Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Eighty-Three
We heard no movement behind us as
we darted down the path. I dared to hope that we had eluded the old gardener.
Then, as we came within sight of the river, Florence stumbled over a vine.
Although she stifled her outcry, the dull thud of her body against the ground
seemed to reverberate through the forest. A black crow on the lower limb of an
oak tree cawed in protest before he flew away.
I pulled Florence to her feet,
and we went on as fast as we could, but I knew the sound had betrayed us. Now I
could hear the gardener in hot pursuit, his heavy shoes pounding on the hard,
dry path.
We reached the river bank and
looked about for the boat. I had instructed the boy to wait on the opposite
shore, and he had followed my instructions. I gestured frantically, but the boy
did not understand the need for haste. He picked up his oars and rowed toward
us at a very deliberate pace.
“Oh, he’ll never get here in
time,” Florence said. “Shall we hide?”
“That’s all we can do.”
But we had waited too long to
conceal ourselves. Before we could dodge into the deeper thicket, the gardener
reached the clearing.
“So it’s you again!” he glared at
me.
“Please, we didn’t mean any harm.
We can explain—”
“This stick is explanation enough
for me!” the man shouted, waving it above his head. “You were trying to find
out about the lily pool!”
“We were only trying to get a pin
which I dropped into the water,” Florence said, backing a step away.
“I don’t believe you!” the
gardener snapped. “You can’t fool me! I know why you came here, and you’ll pay
for your folly! You’ll never take the secret away with you!”
The gardener hurled himself
toward us and seized my arm, giving it a cruel twist.
“You’re coming along with me,” he
announced.
“Let me go!” I shouted.
“You’re going with me to the
house. You’ve been altogether too prying. Now you’ll pay the price, both of
you.”
The gardener was no match for
both of us. As he tried to seize Florence by the arm, I twisted free.
I grasped the man’s felt hat,
jammed it hard down on his head, obscuring his view. While he was trying to
pull it off, Florence also wriggled free from his grasp.
Flo and I ran to the water’s
edge. The boy and his boat had drawn close to shore. Without waiting for him to
beach the boat, we waded out over our shoe tops and climbed aboard.
“Don’t either of you ever come
here again!” the gardener yelled after us. “If you do—”
The rest of the threat was
carried away by the wind.
“What’s the matter with that man,
anyhow?” asked the boy who rowed the boat. “Didn’t he want you on the estate?”
“On the contrary, he invited us
to remain, and we declined.” I grinned. “Just temperament, that’s all. He can’t
make up his mind which way he would like to have it.”
I busied myself pouring water
from my sodden shoes and trying to decide if they were a total loss. Hopefully
Mrs. Timms would be able to work her magic and restore them to their former
glory—or at least to minimally respectable appearance.
The visit to the estate had not turned out at all as I had planned. I
had failed to talk with Miss Furstenberg, and it was certain that from now on
servants would keep a much closer watch for intruders. The only useful
information I had gleaned resulted from overhearing the conversation between
Cybil Furstenberg and the gardener. Miss Furstenberg talked with him as if they
were well acquainted. She must have thought he knew more about Thomas Atwood’s
disappearance than he would tell. She also seemed to be afraid that the police
would ask too many questions. Otherwise she wouldn’t have suggested getting rid
of the alligator.
The boat reached shore, and we
stepped out on the muddy bank.
“Will you need me again?” the boy
asked.
“I may,” I said, “but I can’t
tell you exactly when. Where do you keep your boat?”
“Up the river just beyond that
crooked maple tree. I hide it in the bushes, and I keep the oars inside a
hollow log close by. You won’t have any trouble finding it.”
We said goodbye to the lad and
scrambled up the bank.
“I’m sure I’ll not be going back
to that place,” Flo said. “I just wonder what would have happened if we
hadn’t broken away.”
“We might have been locked up in
the stone tower. Then another one of my theories would have proven itself.”
“Oh, you and your theories! You
can’t make me believe that gardener didn’t mean to harm us. He is a very
sinister character.”
“Sinister is a strong word, Flo.
But I’ll agree he’s not any ordinary gardener. Either he’s been hired by the
Furstenberg family for a very special purpose, or else he’s gained their
confidence and means to bend them to his own ends.”
“His own ends! What do you mean?
Have you learned something you haven’t told me?”
“Only this. I’m satisfied Old
Peter is no gardener. He’s wearing a disguise.”
“Well, what won’t you think of
next! You’ve been reading too many detective stories, Jane Carter.”
“Have I? Then there’s no need to
tell you—”
“Yes, there is,” Florence cut in.
“Your ideas are pretty imaginative, but I like to hear them anyway.”
“Considerate of you, old thing.
You don’t deserve to be told after that crack, but I’ll do it anyhow. When I
pulled the gardener’s hat down over his eyes, I felt something slip! He wore a
wig,” I said. “That’s why he looked so startled when I jerked the hat.”
“Did you actually see a wig?”
“No, but he must have had one on
his head. I felt it give, I tell you.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past
that fellow. But if he isn’t a gardener, then who or what is he?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to do
some intensive investigation.”
“Just how, may I ask?”
I gazed speculatively toward the
drawbridge, noting that the old watchman had been deserted by the group of
reporters. He sat alone, legs crossed, his camp stool propped against the side
of the gearhouse.
“Let’s talk with him, Flo. He
might be able to tell us something about the different employees of the
estate.”
We walked over to where the old
man sat, greeting him with our most pleasant smiles.
“Good morning,” I said.
The old man finished lighting his
pipe before he deigned to notice us.
“Good morning,” I repeated.
“Mornin’,” said the watchman, and
went back to smoking.
“We’re just out for a hike,” I
said. “We get tired of all the ordinary places, so we thought we would walk by
here.”
“We’re interested in your
bridge,” added Florence. “We just love bridges.”
“This one ain’t so good anymore,”
the old man said disparagingly.
“Doesn’t it get lonely here?”
ventured Florence. “Sitting here all day long?”
“It did at first, Miss. But I got
used to it. Anyway, it beats leanin’ on a shovel for the gov’ment. I got a
little garden over yonder a ways. You ought to see my tomatoes. Them Ponderosas
is as big as a plate.”
“Do you ever operate the bridge?”
Florence asked.
“Oh, sure, Miss. That’s what I’m
here for. But it ain’t safe for nothin’ heavier than a passenger car.”
“I’d love to see the bridge
lowered.” Florence stared curiously up at the tall cantilevers which pointed
skyward. “When will you do it next time, Mr.—?”
“Davis, if you please, Ma’am.
Thorny Davis, they calls me. My real name’s Thorndyke.”
The old man pulled a large,
silver watch from his pocket and consulted it.
“In about ten minutes now, Mrs.
Furstenberg will be comin’ back from town. Then we’ll make the old hinge bend
down agin’.”
“Let’s wait,” said Florence.
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