Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Sixty-Three
I was on my own. I lurked behind
the potted palm for a bit as a parade of servants came and went, cleaning up
the carnage. Shep had his picture, but it was up to me to get a good story.
I decided that Mrs. Furstenberg
had probably gone upstairs to talk with her daughter. Despite my vow to not
stoop to lowdown scoundrelly tactics like eavesdropping at keyholes, I could
not resist wondering what the Furstenbergs might have to say to each other. If
it were of too personal a nature, I told myself, I would not divulge it. I was
already in the house, I reasoned. It was just a matter of tripping up the
stairs.
The guests were still assembled
in the garden, and it was easy to avoid the servants who were all still engaged
in cleaning up the breakfast room. No one saw me as I crept noiselessly up the
spiral stairway.
When I reached the second floor,
I moved down the hallway and came to a bedroom door that stood slightly ajar. I
paused when I heard the low murmur of voices within. I peeked through the
crack.
Framed against the leaded
windows, I saw Cybil Furstenberg talking with her mother. Despite a
tear-streaked face, the girl was very lovely. She wore a long flowing gown of
white satin trimmed with pearls. Her net veil had been discarded. A bouquet of
flowers lay on the floor. The bouquet was pink roses and baby’s breath,
although that was probably useless information now.
“How could Thomas do such a cruel
thing?” I heard Cybil sob. “I just can’t believe it of him, Mother. Surely he
will come.”
Mrs. Furstenberg held her
daughter in her arms, trying to comfort her.
“It is nearly three now, Cybil.
The servants have searched everywhere. A man of his type isn’t worthy of you.”
“But I love him, Mother. And I am
sure he loves me. It doesn’t seem possible he would do such a thing without a
word of explanation.”
“He will explain, never fear,”
Mrs. Furstenberg said grimly. “But now, we must think what has to be done. The
guests must be told.”
“Oh, Mother!” Cybil went into
another paroxysm of crying.
“There is no other way, my dear.
Leave everything to me. I’ll make him pay for humiliating us this way.”
Mrs. Furstenberg must have
decided to embark on her quest for vengeance immediately because she abruptly
stepped out into the hall and caught me eavesdropping.
“You are a reporter! I remember
you were with that photographer!”
“Please—” I began.
“I’ll tell you nothing,” Mrs.
Furstenberg screamed. “How dare you intrude in my home and go about listening
at bedroom doors!”
She had a fair point, and I was
feeling more than a little ashamed of myself for yielding to morbid curiosity.
“Mrs. Furstenberg, if only you
will calm yourself, I may be able to help you,” I said.
“Help me?” the woman demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“I may be able to give you a clue
as to what became of Thomas Atwood.”
The anger faded from Mrs.
Furstenberg’s face. She came closer, grasping my arm so hard that I would later
find that she had left a bruise.
“You have seen Thomas? Tell me!”
“He came over in the same boat.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Shortly after one o’clock. He
was stopped at the front door by a servant who handed him a note. Mr. Atwood
read it and walked down toward the garden.”
“I wonder which one of the
servants spoke to him. It was at the front door, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must have been Gregg.
I’ll talk with him.”
Forgetting all about me, Mrs.
Furstenberg hurried down the stairway. I followed. Mrs. Furstenberg jangled a
bell and asked that the manservant be sent to her. I hadn’t been dismissed, so
I loitered to see what Gregg would have to say for himself.
The man came into the room, and
Mrs. Furstenberg asked him if he had been at the door when Mr. Atwood arrived
at The Castle.
“I was, Madam.”
“I understand you handed him a
note which he read.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Who gave you the note?”
“Mrs. Latch, the cook. She told
me it was brought to the kitchen door early this morning by a most
disreputable-looking boy.”
“He had been hired to deliver it
for another person, I suppose?”
“Yes, Madam. The boy told Mrs.
Latch that the message came from a friend of Mr. Atwood’s and should be given
to him as soon as he arrived.”
“You have no idea what the note
contained?”
“No, Mrs. Furstenberg, the
envelope was sealed.”
I felt that when this interview
with Gregg ended, Mrs. Furstenberg might again focus her fury on me, so I
decided not to tempt fate. While Mrs. Furstenberg was still talking with the
servant, I slipped out of the house.
I walked quickly down to the dock
and was pleased to find the guest launch tied up there. The boatman answered
all my questions without a hint of reticence. He had not seen Thomas Atwood
since early in the afternoon. Shep was the only person he had yet to take back
across the river.
“Have you noticed any other boat
leaving the estate?” I asked.
“Boats have been going up and down the river all day,” the man answered with a shrug. “I didn’t notice any particular one.”
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