The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Read online

  “Shit,” said Horatio.

  For once, the boy’s favorite expletive was fitting.

  While they scraped off the black goo with leaves and twigs, Fenimore said, “I guess the only way to see this property is by boat.”

  Unfortunately, this remote part of south Jersey did not abound in boat rentals. If you wanted a boat you either bought one—or built one. This would take some thought. Disconsolately, they made their way back to the car.

  To relieve his depressed mood, Fenimore decided to visit another patient-friend who owned a farm in the neighborhood: Lydia Ashley. One of the perks of Fenimore’s profession was an abundance of elderly female patients. It was unfortunate that men died sooner. But Fenimore enjoyed women—and especially seasoned ones. Like fine wine, they aged well. He had a whole coterie of favorite female friend-patients who readily returned his affection. Platonically, of course.

  “When do we eat?” Horatio asked, turning the music up full blast.

  “I’m getting to that,” Fenimore roared over the din.

  The road to Lydia’s farm took them through the village of Winston, a colonial town nestled beside the Ashley River. The town was divided by a wide street lined on either side by ancient sycamores. It was one of the few streets that bore a sign, but not a very helpful one: Ye Greate Street, it was called. Because Winston was off the beaten track, it had escaped the sanitizing effect of historic preservation. It had the worn, lived-in look of a colonial town still occupied by the descendents of its founders. Some houses were in need of paint and some yards sported swing-sets and barbecue grills.

  Outside the town, they soon came upon a rusty vine-covered gate bearing a wooden sign. Although the letters were faded, the words Ashley Farm were still legible. The driveway consisted of two parallel ruts divided by a tangle of grass and weeds. Hitting an especially bad rut, Fenimore winced.

  “You need shocks,” Horatio reproved him.

  Unlike most doctors, Fenimore drove second-hand cars and ran them into the ground. No wonder his colleagues, who would drive nothing but the latest Audi or Lexus, considered him eccentric. A “maverick,” they called him.

  Through a clump of trees he caught sight of a brick farmhouse. As they drew nearer, they made out a design on the north wall. Fenimore halted. A complex pattern of diagonals and floral flourishes had been worked into the red brick with blue bricks. This intricate design was crowned by a pair of initials—J & A—and the date, 1724. He was reminded of a medieval tapestry. But these colonial craftsmen had substituted bricks for fine thread. Then he remembered—the houses in this area were famous for their “patterned brick ends.” A longtime admirer of brickwork, this sight almost made up for the disappointment with his bequest.

  “What’s that?” Horatio asked.

  “That’s a fine example of the artistry of our first settlers.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Could you shut that thing off,” Fenimore glared at his box. “We’re nearing civilization.”

  With a groan Horatio obeyed.

  As Fenimore drove his car around the corner of the farmhouse and parked, he wondered fleetingly what Lydia Ashley would make of his companion. He fervently hoped the boy would watch his language. As they got out, they were met by a mixture of scents—newly-turned soil, freshly-cut hay, and a hint of salt from the bay. To city dwellers, this was heady stuff—as intoxicating as a stiff drink. Inhaling deeply, Fenimore cast his eye toward the river. Whenever he arrived at a new place, he instinctively took stock of his surroundings. In the city, he noted alleys, fire escapes, and exit signs. In the country, he looked for hedgerows, gates, and ditches. As a part-time detective, he knew escape routes often came in handy. So did Horatio, for reasons of his own.

  The bank leading down to the river was thick with violets and buttercups. Below, at the water’s edge, lay a wharf with a motorboat moored beside it. (Maybe Lydia would lend it to him one day.) About a hundred yards from the house stood a barn with a tractor parked nearby. Downriver, in the far corner of the field, he could just make out a smaller brick cottage.

  “What’s that stink?” Horatio wrinkled his nose.

  Fenimore took another deep breath. This time the country air was not so fresh—tainted by a different scent. Stench was more like it. He scanned the field for signs of a garbage pit. Trash collection, he knew, was a luxury of the city and suburbs. Another breath, and he identified the odor. “Rancid meat,” he declared. Once he had read a newspaper account about a haunted house. The hauntees had claimed that each appearance of their ghost had been preceded by the smell of rancid meat. The owner, who happened to be an ordained minister, had stated: ‘If evil had an odor, I’m sure this would be it.’

  “There must be a garbage pit nearby,” he told Horatio. Careful not to breathe too deeply, Fenimore led the way toward the house. Horatio followed, holding his nose.

  The Doctor Takes a House Tour

  CHAPTER 3

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Framed in the upper half of her Dutch doorway, Lydia Ashley looked like one of her Puritan ancestors.

  “I’m sorry, Lydia. I should have called first. But I was in the neighborhood, and …”

  “Nonsense. You came at the perfect time.” She glanced at Horatio.

  Noting thankfully that the boy had let go of his nose, Fenimore introduced him.

  Lydia swung open the lower half of the door and said, “I’m giving a house tour today.”

  “Of your own house?” Fenimore knew Lydia was an accomplished guide for the Colonial Society of Pennsylvania and often gave tours of historic houses.

  “Yes,” she said, leading them inside. “It’s a trial run, Andrew. I’m giving a tour of my house to members of the Colonial Society next month, and I wanted to practice my spiel on some friends and neighbors first. They should be here any minute.” She glanced nervously at her watch.

  “You might want to get rid of that stench outside before they arrive,” Fenimore said. “Something must have died in one of your fields.”

  To Fenimore’s surprise Lydia turned a chalky white and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, aware of his patient’s chronic heart condition.

  “Want me to take a look?” Horatio asked. Fenimore nodded. The boy darted out the door and headed in the direction of the stink.

  Lydia looked after him as he disappeared around the corner of the barn.

  “I thought the buzzards made short work of dead animals in this neighborhood,” Fenimore said.

  Lydia seemed not to hear, her eyes fixed on the corner of the barn where Horatio had disappeared. Fenimore’s eyes were drawn to the same spot. As they stood silently watching, Horatio reappeared, still running.

  “What’s up?” asked Fenimore as he drew near.

  “I wanta show you something.” Panting, the boy spoke only to Fenimore.

  Fenimore looked at Lydia. Although still pale, she wore a determined expression. “I want to see, too.”

  Horatio shook his head at Fenimore, but Lydia had already taken off. There was nothing to do but follow. Several yards ahead of them, she rounded the corner of the barn. Her short, high-pitched scream stopped them. They rushed forward.

  Lydia stood still, facing the back wall of the barn, her hand over her mouth. Fenimore followed her gaze. Embedded in the brick wall was a row of iron hooks, devices for draining and drying animal carcasses in colonial times. All were empty, except one. Hanging from this hook was a large carcass of beef, similar to those glimpsed behind the meat counters in supermarkets. But this one wore a black coat, and something dripped from it into the stone trough below.

  The black coat was flies, the drips were blood, and the stench made Fenimore want to gag.

  Lydia’s eyes were fixed on an object attached to the lower end of the carcass, where the cow’s head had been. Fenimore moved closer. Paper. A photograph. A black and white portrait of Lydia Ashley.

  Horatio tore it off and gave it to Feni
more.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Someone’s idea of a practical joke?” stammered Lydia, backing away from the carcass.

  “Some joke,” said Fenimore, grimly.

  There was the sound of a car in the drive.

  “Oh, here they are!” Lydia looked toward the house.

  “Are you all right?” asked Fenimore.

  “I’m fine, Andrew. I’m sorry I screamed … . Tell Jenks to remove that … that … monstrosity.”

  “Jenks?”

  “My handyman. You’ll probably find him in the barn.” She hurried toward the house to welcome her guests.

  Fenimore watched Lydia’s retreating back. Satisfied that she had recovered from her initial shock, he knelt to examine the neck of the carcass. It was still encrusted with flies, but the blood had ceased dripping and lay in a pool in the trough below.

  “Yuck,” said Horatio, kneeling beside him.

  Because of the flies and the stench, Fenimore worked quickly. He still had the photo that Horatio had torn off. He wanted to see where it had been attached, and how. It was unfortunate that the boy had torn it off. It was evidence. But he had no real regrets. Horatio’s first thought had been for Mrs. Ashley’s welfare—and breaking her horrified gaze. His instincts were good.

  “Look,” Horatio said. He had spotted some neutral-colored thread protruding from the flesh—the kind you might use to truss a turkey. Apparently the “practical joker” had tacked the photo to the flesh by a simple needle and thread.

  Fenimore took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. Covering his hand, he carefully drew the thread out, wrapped the handkerchief around it, and handed it to Horatio. Next, he examined the photo. The upper two corners were torn where the twine had been inserted, but the rest of the picture was intact. Lydia’s expression was serious, but serene. Her gray hair neatly waved, she wore a string of pearls and looked slightly younger. He guessed it had been taken about five years ago. Probably when she was elected president of the Colonial Society. The Society would have required an up-to-date photo for their newsletter. He flipped it over.

  They both inhaled sharply.

  Scrawled across the back in red was the single word “Sell!”, as if written by a finger dipped in blood.

  They were still staring at the ugly scrawl when a shadow fell across it.

  Fenimore looked up.

  Jenks?

  The small man, resembling a dried prune, jerked his thumb at the carcass. “What the hell?”

  Fenimore stood up, the photo turned carefully against his thigh. “Mr. Jenks, I’m Dr. Fenimore. I was hoping you might shed some light on this.”

  Jenks could shed light on nothing. He had gone fishing before breakfast and had seen no one and heard nothing. When those nosey parkers had gone, he would reclaim his territory—the barn and its out-buildings—and finish his chores.

  Fenimore offered to help take down the carcass, but Jenks said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Before you take it away, I’d like to go over it,” Fenimore said.

  The handyman looked puzzled, but said nothing.

  Fenimore wanted to check for any identifying marks—a brand from the ranch where the cow had been bred and slaughtered, or a stamp from the wholesale beef house from which it had been bought—or stolen.

  Wholesale beef doesn’t bleed.

  Fenimore waited until Jenks disappeared around the side of the barn before he drew a small plastic bottle of pills from his pocket. Quickly dumping the pills into his pocket, he used the empty bottle to scoop a sample of the cow’s blood from the trough. He held the bottle up to the light. Thin and clear. “No clotting,” he said, and for Horatio’s benefit, explained, “There are only a few kinds of blood that don’t clot. One is ‘stored blood’ and another is the blood of a hemophiliac. Stored blood is human blood which has been tested and treated for transfusion purposes and stored in a refrigerator—usually in a hospital. Hemophiliac blood can only be obtained from someone with hemophilia—a disease in which someone can bleed to death from a small scratch because his—or her—blood won’t clot.”

  “Can a cow be a—whatever?” asked Horatio.

  Fenimore pondered that. In Russia, maybe. But only among the most aristocratic breeds. “I’ll have to consult one of my veterinarian friends about that,” he said. But one thing he did know—of the two, “stored blood” would be easier to come by.

  Fenimore heard a motor start up. He shoved the small bottle into his pocket as Jenks rounded the corner of the barn mounted on the tractor. He was pulling a cart behind.

  As they watched, with a few deft backs and fills, Jenks positioned the cart directly under the carcass. Balancing himself precariously on the tailgate, he reached up and cut the rope with one stroke. The jolt caused by the carcass hitting the floor of the cart nearly knocked the small man to the ground. He jumped down, indicating to Fenimore that he was free to do his examination.

  Fenimore climbed into the cart and went over the flesh inch by inch, brushing away the flies every few seconds, trying not to breathe too deeply or too often. He had to ask Jenks and Horatio to help him turn the carcass. An unpleasant job. It bore no marks of any kind.

  Next question. How did it get here? The Ashleys may have raised cattle once. But that was over a century ago. It had to have been brought in from outside on wheels, or … Fenimore turned his gaze from the barn to the river. Such a load would need a fairly large boat to carry it. It must weigh over a thousand pounds.

  Jenks, anxious to get moving, came up with a large tarpaulin and a spade.

  Fenimore jumped down.

  “Do you ever get any bigger craft on this river? Any yachts or schooners?” Fenimore asked.

  “Sometimes—in the summer.” His expression turned sour. “When the tourists come exploring. Some of them actually come looking for pirate treasure!”

  Horatio perked up, but Fenimore’s interest in such fantasies had faded in the face of recent events.

  Jenks spread the tarpaulin over the carcass and tossed the spade in after it. These two actions transformed the piece of meat into a corpse for Fenimore.

  Jenks remounted the tractor.

  “Where are you off to?”

  The caretaker waved toward the vast expanse of empty field beyond the house and barn.

  “Ashes to ashes, eh? Don’t you need help?”

  For answer, Jenks turned the tractor and took off. They looked after him as he slowly made his way across the field.

  CHAPTER 5

  Four cars had joined Fenimore’s old Chevy in front of the farmhouse. A yellow Saab, a gray Pontiac, a blue Taurus van, and a mud-spattered Jeep. When Fenimore and Horatio re-entered the parlor, it was empty. But Lydia’s lilting tones could be heard in a distant room. With typical determination, she was carrying on the tour.

  They edged into the dining room just in time to hear Lydia describe her husband’s ancestor’s attempt at central heating. Standing in the huge walk-in fireplace, she pointed out two holes in the bricks on either side. “The heat from the fire was carried up through these holes to provide some heat to the master bedroom above,” she explained.

  As each guest took a turn examining the holes, Fenimore examined the guests. There were only four: three men and a woman. A tall, dapper man in a blue blazer and white ducks; a stout, balding man in a gray business suit; and a lanky young man wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a sullen expression. The woman was small and sharp-featured, her figure completely hidden under a long skirt and baggy pullover. Fenimore realized that Lydia was still rattled from her earlier shock when she failed to introduce Horatio and himself to her guests. She was usually meticulous about such matters.

  After everyone had had a good look at the fireplace, Lydia summarized the history of the house.

  “In 1724, my husband Edward’s ancestor, Jonathan Ashley, came to this country on the ship Amelia ….” She pointed to a portrait hanging over the mantel depicting a ruddy-faced Englishman.

  �
�Jonathan was a Quaker and had been persecuted in England for his radical religious beliefs, such as refusing to remove his hat for the King. And he applied to William Penn for help.” She hesitated, staring out the window behind the little group. “Ah … where was I?”

  “He asked Penn for help,” prompted the dapper man in white ducks.

  “Oh, yes,” she continued. “Penn promised Jonathan enough land in the colonies to start a farm and raise some cattle. Jonathan jumped at the opportunity and …” She paused again, as if listening for something.

  The group shifted restlessly. Fenimore began to grow nervous for her, as if she were a child in a school play instead of a docent with years of experience guiding historic tours.

  Lydia was pointing out an unusual carving in the moulding of the hallway—a tiny heart left by a German carpenter—when they heard a car drive up, a door slam, and rapid footsteps.

  “Grandmother!” A slender girl appeared in the doorway, her blond hair drawn back in a long braid. Close behind her came a blond young man. The girl drew up short. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right, dear,” Lydia said. “You all know my granddaughter, Susan. And this is her friend, Peter Jordan.”

  The young man smiled briefly.

  Everyone nodded and Susan’s first blush receded. Fenimore caught her eye. His reward was a radiant smile. Good Lord, the last time he had seen Susan, she was a gawky thirteen-year-old. She had come to Fenimore for a school physical exam. Where were those skinny arms and knobby knees now?

  Fenimore heard Horatio murmur, “Cool.”

  As the young couple made their escape upstairs, Fenimore was shocked by the sullen young man’s expression as he looked after them. If looks could kill … His thoughts were interrupted by the man in the blue blazer who had been eyeing the doctor surreptitiously. He seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Andy Fenimore. Penn. Seventy-five!” His face was alight with recognition.