Gabriel colored to his roots. “How . . . thoughtful,” he managed. “I had no idea that Miss Beacham . . . took an interest in me.”
“She took an interest in everyone.” Mr. Mehta bowed his head suddenly and sniffed. “She gave me a great gift today, and I cannot even thank her.”
I leaned forward. “What did she give you?”
“Seven hundred pounds.” Mr. Mehta moaned softly, and when he looked up, his eyes were glistening with tears. “It’s for my brother’s new leg.”
“Sorry?” I said, certain I’d misheard.
Mr. Mehta blinked rapidly, twitched his bow tie, and cleared his throat. “My brother was a soldier. He lost his right leg to a land mine five years ago. The army gave him a prosthesis, but it is not a good one. Good ones are very expensive. Miss Beacham left seven hundred pounds to me, to help pay for my brother’s new leg. Because of her, he will walk without pain for the first time in five years. And I cannot even shake her hand.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I didn’t know what to say, but Gabriel did.
He gripped Mr. Mehta’s shoulder. “It must have given Miss Beacham a great deal of pleasure to know that she would be helping your brother. She didn’t need to hear your thanks to know what her gift would mean to you. She already knew.”
“I suppose so.” Mr. Mehta straightened. “Tell me, will there be a memorial service for her?”
“Not until we find her brother,” I said. “He’s in charge of her remains. That’s one of the reasons we hoped you might know something about him.”
“I did not know that she had a brother,” said Mr. Mehta. “As I said, she was not one to speak about herself. Please,” he added, “you will let me know when and where the service will be held. Mrs. Mehta and I will wish to attend.”
“We will,” I promised.
“Thank you, Lori.” Mr. Mehta picked up Gabriel’s credit card and handed it back to him. “Allow me to pay for your meal today, Mr. Ashcroft. In memory of a dear friend.”
“What are you doing?” Gabriel pulled me out of the main stream of pedestrian traffic. “I don’t recommend standing still on a crowded pavement, Lori.”
I watched the preoccupied faces of the people hurrying past and smiled sheepishly. “I’ve forgotten how to act on crowded sidewalks. There’s no such thing in Finch.”
“You’re not in Finch at the moment,” Gabriel pointed out.
“No.” I gazed at the restaurant’s colorful sign. “But it’s more like Finch than I thought it would be. Mr. Mehta really cared about Miss Beacham, from the heart. I imagine his wife did, too. They’ll both miss her a lot. It’s not what I expected.”
I glanced at Gabriel. I suspected he’d heard things he hadn’t expected, either, but I didn’t know him well enough—yet—to ask just how dreadful his dreadful wife had been.
“You know,” I said, “for a nonchatty person, you did pretty well back there. I hardly had to say a thing.”
“Mr. Mehta’s easy,” said Gabriel, shrugging off the compliment.
“Most people are, if you give them a chance,” I said.
The sound of church bells wafted to us through the damp, chilly air, and Gabriel looked at his watch. “Three o’clock. If your friend Julian made his phone call, Father Musgrove will be expecting you.”
“Let’s go,” I said, and we strode up the road to St. Paul’s Church.
St. Paul’s was large and fairly modern—modern being a relative term in a land littered with churches dating back a thousand years and more. St. Paul’s was early Victorian, to judge by its stained glass and the marble angels in its small, tree-shaded churchyard. The church seemed to be in good repair, and the notice board was covered with announcements—both were signs of an active, supportive congregation.
Gabriel opened the churchyard’s wrought-iron gate for me and followed me up the graveled path to the south porch, where we were nearly swept off our feet by a torrent of chattering young women with small children in tow, streaming toward Travertine Road. Several of the young women eyed Gabriel as they passed, but their smiles only seemed to disconcert him. While they twinkled fetchingly, he folded his arms, ducked his head, and did his best to pretend he wasn’t there.
A ruddy-faced older man brought up the rear, calling reminders about an upcoming jumble sale. He wore a clerical collar and a rumpled black suit, and a fringe of snow-white hair surrounded his bald pate. When he caught sight of me, he raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“Ms. Shepherd,” he said. His voice was deep and pleasant.
“Yes?” I said, caught off guard.
“Father Musgrove, at your service,” said the priest. “Julian Bright described you very accurately, Lori. And, yes, he told me of your preference for first names.” The rector turned an interested eye on Gabriel, and I introduced the two men to each other.
“Julian told me a little about your search,” said Father Musgrove. “I don’t believe I can be of much help to you, but I’ll tell you what I know. Please, come with me.”
Gabriel and I followed the rector through the echoing, candlelit church to a large room beyond the vestry. It was set up as a children’s classroom, with cheerful pictures on the walls and small chairs arranged at long, low tables. Father Musgrove led us to a row of adult-sized chairs that sat along the back wall.
“I hope you don’t mind meeting here, in the children’s room,” he said, pulling three chairs into a circle. “Mrs. Formby’s cleaning the rectory today. The news of Miss Beacham’s death has shaken her, and I don’t wish to burden her further with visitors.” Father Musgrove sat facing us, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
“Does your cleaning woman have a particular reason to be upset about Miss Beacham’s death?” I asked.
“She does.” Father Musgrove’s brow creased. “It’s rather a long story.”
“We’re in no hurry if you aren’t,” I assured him.
“Very well, then.” Father Musgrove addressed Gabriel. “Do you remember the robbery that occurred at the Carrington-Smith Boutique early last year?”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “If I recall correctly, Ms. Carrington-Smith was beaten as well as robbed.”
Father Musgrove nodded gravely. “Miss Beacham found a young woman to mind the shop until Ms. Carrington-Smith’s bruises faded. The young woman did so well that she works there still, as a partner. Her name is Tina Formby. Her father is the local chemist and her mother is my cleaning woman.”
“Mrs. Formby,” I said.
“Yes.” Father Musgrove tapped his thumbs together. “Mr. and Mrs. Formby had been terribly worried because Tina was running wild,” he went on. “They were certain that she would end up in a bad way, but the job at the boutique gave her life focus. Tina no longer runs wild, Ms. Carrington-Smith has an enthusiastic partner who attracts a younger clientele, and the Formbys can sleep soundly at night, knowing that their daughter is making something other than a spectacle of herself.” He looked somberly from my face to Gabriel’s. “All thanks to Miss Beacham.”
“How wonderful,” I murmured.
“It doesn’t stop there,” said Father Musgrove. “Miss Beacham also left the family a small bequest to help pay for Tina’s night classes in fashion design. They found out about it this morning, in a letter from Miss Beacham’s solicitor. Mrs. Formby was grateful for the bequest, naturally, but since she hadn’t known that Miss Beacham was ill, the news of her death came as a dreadful shock.”
“Did you know she was ill?” I asked.
“I did not.” Father Musgrove’s face became more somber still. “I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t know anything about Miss Beacham. She attended services at St. Paul’s, but she wasn’t, as far as I could tell, an active member of the congregation.”
Gabriel looked at him curiously. “What do you mean, as far as you could tell?”
“I mean that although she regularly contributed loaves of raisin bread to our many bake sales, she never helped us to run the bake sales. She didn’t voluntee
r for committee work or serve on the parish council or teach catechism classes or do anything that would have made her an active member in an official sense. Unofficially, however . . .” Father Musgrove pursed his lips. “Mrs. Formby spent much of the morning telling me of the ways in which Miss Beacham served my parish in an unofficial capacity.” He turned again to Gabriel. “Do you know Mrs. Chalmers, the widow who owns the mini-mart down the road?”
“I wouldn’t say that I know her,” Gabriel admitted. “But I know her shop. I’m in and out of it nearly every day.”
“Mrs. Chalmers’s father had a stroke two years ago,” Father Musgrove informed us. “When he came out of hospital, Miss Beacham organized a rota of local women to sit with him until professional home help became available. Some of the women were members of my own congregation, yet I knew nothing of the scheme until Mrs. Formby told me of it this morning. He’s fully recovered, by the way. Helps out in the shop most days.”
“I think I’ve seen him,” Gabriel said. “Bald? Slightly stooped? Works behind the counter?”
“That’s him.” Father Musgrove leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I should have been a better friend to Miss Beacham. I knew nothing of her good works, and I wasn’t there to comfort her in her hour of need. I was her parish priest, and I failed her.”
“You’re not alone, Father.” Gabriel sighed. “I lived three floors away from Miss Beacham, and the only thing I knew about her was that she was kind to cats.”
Father Musgrove and Gabriel gazed at each other for a moment, then looked at the floor, sharing the same grave expression, the same guilt-shrouded silence.
I cleared my throat.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think you did. Fail her, I mean.”
The men looked up.
“Miss Beacham’s death came as a shock to me, too, and I saw her the day before she died,” I told them. “We never talked about her illness, and she hardly said a word about herself. Mostly, she listened.” I shrugged. “I don’t think she wanted to advertise her good deeds or focus on her sickness. She chose to leave life as quietly and unobtrusively as she’d lived it. Maybe we should respect her choice.”
“Perhaps,” said Father Musgrove, though he sounded unconvinced. “We should certainly celebrate her life. I, too, received a letter from Miss Beacham’s solicitor. Mine informed me of her wish to have her remains interred in St. Paul’s churchyard. I intend to hold a special service for her as soon as the interment can take place. I’ve been given to understand, however, that the final decision about her burial rests with her brother. Have you learned anything about him?”
“No,” I said. “Have you?”
“I’ve spoken with Mrs. Formby, of course, and Ms. Carrington-Smith and Mrs. Chalmers,” said Father Musgrove. “None were aware that Miss Beacham had a brother. I’ll continue to pursue the matter, if you wish.”
“I’d be very grateful if you would,” I said, and gave him my phone numbers.
“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” He looked at his watch. “Forgive me, but I must return to the rectory before evensong, to look in on Mrs. Formby. The indefinite postponement of Miss Beacham’s memorial service upset her almost as much as the news of Miss Beacham’s death. I don’t think she should be left alone for any great length of time.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Father,” I said. “Feel free to call anytime.”
Father Musgrove saw us to the south porch before making his way to the rectory. Gabriel stared after him until he disappeared around the far corner of the church, then walked beside me in silence until we reached the churchyard gate.
“I’m not sure I do respect Miss Beacham’s choice,” he said suddenly. “I think it would have been kinder of her to give her friends a chance to thank her, and to say good-bye.”
Having seen Mr. Mehta’s tears and heard Father Musgrove’s sighs, I couldn’t argue.
“They’ll get a chance to do both at her memorial service,” I said.
“If it ever takes place.” Gabriel grasped the gate’s wrought-iron bars and shook them, as though venting his frustration. “Blast the woman! Why was she so tight-lipped about herself? How could she know so much about so many people, yet reveal so little about her own life? Mehta, Formby, Carrington-Smith, Chalmers—we can check four names off of Miss Beacham’s list, yet we’re no closer to finding Kenneth now than we were when we set out.”
“We won’t get any closer today, I’m afraid,” I said. “I have to go home and get dinner on the table. You’re welcome to join us.”
“You, your husband, your two sons, and their nanny?” Gabriel shuddered. “Thanks, but no thanks. I mean no disrespect, Lori, but Stanley’s all the family I can stand for the time being.”
The dreadful wife began to take shape in my mind. She must have been pretty awful, I thought, to make Gabriel gun-shy about something as unthreatening as sharing a family meal.
“Shall we meet at my flat tomorrow, and continue following the trail?” he proposed. “Is ten o’clock too early? The shops should be open by then.”
“Ten o’clock it is,” I agreed.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Gabriel offered, opening the gate. He didn’t speak again until we reached the small parking lot behind 42 St. Cuthbert Lane, when he said, “I didn’t know Mrs. Chalmers’s father had been ill. I didn’t even know she was a widow. I’ve spoken with Mrs. Chalmers nearly every day for the past four years, but I’ve never paid attention to her, or to anyone beyond my circle of friends. Three days ago I would have thought it normal. And I would have been right. What a world. . . .” He cocked an eye toward the cloud-covered sky, turned, and walked slowly into the building, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I replied, and climbed into the Rover. I sat quietly for a while, gazing at the featureless apartment building and wishing that Gabriel had accepted my invitation to dinner. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Mrs. Mehta: A man like him wasn’t meant to be alone.
They greeted me with a breathless account of their day at Anscombe Manor. They had to tell me every detail twice over—and reenact quite a few—before I was allowed to make quick calls to Emma Harris and Bill. Emma had, unfortunately, been too busy patching a leaky water tank to do the Internet search, but she promised to do it as soon as she and Mr. Barlow had made the tank watertight.
Bill had been unable to track down Miss Beacham’s former employer, but since he’d contacted only a small fraction of the vast number of law firms based in London, he hadn’t given up yet. He, too, received a boisterous reception from the twins when he came home from the office, but dinner, baths, and story time finally calmed them down.
Bill came up behind me as I stood in the nursery doorway later that evening, watching the boys while they slept.
“What’s up?” he asked. He put his arms around me and I settled back against him with a sigh.
“Look at them,” I said, nodding toward the twins’ tousled heads. “They’re so close now that they finish each other’s sentences. They’d rather be with each other than anyone else in the world, including us. I can’t imagine them moving apart, going in opposite directions, losing each other.”
“Like Lizzie lost Kenny?” said Bill, reading my thoughts.
“She adored him, Bill,” I said. “You can see it in every photograph in the album. She worshipped the ground that little boy walked on, but—”
“It’ll never happen,” Bill broke in. “Not to our sons. We won’t let it.”
“We might not be around to stop it,” I said mournfully.
“Yes, we will,” said Bill. “What we’re teaching them now will always be with them.”
“What are we teaching them?” I asked.
“Lessons in love,” Bill said. “Not adoration, Lori. Love. There’s a difference.”
I turned to look up at him questioningly. “I adore you.”
“No, you don’t.” He chuckled softly, took m
e by the hand, and led me up the hall to our bedroom. “If you adored me, Lori, you’d never be angry or impatient or fed up with me. It would drive me insane. But you love me enough to be all of those things, sometimes in dizzying succession. That’s how it should be. Love includes everything, not just the good bits. That’s what we’re teaching our sons. That’s why they won’t fly apart when the bad bits come along.” He closed the bedroom door behind me and took me into his arms.
“You’re awfully good at the good bits,” I murmured.
“Mmm,” said Bill, and spent the rest of the evening proving me right.
Eleven
Bill flew out the door—with a smile on his face—before seven the next morning, warmly clad to ward off yet another dank March day. Annelise and the boys, having accepted an invitation to breakfast at Anscombe Manor, followed shortly thereafter. I took full advantage of my solitude by enjoying a blissfully peaceful, unhurried breakfast, then settled in the study to bring Aunt Dimity up to date on the discoveries Gabriel and I had made the day before.
“We’ve learned that Miss Beacham was a secret doer of good deeds,” I concluded, “but not much else.”
Nonsense. The word curled crisply across the blue journal’s blank page. You’ve learned one other, extremely valuable thing about her.
“What?” I asked.
Miss Beacham may have lived in a cold, impersonal city, but she did have friends, and her friends loved her dearly. Mark my words, Lori, one of them will know something about Kenneth.
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “She was a listener, Dimity, not a talker. She knew all about Mr. Mehta’s brother, but he didn’t even know she had one. I don’t think she told anyone about Kenneth—no one but Mr. Moss, her solicitor, and the only thing he’s been willing to tell me is that Kenneth probably isn’t dead.” I pursed my lips. “So much for Mr. Moss.”
I agree that you can’t count on Mr. Moss for help. You’re on your own, Lori.
“Not entirely,” I said. “Emma’s going to help, when she can find the time. And Bill’s making more phone calls. And Gabriel’s put himself at my disposal.”
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 10
