Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’m quite sure that the Pym sisters know everything there is to know about their great-grandniece,” said Lilian Bunting, who’d left her husband’s side to join the throng. “I sense that Ruth and Louise are gazing down upon us from heaven even as we speak. I can almost hear them reciting one of their favorite verses: Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

  The villagers tittered, knowing full well that Lilian’s minisermon had been aimed directly at Peggy.

  “’Morning, all,” Bree Pym said cheerfully, striding up to stand next to me. She was clad in a skimpy slip-dress, striped leggings, and black flip-flops—an unusual ensemble in Finch, where modest dresses were the norm on Sundays. She ran a hand through her short spiky hair and beamed at the world in general. “It’s such a beautiful day that the vicar let me climb up into the belfry to listen to the service.” She gave Peggy a sly, sidelong look. “I could hear every word.”

  The villagers eyed Bree with respect. They were used to the vicar’s wife crossing swords with Peggy Taxman, but it took courage for a relative newcomer to take a swipe at her.

  Bree glanced over her shoulder at Bill and Willis, Sr. “Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise have company, I see. Think I’ll pop over for a chat. My aunties like to know who’s saying what in Finch.”

  Since Ruth and Louise Pym had threatened posthumously, via a letter read aloud at their funeral, to smite anyone who was unkind to their great-grandniece, Bree’s words had a sinister tinge to them. While she sauntered off to sit cross-legged before her great-grandaunts’ grave, the villagers glanced skyward and backed surreptitiously away from Peggy, as if they expected a bolt from the blue to strike her at any minute.

  A lesser woman would have reeled from the verbal blows Lilian and Bree had landed on Peggy, but the uncrowned empress of Finch merely sniffed disdainfully and cast a scathing glance at Bree’s tattoos and her nose ring. No one else in the village made a fashion statement quite like Bree’s, and though many of us found it refreshing, Peggy did not approve.

  “Sally wasn’t in church, either,” Peggy roared, moving on to an absent and therefore easier target. “Still under the weather, I suppose.”

  “She is,” Rainey Dawson piped up. “Gran’s sick as a pig. Couldn’t stand on her own two feet this morning.”

  I caught Rainey’s eye with a laserlike look and asked, “Is your grandmother still planning to go to her sister’s?”

  “To her sister’s?” Peggy Taxman said sharply.

  “To her sister’s,” I repeated firmly. “Sally rang me before church to ask me to take her to Judith’s house this afternoon.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Sally can’t expect Rainey to run the tearoom and to look after her, so she’s going to stay with her sister until she feels better. Isn’t that right, Rainey?”

  “Y-yes,” Rainey faltered. She gulped, then said more decisively, “Yes, that’s right, Lori. Gran will stay with Great-aunt Judith until she feels better. She’s leaving this afternoon. With you.”

  “If your grandmother is so ill, why hasn’t Dr. Finisterre been to see her?” Peggy challenged.

  “Waste of money,” Rainey replied, glaring defiantly at Peggy. “Gran doesn’t need a doctor to tell her how sick she is.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the group. Most of the villagers were habitual penny-pinchers.

  “Why can’t Judith drive over from Chipping Norton to fetch your grandmother?” Peggy demanded. “Seems silly to have Lori go all that way when Judith’s perfectly capable of managing the trip herself.”

  “It may seem silly to you, Peggy,” I said, with a sanctimonious smirk, “but I consider it a privilege to be able to help a friend in need.”

  “Good on you, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow, patting me on the back.

  “Do unto others ... ,” murmured Lilian Bunting, smiling at me.

  Peggy’s lips tightened dangerously, as if she sensed that she was being outmaneuvered but could do nothing to stop it.

  “My friends,” said Willis, Sr., inserting himself into the space between George Wetherhead and Charles Bellingham, “I would like to thank each and every one of you for attending my housewarming party last night. You have always made me feel welcome as a visitor to Finch. Last night, you welcomed me as a member of your charming community. I will endeavor to live up to the honor you have bestowed upon me.” He made a courtly bow before continuing, “Sadly, I must detach myself from you for a short time. A client, who prefers to remain anonymous—”

  “Why?” Peggy interrupted.

  “Please accept my apologies, Mrs. Taxman, but the dictates of my profession bar me from discussing the subject,” Willis, Sr., said smoothly, “except to say that my client will arrive at Fairworth House tomorrow and stay with me until our business is concluded.”

  “Business? What business?” barked Peggy. “Haven’t you retired?”

  “One likes to keep one’s hand in,” Willis, Sr., responded modestly. “I will be conducting delicate negotiations on my client’s behalf while he is at Fairworth. I must ask all of you to respect my privacy until I am once again at liberty to enjoy your delightful company. I can assure you that the prospect of being cloistered with my client gives me little pleasure.” He sighed. “He is quite possibly the most tedious man in the world.”

  The villagers mumbled words of sympathy.

  “William,” said Grant Tavistock, “will it be all right with you if I pick up the painting today?”

  My heart skipped a beat. I’d completely forgotten about the painting Grant was supposed to clean, but I knew for a fact that, if he came to Fairworth House while Sally was playing lady of the manor, the entire plan would crash and burn. Like everyone else in Finch, Grant would be incapable of keeping such a magnificent revelation to himself.

  “Why spoil such a nice Sunday with work?” I said, throwing myself into the breach. “I’ll bring the painting to you tomorrow. I’d like to hear your opinion of it.”

  Grant waved a hand toward Crabtree Cottage, saying, “Charles and I will be at home all day, Lori. Come whenever you like.”

  “Most kind.” Willis, Sr., nodded genially to Grant, then addressed the group at large. “If you will excuse me, I will attempt to lure my energetic grandsons from their playful pursuits. We would not want to be late for the excellent luncheon Mrs. Donovan is preparing for us.”

  “We certainly wouldn’t,” I chimed in, though it was the first I’d heard of Deirdre Donovan’s excellent luncheon.

  Willis, Sr., strolled toward Will and Rob and the churchyard scrum began to break up. Rainey scurried back to the tearoom, Lilian headed for the vicarage, and Bree Pym sailed past me, calling a cheery “Bye, aunties!” to the late Ruth and Louise Pym. The others, as if satiated by the juicy tidbits Willis, Sr., and I had tossed their way, peeled off in twos and threes until only the Taxmans and the Handmaidens remained.

  “Did you hear what William said?” Peggy growled, fixing her gimlet gaze on each of the Handmaidens in turn. “Stop pestering the poor man! He has important work to do!”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Millicent, blushing.

  “I’ve never been one to intrude,” said Opal, bristling.

  “Nor have I!” Elspeth exclaimed.

  “Judge not,” Selena intoned, staring hard at Peggy, “lest ye be judged.”

  The four women tossed their heads contemptuously, passed in single file through the lych-gate, and marched across the lane to their cottages.

  “Thanks, Peggy,” I said, after they’d gone. “They might have ignored William, but they’ll listen to you.”

  She regarded me shrewdly through her pointy glasses. “William’s anonymous client wouldn’t be from Mexico, would he?”

  I doubted that Rainey could have withstood such a brazen frontal assault, but I was made of sterner stuff. Though I flinched inwardly, I laughed out loud.

  “Mexico?” I said, chuckling merrily. “You’ve got Mexico on the brain, Peggy. If I hadn�
�t promised to keep mum about William’s client, I’d tell you where he comes from. As it is, I can’t even tell you that he’s not from Mexico.”

  “Humph,” Peggy grunted. She flicked an imperious finger toward her husband. “Come along, Jasper. The Emporium won’t open itself.”

  I smiled grimly as the Taxmans made their way out of the churchyard, up the lane, and across the village green to their general store. It seemed to me that the first phase of Aunt Dimity’s scheme had gone fairly well. Everyone but Peggy appeared to believe in Sally’s fabricated illness and in Willis, Sr.’s nonexistent client, and Peggy didn’t scare me. If Lilian and Bree could stand up to her, so could I.

  With the disinformation campaign firmly under way, I told myself, it was time to move on to phase two. A phone call after lunch would bring Sally and Rainey into the loop. Then the smuggling operation would begin.

  I called my menfolk to me and strode through the lych-gate with a militant swagger. Peggy’s bullying tactics had gotten my dander up. I was bound and determined to make Aunt Dimity’s plan succeed, if only for the pleasure of outfoxing the uncrowned empress of Finch.

  Seven

  After what was an indisputably excellent luncheon of exquisitely grilled dover sole, a goat cheese and heirloom tomato salad, glazed baby carrots, and a luscious raspberry compote, my family and I went our separate ways. Bill and his father took the boys off to explore a heavily wooded corner of the estate while I closeted myself in Willis, Sr.’s study and telephoned Sally Pyne.

  Sally was so pathetically grateful to me for offering her a way out of her predicament that she could scarcely take in a word I said. To be on the safe side, I explained the plot all over again to Rainey, who promised to pack what she called “Gran’s Lady Sarah clothes” and to have her grandmother ready to leave the tearoom at three o’clock.

  I was still seated at the walnut desk, rubbing life back into my phone-numbed ear, when someone rapped on the study door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The Donovans entered the room, Declan in his work clothes and Deirdre in the full-skirted white shirtdress she’d worn while serving lunch. Her long chestnut hair was bundled tidily into a black snood at the back of her head.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Lori,” she said. “Mr. Willis asked Declan to put the painting in your car, and I wanted to make sure that he took the right one.”

  “It’s pretty easy to identify,” I said, waving a hand toward the Sheraton sideboard. “It’s the nasty one sitting on the floor and the sooner it’s out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

  “Dear me,” said Declan, grimacing as he caught sight of the filthy picture. “It has seen better days, hasn’t it?”

  “It must have hung near a fireplace that smoked rather badly,” Deirdre observed. “Fetch a dust sheet from the storage room to wrap it in, Declan. Otherwise, you’ll leave a trail of soot behind you.”

  “I hear and obey.” Declan bowed to his wife with comic humility, then sauntered out of the room.

  I crossed to stand beside Deirdre, who was peering thoughtfully at the painting.

  “Was it in the house when Mr. Willis purchased it?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied. “The house was empty when William purchased it, but we found some stuff in one of the outbuildings—a book, a collection of paperweights—”

  “The Murano paperweights in the morning room?” Deirdre interjected.

  “That’s right,” I said. “The paperweights aren’t worth a great deal, but William decided to display them as relics of Fairworth’s history. The same goes for the brass compass in the billiards room, the enameled snuffboxes in the drawing room, and the flock of little silver sheep in the dining room. The silver sheep turned out to be Victorian salt and pepper shakers.” I nudged the painting gingerly with my toe. “A workman found this monstrosity wedged beneath a pile of rubble in the old stables. If it were mine, I’d put it on the scrap heap.”

  “You may think more highly of it after it’s been cleaned. I believe it’s from the late Victorian period.” Deirdre smiled briefly. “I could be wrong. I’m judging by the frame.”

  “You amaze me,” I said, giving her a sidelong glance. “Where did you learn to date picture frames?”

  “Oxford,” she replied. “I took a first in art history. One of my tutors was fanatical about frames, so I learned quite a lot about the art of frame-making—the art that frames the art, as he was fond of saying.”

  I was beginning to feel a faint twinge of annoyance every time Deirdre revealed a new area of expertise. I couldn’t imagine why a woman who cooked like Escoffier, spoke six languages, knew how to raise sheep, and possessed a degree in art history from an Oxford college would be content to work as a housekeeper.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “what brought you to Fairworth House?”

  Deirdre tore her gaze away from the painting and faced me. “Haven’t you read the papers Mrs. Trent sent to you?”

  “Not yet,” I told her. “I’ve been a little distracted lately, what with the housewarming party and all.”

  “I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch,” she said. “After Declan and I were married, we decided to go into business for ourselves. We opened a guesthouse in Connemara—in the west of Ireland, where Declan’s people come from.”

  “Is that where you learned about sheep?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, looking faintly surprised. “You can’t live in Ireland for any length of time without learning a thing or two about sheep. At any rate, our business ran smoothly for the first four years, but during the fifth year we were plagued with problems, major problems that closed us down and cost the earth to repair—a gale damaged the roof, a grease fire destroyed the kitchen. ...” She shook her head ruefully. “After the boiler burst, we’d had enough. We sold up and started new careers.”

  “Why these careers?” I pressed.

  “Why not?” she returned. “Declan and I enjoy working together and we’re good at what we do. We’re paid a substantial wage to live in a historic home in the heart of the English countryside, and we have a degree of independence without the burden of total responsibility.” She surveyed the sunlit study and smiled. “I can’t think of a much better life, can you?”

  I thought my own life could run circles around hers, but I understood her point. Managing a country house beat punching a corporate time clock, and if the roof leaked, it would be up to Willis, Sr., to pay for the repairs.

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Feel free to ask as many questions as you like, Lori. I’d expect nothing less from a devoted daughter-in-law.”

  The study door opened and Declan returned. Deirdre and I stood well back as he proceeded to wrap the painting in a dust sheet.

  “Mind the broken glass,” I cautioned. “I would have yanked it out with a pair of pliers, but William insisted on preserving it in place.”

  “No harm done,” Declan announced, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll put this rarity in your car, Lori, and you can take it away before the charade begins.”

  “Speaking of the charade ...” Deirdre turned to me. “Mr. Willis informed me that he doesn’t know when Señor Cocinero will arrive tomorrow, but I wondered if you could tell me when to expect Mrs.”—she quickly corrected herself—“Lady Sarah to arrive today?”

  “Lady Sarah will arrive at half past four or thereabouts,” I said. It was a rough guess. I knew how long it would take to drive to Chipping Norton and back, but I had no idea how long it would take to get Sally and her luggage into the Rover. “Have you chosen a bedroom for her?”

  “I have,” Deirdre assured me. “Mr. Willis will retain the master suite, Lady Sarah will have the rose suite, and I’ll put Señor Cocinero in the blue suite.”

  Willis, Sr., had, quite sensibly, named the bedrooms after their dominant colors. The rose and the blue suites were on opposite ends of the second story and across the corridor from
the master suite. Deirdre’s arrangement meant that Willis, Sr., would not have to share a wall with either of his guests. I was sure he would approve.

  “Do you know what to do after Señor Cocinero arrives?” I asked.

  “Mr. Willis has briefed us,” said Declan, nodding. “We’re to keep an eye on the Mexican gentleman and head him off if he makes a break for the village.”

  “We’re to make him comfortable, but not too comfortable,” Deirdre went on. “Mr. Willis wishes to discourage return visits.”

  “We’re to bar the doors to visitors while he’s here,” said Declan, “and never breathe a word about him to anyone after he’s gone.” He grinned. “Should be a lark.”

  “A lark?” I said skeptically. “It’ll be more difficult than you can possibly imagine. When it comes to spying, the villagers make the CIA look like a bunch of bumbling amateurs.”

  “Difficult’s better than dull,” Declan observed, laughing. He hoisted the painting into his arms. “Work to do, ladies. I’d best be off.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me as well, Lori,” Deirdre said. “Lady Sarah’s suite needs dusting and the blue suite needs to be aired. After I’ve finished upstairs, I’ll come back here and clean up the mess left behind by the painting. Lady Sarah would never approve of sooty smudges in her study.”

  A flutter of unease passed through me as the pair left the study. I should have been pleased by their good humor, their industriousness, and their willingness to follow what must have struck them as a very peculiar set of instructions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the delightful Donovans were simply too good to be true.

  Bill, Will, Rob, and I returned to the cottage around two o’clock. While I helped the boys to change from their Sunday best into shorts and T-shirts, Bill carried the painting into the study to make room in the Rover for Sally’s luggage. He also removed the twins’ booster seats from the backseat to make room for Sally, who would lie there, concealed beneath a quilt, while I smuggled her past the villagers on our way back from Chipping Norton. After a brief pause to catch my breath, I set out alone in the Rover, with a king-sized quilt folded discreetly on the backseat and a mind focused sharply on the job at hand.