was at the Mansion long enough to give Marion a ride, he must also have heard the story of the jar. And Sam had brought Marion down to the Druffitts’, where he did chores and knew the layout as well as anybody. And Sam could be the original Invisible Man when he chose. And Sam was a person of dark and devious ways. But why would Sam want to kill Mrs. Treadway, who’d always been so good to him, or Henry Druffitt, with whom he’d remained on friendly enough terms even while he was feuding with Elizabeth?
Suppose, for the sake of argument, Marion Emery’s obsession about a cache of money in the Mansion was no mere fantasy. Suppose the reason she hadn’t been able to find the cache was that it had already been found? Who was better at finding things than Sam, and who but the man who lived on the premises and did odd jobs in the house would be likelier to come across the cache?
What would Mrs. Treadway do if she learned she’d been robbed? She certainly wouldn’t go to Fred Olson; she thought he was about as fit to be marshal as she was to be Prime Minister. She couldn’t talk to Bert or Annabelle because there was always the off chance they might either be guilty or think she was accusing them, and she couldn’t run the risk of antagonizing her only good neighbors. She’d know better than to breathe a word to Sam or Dot, she’d surely suspect Marion, she thought Gilly was a flibbertigibbet, she wasn’t on speaking terms with Elizabeth.
Henry Druffitt was still her doctor, though, and a doctor was a respectable man. Mrs. Treadway might very well have told her story to Henry. If she had, Sam would have known, because Sam had that mysterious way of finding things out.
And Sam might have thought up that stunt with the jars because he’d know that if she hadn’t got around to accusing him yet she would sooner or later, and he might deliberately have left the second one on the shelf after the first had worked so nicely, in the hope that Marion would eat it because Marion was fairly shrewd, too, in her own way, and she was awfully determined about that cache that ought to have been there and wasn’t.
Bert brought her out of her disagreeable musings. “Come on, Jen, you’re asleep on your feet. Let’s get out of here and let these folks go to bed. I daresay we can all use a good night’s rest by now.”
Nobody needed rest more than Janet, but long after the lights had gone out at the Mansion and Bert’s gentle, familiar snore was heard from his and Annabelle’s bedroom down the hall, Janet lay awake, wondering which of them did it.
CHAPTER 5
A S SOON AS JANET had fed Bert his breakfast and got him out of the house, she filled a basket with milk, butter, eggs, bacon, and a loaf of the bread she’d baked two days ago. If she knew Marion Emery, there wasn’t a bite to eat at the Mansion and if she knew Gilly Bascom, there wasn’t a cent to buy anything with. Murderers or not, they had a boy to feed.
Of course, there was always the off chance it was the boy himself who was the murderer. Then again, maybe none of them was. If cold-bloodedness was the prime requisite, Janet would put her own money on Elizabeth Druffitt. Imagine getting at Gilly about where she lived and what she’d live on while her own husband lay stretched out in his coffin! Well, the way things had been going with Henry Druffitt of late, from all reports, maybe his wife didn’t count him all that much of a loss. In any case it wasn’t for her to judge.
“At least I can stop complaining it’s too quiet around here,” Janet remarked to the cat as she picked up her basket. None of them would be up yet over there. She’d just slip in and leave the food on the kitchen table, and save Marion the bother of coming over to bum it later.
In fact, Marion was up, still wearing her aunt’s kimono and curlers, though by now wisps of that dull-black hair were escaping and straggling down her hollow cheeks. She greeted the donation with open
Suppose, for the sake of argument, Marion Emery’s obsession about a cache of money in the Mansion was no mere fantasy. Suppose the reason she hadn’t been able to find the cache was that it had already been found? Who was better at finding things than Sam, and who but the man who lived on the premises and did odd jobs in the house would be likelier to come across the cache?
What would Mrs. Treadway do if she learned she’d been robbed? She certainly wouldn’t go to Fred Olson; she thought he was about as fit to be marshal as she was to be Prime Minister. She couldn’t talk to Bert or Annabelle because there was always the off chance they might either be guilty or think she was accusing them, and she couldn’t run the risk of antagonizing her only good neighbors. She’d know better than to breathe a word to Sam or Dot, she’d surely suspect Marion, she thought Gilly was a flibbertigibbet, she wasn’t on speaking terms with Elizabeth.
Henry Druffitt was still her doctor, though, and a doctor was a respectable man. Mrs. Treadway might very well have told her story to Henry. If she had, Sam would have known, because Sam had that mysterious way of finding things out.
And Sam might have thought up that stunt with the jars because he’d know that if she hadn’t got around to accusing him yet she would sooner or later, and he might deliberately have left the second one on the shelf after the first had worked so nicely, in the hope that Marion would eat it because Marion was fairly shrewd, too, in her own way, and she was awfully determined about that cache that ought to have been there and wasn’t.
Bert brought her out of her disagreeable musings. “Come on, Jen, you’re asleep on your feet. Let’s get out of here and let these folks go to bed. I daresay we can all use a good night’s rest by now.”
Nobody needed rest more than Janet, but long after the lights had gone out at the Mansion and Bert’s gentle, familiar snore was heard from his and Annabelle’s bedroom down the hall, Janet lay awake, wondering which of them did it.
CHAPTER 5
A S SOON AS JANET had fed Bert his breakfast and got him out of the house, she filled a basket with milk, butter, eggs, bacon, and a loaf of the bread she’d baked two days ago. If she knew Marion Emery, there wasn’t a bite to eat at the Mansion and if she knew Gilly Bascom, there wasn’t a cent to buy anything with. Murderers or not, they had a boy to feed.
Of course, there was always the off chance it was the boy himself who was the murderer. Then again, maybe none of them was. If cold-bloodedness was the prime requisite, Janet would put her own money on Elizabeth Druffitt. Imagine getting at Gilly about where she lived and what she’d live on while her own husband lay stretched out in his coffin! Well, the way things had been going with Henry Druffitt of late, from all reports, maybe his wife didn’t count him all that much of a loss. In any case it wasn’t for her to judge.
“At least I can stop complaining it’s too quiet around here,” Janet remarked to the cat as she picked up her basket. None of them would be up yet over there. She’d just slip in and leave the food on the kitchen table, and save Marion the bother of coming over to bum it later.
In fact, Marion was up, still wearing her aunt’s kimono and curlers, though by now wisps of that dull-black hair were escaping and straggling down her hollow cheeks. She greeted the donation with open
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