The Gladstone Bag by Charlotte MacLeod Read Free Book Online Page A

are. I’ve been told this island has been dug over without result a number of times in the past, so I frankly don’t see why you think you’ll be any luckier than your predecessors. However, I’m quite aware that imaginative authors don’t always need much in the way of factual material to come up with their results.”
    Emma smiled ever so sweetly at Everard Wont. “And now I think we’d better get our luggage together. This must be Pocapuk we’re coming to.”
    The ferry was slowing, changing course. A line of rock and pine trees not much bigger than a few of the uninhabited islets they’d passed on their way was coming closer. Now Emma could see a pier and somebody on it, not waving, just standing there. The island wasn’t all that low; she could see a knoll rising in a gentle sweep from the pier. The last time she’d come, the house had been out in plain sight. Now the pines had grown so that she caught only an occasional glimpse of brown-stained wood through their branches.
    Emma couldn’t see any of the cottages. They were all on the back side of the house, where there’d been and probably still was a stony little cove to bathe in if anybody cared to brave the icy water. One really did feel something of a thrill docking at an island of which one was to be suzerain, if only for a little while. Emma did hope Everard Wont wasn’t going to make a nuisance of himself. It was too bad she’d been forced to put him in his place in front of the others, but there was no earthly use trying to be tactful with an arrogant boor. Emma wondered whether Adelaide had ever run into a similar circumstance.
    She also wondered whether it was one of this crowd who’d taken her Gladstone bag and ditched it in the men’s room. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Count Radunov had been both taker and finder. He mustn’t have known then that she was coming to Pocapuk, too; he’d simply have spotted an elderly woman who might be a widow with tangible assets and decided on general principles to give her the old school try.
    Radunov would be an agreeable antidote to Everard Wont, anyway. She wondered if the no doubt self-styled count was really planning to write a book. Why shouldn’t he be? Most people were, and far too many of them did.
    The ferry was reversing its engines now, gliding into the dock. The man—it was indeed a man, and a big one—was raising his arms to catch the line a deck hand was about to throw. Emma glanced around at her windblown, sunburned group of fellow travelers, said in her customary dinner-party manner, “Shall we?” and started down. She had no intention of letting Everard Wont usurp the lead.
    Adelaide had promised to telephone Vincent and let him know about the change in plans. She must have done so, for the husky middle-aged man in the clean plaid shirt and khaki work pants didn’t act a bit surprised to see Emma in place of his employer.
    “How do you do,” she said. “You must be Vincent.”
    “That’s right, and you’re Mrs. Kelling. Got the whole gang with you, eh?”
    “Yes, though I didn’t know it until we’d made the last stop before this one. Mrs. Sabine told me you’d have the cottages ready. I’m sure everyone would like to get settled right away.”
    “Ayup, we’ll take care of ’em. You go straight on up to the house, Mrs. Kelling. One of the girls will help you unpack; your bags are all stowed in your room. The rest of you folks, dump your stuff on the cart and follow me. I’ve got the list of who goes where. Here, ma’am, I’ll take that for you.”
    Since the men and Miss Quainley were all loaded with portable typewriters, cameras, portfolios, paint boxes, folding easels, and other tools of their respective trades, Mrs. Fath had been left to struggle along with a gargantuan blue vinyl suitcase, two paper shopping bags crammed to the ripping point, and a small, squarish hand piece. That must be what she carried her crystal ball in, Emma thought.
    “Then