I gave him a furtive glance, wondering if he’d decided to punish me for interrupting his praise of the Donovans.
“Of course, sir,” said Deirdre. “Will there be anything else?”
“Dare I ask about the dinner menu?” said Willis, Sr., with a delicate wince.
“Since Mr. Cocinero enjoyed the trotters, sir, I thought I’d try mushy peas and burnt beef burgers tonight,” said Deirdre. “I’ve never met a foreigner who likes mushy peas.”
Willis, Sr., shrugged philosophically. “I will bear up under the strain if you will prepare something palatable for me after my guests have gone to their rooms. Last night’s chop was delectable.”
“I’m already working on it, sir,” said Deirdre, and she left the drawing room, smiling.
“Mrs. Donovan is a treasure,” murmured Willis, Sr., easing himself back into his chair.
I finished my tea in thoughtful silence.
I left Fairworth a half hour later, with Notes on Sheep in my hand and a host of unanswered questions tumbling through my head. After swapping cars with Bill, I brought Will and Rob home from Anscombe Manor, bathed them, dressed them in clean clothes, threatened them with grievous bodily harm if they played in the dirt before dinner, and began to throw a meal together.
The boys settled at the kitchen table with crayons and drawing paper to record their afternoon’s adventure for posterity. I was too preoccupied to listen closely as they described their trail ride with Kit, but maternal instinct enabled me to ooh and aah in all the right places, and when I asked the boys to help me set the table, they were content to move their drawings to the desk in the study.
Bill was equally preoccupied when he came home from work. One of his favorite clients, a Bavarian art collector named Karla Schniering, had suffered a massive stroke from which she was unlikely to recover.
“There’s bound to be a family squabble when Frau Schniering dies,” he told me over dinner. “I may have to leave for Munich at a moment’s notice, to make sure that no one reinterprets her will.”
“I’ll pack a bag for you tonight,” I said. I was accustomed to Bill’s sudden departures. As an estate attorney with an international clientele, he was always on call.
“Are you going away, Daddy?” Will asked.
“Not tonight,” said Bill. “But I may have to take a trip tomorrow.”
“Why?” asked Rob.
“Because a very nice old lady is about to die.” Bill didn’t believe in sugarcoating the facts of life, but he did believe in framing them in terms that made sense to his children. “When she does, I’ll have to make sure that her toys go to the right people.”
“Does she have little boys?” Will asked interestedly.
“She has four grown-up sons,” said Bill. “And they don’t get along very well.”
“Oh,” said Rob, with an air of enlightenment. “They’ll fight over the toys.”
“If they fight too much,” Will said, after a meditative pause, “you can take the toys away.”
“And bring them to us,” said Rob.
“We won’t fight over them,” Will promised.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Bill said gravely.
“Who wants blackberry crumble?” I asked, and blackberry-picking swiftly replaced death as the prime topic of conversation.
The thunderstorm began after dinner. While I cleared the kitchen, Bill and the boys hunkered down on the window seat in the living room to count the seconds between flashes and booms. At half past seven, Bill took the boys up to bed, as he always did on the night before a journey.
He spent the rest of the evening in his armchair, monitoring Frau Schniering’s declining health via the telephone and his laptop. Stanley, as if sensing the gravity of the situation, rubbed his head against Bill’s leg, then curled up in a gleaming black ball on the window seat.
I didn’t want to distract Bill with my unanswered questions, so I stretched out on the sofa and read Notes on Sheep. I’d expected the book to be a dry-as-dust instructional manual on sheep rearing, but it turned out to be a well-crafted meditation on the importance of sheep to the Cotswolds. I was so pleasantly surprised that I couldn’t keep myself from sharing a few fun facts with Bill.
“Did you know that the Romans introduced the longwool sheep breeds to Britain?” I asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” said Bill, tapping away at his keyboard.
“Did you know that the word Cotswolds comes from ‘cote,’ meaning a sheep enclosure, and ‘wolds,’ meaning rolling, treeless hills?” I asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” said Bill.
“Did you know that Cotswold Sheep used to have bat wings and venomous fangs?” I asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” said Bill.
I closed Notes on Sheep and got to my feet.
“If you need me, I’ll be in the study,” I said.
“Venomous fangs,” Bill said without glancing up from his computer. “See? I’m listening.”
“You’re an amazing multitasker,” I said, “but you should focus on Frau Schniering right now. She needs your attention more than I do.”
I gently ruffled his hair and left him to his sad vigil.
Windswept rain washed in waves against the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk in the study. I lit a fire in the hearth to chase away the chill in the storm-cooled air and touched a finger to Reginald’s snout.
“It’s a good night to be indoors, Reg,” I said. “Especially if you’re made of flannel.”
Smiling, I pulled the blue journal from its shelf and snuggled up with it in the tall leather armchair before the fire.
“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “I’m here earlier than I was last night. Do I get a gold star on my report card?”
I chuckled as Aunt Dimity’s elegant copperplate curled and looped across the page.
Two gold stars, my dear, and a silver moon. Tell me quickly: Has Sally been unmasked?
“No,” I said. “The Lady Sarah charade continues, but something strange is definitely going on at Fairworth.”
Something stranger than the charade?
“A whole lot stranger,” I confirmed. “But I’d better start at the beginning. I don’t want to leave anything out.”
I’m all ears. Metaphorically speaking.
“Okay,” I said. “My day began with a phone call from William. . . .”
I spoke steadily while the fire snapped and crackled and the rain continued to fall, recounting everything that had happened at Fairworth from the moment I’d arrived to the moment I’d left. I told Aunt Dimity about the workmen, the Benny Goodman music, the impromptu hootenanny in the billiards room, the bangers and mash luncheon, the Handmaidens’ unwitting role in protecting Sally’s secret, and the eerily familiar seed cake. I gave particular emphasis to the snuffboxes’ monetary value and to Deirdre’s confession that she had moved them as well as the brass compass, just as she’d moved the settee and the Chippendale armchair. When I finished, I felt more confused than ever.
“The snuffboxes and the compass fit into your theft theory,” I said, “but I don’t see how they relate to the music Henrique heard in his bedroom last night or to the seed cake.”
Must everything be related?
The question brought me up short. I’d assumed that Aunt Dimity would connect the dots for me. Instead, she’d underscored a fatal flaw in my reasoning.
“I suppose not,” I said, feeling a bit deflated.
If anything, the Benny Goodman music points to the Donovans’ innocence. If they were intent on lulling William into a false sense of security, why would they draw attention to themselves by playing loud music?
“What about the seed cake?” I asked. “Don’t you find it a little odd that it was so similar to yours?”
I didn’t invent seed cake, Lori. It’s been around since the Middle Ages. I’m quite sure that many people have recipes similar to my own.
“And the snuffboxes?” I went on a little desperately. “And the compass? Deirdre
keeps moving stuff, just as you predicted. Have you changed your mind about her?”
No, I haven’t. I still suspect her and her husband of masterminding a forthcoming robbery, which is why you mustn’t allow yourself to be distracted by music and cake. Concentrate on collecting relevant evidence, Lori, or you’ll find yourself mired in a morass of extraneous details.
“But you just told me that the Benny Goodman music points to the Donovans’ innocence,” I protested.
I’m willing to keep an open mind about the Donovans, which is more than I can say for you. I may suspect them of foul play, but you are already convinced of their guilt. Your prejudice is clouding your judgment. What will catch your eye next? Will you try to persuade me that Declan’s red hair and the prominent mole on Deirdre’s face are signs of corruption?
“Of course not,” I said, abashed.
I cherish your passionate nature, Lori, but you must learn to harness it. You must learn to separate the trivial from the significant. Don’t dwell on trifling incidents. Focus instead on Deirdre’s sleight of hand with William’s possessions.
“At least his precious book was where he left it,” I mumbled.
What book?
“Notes on Sheep,” I said, “by Frederick Fairworthy. It’s one of the books the builders unearthed when the old stables were torn down. William loaned it to me, to help me to understand his obsession with sheep. And it did help. I think it’d be wonderful to see a flock of Cotswold Lions grazing Fairworth’s pastures.”
They wouldn’t be the first Cotswold Lions to graze there. Sheep were the foundation of the Fairworthy family fortune, as indeed, they were the foundation of England’s wealth. Wool production fueled a significant portion of England’s economy for several centuries. Did you know that the Lord Chancellor sits on a sack stuffed with wool in the House of Lords?
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said smugly. “According to Notes on Sheep, the Lord Chancellor’s woolsack symbolizes the importance of sheep to England.”
Did Notes on Sheep also discuss their role in shaping the Cotswolds? The exquisite churches found in modest towns like Fairford and Northleach were built by wealthy wool merchants. The merchants took such pride in their profession that their gravestones were sometimes carved to resemble woolsacks.
“The woolsack tombs,” I said, nodding. “Bill and I saw them in Burford.”
There are some very fine examples of woolsack tombs in Burford, mementos of prosperous days gone by. When the price of wool plummeted in the early nineteenth century, the entire region was engulfed in a great depression. Since no one could afford to renovate or to replace old structures, villages like Finch retained their quirkiness and their sublime architecture. To understand the Cotswolds, one must first understand the rise and fall of sheep.
“Did the Fairworthy family rise and fall with them, too?” I asked.
Naturally. Fairworth wasn’t the family’s principal residence, you know. They lived in Worth Hall, a much grander edifice on the outskirts of Gloucester. They built Fairworth House as a country retreat. Sadly, Worth Hall was pulled down during the rather depressing period between the wars when we lost so many of our stately homes.
“What happened between the wars?” I asked.
Taxation, inflation, stagnation.... Many of our older families could no longer afford to maintain their ancestral residences. The National Trust attempted to preserve historic houses for posterity, but a great many were razed to the ground before laws were enacted to protect them.
“How did Fairworth House manage to survive?” I asked.
The last Fairworthys to live there sold it to a bank some fifty years ago. It was then sold to a succession of owners who didn’t have the wherewithal to maintain the property but who weren’t permitted to tear it down. It languished, unloved and unlived-in for more than a decade, until a certain American gentleman decided to establish a residence near his grandsons in England. William brought Fairworth to life again after many long years of neglect. I do like happy endings, don’t you?
“I’m a sucker for them,” I said, grinning. “I hope William goes ahead with his plan to buy some Cotswold Lions. They’ll put the true finishing touch on Fairworth’s restoration.”
I hope so, too. In the meantime, however, we must continue to do what we can to insure that Sally Pyne’s story has a happy ending. Whether it will be with Señor Cocinero or without him remains to be seen.
“I also have to make sure that the Donovans keep their greedy paws off of William’s things,” I said. “Which means that I’d better get some shut-eye. Heaven knows what tomorrow will bring.”
Sleep well, my dear.
“I always sleep well when it’s raining,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”
The curving lines of royal-blue ink slowly faded from the page. I closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, banked the fire, and gave Reginald a pat between the ears. I was about to leave the study when Bill’s figure loomed in the doorway.
“Frau Schniering died ten minutes ago,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll leave for Munich first thing in the morning.”
Bill would have been a basket case if he’d taken the loss of every client to heart, but he’d been extremely fond of Karla Schniering, and her death, though not unexpected, had clearly hit him hard.
I put my arms around him in silent sympathy. At that moment, Sally Pyne’s charade and the Donovans’ misdeeds seemed very trivial indeed.
Seventeen
Will, Rob, and I watched Bill drive away in his Mercedes on Wednesday morning, finished breakfast, and headed for Anscombe Manor in the Rover. The storm had blown itself out in the night, leaving a rain-washed landscape glistening beneath a clear blue sky. Silvery rivulets crisscrossed the lane, and the droplet-strewn hedgerows looked as though they’d been draped in diamonds.
Fortunately, the riding ring had an excellent drainage system, so the twins’ lessons could proceed as scheduled. I thanked Kit again for treating the boys to a trail ride the previous afternoon, watched them go through their warm-up exercises with Nell, chatted with Emma, and fed a few apples to Toby, the oldest and sweetest pony in the stable, before returning to the cottage, where I busied myself with household chores. I checked each of my telephones periodically throughout the morning, but since they were in good working order, I was forced to conclude that Willis, Sr., was managing to survive without me.
I was pleased, of course, that Willis, Sr., didn’t need my help, but when my cell phone rang just before noon, I slapped it to my ear so eagerly that I nearly concussed myself.
“Guten Morgen, mein Liebling,” said Bill.
I felt momentarily disoriented when I heard my husband’s voice instead of my father-in-law’s, a state of mind exacerbated by his unusual greeting.
“Hi,” I said, pulling myself together. “I forgot that you speak German as well as Spanish.”
“I dabble,” he said modestly. “I’m in a limo on the Autobahn, en route to the Schniering estate, so I thought I’d touch base. What’s happening at Fairworth?”
“Smooth sailing,” I replied brightly. “Your father hasn’t called, which is fantastic because it means that everything’s hunky-dory at Fairworth and since yesterday was so stressful, I’m happy that today is going so well. I’m very happy for William. Very, very happy.”
“It’s good to be happy,” said Bill.
“I couldn’t be happier,” I gushed. “Did you have a nice flight?”
“Pretty routine,” he replied. “It wasn’t nearly as happy as your happy morning at home, but—”
“Oh, shut up,” I said without rancor. Bill could always see right through me, possibly because I wasn’t terribly opaque. “You’d think William would’ve called by now,” I grumbled, giving vent to my true feelings, “if only to tell me that he’s okay.”
“Maybe he hasn’t had a chance,” said Bill. “Maybe he’s caught up in a killer game of backgam—”
“Bill!” I broke in excitedly. �
��My phone just beeped. I’d better take it. It may be your father.”
“Talk to you later,” said Bill.
“Good luck with the Schniering brothers,” I said, and switched over to the incoming call.
“William?” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s not William, it’s Charles,” said Charles Bellingham.
“Back from London already?” I said, my excitement ebbing. “How time flies when you’re—”
“Stop gibbering,” Charles snapped. He sounded upset. “Oh, Lori, you have to get over here right away, and I do mean tout de suite. The constable’s come and gone, Grant’s having a full-blown anxiety attack, and I have absolutely no idea how to break the news to William.”
“Break the news about what?” I asked, bewildered.
“The burglary!” he cried. “Crabtree Cottage has been pillaged, plundered, ransacked—we’ve been robbed! No time to talk now, Grant needs me. Just hop in that sad little car of yours and stomp on the gas pedal, will you? Coming, Grant!” he called and cut the connection.
My brain spun wildly for a moment before it kicked into gear. I called Kit and asked him to keep the twins at Anscombe Manor until further notice, then grabbed my shoulder bag and ran for the Rover. My Mini was an unquestionably sad little car, but I could burn up the road in the Rover.
I simply couldn’t believe that Crabtree Cottage had been burgled. Finch was virtually crime-free. Local teenagers occasionally left a few beer bottles on the village green, but their parents always marched them back the next day to clean up after themselves. Local adults might fling unpleasant words at each other from time to time, but once they’d cleared the air they reverted to civilized behavior.
Yet it seemed equally unlikely that a non-local had broken into Crabtree Cottage. Finch was the exact opposite of a tourist mecca. It was so far off the beaten track that few outsiders were aware of its existence.
Unless, of course, one counted the outsiders who’d recently moved into Fairworth House. I recalled Aunt Dimity’s cautionary words and ordered myself to keep an open mind about the Donovans, but as I sped past Willis, Sr.’s drive I couldn’t help remembering that he’d heard someone use the elevator in Fairworth House at the curiously early hour of 2:57 a.m. on Tuesday.
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 16
