The Gladstone Bag (5 page)

“In the stomach,” said the older woman. This was really one of the oddest conversations Emma had ever encountered. “Knocked the wind out of him, then ran right over him, just in time to be out from under when the roof fell in. He’d have died anyway, I expect. There wasn’t much left of him by the time that horse got through. Didn’t know any better, poor thing. It’s all right now, except for a big scar on its back.”

“Yes,” Emma had to admit. “I gather, then, that you’re Mrs. Fath?” Not a psychologist, a psychic. Whatever would Adelaide Sabine say to this one?

“That’s right, Alding Fath.” The plump, elderly woman sounded both pleased and, for a wonder, surprised. “You’ve heard of me?”

“You’re on the list Mrs. Sabine gave me. I must get the rest of you sorted out.” Emma turned to the only other woman present, the slim one who’d hoped for a marvel. “You must be Lisbet Quainley.”

“Yes, I am.” It must have occurred to the young woman that she’d shown herself so far as less than amiable; she stood up and held out her hand. “It’s good of you to take over, Mrs. Kelling. Did you really jump out a window?”

“I was demonstrating how to land safely in a firemen’s net,” Emma half-apologized.

“But weren’t you scared?”

“Oh no. It’s quite safe once you know how. It was only a second story window.”

“In a church,” Mrs. Fath amplified.

“Well, yes, but not a very big one. The church stands right up at the top of the village green, which made it the handiest place to hold the demonstration. We set off a smoke bomb for a little extra effect. It was just an easy way of winding up the entertainment and getting more people into the refreshment tent. And you’re”—she decided she might as well try her luck on the man with the jug—“Mr. Sendick?”

Her will must be less forceful than Adelaide Sabine’s, Emma thought. She couldn’t get him to stand up, which would have been the courteous thing to do. At least he put down the jug.

“I am Everard Wont.” He made it sound as if he were announcing the Last Trump.
“Doctor
Everard Wont, if you prefer to employ academic titles in your island pensorium. I am an historian, as you doubtless do not know.”

“Oh, but I do,” Emma told him sweetly. “Your comic history of the old Boston families was priceless! I laughed myself sick all the way through. You have the most delightful gift for the absurd.”

Wont hadn’t written it to be absurd, Emma knew. He’d simply made the mistake of letting some of Cousin Jeremy Kelling’s buddies help with his research. Had the silly man exerted himself to check out his sources, he’d have discovered that any Comrade of the Convivial Codfish could be relied on to come up with a string of artistic and consummate lies, except for one member who was so compulsively and relentlessly truthful that nobody ever believed a word he said.

Wont no doubt had a few lawsuits filed against him by now. Emma couldn’t see what was going on behind the beard, but she surmised it was something not quite nice. He grunted and went back to his jug.

The man next to him, a green-eyed redhead who’d smiled quietly at Emma’s use of the word “absurd,” stood to attention and waited to see whether she would offer to shake hands with him. “I’m Black John Sendick. That’s my real name. My grandfather used to be crazy about some stories that ran in the
Boston Sunday Globe
about a prospector called Black John. The guy who wrote them was named Hendrix, which is sort of like Sendick in a way, so Gramp wanted to name me Black John, too. He was pretty well-off and my mother’s maiden name happened to have been Black anyway, so my parents let him go ahead with it. I’ve thought about dyeing my hair, but I don’t suppose it would do any good.”

“Not unless you dyed your eyes and your freckles, too.” Emma gave him her hand and a smile. “You have an excellent name for a mystery writer, at any rate. That’s what you do, I’m told.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, only it’s sort of more horror than mystery. My first book wasn’t scary enough, I guess. It sank without a shudder, but I’m still trying. I’ve got this really gruesome idea for a plot, only I guess I’d better not talk about it or it might go away.”

“Then we must all look forward to reading your book when it’s finished.”

Emma had no intention of doing anything of the sort if she could help it, but she didn’t want to discourage the young fellow. He couldn’t be over thirty. He was clean, he was articulate, and he made no claim to omniscience. She was grateful for Black John.

“Then by the process of elimination you must be Joris Groot,” she said to the last on the list.

Groot didn’t appear to mind being last. He was a big man, tall and not exactly fat but generously padded. His hair was light, thin, and probably kept plastered down to his scalp when the wind hadn’t been blowing it around. His nose would be peeling in a day or so; people with skin as fair as his should know enough, to wear hats or stay below in the shade. Groot was forty-five or so, Emma judged, and looked like the sort of man who ought to be married by now. She wondered what he’d done with his wife.

“You’re an illustrator, I understand,” she said as they shook hands. “Mrs. Sabine wanted me to tell you that she had a drafting table, a stool, and a little table to hold brushes and things put in your cabin. Is that what you need?”

“Sounds fine to me, long as there’s a decent light to work by.” His voice was a bit on the high and squeaky side for such a big man. “I’ve brought my own art supplies.”

She should hope so! How far did these people suppose the Sabine hospitality stretched? “You’re working on a project now, are you?”

“I just finished illustrating the new catalog for Footsy-Wootsy,” he told her, with no doubt justifiable pride. “Kids’ styles, mostly. I did sixty-seven different pairs of Itsy-Bitsy Footsy-Wootsies.”

Emma didn’t know whether to be impressed or dismayed. Groot was not at all what she’d envisioned an illustrator to be. Were they all a trifle strange, or had she the ill luck to have drawn herself the one exception?

“But surely you’re not planning to draw shoes on Pocapuk?” she ventured.

“Oh no,” he replied. “Feet, maybe, but not just shoes. I’m kind of sick of kids’ sneakers, if you want the truth. I’ve decided to diversify. I’ll be starting the new project as soon as we get something lined up to work with.”

“We?”

“Us,” he amplified. “All of us, I guess. Except him.” Groot nodded toward Count Radunov. “I don’t know where he comes into the picture.”

“Nor do I,” said the count. “What is this picture?”

“Ev’s book. About finding the treasure. Alding’s going to psyche out where to dig, Ev’s going to write a day-by-day account while the digging’s in progress, and I’m going to do the illustrations. Liz is supposed to paint some kind of mood piece for the jacket, and Black John’s got this great idea for a thriller, like he says. It’s a really neat package.”

“So it would seem. Does Mrs. Sabine know what you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. I think Ev was intending to surprise her.”

“You’ve certainly surprised me.”

Emma hadn’t expected the first bomb to drop quite this soon. Ought she to let Adelaide know right away about this cheeky proposition or wait and see whether anything came of it, which seemed unlikely to the ultimate degree. The worst that could happen, she supposed, was that Wont or one of his associates would leak word of a treasure hunt to the media for the sake of advance publicity, and they’d get a horde of sightseers trying to invade the island.

Even that mightn’t be a total disaster. Vincent and his helpers could keep them from actually landing, she supposed. Adelaide’s family didn’t care much what happened to Pocapuk; it was too remote, too quiet, it cost too much to keep going. The Pence family compound in Connecticut suited them all much better. As soon as the old lady was in her grave, they’d be putting the island on the market; perhaps it would be wiser to sell before she went and save the inheritance tax. Some extra publicity and the hope that springs eternal whenever the subject of pirate treasure arises might enable the Pences to make a real killing on the property. She’d better not panic just yet.

“That sounds most interesting,” she said. “I shan’t interfere unless it becomes necessary. Naturally it will be in your best interests as well as Mrs. Sabine’s to keep the project a secret, and of course you won’t go rooting about digging holes in the property until you’ve received permission and we’ve made sure it won’t be detrimental in any way to the buildings, the gardens, or the septic tank. There’s a caretaker, I’m told, who’ll be able to set you straight on what’s allowable and what isn’t.”

Wont set down his jug with a thump and glared at her through his beard. “Is that what you call noninterference, Mrs. Kelling? May I remind you that this is
my
project?”

Emma could be very much the grande dame when she chose. “And must I remind you, Mr. Wont, that Pocapuk is not your island? Doesn’t it occur to you that you’ve been remarkably high-handed in organizing your treasure hunt without so much as dropping Mrs. Sabine a hint as to what you were planning to do? Were you others aware that Mr. Wont hadn’t bothered to get any sort of authorization from the owner before involving you in his project?”

“Ev said it would be all right,” Groot mumbled.

“Mrs. Sabine did invite us to come,” Lisbet Quainley put in. “I got a nice note from her.”

While this discussion was going on, Mrs. Fath had been carefully unwrapping a stick of sugarless gum she’d taken from her capacious blue canvas handbag. She doubled it over, popped it into her mouth, chewed twice, and made her pronouncement. “The old lady won’t care. She’s made up her mind to sell the place anyway.”

That was probably so, but Emma wasn’t going to let this spooky, middle-aged frump make up her mind for her. “In that case, it would be doubly important for us to leave everything in salable condition,” she said.

“Please understand that I see no objection to your painting or writing; I gather the Pocapuk legend has already been well publicized. I don’t expect Mrs. Sabine will mind, either, though I have a feeling she thinks it’s a pack of nonsense, as such tales usually are. I’ve been told this island has been dug over without result a number of times in the past, so I frankly don’t see why you think you’ll be any luckier than your predecessors. However, I’m quite aware that imaginative authors don’t always need much in the way of factual material to come up with their results.”

Emma smiled ever so sweetly at Everard Wont. “And now I think we’d better get our luggage together. This must be Pocapuk we’re coming to.”

The ferry was slowing, changing course. A line of rock and pine trees not much bigger than a few of the uninhabited islets they’d passed on their way was coming closer. Now Emma could see a pier and somebody on it, not waving, just standing there. The island wasn’t all that low; she could see a knoll rising in a gentle sweep from the pier. The last time she’d come, the house had been out in plain sight. Now the pines had grown so that she caught only an occasional glimpse of brown-stained wood through their branches.

Emma couldn’t see any of the cottages. They were all on the back side of the house, where there’d been and probably still was a stony little cove to bathe in if anybody cared to brave the icy water. One really did feel something of a thrill docking at an island of which one was to be suzerain, if only for a little while. Emma did hope Everard Wont wasn’t going to make a nuisance of himself. It was too bad she’d been forced to put him in his place in front of the others, but there was no earthly use trying to be tactful with an arrogant boor. Emma wondered whether Adelaide had ever run into a similar circumstance.

She also wondered whether it was one of this crowd who’d taken her Gladstone bag and ditched it in the men’s room. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Count Radunov had been both taker and finder. He mustn’t have known then that she was coming to Pocapuk, too; he’d simply have spotted an elderly woman who might be a widow with tangible assets and decided on general principles to give her the old school try.

Radunov would be an agreeable antidote to Everard Wont, anyway. She wondered if the no doubt self-styled count was really planning to write a book. Why shouldn’t he be? Most people were, and far too many of them did.

The ferry was reversing its engines now, gliding into the dock. The man—it was indeed a man, and a big one—was raising his arms to catch the line a deck hand was about to throw. Emma glanced around at her windblown, sunburned group of fellow travelers, said in her customary dinner-party manner, “Shall we?” and started down. She had no intention of letting Everard Wont usurp the lead.

Adelaide had promised to telephone Vincent and let him know about the change in plans. She must have done so, for the husky middle-aged man in the clean plaid shirt and khaki work pants didn’t act a bit surprised to see Emma in place of his employer.

“How do you do,” she said. “You must be Vincent.”

“That’s right, and you’re Mrs. Kelling. Got the whole gang with you, eh?”

“Yes, though I didn’t know it until we’d made the last stop before this one. Mrs. Sabine told me you’d have the cottages ready. I’m sure everyone would like to get settled right away.”

“Ayup, we’ll take care of ’em. You go straight on up to the house, Mrs. Kelling. One of the girls will help you unpack; your bags are all stowed in your room. The rest of you folks, dump your stuff on the cart and follow me. I’ve got the list of who goes where. Here, ma’am, I’ll take that for you.”

Since the men and Miss Quainley were all loaded with portable typewriters, cameras, portfolios, paint boxes, folding easels, and other tools of their respective trades, Mrs. Fath had been left to struggle along with a gargantuan blue vinyl suitcase, two paper shopping bags crammed to the ripping point, and a small, squarish hand piece. That must be what she carried her crystal ball in, Emma thought.

“Then I’ll see you all in the main house at six o’clock. I believe that’s the customary gathering time, Vincent?”

“That’s how we’ve always done it. Drinks at six, dinner at seven. You manage that satchel all right, Mrs. Kelling?”