01 - Aunt Dimity's Death

by Nancy Atherton - (ebook by Undead)

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Bill tented his fingers and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I think it’s because she loves you.”

  “But she loved Bob—”

  Bill’s hand shot up. “Hush. My theory, such as it is, requires patience.” Folding his arms, he went on. “Dimity loves you. You’re her spiritual daughter, so to speak. Every single manifestation of her supernatural power has been for your benefit, from lending a hand in the kitchen to helping Derek finish the cottage on time. This much we know for sure.”

  “Yes, but—” Bill gave me a sidelong glare and I subsided.

  “We also know that she loved Bobby, probably as much as she loves you, if the Pym sisters are to be believed. Regardless of that, her… spirit… is unable to connect with his. Why? If she loved both of you, why can she make contact with you but not Bobby?”

  I shrugged.

  “I think it’s because her bond of love with you was never broken.”

  “But her bond with Bobby was?” I ventured.

  “In a way that required forgiveness.” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “A theory. Only a theory. One step at a time, and I don’t know about you, but my next step is going to be toward the bed.” His head moved from the pillow to my shoulder. “Now, about the sleeping arrangements…”

  “They will stay as they are.” I nudged his head back onto the pillow and got to my feet. “We don’t want to scandalize Mrs. Hume.”

  “I think Mrs. Hume could use a nice juicy bit of scandal.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said, heading for the door, “you need your rest. Your fishy friends will be waiting at the crack of dawn.” Halfway out the door, I said over my shoulder, “Besides, Bill, we’re hardly a pair of teenagers, are we?”

  I ducked as the throw pillow sailed past me into the hall.

  22

  There was fresh salmon at breakfast, but Andrew and I had to start without Bill. He was up in his room, changing into dry clothes.

  “I warned him to watch his step,” said Andrew, “but he became overexcited when he saw the falcons. I don’t suppose he sees many in America.”

  “No, I suppose he doesn’t,” I said, accepting another cup of tea from Mrs. Hume. She hovered silently between us, filling cups, removing plates, and generally overseeing the meal.

  The night’s sleep and the morning’s outing had done little to refresh my host. His eyes were shadowed, his face drawn, and his thoughts seemed to wander at times, yet he seemed oddly bent on helping us to enjoy the rest of our stay.

  “He asked if we could go up to the nest after breakfast,” Andrew continued. “He seemed so keen on it that I didn’t have the heart to refuse. I’ve loaned him some clothes, as his aren’t particularly well suited to our Highland terrain, and we’ll be starting up directly after breakfast.” He addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hume, will you please see to it that a picnic lunch is prepared? It may take us some time to complete the expedition.” Mrs. Hume gave him a curt nod and left the room. “With Colin’s help, I can still clamber up there and back,” Andrew added, “but not as speedily as I once did. You’re welcome to join us, if you like, Miss Shepherd.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll stay here. I’m not nearly as outdoorsy as Bill.” I cast an admiring glance around the room. “And it’s not often that I find myself in a place like MacLaren Hall. We don’t have anything like this in America, either.”

  “Then you must have a look round while you’re here,” Andrew offered.

  “Really?”

  “You’re more than welcome. Mrs. Hume is nearly as well versed in the hall’s history as I am. I’m sure she can take some time off from her morning duties to escort you.” When he put the proposition to Mrs. Hume, she agreed to it with her usual economy of words.

  Bill entered the dining room a short time later, and I had to hand it to him—he was much better at concealing his emotions than I was. He must have been ready to throw me into the loch, but his greeting was as genial as ever. He made light of his dunking, waxed rhapsodic about going up to the falcons’ nest, and graciously expressed his gratitude to Andrew for his new apparel—a pale gray cashmere turtleneck beneath a navy pullover, and heavy wool knee socks tucked up into a pair of tweed plus-fours. He even dared to call a cheery good-morning to Mrs. Hume.

  “Mr. MacLaren has promised me a pair of hobnailed boots for the climb.” He displayed a stockinged foot. “It’s going to be a while before my own shoes are dry enough to wear. Coffee, if you please, Mrs. Hume. I don’t think the tea is quite strong enough to take the chill away.” When he bent his head over the steaming cup, I noticed that his hair was curling in damp tendrils behind his ears. “Tell me, Lori, how do you plan to spend your time while the menfolk are away in the hills?”

  “Mrs. Hume is taking me on a tour of the hall.”

  “What a splendid way to spend the day,” said Bill, with more heartfelt sincerity than either Mrs. Hume or Andrew could have realized. “How I wish I could be here with you.”

  * * *

  MacLaren Hall was massive, but it seemed to grow even larger as I trailed behind Mrs. Hume, who was impervious to small talk and met any attempt at humor with a stony stare. More like a dour professor than a tour guide, she plodded methodically from room to room, giving a set speech about the contents of each, and achieving with ease the remarkable feat of turning a Scottish lilt into a monotone. If she expected to dull my wits, she was in for a disappointment. She took me past smoky oil portraits and marble-topped pedestal tables, rosewood etageres and musty tapestries, from the dim and dusty attics to the spotless kitchens—she even showed me the linen closets—but there were three places in which we did not set foot. As we passed by Andrew MacLaren’s private suite and the staff apartments, Mrs. Hume merely gestured at the closed doors, as though no more needed to be said on the subject.

  But one closed door, the fourth one up the hall from my bedroom, won neither gesture nor comment. We had passed it several times on our way to and from the main staircase, but Mrs. Hume acted as though it were invisible. I dutifully kept my eyes front and center.

  After a late afternoon lunch, Mrs. Hume escorted me to the library, where she left me with a selection of dusty books about the history of the MacLaren family. At any other time they would have intrigued me, but at that moment my mind was on other things—such as breaking and entering. I sat for fifteen minutes by the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, then opened the door to see if the coast was clear.

  Mrs. Hume looked up from polishing the time-darkened oak wainscoting that lined the hallway. “Yes, Miss Shepherd? May I help you?”

  I gave her a frozen grin, then managed, “I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Hume put down her cloth and walked off in the direction of the kitchens, while I closed the door and thought fast. If I went up to my bedroom she’d probably move her polishing operation right along with me. There were miles of wainscoting to polish in MacLaren Hall. What I needed was a diversion. I scanned the room, spied a telephone, and a plan clicked into place. Hurriedly, I dialed, and began speaking the moment I heard Willis, Sr.’s voice.

  “It’s Lori,” I said in low, urgent tones. “I can’t explain now, but I need you to do a favor for me. A really big favor, right away. Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “Yes, Miss Shepherd.”

  “Then write this down.” The phone number of MacLaren Hall was printed on a small card affixed to the phone. “Did you get that?” I asked, glancing at the door. He read it back to me and I raced on before he could ask any questions. “I need you to call that number in about twenty minutes and ask for a Mrs. Hume. That’s H-U-M-E. She’s a housekeeper at a big old place way up in northern Scotland. Keep her on the line for as long as you possibly can, and don’t mention my name or Bill’s or anything about Dimity Westwood. Don’t tell her who you are, either. Can you do that?” Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for him to give
the matter his due consideration.

  “I suppose I could present myself as an American relation,” suggested Willis, Sr., finally. “I could, perhaps, be in the midst of conducting an investigation into the genealogy of my family.”

  “Perfect!” I said. “You’re a genius, Mr. Willis—and thanks. I’ll explain soon and, remember, give me twenty minutes. I have to go now.” I hung up the phone and was back behind the pile of dusty books in plenty of time to assume a suitably studious appearance. When Mrs. Hume arrived with the tea trolley, I closed the book I had opened at random, and yawned languorously.

  “Gosh,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hume, but I don’t think I’ll have that tea after all. To tell you the truth, what I really need is a nap. I believe I’ll go up and stretch out until the men come back.”

  Mrs. Hume’s lips tightened, but she conducted me up the main staircase without comment, pausing only to pick up her basket of polishing supplies.

  “Is there anything else you require, Miss Shepherd?” she asked when we arrived at my room.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hume, but I think I’ve bothered you enough for one day.” I yawned again, and hoped I wasn’t overdoing it. “Thanks again for the tour. This is a marvelous place.”

  Mrs. Hume’s head turned at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. A red-haired girl in a maid’s uniform approached, then proceeded to astonish me by dropping a curtsy to the housekeeper.

  “Please, ma’am,” said the girl, “there’s a telephone call for you. A trunk call.”

  “A trunk call?” Mrs. Hume queried sharply. “For me? You’re certain?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. “And Mr. Sinclair has come about the stove.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Hume’s knuckles went white on the handle of the basket. “Tell Mr. Sinclair to wait in the kitchen. I will attend to him presently.” The girl bobbed a curtsy once again, and left. Mrs. Hume turned back. “I trust that you will have a restful few hours, Miss Shepherd. I shall be up again shortly, to make sure you have everything you need. You will excuse me.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Hume. Good luck with the stove.” When both sets of footsteps had faded into the distance, I sprinted up the hall. I placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, sent a quick prayer to the god of locks, and followed it with thanks when the knob turned. Slipping into the room, I closed the door gently behind me, then leaned against it to catch my breath. I felt so much like a little kid playing hide-and-seek that I wanted to giggle, but when I turned to view the room, the laughter died in my throat.

  It was a boy’s room, still and silent, washed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. A stuffed badger peered down from the top of the wardrobe, and the shelves above the bed were crowded with clockwork tanks, lead soldiers, and gleaming trophies. A battered leather binocular case dangled from the gun rack in the corner and schoolbooks were arranged in ranks upon the bookshelves. Above my head a squadron of model airplanes hung at dramatic angles. An unfinished one, made of balsa wood and tissue paper, sat on a table against the wall, still waiting for its wings. I turned a slow circle to take it all in, then crossed the room.

  The desk was covered with pencil drawings of gentle hills, a patchwork valley, a rose-covered cottage with a slate roof. The smiling face of Dimity Westwood looked out from a graceful silver frame that had been placed to one side. I looked from the portrait to the softly shaded drawings and knew that this was Bobby’s room, preserved in amber. The center drawer of the desk held pencil stubs, bits of eraser, a broken ruler—and a tattered exercise book that bore the name ROBERT MACLAREN. Burning with a sudden flush of shame, I closed the drawer and turned away.

  This was no game. Blinded by my own cleverness, I had forgotten that we were dealing with death and loss and wrenching grief. I had betrayed the trust of my host, and I had invaded what must have been, for him, a shrine. My very presence felt like a desecration. If this was what it took to help Dimity, then I would have to fail her. I got up from the desk and headed for the door.

  I was halfway there when it opened.

  23

  Andrew MacLaren stood erect in the doorway for a moment; then his shoulders drooped. I feared for a moment that he would collapse, but he called upon some inner reserve of strength, pulled himself to attention, and entered. Bill followed, closing the door behind him.

  “I see that you have found my brother’s room,” Andrew said in a soft, tired voice. “When I saw Mrs. Hume, I suspected… but no matter. Had you waited, I would have brought you here myself.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, gesturing for us to sit in two others. He raised his eyes to the model airplanes overhead. “I have tried to keep it the way it was during his last visit. The last time before…” Andrew rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. “Perhaps I have tried to keep too much unchanged.”

  He reached over to pick up the photograph of Dimity, and the words he spoke were spoken to her. “I have tried to keep my anger unchanged, but it has been hard, so very hard. You cannot warm yourself at the fire of anger without chilling your soul. I am an old man now, and it seems that the fire has died. All that is left is sorrow, and guilt, and the cold and certain knowledge that I was wrong.” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, gently dusted the frame, then returned it to the desk, taking care to place it in exactly the same position. He twisted the handkerchief absently for a moment; then his hands relaxed and he folded them calmly on top of his cane.

  “You wish to hear of Dimity Westwood,” he said. “Dimity, my brother’s bonny Belle. He met her at the Flamborough and, for Bobby, one meeting was enough. He knew at first sight that he had found all that his heart desired. He told me he’d proposed to her on a hill overlooking heaven, that he planned to return there after the war, to the place he had first discovered love. He asked me to look after his beautiful Belle if anything should ever happen to him, and I promised, upon my oath as a MacLaren, that I would do as he wished.

  “It was such an easy promise to make. His love for Dimity enveloped him in a—” Andrew passed a hand through the dust motes dancing in the sun, “a golden haze. I had never seen such happiness before, and I have never seen it since. It was exquisite, the kind of love that admits no envy, no jealousy. I was dazzled and warmed by it and felt sure that Dimity would feel as I did, that it would be worth any sacrifice to keep that golden aura glowing.”

  Andrew placed his cane on the floor, opened the bottom drawer of the desk, and withdrew a bundle of papers bound with a pale blue ribbon. Untying the ribbon, he took out a single photograph. He gazed at it for a long time before handing me a picture of a handsome young man in uniform, sitting in the shade of a gnarled oak tree. He nodded at the bundle of papers.

  “It was in among Bobby’s personal effects at Biggin Hill,” he explained. “I was mistaken about Dimity, you see. The night before his final mission, Bobby called me from the base, saying that she had broken off their engagement.” With a shaking hand, he raised the papers toward me. “She’d returned his letters, his pictures, his ring, everything that might remind her of their time together. She’d told him that they must stop seeing one another. I was outraged, incensed. I couldn’t understand how she could be so blind, so willfully cruel. But Bobby remained undaunted.

  “‘She thinks she’s being practical,’ he told me, without a trace of rancor. ‘She thinks it’s foolish to make plans in such uncertain times.’ He laughed then. ‘She’s wrong,’ he said. ‘This is when you need to make plans, dream dreams. This is when you need to believe that there will be a tomorrow to fly to. I’ll convince her of it, I know I will. She’s returned the ring to my keeping, but she and I both know that it’s hers forever. As I am.’”

  Andrew picked up the ribbon and tied it once more around the papers. He gave the bundle to me, then let his hand fall limply to his knee. “It was the last time I ever spoke with my brother. He was shot down the following day.

  “I could not comprehend it. I could not accept that his de
ath had been a mere twist of fate, a misfortune of war. My brother had always flown like a falcon. What had tripped him up? The question tormented me night and day, until, finally, I knew the answer.” Andrew’s hand closed into a fist. “I kept my promise to him. I deposited his share of our inheritance in Dimity Westwood’s account. I cannot be accused of betraying that trust.

  “But I… I also wrote her a letter. Bobby had told me that, should I ever need to communicate quickly with Dimity, I should write in care of the Flamborough. He said that everyone there knew who Belle was.

  “When I got word of his death, I wrote to her, telling her that the money was hers to do with as she pleased, but that if she tried to return it, we would throw it to the winds because my family wanted nothing more to do with her. I told her that Bobby’s mind had been clouded by thoughts of her betrayal, that his reflexes had been dulled, and I… I accused her of being responsible for…” Andrew pressed his fist to his mouth.

  A chill went through me. What must Dimity have felt? She must have been half-mad with grief, consumed with guilt, all too willing to believe Andrew’s vicious accusation. The words must have seared into her soul, and she had carried that great and secret sin with her to the grave.

  “She never touched the money,” Andrew went on, “not until she began her work with Starling House. She invested it, then, on behalf of the children, as though seeing to their welfare would right the wrong she had done. She was a canny businesswoman and she made a tidy sum, I’ll grant her that. But how I hated her for it.

  “I wrote to her once more, a letter I hoped she would never receive. Although the war was over, I sent it to the Flamborough, with no return address, and I used her proper name, hoping no one would recognize it. I knew that I was breaking faith with Bobby, but I did not care. When the years passed and I received no reply, I felt well satisfied.