“Why?” he asked.
“I’ll be spending the evening at Fairworth,” I replied.
“See?” he said, as if he were consoling a weepy five-year-old. “Father can’t get along without you.”
I didn’t contradict him but I didn’t tell him that Willis, Sr., would be unaware of my presence, either. Bill could sometimes be a tad overprotective and I didn’t want him to fret unnecessarily.
As soon as it was dark enough, I rolled my bicycle into the lane and pedaled it toward the village. I was dressed in a black, hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, and black boots, in part to ward off the evening chill, but also to make myself less visible to prying eyes. I carried a flashlight in the wicker basket strapped to my handlebars and a cell phone in my jeans pocket, programmed with the telephone number of the Upper Deeping police station.
Though the moon shone brightly in the puddles that still dotted the lane, I wasn’t overly concerned about being seen by the villagers. After the hide-and-seek fiasco, I was confident that my neighbors, and the Handmaidens in particular, would be too embarrassed to leave their homes at night. The Donovans, on the other hand, might have a very good reason to be out and about in the wee hours, and I didn’t wish to be seen by them.
When I reached the mouth of Willis, Sr.’s drive, I concealed the bicycle in a clump of bushes and went the rest of the way on foot, walking on the grass verge instead of the gravel and pointing the flashlight downward. As soon as Fairworth came into view, I switched off the flashlight and crept stealthily to the stables.
I hunted around for a patch of dry ground, then sat with my back against an exterior wall and scanned the open pasture that lay between the house and the woods. If Declan took anything into the dense stand of trees or retrieved anything from it, I would see him.
I couldn’t see into the house, but the lamplit drapes on the ground floor indicated that those within hadn’t yet gone upstairs to bed. I envisioned Willis, Sr., sitting patiently through another barrage of Mexican ballads while his mind drifted contentedly to the moment when he would finally have his new house all to himself.
My heart twinged a little when I remembered that this might be Sally’s last evening with Henrique, and my back twinged even more when it recalled the amount of scrubbing and polishing I’d done before leaving the cottage. I vowed to reward myself with a steamy bubble bath when my task was done, then pulled my hood over my head, nestled my cold hands in my sweatshirt pockets, and settled in for the long haul.
I woke with a start some time later, with an unfamiliar hand clamped over my mouth.
“It’s Kit,” Kit Smith said quietly and removed his hand.
I collapsed against the wall, panting with terror, while my heart tried to pound its way through my ribcage. Then I whacked Kit on the shoulder.
“For Pete’s sake,” I said in a furious whisper. “You scared me half to death! Between you and Rainey, I’ll be lucky to survive the summer! What are you doing here?”
“Nell sent me,” he replied, sitting next to me.
“How did Nell know . . .” My words trailed off. Kit’s wife had always had a fey quality to her, even as a young child. It wasn’t entirely absurd to imagine that Nell’s uncanny sixth sense had guided Kit to my location. “Did Nell have a . . . a premonition that I would be here?”
“Yes,” Kit said solemnly. “After the break-in at Crabtree Cottage this morning, you called in a panic, asking if I’d seen Declan Donovan carrying something near William’s woods and telling me that you’d be out late for some mysterious reason. Nell’s psychic powers enabled her to connect the break-in to Declan and the woods and to surmise that you might be spending the night somewhere in the vicinity of Fairworth House.”
“Okay, so I’m not opaque,” I acknowledged ruefully.
“You’re as transparent as glass,” Kit concurred. “Nell and I both hear alarm bells whenever you use the phrase ‘I’ll be fine,’ so she sent me to watch your back whether you want me to or not. I drove to the cottage first, to make sure you’d gone, then followed your tire tracks to Fairworth.”
“I left tracks?” I said, surprised.
“Between puddles,” said Kit. “I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for them. I left the pickup at the mouth of the drive and walked in. I’ve been combing the woods for the past hour, looking for you. When I didn’t find you there, I circled the house until I heard someone snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” I stated firmly.
“I heard someone purring,” Kit corrected himself, his teeth showing white in the moonlight as he grinned. “And found you, dressed like a cat burglar and sleeping like a kitten. I’m sorry I startled you, but you wouldn’t have thanked me if I’d let you scream.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I admitted.
Kit, too, was dressed in dark clothing, though he’d used a black stocking cap instead of a hood to conceal his gray hair. As he settled his long, lean body more comfortably against the stable’s stone wall, he placed an unlit flashlight on the ground between us. He gave me a friendly look, folded his hands in his lap, and peered up at the stars.
“Lovely evening,” he said.
“It’s half past twelve,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Technically, it’s a lovely morning.”
“Looks as though everyone’s gone to bed,” he said, nodding at the house.
I studied the darkened windows and murmured, “No all-night cleaning binge for Deirdre. She must be slacking off. Or,” I added ominously, “she has a more important job to pull off tonight.”
Kit turned his face to the stars again.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m talking about?” I said, willing him to ask.
“I’m no psychic,” Kit said, tilting his head to one side, “but deductive reasoning suggests that you’re staking out the house because you believe the Donovans had something to do with the break-in.”
“I do,” I said quickly. “I’m convinced that they burgled Crabtree Cottage because . . .”
For the next twenty minutes I luxuriated in depicting Deirdre and Declan Donovan as a pair of charming con artists who’d gone to extreme lengths to gain Willis, Sr.’s trust in order to set him up for a robbery. It was such a relief to unburden myself that I went through the whole of my persuasive argument in a rush, scarcely pausing to take a breath. I didn’t say a word about Sally Pyne or Henrique, but I said quite a few about the Donovans.
I explained to Kit that Deirdre had moved the settee, the Chippendale armchair, the brass compass, and the snuffboxes in order to make it difficult for Willis, Sr., to keep track of items she and her husband planned to steal. I recounted the revealing conversations I’d had with Willis, Sr., concerning the family tree and pointed out that Deirdre had been on hand to overhear both of them. I mentioned the elevator and Deirdre’s degree in art history and finished with a flourish, telling Kit without demur that Declan had stolen the family tree from Crabtree Cottage and stashed it in the woods.
“And that’s why I’m here,” I concluded. “If Declan leaves the house and makes for the woods, I’ll follow him. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch him red-handed with his ill-gotten gains.”
Kit pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose it crossed your mind that Declan might object to being caught red-handed. I don’t suppose it even occurred to you that you might be putting yourself in danger.”
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and waggled it in Kit’s face. “I have the police station’s phone number on speed dial.”
“I feel much better now,” said Kit, smiling wryly, “considering that it will take the Upper Deeping police at least twenty minutes to get here—probably longer, since it’s the middle of the night and they’ll be half asleep when you ring them. While you’re waiting for them to arrive, you can discuss Declan’s future with him. I’m sure he’ll be eager to chat with you about prison life.”
“I’m not a complete idiot,” I retorted. “I won’t pounce on Declan. I’ll hang back, call the
police, and keep him under observation until—”
“Lori,” Kit said, gripping my arm. “Look.”
I followed his gaze and saw someone fling open a set of draperies in the drawing room. I leaned forward, straining to see, and felt a shiver trickle down my spine as the moonlight illuminated the gaunt, hollow-eyed features of an elderly woman. She wore an old-fashioned white nightdress with beribboned sleeves and a high, frilled collar and her gleaming white hair fell in rippling waves almost to her waist. Her ribbons fluttered and her long hair seemed to float behind her as she moved from window to window, opening drapes, then drifted, wraithlike, into the shadows.
“Deirdre?” Kit asked.
“Definitely not,” I replied. “Deirdre’s in her thirties and she has chestnut hair. I have no idea who—”
“Lori!” Kit cried.
He jumped to his feet and hauled me to mine, pointing at a rear window in the attic apartment. I watched, horrorstruck, as a cloud of smoke billowed out of the window and rose lazily toward the night sky.
Fairworth was on fire.
Twenty
“Fire!” I bellowed, racing for the front door. “Get up! Get out! Fire!”
“Call the police!” Kit shouted as he sped past me. “They’ll call the fire department.”
“Keys,” I hollered, pulling mine from my pocket and tossing them to Kit, who swung around, caught them deftly in one hand, and kept running.
I punched the speed-dial as I ran and spoke with a placid constable who snapped out of his lethargy when I screamed in his ear. He promised to rouse the Upper Deeping fire brigade immediately and to send it to Fairworth House.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and hurled myself up the front steps to find Kit trying each of the keys in turn while pounding on the front door and shouting. I snatched the keys from him, thrust the correct one into the lock, and let both of us into the entrance hall.
“Find the old woman,” I said, pelting toward the main staircase. “I’ll get the others.”
I took the stairs three at a time, yelling as I went. When I reached the second floor corridor, Willis, Sr., Sally, and Henrique were emerging from their respective suites, pulling robes over their night clothes.
“Fire!” I wheezed, clutching a stitch in my side. “Get out!”
Henrique hustled Sally downstairs, but when I turned to dash upstairs, Willis, Sr., called for me to stop.
“Wait,” he said, putting a hand to his ear. “Listen.”
I thumped the bannister in frustration as the elevator’s unmistakable hum came to us from the rear of the house.
“For pity’s sake,” I roared, exasperated. “Don’t the Donovans know they’re not supposed to use an elevator during a fire?”
“Apparently not,” Willis, Sr., said calmly. “Come along, Lori. Let us evacuate in an orderly fashion.”
Willis, Sr., descended the staircase expeditiously but with dignity and I followed after him, wondering if it would be the last time I’d walk down Fairworth’s gleaming marble stairs. When we reached the entrance hall, I was dismayed to see Sally, Henrique, and Kit standing in a half circle before the old woman, pleading with her to come with them. Though the woman was painfully thin, she was tall enough to look Kit in the eye and she didn’t seem to be budging.
“Leave the house?” she said, in a refined, upper-class drawl. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why should I leave the house?”
“A fire has broken out upstairs,” Kit explained.
“I know where the fire is, young man,” the woman said tartly. “I lit it.”
“You . . . lit it?” Kit said hesitantly.
“Naturally,” said the woman. She lifted the hem of her nightdress and wiggled her bony toes. “My feet were cold.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Willis, Sr., stepping forward. “I do not wish to seem intrusive, but would you be so kind as to tell me who you—”
At that moment, Deirdre and Declan burst into the entrance hall and skidded to a halt next to Willis, Sr.
“Aunt Augusta!” Deirdre cried.
“Aunt Augusta?” said Willis, Sr.
“Aunt Augusta,” Declan said, with a weary sigh.
“Now that you know my name, young man,” said the old woman, pointing her long, thin nose at Willis, Sr. “I should very much like to know yours.”
“Can we postpone the meet-and-greet?” I said, glancing nervously up the staircase. “There’s a fire—”
“There’s no fire,” Declan interrupted.
“We saw smoke,” Kit and I chorused.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s not always fire,” said Declan. “Aunt Augusta forgot to open the flue in her fireplace. I’ve taken care of it.”
“But I’ve already called out the fire brigade,” I protested. “They’re on their way.”
“Call them again,” said Willis, Sr. “Inform them, with my apologies, that their services will not be required this evening. Mr. Donovan, please fetch a wrap and some slippers for your aunt, then light a fire in the drawing room. Mrs. Donovan, tea, please, as quick as you can. Madam,” he said, making a courtly bow to the old woman, “would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the drawing room?”
“You have a take-charge attitude, young man.” Aunt Augusta eyed Willis, Sr., with gruff admiration. “You remind me of my cousin Ernest—he was killed in Burma, you know—but you don’t sound like him. You have an American accent. A soldier, are you? An officer, I’ll wager. I know all about American officers.” She twinkled coquettishly at Willis, Sr., raised a frail, liver-spotted hand, and pinched his blushing cheek. “Rascals, every one. Don’t look so shocked, Deirdre,” she added haughtily as Willis, Sr., escorted her into the drawing room. “A woman without a past is like a fruitcake without brandy—insipid!”
Deirdre didn’t seem shocked. She seemed crestfallen. She bowed her head, took her lower lip between her teeth, and went to the kitchen without meeting anyone’s eye. I turned to herd Sally and Henrique back upstairs and into their rooms, but I was too late. Sally had already pulled Henrique into the drawing room, spurred on by her unquenchable thirst for tittle-tattle. I looked at Kit.
“Sally’s looking well,” he observed.
“She’s in disguise,” I told him. “It’s top secret.”
“She didn’t seem to mind being seen by me,” he said.
“She knows her secret is safe with you,” I said. “You don’t gossip.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “And Aunt Augusta? Is she top secret, too?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I replied. I reached for my cell phone and waved him into the drawing room. “Go ahead, join the gang. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve pacified Constable Sleepyhead.”
The constable was none too pleased to learn that I’d ruined his otherwise tranquil night shift with a false alarm.
“The men’ll be all the way to Hodge Farm by now,” he complained.
“Can you bring them back?” I asked meekly.
“Oh, I can bring them back all right,” he allowed grudgingly. “But they won’t like it. All that adrenaline pumping through their veins for nothing? It’s a waste of resources, that’s what it is.”
I soothed his ruffled feelings by pledging a substantial sum to the firemen’s charitable fund, said good-bye, and walked into what had to be the strangest pajama party in Fairworth’s history.
Moonlight streamed through the windows to mingle with firelight and the warm glow of several lamps. Everyone but the Donovans and the mysterious Aunt Augusta sat with their backs to the windows, facing the center of the room. Kit and I alone were fully dressed. The others wore a mixed bag of night attire.
Willis, Sr., who’d seated himself in the Chippendale armchair, was resplendent in a paisley silk dressing gown, neatly pressed pajamas, and slippers made of supple Italian leather. Sally, perched hip-to-hip with Henrique on a Regency chaise longue, looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her sparkly tiara, her baby-blue quilted bathrobe, and her feathery
white mules. Henrique, the traveler, wore packable slippers and a lightweight robe over loose-fitting, coffee-colored pajamas.
Deirdre’s chestnut hair fell down her back in a tangle of disordered curls, but she and Declan were dressed almost identically, in cheap velour bathrobes, baggy striped pajamas, and nondescript brown slippers. They sat directly across from Willis, Sr., in a pair of Chippendale side chairs, but their eyes were fixed on the floor.
Aunt Augusta sat rigidly upright in a Gainsborough chair that had been placed near the marble hearth, gazing vacantly into the flames. She’d donned a pair of bulky knitted bed socks and enfolded herself in a voluminous white duvet. Kit had stationed himself on a footstool beside Aunt Augusta, as if he were keeping watch over her.
It was odd enough to see a group of silent, pajama-clad adults sipping tea before a roaring fire in the small hours of the morning. Odder still was the tableau that captured my attention the moment I entered the room. In the center of the Aubusson carpet, a fluffy, cream-colored toy lamb with a faded green ribbon around his neck sat at the head of a line of small, silver sheep, as if he were waiting for a shepherd to open the gate to the next pasture.
“Frederick?” I inquired, looking from the sheep to Willis, Sr.
“Good name,” Aunt Augusta said abruptly. “I never gave him a proper name. Called him Lamby. Frederick’s much better. He’ll be called Frederick from now on, after Grandpapa.”
“Aunt Augusta presented her lamb to me anonymously, as a gift,” Willis, Sr., explained to me. “She placed him in my study while the rest of us were asleep.”
“Deirdre tells me you’re bringing sheep back to Fairworth, young man,” said Aunt Augusta. “Excellent notion. They’ll keep the pastures nice and tidy.”
“What’s Frederick doing with your salt and pepper shakers?” I asked, sinking into the chair next to Willis, Sr.’s.
“Playing,” Aunt Augusta answered in a softer, less snappish voice. “Mama lets me play with the sheep and Papa lets me play with his snuffboxes. Pretty things. Shiny.”
“And the brass compass?” Willis, Sr., asked gently. “Does Papa let you play with it, too?”
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 19
