“He knew it before he died,” Heath interrupted. “He heard the message of the music box we bought at Coverlee. What have you done with John McCulloch?”
“He's locked in the little room at the top,” said Weblick. “I was in the dark outside the door when he went in. It was a cinch to slam the door and bolt it. He'll be there when you want him. About those letters, though, I only did what my old boss, David McCulloch, died trying to do. Mr. David was an honest man and wanted his no-good son turned over to the police.
“There's something else, McCulloch was planning on getting more money from the Marcots by selling them the secret of ”—he glanced at Mary—“your identity. I heard him planning it with Bascome. That was before he knew where the ransom money was hidden. After he knew about the ransom money he planned to kill everyone else who knew about it. That's why he put dynamite under the fill. He murdered Bascome after you knocked him out, hit him with an axe.”
Mary shuddered, drew a long free breath, said, fighting to clear her mind of all the terrible, bloody business that was past, “Marcot is a right nice name, Mary Marcot. I wonder what my parents are like? I wonder if they'll like me?”
She squeezed Heath's hand. “It'll be strange having a new name, getting accustomed to it.”
“Which one?” asked the county detective.
“Why—Heath,” Mary said archly. “Mrs. Sully Heath. How does it sound?”
They went down to see what the flood had left.