“Dimity was almost right,” she began. “When I ran a search on Kenneth Beauchamps, I still came up empty. So I went back to the initial search—and that’s when I had the brainstorm.” She put her mug down and leaned toward me. “When Derek and I married, I took his last name. You kept your own when you married Bill. It occurred to me that there’s a third thing couples do with their last names when they get married.”
I thought for a second. “They hyphenate them?”
Emma nodded. “They combine their last names and stick a hyphen in between. So I tried various combinations of Dorothy’s and Kenneth’s last names and when I tried Fletcher-Beauchamps, I hit pay dirt.” She pushed the file across the table. “Voila!”
My spine tingled as I opened the folder and leafed through page after page of closely printed items trumpeting the social, professional, and academic accomplishments of the three members of the Fletcher-Beauchamps family, residents of number 6 Crestmore Crescent, Willow Hills, Oxfordshire.
The vast majority of the pieces focused on Dorothy and young Walter James, but a short notice toward the back of the file announced that Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps had been promoted to vice chairman of Fletcher Securities and given the weighty responsibility of opening the firm’s Newcastle office.
“Fletcher Securities . . . his father-in-law’s firm. Oh, Emma,” I said, in a voice choked with awe, “you are a genius, a bona fide brainiac, a postgraduate-level smarty-pants. I’m . . . stunned.”
“I couldn’t have done it without Dimity,” she said. “The Beacham/Beauchamps connection would never have occurred to me.”
“That’s because you speak sensible American instead of eccentric English.” I beamed at her. “Thank you, Emma. Thank you very much.”
“Glad to be of help,” she said. “I’ve invited Annelise and the boys to stay for lunch at my place. I expect you’ll be running off to Oxford, to share the file with Gabriel.”
“I may drive sedately to Oxford, but I’m too sore to run anywhere,” I confessed, and told her about my labor-intensive redistribution of Miss Beacham’s property. “I expect to hear from
Mr. Moss around noon today, after the auctioneers inform him that the sale catalogue will have to be reduced considerably in size.”
“Do you think he’ll be upset?” Emma asked.
“If he’s the crook I think he is, he’ll be livid,” I replied. “But I am not afraid. With Bill as my bulwark, I fear nothing.”
“Except horses,” said Emma, with a puckish twinkle.
I swallowed my usual protest and graciously conceded the point. If anyone had earned the right to tease me, it was Emma.
“How are you feeling?” I asked when Gabriel picked up the phone.
“As if someone had driven a large lorry over me, repeatedly,” he replied. “Apart from that, it’s as if I’m in a dream. I’ve been wandering round the flat all morning, touching things. How are you?”
“I offered my body to science, but they turned me down,” I told him.
He laughed. “Have you heard from Mr. Moss yet?”
“Don’t worry about Mr. Moss,” I said. “We have more important things to think about. Such as figuring out the shortest route to Newcastle.”
“Newcastle? You said it would be pointless to go there unless . . .” His words trailed off as he put two and two together. “Have you discovered the name of Kenneth’s firm?”
“Emma did.” I gave Emma full credit for the discovery because I had no intention of trying to explain Aunt Dimity to Gabriel. “I’d like to tell you about it in person. I know today was earmarked for rest and recovery, but—”
“Hang rest and recovery!” Gabriel exclaimed. “I’ll come out to your place this time. How do I find you?”
Since Gabriel had already been to Anscombe Manor, the directions were simplicity itself.
“And don’t bother to stop for lunch,” I added. “I’ll feed you when you get here.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, considering my debilitated state,” he said, and hung up.
I called Bill, to ask him to join me and Gabriel for lunch, but he’d already decided to grab a quick bite at the pub in Finch. I tantalized him with a sneak preview of the information Emma had unearthed, then went to the kitchen to take a container of homemade vegetable soup out of the freezer and put a chicken in the oven. The one would be thawed and the other roasted by the time Gabriel and I were ready to eat.
The homely scent of roasting chicken drifted through the cottage as I sat in the living room, reading the printouts Emma had given me. I was deep into an article about a fancy-dress ball Dorothy had hosted at the Randolph Hotel when my cell phone rang. I went to the hallway, took the phone from my shoulder bag, and braced myself. It was ten minutes past noon and the number displayed on the cell phone’s tiny screen was Mr. Moss’s.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Shepherd,” he said pleasantly.
“Hello, Mr. Moss,” I said.
“I’ve received a rather puzzling telephone message from one of the gentlemen assigned to remove Miss Beacham’s furniture to the auction house.” Mr. Moss paused and when I said nothing, he continued. “He informs me that my late client’s belongings have dwindled alarmingly. I wondered if you might help to clarify the situation.”
“My husband can help you, Mr. Moss,” I said, and gave him Bill’s office number.
“I see.” Mr. Moss sighed. “You have nothing more to say?”
“My husband can help you,” I repeated. “Good-bye, Mr. Moss.”
I ended the call, speed-dialed Bill’s office, warned him that Mr. Moss was on the warpath, and wished him luck, though I knew he wouldn’t need it. I’d scarcely returned the cell phone to my bag when the doorbell heralded Gabriel’s arrival. I opened the door to find him standing halfway between my doorstep and the driveway.
“Come in out of the rain,” I called.
Gabriel took three steps toward me, stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and cleared his throat nervously.
“Um,” he said, “I had an ulterior motive for driving out here today.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder at his car, which was parked in the driveway, then back at me. “You see, I’ve invited Joanna to dinner at my place this evening.”
Quick work, I thought, but said aloud, “I hope she can find a babysitter for Chloe on such short notice.”
“Chloe’s coming too,” Gabriel said. “I framed the sketch Joanna liked so much. I thought I might present it to Chloe this evening, as a memento of her first pony ride.”
I wanted to pump my fist in the air and shout Yes! on behalf of the worldwide tribe of matchmakers, but I controlled myself and said matter-of-factly, “It solves the babysitting problem.”
“True, but it doesn’t solve another problem.” Gabriel took a deep breath and held his hands out to me pleadingly. “I know it’s an awful imposition, Lori, but would you consider taking Stanley for the night? He’s fond of you and I can’t have Joanna sneezing all through dinner. I’ve brought everything you’ll need. He’s a sweet cat, as you know, and frankly, I don’t think you’ll see much of him. He hasn’t fully recovered from last night yet.
He’ll probably hide in a quiet corner. You’ll hardly know he’s here.”
“You want me to take Stanley?” I said, dumbfounded.
“Just for the night,” said Gabriel. “I’ll come and fetch him tomorrow.”
Gabriel may have thought he was telling the truth, but I knew better. Joanna’s allergies were forcing him to make a choice. He might come back for Stanley tomorrow, but eventually he’d have to find a new home for his sweet cat.
Miss Beacham’s words returned to me suddenly, as clearly as if she were whispering them in my ear: “My flat has no back garden, you see, and I don’t believe a cat can be truly happy without a back garden.” I had a back garden, a meadow, a forest, and two little boys who would make sure Stanley was never lonely. Bill liked cats an
d although we’d never discussed getting one, I think we’d both assumed it would happen one day. It looked as though the day had finally arrived.
“Stanley’s welcome to stay here as long as he likes,” I said. “Bring him inside, and I’ll grab his stuff.”
Nineteen
Stanley’s bowls looked as though they’d always been there, on the floor in a corner of the kitchen, and the so-larium was the obvious spot for his litter box. As I fingered the cat-shaped handle of his special spoon, I recalled that Aunt Dimity had once had a cat, a belligerent ginger tom who’d left claw marks on the legs of the dining room table. Stanley’s presence seemed so inevitable, so right, that the only thing left to wonder was why it had taken so long for a cat to return to Aunt Dimity’s cottage.
Stanley had vanished from view ten seconds after emerging from his cat carrier. I assumed he was either exploring his new domain or, as Gabriel had predicted, seeking safety in a dark corner. I put his spoon in the silverware drawer and turned my attention to basting the chicken. If its luscious aroma didn’t lure Stanley out of hiding, nothing would.
“Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes,” I announced, and sat at the kitchen table to explain Emma’s brainstorm to Gabriel. He was suitably dazzled.
“Fletcher-Beauchamps,” he repeated incredulously. “Now that I think of it, Mrs. Pollard never mentioned Kenneth’s last name. He was always ‘dear Kenneth’ or ‘clever Kenneth.’ Never Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps. She must have thought that we already knew his name. And Joanna took it for granted that Kenneth shared his unmarried sister’s last name.” He slapped the table. “No wonder we couldn’t find him in the telephone directory. We were looking for Beacham, not Fletcher-Beauchamps. Remarkable. We owe Emma a great deal.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” I said, and handed him the file folder. “It’s all there, Gabriel, everything that should be there—Dorothy’s charity balls, Walter James’s cricket scores, Kenneth’s promotions. . . .”
Gabriel opened the folder and began to read. I left him at the table and returned to the stove to ladle soup into bowls. I was slicing a loaf of homemade bread when Gabriel closed the file.
“That was quick,” I said over my shoulder.
“I skimmed most of the articles,” he admitted. “There are only so many descriptions of ball gowns I can take before I begin feeling queasy.”
“Those were my favorite parts,” I said, laughing. I placed the soup bowls and the basketful of bread on the table and took a seat.
“You know what’s strange about Kenneth’s name change?” I said as we began to eat. “It didn’t happen until more than a year after the wedding.”
“How did you reach that conclusion?” Gabriel asked.
“Think back to Emma’s first search,” I said. “It was keyed to Beacham and the postings we found ended with Walter James’s birth announcement. So Kenneth was still Kenneth Beacham when his son was born. He must have waited until after his son’s birth to change his name. And Walter James was born more than a year after the marriage.”
“Interesting.” Gabriel finished his soup and reached for a slice of bread. “Why did Kenneth and Dorothy wait so long to change their name?”
“I can make an educated guess.” I took our empty bowls to the sink and returned to the table with the roasted chicken, potatoes, and carrots neatly arranged on a serving dish. “According to Mrs. Pollard, Walter James was named after his grandfather, Walter James Fletcher. I think Grandpa had a hand in getting Dorothy and Kenneth to change the family name. I’ll bet that once his grandson and heir came into the world, Grandpa decided it would be best to give the kid his last name as well as his Christian names. Note, please, that Fletcher precedes Beauchamps.”
Gabriel helped himself to the main course. “You think the old tyrant bullied them into it?”
“Why not?” I said. “He has the power to call the shots. Walter James, Sr., isn’t simply Kenneth’s father-in-law, but his employer and the head of the firm. If Kenneth had to choose between changing his name and losing his job, I’m pretty sure he’d change his name.” I caught a glimpse of gleaming black out of the corner of my eye and cried, “There you are!”
Hunger had evidently conquered Stanley’s fears. The black cat slipped furtively into the kitchen and explored every nook and cranny before returning to the table to butt my calf peremptorily with his head. I could take a hint. I shredded a slice of warm chicken and placed it in his food bowl. He attacked it greedily, making loud smacking noises and flinging bits here and there beyond the bowl.
“You’d think I starved him,” Gabriel grumbled. He took another slice of bread, tore it in half, and swirled it in the juices pooled on his plate. “I’m not sure I agree with you about the coercion, Lori. If Kenneth was running the Midlands branch of the firm, he must have been good at his job. He could have found a position at another firm if he had serious disagreements with his father-in-law.”
“Unless his wife objected,” I said, returning to the table. “She might have insisted that he work for her father.”
“You could be right,” said Gabriel. “But I still doubt that our ambitious young couple were pressured into ‘improving’ their name. The material I’ve read gives me the distinct impression that they were both social climbers.”
I shredded another piece of chicken for Stanley while I mentally reviewed the newspaper articles in Emma’s file.
“You’re right about the ambition,” I said. “Dorothy worked her way into chairing some high-status fund-raisers. You know the sort of thing—bleached hair, ridiculous dresses, an orchestra making feeble attempts to play groovy tunes.”
“Sorry,” said Gabriel. “Not my scene. My pockets aren’t deep enough.”
“It’s not my scene, either,” I told him. “I’m glad those people raise so much money for charity, but they give me a headache. Bill and I turn down invitations from them all the time. We’ve probably turned down Dorothy’s invitations. I’ve got better things to do than hobnob with the rich and ridiculous.”
“Like making beds at St. Benedict’s?” Gabriel shook his head. “Dorothy would find you mystifying.”
“It’s mutual, I’m sure.” I pointed to the file folder. “Did you see the piece about Kenneth’s promotion?”
“I did.” Gabriel paused to savor a mouthful of roasted potato, then laid his fork aside and regarded me knowingly. “Fletcher Securities will surely be listed in the telephone directory. No need to stand on a street corner and holler.”
“Emma’s given us the lead we’ve been looking for,” I said. “When do we leave for Newcastle?”
“It depends,” he said, “on whether or not you’ve made dessert.”
Annelise brought Will and Rob home in time for dinner, filled with wondrous tales of their first full day with Thunder and Storm. Kit wouldn’t allow them to ride the ponies yet, but he had permitted them to clean tack, rake stalls, and stand on bales of hay to curry their new treasures. I heard no complaints.
The twins were so bowled over by Stanley’s charms that I wondered how I’d ever console them if Gabriel confounded my expectations and decided to keep his cat despite Joanna’s allergies. Stanley regarded Rob and Will warily at first, but soon succumbed to their adoring coos as well as their generous offerings of tuna, salmon, and leftover chicken.
“Two ponies and a cat,” Annelise commented. “What’s next? A cocker spaniel and a canary?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “I didn’t see the ponies or the cat coming.”
My husband accepted our newest arrival with an air of amiable resignation, asking only that I buy an extra lint brush. As the evening progressed, however, it became increasingly clear that Stanley had chosen Bill to be his primary human. The cat followed Bill from room to room, working his way gradually closer, as if he were patiently stalking an unsuspecting mouse. By the time the boys were in bed and Bill was settled in his favorite armchair in the living room, Stanley, too, was asleep,
sprawled contentedly across Bill’s lap.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” Bill said, looking askance at the recumbent animal.
“He senses your natural sweetness,” I said, curling my legs under me on the sofa. “He’s also used to living with a man and you’re the only one in the cottage who fits that description. How did it go with Mr. Moss?”
“Oddly,” said Bill.
“Did he put up a fuss?” I asked.
“No,” Bill said. “That’s what was odd.”
He raised a hand to stroke his chin, a habit he’d acquired in the olden days, when he’d worn a beard, but the hand hovered briefly in midair before changing course completely and drifting down to stroke Stanley. Bill seemed unaware of his actions, but I watched, mesmerized. It was as if the cat had strange, magnetic powers.
“I expected a barrage of civilized bluster,” Bill went on, “but I didn’t get one. I explained to Mr. Moss the legal implications of Miss Beacham’s letter and he simply accepted my explanation. No protests, no threats, no objections. As far as I can tell, the matter’s closed.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked. “And after all, the auction won’t be a complete flop. Those snuffboxes will bring in a pretty penny.”
“He didn’t seem to be concerned about the money,” said Bill.
“He must have been intimidated by your penetrating grasp of legal minutiae,” I declared.
“I didn’t get a chance to intimidate him,” Bill countered. “Our conversation was polite, brief, and to the point. I don’t know. . . . I can’t quite put my finger on it, Lori, but something strange is going on.”
I waggled my eyebrows suggestively. “Is it time to arm Joanna with a bobby pin and send her in to rifle Mr. Moss’s desk?”
Bill smiled wryly. “I’m tempted, but no. I think we’ll let sleeping dogs—or cats, as the case may be—lie for the moment. Tell me more about Emma’s brainstorm.”
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 18
