Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  “A good hostess is prepared for everything,” I declared, tipping litter into the plastic box.

  Hamish padded to my side as I filled the box, as if to supervise the operation, then returned to his bowls, to continue the equally important business of stuffing his face. I turned my attention to the refrigerator. It had not only been emptied, but scrubbed clean. I recalled the grubby state of my own refrigerator and winced. Miss Beacham’s housekeeping skills put mine to shame.

  The rest of the kitchen cabinets were filled with cooking utensils, an unusually large number of bread loaf pans, and a variety of canned goods. Since I couldn’t leave Hamish alone in the apartment—or toss him back onto the windowsill to meet an uncertain fate—I decided to plunder Miss Beacham’s shelves for my supper.

  While Hamish cleaned his paws and whiskers, I heated a can of vegetable soup and ate it at the pine table in the kitchen. I was scooping up the last spoonful when I heard the familiar sound of my cell phone ringing, far away in the living room. I ran to answer it.

  It was Bill, calling to tell me to spend the night in Oxford.

  “Get a room at the Randolph,” he said. “Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to drive home tonight. The fog’s so thick I can’t see Peacock’s pub.”

  “You can’t see across the square?” I said, amazed.

  “I can’t see the war memorial,” he replied. “I’ll have to drive home at two miles an hour.”

  “What about the boys?” I asked anxiously. “Are they still at Anscombe Manor?”

  “They’re at home with Annelise,” Bill reassured me. “Mr. Barlow dropped them off at the cottage before the heavy stuff set in.”

  “Thank heavens,” I said, and was momentarily distracted by Hamish, who bounded into the living room, batting a crumpled ball of paper before him like a hockey puck. I watched in fascination as he braced his paws against the Persian carpet, waggled his haunches, pounced, sent the ball of paper skittering beneath the Regency bookstand, and dove after it.

  “Where did you find that?” I said.

  “Where did I find what?” Bill asked.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the cat. He’s found a ball of paper to play with, and it’s not mine.”

  A brief silence ensued, followed by: “The cat?”

  “Er. Yes. The cat. Didn’t I mention him?” I chided myself silently for leaving the kitchen door open in my rush to answer the phone, and told Bill about my uninvited guest. “I’m pretty sure he’s the mysterious Hamish Miss Beacham missed so much while she was in the hospital,” I concluded. “I can understand why she was fond of him. He’s beautiful, for one thing, and he’s like a little bouncy ball when he’s playing. He’d be good company for a woman living on her own.”

  “I’m sure he would,” said Bill, “but you can’t take him with you to the Randolph. What are you going to do with him?”

  The ball of paper popped out from beneath the bookstand and Hamish popped out after it. He chased it to the Queen Anne settee and gave it a smack that sent it skidding across the carpet to land at my feet, whereupon he seemed to lose interest in his improvised toy. He preened his gleaming black coat for a moment, then jumped up onto the settee and began to clean his whiskers. He seemed completely at ease, as if a spot of postprandial grooming before the hearth were part of his regular routine.

  “I can’t take him to the Randolph,” I said slowly, “I can’t leave him alone in the apartment, and I can’t throw him out into the rain.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay here tonight and figure out what to do with him tomorrow. I’ll call Miss Beacham’s lawyer and ask if I can use her guest room.”

  “I wouldn’t mention Hamish to him,” cautioned Bill. “Mr. Moss may not be as softhearted as you are.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I said. “And if Mr. Moss vetoes the idea, Hamish and I will camp out at St. Benedict’s. Julian won’t mind feeding an extra pair of strays.”

  “Julian lives to feed strays,” Bill said with a chuckle. We chatted for a few more minutes, then said good night.

  I dug Miss Beacham’s letter out of my shoulder bag and tapped in the number for the law firm of Pratchett & Moss. A youthful-sounding female answered. When I told her my name, she put me through directly to Mr. Moss.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. His sober tone and cultivated accent brought to mind an image of a well-tailored, white-haired gentleman who preferred trained hunting dogs to playful cats. I warmed to him nevertheless, if only because he’d gotten my name right. Most people got it wrong because I hadn’t changed it when I’d married. My husband was Bill Willis, but I was and always would be Lori Shepherd.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Moss,” I said. “I’m calling from Miss Beacham’s flat.”

  “Have you decided which item or items you wish to acquire?” he asked. “My client thought the Sheraton cylinder desk might be of particular interest to you.”

  “It’s lovely,” I replied, “but so is everything else. It’s all so tempting that I can’t quite make up my mind, and I haven’t even begun to look at the books.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “I know it’s an odd thing to ask, Mr. Moss, but would you mind if I spent the night here? I’ll stay in town regardless—my husband doesn’t want me driving home in this awful weather—but staying here would give me extra time to look at things. I’d use the guest room, of course, and I’d tidy up after myself.”

  Mr. Moss surprised me by answering promptly, “I have no objection to your proposal.”

  “Great.” I loosed a sigh of relief, glanced down at the crumpled ball of paper Hamish had batted at me, and bent to pick it up. “Mr. Moss? There’s something else I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”

  “I am at your service,” he said.

  “I’ve been poking around a little and I’ve noticed that there aren’t any papers here. Personal papers, I mean. You know—letters, bills, things like that. Do you know where they are?”

  “Miss Beacham discarded most of her papers,” said Mr. Moss, “and deposited the remainder with us.”

  “Did she leave her family photographs with you, too?” I asked.

  “I believe there are a certain number of photographs among her papers,” Mr. Moss replied. “You will find no items of clothing in my late client’s flat, either, Ms. Shepherd. Miss Beacham donated her wardrobe to a charity shop.”

  “What about the coats in the front closet?” I asked.

  Mr. Moss sighed. “One can only presume that they were overlooked by the gentlemen assigned to collect them. Thank you, Ms. Shepherd. I’ll make a note of it.”

  “You might want to make a note of the cans of food in the kitchen cupboards, too,” I said helpfully. “And the pots and pans. And the cleaning supplies.”

  “Arrangements have been made to deliver those items to a charitable institution in Oxford,” Mr. Moss explained. “St. Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  I smiled, warmed once again by Miss Beacham’s generosity. “Yes, I’ve heard of St. Benedict’s,” I said. “They’ll make good use of your client’s donations.”

  “Is there anything else, Ms. Shepherd?” Mr. Moss inquired.

  “Not at the moment,” I replied. “Thank you for letting me stay here, Mr. Moss. I’ll call again when I’ve decided what to take.”

  “Please feel free to ring at any time,” said Mr. Moss. “As I indicated before, I am at your service.”

  I gave him my cell phone number, in case he needed to reach me, ended the call, and turned the crumpled ball of paper absently in my hand. I felt as if my question about Miss Beacham’s papers had been a foolish one. I should have guessed why her apartment was so unnaturally tidy. Aunt Dimity had given me the only clue I needed when she’d written: She knew that death was near and she had time to prepare herself to meet it.

  Miss Beacham must have realized that she’d never come home from the hospital. She must have spent the last few weeks of her life cleari
ng out her filing cabinets, emptying her desk, tidying her bookcases—organizing her possessions for the auction that would take place ten days after her death. A wave of melancholy washed over me as I envisioned her busy, solitary preparations for her final journey, but it was soon replaced by anger with the brother who’d left her to face the final journey alone.

  I dropped the ball of paper onto the cylinder desk and touched the Redial button on my cell phone. Again, I was put through to Mr. Moss.

  “I don’t mean to be a pest,” I said apologetically, “but I have another question for you. Will the proceeds from Miss Beacham’s auction go to her brother Kenneth?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss the disposition of my late client’s estate,” Mr. Moss replied.

  “But you’ve already told me about St. Benedict’s,” I pointed out. “Why can’t you tell me about Kenneth?”

  “I am following my client’s instructions,” said Mr. Moss.

  “Okay,” I said doubtfully. “What if I don’t ask about the inheritance? What if I just want to know, for example, if he’s still alive?”

  “He is, as far as we know,” said Mr. Moss.

  I detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. “You mean, you’re not sure?”

  “We have been unable to locate Mr. Kenneth Beacham,” Mr. Moss explained. “He seems to have disappeared.”

  “I thought you guys were like bloodhounds,” I blurted, recalling Bill’s comment about lawyers.

  Mr. Moss, who had not been privy to Bill’s comment, said only, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I thought you’d make it a priority to find Miss Beacham’s next of kin,” I explained.

  “It is a priority,” said Mr. Moss, “but we have so far been unsuccessful in our search.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Moss, but this is the twenty-first century,” I said. “People don’t just disappear.”

  “Nevertheless . . .” I could almost hear the old man shrug. “Have you any other questions, Ms. Shepherd?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, with a touch of belligerence. “What’s going to happen to Miss Beacham’s ashes?”

  “The final decision rests with her brother,” Mr. Moss informed me.

  “But you don’t know where Kenneth is,” I protested.

  “A pretty conundrum,” Mr. Moss said pleasantly. “And certainly no concern of yours. Good day, Ms. Shepherd. I trust you’ll rest well.”

  “Uh, you, too,” I stammered, taken off guard by what was clearly a dismissal.

  “I believe I shall,” said Mr. Moss, and hung up.

  I placed the cell phone on the desk and pursed my lips.

  “A pretty conundrum?” I repeated, incredulous. “If you ask me, Hamish, it’s a sickening mess. What do they intend to do? Keep Miss Beacham in a hatbox until her brother decides to appear ? I hope she left the auction proceeds to you, Hamish. You were more loyal to her than—” I broke off midtirade and took a step toward the settee.

  Hamish wasn’t there.

  “Hamish?” I looked around the room, but the black cat was nowhere to be seen. “Hamish, where are you?”

  I went to the kitchen to check the litter box, but it was unoccupied. Once I’d confirmed that the window over the sink was shut tight, and that Hamish wasn’t hiding in one of the under-counter cabinets, I returned to the hallway and debated where to look next.

  “Stupid cat,” I muttered irritably, and nearly jumped out of my skin when the stupid cat butted my ankle.

  “Where were you?” I cried.

  Hamish wreathed himself around my legs, purring affectionately, then trotted into the one room I hadn’t yet explored. Its door, unlike the other doors in the flat, had been left slightly ajar.

  I pushed it wide, felt for a wall switch, and flipped it up. A pink-shaded lamp atop a Queen Anne dresser shed a rosy glow on the walnut sleigh bed, where Hamish lounged, propped snugly against the pillows. He mewed softly, as if to reassure me, then turned his attention to the ongoing task of grooming his shiny black coat.

  I looked at the bedroom. It was as sweet and dainty as the office had been austere. The walls were pale peach, lace curtains hung at the window, and an embroidered ivory spread covered the bed. Three hand-colored botanical prints hung above the bed head; at its foot rested a fringed and velvet-covered Victorian fainting couch. A porcelain bowl filled with dried rose petals sat beneath the rose-shaded lamp, and an elegant Adam tea table stood beside a chintz-covered armchair in the corner nearest the window.

  It comforted me to picture Miss Beacham sitting in the armchair, lit by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, with a paisley shawl around her shoulders, a volume of Disraeli’s memoirs in her hands, and a cup of tea resting within reach on the Adam table. She may have led a lonely life in Oxford, I told myself, but it had been a life filled with beauty. I looked from the dried rose petals to the embroidered bedcover and sensed her serene presence for the first time since I’d entered the apartment.

  Hamish finished his ablutions, rose, and moved from the bed to the fainting couch. He stretched luxuriously, rump raised and tail flicking, then curled his nose to his bottom and closed his eyes for sleep.

  What would happen to him? I wondered. Where would he go, without Miss Beacham to open the kitchen window for him?

  I was reaching out to stroke Hamish when he raised his head and pricked his ears alertly toward the hallway. I followed his gaze and felt a shiver of apprehension when I heard a faint sound coming from the foyer.

  Someone was knocking on Miss Beacham’s door.

  Seven

  My first thought was that a neighbor had noticed lights in Miss Beacham’s windows and sent the police to investigate. My second thought was that Mr. Moss had come to see for himself what kind of nutcase would want to spend a night in his dead client’s apartment.

  My third and most distressing thought was of what the prim and proper attorney would do if he discovered Hamish on the premises. Hamish would, no doubt, end up in an animal shelter, and I’d end up in prison, convicted of contributing to the destruction of historic furniture.

  “Stay put,” I said to Hamish, shaking an admonitory index finger at him. “And no yowling.”

  Hamish rolled on his back and batted playfully at my pointing finger before resuming his curled position. He didn’t go to sleep, though. I could feel his bright yellow eyes follow me until I closed the bedroom door.

  I ran to the living room first. I’d tucked Miss Beacham’s letter into my shoulder bag before leaving the cottage, to use in case anyone questioned my right to enter her home. I took it out now, and prepared to use it to explain my presence in the flat.

  Armed with Miss Beacham’s words, I schooled my features into what I hoped would be an open, innocent, and above all, trustworthy expression and crept into the foyer. There I saw, to my relief, that the front door had been equipped with a security peephole. I tiptoed forward, holding my breath, and peeked into the corridor.

  If the man facing me was Mr. Moss, I decided, then Mr. Moss was neither as old nor as well dressed as I’d imagined him. The man in the corridor was, at a guess, in his midforties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his short dark hair was flecked with gray. He had a pleasant face—good-looking, but not strikingly handsome. His gray eyes seemed tired, and he’d evidently forgotten to shave—a stubble of beard marked the line of his jaw.

  He wore scuffed leather sandals—with, I shuddered to note, white socks—and his oversized cable-knit sweater was, to judge by its rattiness, an extremely old favorite. The sweater hung loosely over a pair of baggy sweatpants that were dappled with paint. I couldn’t tell by looking at him if he was one of Julian Bright’s disreputable lost sheep or an ordinary, middle-class Englishman dressed for a casual evening at home. He didn’t look like any lawyer I’d ever met.

  I leaned back from the door and called, “Who’s there?”

  “Gabriel,” he replied. “Gabriel Ashcroft, from downstairs. I’m looking for Stanley.”r />
  “There’s no one here by that name,” I responded, and clapped my eye to the peephole again.

  Gabriel Ashcroft remained where he was. He gazed at the door with a puzzled expression and opened his mouth once or twice before saying, “Forgive me, but your voice doesn’t sound familiar. Are you an American, by any chance? Are you new to the building?”

  “I am a Yank,” I replied, “but I haven’t moved in. I’m . . . visiting.”

  “Of course.” He shuffled his sandaled feet indecisively. “Well, if you happen to see a black cat with yellow eyes—”

  I flung the door wide.

  “—he . . . belongs . . . to me,” Gabriel finished haltingly. He stared at my unfamiliar face for a moment, then extended his hand cautiously. “Hello. I’m Gabriel Ashcroft. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Lori Shepherd.” I gave his hand a perfunctory shake before asking, “Are you saying that you live in this building? And you own a black cat? And his name is . . . Stanley?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Then who’s Hamish?” I demanded.

  Gabriel rubbed his chin, as though my ridiculous question deserved careful consideration. After a moment, he answered, “I’ve no idea.”

  I tucked Miss Beacham’s letter into my back pocket and frowned. “I don’t suppose there could be two black cats with yellow eyes.”

  “In the universe, yes,” Gabriel said gravely. “In this building? No.”

  I gave him a suspicious glance. “Are you humoring me?”

  “You do seem a trifle . . . nervy.” He lifted his hands, palms upward. “I’m simply trying to find my cat, Ms. Shepherd—”

  “Lori,” I said automatically. “Call me Lori.”

  “Lori, then. And you must call me Gabriel.” He managed a tentative smile. “I let Stanley out most evenings, you see, and he sometimes finds his way up here. I think he’s convinced Miss Beacham—”

  “Are you a friend of Miss Beacham’s?” I broke in.

  “No. We just live in the same building.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Stanley has a habit of hoodwinking Miss Beacham into letting him in downstairs and bringing him up here, out of pity. I don’t think she minds his visits—she’s never complained about them, at any rate. She simply hands Stanley over and says good night.” He peered past me, into the foyer. “Is Stanley here, by any chance?”