Precisely. We assumed he’d disappeared into thin air. Instead, he simply moved to Oxford, where he established himself as a success in whatever line of business he pursued—witness his expensive suits and exclusive residence.
“I must have misinterpreted the photo album,” I said, disconcerted. “If Kenneth didn’t disappear—”
But he did disappear, Lori. Twice. Dimity emphasized her point with bold strokes of royal-blue ink. He vanished once in his midtwenties, and again after Miss Beacham came to Oxford. Both departures occurred after a period of fraternal harmony.
I stared at the journal in confusion. “I don’t understand. You keep saying that Kenneth disappeared. If Miss Beacham knew he was in Oxford, how . . . ?”
Dimity’s fine copperplate flew across the page. Miss Beacham may have known where Kenneth was, but that does not mean that she was allowed to communicate with him.
I blinked rapidly as the meaning of Dimity’s words slowly came home to me. “Are you saying that he cut her out of his life when he moved to Oxford? He pretended he didn’t have a sister? He ignored her?”
It seems so. And it seems that Miss Beacham agreed to the arrangement. The cancer diagnosis forced Kenneth to change the rules, for a while at any rate. Miss Beacham was permitted to live in Oxford, where for two years she and her brother reestablished their old closeness. Then something went wrong. Something happened at the end of those two years that prompted Kenneth to separate himself from her again. Why would a man abandon his sister, knowing that she was suffering from a fatal illness?
“Because he’s a jerk?” I suggested.
I believe the answer will prove to be rather more complex than that.
I rested my head against the armchair’s high back and let my gaze wander from Reginald to the moth-eaten hedgehog who shared his niche. Smiling, I recalled a photograph of Hamish in his heyday, his kilt neatly creased, his plush hide properly fluffed, and his brown eyes twinkling. He’d been through the wringer since then, and every twist and turn had left its mark. Poor Hamish was a sorry shadow of his former self. I gazed at him a moment longer, then sat up as a fresh idea occurred to me.
“Blinker wasn’t surprised when I told him that Miss Beacham had died,” I said slowly. “It was as if he’d been expecting it. He said she had big eyes. No one else we talked to today seemed to notice that Miss Beacham was going downhill—not even Joanna—but Blinker did.”
How wonderful, that a man with such a nickname sees so clearly.
My brief smile faded quickly. “What I’m getting at is, maybe Kenneth’s the kind of guy who can’t stand to watch someone he loves deteriorate. Maybe he ran away the second time because his sister was ill.”
Miss Beacham’s illness wouldn’t explain why he ran away the first time, and I’m convinced that the two disappearances are connected. They follow the same pattern—a period of closeness followed by an abrupt sundering of the relationship. It’s possible, of course, that Kenneth’s profession required him to move from place to place, but I cannot conceive of a profession that would require him to relinquish contact with the only surviving member of his family.
“His old neighbors may be able to fill in a few gaps,” I said. “Gabriel and I are tackling them on Monday.”
Speaking of Gabriel . . . how is the poor, miserable man? Still as lonely as ever?
“For the time being,” I said, and frowned thoughtfully. “All I have to do is pry the wedding ring off of Joanna’s finger and give Gabriel’s flat a makeover and neither one of them will be lonely anymore.”
Wedding ring? Makeover? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Lori. It seems you’ve left a few pertinent details out of your review of the day’s events.
“Let’s just say that Gabriel and Joanna hit it off,” I said. “Only, Joanna’s husband died five years ago and she’s still wearing her wedding ring. And Gabriel’s been divorced for a year, but he still hasn’t gotten around to replacing the furniture his rotten ex-wife took with her. If he’s going to invite Joanna back to his flat, he’ll have to have something better for her to sit on than a nasty green vinyl chair. And if she’s going to accept his invitation, she’ll have to lose that wedding ring.”
You’re doing remarkably well for someone who couldn’t possibly be a matchmaker.
“Go ahead and laugh,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the journal. “I may be turning into a Finch-certified busybody, but I’m doing it for their own good. Both of them are stuck in the painful past, Dimity. I see it as my duty to pull them into a much happier present. And I have to do it quickly. Gabriel’s even more miserable than I thought.”
How so?
“Lack of job satisfaction,” I said. “He told me he paints lies for a living. A real artist, according to him, doesn’t waste his gifts painting flattering pictures of fat cats.”
Is he gifted?
“Very,” I stated firmly. “I’ve seen his work. It’s amazing. Besides, he wouldn’t be so bitter about his work if he really was just another clever hack.”
Perhaps Gabriel should find more inspiring subjects.
“He’s found one already.” I grinned. “He’s panting for a chance to get Joanna’s face on canvas. The poor guy sculpted her profile in lasagna this afternoon.”
Original, but bound to attract flies.
“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” I declared. “Both of them are coming to Emma’s party tomorrow, and Gabriel’s bringing his sketchpad. He thinks he’s going to sketch horses, but I’m going to encourage him to focus on one mare in particular.”
It doesn’t sound as though he’ll need much encouragement. May I offer a word of advice, my dear?
“I’m all ears,” I said.
Leave Gabriel’s flat as it is for the time being. If all goes according to plan, he’ll have someone other than you to help him redecorate.
Fourteen
I thought I’d have to hog-tie the twins to keep them from I bolting for Anscombe Manor at dawn the following day, but Annelise again demonstrated her wisdom and inestimable worth by putting them to work in the solarium, painting banners congratulating Emma Harris and Kit Smith on the birth of the Anscombe Riding Center. Many pots of paint and three king-sized white bedsheets were sacrificed to the cause, but it was a small price to pay for keeping the twins happily occupied until ten o’clock, when the day-long festivities were scheduled to begin.
Whatever gifts Emma had sacrificed to propitiate the weather gods had been favorably received: It was a gorgeous day. The skies that had cleared the night before remained clear, the temperature was cool but pleasant, and the gentle breeze blowing up from the south would keep the atmosphere at Anscombe Manor from becoming too horsey.
Since English weather gods were notoriously fickle, Bill, Annelise, Rob, Will, and I tossed our rain jackets and Wellington boots in the back of the Rover anyway, then piled in and drove the short distance from the cottage to the curving, azalea-lined drive that led to Anscombe Manor.
The manor’s lovely setting had been made even more attractive by Emma’s clever planning and hard work. Where the azaleas ended, white-painted wooden fences began, defining lush green pastures north and south of the drive. Will and Rob nearly deafened the rest of us by calling hearty hellos to the horses grazing there: Rocinante, the chestnut mare; Pegasus, Emma’s trusty hack; Zephyrus, Kit’s majestic black stallion; and Toby, the mild-mannered, elderly pony upon whose back my sons had learned to ride. The horses returned the boys’ greetings with a chorus of snorts and neighs, except for Toby, who was a bit deaf.
Anscombe Manor sprawled at the far end of the drive, at the foot of a chain of steep hills that stretched north and south for twenty miles or so. Anscombe Manor was a fourteenth-century manor house that had come down through the ensuing centuries collecting architectural souvenirs along the way—two stone-clad wings ending in a pair of mismatched towers; odd stretches of crenellated wall; a priest’s hole in the master bedroom; an internal staircase leading to a brick
ed-in doorway beyond which there was nothing but air; and a curiously deep subcellar that had, according to local legend, once been used as a dungeon. The house’s south wing hid the graceful nineteenth-century stable block from view.
Several new storage buildings had been erected toward the rear of the property, each painted dark green to blend in with the surroundings, and a new brick-walled manure bin had been built at a decent distance from the house. A white-fenced, open-air exercise arena had been added just to the south of the stables, girdled by trees that would provide a pleasant canopy of shade once they came into leaf. The layout of the Anscombe Riding Center seemed to my uneducated eye to be modest, neat, tasteful, and efficient, which was exactly what I would have expected from Emma.
An enormous white-and-blue-striped marquee had been set up on the lawn to the right of the manor house—Emma had wisely decided not to take the fine weather for granted—and many cars were already parked in front of the house on the driveway’s wide graveled apron. More than half of the cars belonged to friends and neighbors.
“Finch is taking an interest,” Bill commented as we cruised slowly past familiar vehicles.
“I’d expect nothing less,” I declared. “The ARC is the biggest thing that’s happened in Finch since Pruneface Hooper died. The villagers are showing their civic pride.”
“The villagers heard about the free food,” Annelise murmured knowingly.
“If you feed them, they will come,” Bill intoned.
Bill took the drive’s left-hand branch and parked beside a caterer’s van in the cobbled courtyard behind the manor house. As soon as the twins were loosed from their car seats, they were off and running toward the stables—hog-tying would have been fruitless. Annelise followed at a more leisurely pace, carrying the forgotten banners.
Bill and I stayed behind to talk with Derek Harris, who sat side by side with Hamlet, the Harrises’ black Labrador retriever, on the doorstep leading to the kitchen. Hamlet, who was getting on in years, ambled amiably over to greet us, but Derek remained hunched on the doorstep, coffee mug in hand, blinking sleepily.
“Well,” Bill said, “are you going to join the merry throng or lurk here all day, guzzling coffee?”
“Guzzling coffee is a necessary prelude to joining the merry throng. Emma had me up at the crack of dawn, setting up the marquee.” Derek drained his mug and placed it on a nearby windowsill. “Let us throng,” he said, and walked with us through the short passageway that connected the courtyard to the stable yard. Hamlet decided that he’d fulfilled his guard dog duties by licking our hands and retired to a patch of sunshine under the kitchen windows.
The stable yard was already occupied by a small knot of strangers who stood near the stable’s main entrance, listening to Kit Smith. Kit glanced our way and nodded, but continued to address the small group without pausing. “As you can see, we’re a small operation and we intend to stay small. Shall we take a look inside?” He steered the group into the stables and out of sight.
“Our first batch of potential paying customers,” Derek murmured. “The villagers must be in the marquee, gorging themselves on our rather expensive hors d’oeuvres. Come on. Let’s get some food before they scoff the lot.”
The marquee was, as Derek had predicted, filled with friends and neighbors greedily consuming the wide range of elegant finger foods provided by the caterer. Emma stood halfway between the buffet tables and the entrance, looking faintly befuddled, as if the villagers’ voracious appetites had taken her by surprise.
Derek paused in the tent’s flapped entry to take in the scene before bellowing, “Good morning!”
His shout silenced the buzz of conversation.
“Thank you so much for joining our little celebration,” he continued as all faces turned toward him. “Now, if everyone will follow me, I’ll give you a tour of our new facilities. Step this way, ladies and gentlemen.”
The last line was less a suggestion than an order. The villagers, knowing full well that they’d been caught red-handed in multiple acts of shameless plundering, ducked their heads guiltily and shuffled past Derek, who herded them toward the new outbuildings. Emma waited until they were out of the tent, then heaved a sigh of relief.
“They’re like locusts,” she said, coming up to me and Bill. “The caterer’s had to bring in more supplies and it’s not even noon yet.”
“Derek will make them work it off,” said Bill. “A forced march around the pastures will teach them the error of their ways. How’s it going, apart from the locusts?”
“Much better than I expected,” Emma replied. “Two couples from Cheltenham have already decided to sign their children up for lessons.” She would have gone on, but our quiet moment was over almost before it began.
The catering team swept in to replenish the depleted buffet; Bill went to help Annelise and the twins hang the colorful (and nearly legible) banners; and two more couples arrived, saying they’d seen Emma’s ad in the Cotswolds Standard. She took them off to see the stables, and I stayed behind to welcome newcomers who might arrive while Kit and Emma were otherwise engaged.
Shortly thereafter Kit escorted his tour group into the marquee for refreshments, then walked one of the couples to their car. He was still thanking them when the newcomers I was looking for arrived. I was pleased to see that they’d all come in the same car, and hurried across the drive to welcome them as they stepped out onto the gravel.
Joanna Quinn wore a loose-fitting white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, with a pale blue cardigan slung over her shoulders. Gabriel, too, was in jeans but he’d topped his with a corn-colored V-neck sweater. Little Chloe Quinn was as pretty as her name, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and rosy-cheeked, dressed in pink stretch pants and a white sweatshirt with a brown pony emblazoned on the front.
“You made it,” I said happily. “I’m so glad.”
“We thought we might as well come together in my car,” said Gabriel.
“To save on petrol,” Joanna added quickly.
“Very sensible,” I said, suppressing a grin, and called to Kit to come and meet my new friends. After everyone had been introduced, Kit looked down at Chloe, whose eyes were glued to the horses in the south pasture.
“Would you like to ride a pony, Chloe?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Chloe replied, very seriously.
Kit held out his hand and the little girl took it. “We’ll find a helmet and some boots for you. Then I’ll take you to meet Toby. You’ll like Toby.”
“If any customers show up, I’ll entertain them until Emma’s free,” I said.
Joanna watched anxiously as her daughter walked off, hand in hand with Kit.
“Chloe’s never ridden before,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Toby’s as gentle as a lamb, and I trust Kit with my sons’ lives almost every day. He’ll come and get you before he puts Chloe in the saddle.”
“Speaking of your sons . . .” Gabriel opened the car’s trunk and pulled out two sketchpads and a packet of drawing pencils. “I’ve brought gifts for the artists in your family. Where are the famous pair?”
“Come and meet them,” I said, and led the way into the marquee.
Rob and Will were delighted with Gabriel’s gifts, but when I told them that pony rides were in the works, they handed the sketchbooks back to him for safekeeping and galloped off to find Kit.
My hopes of nudging Gabriel and Joanna into a quiet, sylvan corner of the property were dashed when the marquee began to fill with other people I wanted them to meet. Emma returned, with the two couples who’d seen her ad, and Julian Bright arrived on the stroke of twelve, to add his blessings to the new venture.
“Lori tells me that you run a spy network,” Gabriel said, shaking hands with the priest.
“Alas, my cover is blown,” said Julian, laughing. “But I don’t run the network alone. Volunteers are always welcome.”
I looked from his engaging smile to the sketchbooks Gabri
el had placed on a nearby table and smiled as Aunt Dimity’s words flashed before my mind’s eye: Perhaps Gabriel should find more inspiring subjects. Big Al, Limping Leslie, Blinker, and the rest of St. Benedict’s shabby crew might not be considered inspirational, but they’d make a change from lofty academics, and they certainly wouldn’t tell Gabriel to give them better hands. If Gabriel wanted to portray truth, I could think of few better places to find it than St. Benedict’s.
“I’ll bring him with me next week, Julian,” I said.
“I think I’ve just been volunteered,” said Gabriel.
“There’s no escape now,” Julian told him. “Lori’s profoundly persistent.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ve noticed.”
Derek returned from his impromptu forced march a short time later, followed by a straggling line of footsore and weary villagers. Suitably chastened, they exercised an admirable amount of self-restraint in their second assault on the buffet tables. A moment later, Kit arrived to tell Joanna that Toby was saddled and Chloe was ready to ride.
Joanna excused herself and accompanied Kit to the open-air arena. Gabriel paused long enough to snatch up a sketchpad before dashing off to join them. I was trailing in their wake, wondering if I’d ever be able to arrange some alone time for my fledgling lovebirds, when a matching set of shrieks brought my heart into my throat and set me running.
“Boys!” I shouted, sprinting toward the arena. “Will! Rob! Mummy’s coming!”
I knew with a mother’s absolute conviction that my sons had uttered those shrieks, and the visions of carnage that danced in my head as I neared the arena were vivid enough to freeze the blood in my veins. I skidded wildly across the graveled path encircling the arena, vaulted over the fence, and scanned the soft dirt, praying that my babies’ injuries would mend in time, and vowing that never, never, never again would I let them come within twenty yards of a horse.
“Where are they?” I cried. “Where are my sons?”
“We’re here, Mummy.”
I stood stock-still, breathing heavily, and looked toward the arena’s gate. Will and Rob were perched there, and their faces were alight with the purest of pure delight. Beneath them, tethered to the fence, stood a pair of gray ponies I’d never seen before. The ponies’ saddles were shiny and new, their manes were braided, and they eyed me placidly, unfazed by my dramatic entrance.
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 14
