Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twenty-Seven
I gave a triumphant yelp, but I had
started celebrating too soon.
“—on one condition,” Mrs. Timms
continued. “You know how you persist in turning that poor Jack Bancroft down
every time he so much as asks you to the pictures.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call Jack Bancroft
poor. He’s doing just about as well as any other young newspaperman, which is
to say he eats regularly but hasn’t anything extra to put by for the inevitable
arrival of old age and infirmity.”
“If you aren’t interested in striking a
bargain—” Mrs. Timms pursed her lips.
“No, no,” I hastily amended, “I’ll stop
being so facetious. I’m very interested in striking a bargain, but I don’t see
why you’re introducing Jack into this conversation.”
“If you solemnly swear to step out with
Jack Bancroft the next ten times he asks you,” said Mrs. Timms, “then I’ll
undertake your wretched assignment.”
“Ten times! You catch me going to the
picture with the same fella ten times in a row, and you can consider me
practically engaged,” I protested.
“All the better, then.”
“But what’s the benefit to you, even if
do I agree to go to the pictures with Jack?”
“It’s a weight on my mind, Jane,” Mrs.
Timms insisted. “I keep seeing this image in my head of you growing old all
alone.”
“But you’re growing old all alone,” I
said. “Unless of course there’s some mystery man waiting in the wings to sweep
you off your feet and carry you away on his white horse.”
I was instantly sorry that I’d said
it—it was unconscionably rude—but Mrs. Timms appeared unfazed. This made me
wonder if she and my father already had some secret understanding that they
were keeping from me. Perhaps Mrs. Timms was so eager to marry me off because
she wanted me out of the house and my father all to herself.
“How about three times?” I bargained.
“I’ll see three movies with Jack Bancroft. That seems about the going rate for
a temporary change in duties?”
“Ten,” said Mrs. Timms, holding firm.
“Six?”
“Ten.”
“Eight?”
“I’ll do it for no less than ten dates
with Jack Bancroft.”
“Mrs. Timms!” I said. “You shouldn’t be
having dates with Jack Bancroft. He’s much too young for you. What would the
members of your Ladies’ Sewing Circle say about you carrying on with a young
man of twenty-seven? It would be the scandal of the year.”
Mrs. Timms was not amused.
“Oh, alright,” I said. “A deal is a
deal, but I’ll not be blamed for not holding up my end of the bargain if he
fails to ask me. You’ll try for the job, then, Mrs. Timms?”
“What will your father say?”
“Don’t you worry about Dad. Just leave
everything to me.”
During the ride to Greenville, Mrs.
Timms was further influenced by Rosie Larkin’s account of Firth’s peculiar
actions. Gradually, she began to share my opinion that the man might have
reason to fear for his life. However, she did not agree with us that anything
of great value was hidden in the cave.
“Perhaps we’re wrong,” I conceded, “but
you must go there with an open mind, Mrs. Timms. Observe everything you can and
report to me. Particularly, I want to learn what Firth knows about Richard
Hamsted and the octopus tattoo.”
At half past five the next morning I
awakened Mrs. Timms from a sound slumber, reminding her that it was time to
start for the Firth farm. Protesting that the idea seemed crazier than ever,
the housekeeper snuggled down beneath the covers again.
“You promised you would go,” I said
heartlessly. “Please hurry, because I must get you established before I go to
work at the Press building.”
By the time Mrs. Timms was dressed,
breakfast and Bouncing Betsy awaited her. She drank my bitterly strong coffee,
polished off my underdone eggs and nibbled at my scorched toast. Then, still
protesting, she allowed me to drive her within view of the Firth farm.
“Is this the place?” Mrs. Timms
inquired with distaste as Bouncing Betsy pulled up at the gate to the weedy
pasture.
“Yes, I don’t dare go any closer for
fear Firth will see me. You know the story you’re to tell him.”
“Which one? You’ve suggested so many
that my mind is awhirl.”
“Then make it simple. Just say you’re a
widow, you’re looking for a job and that you’re a wonderful housekeeper—that
part’s true, at least. I’ll wait here. If you go inside, I’ll know you’ve been
given the position.”
“When will you come for me?”
“I’ll try to see you tomorrow, but hold
the fort until I arrive, even if it’s a week.”
A bundle of clothing under her arm,
Mrs. Timms trudged on down the road. I watched her with misgiving. The
adventure was not to Mrs. Timms’ liking, and it was doubtful that her
application for work would be an enthusiastic one.
I turned off Betsy’s ignition and
waited. Mrs. Timms reached the farmhouse. She knocked at the side entrance. The
door was opened by Paul Firth.
The interview took a long while, but at
least Firth did not close the door in Mrs. Timms’ face.
Then, to my delight, Mrs. Timms followed the man into the house. The job was hers. I could feel in my bones that Paul Firth’s cave would soon yield its secret.
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