“I saw the spire from Miss Beacham’s balcony,” I said. “Anglican, I presume.”
“High Anglican,” Julian replied. “Father Musgrove and I are old friends, though he’ll tell you that our friendship is based solely on a mutual love of good food. There’s a wonderful Indian restaurant just a few doors down from the church.”
“Gateway to India,” I said. “I tried their chicken tikka masala last night. It was superb.”
“We must go there together one day,” Julian proposed. “I’ll introduce you to the proprietor. You’ll like Mr. Mehta.”
“Mehta,” I said, under my breath.
“Have you met him already?” Julian asked.
“No, but the name rings a bell. I’m not sure why.” I scanned my memory, came up empty, and let it go, knowing that the name would place itself if I left it alone. “At any rate, I’m going back to Miss Beacham’s apartment after I leave here. Would Father Musgrove mind if I dropped in at the church to have a word with him about her?”
“I doubt that she belonged to Father Musgrove’s congregation,” Julian said quickly. “He’s a conscientious, hardworking priest. If Miss Beacham had been one of his parishioners, I can guarantee that he would have visited her every day at the Radcliffe. But I’ll ring him and let him know that you’re coming. He may know something useful.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll get to St. Paul’s,” I said.
“Of course,” said Julian, sounding amused. “You haven’t examined Miss Beacham’s books yet, and they could prove distracting. I’ll tell Father Musgrove to expect you around three o’clock, possibly later.”
We finished our tea and parted, Julian to deal with a pile of paperwork in his office, and me to unravel a pretty conundrum on St. Cuthbert Lane.
I drove from St. Benedict’s to Travertine Road with no unscheduled detours and only a few panicked screams. The traffic was so heavy on Travertine Road that I had time to note the names of the shops along the way. A few names seemed strangely familiar, as though I’d seen them somewhere before, but I put it down to my shopping spree the night I’d stayed at the apartment, and concentrated on finding the entrance to the small parking lot behind Miss Beacham’s building.
When I reached the lobby, I dutifully rang the bells for the other apartments in the building—taking care to skip the one marked G. Ashcroft—but no one responded. It was hardly surprising, since I was ringing in the middle of a workday. I bent to pick up a crumpled advertising leaflet that had missed the plastic wastebasket beneath the metal table, and stopped short as the trash-filled basket cued a memory.
“Stanley’s toy,” I muttered, remembering the crumpled ball of paper the black cat had batted across Miss Beacham’s front room. I’d smoothed it, read it, and forgotten all about it, until now. “The list of names and numbers . . .”
I tossed the leaflet into the basket. I was too excited to wait for the elevator, so I raced up the stairs, let myself into the apartment, and ran past the bookshelves without a backward glance. I flew straight to the cylinder desk, where I caught up the smoothed sheet of paper and carried it with me onto the balcony.
I saw at once that the names on the list matched those on the signs and shop windows of the businesses I’d patronized on Travertine Road. I’d bought groceries at Chalmers Corner Shop; toiletries at Formby: Chemist; underclothes and a nightgown at the Carrington-Smith Boutique; and dinner at the fabulous Gateway to India, which just happened to be owned by Julian’s friend—
“Mr. Mehta!” I exclaimed, reading the third name on the list. “No wonder his name rang a bell.”
Miss Beacham had included other names on the list as well, some fifteen in all, and while I couldn’t make out every sign on the busy thoroughfare, I was willing to bet my canary-yellow Range Rover that each name represented a local business.
I was so thunderstruck by my discovery that it took a while for me to work out what it might mean. I’d assumed that Miss Beacham had compiled a list of debts owed to tradesmen, but the name “Mehta” was followed by “700” and seven hundred pounds seemed an awful lot for a petite, single woman to owe a restaurant.
“What if she didn’t owe them money?” I said under my breath. “What if she left them money?”
When I considered the sums she’d bequeathed to people she’d never met—such as Julian Bright and Mr. Barlow—it didn’t seem wholly ridiculous to suppose that she’d bequeathed similar gifts to the shopkeepers she’d come to know while living on St. Cuthbert Lane.
“And if she knew them,” I whispered, “they must have known her. She might have told them something about Kenneth. She was a regular customer. Good businessmen always chat with regular customers.”
But would they chat with me? I was a highly irregular customer—I didn’t live in Oxford and I wasn’t even English. They’d have every reason to be suspicious of a foreigner who popped up on their doorstep, looking for information about a woman who’d left money to them in her will.
I was leaning on the brown metal railing, pondering the best way to approach a gaggle of suspicious English shopkeepers, when I spotted a familiar figure turning the corner and striding down St. Cuthbert Lane.
“Hey, Gabriel!” I shouted as the figure drew near.
Gabriel Ashcroft flinched at the sound of my voice and raised his eyes slowly and fearfully, as if he expected a water balloon—or a brick—to be hurled at his head.
“Wait there for a minute, will you?” I called. “I’ll be right down.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. If I could convince Gabriel that I wasn’t always a self-righteous idiot, he might consent to be my native guide.
“Hi,” I said brightly, stopping a few steps away from him. “I’m planning on a career in diplomacy. I was wondering if you could give me any tips.”
Gabriel smiled cautiously and the wary look eased. “Well,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “the note was a nice touch. Thank you for writing it.”
“I meant every word.” I looked past him, toward Travertine Road. “Are you going anywhere in particular? If not, may I take you to lunch? It’s traditional to share a meal after signing a peace treaty.”
“There’s no need,” said Gabriel.
“Yes, there is,” I said. “It’d make me feel slightly less horrible about the awful way I treated you the other night. Apart from that, I have an ulterior motive, a favor to ask of you, so I need to butter you up.”
Gabriel’s smile widened. “How can I say no? One word of advice, though: You shouldn’t have mentioned the favor until after you’d buttered me up. A good diplomat knows when to tell the truth.”
“Great tip.” I took his arm and turned him back toward Travertine Road. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
We’d walked no more than a few paces when Gabriel came to a halt and peered down at me nervously.
“You’re not making a pass at me by any chance, are you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, releasing his arm. “I’m definitely not making a pass at you.”
“Excellent.” He seemed to think his response might bruise my fragile ego because he added quickly, “Not that I wouldn’t be flattered, you understand. I’m just not in the mood at present.”
I placed my hand on my heart and said, with all the sincerity I could muster, “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Good.” He rubbed his palms together. “I could murder a curry. There’s a terrific Indian restaurant just up the way. Would you care to give it a go?”
“You bet,” I said, and yodeled inwardly with joy.
Our meal was long and leisurely. I spent the first half of it explaining the convoluted origins of my curious quest. For a time Gabriel said nothing and asked no questions. He ate slowly, allowing me to catch up between bursts of talking, and when at last I handed him Miss Beacham’s list, he didn’t look at it, but at me.
“I can understand, now, why you lost your temper with me,” he said. “You wanted to know Miss Beacham better, and yo
u didn’t get the chance. I had innumerable chances, and I wasted every one. You must think I’m a thoughtless, self-involved fool.”
“Well . . . ,” I began, shifting uncomfortably.
“It’s all right,” said Gabriel. “It’s true, too. I have been rather self-obsessed lately. It’s helpful to have one’s faults waved under one’s nose from time to time.”
“But not by me,” I asserted. “If I put all of my faults in a box, you wouldn’t be able to lift it, much less wave it under my nose.”
“Perhaps.” Gabriel turned his attention to the list of names. “You believe that these people might know something about Kenneth’s whereabouts?”
“They might,” I said. “It’s a long shot, but—”
“Not necessarily.” He looked up from the list. “I recognize each of these names. They’re all shopkeepers and they’re all on Travertine Road. If we had a map of Oxford I could—”
“We do! That is, I do.” I reached into my shoulder bag and produced the street map I’d used to find St. Cuthbert Lane. “I get lost a lot,” I added by way of explanation, and passed the map to Gabriel.
He smiled mysteriously as he said, “You won’t get lost on this route.”
He opened the map and scanned it, then refolded it into a nine-by-nine-inch square. I moved the serving dishes aside so he could place the refolded map between us on the table.
“Here’s Travertine Road,” he said, tracing the route with a fingertip. “And here are the shops on Miss Beacham’s list.” His finger retraced the same line.
“Huh,” I said, surprised. “I expected the shops to be clustered around the intersection of St. Cuthbert and Travertine, but they aren’t. They’re in a line, straight down Travertine Road.”
“Stranger still,” Gabriel observed, “they’re all on the same side of the street.”
We stared at the map in silence.
“I suppose it must mean something,” I ventured.
“If I had to guess,” Gabriel said, “I’d say that the shops are located along a route Miss Beacham took frequently—on her way to and from a place of work, perhaps.” He leaned his chin on his hand. “Are you sure she’d retired?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I thought she’d retired because she looked so old and frail when I met her. But she was only”—I paused to make the calculation—“forty-eight when she quit her job in London and came to live in Oxford. At that age and with her experience, she could have gotten another job if she’d wanted one.”
“Perhaps she did. Let’s follow the trail and see where it leads.” Gabriel picked up the map and handed it back to me. “Coworkers might be able to tell us more about Kenneth than shopkeepers.”
“Us?” I said, brightening. “You said us. Does that mean you’re willing to help?”
Gabriel sat back in his chair and regarded me levelly. “I’ve given a lot of thought to what you said to me—well, shouted at me—the other night.” He sighed. “You were quite right, Lori. I wasn’t a good neighbor to Miss Beacham. It’s a bit late in the day to make it up to her, but I’d like to try. Though I don’t know if I’ll be of much help. I’m familiar with the shops on Travertine Road, but not with their owners. I don’t chat with shopkeepers.”
“I do,” I said complacently. “I chat with everyone. Can’t help it. I’m a naturally chatty person, so there’s no need for you to say much. All you have to do is show your familiar face. My theory is that the shop owners will feel more comfortable talking to me if I’m with someone they recognize.” I glanced anxiously at Gabriel. “It might be time-consuming, though. Chatting usually is. What about your job? Can you afford to take time off, just to do a good deed?”
“I’m an artist,” Gabriel informed me. “I paint portraits. My time is my own, and fulfilling Miss Beacham’s last wish strikes me as a worthy way to spend it.”
It would have been a touching moment if I hadn’t ruined it by exclaiming, “So that’s why your sweatpants were all covered in paint!”
Gabriel put his face in his hands and groaned. “Those are my studio clothes. I hadn’t bothered to change when I came home. You must have thought I was a tramp.”
“Of course I didn’t,” I lied. “I thought you were a typical Englishman dressed for a comfortable evening in front of the television.”
“Well said,” he said, laughing. “You’ll make a stellar diplomat.”
I returned the map and Miss Beacham’s list to my shoulder bag and we went on with our meal. Gabriel told me about his work—“wherever large egos are, there you’ll find portrait painters, and university towns are crawling with large egos”—and I told him about my family and Finch. It wasn’t until we’d reached the mango ice cream that I finally worked up the courage to ask a question that had been bugging me ever since Gabriel had announced his profession.
“Forgive me for saying so,” I said, “but isn’t Stanley an awfully prosaic name for an artist’s cat? A painter’s cat should be called Rafael or Van Dyke—something arty.”
“Perhaps, but my ex-wife isn’t a painter and Stanley’s her cat. Was her cat,” he amended. “She left both of us a year ago.”
“Oh, gosh,” I said, wishing I’d kept my question to myself. “I’m so sorry.”
“These things happen.” Gabriel shrugged philosophically. “She left me for a lecturer in economics, so I suppose we couldn’t have been the perfect soul mates.”
“Still, it has to be difficult,” I said sympathetically. “Is that why you were so relieved when I promised not to flirt with you?”
Gabriel nodded. “From now on, it’s me, my work, and Stanley—no romantic entanglements allowed.” He signaled for the waiter to bring the check and reached for his wallet.
“Hey,” I objected, “this was supposed to be my treat.”
He ignored me and laid his credit card on the table.
“Consider it a small repayment,” he said, “for the opportunity you’ve given me to ease a guilty conscience. Shall we ask if Mr. Mehta is on the premises?”
Ten
Mr. Mehta was a short, stocky, middle-aged man who wore a bow tie with his dapper black suit. His thick black hair was neatly parted on the left, and his round, pockmarked face was wreathed in smiles as he approached our table.
“Mr. Ashcroft,” he said, shaking Gabriel’s hand. “It is so good to see you. I hope your meal was satisfactory?”
“It was superb, as always, Mr. Mehta,” said Gabriel.
“And who is this lovely lady?” Mr. Mehta inquired, beaming down at me. “My wife will be most interested to hear about her.”
“You can tell Mrs. Mehta that this lovely lady is a happily married mother of twins,” said Gabriel. “Her name is Lori Shepherd and she’s a friend, Mr. Mehta, nothing more.”
Mr. Mehta’s face fell. “My wife will be most disappointed. She’s worried about you, Mr. Ashcroft. A man like you is not meant to be alone.”
“I’m also a friend of Julian Bright’s,” I piped up, hoping to divert Mr. Mehta before his remarks became even more pointed.
“A friend of Father Bright’s?” Mr. Mehta exclaimed. He shook my hand warmly. “What a great pleasure it is to meet you, Mrs. Shepherd.”
“Please, call me Lori,” I said.
“It shall be as you wish, Lori,” said Mr. Mehta, with a polite half bow. “It is a great honor to meet any friend of Father Bright’s. He is a most worthy man, and does so much good work among the poor.”
“You and Lori have another friend in common,” Gabriel said to Mr. Mehta. “Miss Beacham.”
Mr. Mehta caught his breath. His smile vanished. He looked from Gabriel’s face to mine, then pulled up a chair and sat between us.
“It is remarkable that you should mention Miss Beacham,” he said quietly. “I have this morning received grievous news from her solicitor. The dear lady passed away three days ago.” He turned to me. “How did you come to know her, Lori?”
“I visited her while she was in the hospital,” I said
.
“Ah.” The sad exhalation expressed Mr. Mehta’s sorrow better than words. “Mrs. Mehta and I, too, would have visited, had we known she was ill. Alas, we did not.” He made another little bow in my direction. “I am so glad to know that one friend, at least, was with her as she approached the end.”
Gabriel let a few moments pass before saying, “We’ve been asked to find Miss Beacham’s next of kin, Mr. Mehta. Did she ever tell you anything about her brother?”
“Miss Beacham wasn’t one to talk about herself. She was a listener.” A distant look came into Mr. Mehta’s eyes. “I told her many things about my family here in England and back in India, and she was always interested, always so very interested to hear about them. She brought loaves of her marvelous bread to share with my family from time to time. Have you ever tasted Miss Beacham’s famous raisin bread?” he asked Gabriel.
“I’m afraid not,” Gabriel replied.
“A pity. It was marvelous, so moist, so flavorful.” The restaurateur looked apologetically at Gabriel. “You have always been a welcome patron, Mr. Ashcroft, but Miss Beacham was a cherished friend. Mrs. Mehta and I were not well accepted here on Travertine Road, until Miss Beacham came.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She brought her friends to dine here and introduced us to them,” Mr. Mehta replied. “They were businesspeople, like ourselves, with shops nearby, so we had much in common. Miss Beacham had a marvelous way of starting conversations between strangers, then stepping back and allowing the conversation to grow without her. Talk is the first step on the path to friendship, and she started many friendships for us.” Mr. Mehta glanced at Gabriel. “Mrs. Mehta and I often spoke with Miss Beacham about you after your dreadful wife ran off. Mrs. Mehta and Miss Beacham intended to find a proper woman for you, once you’d recovered from the wounds of your divorce.”
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 9
