A Pint of Murder Page 10

  “You have a kind heart, Miss—er—Marion. So Gilly lost her father and her home together. Misfortunes never come singly, do they?”

  “Three in a row, that’s what Dot Fewter says. Dot’s the so-called hired help Janet was talking about. Dot claims Gilly’s fire doesn’t count with Aunt Aggie and Henry because nothing got killed in it but a bowlful of goldfish. Isn’t that a howl?”

  Rhys obediently turned on his wistful smile. “At least Gilly must be somewhat consoled by the fact that you’ve found the patent.”

  “Gilly?” Marion snorted. “I tried to show it to her this morning before she went down to her mother’s, but she just shoved it away and said, ‘For heaven’s sake don’t bother me with that foolishness now.’ Gilly’s got no push at all, that’s why I want to get Elizabeth in on it. You can bet Elizabeth would straighten Bain out in grand style if he tried any funny business on her.”

  “You wouldn’t care to run down to your cousin’s now?” Rhys offered shyly. “You and she could discuss your business while I see if that Dot woman will come up and give Janet a hand.”

  “Say, that would be swell! I’d love to have you meet Elizabeth.” Marion must think her cousin would add a desirable touch of class to impress a wealthy bachelor. She was ready in seconds, but stopped short as they were going out the door. “Oops! Forgot to take this off.” Quickly she untied the bright scarf with which she’d added a bright accent to her new black suit.

  “But why?” Rhys murmured. “The color was so becoming to you.”

  “Think so?” she flashed him a smile, which was a mistake, as her teeth were not good. “I’m afraid Elizabeth might be offended if I wore it in a house of mourning. They’re a lot more careful about appearances up here than we are down in the States.”

  They could also be a great deal more forthright. Elizabeth was perfectly capable of reminding Marion who’d paid for the outfit.

  Rhys went to get his elderly Renault out of the Wadmans’ driveway. He was going to be one of those eccentrics, rich enough so that he could afford to look poor. The best that could be said for his dark suit and half-soled black shoes was that they were not inappropriate for a house of mourning.

  One thing Janet had forgotten to mention was that being Annabelle Wadman’s cousin wasn’t going to put him in favor with Elizabeth Druffitt. She received the introduction with no enthusiasm. However, she thawed noticeably after Marion managed to draw her aside and whisper something in her ear. She even called her daughter out to meet him.

  Gilly was looking considerably better than she had a few days ago, although Rhys could not know that. He merely thought her a rather pleasant change from Marion and wondered if there could be brains enough behind that pale little face to plan two clever murders and a successful job of arson. She looked demure enough for any villainy in her simple black dress, with her light hair tucked back under a wide black velvet ribbon and her slim feet in ladylike medium-heeled pumps. Gilly must take after her father. There was no look of the Emerys about her, though the resemblance between Marion and Elizabeth was strong.

  “I don’t know how Gillian’s going to manage without her dear old daddy,” Mrs. Druffitt was saying. “She relied on my husband for everything after”—the well-bred voice was discreetly lowered—“her unfortunate marriage was dissolved. Poor little Gilly was only a child then, and too innocent to know—but these things are sent to test us, I suppose. My only hope now is that I may be spared long enough to see my girlie settled and happy. Gillian would make such a fine wife for the right man.” This was nimble footwork for a newmade widow, but of course Mrs. Druffitt had no way of knowing how long the rich bachelor was going to be around.

  Gilly gave her mother a dirty look, but all she said was, “How’s Janet?”

  “Not well at all,” Rhys answered in a tone of gentle melancholy. “From the snapshots I’d seen, I expected a blooming young woman. It was a shock to find her looking so poorly. I understand Janet had come to consult the doctor, in fact, when—” he hesitated, as a man of delicacy might.

  “Janet was here,” said Mrs. Druffitt, adding a touch of frost. “I’m afraid I never did find out why. This has been such a dreadful time for me that I’m afraid I haven’t been much aware of anyone’s misfortune but our own. I’m sorry to hear Janet isn’t well.”

  “In a pig’s eye you are,” thought the Mountie. However, he awarded her one of his fleeting, nervous smiles. “I will tell her so. I came hoping, as a matter of fact, that you could spare your—er—hired help for a day or so to give Janet a hand.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll be glad to, though I must say I can’t promise Dot Fewter will be of much use to Janet. She certainly isn’t to me. I told her I particularly wanted my upstairs bedrooms done after the guests left, but she’s nowhere to be found. I daresay you might find her over at the Busy Bee. That seems to be where Dot spends most of her time.”

  “I’ve invited Madoc to stay at the Mansion till Janet’s sore hand heals,” Marion put in.

  Mrs. Druffitt blinked. “Why, how thoughtful of you, Marion. I’m sure Gilly will do all she can to make his stay a pleasant one. Won’t you, dear?”

  “Sure,” sighed Gilly.

  After that, nobody could think of much else to say. As they were all waiting for each other to break the silence, the front doorbell rang.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Druffitt, “would you excuse me a moment? We’ve had a steady stream of callers ever since—” she headed for the door, then froze. “Marion, that’s Jason Bain out there.”

  “Jesus! Gilly, did you tell your mother we found the patent?”

  “What? Of all the stupid—” Mrs. Druffitt caught herself. “Gilly, why don’t you and Mr. Rhys go see if you can find Dot Fewter and take her straight up to the Wadmans’? Go along, don’t stand on ceremony, please. Poor Janet shouldn’t be left alone, in her sad condition.”

  The bell jangled yet more insistently. Mrs. Druffitt nodded a fluttered good-bye and practically shoved them out the door. Rhys caught only a glimpse of an incredibly gaunt, grotesquely spiderish figure before Mrs. Druffitt hustled Bain into the house.

  “Too bad Mama gave us the bum’s rush,” Gilly remarked, friendly enough now that she’d got away from her guardian angel. “There ought to be one grand free-for-all when those three start grabbing for each other’s throats.”

  “Your—er—mother’s cousin did say something about a patent right,” Rhys answered carefully. “She showed me the papers before we came down here.”

  “Did she?” Gilly replied as if she couldn’t have cared less. “You can park right over there. I’ll run in and see if Dot’s around.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Rhys was already out of the car and holding the door for her. “I don’t want to miss any of Pitcherville’s historic spots.”

  She gave him a doubtful grin and led the way into the Busy Bee, as depressing a hovel as Rhys had ever set foot inside. The air was blue-purple with stale smoke, heavy with the reek of rancid fat. The walls were spattered with layer upon layer of grease stains. A radio blared ear-shattering noise into the murk. A blobbish creature in a filthy apron made discouraged swipes at the counter with a loathsome rag.

  There was just one customer, a woman. For one incredulous second, Rhys thought it was the doctor’s widow. She was sitting contentedly in the midst of the squalor, wolfing down a bright-yellow pastry with every appearance of enjoyment. When she saw Gilly, she waved.

  “Hi; haul up an’ set.”

  “No, thanks,” said Gilly. “I may tend counter here once in a while, but I haven’t sunk to the point where I’d hang around for the fun of it. This is Mr. Rhys, Dot Fewter. He wants you to go up to Janet’s with him.”

  “How do you do, Miss Fewter,” said Rhys politely.

  “Hi,” said Dot with her mouth full. “You must be the Mountie.”

  “The what?” Gilly gasped.

  “The Mountie. Sam told me the Wadmans got a Mountie up there makin’ out to be Annabe
lle’s cousin. You’re him, ain’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Rhys unhappily, “I am.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “DON’T AST ME,” SAID Dot. “He knew, that’s all. Sam always knows.”

  “Did he tell you why I’m here?” Rhys looked sadder even than usual as he steered the battered Renault up the hill road with Gilly beside him and the human bombshell in the back seat. Through the rear-view mirror he could see Dot shake her disheveled head.

  “He ain’t sure yet.” He would be. Dot obviously had every confidence in Sam. “He thinks maybe it’s them patents o’ Jase Bain’s. Jase has been spreadin’ it around about how they’re his o’ right now that Miz Treadway’s gone. Sam thinks maybe the Wadmans snuck ’em out o’ the Mansion an’ Jase sent you to get the goods on ’em.”

  “That’s some fine way for that lowdown weasel to be talking about the people he works for!” cried Gilly. “If I were Bert Wadman, I’d break Sam Neddick right square in two and feed him to the pigs. I’ve a good mind to tell Elmer!”

  There was plenty of color in that pale face now. Gilly railed on. “The Wadmans have always been a darn sight more decent to Aunt Aggie than any of her own flesh and blood, me included. The last thing they deserve is to get spied on and talked about. I expect you think you’re pretty smart, Mr. Rhys or whatever your name is, worming your way in there, making believe you’re Annabelle’s long-lost cousin just because she’s flat on her back in the hospital and can’t show you up for a liar. Well, let me tell you one thing—”

  She had to pause for breath, and Rhys got his word in. “I’m here at Janet Wadman’s request.”

  “But—but why?” Gilly stammered.

  “I’m sorry, but I’d really prefer not to answer that question just now. And I’d greatly appreciate it if you could manage not to tell anybody else who I am. Miss Fewter, have you repeated what this Sam Neddick told you?”

  “Only to my mother.”

  Gilly snorted. The Mountie sighed. “Is there any hope of your persuading her to keep the secret?”

  “Are you kiddin’? Ma must of told at least seventeen people already.” Dot sounded rather proud of her mother’s prowess as a newscaster.

  And those seventeen had told seventeen more and by now he was being discussed over every back fence in Pitcherville, no doubt. The best-laid plans of mice and Mounties went oft agley.

  “Then, ladies, may I ask you one great favor?”

  “What’s that?” said Gilly suspiciously.

  “Could you pretend that you still think I’m Annabelle Dupree’s cousin, and let things go on as they have been?”

  “You mean let you go on staying at the Mansion, and call you Mr. Rhys, and all that?”

  “If you please. Madoc Rhys happens to be my real name, by the way.”

  “And you don’t want us to tell Marion, or even Elmer?”

  “Not even Elmer. Believe me, it’s for your own sakes as well as mine that I’m asking.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer any more questions just now.”

  Rhys wasn’t really trying to be enigmatic; he simply needed time to think. He did not care to explain the situation to Gilly Bascom here and now, and he’d much prefer not to tell Dot Fewter anything, ever. No doubt she’d find out fast enough anyway.

  He only wished he knew how this Sam had found out who he was, and why the hired man had been so quick to broadcast the information. Was Sam trying to get a warning to somebody he didn’t dare approach in person? Was the message intended for Rhys himself, a tactful way of letting him know he had a fat chance of getting anywhere in Pitcherville?

  Had the leak come inadvertently from Fred Olson or from Janet herself? Did Neddick have The Sight? There was a lot of Highlander blood in the Maritimes. Rhys felt an eldritch stirring under his own skin. It was a bad sign when a case started going sour like this right at the start.

  Gilly Bascom had, after all, been properly brought up. Realizing Rhys meant what he said about not explaining, she did the right thing and changed the subject. “My mother’s sore at you, Dot. She was expecting you back to clean the bedrooms after Uncle Clarence and Uncle Edgar left.”

  “Oh rats, I clean forgot! An’ that reminds me I left my satchel with my overnight things in it at her house. I’ll have to go back an’ get it. Maybe I can give Janet a hand gettin’ dinner an’ then ast Sam to drive me back down. I could run a mop around for your mother an’ then come back to the Wadmans’ for supper.”

  Dot appeared delighted at the prospect of all this backing and forthing. Not knowing that her jubilation was mainly due to the prospect of getting to eat at the Wadmans’ twice in one day, Rhys deduced that she was anticipating the joy of spreading fresh gossip between the hill and the village. She was her mother’s daughter, no doubt of that. Though probably, he thought with venom, not her father’s.

  He dropped both his passengers at the Mansion and went over to the Wadmans’ alone. At least he could break the bad news before Dot Fewter beat him to the draw. He found Janet sitting out in the porch swing with a book, looking somewhat less beaten.

  “How did you make out with Marion?” she asked. “I saw the pair of you go off together.”

  “Marion was no problem. As for the rest, it’s a bust. Where’s your brother?”

  “Down at the barn milking, I should think. Why, what’s wrong?”

  “I was hoping I might get to him before your hired man does. This Sam chap has told Dot Fewter that I’m a plainclothes policeman, and Dot has told her mother. Have you any idea how he got his information?”

  He was watching the tired, fine-boned face as he spoke, but saw only anger and resignation.

  “It’s my fault,” said Janet bitterly. “I should have warned you about Sam. Don’t ask me how he did it, but I might have known he would. He just picks things out of the air.”

  The haunted look was back. Rhys felt an urge to take her capable little hand and pat it, but discipline is strong in the Force. He gave her a few kind but noncommittal words instead, and headed for the barn. Bert was there, not milking yet but raking straw and manure out of the stalls. He kept his cows as clean as his sister did the kitchen. A decent, thrifty, hard-working lot, the Wadmans.

  “Hi, Cousin Madoc. Come to see how a farmer earns his living?”

  “I don’t have to be shown, thanks. I’ve raked enough muck in my time. You can drop the cousin bit, Bert.”

  “Huh?”

  “Then your man Sam hasn’t got around to telling you yet? Not to beat around the bush, I’m a detective inspector from the RCMP.”

  Bert held the identification card at arm’s length, squinting to read it because his eyeglasses were back at the house. When he handed it back, all he said was, “Does Janet know?”

  “Janet’s the reason I’m here.” As neatly as if he were filing a report, Rhys explained. Bert shook his head in disbelief.

  “Why the hell didn’t she tell me?”

  “She figured you’d be safer not knowing.”

  “Safer? My God, nobody’s after us, are they?”

  “Since you ask me, I’d say it’s entirely possible. Have you any idea where I might find this Sam of yours?”

  “Hell, he’s not mine. Sam’s his own man if anybody ever was. You might try the upper pasture. I’ve been after him to reset some fenceposts there.” He pointed out the way, and Rhys followed it.

  Rhys didn’t really suppose it mattered whether he found Neddick or not. Rhys had run across this sort before, humans with a beast’s awareness but not always an animal’s innate sense of decency. More like wolverines than anything else. He’d learn exactly as much from the hired man as Neddick wanted him to know, and he’d have that information carried to him somehow whether they ever met face-to-face or not.

  Sam Neddick was an unlikely suspect in this case, anyway. If he’d wanted Mrs. Treadway dead, she’d simply have died and there’d be no loose ends left hanging for a
clever woman like Janet Wadman to catch hold of and wonder about. Henry Druffitt’s death might be more Sam’s style, but a handyman ought to know enough to make the right kind of wound.

  On the face of it, this looked to be one of those dumb-luck jobs a scared rabbit like Gilly or a clumsy opportunist like Marion might pull off and maybe succeed in, but he knew better than to form any theory yet. He still had too many unknown factors to resolve, such as Charles Treadway’s patent washtub.

  He wished Elizabeth Druffitt hadn’t been so expert about getting rid of him as soon as Jason Bain showed up. It had been a superb demonstration of what a ruthless, quick-thinking woman could do, though. He could see Elizabeth killing for money except that she apparently didn’t stand to get any and wouldn’t have needed it. Her own parents’ bequest and her thrifty ways ought to keep her eating even though the doctor had turned out so inept at bringing home the bacon.

  With her penchant for family feuds, her tightfistedness, and her domineering ways, Elizabeth Druffitt should in fact make a likelier victim than a murderer. Was somebody trying to get at her by first eliminating the aunt and the husband? It would seem an oddly roundabout approach.

  As Rhys had more or less expected, the upper pasture was empty, although a row of raw fenceposts showed that Sam had been there not long before. A whiskey-jack was giving the job a critical inspection. Rhys watched the Canada jay for a few minutes, then wandered back to the gray hulk of the Mansion. He found Gilly Bascom alone in the house, making beds.

  “Here, let me do that.” Rhys twitched a quilt over the sheets as deftly as any housewife. “There’s a lot of work to a place this size.”

  “And darned little help, I can tell you. Thanks, Madoc.” Gilly pushed a lock of two-toned hair back under her headband. She was still wearing the black velvet ribbon though she’d changed the black dress for a print coverall that would better have suited an older and taller woman.