The Doctor Digs a Grave by Robin Hathaway

overwhelmed.” He took a deep swallow, insulation against the difficult evening ahead.
    â€œMy ‘Mayflowers’ I call them.” He bestowed a doting glance on each of his daughters in turn.
    â€œAnd what do you call Ted, Father?” Lydia inquired with a mischievous glint.
    â€œMy only son and heir,” he said quickly.
    Ted remained entranced by the empty fireplace.
    â€œMother’s money goes to us girls,” Lydia informed Fenimore, “to make up for Daddy’s medieval ideas.”
    â€œReally, Lydia, must we divulge all our family secrets?”
    â€œOh, I’m sure they’re safe with Dr. Fenimore, Mother. He’s taken the Hippocratic oath.”
    â€œI don’t know if that applies to money matters,” her mother said.
    â€œPut your fears to rest, Polly,” Fenimore hastened to reassure her. “I rarely discuss money matters. They bore me.”
    â€œHow quaint,” said Lydia. “That isn’t true of most of your colleagues, I understand.”
    â€œTrue,” her father broke in, “some doctors have more interest in the financial rewards of medicine than others. But I assure you, Fenimore is the exception. Didn’t I see you drive up in that same old Chevy you had as a resident, Fenimore?”
    Fenimore laughed. “That would be a miracle, Ned. I shelved that car fifteen years ago.” Fenimore was known for driving ancient cars and hanging onto them until they fell apart. “But this one’s the same color and a similar model.” Before the Hardwicks could delve any deeper into his finances, Fenimore directed their attention to the musket hanging over the mantel. “Is that a family heirloom?” he asked.
    He couldn’t have chosen a better topic. His host beamed and
immediately launched into the story of the weapon’s origins. It seems it belonged to an ancestor who had fought at Fort William Henry in the French and Indian War. Ned gently removed the musket from its place of honor and handed it to Fenimore to examine. It was a handsome specimen, immaculate and well oiled, ready for instant use. He trusted it wasn’t loaded. Carefully, Fenimore returned it to its owner.
    â€œMy ancestor fought with honor against the French,” Ned said, replacing the gun on its rack.
    â€œDid your ancestor die in that battle?” Fenimore asked politely.
    Ned nodded. “First Lieutenant Willard S. Hardwick, of the King’s Regiment. He was one of fifty soldiers massacred by the Indians who were fighting with Montcalm. You may remember the incident?”
    Fenimore nodded. The British had already surrendered when some Mohawks on the French side had set on the unarmed soldiers and killed them.
    â€œA dreadful thing, actually. Some of the Indians who had joined the French cause got out of hand and tomahawked …”
    Ted looked away from the fireplace for the first time and stared at his father. “I didn’t know you were such an expert on Indian folklore, Dad.”
    â€œNot folklore, Son. History.”
    A deep flush spread from Ted’s neck to his face.
    Polly, stepping into the breach, turned the conversation swiftly. “I’m planning an unusual exhibit for the Flower Show this year, Andrew.”
    Everyone who’s anyone in Philadelphia gardens. Polly was exceptionally talented in this field. She was president of a prominent garden club. Her own garden was a showplace. “It isn’t until March,” she said, “but the preparations began last summer.” She took a seat near the fireplace and seemed more relaxed as she discussed her favorite subject. “The theme this year is ‘Gardens:
Past and Future.’ At first, we toyed with the idea of a Martian rock garden, but the possibilities seemed a trifle limited.”
    Fenimore silently agreed.
    â€œSo we decided to stick to the past and do a garden from ancient Rome.”
    â€œBut, Mother, Rome has