“The collection’s monetary worth is irrelevant,” Willis, Sr., interrupted. “The snuffboxes are fragments of Fairworth’s history. I do not intend to part with any of them on a whim, especially when the whim is not my own. Now, if you will excuse me, I must try once more to make myself clear to the glazier.”
Willis, Sr., smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, and reentered the conservatory, looking marginally less frantic.
I stood with my mouth agape, staring into the middle distance in stunned silence. How, I asked myself, had a collection of snuffboxes worth two hundred thousand pounds found its way into the rubble of the old stables? More importantly, how could Willis, Sr., be so foolish as to display it in an unlocked glass case in the drawing room?
I hadn’t even included the snuffboxes in my inventory of small treasures because I’d been under the impression that they were nothing more than decorative gewgaws. An Oxford scholar with a degree in art history might know better. I made a mental note to count the snuffboxes carefully before the day was through, then set out for the study.
I found Sally and Henrique seated at a gate-leg games table that had been filched from the billiards room. Henrique wore a loose-fitting muslin shirt, white trousers, and huaraches. Sally was dressed in sparkly flip-flops and a flowing white caftan with a colorfully embroidered yoke. Her tiara was firmly in place and the snowflake-shaped pendant glittered at her breast.
“Lori!” Henrique exclaimed jovially. “How lovely you are today, all in yellow, like el botón de oro—the buttercup, I think you say.”
“Thanks, Henrique,” I said, smoothing my silk dress and pulling a chair up to the table. “You’re looking good, too. How’s the game going?”
“Lady Sarah wins two times in a row,” he replied, bowing to Sally. “She is the backgammon queen.”
“I’m nothing of the sort,” said Sally, blushing. “It’s all a matter of luck.”
“And concentration,” said Henrique. “The workers, they make a racket, but Lady Sarah does not notice.”
“Cousin William forgot to tell me that they were coming.” Sally gave me a meaningful look, then twirled a hand in the air and said blithely, “As a rule, I don’t pay much attention to repairs and maintenance and suchlike. I leave all the mucky jobs to dear Cousin William.”
“It is good to have a man in the house,” Henrique purred.
As he caught and held Sally’s gaze, I could almost feel the glowing ember’s heat rise between them. I cleared my throat to keep the glow from bursting into flames and they turned to peer at me politely.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked, grasping at the first question that came to mind.
“Like the contented baby,” Henrique replied. “The soft music does not disturb me at all.”
“Soft music?” I said blankly.
“Henrique told me just now that he heard music coming through his bedroom ceiling late last night,” Sally said indignantly. “I’ll have a thing or two to say to the Donovans about their stereo, I can tell you.”
“Please do not speak to the Donovans,” said Henrique. “I like this big band music.”
“Big band music?” I echoed stupidly.
“Benny Goodman,” he clarified. “Mi madre, she adored Benny Goodman, and I, too, like him very much. The music is soft, it comes and goes very quickly. It is no trouble.”
“In that case, I won’t say a word about it,” Sally said, with a gracious nod.
“You will permit us to continue our game?” Henrique asked me, gesturing to the backgammon board.
“Play on,” I said.
While they rolled the dice and moved the checkers, I leaned back in my chair and slowly lifted my gaze to the ceiling. Neither Willis, Sr., nor Sally had complained about a late-night concert, which meant that the Donovans’ sound system had to be located directly above Henrique’s bed. How the couple could work all day, then listen to Benny Goodman’s blazing clarinet all night was beyond me. They were beginning to seem superhuman.
There was nothing remotely superhuman about Sally and Henrique. As the game progressed, Sally stopped simpering, became openly competitive, and began to lose her bizarre accent. Henrique seemed to relish everything she said and did, and the more delightful he found her, the more delightfully herself she became. It was a touching, very human scene, and I found myself wishing that Sally could see it through my eyes.
In the midst of their fifth hotly contested game—Sally had won the previous four—the study door opened and the carpenter put his head into the room.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said to Sally. “But Liam and I are pining for a cuppa. It’s gone eleven and we’re parched.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Sally. She caught herself, then added loftily, “Since my cook is busy elsewhere.”
“Always so thoughtful,” Henrique murmured. He turned to the carpenter and said solemnly, “It is a great pity that your work will be eaten by the deathwatch beetle.”
“Eh?” said the carpenter, looking startled.
“Tea!” I said, jumping to my feet. “Lady Sarah, take Henrique to the kitchen with you. I’m sure he’ll enjoy seeing your, er, appliances.”
“Come along, Henrique,” she said, and hustled him past the carpenter and out of the room.
“What’s all this about deathwatch beetles?” the carpenter demanded. “It’s the first I’ve heard of them.”
“You’ll have to forgive William’s guest,” I told him. “He seems to think that every house in England is infested with deathwatch beetles. If he mentions it again, just smile and nod.”
“Right, then,” said the carpenter, mollified. “I’ll get back to work.”
I chewed my lower lip worriedly. I wasn’t sure how I would keep the workmen away from Sally if she served tea to them. While I was pondering my options, my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my purse, wondering what new emergency had cropped up while I’d been sequestered in the study.
“Lori?” said Willis, Sr. “Would you please join me in the drawing room? Something rather odd has happened to my snuffboxes.”
“I’m on my way,” I said tersely.
I shoved the phone into my shoulder bag and hightailed it for the drawing room. I was so certain that the snuffboxes had been stolen that I shouted “Aha!” when I saw the empty display cabinet.
“Aha?” said Willis, Sr.
“That’s right,” I said, nodding vigorously. “Aha! That’s what you say when you uncover a crime.”
“I do not know what book you are reading at the moment,” said Willis, Sr., “but if it is a detective novel, I suggest that you put it aside for a while. It has clearly inflamed your imagination. No crime has been committed, Lori.”
“Then where are your snuffboxes?” I demanded.
“There,” he said, pointing over my shoulder.
I wheeled around and saw that the snuffboxes had been arranged in a neat circle on the low table beside the infamous Chippendale armchair.
“What are they doing there?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said Willis, Sr. “Would I be correct in assuming that you did not put them there?”
“Of course I didn’t put them there,” I said, turning to face him. “Did you?”
“I did not.” Willis, Sr., rubbed his chin. “It seems farfetched to believe that one of the laborers was seized by an uncontrollable impulse to redecorate my drawing room, and Lady Sarah denies all knowledge of the prank. Since Fairworth is, to my knowledge, untroubled by poltergeists, I have summoned Mrs. Donovan, in hopes that she will provide us with a rational explanation for this as well as one other anomaly.”
“What other anomaly?” I asked.
“The brass compass has been removed from the billiards room,” he replied. “It now resides on the map case in the library. Ah, Mrs. Donovan,” he continued as Deirdre entered the drawing room. “I apologize for interrupting your morning routine, but I wonder if you can explain ... this.” He gestured first at the display
cabinet, then at the low table. “As you can see, my snuffboxes are not in their usual place.”
Deirdre’s eyes shifted from the table to the cabinet, then focused on Willis, Sr. For a split second I had the distinct impression that she was as puzzled as we were, but she answered readily enough.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “I took the snuffboxes out of the cabinet this morning because I wanted to dust the shelves. When the workmen arrived, I must have been so flustered that I forgot to put them back.”
“And the compass?” asked Willis, Sr.
“The compass, sir?” she said.
“The compass that was once in the billiards room,” said Willis, Sr., “is now on the map case in the library.”
“If you’ll forgive me, sir,” she said, “it makes more sense to display a compass near maps than near a billiards table.”
“As it happens, I agree with you,” said Willis, Sr., “and for that reason I will leave the compass where you have placed it. I must insist once again, however, that you consult with me before you make even the slightest alteration to my decor.”
“Yes, sir,” said Deirdre.
I watched her beadily as she transferred each snuffbox from the table to the display case. I couldn’t accuse her of theft because she hadn’t stolen anything, and I couldn’t tell Willis, Sr., that she was preparing the ground for a future robbery because I would only sound paranoid. The one thing I could do was to let her know, in a subtle way, that I had my eye on her.
“I count ten boxes,” I observed as she closed the cabinet door. “Ten boxes. Not eight. Not nine. Ten.”
“Your arithmetical skill has been noted,” said Willis, Sr., eyeing me with mild curiosity. “That there are ten snuffboxes in the collection cannot be disputed. Why you should feel the need to state the obvious is—” He broke off suddenly and cocked his head to one side. “Do I hear ... singing?”
I held my breath and listened.
“Yes,” I said. “I hear it, too. Benny Goodman didn’t sing, did he?”
“Benny Goodman?” said Willis, Sr., raising his eyebrows.
“It’s coming from the billiards room,” said Deirdre.
“Let us investigate,” said Willis, Sr.
My father-in-law gave me a perplexed, sidelong look, then led the way up the main corridor and through the library to the billiards room, where evidence of my failure to keep the workmen segregated from Sally and Henrique was on full display.
Henrique sat on the edge of a tapestry wing chair at the far end of the room, strumming a guitar and singing a soulful Mexican ditty before an appreciative audience composed of the plasterer, the glazier, the carpenter, their assistants, and Sally. Henrique had a wonderful singing voice and an even better stage presence. His listeners were clearly entranced by his performance and when he finished, they gave him a big round of applause and called for another song. He happily obliged.
Willis, Sr., motioned abruptly for Deirdre and me to retreat with him to the library. We complied, closing the door behind us.
“Where did the guitar come from?” I asked.
“It must belong to one of the laborers,” said Deirdre. “Mr. Cocinero didn’t have a guitar case in his baggage.”
“We are not here to discuss guitars,” said Willis, Sr., with a touch of asperity. “We have a much greater problem to resolve. The workmen must not be allowed to visit Peacock’s pub.”
“How can we stop them?” I asked.
“Feed them lunch?” Deirdre suggested. “If they’re well fed when they leave here, they’ll be less tempted to stop in Finch for pub grub and a pint. I can whip up bangers and mash in a trice.”
“Sausages and mashed potatoes,” I translated. I was fairly certain that Willis, Sr., had never in his life encountered a dish as plebeian as bangers and mash.
“If I hurry,” Deirdre continued, “I may be able to reach Declan while he’s still in Upper Deeping. He can bring a case of lager back with him.”
“We cannot send the men home inebriated,” Willis, Sr., protested.
“I’ll limit them to one bottle apiece,” said Deirdre, “and I’ll fill them up with starchy food. If they work for another hour or so after lunch, they’ll have no trouble driving home.”
Willis, Sr., contemplated the plan briefly, then nodded.
“Make it so,” he said to Deirdre.
A roar of laughter exploded in the billiards room as Deirdre raced to the kitchen, cell phone in hand. I opened the door a crack and saw Henrique juggling billiard balls.
“Henrique’s the life of the party,” I murmured. “And Sally’s his biggest fan.”
“Has she no sense of self-preservation?” Willis, Sr., asked wistfully.
“I’m afraid not,” I said, smiling. “She’s a woman in love.”
Sixteen
A blanket of blessed silence descended on Fairworth House when the workmen called it quits at three o’clock. They’d finished the finishing touches in good spirits, heartened by the meal Deirdre had provided and energized by the entertainment Henrique had supplied. Henrique and Sally, worn out by the festivities, had repaired to their rooms for naps once they’d finished waving good-bye to their new best friends.
I sat with Willis, Sr., in the drawing room, awaiting the arrival of a pot of chamomile tea and a few easily digested nibbles. Though the bangers and mash had looked appetizing—Henrique had cooed over each bite—neither Willis, Sr., nor I had sampled more than a forkful. Willis, Sr., had been too agitated to eat and I’d been too busy keeping the party from getting out of hand.
“Will and Rob,” said Willis, Sr., as if he’d just remembered their existence. “Who is caring for my grandsons?”
“Kit Smith,” I told him. “I called Anscombe Manor around noon and asked Kit to feed them. He said he’d take them on a trail ride afterward. Trust me, they’re happy campers.”
“They are fond of their ponies,” Willis, Sr., agreed. He sank more deeply into his chair and rested his clasped hands on his waistcoat. “Thank you for staying here with me, Lori. Thank you for preventing the carpenter from performing his clog dance on the dining room table.”
“No problem,” I said.
“Thank you for rescuing my spoons from the plasterer when he threatened to play a tune on them,” Willis, Sr., continued.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me, William,” I said, embarrassed.
“Ah, but I do,” he returned. “Without you to steady me, I would have lost my temper when Señor Cocinero began to do magic tricks with my Victorian salt and pepper shakers. Having resurrected them from the depths of old stables, I was understandably reluctant to see them disappear again.”
Bill would have laughed like a hyena at the thought of his panic-prone wife steadying his unflappable father, but I felt that I’d earned the accolade. Every time I’d sensed a spike in Willis, Sr.’s blood pressure during lunch, I’d reminded him, sotto voce, that it was better to have the men lunching with us than gossiping at Peacock’s pub. Although he’d muttered “We can still send them there” at one point, my influence had, on the whole, been a calming one.
“Your little flock of silver sheep is intact,” I assured him. “I counted them after Henrique finished pulling them out of people’s ears.”
“You counted my snuffboxes, too,” Willis, Sr., commented idly. “Why?”
I had no wish to burden my father-in-law with a fresh set of worries, so I said lightly, “It never hurts to keep track of things.”
“True,” said Willis, Sr. “Very true.”
Deirdre appeared with the tea tray, which she placed on the low table at my elbow. While I poured the tea and cut generous wedges from the rather plain-looking cake she’d baked, she turned to address Willis, Sr.
“I have good news to report, sir,” she said. “The workmen bypassed the pub on their way through Finch.”
“How do you know?” asked Willis, Sr., sitting upright.
“Declan,” she said. “He parked himself
on the war memorial bench about thirty minutes ago, to keep an eye on Peacock’s pub. As soon as he sat down, four women converged on him to ask if I’d made any decisions about hiring extra help, then stuck around to quiz him about the state of things at Fairworth. Declan said that when the workmen saw the four women, they rolled up their windows and raced out of Finch as if the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels.”
It was, I thought, a fair description of the Handmaidens.
“All’s well that ends well, sir,” Deirdre concluded.
“You and your husband are marvelous,” said Willis, Sr., in an almost awed voice. “Simply marvelous. I am grateful to both of you for—”
“Deirdre,” I broke in, peering curiously at the cake. Its single layer was round, unfrosted, and oddly familiar. “Is this seed cake?”
“Yes,” she said. “You requested something simple.”
I passed a piece of cake to Willis, Sr., and bit into my own.
In an instant I was transported back to a sunny afternoon nearly a decade earlier, when I’d invited the late Ruth and Louise Pym to tea at the cottage. I’d baked a seed cake for them then, using a recipe I’d found in an old, dog-eared cookbook that had belonged to Aunt Dimity. It is so difficult these days, Ruth had said, to find real seed cake.
Ruth wouldn’t have hesitated to classify the cake Deirdre had baked as real seed cake. It was virtually identical in size, color, texture, aroma, and flavor to the cake I’d served to the Pym sisters.
“Where did you get the recipe?” I asked, when the unsettling wave of déjà vu had passed.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Deirdre said. “I’ve collected so many recipes over the years that it’s difficult to recall where each one came from.”
“Your seed cake resembles one my daughter-in-law makes from time to time,” Willis, Sr., explained.
“I see,” said Deirdre, nodding. “Perhaps we own the same cookbook.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“While we’re on the subject of books,” said Willis, Sr., “would you be so kind as to retrieve a book from the desk in my study and bring it to me, Mrs. Donovan? It is entitled Notes on Sheep. My daughter-in-law wishes to borrow it.”
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 15
