Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday

by Nancy Atherton

  It took five minutes for Kit to change into dry socks and a pair of Bill’s twill trousers. He and Bill were much the same height—just over six feet—but Kit was the leaner of the two, so I added one of Bill’s leather belts to the ensemble. While Kit toweled his hair dry, I hung his wet clothes from the mantelpiece, dragged a pair of armchairs close to the fire, pulled a blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around him. We spoke in lowered voices as we sat facing each other across the hearth.

  “I’d phone the kitchen for a pot of hot chocolate,” I said, “but it’s past Cook’s bedtime.”

  “I’ve stopped sneezing,” he said meekly.

  I ducked my head and smiled, but my amusement was short-lived. I couldn’t believe that Kit had been so foolhardy as to come to Hailesham Park.

  “How did you get into my room?” I asked.

  “You gave Annelise a fairly detailed description of the view from your balcony,” he explained. “I climbed up the stonework, spotted Reginald, and knew I’d found the right place.”

  “You climbed the stonework,” I repeated. “After walking two miles. Through the storm.”

  “I had no choice.” Kit held his hands out to the fire. “Lord Elstyn thinks I’ve trifled with his granddaughter’s affections. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if I’d knocked on his front door?”

  “He did mention something about shooting you if you set foot on his property,” I said with some asperity.

  “I know I’m not welcome here, Lori, but I had to come.” Kit’s expression was grave as his eyes met mine. “Nell’s in danger.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but I waited for him to go on. He hunched forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.

  “When Annelise told me about your call this morning, I knew something was wrong. The horse hasn’t been born that can throw Nell, under normal circumstances.”

  Though Emma had said much the same thing in response to Gina’s gibes, Kit’s opinion carried more weight. Emma might be blinded by her stepmaternal love for Nell, but Kit the stable master would neither under- nor overrate his pupil’s abilities. When it came to horsemanship, Kit was utterly clear-sighted.

  “I thought of ringing you and asking you to look into it,” he went on, “but you’ve never been comfortable around horses.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to look for,” I agreed.

  “That’s why I had to come. I had to find out what had really happened.” Kit drew the blanket more closely around him. “I went to the stables first, to gauge Deacon’s temperament. The horse is sound, Lori. Spirited, yes, but nothing Nell can’t handle.”

  “Deacon’s thrown two good riders in two days,” I pointed out.

  “It’s not his fault,” said Kit.

  I didn’t understand what he was getting at. “If it’s not Nell’s fault, or Deacon’s, then—”

  “The hurdles.” Kit shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, stood, and rummaged in the cargo pocket of his dripping parka. When he turned back to me, he was holding a tangled web of fine electrical wiring.

  “Flashbulbs,” he said, handing the wire to me. “Remote-controlled flashbulbs. I found the wire wound among the ivy on the hurdles. Someone must have hidden the bulbs there and set them off when Deacon approached. The flashes terrified him and he panicked. No one could have stayed on him after that.”

  I stared at the tiny bulbs, horrified. “Claudia said he seemed frightened,” I muttered. “And Simon . . . Simon told me he saw stars when he fell. He must have caught a glimpse of . . . these.”

  Kit resumed his seat. “It was an intentional act of sabotage, Lori. Someone was trying to hurt Nell.”

  I closed my eyes and watched the accident unfold once more in memory. I saw Deacon’s steady strides, the fluttering ivy, the long-legged rider, the helmet, the black coat, the tall boots. . . .

  “No,” I said, shuddering. “It’s not Nell they’re trying to hurt. It’s Simon.”

  I dropped the wire on the floor, reached into my pocket, and withdrew the poison-pen notes. With trembling hands, I unfolded the note Simon had discovered after his fall.

  “‘A pity you didn’t land on your head. Better luck next time.’” I was filled with a sickening sense of failure as I read the words aloud. “Simon thought it was a harmless bit of mockery, but I should have known it was more serious. I should have seen it coming.”

  “What should you have seen?” Kit asked. “What’s going on?”

  I looked from the note to the bulb-festooned wire, then sat forward in my chair and carefully outlined to Kit my theory about Lord Elstyn’s plan to disinherit Derek in favor of Simon.

  “I think some lunatic’s trying to protect Derek by getting rid of Simon,” I continued. “Simon’s received a series of nasty messages similar to these.” I handed both notes to Kit and told him about the torched turtledove. “When Simon ignored the notes, someone set fire to the topiary. When he refused to be intimidated by the fire—”

  “The lunatic rigged the flashbulbs,” Kit said grimly.

  I nodded. “When Deacon panicked yesterday, Simon was so badly hurt that he wasn’t able to ride today.”

  “That must be why Nell took Deacon out this morning,” Kit commented. “She wanted to prove to everyone that he’s manageable.”

  “From a distance, when they’re on horseback, it’s hard to tell one cousin from another,” I explained. “The maniac must have mistaken Nell for Simon and tried the flashbulb trick again: ‘Better luck next time,’” I repeated bitterly.

  Kit returned the notes to me and I put them back in my pocket.

  “Why hasn’t Simon gone to the police?” he asked.

  “He didn’t want to open the door to a public scandal,” I replied. “He wanted to expose his persecutor privately. And we may be on the right track. . . .”

  I recounted my discovery of the vandalized books and the razor and concluded with my suspicions regarding Chambers, the earl’s ex-valet. Kit listened without interruption, but when I’d finished, he shook his head.

  “I understand Simon’s reluctance to involve the police,” he said, “but it’s gone too far. He could have been killed yesterday. Nell could have been killed today. Simon must notify the authorities and ask for a proper investigation. If he won’t . . .”

  “I will,” I promised.

  Kit knelt to stir the fire. After he returned the poker to the stand, he remained kneeling, with his back to me. We gazed into the rising flames, absorbed in our own private meditations. Kit was the first to break the silence.

  “Will you take me to her?” he asked.

  The request snapped me out of my reverie. “To Nell?”

  He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the fire. “I need to see her, Lori. I may not be in love with her, but she’s . . . dear to me. I’ve been so worried. I have to see her before I go.”

  “Derek and the others will be with her,” I reminded him.

  “All the better,” he said. “Please take me to her.”

  “I don’t know where her room is,” I said.

  “I do.” Kit sat on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. A half-smile played on his lips, as though he was recalling a fond memory. “When I first arrived at Anscombe Manor, I was too weak to do much of anything. Nell and Bertie used to keep me company. She brought me books and kittens and plum cake, and she told me all about her illustrious grandfather and the glories of Hailesham Park.” The firelight shone in Kit’s violet eyes as he turned his face up to me. “Her room overlooks the terraced gardens. It’s in the south wing, across from the painting of the lady in pink slippers.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, “but let me go first. Lord Elstyn’ll aim more carefully if I’m standing in front of you. I hope.”

  Nineteen

  I scrawled a brief note to Bill, telling him that I’d be back shortly—with explanations—and propped it against the black onyx urn that was holding Ki
t’s parka in place on the mantelpiece. Kit waited while I searched the corridor for signs of life, then followed me as I led the way to the south wing. We were crossing the landing when the sound of voices floated up to us from the stairwell.

  “It may be legal, Gina, but you know as well as I do that it’s wrong,” Bill was saying.

  “Right and wrong are abstract concepts,” Gina observed. “I’m concerned solely with legality.”

  “I’ll continue to fight you on this,” Bill warned.

  Gina’s throaty laughter was filled with disdain. “Your devotion to a lost cause is truly touching.”

  “It’s not lost yet,” said Bill. “When we meet tomorrow, I’m going to insist on . . .”

  I’d have given ten sacks of silver to continue eavesdropping on their conversation, but their voices were growing louder, which meant that they were heading straight toward us. I didn’t need a crystal ball to tell me what would happen if Gina saw me leading an oddly dressed stranger in the general direction of Nell’s bedroom, so Kit and I hotfooted it into the south wing at top speed.

  “Pink slippers, pink slippers, pink slippers,” I muttered as we dashed past the paintings lining the long corridor. We were halfway to the end when I spotted an improbably well-dressed shepherdess with a simpering smile, a beribboned crook, and . . .

  “Pink slippers!” I whispered excitedly, pointing at the telltale footgear, but Kit had already disappeared through the door opposite the shepherdess. I glanced toward the staircase, distinctly heard Bill clear his throat, and scrambled after Kit, closing the door behind us. I leaned against it to catch my breath while my gaze moved slowly around the room.

  I saw nothing to indicate the presence of a teenager—no gaudy posters, no electronics, no mess. The decor reflected the refined taste of a mature woman who knew her own mind and trusted her own judgment. It was exactly what I would have expected of Nell.

  The walls were hung with exquisite hand-painted paper: gnarled boughs clouded with apple blossoms in the most delicate shades of ivory, rose, and celadon. The furniture came from many periods, as if each piece had been chosen by virtue of its graceful lines or handsome fabrics instead of its dull conformity to one particular style.

  The creamy marble mantelpiece echoed that in the drawing room with its miniature pillars and porticoes, and the half-canopied bed was draped in a sumptuous, pale green damask edged with gold braid. Nell’s chocolate-brown teddy bear and Derek’s battered gray elephant leaned companionably against each other on a fringed cushion at the foot of the bed, but they were there as cherished friends, not toys.

  A silver-framed black-and-white photograph of Emma, Derek, and Peter sat on the bedside table, beneath a parchment-shaded lamp that shed a soft pool of light over a grouping of three chairs that now stood empty. The dim lamp sent furtive gleams through Nell’s tumble of golden curls.

  She lay with her eyes closed, half raised on a mound of pillows, her right arm resting atop the embroidered coverlet, the left tucked out of sight beneath it. Spills of lace fell from her white nightgown’s collar and cuffs. The gown’s high neckline hid the bandages that wrapped her broken collarbone and dislocated shoulder.

  She looked as pale as a dove, as frail as frost, as vulnerable as a sleeping kitten. The rose-petal blush had left her lips, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that had never been there before. I heard Kit exhale raggedly, as if it hurt him to see her suffering. He turned and was about to quit the room when Nell spoke.

  “Kit,” she said, in a voice so weak that it was nearly swallowed by the pouring rain.

  Kit heard her. He stood motionless for a moment, then slowly turned and walked to Nell’s side. I know it was wrong of me, but as he stood over her I couldn’t help imagining how beautiful their children would be, if only . . .

  “Hullo, Nell,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. “I knew you’d come. That’s why I sent the others away.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Kit scolded gently.

  “I’m not.” Nell managed a ghost of a smile, but in the next moment her dark blue eyes were glazed with tears. “Claudia wants to shoot Deacon.”

  “I won’t let her,” said Kit. “It wasn’t Deacon’s fault.” Nell’s chest heaved. “Mine?” she asked in a very small voice.

  “No.” Kit reached down to brush away a tear that had trickled down Nell’s silken cheek. “There were wires, lights—someone tampered with the hurdles. When you’re stronger, Lori will explain, but you must rest now.”

  “Simon’s demon,” Nell whispered. Her breath quickened. “You must tell Grandpapa. He knows—”

  “Hush.” Kit placed his hand on the pale one that lay atop the coverlet. “Lori will speak with your grandfather. Your only task is to get well. You need to be strong enough to drive Rosie’s sleigh when you come home at Christmas.”

  “I’m not coming home,” said Nell.

  “No?” Kit gave her a troubled, searching look as his hand drifted to his side, but when he spoke again his voice was calm and soothing. “The Seine is lovely in winter. You must try to be well enough by then to savor its beauty. Sleep now and dream of Paris.”

  Nell’s steady gaze never left his face. “I’ll dream,” she murmured, “but not of Paris.”

  Kit stepped back. “I . . . I should go,” he faltered. “Good-bye, Nell.”

  Nell closed her eyes and whispered, “Au revoir, Kit.”

  Kit swallowed hard, then stumbled toward the door. He would have blundered past me and into the corridor if I hadn’t held him back while I made sure no one was out there. He maintained a preoccupied silence until we found Bill waiting for us in my room, when he said, without preamble:

  “Nell’s not coming home for Christmas.”

  Bill’s eyes shifted to mine. When I responded with a minute shrug, he said, “I imagine her studies are—”

  “It’s nothing to do with her studies.” Kit looked stricken. He sank onto an armchair by the fire and leaned his forehead on his hands. “It’s me. She left Anscombe Manor because of me, and she’s staying away because of me. I’m keeping her apart from her family, her home. It can’t go on.”

  “It won’t.” Bill gestured for me to keep back as he crossed to sit in the chair facing Kit’s. He must have been yearning for sleep after the long and trying day, but there was no trace of impatience in his voice, only kindness and understanding. “Nell loves you Kit, and she knows you don’t love her. It’s taken a tremendous amount of courage for her to accept the truth and move on.”

  Kit raised his head to look at Bill. “I don’t think she’s moving on.”

  “She will,” said Bill, “given time and distance and a university full of handsome young Frenchmen. You’ll see. She’ll come home at Easter with Pierre or Jean-Luc or François in tow, and you’ll have to reconcile yourself to being just another uncle figure in her life.”

  Kit sighed. “If I could believe that . . .”

  “Believe it.” Bill gave Kit an encouraging smile, then asked, “Are you planning to spend the night here? Because if you are—”

  “I’m not,” said Kit. “I brought the van.”

  “He parked it two miles away,” I put in.

  Bill rose. “I’ll drive you to the van.”

  “It’s nearly one in the morning,” Kit protested.

  “I’m too restless to sleep,” said Bill. “Maybe the drive will calm me down.”

  Kit reluctantly accepted the offer and went into the dressing room to change out of Bill’s trousers and into his own. When he was safely out of earshot, I put my arms around my husband’s neck.

  “You are my idea of the perfect man,” I said, running my fingers through his hair. “But Kit’s right about Nell.”

  “Then let’s hope I’m right, too.” He pulled me close, then went to fetch his raincoat.

  Kit returned, clad once again in his jeans, parka, and boots. He retrieved the bulb-festooned wire from the floor and handed it to me. />
  “You’ll speak with Lord Elstyn,” he said.

  “I’ll speak with everyone.” I gave him a tight hug. “Thank you, Kit. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come here tonight.”

  “It’s in your hands now.” Kit turned as Bill hastened back from the dressing room. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go,” said Bill, and led the way into the corridor.

  When the two men had gone, I wound the wire into a coil, placed it next to Reginald on the bedside table, and picked up the blue journal.

  Twenty

  Chambers?

  I carried the blue journal to the armchair nearest the hearth, where I could watch Aunt Dimity’s fluid script unfurl by firelight.

  I don’t recall ever hearing the name, but there’s no reason I should. Edwin would hardly discuss his valet with me. I’m somewhat puzzled by Simon’s instant recollection of the man. Valets don’t, as a rule, interact with children.

  “Chambers did,” I told her, settling into the chair. “He used to spend his days off with Simon, Oliver, and Derek. He took them fishing.”

  Fishing? With three little boys? How peculiar. I’ve never encountered a valet who would sacrifice his day off to the dubious joys of baiting hooks for three rambunctious little boys.

  “Maybe he was trying to impress his employer,” I suggested.

  A valet impresses his employer by attending to his employer’s needs, not those of the children in the house. Take it from one who knows, my dear: Chambers’s behavior would have been considered rather eccentric.

  “He may have been eccentric then,” I commented, “but he’s bonkers now.”

  As I’ve said from the start, poison pens are notoriously unstable. Chambers—if Chambers is the culprit—has merely proved my point.When indirect action failed, he escalated his campaign. What had been annoying very nearly became murderous. Thank heavens for Kit. If it weren’t for him, we might never have discovered the wicked act of sabotage that injured both Simon and Nell.