“Are you sure you remembered to bring everything?” she asked. “I didn’t see a kitchen sink back there.”
“You mock what you do not understand,” I said loftily as I pulled into the lane. “Babies need a lot of stuff.”
“Obviously,” Bree muttered, glancing over her shoulder.
“What’s with the trench coat?” I asked. “And why did you change your hair?”
“It’s my gumshoe disguise,” she replied. “Private eyes are supposed to blend in with their surroundings.”
“The clogs may give you away,” I hinted.
“They’re not inconspicuous,” she conceded, studying her footwear, “but I thought they’d blend in better than my bumblebee Wellies.”
I couldn’t argue with her. Violet clogs were marginally less eye-catching than black-and-yellow-striped Wellington boots.
As Bree had predicted, the early service at St. George’s was sparsely attended. Lilian and the vicar were clearly pleased to see us fill three empty spots in a pew. They greeted us with a mixture of warmth and genteel curiosity as we exited the church, but our cover story seemed to satisfy them and we were able to get away relatively quickly.
“Did you see the look on Lilian’s face?” I asked as Finch receded in my rearview mirror. “I thought she was going to ask if she could come with us.”
“It’s a good thing she didn’t,” said Bree. “We don’t have room for another suitcase.”
I smiled serenely and murmured, “There’s always the roof rack.”
—
Thirty miles might not seem like a great distance in the United States, but in rural England, thirty miles often felt like sixty. Once we left the Oxford road, I found myself driving down a narrow, twisting lane not unlike the one that meandered picturesquely from my cottage to Finch. Sweeping views of the rolling countryside provided some compensation for our frustratingly slow progress until the lane descended into a shallow, bowl-shaped valley.
Old Cowerton lay at the bottom of the bowl, though a scattering of houses climbed up the sides. The town was, as Mrs. Craven had foretold, larger than Finch but smaller than Upper Deeping. A towering spire suggested that its church was much grander than St. George’s, and I was willing to bet that the large, enclosed property on the far side of the valley belonged to the local manor house.
An outlying enclave of drab brown brick row houses heralded our approach to the town proper. Verdant pastures soon gave way to a rabbit warren of streets lined with golden limestone buildings that were every bit as venerable as Finch’s, though there were more of them and they were more tightly packed together.
To judge by the number of parked cars protruding unapologetically into my lane, garages were nonexistent in Old Cowerton. I held my breath as I squeezed past oncoming vehicles and loosened my death grip on the steering wheel only when we entered the much wider high street.
A variety of shops, art galleries, cafés, and restaurants lined the high street, but the White Hart Hotel stood head and shoulders above them all. Four stories tall and four gabled bays across, it seemed massive compared to its less imposing neighbors. It would have dominated the scene unpleasantly if it hadn’t been built with the same stone and in the same style as the rest of the high street’s buildings. Unlike Bree’s violet clogs, it blended in.
The White Hart was set back from the street, with a small courtyard tucked between the projecting end bays. The arrangement allowed me to park the Rover near the front of the hotel without risking a rear-end collision. I’d barely switched off the engine when two young porters emerged from an iron-banded oak door to escort Bree and me from the car to the courtyard, where we were met by an older man.
The older man was tall and thin and neatly dressed in a dark blue shirt and a double-breasted light gray suit. I thought he might be in his late thirties. He had fine lines around his deep-set blue eyes and he wore his wavy blond hair combed back from a receding hairline. His hands were impeccably manicured, his mauve tie matched his pocket square, and his black leather shoes were polished to perfection. He spoke softly but precisely, and his accent suggested a birthplace closer to Rome than to Old Cowerton.
“Madam Shepherd, Madam Pym,” he said, bowing courteously to each of us, in the correct order. “Welcome to the White Hart. I am Francesco and I will be your personal concierge during your stay.”
“How did you know—” I began, but Bree cut me off.
“I described you, me, Bess, and the Range Rover when I made the reservation,” she explained.
“Your description was most helpful, madam,” said Francesco.
“Go!” bellowed Bess, with the imperiousness of an infant Peggy Taxman.
“My daughter,” I said to our personal concierge as I scurried back to the Rover, where the two young porters were entertaining Bess by making funny faces at her through the car window.
Francesco strode ahead of me to open the car door, then stood back while I retrieved my backseat bellower. Having taken her morning nap in the Rover, Bess was ready to run a marathon. I lowered her to the sidewalk, grabbed her hand to keep her from toddling headlong into the high street, and redirected her wobbly steps toward the courtyard.
“If you will give me your keys, madam,” said Francesco, “Eric and Lazlo will attend to your luggage.”
My keys were duly passed to the porters, who took possession of the Rover and disappeared with it up a cobbled alleyway beside the hotel.
“I’m afraid we have rather a lot of luggage,” I said to Francesco, with an apologetic grimace.
“We?” said Bree, raising an eyebrow.
“Okay, most of it’s mine,” I admitted.
“Naturally,” said Francesco. “My son, Frankie, he is small, like your daughter. When my wife and I travel, we fill the car to the roof. We pack more for Frankie than we do for ourselves.”
I smirked at Bree, who lowered her eyebrow and avoided my gaze.
Francesco guided us across the small courtyard, through the iron-banded door, and into a low-ceilinged lobby with an uneven flagstone floor and timber-framed white plaster walls. Two ancient elevators lurked discreetly beneath an oak staircase lined with gilt-framed oil paintings of heroically proportioned horses, bulls, and pigs—suitable subjects, I thought, in a country town surrounded by lush farmland.
The hotel’s front desk wasn’t a bunker barricaded behind a bank of computers but a gleaming walnut table with graceful cabriole legs. A tablet computer was the lobby’s only visible concession to the twenty-first century.
After helping us to remove our coats, Francesco handed them to Leah, the fresh-faced and well-dressed receptionist, then steered us past her.
“Don’t we have to sign in?” I asked him.
“There is no need, madam,” he replied. “It is taken care of.” He handed each of us a key card, then drew a tiny cell phone from his breast pocket and presented it to me. “If you need anything, day or night, press one and I will answer. I am always at your service.” He clasped his hands together and continued energetically, “With your permission, I will give you a short tour of the premises, unless you would like first to refresh yourselves with a cup of tea. I will, of course, provide a sippy cup of fresh milk for la piccola principessa.”
Since my little princess wasn’t ready to sit still, Bree and I opted for the tour. Francesco provided a running commentary on the hotel’s history as he showed us the pub, the spa, the indoor swimming pool, and the magnificent Tudor great hall that served as the hotel’s dining room and restaurant. We encountered quite a few guests during our peregrinations, but none of them were accompanied by a hotel employee. Personal concierges, it seemed, came along with the hotel’s suites.
By the time we returned to the lobby, I was ready for the cup of tea Francesco had offered. He led us into a spacious, book-lined room.
“Our library,” he explained. “Plea
se feel free to borrow a book at any time. If you will be kind enough to leave it in your suite at the end of your stay, we will return it to its proper place on the shelves.”
He then excused himself and left us on our own. Bree and I seated ourselves in a pair of leather armchairs near the soot-stained stone hearth and Bess flopped on the hearth rug to examine its intricate pattern.
“There was a time in my life,” I mused aloud, “when I lived out of cardboard boxes and slept on a lumpy mattress on the floor.”
“There was a time in my life,” said Bree, “when I slept on park benches.”
I craned my neck to take in the library’s leather-bound books and antique furnishings, then settled back in my chair and murmured contentedly, “This is better.”
Bree and I exchanged sidelong glances, then grinned like a pair of unrepentant truants. It’s only when you’ve had nothing, I thought, that you truly appreciate having something.
“You’d think our suite would be ready by now, wouldn’t you?” Bree said, leaning forward to peer through the library’s doorway to the lobby.
“Eric and Lazlo are probably ironing our blue jeans and scattering rose petals over our sneakers,” I said. “I say we take advantage of the delay.”
“How?” said Bree.
“Let’s have a little chat with Francesco,” I said. “Hotel people hear things. Maybe he’s heard of Annabelle Trotter.”
Francesco returned, accompanied by a middle-aged, uniformed waitress bearing a silver salver laden with a delicate bone china tea service and a pink plastic sippy cup. While the waitress arranged the tea things on a round rosewood table, Francesco bent low to present la piccola principessa with the plastic cup and a stuffed animal that would have warmed Mrs. Craven’s heart.
“It’s a Friesian, isn’t it?” I said, pointing to the fluffy black-and-white cow Francesco held out to my daughter.
“It is, madam,” he said. “Old Cowerton has long been known for its champion Friesians. Welcome to Old Cowerton, Principessa,” he added, smiling down at Bess. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the White Hart.”
Bess studied the proffered cow suspiciously, then seized it, bounced it on the hearth rug, and said, quite distinctly, “Moo!”
“Your daughter is a clever girl,” said Francesco, straightening.
“I’d like to think so,” I said, “but honesty compels me to admit that she says the same thing when she sees a horse.”
The waitress left the room, chuckling, and Francesco smiled.
“For your convenience, madam,” he said, “the White Hart has a board-certified nanny on call.”
“Thank you, but I won’t need a nanny,” I told him.
“For backup,” Francesco said, and Bree snorted into her teacup. “If it is la signorina’s nap time and you wish to visit the shops, press one on your mobile and I will send Nanny Sutton to you.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.” I nodded at a nearby armchair. “Please, sit with us.”
“Madam is most kind,” he said. He lowered himself onto the armchair, but he sat at attention, as if he were ready to spring to his feet at a moment’s notice. “How may I assist you?”
“We need your advice,” I told him. “An elderly lady who lives in our village grew up here, in Old Cowerton. Her father managed a herd of Friesians for a local landowner. I suppose you could say that we’re taking a walk down memory lane on her behalf.”
“Most kind,” Francesco murmured.
“We’d like to look up some of her old friends,” I went on, “but we don’t know where they live.”
“We don’t even know if they’re alive,” Bree put in. “As Lori said, our friend is elderly.”
“You must speak with Mr. Nash,” Francesco said promptly. “He is retired now, but for many years he ran the newsagent’s shop on the high street. It is still called Nash’s News, after him.” Francesco shrugged expressively. “You know how it is with newsagents. They know everything about everyone. If your friend’s friends have not left Old Cowerton, Mr. Nash will be able to direct you to them.”
“Can you direct us to Mr. Nash?” I asked.
“Nothing could be simpler,” Francesco said happily. “It is Sunday, no? Mr. Nash will attend the ten o’clock service at St. Leonard’s. At eleven o’clock, he will have brunch at the Willows Café. He will take a table near the front windows.” Francesco smiled. “He likes to keep an eye on his old business. After brunch, if the day is sunny, he will sit on the bench near the newsagent’s shop.”
“Where he can keep a close eye on his old business,” said Bree.
“Exactly so, madam,” said Francesco, nodding.
“And if the day isn’t sunny?” Bree inquired.
“He goes home,” Francesco replied simply. “Everyone on the high street knows Mr. Nash’s routine.”
“Where is the Willows Café?” Bree asked.
“I will show you,” said Francesco. For a moment I thought he was going to escort us up the high street, but his meaning became clear when he drew a colorful street map from his inside breast pocket. He unfolded the map, laid it flat on the tea table, and traced Mr. Nash’s Sunday route with his index finger as he spoke. “The Willows Café is five doors down from the White Hart. The newsagent’s is directly across the street from the café.” He refolded the map and presented it to Bree, saying, “For you, madam.”
Bree thanked him and slipped the map into her day pack.
“It may not be necessary for you to seek out Mr. Nash,” Francesco continued. “Perhaps I can help. I have lived in Old Cowerton for many years and I know many people. Not as many as Mr. Nash, to be sure, but quite a few. May I ask your friend’s name?”
“Her name has changed a few times over the years,” I said, “but she was once known as Annabelle Trotter.”
Francesco stiffened.
“Does the name ring a bell?” I asked, watching him closely.
“I have heard it mentioned,” he said quietly, looking down at his beautifully manicured hands, “from time to time.”
“Have you?” said Bree. “What a surprise. We didn’t realize that Annabelle was famous in her hometown. What have you heard about her?”
“I have heard . . . stories,” he said haltingly. “I am quite certain none of them are true, madam, but—” He broke off as his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then stood, his practiced smile back in place. “The preparations are complete. Your suite awaits you. Please come with me.”
I picked up the sippy cup Bess had discarded and placed it on the tea tray. She clung determinedly to her fluffy cow, however, so I carried her and her new best friend in my arms as Francesco led us across the lobby and down a long, crooked corridor to a door at the rear of the hotel’s ground floor.
“Your suite, madam,” he said. He bowed us through the doorway and followed us into a small foyer. “Please allow me to show you your home away from home.”
Our suite resembled a compact but luxurious cottage. Francesco pointed out the amenities in the kitchenette, the dining nook, the sitting room, and the two bedrooms, each of which had its own private bathroom. A door in the sitting room led to a flagstone patio in the hotel’s walled garden, and a door in the garden wall led to the cobbled yard where Eric and Lazlo had parked the Range Rover. Our key cards, Francesco explained, would open every door.
The baby furniture Bree had requested had been distributed throughout the suite—the changing table, the diaper pail, and the crib in the larger of the two bedrooms; the high chair in the dining nook; and the playpen in the sitting room. Each piece looked—and smelled—as if it had been dunked in antiseptic and scrubbed with cotton swabs. After a few covert sniffs, I decided that the bottle of disinfectant I’d brought with me could remain in the Rover.
A brand-new pink sippy cup had been left on the high chair’s tray, Bess’s clothes had been stowe
d in their own special chest of drawers, the contents of her insulated food bag had been transferred to the kitchenette’s refrigerator, her all-terrain pram had been parked in the foyer, and her toys had been strewn artfully in the playpen. When she saw her familiar playthings, she began squirming relentlessly to get to them. I put her and her fluffy cow in the hotel’s baby jail without a second thought. Our home away from home was clearly cleaner than the home I’d left behind.
Bowls of fresh fruit and vases filled with fresh flowers had been strategically placed in spots that were beyond a toddler’s reach. Although my clothes and Bree’s hadn’t been strewn with rose petals, they’d been neatly folded in drawers or hung in closets, and our toiletries had been lined up on glass shelves in the bathrooms, beside the swankier products provided by the hotel.
The suite’s decor was pleasantly light and airy. Watercolor paintings of pastoral scenes hung between the exposed beams in the white plaster walls, and cream-colored curtains hung at the windows. An antique armoire concealed the television in the sitting room and an elegant escritoire contained a computer workstation. The armchairs and the sofa were upholstered in a pale, rose-patterned chintz fabric that matched the beds’ ruffled canopies; thick rugs were scattered across the dark oak floorboards; and a padded fender ensured that Bess wouldn’t tumble into the gas-lit fireplace.
At the conclusion of the suite tour, Francesco returned my car keys to me and asked if there was anything else he could do for us.
“You can answer one more question,” I said. “Does the Willows Café welcome babies?”
“All of Old Cowerton welcomes babies, madam.” He shrugged. “It is good for business.”
“In that case, we’re all set.” I glanced at my watch. “We’ll relax for an hour, then join Mr. Nash for brunch at the Willows Café.”
Francesco looked down at his folded hands. When he lifted his head to meet my gaze, he was no longer smiling. “I hope I do not overstep my bounds, madam, but I feel that I must give you a word of warning. Some subjects arouse strong feelings in the town. You may find that Mrs. Trotter is one of them. Outsiders must tread carefully.”
Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 6
