I returned to the cottage, deep in thought. Though I had neither an eyewitness report nor a scrap of evidence linking the Donovans to the crime, I had a well-reasoned argument that pointed to the possibility of their guilt. Since my well-reasoned arguments had been known to fizzle ignominiously on past occasions, however, it seemed like a good idea to rehearse this one with Aunt Dimity before presenting it to Willis, Sr.
I dropped my shoulder bag on the hall table, called a greeting to Stanley, who was sleeping in Bill’s chair, and went to the study. The ivy covering the windows above the old oak desk glowed like stained glass in the bright sunshine and cast dappled shadows on the drawings Will and Rob had made of their trail ride with Kit.
“I may be jumping to conclusions,” I said to Reginald as I slid the blue journal from its shelf, “but I don’t think so.”
I was too wound up to sit, so I cradled the open journal in my hands as I paced back and forth from desk to doorway.
“Dimity?” I said. “There’s been a development.”
A development? Shifting shadows swam across the page as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared. Can you be more specific?
“A burglar broke in to Crabtree Cottage,” I said, “and stole the Fairworthy family tree.”
Oh, dear. William must be devastated.
“William doesn’t know about it yet,” I said.
Why ever not?
“Because I asked Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham to keep it to themselves until I’ve had a chance to look into it,” I said.
Surely they notified the police.
“The police know about the break-in, but not about the theft,” I explained. “If my suspicions pan out, William will want to inform the police himself.”
What do you suspect?
“I know that Crabtree Cottage was burgled while Grant and Charles were in London,” I said. “They left on Monday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock this morning.”
Ergo, we have a time frame for the crime.
“We also have a peculiar incident that took place within our time frame,” I said. “William heard someone use the elevator at Fairworth House at 2:57 on Tuesday morning.”
Yes, I recall the elevator incident. You and William assumed that Deirdre Donovan had used it to reach the attic apartment after staying up half the night, cleaning.
“What if William and I were wrong? What if the Donovans used the elevator to transport the family tree to their apartment? Bear with me, Dimity,” I said, before she could lodge a protest. “I’ve pieced this together very carefully.”
If you bring up Declan’s red hair or Deirdre’s beauty spot, I’ll refuse to listen to you.
“I’m offering supposition, not superstition,” I assured her.
In that case, you may proceed.
“On Monday, during brunch,” I began, “I told William that I’d delivered his grubby masterpiece to a local art restorer named Grant, who lived and worked in a place called Crabtree Cottage. I also told William that Grant and Charles would leave for London on Monday and return to Finch on Wednesday. Deirdre was manning the teapot during brunch. She could have heard the entire conversation.”
Go on.
“I identified Crabtree Cottage for Declan by pointing it out to him on Monday, when he dropped me off at Bill’s office,” I said.
Declan, therefore, knew where to find the so-called masterpiece.
“Exactly,” I said. “And on Monday evening, Deirdre could have overheard the most significant tidbit of all.”
Did she glean the tidbit from you? You seem to have been instrumental in dispensing vital information to the Donovans.
“William dispensed it this time,” I said, “though he didn’t realize it. He telephoned me from his study on Monday evening, to tell me that his grimy masterpiece was, in fact, a Victorian illuminated family tree.”
Did he catch Deirdre eavesdropping at the study door?
“Nope,” I said. “She was in the study, serving William a late dinner. By listening to our brunch conversation as well as our telephone conversation, Deirdre could have learned that a Victorian illuminated family tree would be sitting in an unoccupied Crabtree Cottage from Monday to Wednesday.”
And in the small hours of Tuesday morning, someone used the elevator at Fairworth House.
“Supposing that my suppositions hold water,” I said, choosing my words with great care, “I would suggest that Declan carried out the actual robbery. Deirdre would stay behind at Fairworth, in case William rang for a midnight snack or something.”
A sensible precaution.
“I allege,” I continued, “that Declan slipped out of Fairworth, crept into Finch, let himself into Crabtree Cottage, stole the family tree, and returned with it to the attic apartment at 2:57 a.m., using the elevator.”
Someone in the village would have seen him.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said. “Unfortunately, the Handmaidens chose the wee hours of Tuesday morning to play hide-and-seek on the village green.”
Were they instituting a new village tradition?
“No,” I said, smiling, “they were practicing an ancient one. In other words: They were spying on one another. Each suspected the others of sneaking off to Fairworth in the middle of the night to assess Deirdre’s housekeeping skills.”
How did they expect to assess Deirdre’s housekeeping skills in the middle of the night?
“By pressing their noses to William’s windows,” I said.
Good grief.
“It wouldn’t have worked,” I went on, “because Deirdre closes the draperies at night. Even if the Handmaidens had reached Fairworth—which they didn’t, because Elspeth Binney was guarding the bridge—they wouldn’t have seen anything but yards and yards of fabric.”
How disappointing it would have been for them.
“I’m sure they would have consoled themselves by criticizing the drapes,” I said dryly. “In any case, the Handmaidens were too busy watching one another to pay attention to anyone else who might have been sneaking around the village.”
Declan could have avoided the Handmaidens by wading the river at the shallow spot west of the bridge and taking the back way to Crabtree Cottage. He’d have no trouble climbing the garden wall and letting himself in through the kitchen, assuming the door was unlocked.
“An extremely safe assumption,” I confirmed. “Apart from that, Grant and Charles took their dogs with them to London. Since they have no other alarm system, Crabtree Cottage was ripe for the picking.” I hesitated. “So . . . what do you think? Have I hit a home run or am I way off base?”
Baseball terminology has never been my forte, Lori, but I can make a rough translation. I’m afraid you haven’t quite hit a home run, my dear. You’ve constructed a persuasive argument, with one glaring omission: Motivation. Why would the Donovans steal something as arcane as a family tree?
“Money,” I said bluntly. “According to Grant, there’s a market for everything, even Victorian illuminated family trees. Maybe Deirdre got to know a few unscrupulous collectors when she was studying art history at Oxford—the sort of people who won’t ask questions when she sells the family tree on the black market.”
But why steal it now? Why not wait until the restoration work is complete?
“Grant says that some collectors don’t like restored items,” I said. “They won’t buy a work of art unless it’s in its original condition.”
Congratulations, Lori, on successfully defending your wicket. You’ve persuaded me that the Donovans are likely suspects. Will you tell William what you’ve told me?
“Not yet,” I said. “He won’t accept a persuasive argument, Dimity. I have to catch the Donovans with their hands in the cookie jar.”
William won’t allow you to search their apartment, Lori. He would consider it an unwarranted invasion of privacy.
“Then I’ll just have to—” I stopped short as the telephone rang. “I’ll be right back, Dimity. It may be
Bill on the phone.”
Take your time, my dear. I’m not going anywhere.
I placed the journal face-up and open upon the desk and picked up the phone. This time, I was surprised to hear my father-in-law’s voice instead of my husband’s.
“Good afternoon, Lori,” said Willis, Sr. “Have you been enjoying your day off?”
“I have,” I said. “How’s life at Fairworth?”
“Effortless,” he replied. “I spent the morning with Lady Sarah and Señor Cocinero in the drawing room, looking at the photographs Lady Sarah took during her trip to Mexico. She took copious photographs and each one prompted a lengthy reminiscence.”
“I can imagine,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“After a thoroughly nauseating lunch,” Willis, Sr., continued, “which Señor Cocinero consumed with evident relish, Lady Sarah and I were treated to a concert of Mexican ballads sung a cappella by none other than Señor Cocinero. Very little has been required of me.”
“Or of me,” I said ruefully.
“I have need of you now,” said Willis, Sr., “but only to answer a few questions.”
“Fire away,” I said, wondering if he’d heard about the theft.
“My guests retired for their afternoon siestas a short time ago,” said Willis, Sr. “I retreated to the study to catch up on some correspondence, but when I approached my desk, I found that my chair was already occupied.” He paused. “Did you discuss Notes on Sheep with my son?”
“I quoted a few items from it,” I said. “I wouldn’t really call it a discussion.”
“Did you tell him of my interest in Cotswold Lions?” he asked.
“I may have mentioned it to him in passing,” I replied. “Why? What has Bill done?”
“Bill visited Fairworth on his way to Heathrow this morning to inform me of Frau Schniering’s passing,” Willis, Sr., explained. “He must have decided that I was in need of a diversion because he played a practical joke on me. He placed a lamb on my chair.”
“A lamb?” I said doubtfully.
“It is not alive,” said Willis, Sr.
“Bill put a dead lamb on your chair?” I exclaimed.
“It is neither living nor dead,” Willis, Sr., stated firmly. “It is a toy, a somewhat tattered stuffed animal with a faded green ribbon around its neck. It upset Mrs. Donovan considerably.”
“Why?” I asked, relieved to know that Bill’s famous sense of humor hadn’t taken a turn for the ghoulish. “It’s just a toy.”
“She considers it unsanitary,” Willis, Sr., replied. “She wished to dispose of it, but I prevented her. The lamb may be old and worn, but he was well loved once. It would be a pity to consign him to the rubbish bin. No, I will keep him as a symbol of lambs to come.”
I smiled when Willis, Sr., ceased referring to the lamb as “it” and couldn’t resist asking, “Have you named him?”
“I believe I shall call him Frederick,” Willis, Sr., replied thoughtfully, “in honor of the man who wrote Notes on Sheep, the work that inspired me to protect a breed that might otherwise vanish from the face of the earth.”
“An excellent choice,” I replied. “I’m sorry that Bill’s prank upset Deirdre, but I’m glad you’ve had an otherwise peaceful day.”
“Tomorrow is Thursday,” said Willis, Sr. “After Señor Cocinero departs and Lady Sarah returns to her tearoom, I anticipate an unending succession of peaceful days. I will telephone you when the time comes for you to smuggle Mrs. Pyne out of Fairworth.”
“I’ll take the booster seats out of the Rover,” I said, “and put the king-sized quilt in the backseat.” I touched the oak desk for luck. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, William, but I do believe we’ve managed to fool the entire village.”
“I expect the truth to come out at some point,” Willis, Sr., said fatalistically. “Until then, I believe we may take credit for perpetrating a successful hoax.”
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
“Was it worth enduring a few minor and temporary inconveniences in order to prevent Mrs. Pyne from fleeing Finch in disgrace?” said Willis, Sr. “Yes.”
We said good-bye and I hung up, wondering where Bill had obtained the lamb. Will and Rob had a veritable zoo of stuffed animals, but none of them were sheep-shaped.
“He must have borrowed it from a villager,” I said to Reginald. “I hope whoever gave it to him doesn’t want it back. William has a definite soft spot for his little Frederick.”
Reginald’s eyes glimmered with quiet amusement in the shadowy room, but I knew that he agreed with me completely.
I put a hand out for the journal, but as I did so, my gaze fell on one of the drawings Will and Rob had made of their trail ride. The drawing depicted a man standing in front of a dense growth of trees. The man wore brown shorts and a short-sleeved white shirt and his head was covered with a flaming shock of bright orange hair.
I stared at the orange-haired man, dumbstruck, while a sparkling new possibility danced across my mind. As I grabbed the telephone and speed-dialed Kit Smith’s number, I vowed that I would never again be too self-absorbed to listen to my sons.
Nineteen
“Kit?” I said as soon as Kit Smith answered his phone. “What trail did you and the boys take yesterday afternoon?”
“Hello, Lori,” Kit said mildly. “How are you? I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”
“I’m having a fantastic day,” I said impatiently. “Now, please, for the love of all that’s holy, answer my question!”
“We took the new trail,” he said. “The one that leads from Anscombe Manor to Fairworth House. Rob and Will were keen to give it a go.”
“Did you see Declan Donovan while you were out?” I asked.
“Yes, now that you mention it, we did,” he said. “Rob spotted him coming out of William’s woods. Will told me who he was and we all waved to him.”
“Was he carrying anything?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Kit. “When I first noticed him, he was brushing his hands together, as if he’d gotten them dirty. When he raised his right hand to wave back at us, his palm seemed a bit grubby. It looked to me as though he’d been doing some digging.”
I clutched the phone and grimaced with frustration. If I’d listened to the twins’ stories about their trail ride or paused to admire their drawings before they’d taken them from the kitchen to the study, I would have known about Declan’s jaunt in the woods much sooner. I had no trouble imagining what he’d buried there.
“Lori?” said Kit.
“I’m still here. Listen, Kit,” I said urgently. “Would you and Nell do me the most enormous favor? Would you keep the boys with you overnight? Bill’s in Germany and there’s something I need to do tonight. I’ll be out very late, possibly past midnight.” I was on the verge of inventing a nocturnal errand, but I could no more lie to Kit Smith than I could to Emma Harris. “I can’t explain why right now, but—”
“You don’t have to,” Kit said gently. “Nell and I will be happy to look after the twins. We’ll have a campfire and tell horse stories and make up beds for them in the hayloft.”
“They won’t want to come home,” I said, laughing. “Honestly, you guys are the best honorary aunt and uncle two little boys could ever have. I’ll call you as soon as I can in the morning.”
“Lori,” said Kit, with a trace of worry in his voice. “I don’t know what you’re about to do and I don’t have to know, but if you need someone to watch your back—”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “But thanks for the offer. And thanks hugely for taking care of Will and Rob. Kiss them good night for me and tell them I’ll see them in the morning.” I hung up the phone, leaned both hands on the desk, and peered down at the blue journal. “Dimity? What if the Donovans are too clever to keep the family tree in their apartment? What if they’ve hidden it somewhere else?”
In their van, perhaps?
“Too close to home,” I said, shaking my head. “If William
or the police suspected them of the burglary, the apartment and the van would be the first places they’d search.”
Where, then?
“How about the little forest on William’s property?” I asked. “Will, Rob, and Kit saw Declan coming out of the woods yesterday afternoon. He was brushing dirt—or possibly soot—off his hands. I’ll bet you anything that he’d just finished stashing the family tree in there.”
It would be a safe place to cache a stolen item while negotiating a deal with a potential buyer.
“Which is why I’m going there tonight,” I said.
Alone? Is that advisable?
“I’m not going to make a citizen’s arrest,” I said. “I won’t do anything foolish. I’ll just watch from a safe distance and wait for the Donovans to incriminate themselves.”
But why must you go at night?
“Because a lot of strange things are happening at Fairworth House,” I said, “and almost all of them take place at night.”
Twilight seems to linger forever in summer months. I had to wait until half past eight for the sun to go down, then wait another hour for true darkness to set in. To keep myself from fidgeting, I prepared the Rover for Thursday’s smuggling operation, cleaned the cottage from top to bottom, did four loads of laundry, made three freezable casseroles, fed and watered Stanley, and chatted with Bill about the squabbles that had arisen over the fair division of the farm animals Frau Schniering had kept as pets on her country estate.
I decided to let his father have it out with him about Frederick the lamb, but when Bill asked to speak with Will and Rob, I told him straightforwardly that they were spending the night at Anscombe Manor.
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 18
