The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (22 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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T
he exterior of the Ashley farmhouse looked serene, glowing in the last rays of the afternoon sun. There was even a thread of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. Agatha must be using the old fireplace. But as Fenimore drew up to the front door, he felt anything but serene. Every nerve was taut as he prepared to meet the assemblage on the other side.
Peter's red Porsche was already parked in the driveway at a rakish angle. Next to it stood the gray Pontiac. Half in and half out of the field sprawled the yellow Saab, matching the petals of the black-eyed susans nearby. It was Fenimore's strong opinion that a person's car revealed as much about them as their clothes, their home, or even their wallet. He was not alone in this theory. He had once worked on a case with a clever lawyer who had told him that he wished he could check out the prospective jurors' cars, because their style, price, make, and bumper stickers would tell him more about their personalities and political leanings than a face-to-face interview.
Fenimore quickly analyzed the owners of the cars before him. Red Porsche—a young man on the make trying to impress the female half of the population; gray Pontiac—a middle-aged man,
who had achieved a safe niche in society and intended to preserve it; yellow Saab—a man approaching mid-life with regrets, desiring a last fling. Fenimore was struck by an unpleasant thought. What did his own beat-up Chevy reveal about him? Fortunately he had no time to explore this question. Tom's Jeep sprang into his rearview mirror and bumped to a halt behind him. The owner of this disreputable vehicle, Fenimore decided, was a young man who cared nothing for status or appearances, but required transportation to get him where he wanted to go. (Not unlike himself, he reflected.) Tom was the first out. Then Rafferty. With a sigh, Susan opened her door. Fenimore joined them. Together they entered the farmhouse.
The living room was empty. All the tea paraphernalia had been removed. Only the white cloth remained, bearing a few purple stains from spilled punch. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen. Fenimore bid the others stay in the living room while he went to investigate.
Oliver looked up first. He was seated at the kitchen table with a tumbler full of something resembling fruit juice. Knowing Oliver, Fenimore knew better. He was still in his clericals. He had returned directly from the baptism to learn the latest news of his sick friend. “How is she?” he asked quickly.
Miss Cunningham and Amory were seated with their backs to Fenimore. They had switched from tea to coffee after Mrs. Ashley had been taken away, and they now sat with their empty cups before them. Agatha was stoking a wood fire in the old brick fireplace. A chill had come into the room, despite the season. Horatio was watching her. When Fenimore came in, they all turned and looked at him expectantly.
“She's better,” he answered Oliver. “Thanks to an intelligent intern, I think she's going to be all right.” He watched them carefully. Relief crossed every face. But relief from what? Fear for Lydia's life? Or their own?
“Where is Susan?” Agatha's next thought was for her younger charge.
“In the living room with the others.”
She bustled out to find her.
It was Fenimore's turn to ask a question. “Has anyone heard from Mrs. Doyle?”
“We thought she was with you.” Oliver spoke for all of them. “She went to the hospital with Lydia.”
“I know,” said Fenimore, “but after she got there, she disappeared. I searched the hospital and finally notified the police.”
“How dreadful.” Miss Cunningham made a concerned clucking noise. She was staring hard at Fenimore.
“I thought she might have called … .” Their blank expressions destroyed all Fenimore's hopes.
“Why, you're that doctor from the Strawberry Festival!” Miss Cunningham announced.
Fenimore turned and went back to the living room. Horatio followed him. “What d'ya think happened to her?” he asked.
“Do you have any ideas?” He looked at him keenly.
Horatio frowned, remembering belatedly that Doyle was one of the women he had been sent to south Jersey to look after. He shook his head.
Susan's two boyfriends were sitting on opposite sides of the room, avoiding eye contact. Susan had collapsed on the love seat under the stairs, which provided a semi-shelter from the two youths. Rafferty was examining a wall map of south Jersey. As Fenimore came up, the detective said, “This Ashley River has more curves than Marilyn Monroe. No wonder the pirates liked it.”
“The kids,” Fenimore nodded at Peter and Susan, “have been searching for treasure in some of those coves.”
Tom snorted.
Fenimore turned at the sound. “You don't believe in it?”
“The chances of finding any are one in a million. The Ashley River has a thousand coves and inlets, any one of which might hold treasure, but it would take a lifetime to explore a handful of them and you'd have to spend several treasures on equipment and divers. It's not worth it.”
Peter looked as if he were about to challenge him, when the group from the kitchen began to come in, led by Agatha with a steaming kettle. The next few minutes were taken up with serving and receiving the perennial tea. Although assured of Mrs. Ashley's progress, no one seemed in a hurry to leave. Fenimore went to the phone to call the Salem police department for word of Mrs. Doyle. No word. As he replaced the receiver, a brilliant flash of light filled the room, followed by a thunderous roar. The house quivered. Everyone exchanged terrified glances.
Fenimore led the rush to the window. What they saw caused a mutual gasp. The sky at the horizon glowed with orange flames. With one accord, they ran out of the house and into the field for a better view. But it wasn't until Jenks appeared, racing from the barn, that they learned what had happened.
“It's the cottage at the old wharf?” he cried. “It blew up!”
S
usan and Peter were the most shaken. They had been at the old wharf that morning. They had walked on its rotting boards and dived near its decaying pilings. Had the explosive been there while they were diving nearby? Susan shivered.
Peter, preoccupied with his own feelings, turned back to the house. On the way, he began fabricating a plausible excuse for returning to town as soon as possible. Tom, appearing at Susan's side, placed his arm around her. She looked up. “We were there this morning,” she said.
“I know.” He turned her firmly away from the blaze and walked her back to the house.
Rafferty looked from the fiery sky to Fenimore for enlightenment. He was disappointed. All Fenimore said was, “Better call the fire department.”
He had barely uttered the words when the familiar sound of sirens came to them from across the field. Flashing red lights could be seen moving rapidly along the road toward the flames.
Struck simultaneously by one idea, Fenimore and Rafferty broke into a run. They ran around the farmhouse and skidded to a stop at the edge of the new wharf. Cautiously, they moved out
onto the dock. On this side of the house, it could have been any summer evening—dark, peaceful. The bulk of the farmhouse blocked the bright glow of the fire, and the only sounds were the soft lap of water against the pilings, and the katydids.
Rafferty played his flashlight over the water and down the sides of the pilings. No signs of another explosive device. Relieved, they started back to the house.
It was Fenimore who noticed the reeds move. At first he thought it was the wind. But there was no wind. “Shine your light over here, Raff!” he ordered.
Rafferty illuminated a patch of tall, feathery reeds that were swaying violently.
“Who's there?” Fenimore cried.
Rafferty drew his gun.
More heaving and shuddering of reeds. They parted. Into the circle of light emerged a face. Bits of twigs and grass sprouted from it, and mud covered it. But it was definitely a face. And a familiar face at that.
“Doyle!” Fenimore almost fell into the water. “What are you doing here?” Given the circumstances, even he realized it was a ridiculous question.
Rafferty confirmed this. “Why don't you take her coat and ask if she wants to stay for tea?” He was already reaching for Mrs. Doyle's hand to help her up the bank.
“But where have you been? Why didn't you call us? We've been worried sick.” He couldn't keep the peevish note out of his voice.
Mrs. Doyle didn't answer. Even with the aid of Rafferty's strong arm she was having trouble struggling up the slippery bank. She was clutching some object in her other hand. Fenimore finally stopped talking and grabbed her arm. Once on land, Rafferty swept his flashlight beam over her. She was a sorry sight.
In the dark she had resembled a rampaging sea monster. In the light she looked more like a middle-aged mermaid. Reeds and grass protruded from her ears and hair. Her clothes were torn and dripping. As she moved forward they saw her ample legs—
scratched and bleeding—destroying the mermaid illusion completely. Misreading Fenimore's expression, Mrs. Doyle said grimly, “One laugh and I'll kill you.”
“And I'll provide the means,” Rafferty added, cheerfully patting the gun he had just returned to its holster.
Fenimore's impulse to laugh had been inspired by relief, not amusement. He hastily controlled himself. Relieving Mrs. Doyle of her mysterious object, he took her other hand and asked, “What is this?”
“A metal detector,” Rafferty said quickly.
Together the two men led the nurse gently through the darkness to the farmhouse.
E
ntering through the back door, they found the kitchen empty. The two men bustled about like a couple of nannies. Fenimore dampened paper towels at the sink to wash off the mud, while Rafferty removed the debris from Doyle's hair. At her direction, Fenimore went up the back stairs, found her room, and returned with her bathrobe and slippers. Rafferty located the brandy. For the second time that week, Mrs. Doyle took a deep swig for medicinal purposes. Gradually she began to look her old self again; the solid Irish battle-ax whom Fenimore revered. He dared to ask the all-encompassing question: “What happened?”
She settled back and began her tale. She recounted being locked in the ambulance and driving for miles; the blow on her head; waking in darkness to find her hands tied; the conversation between the two men; her conclusion that her future was not bright; her Houdini rope trick; breaking open the closet door; her discovery of the hole, the backhoe, the soil sifting equipment—and the dynamite.
The doctor and the policeman remained riveted, their eyes never leaving her face. She paused.
“Go on,” they urged in unison.
She held out her brandy glass. Rafferty hastily refilled it.
“I didn't waste any time. I didn't know when those two thugs would be back to finish me off.” (Somehow the TV vernacular sounded just right to Fenimore this time.) “But there was no electricity. After a search I found a candle and a match. Once I had light, I began to look for a way out. By then, I'd realized that my prison was the Ashley cottage. And I remembered from my earlier visit that it was solid brick, and every window and door was boarded up on the outside. I'd already bruised my shoulder breaking down one door.” Gingerly, she touched her shoulder and winced. “I wasn't about to bruise the other. I decided on another tack. One of the hoods had mentioned a tunnel, and I was sure I'd heard them go down some steps carrying something heavy. But there was no cellar door. I tried to remember the sounds the men had made as they were leaving. A scraping. A thump. Muffled footsteps. I got down on my hands and knees, and with my candle examined every inch of that floor for a trapdoor. The wax kept dripping on my hand … .” She spread her fingers to show them her burns. “And I got plenty of splinters.” She raised the hem of her bathrobe, revealing her splinter-filled knees. “I was about to give up when, in a far corner of the room, I noticed a slender crack in the floor. It was no wider than a piece of string, but it was a crack all right. I looked everywhere for something to pry it open with. Something narrow enough to fit in the crack, but strong enough to raise the trapdoor. I spied a heavy shovel. It was strong enough, but it was too thick to fit in the crack. I sat back on my heels and stared at the door—willing it to open. Slowly, before my eyes, the door began to rise by itself.”
The two men leaned forward.
“When it had risen about three inches, in the dark space between the door and the floor, I saw the flame of my candle reflected back at me—twice. In a pair of eyes. The trapdoor slid to one side and a man's face looked up at me. His surprised expression must have mirrored my own. I grabbed the shovel that still
lay beside me and whacked him right on the skull. Because I was above him, I had the advantage. He fell down the stairs.”
The two men relaxed.
“I had dropped the candle to pick up the shovel. I didn't dare take time to look for it and relight it. I made the rest of my escape in the dark. I stumbled down the slippery steps and tripped over the man I had just clobbered. I picked myself up and felt my way along a passageway of slimy, rough stone, in water up to my ankles.
“Phoebe's tunnel,” Fenimore murmured.
“Yes,” Doyle agreed. “I was right about the tunnel. I thought if I followed it, it might lead me to the river. It seemed to go on for miles and to take hours. But it was probably only a dozen yards and a few minutes. Finally I detected a faint gleam ahead. Gradually the gleam grew brighter. As I made my way toward it, all I could think of were those stories about people who die on the operating table and are then revived.”
“Near-death experiences,” said Fenimore.
“They all say the same thing. They seem to be floating down a dark tunnel toward a bright light. But there was one difference. They said they felt a tug backward to where they had been. Not me. I raced toward that light. As I drew nearer I could see the edge of the old wharf—and water. Pink water, reflecting the setting sun. I stepped out into a beautiful twilight.”
Mrs. Doyle paused for breath. “But once outside,” she went on, “I became nervous again. I remembered that—alive—I was a threat to my captors because I knew too much. I didn't know how long the man I'd hit over the head would stay out, or whether he had friends lurking nearby. I also remembered the sniper of my last visit. Instead of taking the quickest route back to the Ashley farmhouse, which would have been straight across the field—as the crow flies—I decided I'd better take the longer route, following the river, which offered better cover with its camouflage of reeds and bulrushes.”
“Phragamices,” Fenimore couldn't resist injecting the botanical name.
“Of course,” she ignored him, “it was a terrible trip and it took forever. The bank was muddy and there were burrs and thorns as well as bulrushes. And mosquitoes! Then I got this crazy idea that there were leeches! I knew the Ashley River had been around in colonial times, and since leeches were used back then, I was suddenly sure the river was full of them. That horrible scene from
African Queen
suddenly came to my mind. When Humphrey Bogart was covered with leeches and began tearing them off.” She shuddered. “But I didn't run into any. I was also afraid of losing my way. In the beginning I used the smoke from the Ashley chimney as a guide. But as it grew dark, I couldn't see it anymore.” She came to a full stop. “Then there was the explosion.” Her expression told them the full extent of her terror.
“Please, Mrs. Doyle,” Rafferty prodded.
“That's all,” she said. “Right after that I saw your flashlight bobbing in the bulrushes. I heard the doctor's voice. And I felt as if I'd reached heaven.” She sighed.
Fenimore patted her arm. Rafferty poured her more brandy.
“How is Mrs. Ashley?” she asked suddenly.
“She's stable. I think she'll make it,” Fenimore said.

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