“He never did,” said Simon. “Even as a child, he preferred the carpenter’s shed to the house.” He ran a fingertip along a wrought-iron curlicue. “You know my cousin fairly well, Lori. Has he ever told you why he so thoroughly dislikes his home?”
“He and his father don’t seem to get along,” I said diplomatically.
“Even if I thought my uncle the worst tyrant in the world, I could never hate Hailesham,” said Simon. “There must be some other explanation.”
I thought of the cheerful disorder that reigned in Derek’s manor house and compared it to Hailesham’s uncluttered perfection. I pictured Derek’s muddy work boots, glanced at Simon’s gleaming black shoes, and swept a hand through the air to indicate the manicured flowerbeds surrounding us.
“Maybe he considers it a bit . . . elitist,” I ventured.
“Elitist?” Simon’s mouth tightened, and though he spoke quietly, his voice was taut with anger. “Are beauty, craftsmanship, and continuity elitist? Hailesham wasn’t run off on an assembly line. It was made by hand. It was created by masons, joiners, painters, plasterers—men who strove for a kind of self-expression rendered obsolete by soulless modern architecture.” He grasped the wrought-iron arch as if to reassure himself of its permanence. “I should think Derek, of all people, would appreciate the distinction.”
“I’m sure he does,” I began, but Simon didn’t seem to be listening.
“Hundreds of country houses were demolished in the last century,” he went on. “Treasure houses the likes of which will never be seen again. It’s a miracle that Hailesham survived, a miracle wrought by succeeding generations of my family who cared enough to . . .” He tossed his head in disgust. “Does Derek realize how many crafts-men we employ to maintain the house?”
“Simon,” I said gently. “Forget that I mentioned the word elitist. It was an idiotic thing to say. Derek’s devoted his life to restoring old buildings. No one appreciates craftsmanship more than he does.”
Simon released the arch and held his hand out to me beseechingly. “Then why does he hate the place?”
“I don’t know.” I clasped his hand. “But it’s clear to me that you love it.”
Simon’s anger seemed to fade. He took a deep breath, caught his lower lip between his teeth, and regarded me shamefacedly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m being a bore. Gina finds nothing more tedious than my passionate defense of Hailesham Park.”
“I don’t think you’re boring,” I said stoutly. “I mean, it’s not just a home you’re defending, it’s . . . it’s civilization—a handmade world as opposed to one built by machines. If defending civilization doesn’t rouse your passions, I don’t know what will.”
Simon gazed at me gravely for a heartbeat or two, then his dimples showed and his blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “I can think of at least one other thing that rouses my passion. Shall I tell you?”
I couldn’t help smiling as his flirtatious mask slipped back into place, though I felt a bit sorry for him, too. I was beginning to suspect that he used the mask as protective coloration in a world where true passion was dismissed as tedious.
“I’m pretty sure I can guess,” I said dryly. I released his hand and walked to the low stone wall bordering the rose garden. I stopped at a spot that afforded a good view of the turtledove’s former perch. The scent of kerosene had dissipated, but the topiary’s charred remains were still very much in evidence.
I gazed thoughtfully at the blackened, soggy mess. Derek and the earl believed that the fire had been an unfortunate accident, but I still had my doubts. Could sheer coincidence explain the destruction of one of Hailesham’s prized topiaries within hours of Derek’s arrival, or was something more sinister at work? The ornamental figures were in plain view of the house, but the hedges containing them were high enough to allow anyone to light a fire and escape unseen, especially after dark.
“Has Gina told you why we’re here?” I asked.
Simon came to stand beside me. He peered silently toward the blurred line of distant woods for a moment, then bent forward to prop his elbows on the wall.
“Gina never tells me anything,” he said softly. “She seldom has time to spare for conversation. Her work requires her to be away from home quite often. It’s all highly confidential.”
I glanced at him uncertainly. I’d expected an evasive or a playful answer. His directness had caught me off guard and his words had struck closer to home than he could have realized. I, too, was married to a high-powered professional who disappeared for weeks on end to conduct business about which he seldom spoke. It was like being married to a spy. I studied Simon’s profile, wondering what else we had in common.
“Do you have children?” I asked.
“A son,” he said. “He’s at Eton. You?”
“Twin boys,” I told him. “They’re at home with their nanny.”
“Aren’t we lucky?” Simon turned his head to gaze at me. The sadness in his eyes touched me more deeply than I was willing to admit.
I folded my arms inside his jacket and looked away. “It must have broken your heart to see the topiary burn.”
“It was meant to,” he said.
I looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?”
Simon stared straight ahead. “The fire was no accident, Lori. I believe it was set intentionally, to intimidate me.” His lips quirked into a wry smile as he added, “Not only because I’m the perfect egoist, but because of a curious item I found in my room shortly after I arrived.”
I cast my mind back to my first encounter with Simon. He’d said something then that had piqued my curiosity: “Someone’s been playing post office. . . .”
“A letter?” I guessed.
“You’ve a retentive memory, Lori.” Simon straightened. “Someone left it on my dressing table. I found it before I exchanged rooms with Emma, so there’s no doubt it was meant for me. Care to see it?”
I eyed him narrowly. “Are you telling the truth, Simon, or is this a ploy to get me up to your bedroom?”
“Would I need a ploy?” He didn’t wait for an answer but gestured toward his jacket. “I didn’t think it wise to leave the note lying about, so I brought it with me. You’ll find it in the inside breast pocket.”
I slid my hand into the jacket’s pocket and removed a folded half-sheet of plain white paper. I opened it and held it up to the moonlight.
“Good grief,” I muttered.
It was a classic poison-pen note. The words were made up of individual letters clipped from books and pasted together in three crooked lines:
I shuddered and when Simon put his arm around me this time, I didn’t move away.
“It’s horrible,” I said. “You should take it to the police.”
He gently pulled the threatening note from my hand. “Elstyns solve their problems privately,” he said quietly. “My uncle abhors the thought of public scandal.”
“Have you shown it to Gina?” I asked.
He gave a mirthless chuckle. “She’s been far too busy to spare a moment for her husband.”
I looked up at him, bewildered. “Why are you telling me about it?”
“We’re birds of a feather, you and I.” He leaned his head closer to mine. “And I need someone who knows her way around a library.”
My bewilderment increased. I couldn’t imagine how he’d learned that I’d once worked as a rare-book bibliographer in my alma mater’s library.
He seemed to read my mind. “Your husband was singing your praises over the port.”
The idea of Bill bragging about me in front of the earl filled me with delight. In an instant all of his sins—including those he hadn’t yet committed—were forgiven.
“Was he?” I said, beaming.
“Incessantly.” Simon cocked an ear toward the house as Claudia’s shrill voice announced the return of the men and Gina to the drawing room. His hold on me tightened. “Meet me in the library tomorrow at nine. Tell no one.”
A thousand questi
ons clamored to be asked, but there was no time. I hastily returned his jacket and smoothed my rumpled dress.
“I’ll be there,” I promised. “And, Simon”—I gripped his arm—“be careful.”
He stared at my hand for a moment, then reached out to touch me lightly on the cheek. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”
The air seemed to tingle between us. My hand slid from his arm and I headed for the drawing room without saying another word. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I could laugh at Simon’s flirting, but his sincerity was more than I could handle.
Seven
Bill was so tired by the time we got upstairs that he tumbled into his own bed without pausing to ask how my evening had gone. I stood over him for a while, then bent low to kiss him, hoping he’d murmur my name, but the only name he whispered was “Gina.”
I fell back a step, too stunned to speak, and quickly told myself that it meant nothing. Bill had spent most of the evening with his colleague; it was only natural that she should be on his mind. I ordered myself not to overreact, then retreated to my room to speak with Dimity.
It was nearly two in the morning and the fire in my hearth was burning low. I sat atop the bedclothes with Reginald perched on a pillow beside me and the blue journal open in my lap, determined not to mention what had just happened.
“We were wrong, Dimity,” I said. “It’s not Derek who needs a bodyguard, it’s Simon.” I pulled Reginald closer to me as the lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop across the page.
Simon Elstyn, eldest son of Edwin’s brother Kenneth?
“That’s right,” I said. “He’s married to Gina, and his brother’s name is Oliver.”
I remember Simon. He was Edwin’s favorite. He and Oliver spent all of their holidays at Hailesham.
“Did you like Simon?” I asked.
Who could help liking Simon?
The question begged for laughter, but I could only manage a wan smile. “Whoever’s threatening to kill him, for a start.”
I’m sorry?
I shoved all thoughts of Bill and Gina to the back of my mind and concentrated on telling Dimity about the poison-pen letter and the torched topiary.
It would certainly hurt Simon to hurt Hailesham. He loved it here when he was a boy.
“He loves it even more, now that he’s grown up.” I thought for a moment, then went on. “Nell Harris seems to connect the fire to Simon, too. When Edwin told her not to worry about it, she gave Simon one of her meaningful looks.”
Nell’s skilled at reading people, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. What’s your opinion?
“It’s arson,” I said bluntly. “I could smell kerosene from fifty yards away. If you combine arson with a death threat, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that Simon’s being singled out for harassment.” I reached over to twiddle Reginald’s ears. “I wonder if he’s up to something or if the letter-writer’s just plain crazy.”
It could be a bit of both. Simon was a charming boy, but he had a streak of mischief in him as well. He rather enjoyed disconcerting people.
“He still does,” I said, recalling the touch of his fingertips on my face.
Ask Simon if he knows why the writer objects so strenuously to his presence at Hailesham. I doubt that he’ll give you a straight answer, but ask nonetheless.
“I intend to.” I looked toward the balcony. “It must be an inside job, Dimity.”
I agree. Edwin’s always been a stickler for security. A stranger would find it difficult to flit about the property unnoticed.
There was a pause as Dimity collected her thoughts. Has anyone else received a nasty letter? You might inquire.You should also make it your business to discover who had the opportunity to deliver the letter to Simon’s room.
“I suppose one of the servants could have done it,” I said, “or any of the others who arrived before he did. I’ll find out.”
Have you told Bill about the death threat?
“No,” I said, and hurried on. “He’s been really busy since we arrived and he was exhausted when we finally came upstairs, and if I told him, he’d insist on calling the police.”
True. As an attorney, Bill’s accustomed to utilizing official resources. He might even be correct in doing so. A death threat should never be taken lightly, Lori.
“I’m not taking it lightly,” I said. “I’m respecting Simon’s wishes. He asked me not to tell anyone about it.”
Simon asked you to keep a secret from your husband? And you agreed? Dimity didn’t write tsk, tsk, but I could almost hear her clucking her tongue. Tread carefully, Lori. You’ve walked this path before.
I was sorely tempted to tell her that my husband had fallen asleep with another woman’s name on his lips, but I kept silent. How could I question Bill’s behavior when my own track record was less than spotless? I’d never been unfaithful to him—in the strictest sense of the word— but Dimity knew that I’d had more than my share of close calls. She was tactfully reminding me of my unfortunate susceptibility to charming men to whom I was not married.
“I’ll be okay,” I assured her. “Simon’s such a flagrant flirt that I’d be embarrassed to be seduced by him.”
Three cheers for self-respect. Now, tell me, what did you have for dinner?
“For dinner?” I blinked, surprised by the change of subject, then remembered that Dimity was supposed to be enjoying a carefree holiday. “Consommé, poached salmon, roast partridge, white asparagus, lemon sorbet, treacle tart, fresh peaches, and the usual assortment of wines and cheeses.”
Treacle tart? An unusual choice for such a formal meal, but I’m sure it was delicious. In my day, Edwin was known far and wide for the splendor of his table. I’m glad to know that high standards still prevail. Did he use the family dinner service?
“The china was marked with the Elstyn crest, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
Lovely. And were you able to cope with the partridge?
“I poked the knife into the joints, the way you told me to, and the legs just fell off.” I frowned in puzzlement. “Why do you suppose Simon wants me to meet him in the library?”
Isn’t it obvious, my dear? He wants your help in finding the books vandalized by the poison pen.
I chided myself for not catching on more quickly, then remembered that I hadn’t been thinking very clearly when I’d left the rose garden.
It seems our holiday at Hailesham Park will be every bit as adventurous as you predicted.You must promise me that you’ll conduct your investigation with the utmost caution. Poison pens are notoriously unstable. If ours discovers that you’re in league with Simon, he may come after you as well.
Her warning tweaked my curiosity. “Has anyone ever sent you a death threat, Dimity?”
Yes, once, long ago. It’s an occupational hazard for anyone with wealth.
I nodded thoughtfully. “What did you do about it?”
I turned it over to Scotland Yard. They never discovered who sent it. But I did.
I sat up, intrigued. “Who was it?”
One of my most trusted assistants. She made the mistake of clipping letters from a report issued by the Westwood Trust. The typeface was unusual and the report had a limited circulation. It didn’t require much delving to reveal the culprit’s identity.
“Did you turn her in to the police?” I asked.
I had no choice but to inform the authorities. She’d become dangerously deranged, Lori, which is why I want you to be on guard.
“I’ll watch my step,” I promised.
In the meantime, I suggest that you turn the light out and get some rest.You must be alert tomorrow.
“Good night, Dimity.”
Sleep well, my dear.
I waited until her words had faded from the page, then set the journal and Reginald on the bedside table, climbed under the covers, and switched off the light. I leaned back against the mound of pillows and gazed silently at the wall that separated my room from Simon’s.
I was glad he’d come to me with the threatening letter. I’d been looking forward to guarding Derek, but the prospect of taking an active role in Simon’s investigation was more appealing still. There was a certain thrill in knowing that a madman—or madwoman—walked among us.
Who would it be? I wondered. Who hated the likable Simon enough to attempt to drive him away from the grand reunion?
Derek’s was the first name that came to mind. My friend didn’t seem overly fond of his cousin, and had reason to resent him. While Derek was the earl’s estranged and hostile son, Simon was the earl’s favorite. As such, he posed a potential threat to Derek’s inheritance.
“No, Reg, it can’t be Derek,” I said, glancing at my pink bunny. “He’s not sneaky enough. I can picture him punching Simon in the nose maybe, but I can’t see him pasting together an anonymous death threat. It must be someone else.”
Could Claudia be the culprit? I asked myself. It was difficult to imagine clueless Claudia plotting anything more complex than a shopping spree, but there might be more to her than met the eye.
Then there was Oliver, the bashful younger brother who’d grown up in Simon’s shadow. Truckloads of demented resentments could spring from being ignored, overlooked, and dismissed as second best. Perhaps Oliver had finally had enough. Perhaps he’d decided to grab some of the spotlight for himself by casting a shadow over Simon. Oliver was a definite possibility.
Last, but not least, there was Gina. Had she grown tired of watching her husband offer his arm—and who knew what else?—to other women? Had she sent the death threat to punish him? Or was someone else wandering the halls, unknown to the rest of us?
I pulled the covers up to my chin and gazed into the fire. I’d never admit it to Dimity, but the thought of spending more time alone with Simon held a certain thrill as well. I wasn’t drawn to him simply because of his beguiling manner or his enchanting good looks, or even because I needed someone to distract me from whatever might be going on between my husband and his wife.
In truth, I felt a sense of kinship with him. We were both out of step with the vulgar, mass-produced, disposable world into which we’d been born. My cottage might be humbler that Hailesham, but I treasured every hand-hewn joist and floorboard. On a more personal level, we share the fate of spouses who were left alone too often, and we were, each of us, passionate creatures.
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday Page 5
