I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I was scarcely conscious of my surroundings as I cruised past the curving drive that led to Anscombe Manor, negotiated the sharp bend near the redbrick house Bree Pym had inherited from her great-grandaunts, and passed the mouth of Willis, Sr.’s drive. I snapped out of my reverie, however, when I beheld the scene that greeted me as I drove over the humpbacked bridge and looked down on Finch.
The tearoom’s curtains were drawn and a CLOSED sign hung ostentatiously on its front door. The village green, by contrast, was a buzzing beehive of activity. The Handmaidens were perched like a row of twittering budgerigars on the bench near the war memorial. Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham were weeding the flower beds that surrounded the memorial while their little dogs, Goya and Matisse, frolicked with Buster, Mr. Barlow’s cairn terrier.
Mr. Barlow, George Wetherhead, and Miranda Morrow appeared to be discussing notices posted on the message board outside of the old schoolhouse, and the Buntings were passing the time of day with the Peacocks, who were seated on sturdy captain’s chairs in front of their pub, with Grog, their basset hound, curled in a rumpled heap between them.
Last but never least, Peggy Taxman stood in the doorway of the Emporium, barking orders to her husband, who was manning the bins in front of the greengrocer’s shop.
Conversations ceased and heads swiveled in my direction as I drove across the humpbacked bridge. I could tell simply by looking from one alert face to the next that my neighbors had gulped down their Sunday lunches in order to be on hand to watch Sally emerge from her sickbed.
I climbed out of the Rover, called hello to those who were near enough to hear me, waved to the others, and rang the bell near the side door Sally used to reach her second-floor flat. The door opened abruptly and Sally appeared, blinking owlishly in the sunlight and leaning heavily on her granddaughter’s arm. Sally was swathed in a voluminous woolen cape and a thick felt hat, but she’d done nothing to conceal her face. It was a canny move on her part, because it allowed the curious to see just how dreadful she looked.
Two days of stress-induced weeping and a clever choice of outerwear had provided Sally with an impenetrable disguise. No one observing her splotchy cheeks, crimson nose, and swollen eyes could doubt that she was suffering from an exceptionally virulent head cold, and the sheen of perspiration on her forehead could plausibly be attributed to a high fever rather than to a decision to wear a wool cape on a hot summer’s day. Sally strengthened the illusion of dire illness by emitting a series of rasping coughs and hobbling along as if she were one step away from a slab in Upper Deeping’s mortuary.
Rainey handed her grandmother to me, then dragged an enormous suitcase from the doorway and loaded it into the Rover’s cargo compartment. I boosted Sally into the passenger seat, climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and lowered Sally’s window, to give Rainey a chance to bid her grandmother a fond farewell.
“Sorry about the suitcase,” Rainey murmured, rolling her eyes. “Gran insisted on cramming her entire wardrobe into it.” In a louder voice, she said, “Say hello to Great-aunt Judith for me, Gran. And don’t worry about the shop. I’ll keep the kettle boiling and the pastries fresh.”
Sally raised a pudgy hand to bestow a feeble pat on her granddaughter’s cheek, then slumped in her seat and resumed coughing. I closed her window and drove the length of the village green, acknowledging with somber nods the cries of “Take care, Sally!” and “Come back soon!” that accompanied our departure.
“I can’t wait to get out of this confounded cape,” Sally grumbled as we passed St. George’s. “I’m sweating like a horse.”
“Keep it on until we’re past Hodge Farm,” I ordered. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Annie Hodge will be on the lookout for you.”
“I did well, though, didn’t I?” Sally asked, with a touch of pride. “The hat was Rainey’s idea, but I came up with the cough.”
“The cough was very convincing,” I agreed. “But I’m not handing out any acting awards yet. Your most challenging role is still to come.”
Peggy Taxman just happened to be standing on the highest point of the humpbacked bridge when I returned to Finch at half past four, with Sally lying flat on the Rover’s backseat, hidden beneath my king-sized quilt.
I somehow doubted that Peggy was there to observe fish. While the rest of the villagers had abandoned the village green, the empress had placed herself in a position that would allow her to gaze down on the Rover as I approached the bridge and to scrutinize its interior as I drove past her.
“Stay under the quilt,” I murmured, without moving my lips.
“Eh?” said Sally. She clearly hadn’t understood a word I’d said.
“Stay put and don’t move,” I snapped, covering my mouth with my hand. “Peggy’s trying to ambush us.”
“Interfering old cat,” Sally muttered. “Good thing we tucked my valise under here with me. Ugh,” she grunted. “The blasted thing is digging a hole in my leg.”
“Hush,” I said urgently. I increased the pressure on the gas pedal and favored Peggy with a carefree smile as we bounced up and over the bridge. I could feel her hawklike gaze boring into the back of my head as I turned into Willis, Sr.’s drive and I wouldn’t allow Sally to sit up until we’d rounded a curve lined with trees that effectively blocked Peggy’s view.
“Look at me,” Sally complained, as she pushed the quilt aside. “I’m swimming in sweat. Don’t know why you had to use a quilt, Lori. A sheet would have been more comfortable in this weather.”
“If you don’t stop whingeing,” I growled, “I’ll make you walk the rest of the way.”
Sally had spent the past hour and a half pointing out the weaknesses in Aunt Dimity’s plan. Though I realized that her nitpicking arose from sheer nervousness, I was so tired of listening to her fretful chorus of what-ifs that I couldn’t wait to deliver her to Willis, Sr.
I wanted to let out a shout of relief when Fairworth’s front door opened mere seconds after I’d parked the car on the graveled apron. As Sally and I climbed out of the Rover, Willis, Sr., descended the front steps, flanked by the Donovans. Declan hurried forward to retrieve the suitcase, which he carried into the house, and Deirdre stayed subserviently in the background while Willis, Sr., approached Sally with open arms.
“Bienvenida, Lady Sarah,” he said. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“Sorry?” said Sally uncomprehendingly.
“Welcome, Lady Sarah,” Willis, Sr., translated. “My house is your house.”
Sally’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, thank you, William. I’m so very sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“I can assure you that it is no trouble at all,” said Willis, Sr. “Mrs. Donovan will show you to your suite and unpack your bag for you. When you are quite ready, you may join me for tea in the drawing room.”
“Tea in the drawing room ...,” Sally said dazedly. “It sounds like something out of a play.”
“It is something out of a play,” I muttered.
Willis, Sr., gave me a quelling look, then spoke to Sally.
“Lady Sarah is quite accustomed to taking tea in the drawing room,” he told her gently. “Over tea, we will discuss your daily routine. Afterward, I will give you a tour of Fairworth. If you are to play the role of Lady Sarah convincingly, you will have to familiarize yourself with your ancestral home.”
“Very true,” Sally agreed, drying her eyes on her cape. “It wouldn’t do to send Henrique into an airing cupboard instead of the loo.”
“It would not,” Willis, Sr., said gravely. “Mrs. Donovan?”
Deirdre executed a flawless bob curtsy and led a bemused Sally Pyne into Fairworth House. Willis, Sr., remained behind to confer with me.
“Did the smuggling operation proceed smoothly?” he inquired.
“Like butter,” I replied. “Peggy tried to catch us out, but we slipped through her fingers.”
“Mrs. Taxman is a persistent woma
n,” he commented unnecessarily. “We will have to maintain a high degree of vigilance if we are to avoid falling into the traps she will no doubt lay for us.”
“We could ask Jasper to lock her in the storeroom at the Emporium until Henrique leaves,” I suggested.
“An amusing if impractical proposition,” said Willis, Sr. “You will be happy to know that I have devised a more sensible solution to a problem that may surface tomorrow.”
“Which problem?” I asked. “There are so many to choose from.”
“It has occurred to me,” he said, “that Señor Cocinero may stop in the village to ask for directions to Lady Sarah’s home.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said, clapping a hand to my forehead. “If he goes into the Emporium, Peggy’ll grill him until he squeals.”
“Precisely.” Willis, Sr., nodded. “Should Señor Cocinero ask for directions, you must be the one to give them to him. Can you devise a reasonable excuse for loitering in Finch until he appears? We have no idea when to expect him, so you may be there all day.”
“Trust me,” I said. “I know how to kill time in Finch. After I drop off the painting at Crabtree Cottage, I can mosey over to Bill’s office, do some shopping at the Emporium, linger over a glass of lemonade at the pub, and have a snack at the tearoom. If you factor in incidental chitchat, I could spend up to eight hours loitering in Finch. I’m not sure how I’ll identify Henrique, though. I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Señor Cocinero is a well-to-do Mexican gentleman in late middle age,” Willis, Sr., reminded me. “He will, I suspect, stand out like a chili pepper in a blancmange as he drives through the village.”
“Good point,” I said. “If he stops in the village for any reason, I’ll introduce myself to him, hop in his car, and get him away before anyone can give him the third degree.”
“Excellent.” Willis, Sr., consulted his pocket watch, then returned it to his waistcoat pocket. “I must leave you now, to attend to Lady Sarah’s education, but I have one more question to ask before I go: Did you by any chance remove the brass compass from the billiards room?”
“No,” I replied, frowning. “Why? Is it missing?”
“It is not in its usual place,” Willis, Sr., acknowledged.
My frown deepened. “You don’t suppose someone at the party—”
“Certainly not,” Willis, Sr., cut in. “Please give my guests some credit, Lori. If there had been a thief among them, he or she would have pocketed something more valuable than the brass compass.”
“Where is it, then?” I asked.
“Mrs. Donovan must have taken it to the kitchen for polishing. She is a meticulous and conscientious housekeeper.” Willis, Sr., drew in a deep breath of fresh country air and rubbed his palms together vigorously. “I will bid you good evening, my dear. I must say that I am looking forward to transforming Mrs. Pyne into Lady Sarah. I feel as inspired as Professor Henry Higgins must have felt when he chanced upon Eliza Doolittle.”
Whistling a jaunty tune from My Fair Lady, Willis, Sr., mounted the steps, leaving me to stare after him, openmouthed.
I had never before heard my father-in-law whistle.
“It’s the fresh paint,” I muttered. “The fumes have addled his brain.”
I shook my head and returned to the Rover, feeling every bit as bemused as Sally Pyne.
Eight
“It’s the fresh paint,” I repeated firmly, gazing down at the blue journal. “The fumes have addled William’s brain.”
The ormolu clock in the study had just finished chiming half past ten. My sons, my husband, and my husband’s cat were in bed and asleep. Only Reginald was awake to keep me company while I spoke with Aunt Dimity. His black button eyes glittered attentively in the firelight as I went on.
“I’m telling you, Dimity, William is not himself,” I insisted. “He jumped into hiring the Donovans, he jumped into playing Lady Sarah’s American cousin, he keeps going on about sheep, and now he’s whistling! What’s next? Tap-dancing? ” I shook my head worriedly. “It must be the paint. It’s a proven fact that inhaling paint fumes can do funny things to a person’s brain.”
As I paused to chew on a thumbnail, Aunt Dimity’s familiar copperplate flowed confidently across the page.
There is nothing wrong with William’s brain, Lori. First of all, it’s grossly inaccurate to say that he “jumped” into hiring the Donovans. You told me yourself that he reviewed their applications thoroughly before engaging them.
“He did,” I acknowledged grudgingly. “But what about the rest of it?”
I would blame William’s atypical behavior on retirement rather than paint fumes. Active men tend to fear retirement, Lori. They’re ill-equipped to deal with leisure time and they detest the notion of pursuing meaningless hobbies. They prefer diversions that stimulate the imagination and challenge the mind. Having finished one major project—the renovation of Fairworth House—
“Fairworth isn’t finished,” I interjected. “There’s lots of landscaping left to do and he still has to rebuild those ruined outbuildings.”
Landscaping and construction projects are absorbing in their own ways, but they can’t compete with the thrill of the human drama. William is and always will be an attorney, Lori. He enjoys pitting his wits against another’s.
“He drew up wills and did estate planning for rich people,” I said. “How much wit-pitting does that take?”
A great deal, I promise you, especially when one is dealing with clients as fractious and exacting as William’s. As I was saying ... having finished one major project, William looked for another. Sally appeared as if by magic and served him a compelling human predicament on a plate. Is it any wonder that he “jumped” into the role of Lady Sarah’s American cousin? What could possibly be more exhilarating than an attempt to pull the wool over the eyes of an entire village, not to mention those of the unsuspecting Señor Cocinero?
“William’s having fun,” I said, as comprehension dawned. “That’s why he’s whistling.”
You have seen the light at last, Lori. William is having the time of his life refining and implementing my original plan for safeguarding Sally’s reputation. I suspect that it appeals to him because of its novelty as well as its complexity. It’s unlike anything he’s ever done before.
“How do you explain his sheep fixation?” I asked.
I refute the word fixation.William is simply planning ahead. Remember, Lori, Señor Cocinero will be gone by Wednesday. When the grand charade comes to an end, William will move on to his sheep project.
“Sheep aren’t part of the thrilling human drama,” I objected. “If what you’re saying is true, Dimity, the sheep project won’t be enough to satisfy William.” I groaned softly. “Will I have to engineer a never-ending series of human dramas to keep my father-in-law happy?”
I doubt it. The villagers—and the Handmaidens in particular—are more than capable of providing William with all of the human drama he requires.
I laughed. “I can’t argue with you, Dimity. Life in Finch is full of drama.” I glanced at the dust sheet-wrapped painting Bill had deposited in the study. “Life in Fairworth House is becoming more interesting, too, and not only because of the grand charade. It’s possible that someone stole the brass compass from the billiards room.”
The compass recovered from the old stables?
“That’s the one,” I confirmed.
Have you asked the twins if they know where it is?
“Are you accusing my sons of theft?” I asked, knowing full well that Aunt Dimity would never do such a thing.
Don’t be absurd, Lori. Seven-year-old grandsons don’t steal from their grandfather. They borrow. The brass compass is just the sort of gadget that would captivate a pair of intrepid little explorers like Will and Rob. If I were you, I’d ask them about it in the morning.
“I’ll hold off until I speak with William,” I said. “He thinks Deirdre Donovan, the patron saint of housekeepers, took the compass
to the kitchen for cleaning. I don’t know why she would,” I added. “I polished it myself last week and when I saw it last night, it was perfectly clean and shiny. But I guess my standards aren’t as high as hers.”
Do I detect a note of peevishness in your voice, my dear?
“Probably,” I admitted. I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, then burst out, “Have you ever met someone who’s good at everything, Dimity? Deirdre’s a brainy, attractive neat-freak who can cook. It’s enormously irritating.”
Indeed it is. I’m sure you’ll agree, however, that it’s better for William to have a multitalented housekeeper than a useless one.
“I suppose so,” I conceded. “But it’s still irritating.” A yawn escaped me and I glanced at the clock. “Time for me to hit the hay, Dimity. I have to be in Finch early tomorrow, to get a jump on Henrique Watch.”
I wish you the best of luck, Lori, and the quickest of reflexes. You’ll have to move fast to keep Peggy Taxman from flinging herself in front of Señor Cocinero’s car.
I chuckled as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and returned it to its shelf. After saying good night to Reginald, I banked the fire, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs.
As I climbed into bed beside Bill, I made a mental note to ask Deirdre to air Fairworth House thoroughly before the week was out. Though Aunt Dimity had convinced me that Willis, Sr., was as sane as he’d ever been, I wanted to make sure he stayed that way.
Willis, Sr., telephoned during breakfast on Monday morning to let me know that the missing compass had, as he’d suspected, been taken to the kitchen by Deirdre Donovan, who’d subjected it to a rigorous scrubbing, using an environmentally sound polishing paste of her own invention. I suppressed the urge to hiss like a spiteful cat and asked how Lady Sarah was holding up.
“She is understandably overwhelmed by the situation,” he informed me. “But I believe she will calm down by the time Señor Cocinero arrives. Mrs. Donovan is taking great pains to put her at ease, as am I, naturally.”
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 8
