“I’ll check on Stanley,” said Gabriel, and went up the hall, leaving me to answer the call in relative privacy.
I retrieved the cell phone from my shoulder bag and glanced at the number displayed on its tiny screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but the voice on the other end was unmistakable.
“Ms. Shepherd?” Mr. Moss’s cultured diction came through loud and clear. “I trust you are well?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, adding silently, you tight-lipped old buzzard.
“Good,” said Mr. Moss. “I don’t mean to press you, Ms. Shepherd, but the auction of Miss Beacham’s possessions is scheduled to take place on Thursday. Have you made a decision yet? Have you selected the item or items you wish to take home with you?”
“Er, no,” I said, and smacked myself in the forehead. I’d been so intent on finding Kenneth Beacham that the auction had slipped clean out of my mind. “It’s the, er, books,” I went on, taking inspiration from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “There are so many of them, and I haven’t finished, um, examining them yet. I’ll need at least another day.”
“I regret to inform you that I’m unable to give you another day, Ms. Shepherd,” said Mr. Moss. “Everything in my late client’s flat must be removed to the auction house, and the auctioneer will have to amend the sale catalogue, to delete the item or items you’ve chosen. I’m afraid I can give you only until noon tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll get back to you before then.”
“Thank you, Ms. Shepherd. Good day.”
I ended the call, put the cell phone back in my shoulder bag, and stared moodily at the bookshelves.
Gabriel put his head into the front room and took stock of my glum expression. “Something wrong?”
“It was Mr. Moss,” I said, “calling to remind me about the auction of Miss Beacham’s things.”
“Whoops.” Gabriel folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I’d forgotten about the auction.”
“Me, too,” I said heavily.
“I’ve put the kettle on,” Gabriel announced. “And the milk you left in the fridge is still drinkable. Come and have a cup of tea.”
“The sovereign remedy for all ills.” I managed a weak smile and followed him to the kitchen.
Stanley joined us at the well-scrubbed pine table and I poured a saucer of milk for him to make up for the absence of gourmet cat food. He lapped it up, then leapt onto the sink and stepped daintily onto the windowsill, where he sat, gazing out at the copper beech, as if reminiscing about adventurous days gone by. Gabriel and I sat at the table, nursing our cups of tea.
“It’s been a week,” I said, “a whole week since Miss Beacham died. This is going to sound crazy, but I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“You’ve been too busy helping her to spend much time grieving for her,” said Gabriel. “Maybe that’s what she wanted.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.” I pursed my lips. “I don’t know why I didn’t just come right out and tell Mr. Moss that I’d forgotten about the auction.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t,” said Gabriel. “You might have slipped and told him what you have been doing. If Mr. Moss does stand to gain financially from Kenneth’s permanent disappearance, he might find a way to put a spoke in our wheels.”
“Let him try,” I growled. “I’ll sic Bill on him and he’ll wish he’d never been born.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. “You can be quite ferocious when you put your mind to it.”
“Ferocious, profoundly persistent, and appallingly absent-minded—that’s me.” I looked around the kitchen. “I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I want to take from the apartment. Miss Beacham wanted me to have the cylinder desk, but there are so many other beautiful things. . . .” I sighed. “How do I choose between them?”
“Too bad you can’t take everything,” Gabriel mused. “Then you wouldn’t have to choose. On the other hand, even if you could take it all, where would you put it? I’m sure your cottage is already fully furnished.”
I started to nod, but cocked my head to one side instead, and gazed with unfocused eyes at Stanley’s silhouette against the windowpane. An idea had sprung into my mind, an idea so outrageous that I had to examine it from every angle before speaking it aloud.
“Lori?” said Gabriel. “What is it? You look as though you’re hatching a fiendish plot against Mr. Moss. Try not to involve Joanna, will you? She likes her job.”
“Wait here,” I said distantly. “I have to check on something.”
I left the kitchen and went to the front room, where I rooted through my shoulder bag until I found the letter Miss Beacham had written to me the day before she died. I read through it twice, then took up my cell phone and called Bill.
“Hey, Mr. Lawyer,” I said when he answered, “I need your advice. . . .”
“I would like to propose a toast,” I declared. “To Miss Beacham. May her memory be forever green.”
Gabriel touched his cup to mine. “You’re remarkably cheerful. Dare I ask what you’ve been doing in the front room?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said, rocking back and forth on my heels. “Just furnishing your apartment, is all.”
“Sorry?” said Gabriel.
I waved the letter under his nose, chortling gleefully. “I can take everything, Gabriel! It says so, right here in Miss Beacham’s own handwriting. And I quote: ‘select for yourself any of my personal belongings.’ Miss Beacham gave me written permission to take anything I want!”
“I doubt that Mr. Moss—” Gabriel began, but I cut him off.
“Mr. Moss can’t stop me.” I referred again to the letter.“‘I have instructed Mr. Moss to assist you in every way possible, in whatever decision you make.’ She instructed him to help me, Gabriel, no matter what I decide! If Mr. Moss tries to reinterpret her explicit instructions, Bill will take him to court so fast his head will spin.” I kissed the letter. “I knew my big-shot lawyer husband would come in handy!”
Gabriel shook his head. “You can’t give Miss Beacham’s things to me.”
“Why not?” I said. “I don’t need them and you do.”
“The furniture is worth thousands of pounds,” said Gabriel. “I can’t let you give it away.”
I stared down at him in uncomprehending silence until it dawned on me that he didn’t know I was wealthy. I hadn’t told him about the fortune I’d inherited from Aunt Dimity and he didn’t have a clue about Bill’s Boston Brahmin background. I sat down, put my hand on his arm, and tried to break the news to him gently.
“I’m rich, Gabriel,” I said. “I know I don’t look it or act it, but I’m stinking rich. I gave Julian Bright a building for Christmas one year, to replace the old St. Benedict’s. The Aunt Dimity’s Attic shops wouldn’t exist without my financial backing. Have you heard of the Westwood Trust?”
“It supports a number of charities, doesn’t it?” said Gabriel.
“That’s me,” I said. “I’m the Westwood Trust. You’re not going to deprive me or my family of anything we need by taking Miss Beacham’s stuff. And let’s face it, Gabriel, you really do have to do something about that green vinyl chair.”
Gabriel chuckled softly, then leaned his head on his hands. For a moment, I thought he was going to cry. Instead, he said quietly, “I never lifted a finger to help Miss Beacham while she was alive. I’m not sure I can take her things now that she’s dead.”
“Don’t be silly,” I scolded. “If you’ll cast your mind back to a recent conversation we had with Mr. Mehta, you’ll recall that Miss Beacham was going to team up with Mrs. Mehta to find a good wife for you once you’d gotten over your divorce. She wouldn’t have been thinking along those lines if she hadn’t cared about you. Honestly, Gabriel, she’d want you to have her things.”
Gabriel raised his head to look at me. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m so positive I could dance,” I said. “It’s yours, all of it
, if you want it.”
Gabriel put a hand to his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“If I were you, I’d get on the phone and ring up twelve of my strongest friends,” I advised. “We have to have everything out of here by noon tomorrow.”
Eighteen
While Gabriel called in every favor ever owed him, I used the telephone directory in Miss Beacham’s kitchen to find a place that rented Dumpsters by the hour. Since giant bonfires were frowned upon in Oxford’s leafy lanes, a Dumpster was the best possible solution to the problem of what to do with the broken-down rubbish Gabriel’s ex-wife had so generously left behind.
Most of Gabriel’s friends were self-employed, so they were able to flock to our aid with gratifying speed. I put them to work clearing his flat and he used the time to decide which items he wanted from Miss Beacham’s. He decided to take just about everything, and after seeing the sorry state of his bedroom, guest rooms, kitchen, and dining room, I agreed that he needed it all.
By four o’clock, nine strong men and four strong women—all sculptors—were helping us move a fortune’s worth of antiques into the elevator or down the stairs, and arranging them in Gabriel’s apartment. Stanley, driven into hiding by the upheaval, elected to spend the evening in Miss Beacham’s utility room. We paused at seven to feast on takeout from Gateway to India, but otherwise took no breaks.
I returned home many hours later to a darkened cottage. I dragged myself through the front door, dropped my jacket and shoulder bag unceremoniously on the floor in the hallway, and limped into the study, where I grunted unintelligibly at Reginald and Hamish, took the blue journal from its shelf, opened it, and lowered myself gingerly into the high-backed leather armchair. It was nearly midnight and I was nearly dead.
“Moving is hell,” I said brokenly. “I don’t care if it’s across a continent or down three flights of stairs. Moving is hell.”
Good evening, Lori. I agree with you, of course—any sensible person would—but might I ask what inspired your revelation?
“It’s your fault,” I mumbled accusingly. “Be a matchmaker, you said. Find a nice woman for that poor, miserable man. You never bothered to mention that matchmaking could involve heavy labor.”
I’m still not with you, my dear.
“Gabriel’s apartment is no longer a refuge for abused furniture.” I paused for a self-pitying moan. “It is now a showplace, a masterpiece, a tranquil haven of beauty and good taste. In short, it’s now filled with Miss Beacham’s antiques.”
How splendid! Will you be arrested for burglary any time soon?
“Nope.” I tossed my head defiantly and grimaced as my neck muscles creaked in protest. “Miss Beacham’s letter gave me explicit permission to take anything I wanted from her flat. So I took everything that wasn’t nailed down and gave it to Gabriel. Let Mr. Moss put that in his pipe and smoke it.”
Did you really take everything?
“We left the drapes, the Venetian glass, the snuffboxes, the stuff in the kitchen cupboards, and most of the books,” I said. “And we had to leave the bookshelves because they’re fixed to the wall. For the time being, we stashed Gabriel’s art books in the cupboard Miss Beacham used in her home office. His rickety old shelves went into the Dumpster.”
I don’t wish to cast a shadow of doubt on your clever scheme, but have you ascertained whether or not Joanna Quinn likes antiques?
“She loves them,” I said. “She told us so at the Italian restaurant, when I described Miss Beacham’s apartment. The only thing left for me to do is to get that wedding ring off her finger. . . .”
She’ll remove it when she’s ready, Lori, and not one moment sooner.
“Gabriel’s new and improved apartment should help do the trick.” I smiled. “Miss Beacham wanted him to find a good wife, Dimity. She’d be tickled pink to know that I’m using her stuff to entice Joanna. She liked Joanna. She’d approve of my sneaky machinations.”
She would give you a standing ovation, my dear. She, too, was a member of the matchmaking tribe. Were you able to restrain your philanthropic urges long enough to select something for yourself?
“I brought home the Sheraton Revival cylinder desk and three boxes of books,” I replied. “They’re spending the night in the Rover. I’ve strained too many ligaments to lift anything heavier than Reginald.”
I hasten to remind you that you already have in your possession Miss Beacham’s photograph album and Hamish.
“True,” I said. “But I’m not keeping them. I intend to return them to their rightful owner.”
You sound unexpectedly hopeful.
“We’re so close to finding Kenneth, I can smell him,” I said. “I didn’t spend the whole day moving furniture, Dimity. I haven’t told you about Mrs. Pollard yet.”
Mrs. Pollard, whoever she is, can wait until the morning. The proper morning, that is. Your voice is as hoarse as sandpaper, my dear. Go to bed before you fall asleep sitting up.
I didn’t need any arm-twisting. I said good night to Aunt Dimity, left the journal on the ottoman, and hobbled upstairs for a few well-deserved hours of sleep.
Annelise took the twins to Anscombe Manor, to commune with Thunder and Storm, and I soaked my aching body in a steaming hot bubble bath for a half hour before returning to the study to continue my conversation with Aunt Dimity.
Dimity was fascinated by my encounter with Beryl Pollard and required a detailed summary of the woman’s drunken ramblings as well as a full description of the conservatory, the garden, and the other properties on Crestmore Crescent. When I finished, the lines of royal-blue ink began to flow across the page in their accustomed fashion.
Yes, I have the picture now. It’s so very familiar. When I was raising money for the Westwood Trust, I found such communities invaluable.
Dimity had established the Westwood Trust long before I was born, as an umbrella organization for a wide range of charities. It still existed. I was, in fact, the trust’s titular head.
“Why would a place like Crestmore Crescent be invaluable to someone like you?” I asked.
To judge by your description, Crestmore Crescent is a community of strivers reaching for the next rung on the social ladder. One way up the ladder is through charity work. Women who wouldn’t give five pence to a street urchin will leap at the chance to host a prestigious fund-raising event.
“Sounds like Kenneth’s wife,” I said. “Social life on Crestmore Crescent seemed to revolve around Dorothy Beacham, and the events she organized must have had a certain amount of prestige. Mrs. Pollard seemed to think that ‘the right people’ attended them.”
Ah, yes, the right people. That’s what charity work is all about, for those women—meeting the right people, making the right connections, seeing one’s name in the right newspapers. That they are feeding the hungry or housing the homeless is a secondary consideration.
“Dorothy didn’t get her name in any newspapers,” I said.
I beg your pardon?
“Dorothy’s name didn’t turn up in Emma’s Internet search,” I explained. “Not in any significant way, at least. If she was trying to get her name in print by running fund-raisers, she didn’t succeed.”
How strange. How very odd. I’ve never encountered a charity hostess who refused to advertise her good works. Dimity’s fine copperplate stopped flowing. Several minutes passed before it began again, to form a simple sentence that struck me like a thunderbolt. Perhaps Dorothy Beacham changed her name.
I sat forward in my chair.
Yes. It’s the only conceivable explanation. Women like Dorothy do not shun publicity. But they do, on occasion, change their names.
“Why?” I asked.
Because they believe Smythe is more glamorous than Smith. They choose names that reflect their aspirations.
“Do their husbands go along with it?” I asked.
A sufficiently forceful woman can persuade a husband to do almost anything. And don’t forget, Lori: Husbands h
ave aspirations, too. In such couples, more often than not, the wife isn’t alone in her wish to gain status.
I sighed and leaned my chin on my hand. “How on earth will we find Miss Beacham’s brother if we don’t know his last name?”
He may not have made a radical change. The common practice is to gentrify one’s original name.
“So Smith becomes Smythe?” I said.
Precisely. Try looking for Kenneth under Beauchamps.
“Bow-champs?” I said, pronouncing the name phonetically.
In England, my dear, Beauchamps is pronounced exactly the same as Beacham.
I eyed Dimity’s statement doubtfully. “Are you serious?”
I am. A clever man once said that England and America are two countries separated by a common language. Tell Emma to ask her computer for information on Kenneth Beauchamps. The answer may prove enlightening.
I immediately closed the journal and went to the desk, to put in a phone call to Emma. Since she was one of a tiny circle of friends who knew all about Aunt Dimity, I could explain Dimity’s revolutionary new idea to her without mincing words. Then I sat by the phone and waited.
“Was Dimity right?” I asked.
“Yes and no.” Emma pulled off her dripping raincoat and stepped out of her muddy boots. “Put the kettle on, will you? I’m chilled to the bone.”
Emma padded after me into the kitchen, where I lit a fire under the kettle and set the table for tea. While I filled the creamer and put out the sugar bowl, she pulled a fat file folder out of the day pack and placed it on her side of the table. A curious light gleamed in her blue-gray eyes.
“It looks as though you found something,” I said, nodding at the folder.
“I did,” she said, “but it wasn’t under Beauchamps.”
I put the teapot on the table and sat facing Emma. It was clear that she had a tale to tell and that she planned to take her own sweet time telling it. I curbed my natural impatience while she tipped cream into her tea, stirred it, and cupped her wind-reddened hands around her mug.
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 17
