to excavate on one of the islands in Penobscot Bay.”

“Ah.”

“So you do recognize the name?” Ben noticed the disappointment in Diana’s voice. She’d been hoping Winthrop had never heard of Miss Dunbar, which would support the theory that she was a confidence woman.

“I may be wrong,” Winthrop said, “but I believe that’s the young woman who caused such a ruckus at the Peabody Museum a few years back. I never met her myself. I was working in Nova Scotia at the time. But the name ... yes, I am quite certain it was Dunbar.”

“What did she do?”

“Attempted to gain admission as a private student. Kicked up a fuss when the graduate school rejected her. Well, what do you expect? No woman has the educational background to qualify.”

“She claims to have been a student at Harvard.”

Diana inclined her body forward in order to better see Winthrop’s face when she made this announcement. Ben already had a clear view. The professor’s eyes narrowed to slits.