The Green Island Mystery

Mystery was the furthest thing from Connies mind as she

waved good-bye to her family and realized again that she
was on her way to Bermudaon business, with all expenses
paid by her employer, Reid and Renshaw!
But Connie, running true to form, finds herself knee-deep
in mystery long before the Queen of Bermuda docks. While
on board, Connie meets David Scott and learns about a
missing half of a manuscript that was left to him after his
aunts sudden death. Later, on the island paradise, Connie
finds herself deluged with clues, clues, and more clues . . .
until the whole mystery is jumbled like a jigsaw puzzle.
With danger and suspicion dogging her every step,
Connie rearranges the clues, until, suddenly, like a jigsaw,
the picture becomes clear, and the culprit is exposed.

The CONNIE BLAIR Mystery Stories

The Clue in Blue
The Riddle in Red
Puzzle in Purple
The Secret of Black Cat Gulch
The Green Island Mystery
The Ghost Wore White
The Yellow Warning
The Gray Menace
The Brown Satchel Mystery
Peril in Pink
The Silver Secret
The Mystery of the Ruby Queens

A CONNIE BLAIR MYSTERY

The Green
Island Mystery
By
BETSY ALLEN

Grosset & Dunlap

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

 1949 BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.

Shipboard Meeting
The Green Island
The House Next Door
First Clue?
The Missing Photograph
Mr. Thorndikes Envelope
Premonition of Danger
The Vanishing Sailboat
The Police Investigate
Miss Merriam
Five Suspects
The Unfinished Letter
Williams Story
Aunt Penelopes Secret
Evidence in Writing
Farewell, Bermuda!

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126
139
152
165
177
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CHAPTER

Shipboard Meeting

Connie Blair stood at the rail of the great ocean liner

and watched her mother, her dad, and her twin sister
walk down the gangplank to the dock.
Kit turned and waved, her hair a bright halo
around her heart-shaped lace. Her lips formed words
which Connie couldnt hear. Still, she knew what
her sister was calling: Have a wonderful time!
Oh, I will! Connie shouted back, although her
voice was lost in the hubbub of leave-taking. It still
seemed too good to be true that she was actually
going to Bermuda with Georgia Cameron. On
business, too, with all expenses paid by the Reid and
Renshaw
Advertising Agency! Miraculous,
incredible, breathtaking. Connie felt just what her
dad had called her a very lucky girl!
The last of the visitors were hurrying down the
gangplank now, obeying the warning signal. Connie
1

waved vigorously in response to her mothers

fluttering handkerchief. I couldnt be more excited
if we were sailing for Europe, she told Georgia
with a grin of amusement at her own navet. She
took off her soft felt hat and waved it above her
head, smiling toward her family, now little more
than a blur on the dock. The Blairs were crowded
among hundreds of others who had come to see
friends or relatives off, and only Kits yellow hair
was distinguishable, but Connie kept on waving
until the Queen of Bermuda slipped out into the
Hudson River and the late March mist cut even Kits
bright hair from view.
Come on. Lets go see the dining-room steward
and sign up for a table, Georgia suggested finally.
I think wed like the second sitting, dont you?
Connie never failed to marvel at Miss Camerons
sophistication. No wonder she had a big job at Reid
and Renshaws, in spite of the fact that she was still
in her twenties. First sitting and second sitting were
just terms to Connie. How in the world did one ever
acquire Georgias ability to take every situation in
her stride?
She admired Georgia Cameron now just as much
as she had on that very first day when she had
walked, a timid newcomer, into the offices of the
advertising agency where she had spent so many
interesting and exciting hours. She admired the way
2

Miss Camerons sleek black hair grew in a curving

line from her forehead. She admired her impeccable
taste in clothes, her easy, gracious manner. But most
of all Connie admired her business ability. She felt
very fortunate that she had again been chosen as her
assistant on an important job.
Ever since the weeks they had spent together in
Taos, New Mexico, where Connie, almost unaided,
had discovered the secret of Black Cat Gulch, the
blond girl and the dark-haired young woman had
enjoyed a growing friendship. Each recognized the
others best qualities. Georgia warmed to Connies
radiant vitality just as Connie appreciated her
superiors calm decisiveness. They made an
interesting working team.
The sky line of New York was slipping away in
the mist, lights winking like tiny stars in the tall
buildings. The docks were gray hulks, the anchored
ships wraithlike. It all seemed so ghostly that Connie
could scarcely realize that far beneath her, in the
mysterious hull of the ship, giant turboelectric
engines were urging the vessel toward a twenty-mile
strip of green and coral island six hundred miles
away.
Bermuda! The word sang itself over and over
in her head as she and Georgia waited in line to
make their arrangements with the dining-room
steward. Bermuda. It was a name so glamorous
3

that it was like poetry to Connie. Every travel folder

she had read, every picture she had seen, lent it
color. Bermuda sounded the way it lookedlike an
enchanted isle.
Would you rather have a table for two, or may I
place you at a larger table? the steward was asking
Georgia.
Miss Cameron glanced toward Connie
questioning.
I think a larger table might be fun, Connie
suggested with spontaneous friendliness.
The steward nodded agreeably and bent his head
over the diagram of the dining room on the table
before him. Second sitting, Table Ten, he said
after a minute, and handed Georgia two small
squares of cardboard. Next.
The clipped British accent delighted Connie, and
she whispered as much to Georgia as they made
their way down to their stateroom to unpack.
Youll hear more and merrier in Bermuda,
Georgia told her. Even the little West Indian
children speak like native Britishers, they tell me.
That was part of the fun of traveling. Everything
that happened seemed new and fresh and unexpected
to Connie. She marveled at the smooth, noiseless
elevators which dropped them efficiently from deck
to deck. She was interested in the compact
efficiency of their stateroom, complete with its own
4

bath. During the hour or so before dinner she

wandered with Georgia through the lounges of A
and B decks to a hall which housed a gemlike
swimming pool which had been described in the
steamship companys advertisements. Connie could
remember the exact wording: Caracalla himself
never dreamed of so luxurious a bath as this.
Who was Caracalla? Connie asked Georgia, her
eyes twinkling.
Who?
Connie spelled the name.
Georgia shrugged, and Connie repeated the part
of the ad she remembered.
For once Georgia was nonplused. Youve got
me! She slipped her arm through the younger girls.
Lets go dress for dinner, and see whom we draw
for table companions. We ought to be able to
combine a little pleasure with business on this trip.
Half an hour later, Connie in a simple, green
jersey dinner dress, and Georgia in a beautifully cut
black sheath, stood at the top of the short flight of
steps leading down to the dining salon, where
waiters in white ties and wing collars moved against
a background of a huge wall mural.
The only word I can think of is fabulous,
Connie murmured. I wish Kit could see this.
But Georgias eyes were for the passengers, not
for the trimmings. As she led Connie toward the
5

table to which they had been assigned she ignored

the curving buffet laden with hors doeuvres and let
her eyes drift over the group of people who were to
be their dinner partners.
Connie followed her glance, and mentally sized
them up. Seated together were two middle-aged lady
tourists who looked half-frightened, half-expectant.
Next to them was an obviously British couple,
probably native Bermudians, whose bronze tan had
outlasted their New York vacation. Opposite was a
straight-backed, graying naval officer talking to a
young man in his early twenties who just missed
being handsome.
The men at the table arose as Georgia hesitated
behind an empty chair, which the steward hurried to
pull out for her with a flourish. Introductions were
engineered by the British matron, and Connie found
herself placed beside the young man, whose name,
David Scott, was as American as his clean-cut
profile.
She studied the elaborate menu, more varied than
any she had ever seen in a hotel, gave her order in a
clear, girlish voice, and looked up to find his gray
eyes meeting hers in obvious admiration.
Hello, he said, as though the formal
introduction had been but a preliminary to their real
meeting.
Hello, she replied, and smiled.
6

Are you impressed? He nodded toward the

menu.
I certainly am! Connie admitted. Arent you?
You bet! The British certainly do things up with
swank. Ive never been on one of their ships before.
Ive never been on any ship before, Connie
answered ingenuously.
David Scott laughed and looked around the lavish
salon. Well, you started with a honeya real
luxury liner. Going to Bermuda for a vacation, I
suppose?
Connie hesitated, then decided the question
hadnt been prying, merely friendly. No-o, she
said, and a certain pride crept into her voice. Im
going down on business.
Business? David Scotts voice rose in surprise,
and his eyes told Connie that she looked more like a
debutante than a white-collar girl.
Amused, she grinned at him and nodded. Im
traveling with Miss Cameron. She looked across
the table in Georgias direction. We are going to
Bermuda for the advertising agency we work for, to
get some angles on promoting a new account.
David whistled softly. Sounds very important.
Connies hair rippled on her shoulders as she
gave her head a faint shake. Im just Miss
Camerons helper. Theres nothing important about
me.
7

Then, before David could reply with an obvious

compliment, she changed the subject. Have you
ever been in Bermuda?
Nope. My first trip.
If its as lovely as it looks in the ads, it should be
fun, dont you think?
Iguess
so.
Davids
eyes
clouded
momentarily. You see, Im not exactly pleasurebound either. Im going down on business too, but
of a rather different kind.
The plump, middle-aged lady tourist on Davids
right claimed his attention at that moment, and
Connie wondered what he had meant by his last
remark but had no opportunity to ask until after
dessert was served.
You were talking about your business in
Bermuda she said then, trying to disguise her
natural curiosity in the costume of polite interest.
Oh, yes. David Scott said. You see, its this
way. Ive inherited some property down therean
old house, to be exact. It belonged to an aunt or
mine, Penelope Sebastian, and Im sort of going
down to look things over and settle some details
about the estate.
How nice! To inherit a house in Bermuda!
murmured Connie.
Well, yes and no. I may not be able to keep it. I
should think youd need a good bit of money to keep
8

it up, and Im just out of college and far from rich.

I know what you mean, Connie said
sympathetically. She glanced up at Davids face, and
thought that here was a thoroughly nice boy who
never concealed a single emotion. Right now he
wore a troubled expression, which told Connie as
plainly as words that he had confided in her only
part of the story. Id like to know the rest, she
thought as she pushed back her chair. Penelope
Sebastian. Theres something familiar about that
name.
Then the naval officer was at her side, and her
attention was diverted. Theres dancing, later, on A
deck. Ive suggested to Miss Cameron that you
might join me.
Whythank you. Connie caught Georgias eye
and nodded.
Lieutenant Burns was saying, How about you,
Mr. Scott?
David looked pleased to be included. Sounds
good to me.
They made arrangements to meet, and then
Connie and Georgia left the dining room together, to
get their coats and take a turn or two around the
deck.
Fog shrouded the ships lights, and the March
wind was cold. Connie shivered, and her skirt
whipped around her ankles, but she persevered
9

because the sea air was so clean and stimulating.

Georgia, uncomplaining, set a brisk pace. Lets get
healthy quickly, she proposed, and then go
inside.
Chuckling, Connie agreed. Without conversation
they paced along, heads tucked down into the wind.
They reached the bow and turned, the breeze now at
their backs. Did you ever hear of anybody called
Penelope Sebastian? Connie asked as they
approached the companionway.
Penelope Sebastian? Georgia repeated the
unusual name. Let me see. Of course! She wrote
mystery stories, didnt she? Whodunits. Very
competently, by the ream.
Thats right! Connie snapped her fingers. I
knew Id heard that name.
Who was talking about her? That nice-looking
young Mr. Scott? Georgia asked.
Connie nodded. Hes her nephew.
Really?
Hes going to Bermuda about some property she
left him when she died about six months ago.
That should be a nice inheritance.
Thats what I said, Connie replied.
A house in Bermuda, Georgia mused. A house
on the water overlooking the sea. If someone offered
me that I might even get married and settle down.
Connie looked at the older girl with sudden
10

interest. For all her coolheaded competence, Georgia

had a soft, seldom-exhibited, sentimental side. You
know, I really believe you might, Connie replied,
and though her voice was teasing there was sincerity
in her words.
A balcony surrounded the dropped dance floor,
and the orchestra played soothing, lazy music until
midnight. Connie danced with David, with
Lieutenant Burns, and with several other young men
who cut in. Shipboard acquaintances were
apparently made casually, and she enjoyed each new
personality, but it was David Scott who primarily
interested her. She was glad when he made a date to
go swimming with her the next morning. She
wanted to get to know him better, and the two-day
run to Bermuda was beginning to seem too short.
In the morning, Connie and Georgia breakfasted
almost alone, because they overslept. Georgia didnt
want to swim, so she bundled herself into a deck
chair, and Connie went down to the dressing room
and changed to a bathing suit that was the same
corn-yellow as her hair. David Scott was already in
the water when she reached the pool, and Connie
dropped her robe and slippers and made a clean,
racing dive from the shallow end.
Neat! cried David in admiration. Very, very
neat.
Together they played with a ponderous green
11

rubber water bronco, trying mutually, and

unsuccessfully, to stick to his slippery back. Then
they raced each other the length of the pool and
came out to sit on the side and swing their feet over
the water.
Where did you grow up, David asked, to learn
to swim like that?
In Meadowbrook. A little town in
Pennsylvania, Connie told him. We used to swim
in an old quarry my twin sister and I.
Somehow she found herself talking about her
family, and about her own life in Philadelphia,
where she shared an apartment with her Aunt Bet.
David, in turn, became more communicative, and by
the time they parted to dress for lunch Connie had
learned a great deal more about his Bermuda errand.
And what she learned served to stimulate her
curiosity still more.
Miss Sebastian, it seemed, had for several years
lived on the island as an elderly recluse, but in her
heyday, David told Connie, she had been quite a
girl.
What do you mean? Connie asked.
How shall I tell you? She was more than a
writer. She was a fascinating personality, and she
traveled widely and had friends among the great and
near-great from all over the world. I remember when
I was a kid in grammar school and Aunt Penny came
12

to visit. I used to be as impressed as if shed been

visiting royalty. And from the way she tossed titles
around youd have thought she was!
What did she look like? Connie asked, trying to
picture the writer in her mind.
She was little, with very slender hands and feet,
a beak of a nose, and bleached hair, and the most
alive black eyes Ive ever seen. And every sentence
she spoke was quotable, if you know what I mean.
I think I do, said Connie slowly. She should
have written her memoirs, instead of detective
stories, perhaps.
David looked up in surprise. Its odd that you
should mention it. She did just that. She sent half of
the manuscript for a proposed book of memoirs to
her publishers about a year ago, and was just about
ready to deliver the remainder when she died very
suddenly of a heart attack.
Oh. Connie sounded sorry.
Now her lawyer, in Bermuda, cant locate the
oilier half. Thats one of the reasons Im going
down.
One of the reasons? Connie prodded gently.
David frowned. Well, to tell you the truth, he
said, something seems to be a little fishy about the
Bermuda setup as I get it from my aunts attorney.
First, he cant find this manuscript. Then, a few
weeks ago, he wrote me that the house had been
13

ransacked. Turned practically upside down.

By a burglar? Connie asked.
By somebody who broke in through the French
windows, went through the place with a fine-tooth
comb, but didnt steal a thing.
Connies eyes widened with increased interest.
She kept her own counsel but she wondered whether
Davids mind, by any chance, was working in the
same direction as hers. Could the housebreaker have
been searching for the missing manuscript too?

14

CHAPTER

The Green Island

In the early morning sun, seen through Davids field

glasses, Bermuda was a chain of green islands
curving from northeast to southwest in the form of a
reapers sickle.
It seemed utterly marvelous to Connie that in two
short days the climate could have changed from the
raw coldness of early March to this eternal spring.
She stood on the top deck with David, wearing a
light pastel tweed suit, and trained the glasses on
some of the pocket-sized islands cuddling close to
the larger one.
Lovely, she murmured, half to herself.
They say there used to be one little island, said
Georgia Cameron, who always seemed to know the
most astonishing facts, for every day in the year.
Together the three of them looked down on the
tender, which had come out to bring the pilot who
15

would take the Queen through the narrow Two Rock

Passage and into the dock at Hamilton. They
watched the small boat pull away. Then, as the ship
found her way down the winding harbor, Georgia
explained that Bermuda is really a series of small
aeolian limestone hills topping a submarine
mountain.
Remarkable, isnt it? David murmured,
explaining how these low green islands were
formed. Connie nodded, listening with interest and
aware that the sea was jewel-blue and that she was
very happy to be alive.
With majestic ease the great liner moved toward
the lovely little city of Hamilton. At the busy dock
Connie could see waiting surreys, parked cars and
bicycles, and along the curves of the harbor there
were pink and blue and yellow limestone houses
with bright white roofs half hidden by tropical
foliage.
Do you suppose Mr. Tremont or one of his
assistants will meet us at the dock? Connie asked
Georgia.
I should think so. Were expected. And the
Tremont Shop is right off the front street, I
understand.
Tremont Shop, murmured David, his candid
gray eyes meeting Georgias thoughtfully. Arent
the Tremonts the people who handle all those
16

wonderful English tweeds and doeskins?

Thats right, Georgia assented. And all kinds
of other British importations.
Divine cashmere sweaters, murmured Connie.
And its the Tremont advertising account your
agency is going to handle? David looked at both
Georgia and Connie with increased respect.
Connie made a mock curtsy. Reid and Renshaw,
at your service, she said.
Are you going to be whipping around on
business every second, or will you be able to take
some time off for fun? David asked after a minute.
Connie looked to Georgia for an answer.
Oh, were allowed to play a bit, Miss Cameron
replied with a smile.
David wants us to come see his house, when we
have a chance, Connie explained.
That would be interesting. Mr. Tremont has
made hotel reservations for us, but Im not sure
where. Could you get in touch with us through the
shop, perhaps?
I can and I will! David grinned. As soon as I
see whats what. Of course I may find some
skeletons in the closets. You never can tell about an
old house, or about my Aunt Penny either!
Georgia chuckled. Oh, we wont mind a little
thing like a skeleton or two, she promised. As a
matter of fact, Connie positively relishes such
17

things. Shes by way of being an amateur sleuth, you

know.
Georgia! Connie scolded.
David looked at the younger girl with reproach.
You never told me!
You never asked me, Connie said.
So thats why you were so interested in my
inheritance. Ill bet you have the whole thing figured
out.
I wish that were true, murmured Connie.
You wait! I may call on you yet, David teased.
He shook a warning finger just above her short,
straight nose.
But Georgia groaned. Look, she said flatly,
the agency we work for is preceded by the word
advertising, not detective.
David and Connie both laughed, and Connie said
soothingly to the young man, Youll probably find
that everything is just a tempest in a teapot. Some
neighborhood kids broke into the place for a lark,
and the manuscript of your aunts journals was in
her safe-deposit box all the time. But even as she
spoke she knew that she did not really believe, in her
heart, that this was the case. She had an instinctive
feeling that she would see more of David Scott, and
learn moremuch moreof his authoress-aunts
legacy.
Smoothly, and rather incredibly, the huge liner
18

was being made fast to the old stone dock. The fact
that such an enormous ship could thread its way
through the islands of the harbor and move right up
to the front street of this quaint, clean little town
fascinated Connie, and she leaned over the rail and
looked down on the heterogeneous crowd below.
Negroes, dogs, bicyclists, tourists, workmen,
steamship company assistants all jostled each other
in a good-tempered throng. Nobody seemed in a
hurry. There was a sweet-to-be-doing-nothing
quality about the scene that was entirely new to
Connie.
Even the disembarking was leisurely. Georgia
forgot to be brisk and wandered down the gangplank
as though she had nowhere particular to go and
nothing urgent to do. The business of going through
customs was handled with unusual dispatch, and in
half an hour Connie and Georgia, lulled by the warm
sun and the unhurried atmosphere, found themselves
free.
Not until a tall, balding man with a clipped gray
mustache stepped out of the crowd of waiting people
did Georgia snap back into a semblance of her
former assurance.
Miss Cameron? the gentleman asked.
Mr. Tremont? Georgia put out a gloved hand.
This is Miss Blair, my assistant.
Mr. Tremont bent in a gesture that was almost
19

courtly. Miss Blair. Delighted.

You were good to meet us.
No trouble. No trouble at all. Were right across
the way. Ill arrange, with your permission, to have
your bags sent over.
Together the three of them, Connie ahead, picked
their way along the dock and across Front Street,
where a white-gloved English bobby directed traffic
with solemn dignity.
Connie tried to see everything at once. She was
charmed by the Old-World atmosphere of the town,
by the pillars that rose from the sidewalks to support
second-floor porches above the shops, and by the
British
namesGosling
Brothers
Ltd.,
Triminghams, Trotts. A bewigged barrister rode
solemnly by on a bicycle, and in front of a bank
funds were being transferred in an open wagon, with
no display of guns or curiosity. It was all very quaint
and easygoing. Connie knew, in these first few
minutes, that she was going to grow to love this
place.
Mr. Tremont stopped before the door of a
somber-hued store. In the rather dim show windows
on either side were displayed single bolts of cloth,
draped over a brown wooden railing with no attempt
at artistry and no recognition that display value
might be worth cultivating.
Georgia almost gasped. Her quick glance toward
20

Connie made the younger girl realize that their work

would be cut out for them. She could scarcely
believe that this was the famous establishment of the
Tremonts, father and son, who were known all over
the eastern seaboard for their doeskins, woolens, and
tweeds.
Inside, the shop was no more prepossessing. An
elderly West Indian Negro shuffled around flicking
a feather duster over bolts of cloth, and here and
there straightening a rack of neckties or a box of
gloves. Two or three tourists were examining some
goods unattended, and on the other side of a counter
a distinguished-looking young Englishman was
measuring a length of cloth.
From the aquiline, straight nose and the close-cut
straw-colored hair, Connie could guess that this was
Mr. Tremont the younger. And the older gentleman
who had met the boat confirmed this a moment later
when he introduced Connie and Georgia.
My son, Mr. Philip Tremont.
Philip finished with his customer, then came
forward and shook hands. He was more vigorous
than Connie had at first suspected, and younger. His
smile was genuine, and his eyes were of a sea-blue
that was almost green. The tweed jacket he wore
was well tailored and easy on his broad shoulders.
Altogether, quite an attractive young man, Connie
thought.
21

Georgia apparently thought so, too, because she

greeted him almost shyly, and Georgia was never
shy except when her emotions were involved.
Connie glanced at Mr. Philip Tremont and noticed
that the attraction was apparently mutual, because he
was looking at the dark-haired young woman with
obvious admiration, and he held her hand just a trifle
longer than necessary when he welcomed her
conventionally to the islands. For Connie he had a
much briefer salute.
Oh, Mr. Basil! A clerk hurried up to the elder
partner. Could you spare a moment? Im afraid
there has been a rather unfortunate thing
Mr. Basil Tremont turned away, and Connie
could hear no more of the conversation, but she saw
the storekeeper enter a little glassed-enclosed office
and pick up a telephone.
Philip, meanwhile, was talking to Georgia about
the store. More direct than his lather, he launched
right into the business at hand, explaining how they
hoped to revamp their advertising, and telling her
how confident they felt that Reid and Renshaw
could be of inestimable help.
And how right you are! Connie said to herself.
If ever a shop needed its face lifted, this one
certainly does!
Yet, as she trailed Georgia and Mr. Philip up one
aisle and down another she began to realize that
22

first, surface impressions are not always to be

entirely relied upon. There were some features of the
Tremont Shop she wouldnt want to change. The
almost courtly courtesy of the clerks, the
unmistakable quality of the merchandise, the slowmoving formality of the business pacethese
should be kept and cherished, even if modern
methods of selling and advertising were adopted.
Interrupting Connies reverie, Mr. Basil Tremont
came toward them across the floor. He wore an
expression of decided concern, and he bowed to the
girls, murmured I beg your pardon, then spoke
directly to his son.
There has been a most regrettable error. The
hotel reservations we made for Miss Cameron and
her assistant are unavailable. I have called several
other hotels with no success, as might be expected at
the height of the season. It is most unfortunate
most unfortunate indeed.
Georgia, always practical, and not given to be too
disturbed by upset plans, suggested mildly, We
might find rooms in a guest house, perhaps.
But Philip shook his head. As father said, its the
very height of the season here. Everything around
Hamilton will be full-up.
Connie glanced at Georgia, but still Miss
Cameron didnt look too concerned. She obviously
considered that they were in the Tremonts hands,
23

and the solution of the problem was under the

jurisdiction of the two men, not her own.
Philip was frowning anxiously. Youve tried
Mrs. Seymour? he asked, as though he were
suggesting a last resort.
Mr. Basil Tremont nodded. Nothing.
Then, said his son with a smile which looked
more brave than hospitable, I see only one thing to
do. Well simply have to put Miss Cameron and
Miss Blair up at the house.
You meanat home?
Although the older mans tone was polite Connie
could see that this was an almost unheard-of
proposition. She remembered having read
somewhere that Bermudians were a close-knit little
society, who were loathe to take in American
visitors, although they welcomed the tourist trade.
What else can we do? Philip spoke directly to
his father, ignoring the girls. Then, as though
remembering his manners, he turned to Georgia. I
trust that you will not be too uncomfortable at High
Hedges. He bowed slightly. We are in Paget,
which is easily accessible from here.
Connie, accustomed to the free and easy
hospitality of her mother, whose welcome mat was
always out at the big old family house in
Meadowbrook, stiffened at such a forced reception.
But Georgia, more worldly, merely looked a little
24

amused.
Thank you, she said to Philip, then nodded to
his father. I am sorry to put you to the trouble,
but She spread her hands with a slight shrug that
was typically American and which put the burden of
the decision where it belonged.
Ill drive you out to the house, Philip
suggested, as soon as the bags come. Then, if you
like, we can have lunch back here in Hamilton, and
go over some of the broader outlines of our business
together this afternoon.
Half an hour later, in a small, trim English car,
Connie and Georgia rolled slowly out of Hamilton
into a road which curved along the shore. Philip
drove scarcely faster than the carriages they passed,
because Bermuda speed laws were strict, and, now
that the matter of housing for the two girls had been
settled, he seemed quite jovial and relaxed, and not
at all sorry to be their chauffeur.
Connie was fascinated by the changing landscape.
She loved the glimpses of pastel-tinted houses
against the turquoise sea, and the blue morningglories and poinsettia spilling over garden walls
made her fingers itch for her paints, which were
packed away carefully in her suitcase.
Easter liliesentire fields of themheralded
Bermudas spring, and plumbago and passion
flowers bloomed riotously. Here and there, at a
25

curve in the road, they would come upon bicyclists

or hikers, and every now and then a glimpse of a
white sail on the bay sharpened the effect of
summer.
Philip turned into a lane leading toward the water.
High hibiscus hedges lined it with color, and he
pointed them out to Connie and Georgia as his
mothers chief pride. The Bermudian women are
great gardeners, like the British, he told them.
The house, when they reached it, was square,
white, and substantial, with a quiet graciousness
echoed in the manner of Philips mother, who
greeted them on a terrace overlooking the garden.
She was a tall woman, with white hair and the
manner of a great lady. We are happy to have you
here, she said, as though no other plan had ever
been contemplated. Then she rang a small bell set
into the stone near the terrace door. A thin, middleaged West Indian maid appeared. Ella, will you
please show Miss Cameron and Miss Blair to their
room?
Philip carried the bags, and Connie and Georgia
followed Ellas starched back through a dim hallway
and up a cedar staircase to the floor above. Their
room faced the bay, and offered a distant view of
Hamilton roof tops. It was furnished with simple
good taste, and it was sunny and hung with flowered
English chintz.
26

Oh, isnt this lovely! Connie cried

spontaneously.
Ella smiled, taking the compliment unto herself.
Yesm, she said pleasantly, and then added, Is
there anything you need before I go?
Not a thing, thank you, Georgia replied, while
Connie marveled at the maids precise English
accent, so like that of her mistress. Used to the slow
drawl of the southern American Negro, it was a
distinct surprise.
Connie had walked to the window, and was
looking out over the lawn, beyond which another
house was just visible through the trees. Of coral
pink, it sprawled on a cliff overhanging the water,
and was just as lovely as the Tremont place, in a
quite different way.
A young Negro boy, about seventeen or eighteen
years old, wearing the white coat of a house servant,
was just slipping through the hibiscus hedge which
separated the two properties, and Ella caught a
glimpse of him.
That William! she said, shaking her head in
mild despair. He keeps skipping over from Miss
Sebastians every time he thinks a bit of excitement
may be going on.
Miss Sebastians? Connie turned with a start.
Youyou mean Miss Penelope Sebastians? The
author? Who just died?
27

CHAPTER

The House Next Door

Well, she didnt just die, said Ella. It was more

than six months ago. It didnt seem to strike her as
odd that Connie should have asked such a question.
My William was her houseboy, she went on to
explain. A nice position for him, too, right next
door where I could keep my eye on him. Too bad.
Miss Cameron looked from Connie to Ella with
repressed amusement. The maids garrulity was
innocent enough. She couldnt dream that Connie
knew anything of the heir to the elderly writers
estate. But at that moment Ella seemed to realize
that perhaps she was being overly talkative to
strangers. He just came back a week ago to open up
the house for Miss Sebastians heir, she explained.
Then she backed to the door, nodded briefly, and
shut it behind her, and a few seconds later the girls
could hear her sensible heels clicking on the
28

uncarpeted, polished stairs.

You look like a cat who has just swallowed a
canary, Georgia murmured over her shoulder to
Connie as she raised the lid of her suitcase.
Well, it is rather fun to be living right next door
to the Sebastian house, Connie said with perfect
candor. Much better than staying in a hotel!
And cheaper, said the practical Miss Cameron.
Think of the lift it will give the Reid and Renshaw
expense account.
She took out a shantung sport dress and shook it,
then hung it away in the ample closet. Connie left
the window and started to unpack too. Mrs.
Tremont is charming, isnt she? she said, musing.
But the men of the family seem a little stiffnecked.
Georgia smiled. I think theyre just very, very
British, she said. Philip wants to unbend, and will,
I think, when we get to know him better.
Hes quite good-looking, isnt he?
Quite.
Connie looked up, but there was no telltale
expression in Georgias eyes, though her
monosyllable had sounded like an understatement.
I have an idea that R and Rs ideas of modern
advertising are going to give the Tremonts quite a
jolt. Wed better work a little slowly, if you know
what I mean.
29

Connie nodded. She understood quite clearly, and

thanked her lucky stars that her job was to assist, not
to initiate. Most of the time, while Georgia was
working at the store, she would be out sketching
backgrounds against which Bermuda clothes would
be photographed. From her point of view, she had
much the preferable job.
In ten minutes the girls were ready to rejoin
Philip on the terrace. The young man was sprawled
in a lawn chair, talking comfortably to his mother,
when they came out into the sunlight, and he jumped
up with instant courtesy. Georgia had changed to a
tangerine silk dress, which was stunning with her
dark hair and creamy skin, and Connie could see his
eyes widen appreciatively as he said, All set?
All set, Georgia nodded, then spoke to Mrs.
Tremont. I cant tell you how kind you are to take
us in.
Thank you, my dear. Im sure well all get on
splendidly, the older woman said quietly. And you
must feel free to do just as you choose, because I
know you young people will want to see some of the
gay tourist side of Bermuda while youre here.
Philip ushered them back to the car, and drove
them along the winding shore road to Hamilton once
more. He pointed out the native tropical trees,
bamboo, banana, papaw, and palmetto, and
answered Connies impetuous questions about the
30

gaudy and extravagant flowers, naming them

accurately and with some amusement, as Connie
repeated them after him.
They lunched quietly and unhurriedly in the
courtyard of a small hotel. Mr. Basil Tremont did
not join them; he had a luncheon engagement at the
Yacht Club with an old friend, Philip explained.
During the early afternoon Connie and Georgia were
taken on a tour of the shop, which was more
extensive than they had first suspected. They were
shown mens sport jackets and womens Britishtailored suits, accessories of all kinds, beautiful
imported sweaters and silks, every sort of
merchandise in which the Tremonts wished to
interest the American trade.
About four their tour was completed, and Mr.
Basil Tremont suggested that they knock off. Why
dont you show the young ladies something of the
island? he suggested to Philip, and the three of
them set off once more in the little English car.
They visited Gibbs Hill Lighthouse and climbed
its many steps to admire the spectacular view of the
islands from the tower. Connie and Georgia were
both feeling infectiously gay, and on the way back
home Philip, as Georgia had predicted, unbent
sufficiently to suggest that they go tea dancing the
following afternoon at one of the hotels.
Both girls accepted at the time, but when the
31

following day came Connie begged off. Im going

to go back to the house and take a short nap, if you
dont mind, she told Georgia. I have a slight
headache Id like to shake.
Georgia looked at Connie suspiciously. During all
the time they had worked together she had never
heard the younger girl complain of an ache or a pain.
Noting that Philip was looking toward Georgia,
rather than in her direction, Connie winked her left
eye solemnly. Then she grinned, a teasing,
mischievous grin that brought a becoming blush to
Miss Camerons cheeks.
Now dont argue with me! Connie insisted.
Anyway, Im dying to hire one of those carriages
and ride in solitary splendor out to the house.
While Georgia and Philip drove off in the other
direction, Connie, alone in the open back seat of an
ancient, black-painted carriage, started off toward
High Hedges.
They were scarcely out of the business district
before Connie had engaged the driver in
conversation. She had chosen him for his pleasant,
open face, black beneath a white Panama hat, and
her friendly manner captivated him completely. He
had seldom had a prettier young passenger.
So by the time they had left Pembroke Parish and
were driving through Paget they were chatting
together happily, Connie full to bursting with
32

questions about Bermuda and the Negro as proud as

could be of his ready fund of information.
He knew the Tremont place, of course, and when
Connie asked whether he had known Miss Penelope
Sebastian, who lived next door, he said, Yesm, but
not very well. She didnt go about much, at least not
in hired carriages. She was a mighty interesting old
lady, though, I understand.
Ive never known a real writer, Connie
murmured artlessly.
We have lots of them here, the driver replied,
and he started to name some of the famous
American playwrights and novelists who wintered
on Bermudas coral sands. But it was Miss Sebastian
in whom Connie was primarily interested, and when
she could glean no further information she came to a
decision. Shed stop by and let David Scott know
that she and Georgia were staying right next door,
before going home. Her headache wasnt that bad.
Even to herself she didnt admit that this idea had
been in the back of her mind all along. The story
that David had told her on shipboard fascinated her,
and she was eager to know if any new angles had
opened up since the young mans arrival.
So she paid off the driver at the entrance to the
Tremonts lane, and instead of turning up toward the
house she cut at right angles over the lawn toward
the Sebastian place.
33

The novelists house was situated on much higher

ground than High Hedges. The Tremonts lawn
sloped gradually upward to a screening hedge of
tropical foliage which gave the place its name.
Connie was wearing her sheerest nylons, and instead
of risking a snag by pushing through the hedge
itself, she decided to turn back toward the main
road, and approach in a proper manner by the drive.
She had just reached the low limestone wall that
defined Miss Sebastians property when she heard
someone singing in the distanceor was that fullbodied baritone voice coming from a phonograph?
Connie stopped and listened. It must be a
phonograph, she decided. But just then, around the
curve in the empty road, came a bicyclist, a large
man riding along lazily, with his head thrown
upward toward the arch of trees, singing at the top of
his lungs.
For several minutes the singer didnt see Connie.
He was too engrossed in the operatic aria he was
practicing, to notice a girl approaching from the
opposite direction. He might have been alone in
Paget, he was so completely enrapt.
Connie wasnt especially musical, but she
recognized a good voice when she heard one, and
she was hearing one now. The bicyclist was singing
in Italian, and he looked as Neapolitan as spumoni,
with a fringe of curly black hair showing beneath his
34

white Panama hat, dark eyes set in a swarthy face,

and white teeth which gleamed in the sunlight
splashing through the trees.
Yet there was no comic-opera quality about him.
He was a big man, but he didnt look absurd riding
the bicycle. He looked very much at home. When
Connie reached the Sebastian drive she slowed up,
to listen. It was then that the singer saw her, from a
distance not more than fifty yards down the road.
He nodded, doffed his Panama with a grand
gesture which exposed a shining bald head, but he
did not stop singing. Connie paused, smiling,
because she seemed to be expected to wait until the
song was finished. Then, she wondered, should she
applaud by clapping her hands?
The man was almost at the drive, now. He turned
the wheel of the bicycle toward the Sebastian house,
and his feet rowed along the ground as he sang the
final notes of the aria. Then he swung one leg easily
over the bar, brought both heels together sharply and
bowed.
Hello, he said, in a perfectly ordinary American
voice.
Hello. Connie was so surprised that she
answered a little weakly.
The big man laughed. You are going to the
Sebastian house? So am I. Let me introduce myself.
My name is Murphy. Joseph Murphy. But my
35

friends call me Joe.

JoeMurphy? Now Connie sounded frankly
incredulous. Enrico Cavallo, yes, but not Joe
Murphy!
The singer just threw back his head and laughed,
then said abruptly, You are a friend of Miss
Sebastians nephew, the young man who has
inherited this estate?
Whywhy, yes, I am.
Ah! Mr. Murphy nodded. I have not yet had
the pleasure of meeting Mr. Scott. I just read in the
Royal Gazette of his arrival. But I knew Miss
Sebastian, of course, well. So I thought I should
call His shrug was slight, descriptive, and as
Italian as his olive skin and dark eyes.
Im sure David will appreciate it, said Connie
politely as they started up the drive together.
Actually, however, she was a little sorry that their
visits should have coincided. She wanted a chance to
talk to David alone, and this would be impossible
unless Mr. Murphys visit was short.
Mr. Murphy. She shot a glance at her companion
and wondered again at the incongruous name. But
he was apparently unaware of her inspection. He
was looking ahead over the velvety lawn toward a
low, long, pink-tinted house with a second-floor
balcony running its full length and a roof that was a
flash of white against the sea beyond.
36

Connie followed his glance. Oh, isnt it

beautiful! she cried, seeing it for the first time from
the ground level. It was not as large a house as the
Tremonts, but it had the intimate graciousness of
southern colonial architecture. Nestling in oleanders,
with the lawn dropping off sharply to the water
beyond, it looked like a perfect home for a writer,
full of atmosphere and charm.
It is lovely, Mr. Murphy agreed. Its an old
house, you know. Less spectacular than some of the
modern places theyve been building in Bermuda
lately, but with a certain something.
A certain everything, for my money, Connie
replied. Its the sort of house you dream about!
One of my favorite spots on the island, said Mr.
Murphy reminiscently, used to be Miss Penelopes
buttery. You have the most marvelous view of
Hamilton Harbor and the Sound from there. I still
stop by just to sit and look out over the water
occasionally. He sighed.
Connie asked, Whats a buttery?
A sort of summerhouse, or gazebo, copied from
the old butteries every Bermuda house used to have
in the days before electric refrigeration. Its off to
the right. Youll be able to see it in a minute.
Mr. Murphy parked his bicycle by a tree and
walked for a short distance over the lawn. See.
Connie saw a small square structure, open on
37

three sides, topped by a peaked roof. Steps led from

the small summerhouse down the face of the coral
cliff to the water below. She could imagine that it
would be a beautiful spot from which to watch the
endlessly changing bay, and she said so.
Mr. Murphy nodded. The view is exquisite from
either the buttery or Miss Penelopes sitting room on
the second floor. The house is built right on the edge
of the cliff, you see, so that you seem to be hanging
over the water. No wonder she called the place
Horizons.
Horizons, Connie said slowly. Thats an
exciting name.
They turned back toward the entrance door to the
house together, and recrossed the coral drive. The
place seemed to slumber under the afternoon sun,
almost unnaturally quiet. Long shutters were closed
along the terrace, and to Connie the house seemed to
have its eyes shut against the glare. There was a
secretive look about the closed shutters which
disturbed her, because this was a house that should
be wide open alwaysopen and lull of young
laughter. And instead it was associated with age and
death and mystery. She shuddered in spite of herself.
But Joe Murphy apparently felt no such qualm.
He marched across the stone floor of the lower
porch and lifted the knocker.
Clack! it sounded sharply. Clack.
38

CHAPTER

First Clue?

The door was not opened promptly. Mr. Murphy had

to knock again before the houseboy, William,
appeared, buttoning his white coat, which he had
apparently put on hastily at the sound of the
knocker.
The bald-headed singer took the initiative.
Is Mr. Scott in?
Ohyes, Mr. Murphy. William bobbed his
head. He stood back correctly and invited them in,
then glanced at Connie questioningly. Who shall I
say is calling?
Miss Blair, Connie said.
Miss Blair and Mr. Murphy. William repeated
the names as he led them into a dropped drawing
room to the right of the entrance hall. Mr. Scott is
going through some things upstairs. He may be a
minute or so. Will you sit down?
39

Connie murmured Thank you, and walked

down the steps into a room furnished with antiques
which Miss Sebastian had apparently collected from
all over the world. There were carved Spanish
chests, French tables, chairs which looked as though
they had come from an Italian museum. Gilt mirrors
and mellow oil paintings hung on the walls, and a
glass cabinet held a collection of figurines that were
delicate and distinguished.
It was an interesting room, Connie decided, as its
owner must have been interesting. If this medley of
styles and periods reflected Miss Sebastians taste
she must have been a very individual and
unconventional sort of person.
But Connie didnt comment on the furnishings to
the man who followed her down the steps. Instead
she turned to him with a teasing glance and said, So
your name really is Mr. Murphy!
Did you doubt me? Dark eyebrows shot up in
surprise.
Well Connie cocked her head to one side, so
that her hair fell free of her cheek, and regarded the
swarthy singer appraisingly. If you had said Ezio
Pinza, she told him candidly, I wouldnt have
been half as surprised.
Mr. Murphys laugh rang out, echoing against the
raftered ceiling of the big room. He seemed entirely
unself-conscious, sure of himself, as he had when
40

Connie had first seen him riding down the road.

Then he bowed from the waist, his black eyes
twinkling. Thank you, my dear young lady. Thank
you very much indeed. But you must not suspect me
of dissembling. My name is Joe Murphy, I can
assure you. Plain old Joe.
Hello! Sorry to keep you waiting.
Davids familiar voice made both Connie and her
companion turn with a start. He stood at the top of
the drawing-room steps, wearing tennis shoes and
slacks. Because of the rubber soles they hadnt heard
him come down the stairs. Now he looked from
Connie to his other visitor curiously. I dont
believe
Mr. Murphy stepped forward without hesitation,
holding out his hand. Im Joseph Murphy, and I
was a great friend and admirer of your aunts. I read
in the Gazette of your arrival, and stopped by to
offer my services. If there is anything at all I can
do
Why, thank you. David hesitated, and glanced
from Mr. Murphy toward Connie, obviously
wondering why they were here together.
I just happened to meet Mr. Murphy outside,
Connie explained with a smile, eager to set the
young man straight. We came up the drive
together, and introduced ourselves. By the way,
David, Emily Post wouldnt approve of this call.
41

David looked blank for a moment, then he

smiled. Oh, I wouldnt worry about Emily, he said
as he took Connies hand briefly. It was awfully
good of youbothto look me up. Sit down, wont
you?
Connie settled herself on a brown velvet sofa, and
Mr. Murphy eased his heavy frame into the most
substantial chair he could find. David pushed a large
footstool near the sofa and straddled it informally.
You say you knew Aunt Penny well? he asked,
turning to Mr. Murphy once more.
There was no twinkle in the singers eyes now.
He nodded gravely. Better than most people knew
her, I think, he replied.
David looked thoughtful. I understand from
William that she had few friends. He mentioned you
and a MissMerriam, is it?who occasionally
came to call. But he tells me that Aunt Penny kept
mostly to herself, at the last.
Again Mr. Murphy nodded. Miss Sebastian was
known as something of a recluse. He paused, then
went on. But we had something in common, you
see. Much in common, I should say.
And that was? David seemed to Connie to be
groping for a clue to the compatibility of this
stranger and his aunt.
Our mutual interest in music.
Oh, I see.
42

Connie glanced at the grand piano which

occupied one corner of the long room. Was Miss
Sebastian a pianist? site asked.
No, I dont believe so, Mr. Murphy answered.
I never, personally, heard her play. But she used to
tell me that some years back some of her musical
friends from Europe and the United States would
visit her. She provided that instrument for them.
And she has a remarkable collection of classical
phonograph records, David added. Thats one part
of my inheritance I shall keep.
Mr. Murphy looked both interested and
solicitous. There are things you intend to dispose
of?
David nodded in a forthright American manner.
I cant possibly keep the house, he told them. Its
beautiful, of course, and Ill hate selling it, but its
well, to put it bluntly, its too rich for my blood.
Mr. Murphy said sympathetically, I can
understand what you mean. It would probably be an
expensive place to keep up.
Impossible, on my salary. David looked around
the room. I only hope I can turn it over to someone
who appreciates it.
You might sell the furniture separately, Mr.
Murphy suggested gently. Privately, I mean. There
are Bermudians I know who have admired some of
these pieces. I could, perhaps, put you in touch with
43

them.
Thats good of you, David replied. Ill
remember that. Just now things are in a bit of a
turmoil, but when I start to get straightened out
He let the sentence dangle, as the knocker on the
front door sounded once more.
This seems to be your afternoon for callers,
Connie said, making conversation as the West
Indian houseboy again answered the door.
David grinned at her. Maybe this is Aunt
Pennys lawyer, he explained. He was to stop by
with some papers for me.
The guess proved to be correct. William ushered
into the living room a slender, serious gentleman
who was, to Connie, the very epitome of a British
solicitor. His hair was sparse but neat, his glasses
were set precisely on his nose, and his small, shrewd
eyes took in the company at a glance.
Miss Blair, Mr. Murphy. David introduced
them to Mr. Henry Thorndike promptly. The lawyer
bowed to Connie and nodded in the direction of the
singer. Mr. Murphy I have met before.
I was just about to show Miss Blair the house,
David said tactfully, but perhaps Mr. Murphy will
be good enough to take her around if you have
private business you wish to discuss with me.
What I have to discuss wont take five minutes,
replied Mr. Thorndike.
44

David turned to Connie. Then perhaps if youd

care to see the gardens, I could join you.
Mr. Murphy was on his feet in a second, gallant
and eager to be of service. He showed Connie
through the long, shuttered door which led from the
drawing room to the lawn at the rear of the house
and took her down the walk to the buttery she had
seen from a distance as they had approached Miss
Sebastians former home.
Wouldnt a child love this? Connie cried as she
stepped into the little pink summerhouse with its
peaked white coral roof looking like icing on a fancy
cake. Open on three sides, it looked over the lawn,
over the water, and down a flight of steep, winding
steps which led to an infinitesimal beach below.
From here, she could see how the main house
actually hung on the cliffs over the bay, and she
could imagine that from the second floor one would
have the sensation of being on a ship.
They strolled back after a while, and Mr. Murphy
pointed out the royal poinciana tree that sheltered
one wing of the house. You should see it in
bloom, he said. From June to September masses
of scarlet flowers positively light up the sky. Its
magnificent!
Connie could imagine that it was just that.
Standing nearly thirty feet high, the spreading
branches would make it a welcome tree for both
45

shade and ornament, but now it was barely in bud.

She heard bicycle wheels on the gravel of the front
drive, which meant, probably, that Mr. Thorndike
had finished his business and left. She wished that
Mr. Murphynice as he waswould find it
expedient to leave too, so that she could have a few
minutes conversation with David alone. Glancing at
her wrist watch, she realized that the time still left
before dinner was getting short, and that she should
be found restinginstead of gallivantingwhen
Georgia arrived back at High Hedges, although there
wasnt a trace of her mild headache left now.
But Mr. Murphy seemed in no hurry to be off.
David offered to show Connie the rest of the house,
and the three of them went from room to room, even
peeking into the kitchen, where William was busy at
the sink, before they went upstairs.
On the second floor there were two guest rooms,
besides Miss Sebastians suite, which consisted of a
bedroom, sitting room or study, and bath. She had
the choice location in the house, and, as Connie had
suspected, her study balcony hung directly over the
blue water, which looked very deepalmost
ominously sobelow.
David carried, tucked nonchalantly under one
arm, a big portfolio of papers Mr. Thorndike had
brought for him. He tossed it on the top of Miss
Sebastians desk. No rest for the weary, he said
46

with a quirk of his lip that was half a smile, half an

expression of dismay. Ive gone through more
doggone papers in this one day.
Theres always so much detail to settling an
estate, murmured Mr. Murphy sympathetically.
And with Miss Sebastians literary interests, I
suppose this one is especially complicated.
David shrugged. Its my first experience. I
wouldnt know.
Mr. Murphy indicated the portfolio. Is this part
of the manuscript of Miss Penelopes memoirs,
perhaps? She used to talk about completing them,
just before she died, and Ive been wondering how
far she actually got with the work.
No, I havent even seen the memoirs, David
admitted. These are just some check stubs and
private business papers. Nothing of real
importance.
Ah, then the memoirs are safely in New York, I
hope?
Connie wondered whether David would tell Joe
Murphy that part of the manuscript had been lost.
Ill have to remember to ask Mr. Thorndike
about that, or write Aunt Pennys publishers. David
dodged the question. I really know extremely little
about my aunts affairs.
It closed the issue, and Mr. Murphy could take a
hint. Such an interesting life, Miss Sebastian had,
47

he told Connie. She was a remarkable woman,

really. Remarkable. Full of the most refreshing
anecdotes. I shall await the book with the keenest
impatience.
If I knew Aunt Penny, it should be a lulu,
commented David with a smile. She could tell a
story like nobodys business. Even when I was a
little kidthis high!she could hold me completely
enthralled.
And isnt it fascinating, Connie said, her eyes
alight with excitement, that probably the best book
she ever wrote will turn out to be her own memoirs?
After all those mysterieshow many were there,
David? Didnt you say thirty-five?
Something like that. David turned to go back
downstairs. He stood aside so that Connie could
precede him, and, since Mr. Murphy had loitered for
a moment examining a photograph of Miss
Sebastian as a young woman, which hung in the
study, he had a chance to whisper, I found
something sort of interesting this morning.
What? Connie asked softly, but David shook
his head. Coming, Mr. Murphy? Together the
three of them walked down the broad, polished
stairs.
Connie glanced again at her watch when they
reached the lower hall. It was getting later by the
moment. She really should be going back to High
48

Hedges right away. But her natural curiosity kept

her chained to the Sebastian house. For another five
minutes she fidgeted on the edge of a straight chair
in the drawing room, while David played the part of
a polite host, even though he was as anxious as she
for Mr. Murphy to say good-bye.
Finally Connie could put her leave-taking off no
longer. Ill really have to run along! She looked at
her watch openly now, and stood up, the men rising
courteously as soon as she got to her feet. The
Tremonts dine very promptly, and I have to
change, she explained to David, so that he would
understand.
The Tremonts?
Connie had forgotten that there had been no
chance to tell him that she was staying right next
door, rather than in a hotel, as he had expected.
There was a mix-up about our reservations, she
said quickly. Ill tell you about it when I see you
againbut for the time being, at least, were guests
at High Hedges, right up the road.
Wonderful!
David
sounded
genuinely
delighted. Then Ill get in touch with you there.
And give my best to Georgia, he called alter her as
she hurried down the drive.
Ill do that! Connie waved a brief farewell, then
started to run. Darn that Mr. Murphy! she
muttered under her breath as she sprinted across the
49

dividing lawn and cut through the hibiscus hedge at

the spot from which she had seen William emerge
the day before. Ill bet he leaves right away now,
just when its too late for me to find out what David
has on his mind!
And, sure enough, from the other side of the
hedge, she could hear a hearty baritone voice calling
good-bye. And remember, if theres anything I can
do, he was saying as he rolled his bicycle from the
grass to the crunchy drive, just let me know!
She stopped, undecided. Should she go back?
Should she ignore the lateness of the hour and give
David a chance to tell her what he had discovered?
Connie half turned, then saw Philip Tremonts car
turn in at the High Hedges gate.
A moment later Georgia was leaning out the
window, calling, Connie Blair! I thought you had a
headache!
And Philip was adding, with more gaiety than
reprimand in his voice, Stealing a march on us,
eh?

50

CHAPTER

The Missing Photograph

That evening William brought a note to Ellen, and

Ellen delivered it to Connie on a small silver tray.
Miss Blair was scrawled in a firm masculine
hand across the envelope. And, very correctly, down
ln the left-hand corner, Kindness of William.
Connie knew at once that it was from David
Scott, and she hoped that he had decided to write
what he had tried to tell her in the afternoon. She
excused herself from the group drinking after-dinner
coffee around the open fire, and walked into the hall,
sliding a finger under the tucked-in flap.
But David apparently didnt want to consign his
formation to paper.
Dear Connie, she read, Mr. Murphy was wellmeaning and all that, but I did want a chance to talk
to you alone. How about going for a carriage ride,
now, it you can break away from the Tremonts?
51

There is a long twilight, these evenings, and later

theres a full moon.
Send me a reply by William, and if the answer is
yes, Ill pick you up in fifteen minutes. Hastily,
David.
Connie went back to the library and mentioned
Davids invitation to Georgia, who said, It sounds
like fun! Then she wrote on the back of one of her
visiting cards in reply:
Love it. Ill be ready. Connie.
William, grinning at being the go-between in this
innocent conspiracy, scampered back through his
hole in the hedge as fast as his thin black legs would
carry him, and shortly thereafter David himself
appeared at the Tremonts door.
Connie invited him in and introduced him to the
English family, who greeted him courteously but
with their customary reticence. Connie wondered
how long it would be necessary to know the
Tremonts to have them really unbend. Accustomed
to the informality of life in a small Pennsylvania
town, such ceremoniousness seemed very strange to
her.
David, however, was far from intimidated. He
stayed only as long as politeness demanded, then led
Connie off masterfully, bending to whisper in her
ear as he helped her on with her light, salmon-pink
coat.
52

Im rushing you a little, but the meters running.

What meter? Connie looked up, not
understanding.
David laughed. That question shows youre not
a New Yorker.
Now dont talk in riddles, Connie scolded.
What do you mean?
Skip it. David still grinned. I was trying to
make a joke about a taxi meter, as applied to the
carriage trade, but it fell flat.
Oh, I see! Connie laughed. I guess I just have
a one-track mind. Ive been so anxious to know
what you wanted to tell me this afternoon that it shut
out everything else.
David helped her into the carriage, directed the
driver to take the shore road back toward Hamilton
Harbor, and said, I didnt mean to get you
especially excited. What I found probably doesnt
amount to much.
Connie clapped her hands in impatience. Tell
me, anyway!
Sh! David pointed to the driver sitting on the
high seat ahead of them. I have a feeling that the
fewer people who get any inside dope on this
business the better. And Mr. Thorndike thinks so
too.
Im sorry, Connie apologized. Her voice fell to
a whisper. But if you keep me in suspense much
53

longer, David Scott, I shall stand right up in this

carriage and scream!
She looked quite capable, too, of carrying out her
threat, so David capitulated.
Well, he admitted, there are two things, really.
One I learned from Henry Thorndike; the other I
discovered in Aunt Pennys bedroomin a bureau
drawer.
Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, counted Connie
hurriedly. Ill take the last one first. It sounds more
interesting than anything Mr. Thorndike could
possibly tell you.
All right. David reached into the inside pocket
of his tweed jacket and pulled out his wallet, from
which he extracted a torn, triangular piece of a
photograph. He handed it to Connie, who turned it
curiously in her fingers. She felt vaguely
disappointed.
Whats this?
What does it look like? David asked.
The corner of an old photo.
Not exactly a corner. A jagged piece ripped from
one side.
Yes, Connie admitted. I guess youre right. It
looks like the shoulder of a military uniforman
epaulet. She held the fragment of paper up to the
waning light and examined it more closely.
Thats what I thought, David agreed.
54

But what significance? Connie stopped,

puzzled, and looked at David with wondering eyes.
Its this way, David began to explain. I was
going through Aunt Pennys things this morning
theres an awful lot of stuff, as you may imagine
and I happened to open the top drawer of a small
chest by the windows in her bedroom. There were
the usual feminine thingshe paused, embarrassed
momentarilyand tossed in among everything else
was a silver frame, with the velvet back off and a
photo ripped out. Only this little piece had caught on
a pin or tack in the velvet. So I saved it to show to
you.
Connie continued to stare down at the scrap of
photograph. But why do you think its important?
Im not sure it is, David admitted. It may not
mean a thing. But, after all, Aunt Pennys house was
ransacked, and the manuscript of her memoirs has
disappeared, and any little thing that might prove to
be a clue to either or both incidents is important,
isnt it?
Connie nodded slowly. Yes, it is.
You know how many photographs there are
around that place, David continued in a voice
pitched just above a whisper. You saw them this
afternoon. Crown Prince This and Duchess That,
right next to a Broadway musical comedy queen.
Aunt Penny had the most varied group of friends!
55

Smiling, Connie nodded again. She had noticed

the enormous number of photos, littering every
table, but she had seen houses in which family
photographs occupied almost as much space, and
she wasnt especially surprised that a world traveler
and raconteur of Miss Sebastians reputation should
choose to ornament her home with the portraits of
her titled or famous friends.
Well, why should anybody want to destroy just
this particular one?
But Miss Sebastian might have taken it out of
the frame and thrown it away herself.
Yes, she might have, David admitted. But it
doesnt seem likely, somehow. She was a tidy sort
of person, William says.
Did you ask William whether he remembers
whose photograph was in this particular frame?
I havent yet. Do you think I should?
Why not? Connie raised her eyes to Davids in
surprise.
Well, I dont know, David said hesitantly. Its
just that anybody might be implicated in the
disappearance of Aunt Pennys manuscript, even
William himself.
William? Connie sounded incredulous.
He could have been paid to ransack the house in
a fake burglary and destroy the manuscript, couldnt
he?
56

Connie whistled softly, and her eyes began to

tinkle. You have an even more vivid imagination
than I have myself, she teased. Next youll be
suspecting Henry Thorndike.
Hes not above suspicion, David insisted.
Until I have a few more facts in hand Im going to
walk as though I were treading on eggs.
Connies quick mind had glanced off the
immediate subject. Speaking of Mr. Thorndike,
what did he tell you that was especially interesting?
Something about Aunt Pennys memoirs, the
part thats already in the hands of her New York
publishes. David said. He waited until the driver
had made a turn which brought the lights of
Hamilton harbor into view, then continued, Ive
told you that Penelope Sebastian was an
unconventional sort of Person, he said. She never
could resist a good story, even when it involved her
friends, and it seems that in the opening half of this
last manuscript of hers she rattled a few skeletons in
family closets, if you know what I mean?
Imnot sure that I do.
Put it this way. She said some things that would
have been better left unsaid. No publisher wants to
take the smallest chance of being sued for libel. So
the editorial department did some pretty strenuous
cutting of Aunt Pennys reminiscences, and they
wrote Mr. Thorndike explaining why.
57

Oh. The monosyllable was a mere murmur.

Connies eyes looked over the still water, but for
once she wasnt drinking in the beauty of the early
evening scene. She was thinking.
David continued, They put it this way. They
considered the material interesting but were
convinced that it would be unwise to publish the
deleted portions, at least for the next fifty years.
Connie didnt answer for a full minute. Only the
clop-clop of the horses hoofs disturbed the quiet.
Finally she sighed and said, So the burglar might
have been somebody about whom Miss Penny knew
too much? He might have been after the
manuscript?
Sort of looks that way.
Or she, Connie put in, talking to herself
disconnectedly.
David understood, and smiled. Or she, he
agreed.
Then there are two possibilities, Connie argued,
her logical mind pursuing the subject. Either the
manuscript disappeared before Mr. Thorndike made
his original search, or the burglar discovered a
hiding place Mr. Thorndike overlooked, and got
away with the goods.
Theres one more remote possibility youve
overlooked, David corrected his companion gently.
Whats that? Connie turned in the carriage seat
58

to face him, gathering her knees up under her like a

little girl.
Davids gray eyes met her brown ones directly.
Henry Thorndike, he said, might have found it
Judicious to make off with the manuscript himself.
Mr. Thorndike? Connie was more amused than
speculative. A mental image of the correctly
unobtrusive lawyer arose before her eyes. I cant
imagine him making a misstep that would be unfit
for publication.
She realized suddenly that she was still holding
the Scrap of photograph David had handed her, and
she held it forth. Of course Mr. Thorndike might be
the Grand Duke Alexis in disguise, she said
roguishly. She dropped her voice to a stage-villains
hiss. Does he strike you as a White Russian,
David?
David dropped his air of seriousness and fell in
with her game. I dont think he has the royal
manner, myself, but he might be a foreign agent or
something. You never can tell!
Then what would be the meaning: of this?
Connie indicated the photo fragment David was
restoring to his wallet. Foreign agents dont wear
epaulets.
There was no doubt about it. The scrap of
photograph was a teaser, if, indeed, it should prove
to be a clue at all. Connie was still thinking about it
59

fifteen minutes later, when David ordered the driver

to stop outside the Princess Hotel, and the two of
them climbed down from the carriage and strolled
through the lobby and out to the terrace, where an
orchestra was playing for dancing, the strains of
music falling lightly on the springlike night.
The sky was midnight blue, now, in the
approaching dark. The moon hung like a lavaliere
above the water, a beautiful round yellow jewel.
Little additional light was needed to define the
tables grouped around the outdoor dance floor,
where couples and foursomes chatted and laughed,
sipping after-dinner coffee or iced drinks. On the
bay beyond a strip of lawn, sailboats hovered like
white birds in the night.
Look! Connie murmured, entranced. Theyre
like gulls resting, David. Isnt this a beautiful spot!
Shall we come here dancing some night? David
asked.
Oh, Id love to! Connie was thankful she had
brought dinner dresses along for shipboard wear,
because at the hotels people dressed in the evening,
though in the Tremonts house it was not the
invariable rule.
David drew her hand under his arm and led her
down to a walk along the water, above the dock
where the Princess launch or sailboats could put in.
They stood for a few minutes, watching the
60

phosphorescence on the water behind the drifting

boats. The innermost fringe of the tide was lavendertinged, and the sky glittered with more stars than
Connie had ever before seen.
The orchestra came to a pause between numbers,
and the voices of the guests were muted and
murmurous. Connie leaned close to Davids
shoulder. If we wait a while, do you suppose we
might hear a mermaid singing? she whispered in an
expectant voice.
David squeezed her hand, under his arm. His
chuckle was soft and understanding, although he had
no words for an adequate reply.
They walked back to the carriage then, and
discovered that the driver had raised the top, which
had fringe along the edges that danced with every
step the horse took. The scent of blooming Easter
lilies stole over a garden wall, and Connie sniffed
and wriggled back in her seat luxuriously, feeling
sheltered and relaxed. David didnt break into her
mood with conversation. They drove along the
curving white road in silence until they were almost
opposite the drive which turned into Horizons.
Then Connie said thoughtfully, as though they
had been discussing the subject all the time, I think
you should ask William about the torn photograph,
David. And if he doesnt know anything about it, it
wouldnt be hard to check back issues of the Mid61

Ocean News and the Royal Gazette and see if any

royalty has been visiting around lately.
Even easier than that, David replied, would be
to ask our friend, Joe Murphy.
Of course! Connie agreed. Why didnt I think
of that?

62

CHAPTER

Mr. Thorndikes Envelope

Breakfast in the Tremont household was typicallyBritish. Everyone came down when they chose and
helped themselves from dishes arranged on the long
buffet and kept hot over boiling water. Ella put in an
appearance only when called for by Mrs. Tremonts
silver bell, and this Connie would have ventured to
touch only in the event of an emergency.
On the morning following her carriage ride with
David she found herself in the dining room alone
with Mr. Basil Tremont, who greeted her with
remote civility and returned to his perusal of the
Royal Gazette, which was propped on a mahogany
paper rack in front of his plate.
Connie poured coffee from a silver pot and took
the lid from the chafing dish, vaguely missing the
orange juice or grapefruit which would have
introduced her usual breakfast at home.
63

Try some. Its excellent. Mr. Basils voice

suggested.
What is it? Connie could detect a slight odor of
fish, but beneath the concealing sauce she wasnt
quite sure.
Cod, said Mr. Basil succinctly. Then, as though
he had become suddenly cognizant that he was
dealing with an off-island furriner, he explained.
Youd call it a typical Bermuda codfish breakfast, I
suppose. Served with bananas and avocados, we
consider it especially appetizing.
The thought of eating bananas with fish didnt
exactly appeal to Connie, so she helped herself
frugally, and was surprised to find that what Mr.
Basil said was quite true. The delicate blending of
flavors, to which Ellas egg sauce contributed, was
different and delicious. She came back for a second
helping just as Georgia came into the room.
Hi! she said, smiling. This is yummy. Try it.
Miss Cameron looked on the concoction as
suspiciously as Connie had a few minutes before,
but found it equally appetizing. The two girls
chatted over their coffee after Mr. Tremont had
excused himself, waiting for Philip to appear and
drive them all into town.
Its such a beautiful day, Connie suggested,
Ive been wondering if you wouldnt like me to
start some sketching?
64

Thats a good idea, Georgia agreed. We need

about half a dozen typical Bermuda backgrounds
against which we can feature clothes for bicycling,
for the beach, for spectator sports, for golf, for
tennis, and for afternoon.
Connie nodded, filing the six classifications away
in her mind.
Each background should be so unmistakably
Bermudian that it wont be confused with any other
vacation spot in the world. Thats a large order
Connie.
A very large order, Connie agreed, wondering
if such an assignments completion were even
possible.
You may have to do some scouting around,
Georgia said thoughtfully. Offhand, do you have
any ideas?
Just one, Connie replied, glad that she had at
least this to offer. Over at the Sebastian place,
down at the end of the lawn just above the water,
theres a pink gazebo with one of those grooved
white lime stone roofs that hangs right above the
sea. It would shout Bermuda to anybody with a
nodding acquaintance with pictures of the island,
and almost any color costume would be stunning
against that pink walk
Philip Tremont had entered the dining room in
time to hear the last of this conversation. You
65

know, shes right, he said to Georgia, as though he

were complimenting a bright child. Then he turned
to Connie with awakened interest. That buttery
would be just the thing.
Georgia put down her napkin and pushed back
her chair. Everybody opposed say No, she
chanted. The Ayes have it.
Connie laughed. Its convenient, too, she
added.
Georgia nodded her head and said, Very
convenient. I shouldnt be surprised if there were all
sorts of background possibilities around the
Sebastian place.
Philip looked at her curiously, but Connie
understood the implication. Georgia was halfteasing, but she was also reminding her young
assistant that Reid and Renshaw had sent her to
Bermuda to work on the Tremont account, not to go
delving into the mysterious disappearance of the
manuscript for Penelope Sebastians last book.
So, when the others had left, Connie promised
herself to do an especially good job that day. She got
out her water colors and her sketch block and
stopped at Horizons only long enough to go through
the formality of getting Davids permission to paint.
David looked confused by such businesslike
briskness. But you will stop back and have some
lunch with me? he insisted. By then I should have
66

some dope on what we were talking about last

night.
The invitation was too enticing to refuse. I told
Ella Id be over for a sandwich at noon, Connie
mentioned hesitantly.
Ill send William to tell her youre staying here.
David settled this objection at once. Hes back and
forth between houses a dozen times a day, anyway.
All right, Connie agreed, really glad that she
had been persuaded. But this morning Im going to
work, so dont come dashing down to the gazebo
with all sorts of stories that will take my mind off
my job. Even if you come across something
important, it will keep for lunch!
David whistled. Golly, you sound stern! Havent
had such a talking to since I was hauled to the
principals office in sixth grade.
Connie blushed. I was just admonishing
myself, she confessed. You see, mysteries arc sort
of my hobby, and this one is soso puzzling and so
unusual that it keeps crowding my business
responsibilities 0ut of my mind.
David understood. We cant have that! he
admitted, You wouldnt look half so pretty selling
apples on the corner of Broad and Chestnut Streets
in Philadelphia as you do right now.
Connie pretended to ignore this remark. She
turned and marched away with her head in the air.
67

Or would you? David called after her, still

teasing. He cupped his hands over his mouth. You
might, at that!
Connie had a mental image of herself, clad as she
was right now, in knee-length blue shorts and an
open-throated white shirt, at a vendors stand in the
middle of the Philadelphia business district. She
chuckled softly, but she didnt look back. She went
over to the oleander tree near the gazebo, opened the
camp stool she had brought with her from High
Hedges, and proceeded to get out her paints.
As the sun climbed higher and higher in the sky,
Connie worked industriously. She made, and
discarded, two quick sketches, then decided on a
slightly different angle and was pleased with the
result.
At intervals, from the house, came sounds of
activityWilliam banging the back door, David
whistling a few bars of The Surrey with the Fringe
on Top.
Recognizing the
song,
Connie
smiled
reminiscently. David, apparently, was thinking
about their ride together last night. As she painted,
Connie began reviewing the conversation they had
had. It seemed to her, even in the sobering light of
day, important. And the more she thought about it,
the more convinced she became that the ransacker,
whoever it might have been, was after only one
68

thingthe manuscript. She only wished they might

find some clue which would prove or disprove the
success of the mission. This might be a definite step
forward in what seemed, at the moment, a
completely baffling case.
William, barefooted, white duck trousers rolled to
his knees, appeared with a basket and a crabbing net
and ran lightly down the steps which led from the
gazebo to the beach. He came back half an hour
later, the net now laced with seaweed, and the basket
heavy upon his strong young arm.
Mr. David says he thinks you will like crab! he
announced with a broad grin.
Mm! Do I! Connies family had always
vacationed at the New Jersey seashore and she was
well acquainted with the shellfish.
But today, for the first time, she was to taste
Bermuda crab boiled in a fragrant mixture which
William called a court bouillon. She and David
were served by the houseboy at a table on the
terrace, where he had placed plenty of paper napkins
and a tall pitcher of iced tea.
I think you will find your fingers better than a
fork, William explained to Connie, and a few
minutes later she was saying to David, He was so
right! Like lobster or fried chicken, this was no
dish with which to be overconscious of correct table
manners. Connie and David, by mutual consent,
69

gave up any effort to be polite and had a marvelous

time sucking the delicate meat from the legs and
claws.
Isnt this fun! Connie exulted. No wonder
your aunt settled in Bermuda. Ill bet that after she
had been everywhere else in the world she just sat
clown and decided this was best.
Its pretty wonderful, David agreed.
And, speaking of your aunt, Connie continued
in a lower voice, did you have a chance to question
William about the photograph?
David glanced toward the drawing-room door,
then was reassured by the sound of the houseboys
voice, raised in song, and coming obviously from
the kitchen wing. He nodded to Connie. I spoke to
him while he was serving breakfast. Even went
upstairs arid brought down the frame itself. But he
couldnt remember any special picture. Said there
were so many photos around he guessed he never
really looked at any of themjust dusted them.
I can see what he means, Connie admitted.
Did he soundsincere?
Perfectly sincere, David replied.
Well, Connie sighed, thats that. I had sort of
hoped Her voice trailed off.
That he would remember, David supplied. I
know. I had too.
They were silent for a minute, then David added,
70

When he didnt react to that, I popped the question

about visiting royalty, because after our
conversation last night I decided perhaps I was
being too cautious. Unless I begin taking a few
chances Im afraid I wont get anywhere at all.
Nodding in approval, Connie waited while David
took a long swallow of iced tea.
I drew a blank there tooor almost. William
says my aunt didnt have many callers, and hes sure
hed remember anybody with a title in front of his
name.
I suppose he would, said Connie regretfully.
He did come up with one thing, thougha guest
book. It was tucked in the little side drawer of the
French Provincial table in the hall, and it goes years
back. Want to see it?
Id like toyes, Connie said.
The guest book, Mr. Scott? Ill get it. William
had appeared noiselessly at the door to the terrace.
His voice was so unexpected that Connie jumped
with a start.
But she said nothing as the West Indian boy
retreated once more into the house. She could hear a.
drawer opening and closing, and she was vaguely
disturbed. Had it been wise, after all, to let William
suspect that they were seeking something they
couldnt find? Would he be apt to tell his mother
and thus drop a pebble into a heretofore placid pool?
71

Give the book to Miss Connie, William, David

instructed, and watched her turn the pages while the
houseboy cleared the table and disappeared
kitchenward with his tray.
Connie leafed through the first pages rapidly. The
dates beside the names were too old to be of interest.
But with the beginning of the present decade she
began to go more slowly, examining the various
signatures with care. There were names as American
as Hannah Jones and as obviously foreign as Pietro
de Pasquale. There were names of novelists and of
painters so famous that she recognized them at a
glance, but there was no especial name which gave
her pause, which made her wonder if here might be
some clue to the theftor attempted theftof Miss
Sebastians memoirs.
Finally she closed the book and shrugged.
Nothing?
Nothing.
Thats the way it struck me. It only bears out
what William, and Mr. Murphy, and Henry
Thorndike have already told usthat Aunt Penny
kept largely to herself in the last years of her life.
Connie nodded. Then she frowned, searching in
her mind for some new line of attack. Willi her
fingers she drummed restlessly on the padded
leather cover of the oblong guest book. What about
the check stubs and papers Mr. Thorndike brought
72

out to you? Have you been through those yet?

Ive been through all the papers, but I havent
tackled the stubs yet. Ill get to them this afternoon,
David said with a sigh. The papers were largely
about contractsin particular the contract for the
unfinished book. One thing was interesting. The
royalties were assigned to an orphanage in the
States. It was sort of a sweet thing for Aunt Penny to
do, wasnt it? She was quite a gal!
Connie sat up straight in her chair. Sort of
sweet? I think it was wonderful! And you mean that
if we cant find the missing manuscript the
orphanage wont get a cent?
Thats about it, said David. It does seem sort
of rough.
David Scott, weve got to get to the bottom of
this thing! Connie rose and pounded the table with
a small, clenched fist. When it amounts to an
inheritance for a single, healthy young man like you
its one thing; but when it comes to a legacy for a
bunch of unfortunate kids its something else again!
Were going to find that manuscript or else!
Or else what?
But Connie didnt have a chance to answer that
question. The telephone rang in the house, and
David arose, with a murmured excuse, to answer it,
because he had just seen William dodge through the
hole i)i the hedge to go spend the early afternoon
73

with his mother, as was his accustomed rule. Siesta

time, Connie called the hours the help regularly
took off in the middle of the day. In the early
afternoon, when people back home were usually
busiest, all Bermuda seemed to doze.
That was Mr. Thorn like, David announced
when he came back to the terrace. He apparently
doesnt go in for napping after lunch. He wants to
see me, and it sounds urgent, so I think Ill take the
bike and push along into Hamilton, if youll be all
right here alone.
Ill be perfectly all right, Connie promised. In
about an hour, when the midday glare is off the
gazebo, I want to try another sketch.
In the meantime, why dont you glance through
those papers and check stubs up on the desk in the
sitting room, David suggested. You might just
find something Ive missed. In any event, two heads
are better than one.
I sort of hate to Connie demurred. Personal
business, I mean, seems
Nonsense. David waved away her reluctance.
Dont you think Aunt Penny would want us to
make every possible effort to get the orphanage that
money? You bet she would!

74

CHAPTER

Premonition of Danger

Nevertheless, after David had pedaled down the

drive on the geared English bicycle which had been
part of the equipment left to him at Horizons,
Connie started rather reluctantly upstairs.
She believed it was their dutytheir obligation,
reallyto find the missing memoirs, but she didnt
like to feel that she was snooping among the private
papers of Miss Penelope. Somehow the check stubs,
particularly, seemed out of bounds.
Halfway to the second floor Connie stopped, and
ran lightly down to the hall again. She wanted to see
the table where the guest book had been kept. It
stood in a dark corner under die stairs and held the
telephone.
As she suspected, the inconspicuous spot in
which it was placed concealed the lovely lines of the
little French piece. From the front, even when she
75

pulled it out into the light, there was no suggestion

of a drawer. Only a small brass knob, set in the side,
gave evidence of its presence, and the intricate way
in which it was set into the curving wood apron was
a tribute to the cabinetmakers art.
Here might have been a perfect hiding place for
the manuscript, but the drawer was too shallow to
hold half a ream of paper, and, though Connies
hand explored hopefully, nothing but an open safety
pin rewarded her thoroughness. She sighed, pushed
the little table back to its original place, and once
more started upstairs.
On the second floor she was confronted,
suddenly, by the uncomfortable sense of being alone
in a strange house. It wasnt that she was frightened.
Not a bit! She simply felt uneasy, like an intruder,
and she supposed the unknown housebreaker must
have felt the same way.
In the upper hall a framed photograph of Miss
Penelope herself gave her pause. Such a spry little
lady, with her halo of fuzzy hair and her characterful
beaked nose! Connie thought she would have liked
knowing her. She was sorry that she was dead.
Hesitantly, she went on into the sitting room off
Miss Sebastians bedroom. On the slant-topped desk
David had spread the papers and checkbook stubs.
The Manila envelope in which they had been
delivered by Mr. Thorndike was tossed on a near-by
76

chair.
Photographs cluttered the mantel, the walls, and
every table. Strange faces stared at Connie, smiling
or sorrowful or merely vacant. Actors and actresses
postured and posed.
It was like being surrounded by the ghosts of
Miss Penelopes pastjealous ghosts, who guarded
their secrets well. Connie wondered whether, among
all these faces, there was hidden the one which
David must find before he disposed of this property
and returned to the United States. Or had the empty
silver frame held the one face they were seeking, the
face that would be the clue. . . .
Trying to shake off her mounting uneasiness,
Connie wandered around the room, straightening a
frame here, picking up an easeled picture from a
table and putting it back. A thought occurred to her,
and she opened the doors of the huge, black walnut
Victorian clothespress and felt along the bottom for
a catch to a secret drawer. This was a possibility she
and David had overlooked in considering hiding
places for the manuscript, and Connie remembered
just such a clothespress in her grandmothers house
in Baltimore, which had fascinated her as a child
because it had a false floor.
But no hollow sound greeted the rapping of her
knuckles. It had been an idle hope. Connie finally
gave up and went over to the desk, pulling up the
77

Chippendale chair and getting to work on the job

David had asked her to do.
The papers yielded nothing. As David had told
her, the only interesting information they contained
was the assignment to the Killingbeck Orphanage,
Brooklyn, New York, of the royalties of the
unpublished book. Frowning a little, Connie began
thumbing through the check stubs. Most were for
amounts under a hundred dollars and were made out
to Cash for household bills. A few went to
department stores, bookshops, or dealers in
phonograph records, all in New York City. Miss
Penelope had apparently spent little on clothes, more
on reading matter, and still more on elaborate or rare
recordings of the operatic music that, judging from
her huge collection of albums, she so obviously had
loved.
A breeze lifted the curtains at the long French
windows opened to the miniature balcony that hung
directly over the sea. Connie pushed a lock of hair
back from her cheek, tucking it absent-mindedly
behind her ear, and read on.
There were check stubs noted For William and
gardener, others on which the word Christmas
was scribbled hurriedly. In the two years just past,
Connie could detect a trembling fragility in Miss
Penelopes handwriting which was conspicuously
absent on earlier stubs.
78

In those years, too, several stubs were marked

simply Pietro. First for modest, then for
increasingly large amounts. Those stubs teased her,
as did the name.
Pietro. Where had she heard it recently? What did
it mean? Who was this person to whom Miss
Sebastian paid first fifty, then a hundred, and finally
five hundred dollars at a time? In her head Connie
began to calculate the probable total of the amount.
Surely two or three thousand dollars was involved,
maybe more. So deep was her concentration that she
was scarcely aware that a black cloud had blotted
out the sun and that the window curtains had begun
to whip violently, heralding one of the flash storms
that hit Bermuda so frequently, to wash the island
clean in ten minutes and leave everything fresh and
sweet and more intensely green than ever.
Pietro. Connie wondered whether the full name
might not be available on the canceled checks,
wherever they were. She must remember to ask
David. Here, for the first time, she felt that perhaps
she had stumbled upon a clue.
Pietro.
Suddenly she had it! She snapped her fingers in
an impulsive gesture of recollection. In the guest
book, of course! Pietro de Pasquale.
Now she became really interested, and leafed
back over the stubs to find the earliest notation of
79

the name. It dated to almost two years ago, May

twenty-fourth.
Pietro. Pietro de Pasquale. Were they one and the
same? Probably, Connie decided. It. was scarcely a
usual first name. She decided to list the checks made
out to Pietro, with the amounts and dates.
Fortunately there was a scratch pad in the desks till.
May twenty-fourth, she wrote in a firm, round
hand.
Then suddenly, and preposterously, Connie began
to tremble. She felt it in the muscles of her legs,
around her knees. She was, without the slightest
warning, badly frightened, because she felt, with an
awareness that transcended reason, that she was not
alone in this room.
Connie was no coward. She knew that this
uncanny alarm, this sense of imminent danger,
might be dispelled if she would only turn her head.
But her throat was tight with fear and her neck was
stiff.
She made her knees rigid. This is ridiculous!
With a gesture of determination she pushed back
her chair, and as she did so a smothering, heavy,
enveloping blanket was whipped down over her
head, and strong hands pinned her arms to her sides,
pulling the hood tight, twisting it behind her back
until her struggling arms ached!
Jerked roughly to her feet, she fought and kicked
80

like an animal bent on survival. She tried to scream,

but she couldnt. Her throat was choked with terror.
Never before in her entire life had Connie yielded to
such abandoned and violent fear. But her struggle
was as useless as the struggle of a butterfish against
a leviathan. Without a word, without even a telltale
grunt to betray him, her assailant was propelling
Connie inescapably across the room.
The window!
The sheer drop to the coral reef below. The
swirling blue water that had looked ominous, even
on the sunniest of days!
Connie felt her heart contract with sick refusal.
She gave a last violent wrench to free herself, but
her captor held her tight.
Now Connie did scream. A thin, smothered wail
which had no remote connection with herself issued
from her healthy lungs. She began to fight for air,
frantically, trying to get a full breath, as she was
Pushed inexorably forward one fighting step at a
time.
A door opened. A hinge creaked. For one wild,
exultant moment Connie prayed it might be David
returning, although she knew that he would have had
barely time to reach Hamilton by now. And he
might not return for hours.
A rescuer. Anybody!
Help! Connie tried to yell in age-old,
81

unconscious petition. Help!

But her words were a whisper against the thick
material which held her shrouded. Her hands
clutched at air and her pinioned arms ached. At any
second she expected to feel the railing of the
balcony against her legs, and the prospect made her
fight with renewed frenzy. But instead, an arm
caught her under her knees, and she was thrown, like
a sack of meal, against a hard wooden wall. Her
hands were free! She tore at the blinding shroud. A
door slammed. A key turned. She was alone in an
upended oblong box.
For the first few moments Connie was conscious
only of a weak and sweeping relief. Instead of the
sheer drop to certain death from Miss Sebastians
balcony, she was alive! She was alive and that was
all that mattered. Alive and free.
Free?
Scarcely that!
Connie struggled to her knees with an effort, and
found her head battling with swaying garments. In
that instant she realized where she was imprisoned.
In Miss Penelopes clothespress, to be sure!
Now she was angry. Hammering against the
locked door with clenched fists she shouted, Let me
out of here!
As suddenly as terror had enveloped her, it was
gone. How could she have imagined that anyone
82

should try to kill her, Connie asked herself? She was

furious, but she was no longer seriously alarmed.
Squirming around in the cramped space, she
managed to pull off one loafer and with it she beat a
loud rat-a-tat against the clothespress door. Then she
waited and listened for some sound of activity
outside.
But her assailant had apparently disappeared as
silently as he had come. No footsteps disturbed the
peace. No voice responded to her useless call.
Gradually, Connie came to realize that she was far
from out of danger. No chink in the stout black
walnut of the clothespress let in a breath of air. If
either David or William didnt return soon she could
smother in this coffinlike closet. She could yell her
lungs out for no one to hear, and then, exhausted and
without oxygen, she could smother like a kitten in a
chloroform box.
But by this time Connies head was once more in
command of her emotions. Take it easy, she
warned herself. Dont use up air by expending
useless energy. Keep as calm as possible. Youve
still got a fifty-fifty chance.
She reasoned, wisely, that the heel of her loafer
was the most effective means of attracting attention.
She could tap it sharply, with machine-gun
persistence, against the wood, and it would use up
less energy than trying to shout and would also save
83

her valuable breath.

At spaced intervals she banged on the unyielding
door as loud as possible. Her eardrums rang with the
noise of her own pounding, but she listened vainly
for any answering sound.
The air, by the moment, was becoming more
unpleasant and stifling. Connie pulled some of the
heavier clothes from their hangers and crushed them
under her sore knees. For a few seconds she felt that
she could breathe more easily because her head
could turn freely, but she soon found that this was an
illusion. In the smothering blackness her head
throbbed, and no matter how hard she fought for
self-control she knew she was beginning to grow
faint.
Once more, but feebly, she pounded on the closet
door. DavidDavid! Her lips formed the words
and her hands tore at her throat, aware that she was
suffocating.
David!
Connie slumped against the side of the
clothespress and fought to hold on to consciousness.
In the space of a dozen seconds the whole panorama
of her childhood passed before her mind. Her
mother and dad, the house in Meadowbrook, serene
and quiet under the arching trees. . . . Kit, her twin
sister, sitting on the bed and telling her about her
latest beau. . . . Toby, the youngest member of the
84

Blair family, a Cub Scout. . . . Ruggles, the dog. She

should have written Kit last night. Why hadnt she?
Oh, yes. She and David had gone for a drive.
David. Why didnt he come? Why didnt William
come? Why must she feel herself slipping, slipping,
in spite of anything she could do?
Weakly, Connie tried to grasp the loafer and
knock once more.
Knock. Knock.
The order from her brain was barely transmitted
to her linger tips.
Knock.
The shoe dropped from her hand and her head fell
forward, and, for one final instant, Connie thought
that she heard the sound of thunder, a sharp clap
followed by a fading rumble.
Then, despite anything she could do, despite any
effort of will she could command, sire was sliding,
slipping, hurtling into a deep, soft poof of blackness,
into a velvet well.
Down
Down
Down. . . .

85

CHAPTER

The Vanishing Sailboat

Connie opened her eyes to find herself lying flat on

her stomach on the carpet in Miss Sebastians sitting
room. Her left arm was stretched out and her right
one pillowed her head.
From the pressure on her back, underneath her
ribs, she knew what was happening. Somebody was
giving her artificial respiration, just as she had been
taught to give it in first-aid classes at school.
Im all right, Connie gasped.
She turned her head slowly and tried to see who
was pumping fresh air into her lungs.
Sure, sure. But just lie still.
The voice puzzled Connie. It was a mans voice,
and she had heard it before, but it wasnt Davids
nor was it Williams. She turned her head a little
farther, feeling stronger by the moment.
WhyMr. Murphy!
86

Joseph Murphys bald head was pink with

exertion and his dark eyes were filled with
frightened concern. Youll be okay, he said with a
nod, but you sure gave me one bad scare.
Connie rubbed her neck with her free hand.
Somebody locked me in Miss Pennys
clothespress, she remembered. She tried to turn and
Mr. Murphy put one arm under her shoulders,
another under her knees, and carried her to the
chaise longue by the windows as lightly as though
she had been a child. Then he stood back and
regarded her with a frown.
Whod do a thing like that?
Connie shook her head. I dont know.
Gradually, the entire sequence of strange events was
coming back. A blanket or shawl was thrown over
my head. I couldnt see.
She pushed her tangled blond hair out of her eyes
and tried to think clearly. Did you notice anybody
around as you came in? she asked the singer. Time
enough to find out how he had happened to be her
rescuer later. Now there might still be time to catch
her assailant.
Mr. Murphy was looking through the windows to
the water. There was a sailboat down by the
landing. There it goes now!
Connie turned and raised herself on one elbow
quickly. Sure enough, just as the singer had said, a
87

small white boat was just sailing away. It was the

only sail visible on the water, at the moment.
Connie cried, Oh, Mr. Murphy, run down and
see if you can see whos in it! Please. Hurry,
please!
Her tone was so insistent that Joe Murphy acted
almost automatically. He turned and ran down the
stairs two at a time. A moment later Connie saw his
heavy figure streaking across the lawn. Dressed in
white duck trousers, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, he
had more agility than she had given him credit for.
But she knew, when he reached the gazebo, that he
was too late to identify the occupant or occupants of
the boat. He shielded his eyes with his hands and
looked out over the water for half a minute. Then he
turned back toward the windows where Connie
waited and shrugged his shoulders with more
eloquence than he could have shouted the news of
his failure.
More slowly now, he returned, retracing his steps
to the upstairs sitting room, where Connie lay back
on the pillows of the chaise longue, feeling still a
little shaky and spent.
Too bad, he said. They were too far away.
I know. Thanks, anyway. Connie smiled at Mr.
Murphy and asked, How did you ever happen to
find me? Thais something else I have to thank you
for.
88

I came in to get out of the rain, Mr. Murphy

told her. The door was open, so I stepped in the hall
and hallooed. It was then that I heard you knocking.
Youre a very lucky girl. Five more minutes and it
might not have been so easy to bring you to.
I know. Connie nodded gratefully. She looked
toward the still-open door of the clothespress.
There wasnt a breath of air. The doors on that
thing are as tight as the doors on a bank vault, Ill
bet!
Mr. Murphy walked over and examined them.
They certainly do fit, he admitted. Most
wardrobes like that have a crack at the bottom wide
enough to see through.
Connie saw the heap of rumpled clothes and the
corner of the blanket with which her assailant had
muffled her. It was a Paisley shawl, close woven and
heavy, which usually rested on the foot of the
chaise. No wonder she had been so completely
blinded. There wasnt a chance in the world of being
able to see through material like that.
Her eyes continued on around the room,
unconsciously questing. What could have been the
meaning of such an attack, she wondered? Why
would anyone want to?
Connie turned her head until she could see the
desk. Suddenly she sat bolt upright.
The check stubs she said in a conclusive
89

whisper. The check stubs! Theyre gone.

Mr. Murphy turned back toward his patient
solicitously. What check stubs? He, too, glanced
toward the desk.
I was working with some check stubs, Connie
told him, quite a few of them, just when the
shawl was thrown over my head. And now they
arent there.
But they must be. Mr. Murphy went over to the
desk and peered into the cubbyholes of the tillwork,
then into the wastebasket beside it. No, by Jove,
youre right.
Connies smooth, high forehead was creased in a
puzzled frown. The papers were still stacked under a
glass paperweight. The Manila envelope which had
contained them lay on the chair. Only the check
stubs were gone.
The front door slammed and David shouted, Hi!
Connie?
Hi! Connie called, without quite her usual
vigor. She had swung her feet to the floor and was
sitting on the side of the chaise now, trying to fight
off the lingering dizziness. Come on up, David.
Mr. Murphy walked over toward the door and
David greeted him with unfeigned surprise.
Theres been a little trouble here, Mr. Murphy
told him immediately. Luckily, I just happened by.
Miss Connie has been attacked.
90

Attacked? David repeated the word

incredulously. He looked to Connie herself for an
explanation. What do you mean?
Connie tried to tell him an organized story of
what had happened. I was sitting at the desk going
through the check stubs when all of a sudden
somebody threw your aunts Paisley shawl over my
head and pinned my arms back. Whoever did it was
strong. I fought and kicked, but I was helpless. I was
dragged across the room and thrown into the
clothespress. The door fits awfully tight. I was afraid
I was going to suffocate. I knocked as long as I
could with the heel of my loafer, hoping that youd
come homeor William. And I guess when Mr.
Murphy found me I was just about out.
The minute I pumped some fresh air into her
lungs she came around at once, Mr. Murphy
continued. But it was a pretty close call.
And how did you happen to be here? David
asked the older man.
Mr. Murphy smiled. The storm, you know. I was
just passing the gate on my way to the Merriam
place when I realized I was going to get a proper
drenching if I didnt find shelter. So I popped in
here.
A darned lucky thing, David muttered. I
should never have left you alone in the house,
Connie. That was being all kinds of a fool.
91

But why not? Connie asked. You shouldnt

blame yourself, David. It wasnt your fault at all.
You thought Id be perfectly safe.
Of course I did, David admitted. But Ill never
make the same mistake again. He seemed about to
say something more, then stopped, pondering, and
stared down at the floor.
Connie had something more she must say, but she
hated to say it.
David
Yes? The boy looked up.
David, the check stubs are gone.
Gone? David whirled around and faced the
desk. Then he did just what Mr. Murphy had done a
few minutes before. He walked over, bent to
examine the cubbyholes in the tillwork, then glanced
in the wastebasket. Finally he pulled open all the
small drawers in the desk and looked inside. He
picked up the Manila envelope and shook it, tossed
it on the desk, and turned back to Connie. Well, Ill
be doggoned!
Thats the way I felt, Connie said.
Who could have wanted a hunch of old check
stubs?
And why? the girl echoed.
Why? Thats the root of the matter, of course,
David agreed thoughtfully. In the first place, whod
know they were even in the house?
92

Maybe whoever took them just did it as a gag, to

conceal what they were really after. Could that be
possible? suggested Mr. Murphy.
Connie looked at him. The red herring angle,
she murmured to herself. Its possible.
Is there anything else missing? David asked.
Not in this room. At least, I dont think so. But
you might investigate the rest of the house.
Ill do it right now, David agreed, as though he
were glad of the chance for some physical activity.
He left Mr. Murphy with Connie while he made the
rounds, upstairs and downstairs. Connie could hear
his heels clicking on the polished floors. His step
was descriptive of his state of mind, angry and
baffled. After about ten minutes he came back
upstairs.
Everything seems to be in order, at least every
big thing. About, details I cant be too sure. I doubt
if Id miss anything small on such a cursory
inspection, After all, Im not too familiar with this
place and all its furnishingsyet.
David said yet grimly, as though he meant to
remedy the situation. He came over and bent to look
into Connies eyes. Are you really feeling all
right?
Quite all right, Connie told him with a smile of
assurance. Im not as easy as all that to kill off.
Mr. Murphy looked shocked. Oh, Im sure
93

nobody meant to kill you, Miss Blair! he cried.

If they didnt they made a pretty competent try,
David muttered, meeting the eyes of the older man.
He came over to where Mr. Murphy was standing
and held out his hand. Id like to shake hands with
you, sir. And tell you how much I appreciate what
you have done. Ive been forgetting my manners
inexcusably.
Mr. Murphy seemed a little abashed. He
murmured something like, Perfectly all right.
Anybody would have done as much, and let his
hand drop from Davids limply. Then he turned to
Connie. I must be getting along to my
appointment, he told her. If youll excuse me
Oh, but of course! Connie cried. And thank
you again. Then, when Mr. Murphy was almost at
the door, she called him back. We forgot to tell
David about the sailboat, she reminded him.
What sailboat? asked their host.
Thats right! Mr. Murphy spoke to Connie, then
turned to David. Just as I was sprinting across the
lawn to take cover under your porch I noticed a
sailboat pulled in down on the beach. I didnt think
anything of it at the time. Just took it for granted that
somebody, like myself, was seeking shelter from the
storm. But then later, after I found Miss Connie, we
saw the boat start away
We? David questioned.
94

Mr. Murphy had brought me over here to the

couch, so I could see it from the windows, Connie
explained.
I dashed clown to get a better look, but they
were too far away. Tough luck. Mr. Murphy shook
his head.
Something repeated itself in Connies brain,
something that Mr. Murphy had just repeated
verbally. When he had come up to her before, after
giving useless chase to the sailboat, he had used the
same phrase. They were too far away.
Was there more than one person in the boat?
Could you tell that? Connie asked quickly.
Mr. Murphy turned to her, puzzled. I dont
know. Im not sure. Why?
Each time, youve said they, Connie told him
I thought it might have some significance, thats
all.
But Joe Murphy shook his head. Im afraid it
was purely unconscious. The sun was in my eyes. I
couldnt sec.
David walked down to the door with his guest,
then came back to Connie, who had, in the
meantime, combed her hair, powdered her short,
straight nose, and applied fresh lipstick. She looked
ready to fare forth and conquer the world once more.
Not a trace of her recent hair-raising experience
remained.
95

Women are wonderful, David murmured. But

wonderful!
Why? Connie asked innocently.
If you dont know, I wont tell you, David
answered. Then he sobered suddenly. Was there
anything important in those check stubs, Connie,
that you found before?
Im not sure that it was important, but there was
something rather interesting, Connie confessed.
Your aunt had apparently been paying out some
increasingly large sums of money to a man named
on the stubs simply Pietro. Does that ring a bell
with you?
Pietro?
Connie nodded, watching the young man.
David shook his head. Sounds Italian. Or is it
Spanish? He paused, thinking. Was there a name
in that guest book of Aunt Pennys?
Pleased that he remembered too, Connie nodded.
Pietro de Pasquale, or however you pronounce it.
They might be the same person, mightnt they? she
asked, ungrammatical in her enthusiasm.
They might. It should be easy to check. Ill
simply have Thorndike look up my aunts canceled
checks.
Why not ask him to give them to you to go
over? Connie suggested cautiously. Until we
know where were headed, I think your original idea
96

was a good one. We should be suspicious of

everybody.
Say! Speaking of suspicious, do you know
something?
No. What?
That phone call from Henry Thorndike was a
fake. I got all the way to his office in Hamilton and
he wasnt even there. His secretary said he had
called about eleven and told her he wouldnt be in
all day. Now what do you know about that?
David! Connies eyes widened with something
more than amazement. But you talked to him while
we were at lunch.
I talked to somebody, David admitted, but I
couldnt swear that it was Thorndike, or that it
wasnt the lieutenant governor, for that matter. The
connection I had was lousy. And Thorndike, or
whoever the guy was on the other end, sounded as
though he had a mouthful of cotton wool.
But, David Connie jumped up and stood
before the young man, looking up into his eyes. Do
you realize what you are saying? It could have been
Henry Thorndike thenhere?
That seems a little farfetched. Why would he
want the check stubs? Hes had em all along.
Unless, as Mr. Murphy was saying, someone
wanted to pull a red herring across the path . . .
David sat down in a wing chair and pulled at the
97

short hair over one ear. Lets review the situation.

Somebody wanted me out of the house for about an
hour, and that somebody knew that William always
spends the early afternoon with his mother. Check?
Check, said Connie.
That somebody also didnt know you were
anywhere around. The house was supposedly
empty.
Ill bet I was a surprise, then.
Ill bet! David agreed. But the intruder was
lucky. He was able to dispose of you and perhaps
finish the business he came for as well.
Perhaps, and perhaps not.
Thats right.
Then, said Connie slowly, he may be back.
Youre convinced, now, that its a he?
Its a man or an Amazon, Connie said firmly.
Im a strong girl, for my size, and I didnt have a
chance.
Youve got me sold, admitted David. Then
this guy might have been coming here for an object
or objects unknown, or he might have been aiming
to make another search for Aunt Pennys journals.
Right?
Theres a third, and remote, possibility. He
might have come for the check stubs, which he got.
That sounds very remote to me, David
muttered. But what doesnt sound remote is that he
98

may be back again, and I dont want him to start

anything that hes allowed to finish.
Relief flooded Connies voice, for this was the
very conclusion she had reached herself. David, I
think theres only one thing to do.
Whats that?
Youve received a fake phone call, and Ive been
assaulted and locked up. I think its time to call the
police.
I think so too, said David. Were playing in a
big league, it seems, and bush-league tactics arent
working. Lets go along downstairs, Connie. Ill call
them right now.

99

CHAPTER

The Police Investigate

The Bermuda police lacked a sense of the dramatic.

There was no screaming of sirens, no flashing red
car, to herald their approach to Horizons. Yet it
wasnt much more than half an hour after Davids
telephone call that two white-helmeted constables
turned into the drive and parked their car in the
shade, strolling across the lawn toward the house as
though they were coming to afternoon tea.
Connie got the giggles. Look, David! she
whispered, as she watched their approach from the
interior dimness of the living room. Arent they
marvelous? Like something out of an English novel,
particularly the one with the whiskers!
They were, indeed, an oddly assorted pair. The
one with the whiskers, as Connie called him, was
tall and spare and walked with a slight limp. His
iron-gray mustache was twisted on the ends with
100

correct precision, and his eyes matched it in color

precisely. His companion was short and plump
enough to appear indolent. His cheeks were pink,
and freckles bridged his nose, giving him an
innocent air.
The tall policeman did the talking. Im
Henderson, he introduced himself, and this is Mr.
Doty. He bowed. At your service.
David introduced Connie and took them out to
the terrace, where they all sat down.
So youve been having a spot, of trouble? Mr.
Henderson said mildly. He leaned back in his chair,
rested his elbows on the arms, and fitted his spread
finger tips together, then waited for David to
explain.
But his eyes, as David talked, were on Connie.
He looked at her appreciatively, as though he
admired her wholesome American good looks, but
also with a question. When David described how she
had almost suffocated in the clothespress, he startled
her by saying, Shocking, what?
Connie jumped. What?
That you should have had such an . . .
unfortunate . . . experience.
Connie was puzzled by his manner. It was bad at
the time. But Im perfectly all right now.
So I see, so I see. You see, Doty?
Mr. Doty almost bounced as he nodded. I see.
101

The curtains which lined the French doors to the

terrace rippled, and David sat forward suddenly.
William! His voice was sharp.
The West Indian houseboy stepped out of the
shadows, and bobbed his head. Yes, sir.
How long have you been standing there,
William?
Just a bit, sir.
Since I started talking?
Just about, sir.
David sighed. Come on out here, then. You may
as well hear the rest. And maybe these gentlemen
will want to ask you a few questions, anyway.
Connie watched William come down the single
step, then shrink back against the door, his eyes on
the police. A white line of fear had appeared around
his mouth, and his eyes were wide and alarmed. She
only half-listened as David described her rescue by
Mr. Murphy. She wondered whether Williams fear
were just the normal reaction of his kind to the
presence of the law, or whether he knew something
concerning the afternoons events which he might be
persuaded to reveal.
Mr. Henderson was asking a question. You
would say, Miss Blair, that there is no doubt in your
mind that your assailant was a man?
I dont think theres much question of that,
Connie replied. I cant imagine that a woman could
102

be so strong.
Mr. Henderson nodded. And, alter you were
locked in the clothespress, you heard no footsteps,
no noise of any kind?
Connie shook her head. None. She smiled
ruefully. Of course, for a few seconds, I raised a
terrific racket myself, hammering on the door. Until
I had come to my senses enough to be scared that I
might smother.
Mr. Doty put in a word. He edged his stout body
forward and said, Thisthis sailboat you saw in
the distance. Mr. Murphy couldnt tell clearly
whether it was handled by a lone man, or whether
there were other occupants?
Connie shook her head. By the time Mr. Murphy
reached the gazebo, the boat was too far away.
William leaned forward momentarily, seemed
about to speak, then to reconsider. His change of
position was just enough to attract Mr. Hendersons
attention.
Ah, yes, he said, getting out of his chair and
standing with his back to the bay. And where were
you all this time, boy?
William gulped and stammered, I wasnt on the
premises, sir. I was over at the next place. With my
mother. I usually go over there, afternoons.
That would be thelet me seethe Tremont
place? Mr. Henderson rocked back and forth on his
103

substantial heels.
Yes, sir.
Ah. He fixed the young Negro boy with an
eagle eye. You heard no outcry?
William shook his head, and Connie murmured,
He couldnt have heard. She wanted to defend
William, although she half suspected that he knew
something that he didnt intend to tell. He seemed so
cowed, standing there against the door, that she
didnt want to see him baited.
But Mr. Henderson ignored her remark. What
time do you usually go over to High Hedges, in the
afternoon?
About one oclock sir, after the lunch things are
cleared away.
What time did you go today?
At about quarter past the hour. I was a little
late.
And what time do you usually return? Mr.
Henderson pursued.
William glanced at David Scott. Three-ish.
And what time did you get back today? There
was a repetitive monotony about Mr. Hendersons
voice which Connie found irritating.
Not until four, said William promptly. I came
through the hedge just as Mr. Scott answered the
door to let you in.
Mr. Henderson glanced at Mr. Doty, then raised
104

his eyebrows and spoke again to William. What

caused the delay?
I was helping my mother gather some nasturtium
leaves. She was making nasturtium sandwiches for
tea.
Connie and David exchanged a glance of utter
bewilderment. Had William suddenly gone out of
his mind? Then they were even more surprised to
see Mr. Henderson nodding at the boy, as though he
had made a sensible and convincing answer.
Nasturtium? Connie started.
Oil, yesquite common here, Mr. Doty said.
Connie looked again at David and lifted one
shoulder almost imperceptibly. Her eyes twinkled,
and David, understanding, shook his head in a way
that said, as plainly as any words he could have
spoken, I give up.
Mr. Henderson and Mr. Doty gave up shortly
thereafter, too. Very puzzling, was their verdict,
delivered after they had finished with William and
had dismissed him. Very odd indeed. They
seemed to be particularly disturbed by the fact that
David had received a deceptively logical telephone
call to woo him away from the house. Definitely not
cricket seemed to be their mutual opinion. Not
sporting Bermudian procedure at all.
They desired to talk with Mr. Thorndike and also
with Mr. Murphy, which they would arrange to do at
105

their leisure. They examined the upstairs sitting

room with care and with little clucks of dismay that
the intruder had left behind no evidence of his
presence. Then they paid their respects to Connie
and David and departed in as sedate and unhurried a
manner as that in which they had arrived.
We will make our report and no doubt we will
get in touch with you in a day or so, Mr. Henderson
said politely. I should advise you to lock up quite
carefully, in the evenings, Mr. Scott.
David thanked them, assured them that he would
do so, and returned to the terrace, where Connie was
gathering up her paints and sketch block in
preparation to return home.
She glanced up at the young man from under her
lashes. Do you suppose they were real?
David grinned. The cops? Not a chance. They
stepped straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan and now
theyve gone back forever. I kissed them goodbye.
You didnt!
No, I didnt, literally. But figuratively, I think
thats what it amounts to. I doubt if theyll
accomplish anything before the first of next
September, if then.
Excelsior! cried Connie, clowning. Well go
on alone! She stood off and regarded the second
sketch she had made during the morning. Do you
think Georgia will consider this a good days
106

work? she asked David doubtfully, with a sudden

change of mood.
I think its marvelous, said the young man
sincerely. Without any artistic talent whatsoever
himself, he was full of wonder and amazement that
Connie could turn out such a skillful and colorful
job.
Connie still stood looking at the sketch, but her
eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. Im not sure Ill
tell Miss Cameron about mymishap, she said,
unconsciously reverting to a bygone formality. She
might not let me come back.
Before David could reply William spoke from the
doorway. Excuse me, Mr. Scott, but Mrs. Tremont
sent you this note. What with the police here, and
all, I forgot to give it to you.
Thats all right, David said kindly, and
accepted a small white envelope from the boys
hand. He opened it, took out an informal visiting
card, and read the message. Im invited to High
Hedges for dinner this evening. He imitated a
British accent. At hawf awfter seven. Shall I
come?
Why, of course! Connie cried. That will be
fun.
Run tell Mrs. Tremont Ill be delighted, David
told William.
Yes, sir, said the houseboy promptly, with a
107

pleased grin. But he lingered a moment. If yon

wont be needing me, Mr. Scott, my mother says
may I come over and help her to serve?
Sure, said David. Go ahead.
Connie put her water color, face down, on the
sketch block, and gathered all her equipment into
her arms. If I dont get back, Georgia will think
Ive been kidnaped, she said with a grin. Bye
now. Ill see you later, and Im glad youre coming.
The Tremonts are quite an experience, to Americans
like you and me.
She ran quickly across the lawn, and ducked
through the hedge just in time to see William go
through the kitchen door. There was no one about
when she went into the house and up to her room,
not even Georgia, so she bathed and dressed with
more leisure than she had expected to enjoy.
Connie was sitting in front of the dressing table,
giving her nose a final pat with a powder puff, when
Miss Cameron came running lightly upstairs and
into the room they shared. She was humming a
popular tune, and to Connie she looked younger and
more vivid than ever before.
Hi, she said, smiling at Georgias image in the
dressing table mirror. Life in Bermuda seems to be
agreeing with you. Then she added slyly, You
look wonderful, even though you have been working
late.
108

Georgia blushed becomingly. I havent been

working, she admitted. At least not all the time. I
played hooky this afternoon and PhilipMr.
Tremont, I meantook me out in one of those
glass-bottomed boats youve read about. It was
fascinating, Connie. You can look down and down!
She chatted with animation as she changed,
describing the wonderful underwater vistas she had
seen, the fairyland colors, the strange and beautiful
coral formations, and the traveling fish.
Connie had no chance to launch into the story of
her own unusual day, even if she had fully made up
her mind to confide in Georgia. As it was, she
decided it might be wiser to sleep on it. She didnt
want to overdramatize the tale she had to tell, nor
did she want to worry Georgia unduly. Particularly
when she seemed so especially happy and highspirited, as though she were walking around on her
own private pink cloud.
Together the girls walked down the curving
stairs, just a minute or so after the clock had struck
the single note of the half hour. David had already
arrived, and was standing beside Mr. Basil Tremont,
looking boyish and square-shouldered in a white
coat and dark flannel trousers. Connies eyes met his
and smiled briefly, but Georgia was looking at
Philip, and for the first time Connie realized that the
young Englishman was primarily responsible for
109

Georgias especial glow, ft was as though they saw

only each other in the room, and as though, without
exchanging a word, they were together in spirit.
Connie went over to Mrs. Tremont when she
found a chance. It was awfully nice of you to ask
David to dinner, she said, pitching her voice under
the level of the general conversation. Hes rather
alone, here. Except for Mr. Thorndike and Mr.
Murphy, and William, of course.
He seems a likable sort of chap, murmured
Mrs. Tremont, glancing in Davids direction. Not at
all like his late aunt, I must say. More conservative,
altogether.
Miss Sebastian wasunconservative? Connie
knew quite well that Miss Penelope had been
considered quite unconventional by the islanders,
but she wanted to hear the direct opinion of her
closest neighbor, who could surely be said to be at
the opposite end of the pole.
Mrs. Tremont hesitated, her calm eyes
contemplating the young girl. Well, shall we say a
little Bohemian in her tastes. Her friends were few
but oddly assorted. Take that Italian chap, for
instance, the one who travels under the name of
Murphy. Youve met him, havent you? I saw him
bicycling up the Horizons drive just before the storm
this afternoon.
Involuntarily, Connie had started. Yes. Ive met
110

him. Butyou meanJoseph Murphy isnt his real

name?
Gracious, child, it may be for all I know. But he
scarcely looks the part, does he? And I have a dim
recollection that Miss Penelope hinted that he was
using a pseudonym, but then that might have been
her imagination running a bit astray. A writers
imagination can be so very vivid, you know.
Mrs. Tremont smiled graciously and moved away
from Connie to speak to Georgia, who was chatting
with David Scott.
Which leaves me exactly where I started,
Connie murmured to herself. But she made a new
resolution. She would urge David to try to find out
whether Mrs. Tremonts suspicion might be founded
on fact.
A few minutes later dinner was announced, and
Connie went in with Mr. Basil Tremont, while
David offered his hostess his arm. The long
mahogany table was laid with creamy linen and
deep blue Spode. Bermudas fragrant Easter lilies
formed the centerpiece, and from the sideboard
silver gleamed. Connie, accustomed to the homey
informality of life in a small Pennsylvania town,
made herself a promise to write to Kit, her twin
sister, about all this. She was enjoying herself
hugely, drinking up the different atmosphere,
absorbing the quality of the place and the people as
111

only a young, impressionable girl can do.

She had just spread a monogrammed linen napkin
across her lap and picked up her soup spoon when,
from the head of the table, her host asked an
unexpected question.
Any trouble over at your place, Mr. Scott? I
noticed a couple of officers turning in there this
afternoon.
Connie and David exchanged a glance which
was, to Georgia Cameron at least, a dead giveaway.
You may as well tell us all, she said with a smile
that contained a sigh. Then she turned to Mr.
Tremont. Connie attracts unusual events as a bright
light attracts moths, she said aptly. I might have
known, if she spent the day painting at Horizons,
that there would be a story to tell when she came
home.
David chuckled, and Connie murmured, And I
might have known that it would be impossible to
keep a secret from Georgia, even for a couple of
hours. You may as well tell them, David. There may
be a report in the paper tomorrow, anyway.
So David told the entire incredible story, while
the company finished the soup course and while
plates were being cleared and the roast brought in.
Its rough that Mr. Murphy couldnt identify either
the sailboat or its occupant, he concluded. I have a
feeling we missed our big chance there.
112

Philip Tremont had been leaning forward, one

elbow on the table, listening with a frown of
concentration. He glanced toward Connie with an
expression she couldnt read, then his eyes met
Davids.
You know, its peculiar, he said, just as
William came through the pantry door with a
casserole of baked Bermuda onions, but I didnt see
anyone on the bay this afternoon right after the
storm.
Was he doubting her word and Mr. Murphys?
Connie turned in astonishment toward the young
Englishman and was about to challenge him with a
direct question, when William, just behind her chair,
dropped the serving dish he was carrying. Steaming
hot onion sauce sprayed over the rug and against
Connies sheer nylon stockings. She pulled aside
quickly, and William, embarrassed and dismayed,
started to mumble apologies as Mrs. Tremont rang
for Ella to help clean up the debris.

113

CHAPTER

10

Miss Merriam

Are you burned, miss? Ella asked, dabbing at

Connies stockings with a napkin. Her voice was
shrill with a mixture of concern and chagrin. That
William, tripping over his own big feet.
Dont scold William. Im sure it was just an
accident that might have happened to any of us, Ella.
Ill ask to be excused for a minute and change to
fresh stockings. Theres nothing to worry about at
all.
As Connie ran upstairs, however, she promised
herself that she would ask Philip Tremont what he
had implied by his last remark. She pulled off her
soiled hosiery hurriedly and went to a bureau drawer
for a clean pair. Shed ask him right away, as soon
as she got downstairs. The very idea of insinuating .
..
But then, when Connie returned to the table, the
114

opportunity to pursue the subject was past. Mrs.

Tremont had a firm hand on the reins of
conversation, and she didnt intend to relinquish
them to her young house guest. The dinner party had
got off to a rather unfortunate start, but she was a
sufficiently skillful hostess to steer the talk through
whatever lanes she chose from now on. Music,
books, anything to avoid personalities and odd
occurrences that were too close to home.
Later, while they were all having coffee in the
living room, Mr. Basil Tremont mentioned to his
son that it might be interesting to plan a trip to St.
George. Miss Cameron and Miss Blair will want to
see this part of the islands. Its a quaint town,
comparatively unspoiled, and you know it houses
quite an interesting monumentthe oldest Anglican
church in the Western Hemisphere.
Why dont you plan a picnic for Sunday? Mrs.
Tremont suggested. You could wander around St.
George and visit St. Peters, then go on to one of the
beaches for a swim. Ella will be glad to pack you a
lunch.
David was invited to go along and readily agreed.
A double date sounded like fun to Connie too. Ella
was consulted and arrangements were made on the
spot. Then, since the king was making an address
that was being rebroadcast for Bermuda listeners,
the radio was turned on and general conversation
115

came to a standstill for the better part of an hour.

Connie, seated in the shadows apart from the
main group, couldnt keep her mind on the speech,
which was of far more interest to Britains colonists
than it was to an American girl. Her thoughts drifted
back to David Scotts peculiar problem, and she
began to explore possible avenues of approach
which had heretofore been overlooked.
One particular name kept recurring to her.
Merriam. Mr. Murphy, on the day she had first met
him, had mentioned that Miss Merriam had been one
of Miss Sebastians few intimate friends. Then, just
this afternoon, he had referred to the name again. I
was just passing the gate on the way to the Merriam
place he had said. The same Miss Merriam,
perhaps? In any event, David should look the lady
up. She would suggest it to him, if possible, before
he left to go home.
She managed to do this in a few whispered
words. Good idea, David agreed, but youd better
go along with me. Youre a far better judge of
character than I. And I need your opinions and your
help.
Quickly, they made a date for the next afternoon
at four-thirty, when the Tremont executives
regularly knocked off work. Ill find out from
Henry Thorndike where she lives, and well bicycle
over if its within a reasonable distance.
116

Fine! Connie agreed, and dont telephone first.

Lets just take a chance on finding her at home.
Later, upstairs in their bedroom, Connie would
have liked to approach Georgia on the subject of
Philip Tremonts dinner-table remark. She was still
puzzled by the fact that he had appeared to doubt her
word, and she thought Miss Cameron might be able
to clear up the question that nagged at her.
But Georgia, this evening, was curiously
unapproachable. Her eyes still held a faraway,
dreamy expression, and Connie couldnt seem to get
close to her. Certainly not close enough to question
the intention of Mr. Philip Tremont!
The next morning both girls went into Hamilton
with the Tremont men. Georgia had been pleased
with the sketch of the gazebo, and wanted Connie to
do similar water colors of some typical Front Street
scenes. So, clad in a short-sleeved, low-necked
chambray, Connie went with her sketch block to a
corner near the Tremont Shop, and spent a happy
day getting tanned by the warm Bermuda sun while
she worked away at her painting.
At noon, when she returned to the shop, the elder
Mr. Tremont had gone to his club, and Georgia and
Philip were nowhere to be found, so Connie lunched
alone, in a little tearoom on a side street. At a store
near by she bought some gay Bermuda postcards
and addressed them to each member of the family.
117

She sent her mother a picture of a quiet cove

shadowed by a beautiful old cedar. Youd love it
here! she promised. You and Dad must come
someday. She sent Kit a picture of the beautiful
pink and white Princess Hotel where David was to
take her dancing, and told her how much fun she
was having. She sent her young brother Toby a
photograph of a sea horse, and told him, jokingly,
that shed slip one in her pocket and bring it home
folium to ride. Finally she decided on a picture of a
horse and carriage for her clad, and scribbled an
affectionate note on the back. Then, because she
didnt want to neglect her Aunt Bet, with whom she
had lived in Philadelphia since the beginning of her
association with Reid and Renshaw, Connie bought
a folder of Bermuda scenes, and mailed it off with
her love. I have heaps to tell you, she scrawled
hastily across the space reserved for a message, but
it will have to keep!
Then, in the afternoon, Connie changed her
location to a spot near the dock, and went back to
work. Tourists loitered to watch the young artist,
and children, going past on their way home from
school, stopped to ask questions in their clipped
British manner. Connie answered them with a
cordial smile and worked on unself-consciously. She
was intent only on doing a good job and on finishing
in time to keep her date with David. She had a
118

feeling that their afternoon excursion might prove to

be very interesting, if they had the good luck to find
Miss Merriam at home.
David was prompt in calling for her. He wheeled
into High Hedges drive on the dot of four-thirty, and
Connie was ready and waiting, with a bicycle
borrowed from the Tremonts ample supply. He had
directions from Mr. Thorndike, and Connie and
David found the Merriam house without difficulty,
for it was less than a mile clown the road toward
Riddells Bay.
As Bermuda homes go, it was small, and set on a
gentle slope of green grass which led to a rocky
hillside. Its centuries were revealed by the softly
aged lines of the ridged and whitewashed coral roof,
which had been designed to catch the rain water
which was then and is still the colonys only fresh
water supply.
Beyond the house there was a small, typically
English garden, and here Connie and David found
Miss Merriam working among her flower beds,
sturdy gloves on her hands and a big straw
gardening hat on her head.
She was a big woman, almost massive, and there
was strength in the arms that wielded a heavy, oldfashioned cultivator. This Connie could see as they
approached her, before she was even aware of their
presence, and had turned to appraise them with a
119

cool blue eye.

Yes?
The voice that rapped out the monosyllable was
deep and authoritative. Miss Merriam face was as
strong as her arms, but there was an unyielding
quality about her that Connies warmhearted nature
shrank from instinctively.
David stepped forward. Im David Scott, he
explained without preamble, Miss Sebastians
nephew. I understand that you were a friend of my
aunts and I took the liberty of bringing Miss
Blairhe indicated Connieto call.
Ah, yes. How dyou do, Miss Blair.
How do you do, Miss Merriam. You have a
lovely garden! Connie looked at the neat paths and
flower beds appreciatively.
Thank you. I should have a fairly decent
garden, said Miss Merriam wryly. Ive been a
landscape architect, you know, for the better part of
my life.
I didnt know, murmured Connie. How
interesting. She felt more than a little abashed.
Miss Merriam indicated a group of lawn chairs.
Sit down, wont you? She removed her garden
gloves with something approaching reluctance, and
leaned her cultivator against a tree. Then she sat
down opposite Connie and David, both sensibly
shod feet planted firmly before her on the grass. I
120

rather miss Penelope, she said to David in a

meditative fashion. She really could be quite
amusing when she chose.
Connie had to stifle a gasp. She had never before
met anyone so thoroughly egotistical in her manner.
Miss Merriam acted like the queen of all she
surveyed, and apparently considered her friends,
even those deceased, to have been placed on this
earth purely for her divertissement.
Aunt Penelope was a remarkable woman,
David said loyally. I never knew her well, but as a
child I used to love her visits. She had a zest for
living and a love of people that was hard to beat.
Hurrah! Connie cheered Davids defense of his
aunt silently. What could a woman like Penelope
Sebastian, she wondered, ever have found to attract
her to Miss Merriam? She was so cold, so
unyielding, so
David interrupted her train of thought. You and
Aunt Penny used to see a good deal of each other, I
understand, he was saying chattily to his hostess,
trying to draw her out.
I wouldnt say that. I went to dinner once a
fortnight, on alternate Tuesdays. Otherwise I
stopped in at Horizons rather infrequently.
Oh.
Davids monosyllable told Connie that Miss
Merriams abruptness had left him stymied. She
121

stepped into the conversational gap. Were the

Tuesdays something rather special, then?
They were musical evenings, Miss Merriam
said flatly.
It was Connies turn to say Oh. Somehow every
remark the landscape architect made was a terminal
point.
David took over again with creditable speed.
Then you must have met Mr. Murphy?
For the first time, Miss Merriams expression
brightened perceptibly. Of course! she said. He
has a remarkably fine voice. You have heard him
sing?
Only informally, David replied, while Connie
edged forward on her chair. Here was a person who
might confirm or deny the suspicion Mrs. Tremont
had voiced the evening before. Should she ask the
question that rose to the tip of her tongue?
But before she could make the decision to plunge,
David forestalled her. I take it you know Mr.
Thorndike, also?
Henry Thorndike? I should say I do. There was
no admiration in Miss Merriams voice now.
And you dont find himcongenial? David
acted a little surprised, but Connie suspected that he
was just trying to draw Miss Merriam out.
Henry Thorndike is either a bumbling idiot or a
great rascal, retorted Miss Merriam. Why
122

Penelope ever hired him to handle her affairs Ill

never know.
Why, Miss Merriam, what do you mean? David
sounded shocked.
With something between a sniff and a snort Miss
Merriam said, Never mind what I mean.
But? David looked at her as though he didnt
intend to take no for an answer.
Any man who would let Penelopes journal just
lie around in an empty house to get stolen should
have his head examined, snapped Miss Merriam.
Oh, then you know about the journal?
Certainly. Did you expect Henry Thorndike to
keep anything like that to himself? Her slightly
harsh voice, the level gaze of her deep-set eyes, the
stillness and size of her hands lying on top of the
garden gloves in her lap, all contributed to the
impression she gave of supercilious strength.
David played up to her egoism. He leaned
forward and rested his elbows on the arms of the
garden chair, looking at his hostess directly and
exerting every ounce or charm he possessed. We
need your help, Miss Merriam, he said. The
royalties from the book my aunt had probably
finished before her death will go to an orphanage in
New Yorkif the manuscript can be found. Have
you any theory, any idea at all, as to who might have
stolen it?
123

Certainly.
Connies eyes widened in surprise. Who?
Henry.
Henry Thorndike? cried David in astonishment.
Butbut why? Connie asked.
I told you before I considered him either an idiot
or a rascal. If he allowed someone else to get hold of
the manuscript he was an idiot; if he managed to
give the impression that Horizons was burglarized
and got away with it himself it can only be for one
reason. Penelope knew that there was more to Henry
than meets the eye and got something hot as a
firecracker into her book about him.
Abruptly, as though she had said her final word
on the subject, Miss Merriam stood up. Will you
have some tea? she asked without warmth.
Oh, thank you, but I do think wed better be
going along. It was Connie who made the gesture
of refusal. .She wanted a chance to think over what
this strange woman had said. Was Henry Thorndike
playing a double game? Was he other than he
seemed, a person to suspect and watch? Sire had a
feeling that instead of unraveling this mystery, she
and David were managing to roll up a perfectly
enormous ball of wool, through which no glimmer
of truth could possibly be seen.
David followed Connies lead, and the two
young-people said their goodbyes politely but as
124

quickly as possible. Miss Merriam, leaning on her

cultivator, watched them walk up the slope of the
lawn to where they had parked their bikes, and
Connie looked back just once.
Hefty old gal, isnt she? remarked David.
Involuntarily, Connie shivered. She could still see
Miss Merriams strong hands lying idle in her lap.
Either shes got something on Henry, she mused,
or shes up to her ears in this thing herself. Yes, she
is hefty, David. She must be pushing sixty, but Ill
bet shes strong as an ox. Strong enough to have
thrown that shawl over my head and handled me as
easily as the average woman of her age could handle
a kitten.

125

CHAPTER

11

Five Suspects

Georgia Cameron lay sleeping, her dark hair tousled

on the embroidered white pillow slip, her face as
calm and happy as a childs.
Connie was wide awake in the other twin bed. It
was another flawless Bermuda day. Birds sang.
Easter lilies nodded gently in the fields. Pink and red
hibiscus turned toward the sun. It was Sunday. They
were going on a picnic. She yawned and turned over
on her back, stretching her slender arms wide. Life
was certainly good!
In a little while Georgia stirred and opened her
eyes languidly, then saw that Connie was awake,
and smiled. Hello, early bird.
Hi! I thought youd never wake up. Isnt this a
marvelous day?
Theyre all marvelous, down here.
Connie sat up and hugged her knees. Everything
126

is better in Bermuda, she caroled. Even the

mysteries.
You and your mysteries. Georgia turned over
with her face toward the windows and pretended to
ignore her. Then, before more than a minute had
passed, she turned back again. Connie
Yes?
Remember what Philip said, the other night at
dinner, about there being nobody on the bay the
afternoon you were attacked?
Yes. Connie looked interested.
I know he was right. There wasnt anyone out at
allexcept us.
Us? Connie leaned on one elbow, puzzled.
Philip and I. We played hooky. Remember, I
told you?
Yes, but I thought you went out in a glassbottomed boat.
We did, later, said Georgia. But early in the
afternoon, right after lunch, we came back to High
Hedges and got the dinghy. Philip thought it would
be more fun to sail across the bay than to go by
road.
Now wait a minute! Connie cried. Let me get
my timing straight. When did you start off from
here?
A little after one-thirty. I cant exactly
remember.
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But it was after two oclock when Mr. Murphy

and I saw the sailboat Connie began.
Georgia nodded. We werent a hundred yards
offshore when Philip realized wed left the cookies
and the thermos of lemonade Ella had fixed for us
on the dock. It was easier to pull in at the Horizons
beach than to go back the other way, so thats what
we did. It was while Philip was gone that the flash
storm hit. Luckily, there was an oilskin aboard, so I
kept dry. Then, as soon as we bailed out, we got off
again. And we were the only sailboat on the water
for ever so long.
How long, Connie asked slowly, was Philip
Tremont away from you when he went to get the
lemonade?
Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe. He said he
ducked into the gazebo when the storm hit. He
couldnt make the boat, and anyway, he knew there
was only one oilskin. It amuses me the way
Bermudians take these quick storms for granted.
They know theyll be over in a minute or two and
they dont pay any attention to them at all.
But Connie did not look amused. Could you see
the gazebo from the boat? she asked thoughtfully,
Oh, no, I was way below it, Georgia replied. I
couldnt even see the roof. You know how the little
beach is, tucked under one side of the cliff there.
She tossed back the covers and swung her long,
128

graceful legs over the side of the bed. Wed better

start dressing. Its getting late.
But Connie still hugged her knees and looked up
at Georgia thoughtfully. Then the boat we probably
saw was yours, she said in a slow, contained voice.
And the reason William was so upset at dinner the
other night was that he must have seen you clearly.
Why in the world didnt you tell me that when we
were talking about it then?
Georgia blushed. Because Mr. Basil Tremont
was there. He didnt know we ran off. She stood
up, then came and sank down on the edge of
Connies bed, covering the younger girls clasped
hands with, her own. Oh, dont you see, darling
were in love! I suppose its ridiculously sudden and
all that. But maybe thats the way it is, when it hits. I
just know that we want to be together every possible
minute and that theres never been anything like this
in my life before!
Never before, either, had Connie seen Georgias
eyes so bright, her cheeks so pink with exhilaration.
Her very manner was changed. The advertising
executive had vanished completely. She seemed to
be Connies own age, rather than several years
older. She was the counterpart of any pretty,
romantically involved girl.
Georgia! Im delighted! Connies pleasure was
spontaneous and sincere. But a minute later she
129

sobered. She could scarcely wish Georgia every

happiness in her love affair and at the same time be
suspecting Philip Tremont of having spent the ten
minutes he was away from the boat to other
purposes than going back for the lemonade.
And there was no doubt about it. In Connies
mind Philip became an inevitable suspect, to be
placed in her mental rogues gallery along with Mr.
Thorndike and Miss Merriam of the heavy hands.
Philip Tremont had had ample time to enter the
Sebastian house, creep up the stairs in his rubbersoled sailing shoes, and lock Connie in the clothespress. But had he a motive? Had hethe younger
member of the reputable Tremont firmany reason
why he should have wanted to steal the check stubs
or anything else from Miss Sebastians sitting room?
For Connie, the sun did not seem to shine quite so
brightly as it had when she first awakened. She tried
to keep her concern from Georgia, not wanting to
dampen her friends high spirits, but at heart they
walked under different skies. Connie wanted to see
David alone, to tell him about this latest disturbing
discovery, but in the little, low-slung British car that
Philip drove, all four of them were crowded so close
together that private conversation was impossible.
In St. George, too, as they explored the town,
they were together in a group. Connie suspected that
Georgia would have welcomed the opportunity for
130

the couples to wander off separately, but Philip,

intent on doing his duty as a Bermudian guide, kept
describing points of historical or social interest.
David and he, who were nearly of an age, got
along splendidly. Philip relaxed far more when he
was with a group of young people than when he was
in the bosom of his family, and Connie could see
that David found him entertaining and agreeable
company.
She could also see, as they all basked in the sun
on a secluded beach after they had been swimming
and had eaten a hearty lunch from Ellas well-filled
picnic basket, that David was inclined to take Philip
into his confidence about the mysterious happenings
at Horizons.
Connie tried, again and again, to steer the
conversation away from the subject of Penelope
Sebastian and the events surrounding her sudden
death, but it was useless. His aunts affairs were
uppermost in Davids mind, and he trusted both
Georgia and Philip implicitly. Besides, he thought
that Philip might be a help. As a neighbor he might
have some observations that would fill in the blank
spaces in the picture puzzle David was determined
to build.
Aside from Connies unfortunate experience, the
entire story was apparently new to Philip, and
interesting. Begin at the beginning, old chap, he
131

told the young American. Its really rather

amazing, you know. Id like to hear the whole of it.
So David started with the first news he had
received from Mr. Thorndike of his inheritance, and
the subsequent letters concerning the ransacking of
the house, and the disappearance of the second half
of the manuscript of Miss Penelopes journal. He
described the sort of person his aunt was, the
possible reasons why anyone might want to suppress
her memoirs, and the state of affairs when he had
arrived in Bermuda. Finally, when the main story
was thoroughly outlined, he went back over the
more cogent points.
You see, he explained, we dont really know
when the manuscript of Aunt Pennys memoirs
disappeared.
Not even whether it was before or after her
death? asked Philip.
WhyDavids eyes widened with surpriseI
just naturally assumed it was afterward. I meant that
we dont know whether it was before or after the
actual housebreaking.
I dont think you should assume anything,
said Philip with precise logic.
Connie could detect no hint of subterfuge in his
voice, but still she wondered whether it was wise for
David to lay his cards on the table face up. She
didnt think he should assume, even, that he was
132

talking to a friend until the fact was indisputably

proved.
But David continued, Well, at any rate, the
manuscript is gone. Apparently taken by a person or
persons unknown, as they say in detective stories.
Youve questioned all of Miss Sebastians
friends on the island?
Weve talked with Mr. Thorndike, her lawyer,
with Mr. Murphy, and with Miss Merriam.
To what result?
Mr. Thorndike seems baffled. Do you know
him?
Only by name, said Philip.
Well, hes the fuddy-duddy type on the surface.
Very particular and neat and proper. But Miss
Merriam, a retired landscape architect who lives out
Warwick way, seems to think he may be a wolf in
lambs clothing. In other words, she hinted to
Connie and me that he may have had some personal
reason for wanting to suppress the publication of the
journals, if you can imagine that.
Suspect No. One, commented Georgia.
Connie, if you have a pencil and paper in your
beach bag, you ought to write these things down.
Connie, used to taking orders from Georgia,
rooted immediately in her canvas beach bag, but
Philip laughed aloud. Miss Cameron the executive
emerges from retirement, he teased, then reached
133

out and put his hand over Georgias to take any barb
from the words.
Finding a scratch pad and her fountain pen,
Connie wrote: No. One, Henry Thorndikefind
out why hed want to suppress P.S. journal.
What about Mr. Murphy. Who is he? Philip
probed.
A singer, a decent sort of guy, who called very
promptly to offer his services. Apparently he was
one of Aunt Pennys closest friends.
Your mother suspects he may be living here
under a pseudonym, Connie told Philip, deciding
that there was no use in playing her cards too close
to the vest if David intended to break down and tell
all.
Why? Philip asked.
Because he looks as Italian as spumoni, Connie
said promptly. A thought suddenly flashed into her
mind and she snapped her fingers. Say!
What? David asked.
But her natural caution reasserted itself at once.
Connie didnt want Philip Tremont to know
everything that she and David had discovered, at
least not until he had presented a more convincing
alibi for a certain ten minutes on a particular
afternoon.
Oh, nothing, she said. An idea struck me but it
was a dud. Skip it.
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Connie herself did not skip it, however. She noted

it on her memo pad under Murphy and made a
promise to herself to suggest the idea to David
whenever she could find a chance to see him alone.
Suspect No. Three, Miss Merriam, Connie
suggested next. Shes an amazing sort of woman,
Georgia, cold as a fish, big and strong as a man. I
wish we could think of one good reason why shed
want to toss me into the clothespress, because Im
sure she could do it with ease.
But nobody knew enough about Miss Merriam to
find an adequate motive, so Connie simply made a
big question mark under her name, and they went
on.
It was Georgia who brought up Williams name.
I dont think youve questioned the boy thoroughly
enough, she told David. Why dont you sit down
with him for an hour sometime and get him to give
you a play-by-play description of the events leading
up to and immediately following your aunts death.
You never can tellquite inadvertently he might let
something drop that would be a clue to the entire
puzzle. Theres also the possibility that he knows
more than hes telling and that concentrated
questioning would break him down.
Suspect No. Four, William, wrote Connie.
Probably not involved directly, but worth
questioning.
135

For her own satisfaction, but without the

knowledge of anyone present, she added a fifth
name to the list. Philip Tremont. And under this
she wrote, Tremont family neighbors of Miss
Sebastian. Could she have known anything about
past history or about either Mr. Basil or Mr. Philip
that would be damaging if it should appear in her
journal? Then, in a scribble, she added, Dubious
but possible.
Of course, David mentioned, we may not even
know the real culprit. Thats a chance well have to
take. But certainly my aunts acquaintances on the
island were few, and her social life was less active in
the last years of her life than it had been previously.
Music seemed to be her major passion.
I know, Philip put in. On warm nights we used
to hear strains from Wagnerian operas drifting
across the lawn. She must have had a remarkable
record library.
She did indeed, said David. Spent real money
on it. Rare recordings, some of them. Interesting as
all get-out.
Invite us over some night to hear some music,
suggested Georgia lightly. Then she laughed. Im
trying to think up an excuse for seeing the inside of
Horizons. Its such a beautiful house!
Ive been very remiss! David apologized.
What Id really like to do is to invite you all to
136

dinner, if William can find me a cook. Pets make a

tentative date now. Would Tuesday suit you? He
paused to chuckle. Tuesdays were always Aunt
Pennys musical evenings, I understand.
Tuesday would be fine, everybody agreed.
Then Connie cocked her head on one side and asked
a question that had just occurred to her through an
association of ideas.
David, did you ever hear from Mr. Thorndike
concerning those check stubs marked Pietro?
David, who had been idly scooping sand up with
his hands, only to let it trickle through his fingers,
looked up. Why, yes. There were no checks made
out to anyone of that name, he said. No checks at all.
He has the whole lot of them down in his files, and
he says I can go over them any time.
Connie frowned. Id take him up on that, she
said. If they werent made out to Pietro
Somebody-or-other they must have been made out
to Cash. But why? Thats what I cant
understand.
Georgia, who had been stretched out full length
on the sand, trying to improve her Bermuda tan,
raised herself to her elbows. Whos Pietro?
Were not quite sure, Connie told her, then
explained the notations in the stolen checkbook
stubs and the recurrence of the name in Miss
Penelopes guest book.
137

Connies idea, David added, is that the Pietro

of the check stubs and Pietro de Pasquale of the
guest book might be one and the same person.
Georgia nodded, then bit her lower lip
thoughtfully.
Dont do that, Connie scolded. Youll get
lipstick on your teeth.
But Georgia scarcely heard her, nor did she
notice, at the moment, that Philip Tremont was
gazing at her with open admiration in his serious
gray eyes. Pietro de Pasquale, she repeated
slowly. Pietro de Pasquale. Where have I heard that
name before?

138

CHAPTER

12

The Unfinished Letter

Reid and Renshaw cabled Georgia Cameron on

Monday morning, urging her to wind up the
Tremont Shop job by Thursday if possible and book
a flight home for herself and Connie. Business was
apparently booming in Philadelphia and Miss
Camerons services were needed on another
account.
Georgia called the airport, made tentative
reservations, and told Connie her plans. We can be
back in the office Friday morning if we go by air,
she explained.
Connie understood, and got to work with a good
will, but the thought of leaving Bermuda with
Davids affairs still in a state of complete disorder
saddened her. She called him from Hamilton at
noon, made a date to swim with him after work that
same evening, and told him that it looked as though
139

she and Georgia would probably be pulling out on

Thursday afternoon.
David was as disturbed as Connie. Golly, he
muttered. Golly, thats rough. I dont know how
Im going to get along without you.
Maybe by then your troubles will be over,
Connie encouraged him. But its going to mean
some strenuous digging. Youd better make a final
attempt to pump Henry Thorndike today, and when I
come over maybe we can tackle William together.
O.K., David agreed. Five oclock, then?
Five oclock, at the gazebo.
David was ready and waiting when Connie ran
across the back lawn. In brown gabardine swimming
trunks and a yellow sweater with a college letter on
it, he looked as American as a cigarette ad.
Together they trotted down the many steps to the
little beach, where Connie flung her short, white
terry robe to the sand and raced David into the
water. They swam out a way, then lay on their backs
and floated idly, looking up at the coral cliff and the
house above it. Off to the right, through the trees,
part of the roof of High Hedges could be seen. From
here it seemed more substantial than Horizons,
which hung practically over the sea itself.
The Tremonts should really buy your aunts
house, if you put it up for sale, Connie commented
idly. It would make a lovely guest house, and the
140

two places seem to belong together.

A mighty fancy guest house, Id say, David
replied practically. But if Philip Tremont should
marry, he added with a twinkle in his eye, it might
make him a very pleasant home.
Connie began to tread water. Thats an idea,
she murmured. Thats a very good idea! There
was no question of the direction in which her mind
was turning.
David chuckled to himself. Little Miss Fix-it,
he teased. Come on. Ill race you to the beach.
Connie was a strong swimmer. She won by a full
length, and ripped off her cap as she ran up to the
dry sand. David picked up her beach robe and threw
it around her shoulders, then tied the arms of his
sweater over his chest. Together the boy and girl
walked over to the steps cut in the coral cliff and
started up. Before they reached the gazebo, Connie
stopped and looked out over the sea. Now tell me
what you did today, she demanded suddenly.
I talked to Thorndike again. No dice. He seems
straight enough, but I did find out one thing. He
used to go around with Miss MerriamEmily, he
called heryears and years ago. Apparently she
thought she had him hooked, at one time, and when
he skittered away she didnt like it any too well.
Thats his story, Connie murmured.
Right. I get your point.
141

And the checks?

I went over them for five years back. Some
pretty big ones were drawn to cash during the past
couple of years. Bigger than would be necessary for
household expenses, I should think.
But no endorsements on the back of any of
them?
Just my aunts signature.
Connie sighed. Too bad. Did Mr. Thorndike
have any idea why your aunt should have needed
these large amounts of money?
David shook his head. At least he didnt confide
in me. Miss Sebastians private affairs, like those of
my other clients, were something with which I did
not too largely concern myself, he said in that prim
manner of his.
Phooey! Connie commented inelegantly. And
William?
At Connies feet a shadow moved, and David
glanced suddenly upward, then without warning
raced up the steps two at a time, just soon enough to
see a white coat flash among the heavy-leafed trees
beyond the gazebo.
William!
The running figure stopped and turned. The coat
emerged. Yes, sir.
William, come here!
Sheepishly, the houseboy advanced. Connie
142

leaned against the limestone wall on the level with

the little summerhouse and watched him walk up to
David.
William, this is the second time Ive caught you
eavesdropping. What is it you want to know? Why
are you listening to our conversations? Come on,
William. Out with it!
But William only hung his head and mumbled,
Im sorry, Mr. Scott. It wont happen again.
You just bet it wont! said David threateningly.
But Connie walked forward and put a restraining
hand on his arm.
Listen, William, we want to be friends of yours,
she explained, keeping her voice carefully lowpitched and level. If youre frightened about
something, or if theres something you want to
know, tell us. Wont you? Please!
But William shook his head and wouldnt meet
her eyes.
Connie tried again. You could help us a lot,
William, if you would. Were trying to find Miss
Penelopes diary. She used the word because she
thought it would be more understandable than
journal or manuscript. Its very important
because its going to be made into a book, and all
the money it earns will help feed and clothe some
children in New York who are very poor and who
have no fathers or mothers.
143

At that William looked up. Gee, he said, thats

good. Miss Sebastian was a good woman, wasnt
she?
Of course she was, Connie said, although she
felt they were getting a little off the original subject.
You know, William said, twisting his hands in
front of him nervously, she was always awful good
to me.
Was she? Connie sounded interested.
She used to say she believed in people bettering
themselves, that I wouldnt always have to be a
house-boy if I could get to learn something different.
You know, in Bermuda there arent the barriers
against Negroes there are in some other places. You
can even get on the legislative council if youre
good enough.
I know, said Connie, and I think thats
wonderful.
So, William went on more hesitantly, his burst
of enthusiasm spent, Miss Penelope knew I wanted
to go to business school, and she used to be sure, the
last year, that she hadnt much longer to live.
William, she used to say, this is the last job Ill
ever do on this typewriter, and alter that its yours.
Remember that, if anything should happen to me. I
want you to have it. Understand?
Connie and David could almost hear the old lady
speaking, so precise was Williams imitation of her
144

manner. They waited, wondering what would come

next.
William continued with even more uncertainty.
After Miss Sebastian died I knew Mr. Thorndike
would take over, and maybe hed never believe she
meant to give me the typewriter. But she did! She
really did.
Of course. I believe you, said David.
So I just took it. I knew it was probably wrong,
but I wanted it so bad I just carried it home with me
right away.
Connies heart gave a leap of excitement and
hope. Have you been using it, William?
William shook his head, looking frightened. No,
I hid it. I was afraid my mother would say Id donewrong. I hid it good.
Is it a portable typewriter? Connie asked
William curiously.
The houseboy nodded. Ive been listening
around, Mr. Scott, because I thought you might have
missed it, and be wanting it back.
William might have gone on to explain his
devious reasoning, but Connie cut in. Why didnt
we ever miss her typewriter, David? Oh, were such
ninnies! Maybe the manuscript is clipped right in the
top of the case!
Then she turned back to William. Did you see
any papers in the case, William? That might have
145

been the book she was working on? Did you think to
look?
Her eyes were shining, and she stepped forward
and almost shook the boys arm. No, maam, he
said, shaking his head vigorously, but I can if you
like.
Look, Connie said, the typewriters yours,
William. Im sure thats all right, isnt it, David?
Sure, David replied.
But we want to see it again. Can you bring it
back, unopened, just as it is now? Can you bring it
back after dinner tonight? Just for a little while?
William looked so relieved that they did not plan
to take the portable away from him that he agreed
readily, and Connie could scarcely contain herself
with impatience for the next two hours. As soon as
she could break away from the Tremonts, she
hurried hack to Horizons in the twilight, and found
William just pedaling up the drive, the typewriter
balanced in his bicycle basket.
The boy carried it into the hall and put the
machine on a table, while Connie and David itched
to get their fingers on the lock. It was David who
opened it, and Connie could see at once, to her
intense disappointment, that there was no sheaf of
papers clipped in the top of the case.
A single eight by eleven inch sheet, however, was
run through the roller, and on it were a few
146

typewritten characters, the very beginning of a letter.

Turn on the light, William, David ordered
quickly. Then, to Connie, Lets take a look at this.
Connie leaned close to read the message, because
the ribbon Miss Sebastian had been using was faded
and old.
Dear Henry, she read on the first line. Then,
under it:
Joe Murphy is not de
That was all.
Slowly and carefully, David extracted the paper
from the typewriter. That will be all, William, and
thank you, he said kindly. The typewriter is
yours.
As the houseboy started back to his own home
with his prize, Connie and David went into the long
living room. Wordlessly, they sat down on the couch
and studied the unfinished message together.
Writing to her lawyer, Connie murmured. Joe
Murphy is not de. She pronounced the letters
thoughtfully.
Joe Murphy is not dead? David questioned.
That doesnt make good sense. What else could it
be?
Anything, said Connie. Joe Murphy is not
desperate, is not demonstrative, is not democratic. It
may not mean a hoot.
David took up the game.
147

Joe Murphy is not decided

Joe Murphy is not declaring
Joe Murphy is not deaf
I wish wed kept William here and asked him a
few more questions, Connie said after a few
minutes. We were going to get him to go over the
happenings on the night of your aunts death,
remember? That was one of the musts on the list I
made yesterday afternoon.
I know. We both got involved with the
typewriter business. We arent very thorough
detectives, you and I.
Connie bridled a little, unwilling to admit that she
was less than competent. What time does William
get here in the morning? she asked.
Im not sure. But early. Hes always rattling
around in the kitchen when I wake up.
Then Ill have an early breakfast and well go to
work on him before its time to go into Hamilton,
Connie said promptly. She got up and paced
restlessly around the room. Theres so little time
left!
Thursday was coming as quickly and as
inevitably as a rock rolling toward her down a long
and slippery hill. She felt that she had only scratched
the surface of this mystery, that to date she had not
one really valuable clue.
David stood up and went over to the record
148

changer. Im getting the jitters, too, he admitted.

Lets put on some music and try to forget this
whole affair for a while. Maybe what we need is a
change of pace. What do you feel like hearing.
Brahms? Mozart?
Connie, deep in thought, didnt answer, so David
started off with some Mozart operatic arias sung by
Ezio Pinza, accompanied by the Metropolitan Opera
orchestra. Just as the first selection ended, a voice
from the open doorway took up the refrain.
David turned with a start. Ezio Pinzas ghost?
Astonishment and amusement mingled in his voice.
Then he smiled. Oh, hello, Mr. Murphy, come on
in.
Still singing, Mr. Murphy strolled into the room
in the manner of an opera singer coming on to a
stage. He bowed to Connie, negotiated a high note,
and broke off. I saw your lights and thought Id
stop by and see how you were coming along, he
said.
Were spending a quiet evening at home, David
retorted, or we were. He switched off the record
changer. But now youre here I hope it wont be
quite so quiet. Cant we persuade you to sing a little
more?
Mr. Murphy was not one to hide his light under a
bushel. Quite willingly, he sat down at the piano and
accompanied himself while he sang another Mozart
149

aria and some little French love songs of the type for
which Lawrence Tibbett was famous. He was a born
actor, and obviously loved to entertain. Both Connie
and David found him very interesting, and Connie
wasnt surprised when David persuaded him to
come back for dinner on the following evening and
sing for his guests.
Delighted, Mr. Murphy said at once. At
eight?
At seven, I think, David suggested. Neither he
nor Connie could get used to the habit, fashionable
in Bermuda, of dining late.
Fine. Ill see you then. Mr. Murphy bent over
Connies hand in a manner both dramatic and
Battering. Then, without loitering, he took his leave.
David walked home across the lawn with Connie
immediately thereafter. Dew dampened her feet, in
open-toed sandals, but overhead the night was alive
with stars. David tucked her hand under his arm and
held it lightly against the side of his tweed jacket.
Two more nights, he said sorrowfully, and then
you will be gone.
A lot can happen in a couple of days,
murmured Connie, misunderstanding.
One thing can happen, certainly, said David,
setting her straight. You can come dancing with me
Wednesday night. You promised, you know!
Id love it, Connie agreed, and I cant think of
150

any imaginable reason why I shouldnt say yes.

Neither can I, agreed David. And on that one
evening were going to forget everything about
Penelope Sebastian and Horizons and just remember
that were in the most beautiful vacation land in the
world and that were happy and young!
Happy and young.
Wonderful adjectives, Connie was thinking as she
looked out her bedroom window at the same skyful
of stars a little later that evening. Georgia looked
happy and young too, these days. She looked that
way now, standing before the long mirror on their
bathroom door and brushing her shining black hair.
Oh, by the way, Connie
Connies brown eyes met Georgias blue ones.
Yes?
I just happened to remember where Id heard
that name you mentioned yesterday. Pasquale.
Yes? Connies eyes lost their dreamy
expression at once.
Hes an Italian opera singer, rather a famous
one, I believe. Probably, if they were friends, Miss
Sebastian collected some of his records. When we
go over tomorrow night we should remember to
look.

151

CHAPTER

13

Williams Story

Connie and David sat in two lawn chairs on the long

porch at Horizons. Each held a steaming cup of
coffee, and William had put the coffeepot on a small
table between them, in case they wanted more.
The early morning air had none of the warmth
that the sun would bring at midday, and Connie had
on a sweater and a short yellow flannel coat. Over at
High Hedges only Ella was stirring, and she had
served Connies breakfast with an air of mistrust, as
though any young girl who arose before eight in the
morning must surely be slightly daft.
William, sit down a minute, David began, as
the boy turned back toward the kitchen.
William turned. I beg your pardon, sir?
Sit down, David urged, feeling that if they
could approximate the same level the discussion
would be easier. Yesterday Miss Connie and I told
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you we needed your help. We still need it. Sit

down.
William sat on the edge of a third chair, which he
had brought up to the porch the night before to
shelter it from the heavy dew. He looked rather ill at
case and doubtful, but there was no longer any hint
of anxiety or fear in his demeanor. Yes, Mr. Scott.
David leaned forward. Suppose you tell us
again, in your own words, everything that happened
on the night of my aunts death. Everything you can
remember, even if it doesnt seem important.
Well be patient, Connie promised with a
friendly smile. Start in the afternoon. You went
over to High Hedges as usual?
Williams dark eyes looked into space, as though
he were honestly trying to remember every detail.
Yes, I did. And when I came back Miss Sebastian
was still banging away at her typewriter, upstairs.
She could make that thing go lickety-split when she
felt like it. He bobbed his head admiringly.
After a whilealong about five oclockshe
slopped. And she came to the head of the stairs and
called, William!
I hurried in from the kitchen, and she told me
she was through for the day and to bring her a glass
of iced tea. So I fixed it like she said and carried it
up. She was lying on that little couchthe one that
hasnt got any armsin her sitting room.
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The chaise, murmured Connie.

There was a good-sized lot of papers in her
hands, and she was going over some, like she was
correcting them. She told me to put the glass on the
side table, and she looked up, real bright and
chipper, and said, Well, William, tomorrow should
see the end of this. The houseboy paused and
shook his head solemnly. Poor Miss Penelope. She
mustve had second sight.
So you actually saw the manuscript on the day
Miss Sebastian died, Connie mused.
Yesm, I did, at least I guess it was what you
mean. She was certainly pleased about its being
nearly finished.
And then? David probed.
Then I went downstairs to get dinner. Mr.
Murphy was comingto celebrate, Miss Penelope
said. Shed been feeling rather badly for a week or
soher heart was kind of fluttery, you knowand
this was the first guest shed had for ever so long.
She asked me to serve dinner in the living room,
in front of the fire, because the evening was a little
chilly, so I did.
Did anything unusual happen during dinner?
Connie asked.
William thought a minute, then shook his head.
They seemed in high spirits, both of them. Mr.
Murphy was showing off, the way he does you
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know, toasting Miss Sebastians success and this

and that. I just heard snatches of the conversation.
Of course, murmured Connie understandingly.
There was one thing, said William, his forehead
creasing with concentration. Miss Penelope had
just received a shipment of phonograph records from
New York. She had been playing a couple before
Mr. Murphy came. After dinner, while I was
clearing the table, she asked him if hed sing for her.
He used to love that! And he went to the piano and
sat down.
What shall I sing? he asked.
Miss Penelope made a suggestion. Sing Sea
Drift, she said.
Sea Drift? Mr. Murphy repeated the title and
sounded puzzled.
She said, Yesyou knowthe Delius song. I
got to know the names of composers Miss Sebastian
liked, being around so much, William explained
proudly.
Connie and David both nodded, managing to
follow him with an effort. Sea Drift by Delius,
Connie murmured aloud.
That was it, William continued. Miss
Sebastian hummed a few bars of it, so he could get
the tune. My tray was loaded, so I took it on out to
the kitchen. That was all I heard for a while.
For a while? David asked.
155

Slowly, William nodded. Mr. Murphy didnt

sing the song. He didnt sing anything. They turned
on the phonograph instead. I remember at the time
thinking it was odd. There was some sort of
argument, I think, while I was doing the dishes.
Every once in a while I could hear voices, and Miss
Penelope sounded quite angry and upset.
And Mr. Murphy?
He didnt seem mad at all, just sort of amused.
But then, before I went home, Miss Penelope called
me and got me to help her upstairs, and Mr. Murphy
had got his hat and left. I think they must have had a
fight, because Miss Penelope was trembling, and she
tried to call Mr. Thorndike on the upstairs phone.
Tried to? Didnt she reach him? Connie asked.
William shook his head. Not then, anyway.
What happened later I wouldnt know. She told me I
could go along home, and I went. My mother says it
isnt good to get too bothered by white folks
arguments. It isnt our place.
Connie looked both thoughtful and puzzled. She
put her coffee cup on the side table and sat with her
hands clasped around her knees.
Then what happened? David asked.
William paled around the mouth, and swallowed
hard. It was easy to see that he would have preferred
to blot the memory of the next morning out of his
consciousness, but he pulled himself together. The
156

next morning, when I came to work, I found Miss

Penelope lying across the couch in her sitting room.
She was dead.
What did you do? Connie asked.
I ran for Mother. She called the doctor and took
charge of things.
My auntwhen you found her was she fully
dressed? David questioned,
Yes, she was. She looked as if shed just come
from opening the windows, and collapsed before she
could quite make the couch.
Connie said, Im sorry to put you through this,
William, but can you tell us how she was lying
exactly?
William frowned in concentration. She was
lying face down, and her head was facing the door.
Was anything out of place. Did anything at all
seem odd?
William thought a minute, then said, No.
Nothing. He looked from David to Connie and
explained, I dont think there was any question but
it was a heart attack. The doctor said that right
away.
Oh, surely, David replied. I wasnt intimating
that there had been foul play.
Go on, Connie urged the boy. Tell us how you
spent the rest of the morning.
Well, the doctor called the undertaker, and he
157

came and took Miss Sebastian away. Mother took

charge of things, pretty much. I just went about my
usual duties, like she told me to.
Connie sat forward. Was there anything
anything at allthat wasnt just as usual?
Again Williams brows drew together with the
effort of thinking back. Connie and David waited
without speaking, but finally he shook his head.
No, I dont think so. Well, there was one little
thing. In the living-room wastebasket there were
pieces of a broken phonograph record, but that isnt
very unusual, because every now and then a record
would slip and get broken. It had happened before.
Connies eyes narrowed. Do you remember the
name on the record, William?
But William shook his head vigorously this time.
No, Miss Connie, I didnt even look.
And you threw it out?
Sure, miss. Like I always empty the trash.
Connie sighed. It was disappointing. Is there
anything else you can remember that was unusual
about those two days? Anything at allanything
new around, anything missing? Now she was
frankly groping in the dark.
William bit his lower lip, holding it between his
teeth. Nothing was out of place that I can think of,
but then I was pretty upset.
Both Connie and David nodded understandingly.
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It must have been shocking and difficult for the boy.

And nothing was missing that I can think of
either. He stopped and rather shamefacedly
continued, Except I cant seem to lay my hands on
a gallon thermos jug Miss Sebastian used to keep
filled with ice water in her room. She used to like to
have drinking water handy while she worked. But
itll likely turn up, he added hopefully.
They talked for a few more minutes. Then David
dismissed the boy, and Connie, glancing at her
watch, jumped to her feet. Heavens, Ill miss my
Hamilton bus, she cried with a grin. And nobody
knows where I am! Ill see you tonight.
David went with her part way across the lawn.
An unfinished note in the typewriter, a broken
phonograph record, an argument between two good
friends, the stolen check stubs. Goodness, Connie,
my heads spinning. Can you make heads or tails of
any of this?
I think, Connie said thoughtfully, that Im just
beginning to. David, why dont you make a real
supper party of this tonight, and ask Henry
Thorndike and Miss Merriam to come too?
David looked both taken aback and dismayed.
Those old fogeys? It wont be half as much fun.
Connie shrugged. It might not be as much fun,
but it might be a good deal more interesting, she
said as she ducked through the hedge.
159

She was late, but not too late. Georgia and Mr.
Basil were standing on the steps while Philip
Tremont backed the car out of the garage.
You certainly are an early bird! Mr. Basil
teased her.
Dollars to doughnuts shes been off sleuthing
again, Georgia added.
Connie wasnt disturbed. The early bird catches
the worm, they say, she reminded them.
During the morning Georgia asked Connie to
sketch the facade of the Tremont Shop, trying to
make the multiple-paned windows look as
interesting as possible. Itll be hard to make the
store look smart, but you can make it look very, very
British, Miss Cameron said. And now that weve
managed to put across a few principles of window
display, youll be able to get a little color into the
thing.
So Connie borrowed a stool and took up a stand
across the street from the store, where she found a
convenient window sill for her water colors and a
nice angle on the doorway.
She painted for nearly an hour, interrupted at too
frequent intervals by passing tourists. A cruise ship
was in, and Hamilton was swarming with men in
sports coats and girls and women in dark glasses.
Georgia came across the street to speak to her
after a while. Plying your trade under difficulties
160

today, arent you, Miss Blair?

Ill manage, Connie promised. I get a glimpse
of the store every once in a while.
Georgia kept on kidding her. Maybe you can sell
the ones you spoil, like a sidewalk artist.
Thats not a bad idea! Connie shot back. Ill
just go into business for myself and stay right on
here in Bermuda while you fly home.
A wistful expression appeared in Georgias eyes.
I think youve got something there, she said
slangily, but the softness of her voice belied the flip
words. As she recrossed the street, Connie watched
her, and decided that Georgia had lost some of her
briskness during this past week. She had lost
something, but she had gained something more
important. There was a sweetness and gentleness
about her that was definitely appealing and new.
Connie worked on for about twenty minutes
longer. She had closed her paintbox and was about
to pick up her stool and go back to the shop when a
substantial womans figure caught her attention. It
was Miss Emily Merriam, armed with an umbrella,
though the day was jewel-clear, and a shopping bag.
She had to pass within a few inches of Connie to go
on up the street.
Miss Merriam, intent on her errands, would not
have recognized the girl, but Connie, on an impulse,
stopped her.
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Hello, Miss Merriam. How are you today?

The landscape architect turned her gray head,
topped by a yellowed Panama, slowly. Whya
how dyou do? Her eyes held the barest glint of
recognition.
Im Connie Blair, a friend of David Scotts.
Remember, we stopped to say hello the other day?
Oh, yes, of course, of course. Miss Merriam
looked as though this puppy friendliness were a little
exasperating.
With an air of innocence which should have been
completely deceiving Connie smiled up at the older
woman. We still havent found Miss Pennys
manuscript, she said.
A frown of irritability appeared between Miss
Merriams eyes. No doubt she had her mind on her
marketing, and such an irrelevant topic annoyed her.
Hm, yes. Too bad. Well
She was obviously trying to terminate this
unsatisfactory conversation) but Connie refused to
let her get away. The time had come to make a quick
decision and plunge, yet she didnt want to appear
utterly tactless.
Miss Merriam, she begged, her eyes large and
appealing, May I ask you a very important
question? Do you know Mr. Murphys real name?
I beg your pardon? Miss Merriams voice was
cold and her eyes were quickly screened, but not
162

before Connie had seen in their depths a glint of

surprise and mistrust.
His real name, Connie repeated. It just
couldnt be Murphy. She was deliberately
chattering on, now that she had seen Miss Merriams
reaction. Im just positive hes an Italian count or
something in disguise.
It took an instant or two for Miss Merriam to
collect her wits. Then, with affected weariness, she
said, Nonsense, my child. You mustnt let your
imagination run away with you. But as Miss
Sebastians former friend marched firmly up the
street Connie looked after her with a smile of
triumph. She had confirmed a growing certainty, fed
by Mrs. Tremonts earlier remark, that the burly
singer was more interesting than he seemed.
From the pay telephone booth in the store Connie
called Horizons. Can you come in and meet me for
lunch, she asked David. Something is brewing that
Id like to talk to you about.
Even if nothing were brewing except the chance
to lunch with you Id say yes, retorted David
gallantly. William is whipping around getting
things ready for our buffet supper and hell be glad
to get rid of me.
They went to a second-floor restaurant
overlooking the harbor, and found a table by the
window. Connie reconstructed her conversation with
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Miss Merriam and then told him her hunch.

Id be curious to see what would happen, this
evening, if you should suddenly drop the name of
Pietro de Pasquale, she said.
You mean you think Joe Murphy and Pietro de
Pasquale are one and the same? David still looked a
little dubious.
Things seem to point that way, Connie
admitted. I first got the idea when the four of us
were making up our list of suspects, but I didnt
want Philip to know about it, somehow. I jotted
clown the question under Mr. Murphys name, then
when Georgia remembered that Pasquale was an
Italian opera singer I got even more interested. First
theres Pasquales name in the guest book, then
there are the stubs made out to Pietro. Finally theres
Miss Merriam covering up for him. It all ties in.
But why should Miss Merriam cover up for
him? Thats what I cant understand.
I cant either, Connie said ruefully. I dont
claim that I can fit all the pieces of this puzzle
together. Nor do I feel that any of this brings us
much nearer finding the manuscript. I only know
that its a start.

164

CHAPTER

14

Aunt Penelopes Secret

It was a rather heterogeneous group that met at

Horizons for supper. Georgia and Philip were so
oblivious to anything except each other that they
didnt feel the strain, but Connie did.
Miss Merriam had accepted reluctantly,
according to David, and when she discovered that
Henry Thorndike was among the guests she became
as chilly as an Eskimo without a fur coat. Mr.
Thorndike himself was expressionless, as usual, and
David, with all the tact he possessed, was trying to
make a party out of the affair.
Connie knew that he must feel she had spiked his
guns, but she couldnt be sorry. She wanted to see
all these people together, to discover how they
reacted to each other, and to have the opportunity to
talk to them and observe them, not singly, but in a
group,
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Mr. Murphy arrived late, and apologized. Im

not a very punctual sort of fellow, Im afraid.
Thats quite all right, David assured him. I
know that seven is a little early for you Bermudians.
But, being from the States, I cant get used to eight
oclock dinner. I get too hungry, to be frank.
Mr. Thorndike, who had been listening, twisted
his lips in a thin smile. Joe was every bit as
impatient as you when he first came here. He used to
get ravenous by six-thirty. Ive seen him go out to
the kitchen and sneak a sandwich many a time.
Ah, but now Im acclimated! He waggled an
index finger at Mr. Thorndike and grinned with
more friendliness than seemed to be returned by the
British attorney.
Dinner was announced quite promptly by
William. The cook, procured by Ella, had managed
beautifully, considering the fact that she was in
strange surroundings, and the buffet supper set on
the oval dining-room table looked very appetizing
indeed.
Connie picked up a plate and a napkin, and was
not displeased to find Mr. Murphy at her side. He
was very solicitous and engaging this evening,
helping her to salad, and talking about some of the
eccentricities of food in the islands as they walked
together back to a settle at one end of the living
room.
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Youve eaten our famous banana bread?

Oh, yes! Connie told him. Its excellent.
But Ill warrant you havent had mussel stew.
No.
Or shark.
Shark? No, indeed! Do people eat shark?
Miss Merriam was just coming through the door
with a plate of food, amply laden. Mr. Murphy was
on his feet at once, politely offering the older
woman a seat. Miss Blair finds it hard to believe
that people eat shark, he said.
Shark is good eating, especially if you use the
liver, said Miss Merriam firmly.
You may believe her! Ive seldom tasted
anything as good as the Bermuda shark dish she
prepares.
Connie murmured something complimentary,
though she was definitely doubtful. Miss Merriam.
she could see, was flattered by Mr. Murphys praise.
She colored as self-consciously as a girl.
Cooking is rather a hobby of mine. I believe
everyone should have a hobby. There was
something about Miss Merriams habit of speech
that made Connie feel that she was being lectured by
a schoolteacher. She smiled and nodded
automatically, but her eyes began to rove about the
room.
Mr. Thorndike was talking earnestly to David, by
167

the fireplace. Georgia and Philip were whispering

together on the sofa, still unconcerned by any social
responsibility. Everyone was eating with apparent
relish, and William was passing hot biscuits for the
second time.
Connie was attacked by a qualm of doubt. Would
this attempt to crystallize some ideas in her mind
result in a complete fiasco? Everyone looked so
normaland so innocentthat she bit her lower lip
in dismay. In the day and a half that was left of her
stay in Bermuda, what could she hope to prove?
Dinner plates were returned to the dining room,
and dessert and coffee were served. David walked
over to the record changer. Lets have some
music, he proposed lightly. It seems to be in the
tradition of the house. He sorted through some
albums. Theres a baritone here my aunt seems to
have been rather fond of. He pulled a record from
its case with care. Pietro de Pasquale.
Connie, sitting beside Mr. Thorndike now, was
watching Joseph Murphy. He didnt start at the
mention of the name, nor do anything obvious, but a
guarded glance was exchanged with Miss Merriam,
whose head definitely jerked upward, and whose
dessert fork paused in mid-air.
Deliberately innocent, Connie asked, Pietro de
Pasquale? I never heard of him.
Miss Merriam rose to the bait with the
168

enthusiasm of a trout for a favorite fly. Really, my

dear? Her eyebrows were supercilious. Hes quite
famous, you know, in Italian opera.
Oh. Connie sounded properly squelched. Im
not very musical, I guess.
David had loaded the record changer and was
adjusting the needle. In a few seconds a hearty
baritone voice filled the room. There was the usual
few minutes of silence which greets the introduction
of after-dinner music; then conversation was taken
up again.
Connie wandered over to where Mr. Murphy and
Miss Merriam were sitting. Its surprising, she
said to the singer, how very much alike your voices
are.
Mr. Murphy nodded, as though he were flattered.
Thank you, Miss Blair. A compliment, I assure
you. He smiled into her eyes, daring her to carry
the implication further.
Have you traveled much, in Italy? she asked.
To my sorrow, Ive never been there, Mr.
Murphy replied.
Connie looked astonished. Yet you speak Italian
like a native.
My mother was Italian, by birth, Mr. Murphy
said.
Miss Merriam looked pleased, almost smug, as
she listened to the conversation. Connie found
169

herself growing annoyed. Mr. Murphy was glib,

entirely too glib. There was a false ring to
everything that was being said. Yet Connie was
troubled by a feeling that it was deliberate falseness.
Her instincts were shrewd and her judgment was
good beyond her years.
Gradually, to her own intense surprise, Connie
began to see the mysterious happenings at Horizons
in a new light. Parts of the puzzle which had refused
to fit together fell obediently into place as her vision
cleared. The notion she entertained was
preposterous, yet she sensed that for the first time
she was on the right track. She didnt want to talk to
Mr. Murphy and Miss Merriam any longer now. She
wanted to be alone, to think.
Inconspicuously, she drifted out to the porch
which ran the length of the house, and walked up
and clown, up and down, under the light of a painted
moon. Her hands were clenched at. her sides, her
thumbs tucked under, like a childs. She tried to
imagine that she herself was Miss Penelope
Sebastian, as she reviewed the things that might
have happenedmust have happened!on the
evening of her death.
And if she were Miss Sebastian, how would she
have acted? That was the important thing. Connie
glanced into the house. The hall was empty. The
party guests were either in the drawing room or on
170

the back terrace. Quietly she opened the door and

shut it after her. Silently she tiptoed up the stairs.
The light was on in Miss Penelopes study.
Connie went into the now-familiar room and sat
down for a moment at the desk. Then she got up and
walked over to the windows, and out to the small
balcony over the water. She stood there, motionless,
for a long time.
It was David who came to find her.
Connie! His voice, from the sitting-room door,
was sharp with anxiety.
Connie turned, smiling. Im right here.
I missed you. I was worried about you, David
admitted with relief. He came out to stand beside her
and ask, quickly and softly, Did the Pasquale dodge
work the way you wanted it to?
Connie hesitated. It workedin a wayin a
way I didnt expect.
How?
Connie shook her head. Her theory was still too
undeveloped to explain. Im not sure enough to talk
about it yet. Can you wait until morning, David? By
then Ill be ready to talkif Im lucky enough to be
right.
This had to satisfy him for the moment, because
David knew that he could not stay, for long, from
his guests. But he looked a little rueful as he walked
downstairs with Connie. Her secretiveness seemed
171

rather ill-timed.
On the landing Connie paused, a thought
occurring to her.
David?
Yes?
Will you do something for me?
Dont ask me why, Connie whispered
hurriedly, but will you go through all your aunts
record albums as soon as people go home, tonight?
If you find the Delius record William was talking
aboutSea Driftjust go to bed and forget it. But
if you shouldnt find itif it should be missing
come to the hedge and whistle, three times.
David grinned. Ill whistle like a bobwhite. Im
good at that, he added impatiently, But why?
Connie shook her head, and said softly, Ill tell
you in the morning. She walked on downstairs
ahead of her host. Come on now. Well be missed.
The party broke up early. Connie left Georgia and
Philip at the door of High Hedges, and went up to
bed at once. But she didnt fall asleep, as she usually
did, the moment her head touched the pillow. She
lay curled up on her side like a kitten, feigning
sleep, until long after Georgia had come up and
crawled into the other twin bed. And finally, after
nearly an hour, a quail railed, strangely, in the night.
Bob-white, Bob-white. Wide awake, now, she lay
on her back and thought, testing and retesting her
172

theory, and when she finally dozed off she slept

lightly, and was awake when the first pale rays of.
the sun streaked the eastern sky.
Softly, so as not to disturb Georgia, Connie
slipped out of bed and into her bathing suit, although
the early morning air was chill. She found her beach
robe and her swimming cap and ever so quietly
opened the door of their bedroom and stepped out
into the hall.
Like a shadow she glided down the broad,
polished stairs. It was barely six oclock when she
opened the front door noiselessly, and shut it on the
sleeping-house. The lawn was a dewy carpet. The
birds were shouting to each other in noisy morning
greeting. A cock crowed in the distance, but not
another soul in Bermuda seemed to be awake.
In her bare feet, Connie ran across the grass and,
circumnavigating the drive, cut through the gap in
the hibiscus hedge. Horizons looked cool and
remote and sleeping, as had the house she had just
left.
William was not due for an hour yet, and David
was probably still lost in dreams. Connie circled the
house, made her way quickly to the gazebo, and ran
down the steps to the small, sandy beach.
She turned, her back to the bay, and looked
upward. Horizons lay high to her right, jutting out
on its steep escarpment. Connie let her eyes fall
173

directly from Miss Penelopes sitting-room balcony

to the bay, then calculated the chances of being able
to reach a point close to this spot by making her way
along a narrow shelf of coral. She didnt want to do
anything foolhardy, and yet she hated to wait for
David to wake up.
Running across the narrow strip of sand, she
discovered the shelf was wider than it looked. Once
more she took her bearings, then cautiously crawled
along it. Beneath her the water was greenish blue,
and very clear. She remembered what Georgia had
said about her trip in the glass-bottomed boatit
was possible to see down and down.
Now, looking up, Connie couldnt see the house
at all. She had to guess at her position in relationship
to the balcony. Was she under it yet? Or had she,
perhaps, gone too far?
The shelf, she remembered, had seemed to
narrow at the spot she sought, and it was certainly a
narrow ledge along which she was crawling now.
Connie lay, face down, and looked over into the
water. A fish broke the surface, then scooted away
in surprise. A graceful longtail swooped down
toward the ledge, saw Connie, and wheeled upward
in a smooth arc.
Beneath the surface of the water minnows darted
and seaweed moved like soft lace. Six feet below
were weird coral formations, and still farther down
174

lay the sandy floor of the bay. It was incredible that

the water should be so clear! Connie could see
downward as though she were looking through a
mirror. The tide was just at the turning point, and the
water was calm and still.
She was searching for something alien, something
strange to this undersea kingdom. It was here,
somewhere. It had to be, if her theory was correct.
Suddenly, off to the left, farther out than she had
expected, she saw something fat and green.
Impulsively, she leaned toward it. A thermos jug?
Thats what it was! A green thermos jug with its
metal cap red with rust.
She strained still farther forward, her heart
pumping with excitement. And a split second later
she lost her balance, and fell from the ledge into the
Water with a resounding splash. Involuntarily, as
she fell she screamed!
Even as she came to the surface, Connie was
shrugging out of the unwieldy beach coat. She
hadnt taken a lifesaving course for nothing. She
could undress under water with proficient ease. But
her hair was soaked, and streamed out like wet
yellow silk behind her.
Darn! Connie gasped out loud.
From directly above her came David Scotts
voice. In pajamas and a bathrobe, his hair still
tousled from sleep, he looked down from Miss
175

Penelopes balcony at the girl in the water.

For Petes sake! he said in the most complete
astonishment. What are you doing there?
Connie managed to heave the wet beach coat to
the coral ledge before she answered. I think Ive
found the missing manuscript, she called to the boy
above her. Get into your swimming trunks and
come on down!

176

CHAPTER

15

Evidence in Writing

It wasnt easy to get the bulky thermos jug to the

surface, but between them Connie and David
managed it. They dove, together, from the coral
ledge, being sure to fill their lungs with air before
they hit the water. Then they swam downward on an
angle, their eyes open, their quarry marked.
Together they got a grip on the rusty handle. Then,
each using an arm as a propeller, struggled to the
surface again and swam slowly to the little beach.
The early morning air was colder than the water,
and Connie shivered in her brief swimming suit,
until David insisted that she take his sweater.
Now what? he asked.
Now we get this thing open. Connie looked at
the rusted top of the thermos questioningly.
You dont seriously think David frowned
and shook his head.
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Connie wasnt willing to commit herself further

than she already had. You never can tell until you
try. Got a monkey wrench up at the house?
David carried the gallon thermos, and Connie ran
quickly up the steps from the beach ahead of him. At
the rear entrance they met William, who was just
arriving. He looked in astonishment from the young
people in bathing suits to the thermos jug. Whered
you find it? he said at once.
Connie clapped her hands. See!
David countered Williams question with another.
Can you find us a monkey wrench?
The houseboy disappeared, and came back in a
minute or two with the necessary tool. The top was
rusted tight, but after persistent efforts, first on
Davids part, then on Williams, it began to loosen.
David unscrewed the cap, then removed the cork.
Connie, by now, was so impatient she could scarcely
contain herself. She felt as she had on so many
Christmas Eves as a childwhen it had seemed that
tomorrow would never come!
Then Davids long, low whistle of amazement
confirmed her hopes.
Its there? she cried.
Somethings there, David admitted. Here!
your hands smaller than mine.
Connie reached into the mouth of the thermos and
carefully drew out first a heavy glass paperweight
178

and then a rolled sheaf of papers. Typewritten

paragraphs greeted her. Chapter Eighteen, she
read. David! David! I was right!
David Scott could scarcely believe his eyes. He
kept turning the papers over and over in his hand, as
though he wanted to assure himself, by actually
touching the manuscript, that it was real.
William was bug-eyed with astonishment, too.
Now how did Miss Pennys papers ever get in
there, and how did that thermos jug get in the bay?
he asked.
Well talk about it later. Just now Miss Connie
and I need some hot coffee, said David firmly, and
sent the boy off to prepare it.
When the kitchen door had slammed behind him,
David turned to Connie. Frankly, Im just as
curious as William. How did you ever guess?
Connie smiled, and squatted on the terrace steps,
her arms hugging her bare knees. I put myself in
Miss Penelopes place, she said. I tried to imagine
what I would have done, if things had happened as I
suspected. Thats all.
Youd better start from the beginning, David
said.
First let me look at the last couple of pages of
that manuscript, Connie begged. I have an idea the
story may be there in a more complete form than I
could tell it.
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She unrolled the sheaf of papers and turned to the

last two sheets. Slowly, she nodded. Here it is.
Shall I read it?
Of course.
Theres a space; then it begins: I have just made
a shattering discovery. My adored friend, Pietro de
Pasquale, is an impostor. Everything that he has told
me, for the past two years, is false. And, strange as it
seems, Joseph Murphy is not his alias, but his real
name!
Yes, as in so many cases, the truth is far more
astonishing than any fiction I could invent. I have
been duped by a rascal of the first water, who has
won my friendship, borrowed increasingly large
sums of money from me with the excuse that his
own substantial assets are temporarily frozen in
Italy, and who was finally unmasked by a mere
fluke of fortune.
Pietro (who has claimed to be resting his voice
in Bermuda at the advice of his physician) has been
dining with me on this very evening. My spirits
were high, because this journal is so nearly
completed, and because I had received a rather rare
Pasquale among some records just arrived from New
York. To make a little joke, I asked Joe (as I have
with difficulty learned to call him) if he would sing
me the song recorded. It was a Delius selection
Sea Drift.
180

 To my complete astonishment, he insisted he

did not know itindeed had never sung it in his life.
I walked to the phonograph, put on the
selection, and waited. He did not react at all. Very
interesting, he said. Lovely song. But he quite
obviously did not recognize the baritone voice on
the record.
I have not been a writer of mystery novels for
nothing. Suddenly, with a surprising clarity, some
things that I have been deliberately pushing to the
back of my mind assumed their proper importance.
As I stood listening to Pasquales magnificent voice
I realized that this two-penny baritone before me
was probably plain Joe Murphy, from New York
Citynothing more. I had been, to employ the
vernacular, royally taken.
Another sentence was started, but not finished.
Apparently Miss Sebastian had broken off hurriedly,
and ripped the paper from the typewriter, because
the lower right corner of the sheet was torn.
Connie looked up at David. Something must
have frightened her, she said. Ill bet she was
afraid Mr. Murphy would come back!
Come back?
Connie nodded, trying to reconstruct the scene.
Your aunt must have wanted to keep the
manuscript out of his clutches at all costs. She had
spent too much time on it to be able to bear the
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thought that it might be destroyed.

But why should Joe Murphy have wanted the
manuscript? David asked.
Connie shrugged. Im just guessing, but I think
he might have wanted it because he knew that he, as
Pasquale, figured in the journal.
David was beginning to see, but dimly. Connies
agile mind had raced so far ahead that it was hard to
catch up.
All right. So Miss Penelope had to get rid of the
manuscript. There was no safe hiding place, that Mr.
Murphy might not discover, in the house. So what
did she do? She used the kind of invention shed
been using all her life when she plotted her mystery
novels. She used her head, in other words. She
thoughtthe bay!
From there on it was easy to hit on the thermos
jug. She probably dumped out the ice water William
says she usually kept in it, crammed the manuscript
in, dropped her round glass paperweight in to make
sure that the thermos would sink, and heaved it over
the balcony railing. Simple.
It doesnt sound simple to me. It sounds like
awfully complicated reasoning, said David.
But Connie was scarcely listening. William
heard Miss Penelope calling Henry Thorndike right
after Mr. Murphy left. She probably tried her lawyer
again later, and when she couldnt get an answer she
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started a note. Maybe the exertion and the shock and

the excitement were just too much for her, or maybe
she was afraid she heard Mr. Murphy returningI
dont knowbut we do know that she had a heart
attack. And it was Mr. Murphys lucky break that
she should die so suddenly that same night.
So then he thought he was safe?
Not completely. He probably managed to pump
Henry Thorndike, and discovered that the
manuscript was missing. Then he must have had a
rather bad time of it, until he could get up courage to
break into the house and search it for himself.
Oh, you think he was the burglar? David asked.
Im morally certain of it, Connie replied. He
wanted that journal, and when he couldnt find it he
was badly disappointed. He was also afraid it might
turn up later, and thats why hes been so solicitous
and friendly to you.
Connie accepted the cup of steaming coffee
William brought to her and sat back. Oh, I was so
stupid! she cried. Ive been pretty sure, for a while
now, that there was a close connection between Joe
Murphy and Pietro de Pasquale, but I kept thinking
Pasquale was traveling under a pseudonym, hiding
out for some reason.
Thats natural, David said. Murphy looks
Italian enough to fool anyone.
But so do lots of other Americans, Connie
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mentioned. What I want to hear, now, is what our

friend Joseph Murphy has to say to the police.
At the thought of slow-moving Mr. Henderson
and Mr. Doty, David chuckled. If they dont nab
him any faster than they have done their
investigating, youll have quite a bit of a wait, he
said.
But at noon that day David called the Tremont
Shop and told Connie that Mr. Murphy had been
apprehended and was already in the police station
for questioning. The constable in charge would like
to talk to you, too, if you can spare an hour. Mr.
Thorndike is here, as well.
Connie told Georgia the circumstances. By all
means go, Miss Cameron said at once. She had
learned, earlier in the morning, that the manuscript
was safe, and she was both proud of Connies
discovery and delighted for Davids sake.
Ten minutes later Connie walked into a dim,
square room with brownish walls. David, Mr.
Thorndike, and the policemen were all on their feet
in a second, ready with congratulations, praise, and
apologies for finding it necessary to request her
presence.
Oh, I dont mind at all, said Connie quite
sincerely. She was glad of a chance to hear Mr.
Murphys story, if he would tell one. There were
184

several questions still unanswered in her mind.

Joseph Murphy, when he entered the room with
another officer, looked only slightly less suave than
usual. He bowed to the company as though he were
taking a curtain call, sat. down in the chair provided,
and lit a cigarette nonchalantly.
Mr. Doty bustled over to Mr. Henderson with a
folder of official-looking papers, and Mr. Henderson
faced the singer. Mr. Murphy, he said, you are
accused of unlawful entry, burglary, assault and
battery.
Mr. Murphy raised an eyebrow. Thats quite a
roster.
Provable on all counts, said Mr. Doty firmly.
Mr. Murphy raised the oilier eyebrow. So
There are some questions Id like to ask you,
said Mr. Henderson. When did you first meet Miss
Penelope Sebastian?
On shipboard, on my way to Bermuda on a
pleasure cruise, nearly two years ago.
And how did you happen to make her
acquaintance?
She heard me singing, and remarked to a friend
that my voice had a remarkable resemblance to
Pietro de Pasquales. So I introduced myself as
Joseph Murphy. You cant prosecute me for that.
He grinned deliberately at Mr. Henderson.
Later, however, you gave her to understand that
185

you were really Pasquale, traveling, for reasons of

your own, under an assumed name?
Mr. Murphy shrugged. Perhaps.
Yes or no?
Yes.
And, having acquired her friendship under false
pretenses, you gave her an autographed photograph
of yourself signed Pietro de Pasquale.
Mr. Murphy nodded. Clever of me, dont you
think? Especially since I was wearing an
appropriately theatrical costume.
What was the costume? Connie broke in
impulsively.
The uniform of the admiral in Pinafore, Mr.
Murphy told her promptly. Always did like that
outfit. He chuckled vainly to himself.
That was the meaning of the epaulet in the scrap
of photograph you found, Connie whispered to
David, then turned back to hear Mr. Henderson ask,
You will admit to borrowing money from Miss
Sebastian, under false pretensesmoney which you
knew quite well you would be unable to return?
Mr. Murphys eyes narrowed. I will admit no
such thing.
But tellers at both of our Bermuda banks will
confirm the fact that you have, in the past year and a
half, cashed some rather large checks drawn to cash
on Miss Sebastians account and endorsed by her.
186

Mr. Murphy shrugged again. Their word against

mine.
David leaned close to Connies ear. Hes slick,
but I wonder whether hes really smart? It seems to
me that if I were in his shoes Id admit to swindling
Aunt Penny and hope for clemency on the basis of it
being a first offense.
But is it a first offense, do you suppose?
Connie whispered back.
Id bet on it, murmured David. Joe Murphy
doesnt look like a big-time crook to me.

187

CHAPTER

16

Farewell, Bermuda!

At a table for four, in the dining room at Belmont

Manor, one of the large Bermuda hotels
conveniently near High Hedges, Connie and David,
Georgia, and Philip were seated, just finishing their
soup.
Both Georgia and Philip were plying the other
couple with questions about the recovery of the
manuscript and the apprehension of Joe Murphy.
The major points of the story had been covered, but
there were still things Georgia wanted to know.
Who is Joe Murphy, anyway? I mean, who was
he, back in the United States?
Nobody in particular, David told her. A guy
with a good voice, trained by competent teachers,
who never quite managed to make a go of it. Held
down a routine job in some bank or other, and eked
out a small salary by taking radio engagements and
188

singing in one of the big church choirs. Occasionally

did parts in amateur shows, some concert work.
Knew the lingo, if you see what I mean, but never
amounted to a row of pins.
Then how did he happen to come to Bermuda?
Got an itchy foot and borrowed on his insurance
so he told the police. Before they were through with
him they had him bragging about how he was taken,
on the boat, for a man of the world. I guess social
success went to his head. He began to get ideas. And
when he met my aunt she looked like an easy mark.
Poor old lady. She was keen enough in her day, but
to tell the truth I dont think I would have seen
through Joe Murphy. He pretended he was here to
rest his voice, and that sounded pretty plausible.
He knew just enough to sound like the real
article. Philip murmured.
Georgia sat back while the waiter removed her
bouillon cup. A little knowledge is a dangerous
thing, she said.
Philip leaned forward. What I cant understand,
he said, is why Murphy didnt just clear out of here
before you arrived. After all, his meal ticket was
gone. The jig was up. Why hang around?
Connie said, Oh, but you see, thats the
interesting part of it! Mr. Murphy had discovered,
through Miss Sebastian, that Miss Merriam had a
little money. He liked his new racket so muchhe
189

was enjoying life here so thoroughly he hated to

leavethat he started to work on her.
So thats how Miss Merriam comes into the
picture! murmured Georgia.
Yes, and Mr. Thorndike had discovered that
Murphy was playing up to her. Murphy or de
Pasquale, it was all the same to him. He hadnt
criticized Miss Sebastian because she was his client,
and he figured her friends were none of his business.
But he knew Miss Merriam well enough to tell her
that she should know better. So-o, Miss Merriam
was naturally bitter about Thorndike. She took a
poke at him whenever she could.
Philip said, It was Murphy who locked you in
the clothespress, Connie?
Connie nodded. He confessed to that, didnt he,
David?
Yes. This afternoon. Murphy realized that his
name, or Pietros, might be on the check stubs Mr.
Thorndike brought to me while he was calling. He
faked the phone call, got me out of the house, knew
that William was over at High Hedges, and figured
the coast was clear. Coming on Connie in the sitting
room must have called for some pretty fancy
footwork.
What I cant understand, mused Connie, is
why I didnt hear him coming upstairs. Then she
snapped her lingers. He had on tennis shoes. Now I
190

remember!
And you were probably concentrating, besides,
David teased her lightly.
It was a pretty smart trick, though, practically
smothering me and then pretending to rescue me.
The funny part of it is, he looked really alarmed.
He was alarmed, Ill bet! David said. He never
planned to have you practically pass out. He
couldnt have guessed that the clothespress doors
would fit so tight.
One thing Mr. Murphy missed was the guest
book, Connie hurried on. That was our first real
clue.
Hey! David complained. What about my torn
photograph?
But that didnt really tell us anything, Connie
explained. The clue we almost missed was the
broken phonograph record. She retold Williams
story to Georgia and Philip.
But how did the record get broken? Who did it?
Georgia asked.
According to Murphy, he broke it himself, so
that he couldnt be tricked into a similar situation
before the police. That Miss Sebastian would call
the police, as well as Mr. Thorndike, he had no
doubt. She was a fiery old lady, my aunt! said
David proudly.
Georgia rested her chin in her cupped palms. Do
191

you suppose Murphy ever did go back to the house,

that night?
David shook his head. Not a chance. He was
scared. He thought his number was up, but hes the
petty criminal type, not the kind who would do
violence to an old lady. The police quizzed him
pretty thoroughly on that point, and theyre
convinced he never returned to Horizons on the
night of my aunts death.
Georgia looked relieved, and turned her head as
the orchestra began to play. At the same time the
waiter brought plates for the main course. He served
deftly and with pleasure. It was seldom that he had
two such pretty girls at the same table. It was a treat!
Meanwhile the four talked on about Davids
affairs. The remainder of the manuscript for Miss
Sebastians book was already on its way to her New
York publishers, sent by registered mail. Connie was
delighted, because now the orphanage to whom the
writer had willed the royalties would be bound to
benefit. She felt that her last evening in Bermuda
couldnt have ended on a happier note.
Her last evening in Bermuda! Tomorrow, at
dinnertime, she and Georgia would be winging far
above the Atlantic, on the fast, three-hour flight to
New York.
Connie looked at Georgia, and wondered how she
felt about leaving the islands. She knew that for the
192

older girl this had been more than just another

business trip. There was an expression in her eyes
when she looked at Philip Tremont that had never
been there before.
It was during the dessert course that Philip turned
toward Connie. He cleared his throat with rather
nervous formality and then blurted out his news like
a schoolboy. Georgia and I have something we
want to tell you. Were planning to announce our
engagement next week and we are going to be
married in June!
Connie couldnt have been more surprised and
pleased. Though she had known, for days now, that
Georgia and Philip were in love, she had not
suspected that a member of the Tremont family
could be moved to act so fast! She leaned forward
and grasped Georgias hand across the table. Im
delighted! she cried with obvious sincerity. Oh,
Georgia, Im pleased to death, and I wish you every
happiness in the world.
Gosh, I do too! exclaimed David, who was
rather taken aback. He had been so absorbed in his
own affairs, during his stay in Bermuda, that he had
not suspected the romance budding next door.
Georgia smiled into Connies excited eyes, then
turned to David. Thank youboth, she said
softly. Then she glanced at Philip. I couldnt be
happier than I am right now.
193

Of course there was ever so much to talk about,

ever so many things that rose to the tip of Connies
tongue. One question she couldnt resist. Are you
going to live in Bermuda?
Georgia nodded. Isnt that wonderful!
Remember what I said to you when we first
arrivedthat I couldnt imagine a place Id rather
live?
I do indeed! Connie sat with her hands folded
ecstatically in her lap. She could picture Georgia
adapting herself to the life of the islands as Mrs.
Philip Tremont. Shed become relaxed and gracious,
more the young matron than the business executive,
but still interested enough to take a hand in Tremont
Shops affairs should occasion demand.
This calls for a real celebration! cried David
after a while. I promised to take Connie dancing at
the Princess one evening. This is the night! Pets
go!
In Philips car, the four young people wound
down the long hill to the road along the bay, and
went together to the terrace beyond which sails rode
on the dark water, just as they had on that other
night when Connie and David had first stopped here.
The orchestra played languid music, and the stars
shone down and the moon glowed. It was a night to
remember, a perfect evening on which to say
goodbye, if good-byes must be said.
194

When will you be coming back to New York?

Connie asked David as they walked back to their
table after the orchestra had stopped for an
intermission.
As soon as I wind up my business with Mr.
Thorndike and arrange to have the house put up for
sale.
Philip overheard Davids reply. Youre planning
to sell Horizons?
David nodded. And the same thought occurred to
him that had occurred to Connie. By any chance,
would you be interested?
We might. Philip glanced at Georgia, and saw
that her eyes were glowing. Suppose we get
together and talk about it a little, in the morning.
Would that suit you?
They arranged to meet at Mr. Thorndikes office
at ten, and Connie felt that the issue was as good as
settled. She could already imagine the things that
Georgia would do with the Sebastian house. In her
minds eye she pictured the old-fashioned living
room brightened with chintz draperies and slip
covers, the walls repainted, the furniture
arrangement changed. It could be a young housea
beautiful houseinside as well as outside. And the
small crescent of beach could be so perfect for
swimming parties, with the gazebo a logical spot
from which to serve refreshments. Connie almost
195

envied Georgiaalmost!
But not quite. In her heart Connie knew that it
would be years, yet, before she would be ready to
marry and settle down, as Georgia was planning to
do. There would be many more adventures in store
for herperhaps many more mysteries to solve.
She was even beginning to look forward to
getting back to Reid and Renshaws. If the agency
had felt it so important to hurry them home, who
could tell what might happen next?
Of course, if Georgia handed in her resignation, it
would change things around the office, but Connie
couldnt worry too much about the future. June was
still two months away. And there was a chance that
Georgias departure, much as she would miss her,
might mean a promotion for Connie Blair!
Driving home, through the flower-scented night,
Georgia was dreamy, but Connie was looking ahead
for new worlds to conquer. She had loved every
minute of her stay in Bermudawell, every minute
except those few horrible ones in the clothespress
but all good things were bound to come to an end.
And even the end would be thrillinga trip by
airplane.
On Thursday afternoon all of Bermuda takes a
holiday. The shops are closed, the bay is crowded
with sails, and the tennis courts and golf courses are
busy.
196

Thus it was possible for Connie and Georgia to

have quite a bevy of friends to see them off. Mr. and
Mrs. Basil Tremont were there, along with Philip
and David, and at the last minute Mr. Thorndike
appeared, with a box of candy for the girls, and a
smile straining the corners of his normally solemn
mouth.
The huge plane was being readied. Connie,
wearing a corsage of passion flowers which David
had presented to her, was bubbling with excitement,
and now, at the very last minute, she realized that it
would be a wrench to leave the islands.
She wanted to drink in all their beauty, because I
might never get back!
Of course youll come back! Mrs. Tremont
insisted. Everybody comes back to Bermuda.
Youre invited, right now, to visit Philip and me
at Horizons, Georgia assured her. Looking at Henry
Thorndike slyly, she added, That is, if Mr.
Thorndike decides to let David sell us the house.
Mr. Thorndike blushed and bridled with pleasure
at being placed in such a position of authority. Its
all decided, he said jovially. Isnt it, Mr. Scott?
David grinned and nodded, making a circle with
his thumb and forefinger in affirmation, a gesture as
typically American as the attorney would see in
many a day.
Mrs. Tremont beamed, and told everyone how
197

much she looked forward to having Georgia as a

daughter-in-law. Connie wondered how she ever
could have thought that these pleasant people were
stiff and standoffish. Why, when one came to
understand them, they were just as friendly as
anyone else.
Their flight number was called, and good-byes
had to be said quickly. Mr. Thorndike astonished
Connie by leaning forward and pecking at her cheek
in an embarrassed, fatherly fashion. Thank you so
much for all that you have done for Mr. Scott, he
whispered. I do appreciate it. Truly, I do.
Philip and David both gave Connie a brief,
brotherly hug, and Mrs. Tremont kissed her forehead
fondly while Mr. Basil wrung her hand. A pleasure,
a pleasure, he murmured, but never managed to
finish the sentence.
Then Connie found herself climbing the steps to
the plane, and settling herself in the seat beside
Georgias. There was a slight delay while the last of
the baggage was stored and the steps were rolled
away. Then the big, four-engine transport began
taxiing toward the strip.
Connie and Georgia both waved until their
friends were out of sight, and a sentimental tear or
two slipped down Georgias cheek, although she
knew she would soon be coming back. Then they
were rolling over the ground faster and faster, until
198

the ship gathered enough speed to climb.

They were in the air, circling the field, winging
away toward home!
Connie said nothing, for a few minutes, nor did
Georgia. They were watching the airport slip away
below.
Almost at once, then, they began to gain altitude.
The pink and yellow and white houses were like
homes in a toy village, and the roads were curving
ribbons tossed across a cushion of green.
From the air the individual islands of the
Bermudas merged into one, a long strip of land
curving in the shape of a reapers sickle. And from
three thousand feet the entire island was greenas
green as an emerald set in a sapphire sea.

199