Aunt Dimity: Snowbound

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple.” Jamie returned to the armchair. “In one of his last lucid moments, Father made me promise to put the parure back in its original hiding place.”

  “Which is . . . where?” I looked at him expectantly.

  He and Wendy exchanged meaningful glances.

  “We’re not sure,” he said finally. “The only hint Father gave—and he used hand gestures more than words—was that he and Wally found the parure in some sort of custom-fitted marble box.”

  “It’s not in the attic storeroom,” Wendy declared. “I went through every shelf up there it with a fine-tooth comb last night.”

  I gaped at her. “So Catchpole wasn’t lying. He did see a light in the attics.”

  “I was up there when he left the abbey,” said Wendy. “I suppose he could have seen the skylights flickering if he’d looked over his shoulder on the way to his cottage.”

  “He’s used to seeing Ladythorne look a certain way,” Jamie added. “Any change would stand out, even in a blizzard.”

  I gave Jamie a sour glance. “Your brain must have been working overtime to come up with all of those reasons why he couldn’t have seen a light.”

  “Sorry,” said Jamie.

  I chuckled in spite of myself. “I have to hand it to you, you’re quick on your feet. You didn’t blink an eye when I opened the map case, even though you must have wanted to cheer at the sight of those floor plans.”

  “I may have looked calm,” said Jamie, “but my heart was racing.”

  So was mine, I thought, and quickly looked down at my hands.

  “The parure’s special box isn’t in the attic storeroom,” Wendy repeated. “So that leaves us with two fairly sizable floors stuffed to the rafters with . . . stuff.”

  “Good grief,” I muttered.

  “Never fear,” said Wendy. “The night is young, though not as young as it was.” She looked up at the ticking clock. “We’ve wasted half of it in here, talking to you.”

  “Not wasted, I think.” Jamie turned those wine-dark eyes toward me. “Three people can cover more ground than two. What do you say, Lori? Will you help us?”

  I looked into his eyes and saw that he was asking not only for himself and for Wendy, but for those two war-weary soldiers whose treasure hunt had blighted Lucasta’s life and riddled their own lives with regret and guilt. The secret they’d shared had divided them from the men who’d fought beside them on the battlefield. Worse, it had cut them off from each other. James never spoke of Wally. Wally never mentioned James. Each man had lost the best friend he’d ever had. Captain Macrae and Corporal Walker had paid a high price for the sins of their youth. If I could, in some small way, help their troubled souls to rest more peacefully, I would.

  “Will I help?” I reached out to grip Jamie’s hand. “Try stopping me.”

  Eighteen

  We moved the lamps to the mantel shelf and spread the floor plans over the walnut table. Wendy explained that she’d spent the day carrying out a general reconnaissance of the house. By comparing her observations to the floor plans, Jamie had been able to confirm that, apart from the attics, Tessa Gibbs had made no radical alterations to the abbey’s structure. Ladythorne’s main floors were essentially the same as they had been when James and Wally had roamed its corridors.

  I felt a bit discouraged when I realized that my theory re garding hidey-holes in the fabric of the house was no longer valid. Tessa Gibbs would have told Bill if her workmen had discovered a fortune’s worth of jewels beneath a floorboard or behind a false wall, but she’d have no compelling reason to mention the discovery of an empty box. The same held true for my theory regarding shabby versus refinished furniture. An empty box found hidden in a rickety Queen Anne bureau might arouse mild curiosity, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one discussed with one’s lawyer.

  “I don’t think we should be too bothered by the changes Tessa Gibbs made in the attics,” said Jamie. “According to the floor plans, they used to house the servants’ quarters, and I doubt that a pair of GIs would be able to intrude on the servants without causing the kind of gossip that would bring them up before a disciplinary board.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Wendy, “but three cheers for the blizzard. It wasn’t part of the plan, but it’s given us the perfect excuse for staying put. If the weather gods are kind, the snow’ll stick around until the end of the week and give us that much longer to hunt for the box.”

  “Where should we start?” I asked, bending over the walnut table.

  “Pick a room, any room.” Jamie raised his hands, palms upward. “The box could be hidden anywhere.”

  “I’m betting on the bell tower.” Wendy tapped the plans decisively. “It’s like an eagle’s nest up there, with a circular view that overlooks the entire valley. If I’d been in Lucasta’s shoes, I’d have spent a lot of time in the tower, brooding over the empty box and keeping an eye out for an American invasion.”

  I volunteered to search the second-story bedrooms. According to the plans, they’d originally been parceled out among Grundy DeClerke’s four sons, but I was sure that one of the boys’ rooms had been turned into a girl’s room when Lucasta was born.

  “Catchpole told us that Lucasta spent a lot of time in her room, after her mind began to go,” I reminded them. “My guess is that she retreated to the room she’d had as a child, and took the box with her. She’d feel safe there, and she’d know every nook and cranny like the back of her hand.”

  “At least we won’t have to worry about Catchpole raining on our parade,” said Wendy. “He seems determined to stay in his cottage until we leave.”

  I ducked my head self-consciously and said, in a very small voice, “He might change his mind.”

  “Why should he?” Jamie peered at me closely. “Lori? What have you done?”

  “I sort of . . . invited him to join us,” I confessed. “I felt sorry for him. And I didn’t know what you two were doing.”

  “Just what we need,” muttered Wendy. “A cruise director.”

  “In that case,” said Jamie, “I’d better work on the ground floor.”

  “To keep Catchpole from surprising us?” I said.

  Jamie nodded. “If he shows his pretty face tomorrow, I’ll convince him that you two frail beauties are spending the day confined to your beds.”

  “I’m not going to miss breakfast,” Wendy grumbled mutinously.

  “I’ll bring it up to you on a tray,” Jamie offered. He stroked his beard for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Better yet, if Catchpole shows up, I’ll have him bring breakfast to both of you. That way he’ll be able to see for himself how weak and feeble you are.”

  I was, in fact, beginning to feel authentically weak and feeble. As the ebony clock chimed twice, the weight of the past two days closed in on me. In the past forty-eight hours, I’d fought my way through a raging blizzard, faced down a gun-toting lunatic, avoided multiple attempts at seduction by sheer—and somewhat uncharacteristic—force of will, and uncovered an anti-burglary. If my time at Ladythorne had been any more rich and full, I’d have needed serious therapy. As it was, I was simply very, very tired. I could have kissed Jamie when he proposed that we turn in for the night.

  Wendy, too, welcomed the suggestion, commenting that if she didn’t get some sleep soon, she’d be too cross-eyed with fatigue to recognize the box when she saw it. While I returned the duvet to Jamie’s bed, she took up the miner’s lamp and headed across the hall to her room.

  When she’d gone, I turned to Jamie, who was busily stashing the floor plans in a drawer in the roll-top desk, and gave him a long, hard stare. He must have felt my gaze searing the back of his neck because he left the plans half stashed and faced me.

  “You weren’t asleep when I knocked on your door,” I said evenly. “You were studying the floor plans. But you had to make it look as though you’d been asleep, so you kept me waiting in the corridor while you rumpled the bedclothes
and stripped down to your skivvies. That’s why your clothes were in a heap on the floor. Right?”

  He ducked his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I smiled ruefully. “I’ve guessed wrong about everything so far. It’s gratifying to know that at long last I’ve gotten one thing right.” I started for the door. “Sleep well, Jamie.”

  “Wait.” Jamie caught up with me in two steps and put his hand on my arm. “I have a personal favor to ask of you. I realize that I have no right—”

  “Just ask,” I interrupted.

  “Try not to judge Wendy too harshly,” he said. “She was exceedingly fond of her father, and it’s been difficult for her to . . . to . . .” His words trailed off, his hand slid from my arm, and he seemed to move away from me into a world of his own. “If you’ve known your father only as a good and honorable man, it’s . . . difficult . . . to learn that he was a flawed human being. But you can’t stop loving him. No matter what he did, you can’t help loving him.” He gazed into the middle distance for a moment. Then he blinked and was back with me again. He smiled. “Wendy’s an intelligent woman. She’ll figure it out. In the meantime, try not to be too hard on her.”

  “Since I’m an extremely flawed human being, I can’t make any promises on that score,” I replied. “But I’ll do my best. Good night, Jamie.”

  “Good night.”

  I took my oil lamp from the mantel shelf and made my way back to my room. The fire had burned low, so I piled on more coal before changing into the white linen nightgown. I blew out the oil lamp, moved Reginald to the bedside table, and took the blue journal to bed with me, leaning back against the piled pillows, with the blankets pulled to my chin and the journal resting on my knees. The familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to move across the page as soon as I opened the journal. The fire was burning brightly enough to illuminate every word.

  I’m so glad you’ve come to bed,Lori. I was afraid you might stay up all night, searching, and that would never do. Have you by any chance found the Peacock parure, my dear?

  I closed my eyes and pictured the brown-paper-wrapped parcel tucked under the blankets atop Jamie’s wardrobe.

  “Yes, Dimity,” I murmured. “I found the parure. . . .”

  It had been a mistake to close my eyes. I didn’t open them again until morning.

  A series of resounding blows rattled my door five hours later.

  “Madam?” Catchpole bellowed. “Got your breakfast here. You decent?”

  I groaned miserably and pried my eyes open. I was lying in exactly the same position I’d been in when I’d fallen asleep, and since the blankets were still pulled to my chin, I was as decent as I’d ever been. I closed the journal and put it on the bedside table before croaking feebly, “Come in.”

  If there’s anything a sleep-deprived person detests, it’s heartiness. Catchpole was clearly one of those hideous morning people who not only rise with the sun and plow the south forty before noon, but who look down upon anyone who doesn’t. I hated him passionately at that moment and deeply regretted asking him to leave his cottage.

  “Good morning, madam,” he roared, opening the door with one hand while balancing a four-legged bed tray on the other. “Thought I’d take you up on your invitation. Sorry to hear you’re feeling poorly. Mr. Macrae tells me you plan to spend the day in bed.”

  “Mmmph,” I replied, with a surly squint at his horrible, wide-awake visage.

  If Catchpole had known how badly I wanted to eviscerate him, he would have tossed the tray to me from the doorway and fled. But since he was an egocentric, insensitive morning person, he was impervious to the tidal waves of hostility rolling toward him from the bed.

  “I must say you do look out of sorts,” he understated, clomping loudly across the room to stand over me. “Took a chill in the night, Mr. Macrae tells me, you and Miss Walker both. Ladies shouldn’t overexert themselves, is what I say. Here you go, now, madam.” He placed the bed tray on my lap. “This’ll put the roses back in your cheeks.”

  I tore my malevolent gaze from his face and focused blearily on the teak tray. It held an antique silver tea service, a delicate china cup and saucer, a pot of chutney, silverware, a linen napkin, and a large dish covered with a silver dome. I peered more closely at the tea service’s silver creamer.

  “Is that . . . real milk?” I asked.

  “It is,” Catchpole confirmed. He plucked the silver dome from the plate. “And real eggs.”

  Joy blossomed within me. An oozing, herb-filled omelet stretched from one edge of the plate to the other. It was garnished with fresh sprigs of rosemary and sprinkled with tarragon, and as its heady fragrance wafted into the air, my mouth, which had hitherto refused to acknowledge wakefulness, began to water uncontrollably.

  “I keep a cow and some chickens in the old stables,” Catchpole explained, bustling over to sweep the hearth and build a fresh fire. “The herbs are from my cottage. Thought you might enjoy a bite of something that didn’t come from a packet.”

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” I managed, my voice trembling with emotion.

  “Wish I had some orange juice to give you,” he went on, “but the eggs’ll do you a world of good.” He finished laying the fire, then strode over to the windows. “My mother swore by the power of eggs. They’re filled with vitamins and such, you know. They’ll set you up a treat.”

  I would have retracted my murderous thoughts if Catchpole hadn’t chosen that moment to fling open the drapes. To eyes grown accustomed to candlelight, the shock was extreme. My agonized screams must have caught Catchpole’s attention, because he quickly closed the drapes and hastened back to the bed.

  “Light bothers you, does it?” he asked, bending over me solicitously.

  “Uh-huh,” I mewled piteously, my palms still pressed to my eyes.

  Judging by the brief glimpse I’d had of the outside world before the piercing shards of sunlight had shredded my eyeballs, it was a beautiful morning. The storm clouds had moved on, the sky was radiantly blue, and the sun’s brilliance was magnified a thousandfold by the heavy mantle of snow that cloaked the valley.

  “Best keep the drapes closed, then,” Catchpole concluded. He picked up my oil lamp and peered intently at the reservoir. “Best refill your lamp, too. I’ll take care of it, madam, if you don’t mind waiting a bit. I’ve got to get to work with the snowplow. Should take me the best part of the day to clear the worst of the drifts, but don’t you worry. Mr. Macrae said he’d look in on you and Miss Walker from time to time.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered weakly.

  “It’s my pleasure.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice so suddenly that I felt as if my eardrums had popped. “Have you found out who was in the attics, madam?”

  “It was Wendy,” I replied. “She got bored and went exploring. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “If you say so, madam.” Catchpole straightened. “You rest up, now. I’ll be off. Lots to do.”

  The retreating thuds of Catchpole’s work boots told me that he was leaving, but it wasn’t until I heard the door close that I allowed myself to peek out from behind my hands. Once reassured that the heavy drapes had effectively blocked every jagged razor of sunshine, I addressed the omelet. It tasted even better than it looked.

  I was on my third cup of tea and in a much mellower mood when Jamie arrived, carrying my refilled oil lamp. He was wearing the same jeans he’d worn since he’d arrived, but he’d swapped his blue sweater for a heavy oatmeal-colored wool turtleneck. The turtleneck suited him admirably, but he seemed a bit frayed around the edges, as if he, too, found early rising a trial.

  Not a morning person, I thought with some satisfaction, and thanked him for delivering the lamp. He placed it on the bedside table, then reached out to touch a fingertip to Reginald’s snout.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  I scanned his face for signs of ridicule, but saw only honest curiosity.

  “Reginald,” I r
eplied, and threw caution to the wind. “He loves the great outdoors, so I take him along with me when I go hiking.”

  Jamie didn’t disappoint me. “Ah, the buddy system,” he said wisely. “My old Boy Scout leader would approve.” He’d hardly finished the sentence when he was assaulted by a yawn that drew most of the oxygen from the room.

  “Did you get any sleep at all?” I asked.

  “A couple of hours,” he replied. “I figured Catchpole would be up at dawn and I had to be there to feed him our story.”

  “You’re my hero,” I said, and offered him my cup of tea.

  He gulped it down and handed the empty cup back to me. “Wendy’s already up and dressed. She’s raring to go.”

  “A lark, not a nighthawk,” I said, with a different sort of satisfaction. “I might have known.”

  “Larks have their uses,” Jamie pointed out.

  “I can take a hint.” I raised a limp wrist to my forehead. “If you’ll kindly remove the tray, sir, I shall attempt to rise from my sickbed.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes, lifted the tray, and carried it toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” I called, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Catchpole claims to have a snowplow. Does he?”

  “It depends on what you mean by snowplow,” Jamie answered. “His isn’t much bigger than a snow shovel—thank heavens. It’ll take him eons to make a dent in the drifts. I’ll keep an ear out for him, but I think he’ll be too busy to bother us today.”

  “Good,” I said. “And don’t worry, Jamie. I know we’ll find the box. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Jamie grinned the sickly grin of a nighthawk pushed from its nest at dawn and departed, bed tray in hand.

  After a brief visit to the bathroom, I dressed in my own jeans and the warm cashmere sweater I’d worn the day before. I saw no sign of Wendy while I was flitting between bathroom and bedroom, and assumed that she’d already gone up to the bell tower. I was eager to get started on the bedrooms, but there were two pieces of business I had to attend to before moving on.