The Chestertons and the Golden Key

by Nancy Carpentier Brown

  “Mother,” she asked, as her hand moved across the page, “I want to tell Mr. Chesterton that I think he is a great writer, in fact, that he is the reincarnation of Shakespeare. Do you think that’s all right?”

  “Who’s Shakesbeer?” asked Cece from the floor where she was brushing Pepper.

  “You know who Shakespeare is, darling,” said Mother, gently, “He wrote Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Oh,” said Cece, tipping her head to one side, “him. And what’s re-in-car-something?”

  “Reincarnation,” said Mother, as Clare wrote furiously, “means when one person dies, his soul comes back to life in someone else. So Clare means to say that when Mr. Shakespeare died, she believes his soul, or at least his talent, was re-born in Mr. Chesterton.”

  “Do you really believe that, Clare?” asked Cece, frowning.

  “What I really believe,” said Clare, folding the sheet of paper in thirds, and standing quickly, “is that we should return to The Three Cups Hotel immediately and give this letter to Mr. Chesterton.”

  They’re gone!”

  Clare, Joan and Cece stood in the hotel lobby, looking at the empty tea room in dismay. There was no sign of Mr. Chesterton.

  “We’ve lost them again!” Cece wailed. “Whatever shall we do now, Clare?”

  Clare did not know what to do. They had run all the way to the Three Cups Hotel. But she knew she could not give up now. “Let’s walk around and look. Maybe they are somewhere else in the hotel.”

  So the sisters began to search. Clare peeked into the lounge, but the couple was not there.

  Joan looked in the cloak room, but it was empty. Cece found a hallway that led to the kitchen, but there was no one there either, except a man stacking plates and saucers into a cupboard.

  They sat down in the lobby on a soft couch, and discussed what to do next. Joan wanted to leave the note between the cushions of the couch and hope that Mr. Chesterton would find it. Cece thought the man stacking plates might be able to help. Clare thought it would be better if they could go upstairs and slip the note under Mr. Chesterton’s door, but they didn’t know which room the Chestertons were staying in. While they were talking, someone coughed behind them.

  “Might I be of service?” said the young man standing at the front desk. He was dressed in a nice suit, with a pen tucked behind his ear.

  Clare took a deep breath. “We’re looking for the Chestertons,” said Clare. “We think they are guests here. I wanted to give them this note.”

  She handed him the letter. She was afraid he might say the Chestertons had left or that he couldn’t help them. But the man nodded with a small smile on his lips. He took the note and promptly disappeared up the stairs.

  “Oh my goodness! Now I’m sure I’m going to explode!” Clare said to her sisters. They all waited. Joan wandered over to the piano and began to hum as she played a few notes from a song. Cece found a cat by the front window and teased it with a bit of string from her pocket.

  But Clare watched the stairway in the hall. She folded her hands as she watched the very spot where the clerk had vanished up the steps, waiting for whatever would happen next. There was a large clock on the wall, with a brass weight that went back and forth with a loud tick-tock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The minutes seemed to stretch out forever. She closed her eyes and thought, please let Mr. Chesterton want to meet me, please let him want to meet me!

  When she opened her eyes, she saw that two grey pant legs had appeared at the top of the stairs. They looked almost like the front legs of a gigantic friendly elephant. Slowly, they grew longer and longer, till finally the whole of Mr. Chesterton was coming down the stairs—coming right towards Clare. He was smiling at her. Joan and Cece came over, and stood in awe.

  “Hello, Mr. Chesterton,” said Clare, curtsying and politely holding out her hand. She felt her insides tremble. “I’m Clare Nicholl.”

  “Why hello, Miss Clare Nicholl,” said Mr. Chesterton, smiling as he shook her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Am I really the ghost of Shakespeare? And may we really come to tea?”

  “Yes! Yes, of course you may,” Clare said, and Mr. Chesterton laughed in a big way, and she found that she wanted to laugh, too. And she knew at once that she was right: she and Mr. Chesterton could be friends.

  The lady had come down behind Mr. Chesterton, and stood to the side. Joan thought she looked a little shy, so she curtsied and said, “I’m Joan Nicholl and this is our sister Cece. Are you Mrs. Chesterton?”

  “Yes, I am,” said the kind lady. “Was that you playing the piano just now, Joan?” And when Joan nodded, the lady added, “You were playing my very favorite song about spring.” Joan blushed, and looked at her feet.

  Cece was not shy. She walked right up to Mrs. Chesterton, tilted up her head, and took a slow deep breath. “I thought so!” she exclaimed. “My mother wears that same scent!”

  Joan was embarrassed, but Mrs. Chesterton smiled, and said, “Great minds think alike, as they say.” And then she laughed, and they all laughed, because it was all so wonderful.

  “Mother, they’re here!” Joan shouted into the house as she opened the front door.

  Seizing Mrs. Chesterton’s hand, Cece began taking the Chestertons on a tour. “This is the front room, and this is the dining room, and this is our dog Pepper, the best dog in the whole world, and here’s the piano but it’s always locked, and that’s Mummy’s sewing machine, and here’s my skipping rope…”

  “And let’s introduce them to Mummy,” Clare said, stopping her excited sister.

  Mother was pleasantly surprised that the Chestertons had come right over. She greeted them, and then excused herself to put the water on to boil. Joan helped her clear away the sewing materials and set the tea table with their best pink-edged napkins, and their prettiest teacups with the pink roses.

  In the meantime, Clare played the hostess. She felt nervous, but she knew her mother was counting on her. She showed Mr. and Mrs. Chesterton how they had a stairway at the back of their house that went right down to the ocean, and told them how they could watch the sea and hear it every day. Fortunately the Chestertons were quite interested in all of it, and they were easy to talk to. Mrs. Chesterton thought they were very fortunate to live so close to the salty air, which she said she loved. Soon Mother was calling them to tea.

  Pepper was sniffing the table as Mother brought out the tea. Cece told him to be a good dog and go lie down, but Pepper was far too excited for that. He wove in and out of their legs, trying to find a good spot to join the party.

  In the center of the table, Mother had set the flowered tea tray with its two little platters. On the top tray were sweets: biscuits, buns, and tarts. The bottom platter held savories: cheeses, crackers, and hot buttered toast. When everyone, including Pepper, was seated, Mother poured the tea.

  Clare and Joan and Cece told the Chestertons all about their family, the Nicholl family. How they had an older brother and three older sisters, but they lived far away. How two years ago their father had died whilst on a trip to Moldavia, and how sad it was, but how they prayed that he would be happy in heaven. Someone got his picture from the top of the piano to show the Chestertons, and they both agreed he was quite handsome.

  Mr. Chesterton asked Clare, “Is it true that you are trying to write a story?”

  “Yes! It’s a mystery,” Clare said shyly, “it’s sort of based on…well, but I’m having trouble with… the thing is, I’ve never written anything like it before. I’m stuck at the beginning, and I wanted to ask you about that, maybe, after tea… you could help me?”

  “I certainly hope I can,” said Mr. Chesterton, wiping away the biscuit crumbs which had spilled on his front with his napkin, scattering them on the floor. Pepper decided he liked sitting beneath Mr. Chesterton’s chair best. “Let’s discuss it after tea then, shall we?”

  Cece was telling Mrs. Chesterton how she wanted to be a skater when she grew up, and to sk
ate in the Olympics.

  “But they don’t have roller skating in the Olympics,” Joan objected.

  “Then I shall be a famous swimmer,” Cece said, quickly finding a new dream, “I shall swim the English channel like Gertrude Ederle.”

  “Ambitious,” said Mrs. Chesterton, “I like that in a young lady. I hear the Channel is quite cold, so you have to keep moving.”

  Cece shivered, as she thought of swimming in cold water for hours. “I shall do it nonetheless,” she said. “Both ways. Someday.” She smiled up at Mrs. Chesterton, who seemed to understand her very well.

  Now that she had asked Mr. Chesterton about her story, Clare found she did not know what else to talk about. “Would you like some of this Dorset red cheese?” she asked Mr. Chesterton. “Do help yourself.”

  He did. “Ah, excellent! There is nothing so sublime and splendid as a good cheese… yet poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Really?” asked Clare, “why?”

  “A mystery overlooked,” said the author. “And a pity, because few things are as poetic as a good Dorset red cheese. I wonder if we can try making a triolet about cheese right now?” he asked, laughing in delight. “A triolet’s easy enough to make up. Five lines with two repeats and two rhymes to make eight lines in a stanza. Ready?”

  No one was really ready, but all the party looked at him eagerly as he began:

  “ ‘Pass the Dorset red cheese,’ ” he began, and looked at his wife.

  “ ‘For my crackers are empty,” said Mrs. Chesterton, laughing and glancing at Joan.

  (“Say something that rhymes with cheese and repeat the first line,” suggested Mr. Chesterton.)

  “And I must take my ease—so pass the Dorset red cheese—no, Mother, I don’t mean really, I’m doing the triolet!” said Joan. It was Clare’s turn.

  “ ‘For I’m not a Burmese,’ ” Clare tried, and eagerly went on to the next line. “And I… oh dear, what rhymes with ‘empty’?”

  “Content-y? Resent-y? Oh! I know, twenty!” said Mr. Chesterton, putting his finger to his temple, “Hmm…for I counted five and twenty? For I ate dinner with Bentley? For I must fill a horn o’ plenty? Well, pick one!” he said.

  “ ‘For dinner’s at nine-twenty,’ ” Clare said.

  “Pass the Dorset red cheese—” everyone chorused. “For my crackers are empty!”

  “So pass the cheese if you please!” shouted Cece, adding an extra line which was not really part of a proper triolet, but no one minded. Mother passed the cheese tray around to general applause as she refilled their cups.

  “So Clare wants to be a writer and Cece a swimmer and a skater. What about you, Joan?” Mrs. Chesterton asked.

  Joan beamed. “I do love music! I really wish I could play…” but then she saw her mother listening, and caught herself. Quickly she said, “Play. I wish I could be…in a play. With music.”

  Mrs. Chesterton smiled. “I love plays too! So does Gilbert. I’m afraid we like plays so much, we even have a little stage—nothing much, you understand—so that we can write bits and pieces and put them on. And sometimes the children from the village are kind enough to join in. This is in Beaconsfield, where we live.”

  Cece asked, “Are your children in the plays too?”

  Mrs. Chesterton looked sad for just a moment. “We don’t have any children,” she said, but then smiled quickly and added, “but we have lots of nieces and nephews, and a lot of almost-nieces and almost-nephews.”

  “What are those?” asked Joan.

  “Those are our godchildren, and the children of our cousins and friends,” said Mrs. Chesterton. “They call us Aunt Frances and Uncle Gilbert, since that’s easier than saying ‘First-Cousin-Once-Removed Frances’ and ‘First-Cousin-Once-Removed-Gilbert,’ don’t you think?” They all agreed it was much easier to say.

  Mother asked the Chestertons about their plans for staying in Lyme Regis.

  “Well,” said Mr. Chesterton, lifting a begging Pepper onto his lap and beginning to pet him, “we really only planned to stay here for two days, and then keep going up the coast. But I suspect…” he glanced over at his wife, “that’s changed. But what I do wish just now is that we had a little white dog named Salt. Don’t you, my dear?” he said turning to his wife with a laugh in his voice. “Then we could get these two together and shout, ‘Come, Salt and Pepper! Over here, Pepper and Salt!’ and all the neighbors would think we were doing magic tricks to conjure up the condiments!”

  He handed the dog to Mrs. Chesterton, and she began gently scratching Pepper’s head. “We have a dog, too” said Mrs. Chesterton, “his name is Winkle and he’s a Scottie. He’s a little bigger than Pepper, and all black. He’s very brave, and he loves to bury things.”

  “So does Pepper!” said Cece, helping Mrs. Chesterton scratch behind Pepper’s ears.

  “We also have a donkey named Trotsky,” continued Mrs. Chesterton. (“Because he won’t ‘walksky’,” explained her husband.) “Trotsky loves to give children rides on his back. We have quite a lot of rabbits and some goats, too… Since we don’t have any children of our own, we have sort of adopted lots of other children, and they and their families can visit us whenever they like. I hope that you will all come and visit us too?”

  “Oh, we would love to!” said Cece.

  “We would, we would!” said Clare and Joan.

  “Since we’ve lost our father, we’re practically orphans—well, not exactly orphans, we do have Mother, but—we’d love to have more family!” Cece said excitedly. “We’re not your godchildren or your once-removed-cousins but could we be your sort-of relations?”

  “Of course you may!” Mrs. Chesterton put her hands out and squeezed Cece’s hand and Mother’s hand.

  Clare reached out and took Mr. Chesterton’s hand and they shook hands all around the table.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Chesterton!” Joan said.

  “You can call us Aunt Frances and Uncle Gilbert if you like,” said Mrs. Chesterton. “That’s what our other young friends do.”

  “But you are more special than just an aunt or an uncle!” Cece burst out. “We need a special name just for you.”

  “What about Auntlet and Unclet?” Clare asked, inspired. “Because you’re a little bit of our aunt and uncle, in a way.”

  And Mr. Chesterton burst out laughing, his big voice booming. “I for one have never been called little of anything,” he said. “But I am very pleased to become an Unclet—a little bit of an uncle, and all the way a friend.”

  At the end of the tea, Mrs. Chesterton—or Auntlet, as they were now calling her—shyly said, “Gilbert and I have just decided that we should finish out our holiday here in Lyme Regis. Would you mind that, Pepper?” she asked the dog.

  Pepper responded by eagerly licking her hands to see if she was hiding any more cookies. But everyone else cheered. The Nicholls were very glad the Chestertons had decided to stay.

  After they had all had just about as much tea as they possibly could, the Nicholl girls decided they should take the Chestertons on a walk down to the beach.

  Auntlet offered to help Mother clean up from tea, but Mother urged her to walk with the children instead. “And I hope you’ll stay for dinner.” So the children and the Chestertons walked along the shore, working up an appetite for dinner. Cece and Joan held Auntlet’s hands, and they all wandered near the shore, looking for sea urchins and crabs to put back in the water.

  Pepper had come along, and tugged now and then at the cuffs of Mr. Chesterton’s pants, urging him to go faster as he walked along with Clare. “Tell me about your story, Clare,” said Mr. Chesterton, as he watched Pepper bury a shell under some sand. “If you’d like to, that is.”

  “Oh, I’d like to tell you about it,” said Clare, dejectedly, “if there was anything to tell. I’m stuck just at the moment.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got so far?” said Mr. Chesterton.


  “Well, all right,” said Clare. She dug in her heels, clasped her hands behind her back, and recited from memory, “ ‘It was just an ordinary day for Sister Smith’—Sister Smith is my detective, you see,” said Clare.

  “Sister Smith?” said Mr. Chesterton, “Is she related to Father Brown?”

  “Not…really,” said Clare, uncertainly, “at least, I don’t think so. Should she be?”

  “Oh no,” said Unclet, chuckling. “I don’t think she needs to be anything but herself. But tell me more about this ordinary day Sister Smith is having.”

  Clare began again, “ ‘It was just an ordinary day for Sister Smith, except that a chalice was missing from St. Peter’s.’ ”

  “Well,” said Unclet slowly, after the pause. “Now there’s something interesting happening. I like that. A chalice is missing. What happens next?”

  “That’s just it,” said Clare, punching her right fist into her left and frowning. “I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know who took the chalice, and I don’t know how Sister Smith is going to work out who took it. I’m stuck. After the very first sentence.”

  He nodded, distracted by a lump of seaweed on the beach. He lifted his cane to examine the limp plant, giving it a sniff before tossing it back to the sea. Clare watched this with curiosity.

  “Well,” he started, stopping to watch a seagull swoop and dive into the water to catch a fish. “If I were you, I would begin by asking some questions. The first three questions are ‘Who?’ ‘What?’ and ‘Where?’ But then ‘we’ve got to get to ‘Why?’ That is, if you plan to kill someone off. Are you planning a murder, my dear?” he asked politely.

  Clare giggled. “I was just planning to have something stolen. After all, in ‘The Blue Cross,’ no one is murdered, you see.”

  “Yes, quite so,” said Unclet. “Well, let’s talk about Sister Smith, as she is our first ‘who.’ What kind of a sister is she? What is she doing at St. Peter’s? And ‘who’ has taken the chalice? Then we can move on to ‘what.” I wonder what kind of chalice is missing?”