Aunt Dimity and the Duke ad-2

by Nancy Atherton

  Emma turned, wide-eyed, to Derek, who motioned her to silence, then resumed his gentle interrogation. “When did that happen, Syd?”

  “Like I told you, Suzie was just a kid. Her old man got suckered into some cheesy investments and lost his shirt.” Syd shrugged. “Who hasn’t? There’s worse things could happen to a person, am I right? This poor schmuck didn’t think so. Checked into a hotel in Ipswich and put a gun in his mouth. Left Suzie’s ma in hock up to her fanny. That’s how come Suzie started working. That’s how come she won’t quit.”

  “Why should she quit, Syd?” Derek’s voice suggested only mild curiosity, but his knuckles were white on the arms of his chair.

  “Not so much work anymore. Not top dollar. Not for a while now. It’s a short-term deal, am I right? Fashions change, models get old. One day you’re it, the next day the phone stops ringing. Happens alla time. Truth is, Suzie’s broke.”

  “But she was so successful,” Derek protested.

  “She hadda pay off her old man’s debts. And support her old lady. And now she’s buyin’ stuff she can’t afford. What else is new? It’s hard to swallow, knowin’ nobody wants you. Don’t know how we’re gonna handle the doctor bills.”

  “I’ve told you not to worry about that,” Derek soothed. “I’m sure that Grayson will see to anything the National Health doesn’t cover.”

  “Damn right he will. He owes it to her.”

  Derek leaned forward in his chair. “How do you mean, he owes it to her?”

  Syd slowly turned to face Derek, like a teacher disappointed by an inattentive pupil. “I told you,” he said wearily. “Grayson’s father, he’s the one gave the bad tip to Suzie’s dad. He’s the reason Suzie’s dad killed himself.” He reached out a shaking hand to pat Derek’s knee. “Hey, it’s history, am I right? Maybe it’ll work out for the best. Could be the publicity’s all Suzie needs to get back on top.” The old man’s eyes returned to the fire. “Once they fix her kisser ...”

  Derek went to sit beside Syd. He removed the whiskey glass from the older man’s unresisting grasp and placed it on the end table. “Why don’t you let Hallard take you upstairs for a nice lie-down?” he suggested. “It’ll do you a world of good.”

  “Yeah. I could use some shut-eye. Gotta be fresh for Suzie.” Svd looked down at his rumpled plaid jacket and touched a finger to his gaudy floral tie. “Lookit me. A regular fashion plate.”

  Emma gazed through her glass of whiskey at the fire. The flames blurred and flickered, but they seemed to give off little heat. Derek stood close to the fire, one arm resting on the mantelpiece, as though he, too, had felt the sudden chill.

  “I wonder ...” Emma murmured. “Grayson knew all along that he’d inherit Penford Hall and that he’d need a fortune to restore it. Do you think he befriended Lex—”

  “In order to kill him and take his money?” Derek shook his head. “Doubtful. If Grayson could’ve predicted Lex’s success, he could’ve made his fortune in the music industry.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Emma conceded. “But he must have known about Lex’s drinking habits. And everyone knew how wild he was. Richard once said that Lex would do anything on a dare. So, when opportunity knocked ...”

  “... Grayson simply arranged for Lex to kill himself.” Derek nodded. “Very convenient. Who’s Richard?”

  “An old friend,” Emma said, too carelessly. “He was a big fan of Lex’s.”

  “Poor chap. Tone-deaf?”

  Emma suppressed an unseemly snort of laughter and ignored the question. “So what have we come up with? Grayson arranges Lex’s death and embezzles his money—electronically. Susannah, looking for a way to avenge her father’s suicide, roots out Winslow—your boyhood friend, the banker—and Winslow discovers something funny about Lex’s books. Susannah comes to Penford Hall bent on blackmail—”

  “To punish the House of Penford for her father’s death,” Derek put in.

  “And she ends up with her head caved in.”

  “That seems to be the gist,” said Derek.

  Emma frowned. “But it’s been five years since Lex died. Why did Susannah wait so long to make her move?”

  “Had to woo a cooperative banker?” Derek suggested. “It’d take some time to sweep old Winslow off his feet.” Sighing, he finished the last of his whiskey and set the glass on the mantelpiece. “What a tangled web we’ve woven, Emma. And not a single strand to show to the police.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Emma tapped a finger against the side of her glass. “Susannah wouldn’t have come to Penford Hall empty-handed, not with a score like that to settle. I think Winslow told her more than she let on. I’m willing to bet that she came here with some sort of hard evidence to flaunt in Grayson’s face.”

  “A pity she can’t tell us where to find it,” Derek commented. “What do you make of Susannah’s amnesia, by the way? Could she be faking it?”

  “Possibly. The smartest thing she can do is pretend she’s forgotten everything. She’s at their mercy, after all.” Emma swirled the whiskey in her glass. “I had an interesting conversation with Kate after you left. She’s just as crazy about Penford Hall as Grayson is.”

  “Unfortunate choice of words,” Derek said, “but I see your point. It would make sense for Susannah to approach Grayson through Kate. She does act as his lieutenant.”

  “I was thinking ... Maybe Kate scheduled a meeting in the chapel garden to discuss Susannah’s demands. And maybe the meeting got out of hand.” Emma quickly recounted the scenario she’d envisioned: the confrontation in the garden, the angry exchange of words, the sudden grab for the hoe’s long handle, the tearing of the oilcloth, the silent fall, the panicked escape. “Whoever tore the oilcloth from the wheelbarrow knows something about Susannah’s accident,” Emma concluded. “I’d hoped we might be able to dust the oilcloth for fingerprints or something. But when I checked with Bantry this morning, he’d already cleaned it.”

  Derek had strolled away from the fire and was standing very near Emma’s chair. He looked down at her in silence for what seemed a long time, then nodded, as though confirming something. “You’re very good at that, you know.”

  “At what?” Emma touched a hand to her glasses self-consciously.

  “Thinking things through. Imagining what it must have been like. Not my strong point, imagination.”

  “It’s not mine, either,” Emma protested. “I just try to think logically.”

  “Nonsense,” Derek chided gently. “You’ve a very creative mind. A logical one, as well, but what good is logic without intuition?” Shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans, he turned to face the fire. “Why didn’t you tell me about the oilcloth last night in the nursery?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” The firelight made Derek’s blue eyes sparkle as brightly as they had the night before. “It just didn’t seem to be the right time or place, I guess.”

  “Suppose not,” Derek agreed. “Had a splendid evening, though.” He glanced shyly at Emma. “You?”

  Emma’s energetic nod sent whiskey sloshing onto the Persian carpet. As Derek knelt to wipe it up, Emma shrank back in her chair, crimson with embarrassment.

  “Meant to thank you for the swift kick, by the way,” Derek said. “I was drifting, wasn’t I. Nell’s complained of it before, but I thought she was just ... being Nell. Don’t understand what she’s getting at half the time. A kick on the shin, though. Hard to ignore.” He sat back on his heels, and his gaze was level with Emma’s. “Was I really that bad?”

  Emma wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t. From everything she’d seen and heard, Nell’s complaints seemed sadly justified. Carefully placing her whiskey glass on the end table, she said, “You must miss your wife terribly.”

  Derek looked down at the damp handkerchief in his hands. “Sometimes—when I’m working—I forget.”

  “Is that why you work so much?” Emma asked, very gently.

  Derek raised his eyes, perplexed. “Not
at all. That’s for the children. I want to give Peter and Nell everything Mary wanted them to have.”

  She would have wanted them to have more time with their father, Emma thought, but she said nothing. She had no right to tell Derek how to run his life.

  “Well, anyway, thanks.” Derek’s gaze lingered on Emma for a moment, then he rose to his feet, stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket, and returned to stand before the fire. “Funny, really,” he said, folding his arms. “I like Grayson enormously and I don’t care a fig for Susannah. Yet all I can think about is protecting her from him. It’s because she’s helpless, I suppose.”

  “As helpless as we are,” murmured Emma. Clearing her throat, she added quickly, “I mean, there’s not much we can do to protect her, is there?”

  “Not unless we can talk with her, find out if she has anything we can show to the authorities.” Derek turned to stare at the fire. “Kate said she was due back in three or four days? Not sure what we should do. Let me think about it.”

  “I will, too. In the garden.” Emma got to her feet. “Derek,” she said hesitantly, “if you’re not doing anything else, I could—that is, Bantry and I could use some help out there.”

  “I know,” said Derek, his eyes still on the fire. “Nell told me. Unfortunately, I’m still looking for Grayson’s bloody lantern.”

  15

  As it happened, a mild pulmonary infection kept Susannah in the hospital for ten days. During that time, her head injuries improved steadily and her memory began to return, though it was sketchy and incomplete. She recognized Grayson and called him by name, but Kate’s existence seemed to have, literally, slipped her mind. Overall, however, she seemed to be well on the way to recovery. Kate called every day with a progress report, which Mattie cheerfully passed along to Emma every morning.

  Kate’s public-relations campaign and Newland’s cordon of watchers seemed to be paying off. Reporters who showed up at the gates were politely informed that His Grace would answer questions or pose for pictures at his hotel in Plymouth. The few who sneaked in over the walls were escorted from the grounds before they’d gotten halfway through the woods.

  Still others tried their luck in Penford Harbor, where they were met not by resentful silence but by an avalanche of monologues. The Tregallis brothers regaled them with fishing stories, Herbert Munting lectured them on chickens, and Jonah Pengully grumbled about everything under the sun—except the one thing the reporters wanted him to grumble about. Like the other villagers, Jonah refused to say a word about the duke.

  “It was brilliant,” Derek enthused when he returned from a foray into the village. “Like watching a football match. Every time Grayson’s name came up, Jack tossed the story to James, who booted it to Ted, who slipped right back into some flummery about cod-fishing.” The village team won the match hands down, routing the visitors without giving up a point. The newspaper coverage slowed to a back-page trickle.

  Nanny Cole continued to supplement Emma’s wardrobe with dresses in fine-wool, velvet, and hand-printed silk, hand-knitted sweaters in slate blue and dusty rose, two more pairs of trousers, and a third gardening smock. By the end of the ten days, Emma felt as though she’d acquired a private couturière, and Mattie shared her delight, pointing out details of workmanship that Emma never would have noticed. Emma’s sole attempt to express her gratitude in person was met with a gruff “Stop being a ninny and get out of my workroom.” After that, Emma simply made sure that the workroom was graced with fresh flowers every day.

  She and Bantry spent long afternoons in the library, making up plant lists and discussing what would go where in the chapel garden. Bantry would use only rough copies of Emma’s sketches, insisting that the duke would want to frame the originals, and he agreed with Emma’s strong intuition that everything planted in the chapel garden should come from the other gardens of Penford Hall. “The dowager duchess would’ve wanted it that way,” he said approvingly. “And we’ve plenty of plants to choose from.”

  It was an understatement, as Emma soon learned. The garden rooms in the castle ruins were as varied and as well tended as any Emma had ever seen. The rock garden was a swirling pastel watercolor—sky-blue primroses and white candytuft, purple lobelia and rosy-pink soapwort. The candytuft and primroses, Emma thought, would look wonderful edging the flagstone walk and the reflecting pool.

  Clouds of early blossoms graced the rose garden, and Bantry told her all about the ones not yet in bloom. Emma chose a fragrant nineteenth-century Bourbon rose—Madame Isaac Pereire, Bantry informed her—to frame the green door, and a hybrid tea rose to plant beside the wooden bench.

  Emma was enchanted by the knot garden. The close-clipped, interlocking chains of low-growing hedges formed a charming double-knot pattern that enclosed a marvelous selection of herbs. There, she discovered the deep purple-blue lavender she would use on either side of the chapel door, along with red sage, bronze fennel, angelica, and golden balm. She found a treasure trove in the perennial border she’d seen the first time she’d entered the castle ruins. Transplanted clematis and delphiniums would soften the stark granite walls, and irises, peonies, lilies, columbines, and a host of other old-fashioned flowers would restore color, form, and texture to the raised beds.

  “I’d like a pair of butterfly bushes to tuck into the corners, where the chapel wall meets the garden wall,” Emma explained to Bantry, “and a different climbing rose in the center of each of the long walls. We’ll plant tall perennials to fill the space between the roses and the corner ledges—lupines, hollyhocks, that sort of thing—with shorter ones in front. The bottom tier should have trailing plants spilling out onto the lawn. The rosy-pink soapwort would work, or the verbena. And we’ll need something special to put on the comer ledges.”

  “We’ve some nice orchids in the hothouse,” Bantry offered.

  “Hothouse?” Emma echoed. She hadn’t noticed one in the house plans Derek had shown her.

  “His Grace put it in year afore last,” Bantry explained. “Miss Kate’s partial to orchids.”

  They spent the next day in Penford Hall’s conservatory, a two-story glass-enclosed set of rooms tucked away in the west wing. One section was devoted to orchids, ferns, and waving palms, another to miniature fruit trees and topiary, and a third, Emma noted with some amusement, was the source of Nell’s almost constant supply of strawberries. Between the conservatory and the garden rooms, she found everything she’d need.

  “Don’t mean to sound sour, Miss Emma,” Bantry cautioned, “but the chapel garden won’t be at its best in August.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but I’m afraid we’ll have a hard time convincing Grayson,” said Emma, with a sigh. “He told me not to worry about getting it perfect, but I don’t think he understands just how imperfect it’ll be.”

  “Aye.” Bantry squinted into the distance. “Be patchy this year, a bit better next. Mebbe the year after that it’ll begin to come into its own. A good garden takes time.”

  Bantry knew what he was talking about. He displayed an awesome knowledge of the plants under his care, and spoke of them with an air of affectionate familiarity. “This ’un’s daft,” he commented, pointing to an early-blooming scarlet rambler. “Thinks it’s June already. Does it every year, like it can’t wait to come out and say hello.”

  Bantry’s organizational skills were equally impressive. He’d trained a small cadre of dedicated undergardeners to help him with the mammoth task of maintenance. One by one, Emma met them, sixteen villagers in all, from shy, eleven-year-old Daphne Minion, whose special love was the knot garden, to placid, eighty-six-year-old Bert Potts, who tended the pleached apple trees that bordered the great lawn.

  When Emma complimented Bantry on his talent for managing people, he responded casually that his time at Wisley Gardens had served him well. That was how Emma learned that Bantry had spent ten years at the Royal Horticultural Society’s 150-acre centerpiece. He’d shrugged off her breathless questions by saying
that, all in all, he preferred Penford Hall, where he didn’t have to put up with “them smelly tour buses.”

  That revelation led to several others. When Emma told Derek of Bantry’s illustrious past, he reminded her of a conversation that had taken place in the library the night Emma had arrived. Under pressure from Susannah, he recalled, Kate had acknowledged that she and Nanny Cole had once lived in Bournemouth. Bantry, Kate, and Nanny Cole—three of Penford Hall’s mainstays—had apparently been forced to leave the hall for greener pastures at some point in the distant past. Curious, Emma and Derek decided to see if the same held true for the rest of the staff.

  Judicious questioning of Mattie revealed that Crowley had been living in a furnished bedsitter in Plymouth when Mattie was born. Hallard, Gash, and Newland, Derek learned, had each spent some years in London. With the sole exception of Madama Rulenska, it appeared that all of the servants had left Penford Hall at some point.

  Clearly, Susannah’s father hadn’t been the only one to suffer from the old duke’s reversal of fortune. As they sat together in the library four days after Syd’s return, Derek theorized that Penford Hall had been all but deserted, much like the village.

  “Grayson’s father gave them all the sack,” Derek concluded, “and Grayson, when he was able, hired them back. Argues for a high degree of loyalty. A pity.”

  “We can’t really trust anyone,” Emma agreed sadly.

  “We can, though,” said Derek. He leaned forward. “Syd’s an outsider, and he’d do anything to protect his Suzie. And it wouldn’t seem strange for him to want to stay by her side.” Derek sighed. “If only we could figure out a way to snap him out of his funk.”

  Emma nodded. Visibly aged, Syd had taken meals in his room since his return from Plymouth. According to Crowley, he simply sat and stared out of the window. Emma knew where she went when she was upset, but it was ridiculous to assume that the same thing would work for Syd. Or was it?