Lethal Legend (21 page)

“Did Professor Winthrop know Miss Dunbar?” Diana asked. He’d
said
he’d never met her in person, only heard about the “ruckus” she’d caused.

A wash of red swept up Paul Carstairs’s face. “Oh, they know each other, all right.”

“Really?” Diana fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Do I sense a story there?”

Carstairs’s color deepened. “It’s not my place to say, Mrs. Spaulding. If you want the details of their ... dispute, you’ll have to ask Miss Dunbar. Or Professor Winthrop.”

Ben clapped the other man on the shoulder in a companionable way, but he left his hand there, forcing the issue. “Why don’t you come inside, Carstairs. You look as if you’re about to pass out.”

Between them, Ben and Diana all but hauled him into the hotel lobby and sat him down next to a potted plant. It gave the illusion of privacy.

“We have concerns about this excavation of Miss Dunbar’s, Carstairs, the more so since Frank Ennis’s death. Is Miss Dunbar a legitimate archaeologist or not?”

“She’s had some training. Almost a year at the Peabody.” He fiddled nervously with his collar, then blurted out the truth: “She’s a crackpot. Always has been. Her theories are bogus.”

“Is that why she had to leave the Peabody, Mr. Carstairs?”

His voice dropped so low as to be almost inaudible. “She claimed she had proof of a pre-Columbian European settlement somewhere in New England, but she wouldn’t produce it.”

“She didn’t mention Keep Island?”

“Not back then.” Looking even more miserable, Carstairs added, “Professor Winthrop accused her of trying to perpetrate a hoax. She left in disgrace.”

“Is that what you think? That she made the whole thing up?”

“I think she’s deluded herself into believing she’ll find something, but no one else thinks she’ll make any discoveries on Keep Island. There’s nothing there and never was.”

“Then why are you working for her?”

“I needed a job.” Carstairs sagged in his chair, his face as mournful as a bloodhound’s. “No one else would hire me after my accident. They don’t trust me to pull my own weight. And before you ask, that’s why I agreed to meet with Professor Winthrop today, too. I’ve asked him to help me find other work. He was a top man in his field before he retired.”

“I thought you said he asked you to meet him?” Diana cut in.

Carstairs nodded. “That’s right. Gave me my chance.”

“Why did he want to see you?”

The question made Carstairs edgy again. “He had questions about the excavation,” he mumbled. “Wanted to know about the dive. How Ennis died. What’s being done to find his killer.” Carstairs raked distraught fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “I’ve got to go. Got to find someone to take me back to Keep Island before dark.”

“How did you get here?” Diana asked as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet.

“Mrs. Monroe was on her way to Islesborough to visit a sick friend, so I went that far with her in Mr. Somener’s boat. Then I caught the
Electra
to Belfast. I really have to go!”

Neither Diana nor Ben tried to stop him, but he was almost running by the time he reached the hotel door. “Why do you suppose he was so nervous?”

“It’s his natural disposition.” Ben’s tone was dry. “The Moxie Nerve Food doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“What sort of injuries did he sustain on his last expedition?”

“Broken bones. Infection. It took him a long time to recover. You can still see the effects. Then he was poisoned. Add in Ennis’s death and I’m not surprised he’s jumpy.”

“He knows someone murdered Ennis.”

“Seems to. Do you want to talk to Professor Winthrop now?”

Diana frowned. “I don’t think so. There’s a more reliable way to find out which one of them is lying. I will send another telegram to the director of the Peabody Museum. This time I will be more specific about what I want to know and why.”

The Western Union Telegraph Company was situated on the corner of Main and High, quite near the hotel. The same operator they’d spoken to on their last visit to Belfast obligingly dispatched Diana’s somewhat lengthy and therefore very expensive message.

“I trust you’ve received no more threats, Mrs. Spaulding.”

“None, thank goodness. Have you remembered any more about the person you saw?”

“As I told you before, it was just a shadow. A silhouette. Then I found the message to you and the money to pay to send it.”

“And you’ve no sense of whether it was a man or a woman?”

The operator’s face scrunched up with the effort to remember. “A man, I think, though I could not swear to it. The shape was bulky.”

Diana described Lucien Winthrop, then Paul Carstairs, but neither description sparked any recognition. “I don’t suppose the man might have been wearing a greatcoat with two small capes attached?” She threw out the question as an afterthought, not because she really thought that the mysterious stranger would turn out to be Justus Palmer.

“A tweed greatcoat?”

“Why, yes. Never tell me he—”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t the man who sent the telegram, but I did see someone wearing a coat like that here in Belfast just a few days ago. Most unusual, I thought, for the season, although it was a damp evening. Still, I don’t believe he was wearing it because he felt cold. He did not wear a hat, you see.” A faint tinge of pink colored the telegraph operator’s cheeks. “I couldn’t help but notice that he had very dark hair and an interesting physiognomy.”

Unfortunately, she could not recall the precise date when she’d seen the Boston detective. Diana wasn’t sure why that was important, or even
if
it was, but Palmer’s presence in Belfast did strike her as peculiar.

* * * *

They caught the 8 A.M. train the next morning, Saturday, which had them in Bangor, after a change of trains at Burnham Junction, at 11:49. At the house, a stack of letters awaited them. In among several acceptances of their wedding invitations was a letter from the Peabody Museum. It was not a reply to Diana’s most recent telegram. There had not been time to answer that by mail.

Her face drained of color as she read the missive. Without comment, she handed the single sheet of embossed stationary to Ben. He scanned the page in growing consternation, feeling as if he’d been slammed into a wall by the time he was through. The letter had been signed by Frederick Putnam, director of the Peabody Museum, and was his account of the events in 1885 that had led to Serena’s departure ... and to Winthrop’s. 

“She wasn’t lying,” Diana said in a shaky voice. “Winthrop was. He stole one of her discoveries and claimed it as his own. Oh, Ben! What have we done?”

The previous evening, they’d discussed what they’d learned from Carstairs and decided that even if Serena had studied archaeology, as Carstairs claimed, she had still left the profession under a cloud. Winthrop might have lied about knowing her and Carstairs personally—out of a desire to disassociate himself from their ilk, perhaps?—but he had apparently told the truth about her departure from the Peabody. In essence, they’d concluded, nothing had changed. There had been no reason to try to stop what they had set in motion by talking to Lincoln Gilkey and Joseph Sprague.   

Sick at heart, Ben mentally rearranged the pieces of the puzzle. He’d gotten it backwards, and because he’d stubbornly clung to the wrong theory, it was now too late to right the wrong he’d done Graham. There was no way to send a telegram to either Keep Island or Islesborough. The closest Western Union office was in Belfast, and by the time a telegram sent there was conveyed by boat, it would arrive too late to do any good.

Ben sank down into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. If he’d been right about Serena, Graham might eventually have forgiven him for interfering. Little hope of that now! “She told me she had rivals,” he said in a wooden voice. “And that there was one archaeologist in particular who’d like to see her fail.”

Diana’s brows knit together in concern for him. “You acted with good intentions.”

“I suspected Serena because I didn’t want to believe Graham could be a murderer. I still don’t think he is, but I should have considered other possibilities.”

“It made sense that Serena should be a confidence woman.” Ben heard the stubborn note in Diana’s voice. “That was my theory, not yours. And it may still be valid. All we now know for certain is that she did not lie about spending time as a serious student of archaeology at the Peabody and that she was taken advantage of by an unscrupulous professor. She’s still advancing a crackpot theory. Remember what Carstairs said.”

“We know more than that.” Ben’s hands clenched on the crumpled letter. “We know Winthrop deliberately mislead us. We know he was responsible for ruining Serena’s chance to complete her formal training. He made false accusations against her.”

He held up a hand to stop her protest that they didn’t know for certain that the accusations were false. Putnam’s letter revealed Winthrop’s guilt but did not clear Serena. In all likelihood, he did not believe there was anything to be found on Keep Island either, but that was neither here nor there.

“Most important,” Ben concluded, “we know that our interference prevented my oldest friend from marrying the woman he loves.”

“Serena is—”

“I should never have meddled.” He’d allowed his concern for Graham the former patient to blind him to the needs of Graham the man.

Tears brimmed Diana’s eyes. “You did what you thought best, Ben. And you cannot be sure that it wasn’t. We have to continue searching until we find out what’s really afoot on Keep Island, until we discover who really did kill Frank Ennis.”

“That could be difficult if we’re kept off Keep Island at gunpoint.” Graham wasn’t likely to let Ben back onto his property, let alone into his life.

Maggie Northcote’s screech cut off any reply Diana might have made. “Ah hah! I thought I heard someone out here in the hall!”

Elmira was right behind her. “What were you two thinking of to stay away so long? Did you mean to leave me alone to entertain that dreadful old man? Fine kettle of fish that would have been.”

“Oh, Lord!” Diana moaned. “I completely forgot. This is the day my grandfather and Aunt Janette are scheduled to arrive.”

“It is the day they have already arrived,” Maggie corrected her, “on the morning train. They’ve been here for ages. Now come along. I need your advice on my menu.”

Diana obediently followed her, but Ben did not. It was cowardly, he knew, but he did not feel capable of dealing with family just now, his or hers. “I’ve got to check my surgery,” he mumbled, and before anyone could stop him, he was back outside and in the doctor’s buggy he’d left under the
porte cochere
.

He wallowed in guilt all the way to his office. What he had done to Graham was unforgivable.

There were no patients waiting and his surgery had a stale and dusty smell. That very emptiness put an abrupt end to Ben’s brooding. The decision he’d been agonizing over for months was suddenly not at all difficult to make. He might have made some mistakes of late, but he was not about to make another one. It was time to shut down his practice. He would sell it to another doctor and move on.

Both his training and his inclination had long urged him to focus on the area where he could do most good. Because of Aaron’s precarious mental state, he’d made himself an expert in the care and treatment of the insane. The likelihood that he’d failed to diagnose Graham Somener correctly only fueled his determination to do better. He would learn from the best, study until he was certain his patients had the best care available, the best hope of a cure.

At his desk, he began to make notes. This transition would have to be orderly. More than that, he had to marshal his arguments before he told Diana what he intended to do. He’d need her support if he was to succeed. 

The hours sped by. Ben was just collecting the pages he’d covered with his bold scrawl and stretching stiff muscles when there was a rapping at the back door. Captain Amos Cobb stood there, a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“Mr. Somener wanted you to have this,” he said. “Sent me on special, all the way upriver from Bucksport to deliver it.”

 Ben was almost afraid to read the message. Lincoln Gilkey had said he’d known Graham a long time. It only made sense that whether he’d refused to issue the marriage license or not, he’d told Graham about Ben and Diana’s visit. Ben expected a scathing condemnation.

Instead the paper was an invitation to visit Mr. and Mrs. Graham Somener “at home” on Keep Island. “I’ve decided you meant well with your warning,” Graham had written. “All is forgiven. How can I hold a grudge when I am now a happily married man? We were wed on Islesborough earlier today by John Pendleton Farrow, J.P.”

Under Captain Amos Cobb’s incredulous gaze, Ben began to laugh. There were
two
justices of the peace on Islesborough. The possibility had never even occurred to him. And Clat—poor, simple, short-for-Clarence-Clat—hadn’t seen any reason to volunteer more than the one name when Ben had asked him who performed marriages.

* * * *

To Diana’s relief, everyone seemed to be behaving themselves. At least no one was at daggers drawn. Without being asked, Ed Leeves, Diana’s recently acquired stepfather, had undertaken the Herculean task of reining in his bride’s tendency to bait Maggie and snipe at the Torrences.

He’d also befriended her grandfather. She was pleased to see Isaac Torrence so chipper, especially after such a long journey by train. His shoulders might be stooped, his hands gnarled and latticed with thick blue veins, but he was plainly enjoying himself, even laughing at a slightly risqué remark made by the flaxen-haired, black-eyed gambler who’d married his former daughter-in-law.

After supper, which Ben inexplicably missed, Torrence disappeared into the library, still chatting amiably with Leeves. Aside from the fact that the latter owned gambling dens, parlor houses, and saloons—the kind where men drank, not the genteel parlors found on steamers—and wore two inch heels on his boots to make him taller, he was a perfectly presentable gentleman. And, as Diana had somewhat belatedly remembered, he’d originally come from the same area of New York State as her relatives. His sister still lived there. No doubt he and her grandfather could find any number of benign topics of conversation. She hoped so. If she had her way, Isaac Torrence would never learn that Elmira had ended up owning a Denver parlor house, or why, nor would he ever find out what a thoroughgoing villain Diana’s father had been.