The mystery of the cape.., p.1
The Mystery of the Cape Cod Players, page 1
OTTO PENZLER PRESENTS
AMERICAN MYSTERY CLASSICS
THE MYSTERY OF
THE CAPE COD PLAYERS
Phoebe Atwood Taylor (1909-1976) was one of the most beloved and most successful mystery authors of the 1930s and 1940s, writing under her own name and two pseudonyms, Freeman Dana and Alice Tilton. The Asey Mayo character, first introduced in The Cape Cod Mystery, went on to star in 24 novels in a series informed by the author’s generations-long family history in Cape Cod.
Otto Penzler, the creator of American Mystery Classics, is also the founder of the Mysterious Press (1975); Mysterious-Press.com (2011), an electronic-book publishing company; and New York City’s Mysterious Bookshop (1979). He has won a Raven, the Ellery Queen Award, two Edgars (for the Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection, 1977, and The Lineup, 2010), and lifetime achievement awards from NoirCon and The Strand Magazine. He has edited more than 70 anthologies and written extensively about mystery fiction.
THE MYSTERY OF
THE CAPE COD PLAYERS
PHOEBE ATWOOD
TAYLOR
Introduction by
OTTO
PENZLER
AMERICAN
MYSTERY
CLASSICS
INTRODUCTION
Ostensibly told in first person by Victoria (Vic) Ballard, who has some of the accoutrements of an amateur detective, The Mystery of the Cape Cod Players has so many colorful characters that poor Mrs. Ballard, bullied by her son, has less time on the stage than numerous other players in this baffling mystery.
Although only fifty-five years old, Vic is treated like a frail old lady by her son George, who arranges her summer vacation, even picking the little cottage where she’ll stay, for how long, and with whom—which is when she puts her foot down and insists that she’ll pick her own companion and it won’t be her cousin Mercy, who she calls a moron.
The novel quickly becomes delicious when a group of actors gets lost in the fog and are invited to the lonely cottage to get warm and fed. Just as snowstorms and broken bridges can isolate a group of people, so can a good, heavy fog help to create a relatively closed circle of suspects when murder strikes.
The victim is Red Gilpin, a performer with the impecunious troupe, who seemingly is the most beloved of the players. And, apparently, the most beloved of a long string of women whose hearts have been broken by the handsome Lothario.
The actors have their quirks and eccentricities, as do the members of the little household, but none can touch Asey Mayo, the amateur detective known locally and to readers as “the Codfish Sherlock.”
Mayo’s first appearance was in The Cape Cod Mystery (1931), which sold out its first printing of 5,000 copies, an exceptionally strong sale for a first novel during the Great Depression (and not too bad in the present day). No one wrote more mysteries, nor more popular ones, nor better ones, set on Cape Cod than Phoebe Atwood Taylor (1909-1976), best-known for her series of twenty-four novels featuring Mayo.
In the words of the English novelist Nicholas Blake (the pseudonym of C. Day Lewis), Mayo is “an eccentric individual” who Taylor describes as “a typical New Englander . . . the kind of man everybody expects to find on Cape Cod and never does.”
A former sailor who made his first voyage on one of the last clipper ships, Mayo lives on Wellfleet, where he is the handyman/chauffeur for the local tycoon but still finds time to solve an inordinate number of murders.
He is tall but unimpressive in appearance as he walks with his long, lean frame hunched over. Variously described as “wily, ornery, and homespun,” he relies on his profound, albeit practical, knowledge of human nature for his success as a sleuth. “Common sense” has been the tobacco-chewing Mayo’s hallmark since his first episode.
His speech is “impossible for a student of phonetics to record on paper,” writes Taylor. “It resembled no other dialect in the world. Let it suffice to say that he never sounded a final g or t. His r was the ah of New England. His a was so flat . . . you couldn’t get under it with a crowbar.”
Mayo uses his speech to share his homely wisdom, such as “they ain’t many whys without becauses.” Other characters in Taylor’s books are also convincingly Yankee, particularly such aptly named figures as Tabitha Sparrow, Phineas Banbury, and Aunt Nettie Hobbs.
Taylor was born in Boston, descended from the Mayflower Pilgrims, and received a B.A. from New York City’s Barnard College before returning to live and write in Massachusetts. She uses her intimate knowledge of New England for the settings of her novels, notably such Cape Cod communities as Wellfleet, Orleans, and Provincetown. While these and other nearby towns are recognized as summer resorts, most of the books deal with the people who live ordinary lives there after the tourists have gone home.
Humor plays an important role in the Asey Mayo series, as it does in the eight books she wrote under the Alice Tilton pen name, all of which featured Leonidas Witherall, known to his friends as “Bill” because of his uncanny resemblance to portraits of William Shakespeare. A New England prep school headmaster, he supplements his modest income by writing thrillers. He also hunts for rare books for “the wealthier and lazier Boston collectors.”
In his first case, Beginning with a Bash (1937), Witherall attempts to prove the innocence of a former student who he encounters on a below-zero evening in Boston, running from the police in a gray flannel suit and carrying a bag of golf clubs. The novel had previously been published in Mystery League magazine in 1933 as The Riddle of Volume Four under the Taylor byline.
Anthony Boucher was a fan of Taylor’s “well-ordered farces” and praised her ability to recreate such historical moments as the Great Depression and the early years of World War II, including blackouts, gasoline rationing, and wardens. The everyday life of those times and more peaceful ones gave readers a window to view Cape Cod as she knew it.
Country auctions, local politics, cake sales, teas, ladies’ clubs, gardens, petty disputes among neighbors—all served as the background for Taylor’s detective novels, produced with a keenly observant eye and a rich helping of amused and gentle humor.
Otto Penzler
New York, May 2023
THE MYSTERY OF
THE CAPE COD PLAYERS
NOTE
All of the characters in this book are entirely imaginary; so is the town of Weesit, even though it bears the name of an existing neck of land on Cape Cod.
1
It was George who was responsible for the whole business.
It was George who made me go to Weesit in the first place, and it was at Weesit, where I was supposed to undergo a quiet and peaceful convalescence, that everything happened. I want to make it clear from the beginning that the next time I recover from pneumonia I’m going not to Cape Cod, but to Sarawak or Tibet or some remote spot where you might reasonably expect people to be killed outside your bedroom window.
I’d been home from the hospital just four weeks when George came in one Monday afternoon in late June and announced peremptorily that I was to spend the summer in Weesit. It was a nice placid little Cape Cod town and Dr. Burnside had particularly recommended its bracing sea air. That I had no desire to go away from Boston had no effect on George.
“You’ve got to go somewhere for the summer,” he pointed out. “You can’t stay here in this barracks. I’ve hired a summer cottage for you, small enough so that you can’t possibly invite a lot of guests. Now listen to my plans.”
I groaned a little to myself. So many of George’s remarks are prefaced by that statement, “Now listen to my plans.” Of course his executive ability and passion for detail have made him a huge business success at thirty, and I’m enormously proud of him and his achievements. I couldn’t be prouder if he were really my own, instead of my adopted son. But once in a while his plans become tiresome and I wish that my husband were alive to cope with the boy. Adin understood George perfectly. I’ve always remembered what he remarked to me just after he was taken sick.
“Vic,” he said, “if I don’t get over this, for Heaven’s sakes don’t let that boy manage you the way he manages Janet, and Ballard and Company. He’s competent, but he hasn’t a scrap of humor. Don’t let him bully you and tell you he knows what’s best for you!”
And I never had until I was taken sick. Then, I must admit, I fully appreciated his capacity for taking charge of things. But now his plans were beginning to bore me. It occurred to me, too, that possibly Weesit without George around to make me do what was best for me might be better than Boston with him. I didn’t feel strong enough to argue the matter, anyway. I half started to appeal to Janet, George’s wife, and then I decided it would be useless to ask her aid. She was listening dutifully, with an expression of habitual resignation, to George’s details.
Privately I’ve often wondered how Janet happened to marry George. She’s a dear girl, but she’s not his type at all—and as the most beautiful deb of her day she had a wide choice of husbands. For my own part, even though I admire George’s ability, I have my doubts as to whether I should enjoy being married to him. Once in a while lately, I’ve thought I detected signs that Janet was beginning to have doubts herself. He does supervise her a lot.
But for all that, George is really very kind and thoughtful. As Adin said, you always had to admit that his ideas were usually much better and much sounder than your own.
“Finally,” George was winding up, “you’ll need a cook—I’ve decided on Mrs. Tavish—and a companion of some sort. Cousin Mercy has very kindly offered—”
The mention of Cousin Mercy Cabot affected me as George should have known it would.
“I’ll go to Weesit,” I told him hotly, “because I haven’t the energy to debate about it. But not with Cousin Mercy! Not that—that moron! She’d wear me out. I simply couldn’t bear to spend the summer listening to her tales of the sick Ballards. I’ll go to Weesit, but I choose my own servant and companion!”
“You don’t seem to realize,” George announced, “that you’re in no condition to make your own plans. Or any plans, for that matter.”
That statement, coming on top of Cousin Mercy, goaded me beyond words.
“I’m fifty-five,” I said when I was finally able to speak, “and I’ll admit that I’ve hovered over the brink of the grave these last few months. I’m grateful for the way you made plans for me while I was sick. But I’ve no intention of having you superintend all my affairs now. And,” I added as an afterthought, “on your way to the office, stop in at Stephen Crump’s and tell him I’ll look after my own business in the future. Have your power of attorney revoked.”
“You can’t, mother! You’re in no position to handle things! You’ll be away and—”
“I’m perfectly capable, George, of taking care of the few stocks and bonds I have left.”
“Few,” George spluttered. “Few! Half a million!”
“I managed twice that before you were born or thought of,” I returned, “and I survived very well. Now run along. You’re tiring me. I’ll see you in September.”
“September? But I intend to go to the Cape with you and of course I’ll come down weekends,” George protested. “Janet’s leaving for Maine tomorrow to stay with her mother and I’d planned on spending my spare time with you—”
“You said it was a small cottage,” I reminded him tartly, “and that I couldn’t have visitors. Now, George, go along to Stephen’s. It’s time for my nap.”
George cleared his throat and got up from his chair. Janet looked at me nervously. I knew she knew what the gesture signified. George was going to lose his renowned temper.
“Conditions,” he began, his face already growing red, “are changing daily. I absolutely refuse to let you take the responsibility of—”
“Stop acting like a school boy,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I’ve explained to you that I’m grateful for the plans you made and the things you did for me while I was sick, but now that I’m well, I’ll take care of things myself. That’s all there is to it.”
“Of making your own plans,” George continued, speaking more loudly and ignoring me entirely, “You’ll be away from town, you’re out of touch with things. You’re not well!” He banged his fist on the table. “I shall not agree to seeing Stephen nor to letting you choose your own companions at the Cape!” He banged the table again, so hard this time that an ash tray bounced to the floor.
“You shall agree and you will agree,” I told him, “and please don’t bang the table so, George. The Ming vase—”
“Damn the Ming vase,” George yelled, snatching it up from the table. He raised it, and if Janet hadn’t gripped his arm, I truly believe he would have dashed it on the floor. He looked ashamed the next moment, but that did not alter my feelings.
“No,” I said as he started to speak, “don’t try to apologize. You know that vase is the gem of your father’s collection. I’ve had enough of this scene. I shall take whom I please to the Cape, go when I please, and I shall call Stephen within the hour.”
George’s face was literally purple as he walked toward the door. “Come, Janet,” he said. “Come!”
“In a moment.”
George opened his mouth to speak, then apparently thought better of it and left the room. He slammed the door very hard behind him.
“Vic,” Janet said, crossing quickly over to the couch, “I’m tremendously sorry! I don’t know what to say. He’s been—well, he’s not been himself since the Janson and Carter Trust went to pieces. And you know how he is when his plans are interfered with—”
“I do,” I said, kissing her. “And I know he’ll be very sorry for this outburst. Don’t antagonize him by making him wait—and write me. There’s no harm done. I understand.”
But I didn’t entirely. George hates to have his plans go askew and opposition of any sort usually irritates him, but I’d never seen him lose control of himself before. Probably it was due to business worries. I stared at the ceiling and wondered about him and tried to figure out whom I’d take to the Cape with me.
At that point Rose, my good-looking if slightly hit-or-miss housemaid, brought me in Elizabeth Houghton’s scrawled note.
“Sorry to bother you,” she wrote, “but I need your help. The girl I’m enclosing with this is Nelly Stone’s daughter Judith Dunham. She fainted from hunger yesterday on Boylston Street and they brought her here to the hospital. She’s far too decent just to put up any place and I can’t keep her here. We’re full. Can’t you take her on as a companion till she gets on her feet? She’s broke. She has a lovely voice and she could read to you. Won’t you do something? I’ll call later.”
I felt rather more than shocked when I finished the note. I’d not seen or heard of Nelly Stone for thirty years, but she’d been my best friend at Miss Owen’s Seminary. Hazy recollections of pickle limes and “Trilby” and taffy apples and horse cars and Harvard class days rose before me, and with them all a picture of Nelly, tall and brown-eyed and smiling. Now her daughter fainted from hunger on Boylston Street!
“Send the young woman up,” I said, thinking quickly. “And wait, Rose. Should you care to go to the Cape for the summer? Clean, cook, and all that? I’ll pay you what Mrs. Tavish gets.”
“Is it lonesome, Mrs. Ballard?”
I smiled. Recitals of Rose’s love affairs had considerably lessened the tedium of the last few weeks.
“I presume that the town has eligible young men,” I told her. “You don’t have to be lonesome.”
“I’ll go.”
“Good. Now, what does this girl downstairs look like?”
“She’s pretty. Sort of like Sylvia Sydney. She’s got a nice smile. I’ll bring her up.”
I liked Judith Dunham the minute I saw her. She was about twenty-five, and her clothes were good, if somewhat limp from too much pressing and cleaning. She must have known what was in Elizabeth’s note, but it didn’t bother her. Even if she were penniless, she was carrying her head and chin high.
“I knew your mother,” I said. “You look like her. Same brown eyes and hair.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t mother’s figure,” she answered.
That was perfectly true. She was excruciatingly thin and looked as though she hadn’t eaten regularly for weeks. I learned later that she literally had not.
“I’m going away tomorrow,” I went on, “and I wonder if you’d like to come with me and act as my companion? Read to me, order meals, play cards and all?”
“I thought you were going to say,” her voice wavered, “say that you’d love to give me something to do if you weren’t going away. I—I really don’t think I could have stood being turned down again. Thank you, Mrs. Ballard. I’d love to go.”
“You can drive a car? Have you a license? Good. Then we’ll drive to the Cape tomorrow. Now, what do people call you?”
“Judy.”
“Well, Judy, run along and get your trunks and things and by the time you get back, there’ll be a room ready for you.”
“I’m sorry,” she spoke hesitantly, “but I’ve nothing to get. My last landlady took my trunks for back rent. She’s probably pawned everything by now. I’ve nothing but what I’ve got on.”
“Then bring me my pocketbook,” I said briskly, trying to hide the effect of her calm announcement. “Thank you. Here, take this and call it an advance. Get what you need.”
“I’ve not seen so much money in months,” she admitted with a little laugh. “Ought you to let me loose with it? You’ve not seen my references—”
“You’re Nelly’s daughter and that’s enough. Run along and get some clothes.” I stopped a moment. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to take this girl into the family without someone else’s stamp of approval. I didn’t want to question her as though she were a charwoman, but in spite of George’s complaints to the contrary, I’m a cautious person. “Wait,” I said. “After you’re through shopping, go to my son’s office. Rose’ll give you the address. Tell him you’re my new companion and that we’re leaving tomorrow with Rose. He’ll probably raise a rumpus.”
