David Copperfield down on the bed. The watch was probably worth over a hundred dollars. Maybe two hundred, maybe four hundred! Maureen’s graduation watch had cost over seventy-five dollars. Had she lost her whole summer’s salary? She knew her mother and father would make her pay for it, she knew it was right and decent and moral to pay for it even if Mrs. Hoade didn’t insist. Dorothy began to tremble. The watch was no chrome Sears, Roebuck special. It was gold. “I had it at the stable,” she said slowly. I remember looking at it there. Could it be in Baldy’s car? Baldy dropped me near the end of the driveway. She had the horse van attached today and didn’t want to turn around. That was it. She’d had to slam the door three times to get it closed right. Dorothy dressed. Her shirt stuck to the sweat on her back. Her hands shook as they did the buttons. She ran downstairs, let herself out, and traced her steps all the way down the driveway. There was a nearly full moon, but she’d remembered to take a flashlight anyway.
The willow trees brushed her arm as she ran down to the end of the driveway. The night air was delicious, full of perfume from the gardens, but Dorothy noticed none of it. Where did Baldy drop me exactly? Here. There, over there. She knelt down in a ditch by the side of the road. The watch stared up at her solemnly in the moonlight. “Thank you, God, dear Jesus,” said Dorothy. Tears streamed down her face. She held the watch in her hands and said the Lord’s Prayer. She vowed she’d ask the Hoades to take her to Mass on Sunday. If she had to walk, she’d walk, even if it took all morning; she’d give up a riding day with Baldy. Slowly, now enjoying the soft, fragrant night, she made her way back to the house. I’ll finish David Copperfield too, she promised, and Nicholas Nickelby as well, before I touch another mystery. “Thank you, God!” she shouted to the stars as loudly as she could.
Dorothy took a shortcut past the cottage. Stupid, she told herself immediately, as prickly wild-raspberry runners caught at her ankles. She tripped and fell flat on her face. “Clod! God dammit!” she said. She’d dropped the watch. And I just took God’s name in vain, she added to herself. And now I’ll never find it. The moonlight did not penetrate the woods here. She turned on the flashlight. The weak beam illuminated something metallic, then something else metallic. When she’d retrieved the watch and thanked God again, she bent over to look at the something else. It was a brass ring, badly corroded, attached to a wooden door. Dorothy stamped. There was a floor beneath her instead of earth. Now go back to the house, Dorothy, she advised herself. Come back tomorrow if you want to have a look. Come back in the daylight. The little house was dark and peaceful. Miss Borg and the baby were no doubt asleep. If she came back tomorrow, Mrs. Hoade might find out. I’ll just have a peek, she said as she raised the door. The vines pulled away unwillingly. She flashed the light down into the hole. There’s probably a family of water moccasins down here, she thought. Possibly copperheads, or huge black widow spiders. A fairly secure ladder led down, however, and the light from her flashlight bounced down seven ancient but solid steps, as thick as the wood of a telephone pole.
The bottom of the cellar was dry and sandy, not a place for snakes, Dorothy hoped, for leaning against a wood joist was a pair of dusty riding boots. I know what this is, she told herself. This is where the stable used to be. This is the cellar of the old stable! I bet I could shine those boots up even if they are twenty years old. They don’t belong to you, Dorothy. Go back! she also told herself. She put one foot on the ladder, holding tight to the trapdoor frame as she went down. The step held firm. Thief! Dorothy whispered.
Cautiously she kicked over one boot, then the other. No dead mice in the toes so far. At the other end
The willow trees brushed her arm as she ran down to the end of the driveway. The night air was delicious, full of perfume from the gardens, but Dorothy noticed none of it. Where did Baldy drop me exactly? Here. There, over there. She knelt down in a ditch by the side of the road. The watch stared up at her solemnly in the moonlight. “Thank you, God, dear Jesus,” said Dorothy. Tears streamed down her face. She held the watch in her hands and said the Lord’s Prayer. She vowed she’d ask the Hoades to take her to Mass on Sunday. If she had to walk, she’d walk, even if it took all morning; she’d give up a riding day with Baldy. Slowly, now enjoying the soft, fragrant night, she made her way back to the house. I’ll finish David Copperfield too, she promised, and Nicholas Nickelby as well, before I touch another mystery. “Thank you, God!” she shouted to the stars as loudly as she could.
Dorothy took a shortcut past the cottage. Stupid, she told herself immediately, as prickly wild-raspberry runners caught at her ankles. She tripped and fell flat on her face. “Clod! God dammit!” she said. She’d dropped the watch. And I just took God’s name in vain, she added to herself. And now I’ll never find it. The moonlight did not penetrate the woods here. She turned on the flashlight. The weak beam illuminated something metallic, then something else metallic. When she’d retrieved the watch and thanked God again, she bent over to look at the something else. It was a brass ring, badly corroded, attached to a wooden door. Dorothy stamped. There was a floor beneath her instead of earth. Now go back to the house, Dorothy, she advised herself. Come back tomorrow if you want to have a look. Come back in the daylight. The little house was dark and peaceful. Miss Borg and the baby were no doubt asleep. If she came back tomorrow, Mrs. Hoade might find out. I’ll just have a peek, she said as she raised the door. The vines pulled away unwillingly. She flashed the light down into the hole. There’s probably a family of water moccasins down here, she thought. Possibly copperheads, or huge black widow spiders. A fairly secure ladder led down, however, and the light from her flashlight bounced down seven ancient but solid steps, as thick as the wood of a telephone pole.
The bottom of the cellar was dry and sandy, not a place for snakes, Dorothy hoped, for leaning against a wood joist was a pair of dusty riding boots. I know what this is, she told herself. This is where the stable used to be. This is the cellar of the old stable! I bet I could shine those boots up even if they are twenty years old. They don’t belong to you, Dorothy. Go back! she also told herself. She put one foot on the ladder, holding tight to the trapdoor frame as she went down. The step held firm. Thief! Dorothy whispered.
Cautiously she kicked over one boot, then the other. No dead mice in the toes so far. At the other end
Similar Books
