Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree

by Nancy Atherton

  “Grant and Charles left for London on Monday and returned on Wednesday,” I murmured as I crossed the humpbacked bridge. “Crabtree Cottage was burgled sometime between Monday and Wednesday. Someone at Fairworth used the elevator in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. No prejudice here, Dimity. Just a recitation of cold, hard facts.”

  A sizable crowd of villagers had already gathered in front of Crabtree Cottage by the time I arrived. Under normal circumstances I would have plunged straight into the gossip fest, but Charles’s needs were greater than my own, so I pushed my way politely past my neighbors and through the cottage’s front door.

  “Charles?” I called, peering down the narrow hallway that led to the living quarters at the back of the cottage.

  Charles Bellingham appeared at the far end of the hall and beckoned frantically to me. I detected no signs of ransacking as I hurried toward him. His office was as neat as a pin, the dining room chairs were upright, and the framed watercolors that lined the hallway seemed undisturbed, but Charles was a bundle of nerves, wringing his hands and shifting anxiously from foot to foot. When I reached him, he put an arm around my shoulders and spoke in the hushed tones of an intensive care nurse.

  “Grant’s in the garden with Goya and Matisse,” he said. “The dogs have calmed him down, but he’s still in a state of shock. You must convince him that none of this is his fault.”

  “None of what?” I asked. “Forgive me, Charles, but I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “I’ll let Grant explain,” he said. “He believes in talk therapy, but I’ve thrown in a whacking great gin-and-tonic to help the process along. May I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Best to keep a clear head.”

  “‘When all about you are losing theirs,’” he quoted feelingly. “Kipling understood trauma. I regard him as one of England’s most underrated poets. Modern critics may dismiss his poems as doggerel, but in my opinion—”

  “Charles?” I interrupted gently. “Grant?”

  “Sorry,” he said, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Focus, Charles, focus.” He breathed in through his nostrils and out through his mouth, then dropped his hand. “There. I’m back again. Let’s go.”

  Charles led the way through the kitchen and into the most charming garden in Finch. It was overcrowded and untidy and it would never win a prize for originality, but I loved every square inch of it, from the old-fashioned morning glories gracing the stone walls to the unruly clumps of thyme edging the rosy brick paving.

  An ancient oak table and four wobbly, mismatched chairs usually occupied a spot in the center of the garden, but two of the chairs had been placed next to the bamboo chaise longue in which Grant reclined, shaded by the leafy boughs of the gnarled crabapple tree that had given Crabtree Cottage its name. His whacking great gin-and-tonic rested on a small wrought-iron table at his elbow.

  Grant’s eyes were closed, but the dogs sharing the chaise longue with him were alert and thrilled to have company. They jumped down from their perch and bounded over to welcome me as soon as I stepped out of the kitchen. While I bent to scratch their ears, Charles crept forward to hover solicitously over his partner.

  “Grant?” he said softly. “Lori’s here.”

  Grant opened his eyes to peer first at Charles, then at me. He looked away for a moment, then shrugged resignedly and motioned for me to take the chair closest to the wrought-iron table. Charles helped Grant to sip his drink, then sank onto the second chair, which wobbled alarmingly until he shifted it to a more stable position on the bricks. Goya and Matisse trotted off to explore a thicket of fern fronds.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Grant began, in a trembling voice. “One expects this sort of thing to happen in London, but not in Finch, never in Finch. That’s why I . . . I . . .” His words trailed off and he shook his head, as if he couldn’t go on.

  Patience is a virtue I don’t have. I wasn’t about to spend half the day coaxing crumbs of information from Grant, so I decided to add a dose of shock therapy to the mix.

  “You’re in no condition to talk, my friend,” I said, getting to my feet. “When you are, give me a buzz. You have my number.”

  Grant lunged for my hand, crying, “You can’t go!”

  “Then tell me what happened,” I said sternly, “without the theatrics.”

  “All right,” he said grudgingly, “but sit down. I’ll get a stiff neck if I talk with you looming over me.”

  I sat.

  “You’re worse than the constable,” Grant muttered, but when he spoke again, his voice was quite steady. “Charles and I returned from London at nine this morning. We took Matisse and Goya for a run on the green, unpacked our bags, sorted through the mail—we did the usual things one does after a trip. At approximately half past nine, I went to my studio to resume work on the family tree. It was then that I discovered that my studio had been turned over.” He took a long pull on his g-and-t, without Charles’s assistance, and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a fingertip. “I don’t wish to become emotional,” he continued, “so I won’t describe the scene in great detail. Suffice it to say that my studio was a complete shambles.”

  “I heard a heartrending shriek,” said Charles, “and dashed upstairs to find Grant on the verge of collapse. I brought him out here to recover from the initial shock—the garden is so soothing—then rang the police station in Upper Deeping. A constable arrived at half past ten. He wasn’t entirely sympathetic when Grant admitted—”

  “It’s my fault,” Grant murmured, bowing his head. “It’s my fault and no other’s. You see, Lori, when Charles and I left for London, I ... I didn’t lock our doors.”

  “So what?” I said. “I never lock my doors. I don’t think there’s a locked door in the village, except maybe at Fairworth House and that’s only because William’s new here. Finch isn’t a locked-door kind of place.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Grant said mournfully. “Until today.”

  “Today’s an aberration. Don’t let it destroy your peace of mind.” I put a comforting hand on his arm. “Did the constable discover any clues?”

  “Not a sausage,” said Grant. “I expected him to find footprints or fingerprints or both, but the thunderstorm must have washed away the footprints and the burglar must have worn gloves because the constable didn’t find a thing.”

  “Did he question the villagers?” I asked.

  “He did,” Charles answered. “But after they bombarded him with stories about a drug lord, a film star, a footballer, a dictator with a taste for trotters, and a taxidermist named Tim Thomson, he concluded that they weren’t reliable witnesses.”

  I groaned softly and buried my face in my hands.

  “Before he left, the constable suggested that I compile a complete inventory of the studio’s contents and bring it to him in Upper Deeping,” said Grant. “At the time, we couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen.”

  “The studio was such a mess, you see,” said Charles.

  “I felt that I owed it to my customers to clarify the situation as quickly as possible,” said Grant, “so I set my shattered feelings aside and reentered the studio. After I returned everything to its proper place, I saw—”

  “—beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Charles inserted.

  “—that something was missing,” Grant finished dramatically. “It gave me such a turn that Charles had to help me back into the garden before he rang you.”

  My head came up. “Why did you ring me?”

  “You tell her, Charles,” said Grant, turning his face away from me. “I simply can’t bear to be the bearer of such terrible news.”

  “I rang you,” Charles said somberly, “because the burglar took only one item from Grant’s studio: the Fairworthy family tree.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were,” said Charles.

  “But he isn’t,” Grant chimed in mournfully.


  “Why in the world would anyone steal someone else’s family tree?” I asked.

  “There’s a market for everything, Lori,” said Grant. “For all we know, there may be a collector out there who salivates at the mere mention of a Victorian illuminated family tree.”

  “But why would a collector want something so ... grubby?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

  “Some works of art are more valuable in their original state,” Grant replied. “Finicky collectors won’t touch items that have been restored by an expert they haven’t hired.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I said. “How would a collector ‘out there’ know that the Fairworthy family tree was in your studio?”

  Grant studied his fingernails. “I may have mentioned it in the Emporium before we left on Monday, when I picked up a packet of travel tissues.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “I couldn’t help myself. It was such an exciting find!”

  “Word could have spread from the Emporium to the ends of the earth,” said Charles. “You know how the villagers talk.”

  “Have you reported the theft to the police?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” said Grant. “I wanted to speak with you first, to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for betraying your trust. I shouldn’t have left William’s property in an unsecured location.”

  “Stop it,” I chided him. “If you need to blame someone, blame the burglar. If you’d locked your front door, he probably would have jimmied it. We can’t live in concrete bunkers because we’re terrified that some fool will break a window. I’d rather risk a break-in and see sunlight than live safely in the dark.”

  “I hope William will feel the same way,” Grant said mournfully. “I haven’t spoken with him yet, either. I thought you might want to deliver the crushing news to him yourself. It might be less painful, coming from you.”

  I gazed absently at a cluster of scarlet poppies while I considered the best course of action to take. My first impulse was to race over to Fairworth House and point an accusing finger at the Donovans, but I didn’t think such a display would sit well with my father-in-law. He, like Aunt Dimity, would demand that I produce hard evidence to support my accusation, and I didn’t have a speck of evidence to connect the Donovans to the theft.

  The sound of Peggy Taxman’s voice boomed over the garden wall and I glanced toward the front of the cottage, where the villagers were assembled. If I could find someone who’d seen one or both of the Donovans sneaking through Finch in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, Willis, Sr.—and Aunt Dimity—would be more inclined to listen to me. What I needed was an eyewitness.

  “Let’s hold off on telling William about the burglary,” I said. “He’s at a critical stage in the negotiations he’s conducting for his client and he won’t welcome the distraction. And please don’t report the theft to the police until you hear from me. William may not want to involve them.”

  “I understand,” said Grant, looking immensely relieved. “Mum’s the word until you tell us otherwise.”

  “Our lips are sealed,” said Charles, drawing a finger across his mouth.

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” I stood. “I’m really sorry that you two had such a rotten homecoming.”

  “We’ll get over it,” said Grant. “The studio may have been a mess, but nothing was damaged or defaced. After another g-and-t, I may forget the whole sorry incident.” He cocked his head to one side. “I liked your sermon about living in sunlight.”

  “Is there any other way to live?” I said, smiling.

  Charles, Matisse, and Goya walked me to the front door, but Charles hesitated before opening it.

  “Brace yourself,” he cautioned. “The village paparazzi are about to ambush you.”

  “I’m counting on it,” I said. “If I ask the right questions, I may learn a thing or two your constable overlooked.”

  “I believe you could give the detective chief inspector himself a run for his money,” said Charles.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  I gave Matisse and Goya farewell pats, lifted my chin, and stepped fearlessly into the waiting maelstrom.

  Eighteen

  “Did Grant have a heart attack?”

  “Did the burglar daub foul language on the walls?”

  “Did he smash up the furniture? ”

  “Is Crabtree Cottage cursed?”

  “No, no, no, and I very much doubt it,” I said, wading into the knot of hardcore busybodies who’d resisted the urge to return to their own homes and businesses. “Grant’s shaken but he’ll be fine, there’s no graffiti on the walls, nothing was smashed, and Crabtree Cottage is too beautiful to be cursed.”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Barlow temporized, pursing his lips. “There was that woman who died there a few years ago, and now there’s been a burglary. It makes you think.”

  “It makes me think that life is full of surprises,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the welling murmurs of agreement. “There’s not a house in Finch that hasn’t had a death associated with it at one time or another.”

  “Maybe a long time ago,” Mr. Barlow allowed, “but not recently.”

  “In a hundred years, now will be a long time ago,” I said. “And a burglary can happen anywhere.”

  “It’s unusual for one to happen here,” Christine Peacock pointed out.

  “I agree,” I said. “But what’s more unusual is that none of you saw any suspicious activity on the night of the burglary.” I surveyed my neighbors’ faces. “Come on, people. You know as well as I do that nothing goes unnoticed in Finch. The break-in took place between Monday afternoon and nine o’clock this morning. Think back. One of you must have seen something, and I’m talking about something real, not something you made up or heard about secondhand.”

  Heads turned and feet shuffled and finally George Wetherhead stepped forward. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Mr. Wetherhead was the most timid man in Finch.

  “I may have seen someone acting suspiciously on Monday night,” he admitted, fixing his gaze resolutely on the ground. “Well, on Tuesday morning, really. I got up a little after midnight to fill my hot water bottle because my hip was aching. It always aches when a storm’s coming.”

  The villagers nodded. Most of them could predict the weather by referring to aches and pains in various body parts.

  “While I was up,” George went on, “I thought I saw someone walking back and forth on the bridge. It was dark, though, and the bridge is at the far end of the green from my house, so I may have imagined it.”

  “Did you tell the policeman what you saw?” asked Mr. Barlow.

  “No,” George replied. “Didn’t get a chance to, with the rest of you mobbing him. And, like I said, I may have imagined it.”

  “You’re coming with me, George,” Mr. Barlow said firmly. “I’m taking you straight to Upper Deeping. You need to make a statement to the investigating officer.”

  “I don’t want to be a pest,” George mumbled.

  “It’s your civic duty to be a pest,” said Mr. Barlow. “Come along, now. Best to get it over and done with.”

  “Um,” said Elspeth Binney, raising her hand.

  “Yes?” I said, peering intently at her.

  “Before you make any statements to the police, George,” she said to Mr. Wetherhead, “I should tell you that I went for a stroll on Monday night. Well, on Tuesday morning, really. I was too restless to sleep—I always get restless when a storm’s coming—so I thought I’d stretch my legs. It may have been me you saw on the bridge.”

  Peggy Taxman rounded on her. “What in blazes were you doing, wandering around in the middle of the night, Elspeth Binney? Is your telescope equipped with night vision?”

  “I wasn’t the only one who was out and about,” Elspeth retorted, firing up at once. “And I didn’t need a telescope to see who else was up late. Ask Millicent what she was doing, lurking behind the war memorial.”

  “I was keeping an eye on you,” Millicent Scroggins exclaimed
. “I got up for a drink of water and saw you sneaking past my cottage. I wanted to find out what you were up to, so I put on my dressing gown and—”

  “I wasn’t up to anything,” Elspeth broke in. “But Opal may have been. She was skulking in the doorway of the Emporium.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Opal Taylor, blushing crimson. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Selena Buxton said heatedly. “I heard your front door open and close at half past twelve, so I got up to make sure nothing was amiss. When I saw you walking toward the bridge, I went after you, to keep you from breaking our agreement.”

  “What agreement?” asked Mr. Barlow.

  “Our agreement to stay away from Fairworth House,” said Selena, staring hard at Opal. “If Elspeth hadn’t been on the bridge, Opal wouldn’t have stopped at the Emporium. She would have sneaked right up to Fairworth and peeked through the windows.”

  “How dare you?” Opal cried melodramatically, clapping a hand to her breast. “I’m not a Peeping Tom!”

  “Maybe not,” Selena conceded, her eyes narrowing, “but you’ve been dying to find out if William’s new housekeeper is up to snuff. A look through the windows would have told you whether or not she’s doing the dusting.”

  “If you weren’t going to Fairworth,” Elspeth said to Opal, “where were you going?”

  “I was following you,” Opal exploded, bristling. “I thought you were going to Fairworth. After your stunt with the telescope, I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

  “Nor would I put anything past you!” Elspeth swept her arm in an arc that encompassed Selena and Millicent as well as Opal. “The only reason I blocked the bridge in the first place was to protect William from you!”

  “Protect William?” Serena, Millicent, and Opal chorused ferociously, closing in on Elspeth.

  I backed away from the battlefield and climbed into the Rover. For one brief, shining moment I’d thought I’d struck gold, but Mr. Wetherhead’s lead had turned to lead. He’d evidently seen Elspeth Binney standing on the bridge on Tuesday morning, and the Handmaidens had seen no one but one another. I had no doubt whatsoever that the ladies had rattled off stories about drug lords and dictators in order to divert the constable’s attention away from their own nocturnal activities, none of which had had anything to do with the burglary.