Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Nine
I wondered again if I was doing the right thing by keeping from
Emma what the café owner had said about Old Mansion. I had just decided to tell
her when Mrs. Conrad called out from the foot of the stairway.
“Hurry and change your clothes, Miss Brown,” she called. “I want
you to get started at the ironing.”
“I’ll be right down,” Emma said.
Emma changed her shoes and dress and ran down to the kitchen,
leaving us to unpack the suitcase for her.
“I believe we should wait around for an hour or so,” I said. “Emma
may change her mind and decide to return with us.”
“Yes,” agreed Florence, “Mrs. Conrad is starting out like a slave
driver. It looks as if poor Emma will not have much free time for herself.”
“I didn’t care for her husband, either,” I said.
“He acted so suspicious of us.”
“Just his rude way, I imagine.”
We had finished hanging Emma’s garments in the rickety wardrobe
when Florence, who chanced to be near the window, noticed Mrs. Conrad going
down the street, market basket on her arm.
The coast was clear, so we ran down to the kitchen to talk with
Emma.
She was hard at work on a huge basket of ironing. The sink was
filled to overflowing with dirty dishes.
“I know I’ll never make good here,” Emma said. “Mrs. Conrad
expects me to finish the ironing, do the scrubbing and the dishes before supper
time! I can’t possibly get half of it done.”
“I should think not!” I said. “Mrs. Conrad should employ an
octopus, not a mere human being.”
“There’s the dusting to do, too,” Emma added.
“We’ll help you,” Florence said. “I’ll start in on the dishes. I
wonder where Old Conrad keeps her soap chips?”
“Don’t bother to look for them,” I advised. “A woman of her stingy
character wouldn’t squander money on soap.”
I found a dust cloth in the cellarway, and, while Florence devoted
herself to the dishes, began an energetic attack on the furniture. It was a
tedious task. The large rooms were crowded with massive pieces, bric-a-brac,
and each wall was covered with oil portraits in heavy frames.
“Good afternoon, General,” I clowned, making a mock bow before the
picture of an ancient warlord. “What a scowling old fellow you are! The Conrad
temperament, no doubt. Would his generalship like to have his face wiped?”
As I dusted the paintings, I wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Conrad had
come have so many. If the portraits had been done by worthwhile artists, they
would have been worth a pretty penny, but, although the frames were high
quality, they housed the most hideously amateurish collection of oil
portraiture I’d ever seen.
The Conrads had not impressed me as patrons of the arts. I decided
that the pictures must be the work of a dear departed family member with more
enthusiasm than talent and that the massive furniture must have been handed
down by more prosperous relatives.
I dusted the lower floor, then went back to the kitchen where I
dried the dishes while Florence washed. Emma worked doggedly at the ironing,
but the pile of clothes in the basket melted slowly.
“I’ll never get through before dinnertime,” she said, glancing at
the clock. “Mrs. Conrad is due back here any minute.”
“Why kill yourself trying?” I said. “The more I see of this place,
the less I like it.”
“I’d like to make a good impression, but these clothes are so hard
to iron. They are wrinkled and dry.”
Emma reached up to the shelf above the ironing board for a
sprinkling glass which stood there. Her arm brushed against a bottle of bluing
left uncorked by Mrs. Conrad.
Before Emma could prevent the disaster, the bottle upset and
tumbled down on the ironing board. An ugly blue stain spread slowly over a
white shirt.
“Oh, what have I done now!” Emma cried in dismay. “I’ve ruined one
of Mr. Conrad’s shirts! Now I’m certain to lose my job!”
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