Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Seventy-Four
Miss Furstenberg had vanished
into the house by the time I’d retraced my steps to the garden. The black
limousine no longer stood at the front door, so I knew I was expected to get
back to Andover by my own efforts.
If Jack was still waiting at the
drawbridge, I’d ride home with him, I decided. If he’d given up waiting already
and headed back to Greenville, I’d be out of luck completely.
The path which I followed brought
me around the rear of the house. As I drew near the massive walls of the
Castle, a door opened, revealing a kitchen within. A stout woman in a blue
uniform came outside. In her arms, she carried two large paper sacks filled
with garbage, which made the bottoms moist.
Just as the woman reached me, the
bottom of one of the bags gave away, and a collection of corn husks, watermelon
rinds, and egg shells fell to the sidewalk.
“Now I’ve done it!” the woman
said. “Splattered my stockings, too.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said,
pausing in the pathway.
“This is the only place I have
ever worked where the cook was expected to carry out the garbage! It makes me
good and mad every time I do it.”
“I should think a house of this
size would have an incinerator, so that the garbage could be burned,” I
remarked.
“This place doesn’t have any
conveniences for the servants,” the cook went on. “You’re expected to work,
work, work from morning to night.”
She broke off quickly, regarding
me with a suspicious gaze.
“You’re not one of Miss Cybil’s
guests.”
“Oh, no, I only came here on an
errand. I wouldn’t repeat anything to the family.”
“That’s all right then,” the cook
said in relief. “I liked my job here well enough until lately. All month it’s been
one dinner party after another. Then we spent days getting ready for the
wedding feast, and not one scrap of food was touched!”
“But I suppose Mrs. Furstenberg
pays you well.”
“She didn’t give me one extra
cent for all the work I did for that wedding. Mrs. Furstenberg always has been
thrifty, and she’s a heap worse since her husband went away. Another week like
this last one, and I’ll quit!”
“Well, I can’t say I blame you,”
I said, leading the woman on. “I suppose Miss Cybil is as overbearing as her
mother?”
“Oh, Miss Cybil is all right, as
sweet a girl as you’ll find anywhere. I felt mighty sorry for her when that
no-account man threw her over.”
I knew by this time that I must
be talking with Mrs. Latch, for the footman had mentioned the cook’s name. As
the woman walked on with her bundles of garbage, I fell into step beside her.
“It was strange about Mr.
Atwood’s disappearance,” I said. “I hear he came to the house and then went
away just before the wedding.”
“I can tell you about that,”
replied Mrs. Latch with an important air. “Yesterday morning a boy came to the
back door with a letter for Mr. Atwood. It’s my opinion he sent it to himself.”
“Didn’t the boy tell you where he
had gotten the letter?”
“He said it was given to him by
one of Mr. Atwood’s friends. A man in a boat.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “By the way,
who is the head gardener here?”
“Do you mean Peter Henderson?”
“A fairly old man. Gray hair,
stooped shoulders, and, I might add, an unpleasant manner.”
“I guess that’s Peter. He’s not
much of a gardener, in my opinion. And he feels too high and mighty to
associate with the other servants. He doesn’t even stay here nights.”
“Is he a new man?”
“Mrs. Furstenberg hired him only
three days before the wedding. I don’t think he’s done a lick of honest work
since he came here.”
“And Mrs. Furstenberg doesn’t
mind?”
“She’s been too busy and bothered
to pay any attention to him,” the cook declared. “But she always has time to
boss me. I tell you, if dishes aren’t prepared perfectly, she raves!”
“No wonder Mr. Furstenberg was
forced to leave home,” I said, feeling quite sly and mean. “You can’t blame him
for running away from a violent temper.”
“Oh, the Furstenbergs never had
any trouble with each other,” Mrs. Latch said. “Mr. Furstenberg would just
laugh and not say a word when she jumped on him. They were never heard to
quarrel.”
“Then it seems odd that he went
away.”
“Yes, it does,” agreed the cook.
“I never did understand it. And then the way Mrs. Furstenberg changed all the
servants!”
“You mean after Mr. Furstenberg
left?”
“She fired everyone except me. I
guess she knew she couldn’t get another cook half as good if she let me go.
Right away, I struck for more money, and she gave it to me without a whimper.
But ever since then she works me like a dog.”
Mrs. Latch clattered the lid of
the garbage can into place and turned toward the house. As I once more fell
into step with her, she paused and regarded me with sudden suspicion.
“Why am I telling you all this,
anyway? Who are you? You’re not one of those sneaking reporters?”
“Do I look like a reporter?” I
asked.
“Well, no, you don’t,” admitted
Mrs. Latch. “But you’re as inquisitive as one. You must be the girl who brought
Miss Cybil’s new dress from the LaRue Shoppe.”
I hesitated too long over my
reply, and the woman gazed at me sharply.
“You are a
reporter!” she exclaimed with conviction. “And you’ve been deliberately pumping
me! Of all the tricks! I’ll tell Miss Furstenberg!”
“Wait, I can explain.”
Mrs. Latch paid me no heed. With
an angry toss of her head, she hurried back into the house.
I had overstepped myself once again. I’d better be getting away from the estate while the getting was good, I decided. I turned and ran down the walk toward the river, only to stop short as I reached the boat dock. The drawbridge was in its open position, and the old watchman did not appear to be at his usual post. I had no way of reaching the mainland.
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