Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  I watched as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink slowly faded from the page, then returned the journal to its place on the bookshelves, blotted my eyes on my sleeve, and trotted hastily up the hall to the front door.

  Annelise was standing on the doorstep, chatting amiably with Terry Edmonds, the uniformed courier who hand-delivered legal documents to Bill’s office in Finch. Annelise raised an eyebrow when I appeared beside her, but said nothing.

  Terry tipped his cap. “Special delivery for you, Lori,” he said, and proffered a computerized clipboard and a stylus. “Sign here and it’s all yours.”

  “Mine?” I said, scribbling my signature. “Not Bill’s?”

  “See for yourself.” Terry retrieved his clipboard, passed a slim cardboard parcel to me, and dashed down the flagstone path to his paneled van, calling over his shoulder, “Give my best to Bill and the twins!”

  “Will do, Terry!” I waved as the courier spun out of the driveway, then turned to look toward the suspiciously silent kitchen. “Where are Rob and Will? They’re not attempting to make their own lunch again, are they?”

  Annelise rolled her eyes. “After the fun they had with the jam sandwiches? Not likely. They’re playing with their trains in the solarium while the soup simmers.” She watched in silence as I ripped open the parcel, then said quietly, “Nurse Willoughby rang this morning. She told me about your friend at the Radcliffe. Do you want me to keep the boys out of your way for a little while?”

  It was a considerate offer, but I didn’t respond. My attention was focused on the white envelope I’d removed from the slim cardboard box.

  “Lori?” said Annelise. “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter,” I replied dazedly. “A letter from Miss Beacham.”

  Three

  It wasn’t the first letter I’d received from a dead woman—my mother had left one for me to open after her funeral—but I hoped with all my heart it would be the last. Living with a pair of five-year-olds provided me with a perfectly adequate supply of chills and thrills. I didn’t need any more.

  “Miss Beacham?” cried Annelise. “Isn’t she—”

  “She’s the woman who died this morning,” I confirmed.

  “My word,” Annelise murmured. “Talk about postcards from the edge. . . .” She put a hand on my arm. “You’ll want to read it straightaway, I expect. I’ll get the boys’ lunch and keep them out of your hair until you’re done.”

  “Thanks,” I said absently. “I’ll be in the study.”

  Reginald’s black button eyes flickered with interest when I returned to the study. The fire was still burning in the hearth and I’d left the mantel shelf lamps on, but I took Miss Beacham’s parcel to the oak desk and turned on the lamp there as well. I felt a serious need for illumination.

  The slim cardboard box held two white envelopes. Both were addressed to me and imprinted with the return address of Pratchett & Moss, an Oxford law firm. Miss Elizabeth Beacham had been written in a large, shaky script above the firm’s return address on each.

  The first envelope contained three sheets of white stationery covered with the same unsteady handwriting I’d noted on the envelopes. The date at the top of the first page indicated that the letter had been written the day before.

  The second envelope contained two keys—one brass-colored, one silver—and a slip of slick paper that appeared to be an Oxford parking permit. I carefully set the keys and the permit to one side, spread the sheets of stationery on the desk, and began to read.

  Dear Ms. Shepherd,

  If you are reading this, you have already learned of my passing. I hope you aren’t too distressed, though I flatter myself by believing that you’ll feel a small pang of regret in knowing that our time together has finally reached its inevitable conclusion.

  I don’t know if you understand how very much your visits meant to me. Your stories about Will and Rob and the good, greathearted Bill made me feel as though I’d acquired a second family, and I so enjoyed hearing your tales of Finch.

  Your encounters with real-life mysteries intrigued me greatly, as you know, and I found your passion for history most endearing. You brought your world with you into my hospital room, and made me feel as if it were my own.

  I realize that you do what you do at the Radcliffe with no expectation of, or desire for, a tangible reward. I hope nevertheless that you will allow me to repay you in some small way for making my last moments on earth so pleasurable.

  In ten days’ time the contents of my flat will be sold at auction. I would like you to go there before the auction takes place and select for yourself any of my personal belongings. Some of my books, perhaps? And an armchair, to replace the one your sons painted with jam? Whatever else you choose, I wish you to have the pretty little desk in the front room. I believe it will appeal to you on many levels.

  I have advised Mr. Moss, my solicitor, of my wishes and he has assured me that he will place no obstacles in your path. Indeed, I have instructed Mr. Moss to assist you in every way possible, in whatever decision you make.

  You will find a residential parking permit and two keys in a separate envelope. The permit will allow you to park in the reserved space behind my building. Since I’ve never owned a car, I’ve never used the space, but I’m pleased to be able to offer it to you. The keys, of course, will give you access to my building and my flat. Please grant the wish of a dying woman and use them.

  Thank you again for the happy hours you shared with me. I know I will see you again one day, and hear more tales of Finch and stories of your family. I look forward with great anticipation to our next meeting, though I hope with equal fervor that it will not take place for many, many years.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Elizabeth Beacham

  It took a few moments for me to collect myself after finishing the letter. When I could see clearly again, my gaze shifted from Miss Beacham’s astonishing words to the keys. Then I picked up the parking permit and stared at it, smiling in disbelief.

  It seemed incredible to me that a woman on her deathbed could concern herself with such a trifling detail, but I was glad Miss Beacham had. Oxford wasn’t famous for its ample on-street parking. The permit would come in handy.

  I fully intended to honor Miss Beacham’s last request, though I expected the task to bring me little pleasure. My desire to learn more about my late friend was as strong as ever, yet I shrank from the thought of invading her privacy. I remembered the cheap, hospital-issue bandana she’d used to cover her sparse hair, and the absence of personal belongings in her hospital room. I glanced down at the letter, reread the words I’ve never owned a car, and felt my heart sink.

  Miss Beacham had been a retired legal secretary living on a fixed income. She’d had a great deal of personal dignity, but I doubted that she’d had much in the way of worldly goods. Her flat would be in one of Oxford’s cheaper apartment blocks. She would have furnished it frugally. She’d probably arranged the auction in order to pay off the extra cost of the private hospital room. It would be a heart-wrenching mission to survey the meager possessions of a woman who’d brought such richness to my life, but I would do it, because it was the only thing left I could do for her.

  On a brighter note, I told myself, a visit to Miss Beacham’s flat might help me to discover the identity of the mysterious Hamish, who’d meant so much to her. I might even discover a clue to her brother’s whereabouts. If I did, I added grimly, I’d hunt him down like the dog he was and tell him in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of someone who’d let his sister go to her grave without—

  The telephone’s jarring ring interrupted my rapidly overheating meditations. I answered it and heard the familiar voice of Julian Bright, the priest who ran St. Benedict’s, on the other end of the line. I returned his greeting, then leaned back in my chair.

  “I know why you’ve called,” I said. “Lucinda Willoughby ordered you to check up on me, right?”

  “Nurse Willoughby told me that you
didn’t wish to speak with anyone,” Julian informed me. “But I had to call. The most amazing thing has happened. It’s nothing short of miraculous. You won’t believe it.”

  “At the moment, I’ll believe almost anything,” I said, fingering the parking permit. “Fire away.”

  “A courier arrived here not fifteen minutes ago,” Julian explained excitedly. “He delivered a letter to me from a Mr. Moss—the solicitor representing the woman you visited at the Radcliffe, the woman who died this morning.”

  I sat upright. “Miss Beacham’s solicitor sent a letter to you?”

  “That’s right,” said Julian. “According to Mr. Moss, Miss Beacham’s left twenty thousand pounds to St. Benedict’s! Twenty thousand pounds!”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

  “Would I joke about a donation to St. Benedict’s?” Julian paused to catch his breath. “It’ll take some time to go through the probate process, but Mr. Moss has given me to understand that the amount of the bequest will not change. Lori! Do you realize how many hungry mouths we’ll be able to feed with twenty thousand pounds? What did you say to Miss Beacham? How did you inspire her to present us with such a generous gift?”

  “I . . . I didn’t say anything special,” I stammered, bewildered. “I just told her some funny stories about Big Al and Limping Leslie and the rest of the guys.”

  “Perhaps we should put you on the lecture circuit. In fact—” Julian broke off suddenly and gasped in dismay. “Good Lord, what am I saying? Forgive me, Lori. Flippancy is entirely out of place at a time like this. I do apologize.”

  “There’s no need,” I said. “Miss Beacham would be delighted to hear you bubbling over.”

  “I must confess that I find it difficult to do anything else. I feel quite giddy.” Julian heaved a sigh. “I wish I’d had a chance to meet our benefactress.”

  “You would have liked her,” I said.

  “I’m sure I would have,” Julian agreed. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Will you be shorthanded?” I asked in return.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “As you know very well, volunteers have been lining up since we moved into the new building.”

  “In that case, I’m going to play hooky,” I said. “Something’s come up, and I’d like to take care of it tomorrow. It’s to do with Miss Beacham. I’ll explain when we have more time.”

  “Not a problem. Come when you can. You’re always welcome.” Julian’s jubilant laughter resumed as he rang off.

  I hung up the phone and looked over my shoulder at Reginald.

  “Twenty thousand pounds?” I said incredulously. “Where on earth did Miss Beacham get that kind of money?”

  Reginald was still formulating a reply when the telephone rang again. This time it was Nurse Willoughby.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Lori,” she said, in a breathless tone of voice that reminded me strangely of Julian Bright’s. “But I had to ring you. The most amazing thing has happened. You’ll never guess what it is.”

  “Does it involve a courier?” I asked, sinking back in the desk chair.

  “How did you know?” she exclaimed.

  “Latent psychic ability,” I replied, but Nurse Willoughby wasn’t listening.

  “. . . a letter from Miss Beacham’s solicitor,” she was saying, “telling me that she’s left me ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand pounds, Lori! Can you imagine?”

  “Sort of,” I said weakly.

  “It’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me,” Nurse Willoughby declared. “I don’t know why she did it. I didn’t do anything for her that I wouldn’t do for any other patient.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” I reasoned. “You’re a gifted nurse, Lucinda. You give each patient your undivided attention. It wouldn’t matter if it was the Duchess of Kent or a drunk panhandler like Big Al Layton. You’d treat each of them exactly the same.”

  Nurse Willoughby snorted. “I’d never curtsy to Big Al.”

  “Maybe not,” I conceded, “but everything else would be the same—the same combination of competence and compassion. If you ask me, the money’s Miss Beacham’s way of saying, ‘Keep up the good work.’”

  “It’ll certainly help me pay off my loans,” Nurse Willoughby gushed.

  “Even better,” I said. “But before you get too practical, take yourself out for a super dinner. You deserve it.”

  “I will.” Nurse Willoughby laughed delightedly. “And I’ll drink a champagne toast to Miss Beacham. It’s simply too amazing. . . .” And on that giddy note, she rang off.

  I was feeling a bit giddy myself. I couldn’t possibly be as stunned as Julian Bright and Lucinda Willoughby were, but I wasn’t lagging far behind. In the space of a few minutes, my frugal pensioner had become a woman of not inconsiderable means.

  “Make that thirty thousand pounds,” I said to Reginald, and gazed uneasily at the telephone.

  Who would call next? Miss Beacham had known Nurse Willoughby personally, but her knowledge of St. Benedict’s had come secondhand, through me. Had she left similar bequests to everyone I’d mentioned in my silly stories? Would all of my neighbors ring to tell me about the letters they’d gotten from Miss Beacham’s solicitor?

  I was on tenterhooks. I didn’t know what to expect, so when a knock sounded at the study door I swung around so fast that I whacked my knee on the desk.

  “Ouch,” I said, as my husband came into the room.

  Bill was wearing what he called his teleconferencing outfit. From the waist up he dressed the part of a serious lawyer—impeccably tailored black suit coat and vest, gleaming gray silk tie, crisp white shirt. From the waist down, however, he wore the uniform of a casual, bicycle-riding dad—faded jeans, sweat socks, and muddy running shoes. The combination almost always made me giggle, but this time it won only a wan smile.

  “Annelise telephoned,” he said, closing the door behind him. His dark hair was mussed and his cheeks were rosy, as if he’d interrupted his conference call and hurried home. “She told me what happened. She also mentioned that you’ve been locked up in here for quite a while. She didn’t want to disturb you, but I think you’ve disturbed her. How are you doing?”

  “I’m . . . okay,” I answered, rubbing my knee. “It’s been a strange morning.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Bill motioned toward the armchair I’d used while speaking with Aunt Dimity. “Tell me about it?”

  I moved to the armchair and told him the whole story. He sat in the chair opposite mine and said nothing until I’d finished, when he asked to see the letter. He read it in silence, but when he reached the postscript naming Miss Beacham’s solicitors, he gave a low whistle.

  “Pratchett and Moss,” he said. “I know the firm. They don’t deal with people of moderate incomes.” He handed the letter back to me. “You had no idea that Miss Beacham was well off?”

  “None,” I said. “Oddly enough, the contents of her bank account never came up in our conversations.” I sat back in the chair and gazed down at the letter. “Maybe she was one of those women who pinch pennies all of their lives. You know, the kind who live on sardines even though they can afford caviar? I wonder if she left anything to her brother—”

  “With whom she may have quarreled,” Bill put in.

  “—or to Hamish, who is not a cat,” I continued. “And why has she given her keys to me? Shouldn’t her brother have first dibs on her possessions?”

  “Maybe she didn’t care for her brother,” Bill suggested. “Or maybe she lost track of him.”

  “How can someone lose track of a brother?” I demanded.

  “Bad management?” Bill permitted himself a small smile, then shrugged. “I don’t know what happened to her brother, but I wouldn’t worry about whether or not she left anything to him. I deal with wills every day, Lori. Nothing about them surprises me anymore. One of my clients left his entire estate to his cockatiel. Another left fifty thousand dollars to a museum curator he’d met once, forty y
ears prior to his death. By comparison, Miss Beacham’s bequests are of the ho-hum variety.”

  “So far as we know,” I cautioned. “I swear, Bill, I’m expecting Peggy Taxman to call in a minute and tell me that Miss Beacham left her ten thousand pounds as a reward for being Finch’s all-time crankiest postmistress.”

  “That would surprise me,” Bill allowed.

  “A lot of things surprise me.” I leaned my chin on my fist and frowned pensively. “Thirty thousand pounds isn’t peanuts, Bill. How did Miss Beacham manage to tuck away such a big chunk of change on a legal secretary’s salary? And if she had so much spare cash lying around, why didn’t she use some of it to buy a car? And where the heck is her brother? I don’t care how estranged they were—Kenneth should have been on hand to say good-bye to his dying sister. Why wasn’t he? And who in the world is Hamish? It’s a Scottish name. Do you suppose she could have had a Scottish suitor? If she did, why wasn’t he with her at the hospital? Were all of the men in her life heartless swine?”

  Bill wisely decided to tackle the least sensitive subject first.

  “Let’s start with the car,” he said. “Miss Beacham may not have needed one while she lived in London. She could have taken the tube or taxis, or lived within walking distance of her workplace. She might not have learned to drive, which would explain why she didn’t buy a car when she moved to Oxford. As for the rest of your questions . . .” Bill sighed. “I don’t know the answers, love. We may never know.”

  “So many questions begging for answers,” I said, half to myself. “So many lost things waiting to be found.”

  Bill caught my eye.

  “It’s something Miss Beacham said,” I explained. I looked down at the letter. “I wonder . . .”

  “What do you wonder?” Bill asked.