First, I reached for the blue journal. A sentence appeared on the blank page before I’d so much as opened my mouth.
You were saying?
I ducked my head sheepishly. “Sorry about the delayed response, Dimity. Fatigue poleaxed me.”
I suspected as much, my dear, and while it’s entirely understandable, I would very much like to hear about the parure.
“I know you would,” I said, “but I can’t tell you everything right now. Would you settle for a condensed version?”
Any version would be preferable to none.
“Here goes,” I said. “Remember the two backpackers who landed at Ladythorne with me? They didn’t come here because of the blizzard. Their fathers stole the parure and Jamie and Wendy are trying to put it back and I promised to help them and we have to work fast because once the big plows dig us out we won’t have an excuse to stay and that’s all I can tell you right now because I have to get moving.” I took a breath. “Also, I haven’t called Bill yet.”
When have I ever discouraged you from ringing your husband? Telephone him at once. I can wait for a more detailed account. The parure was actually stolen, you say? And you and your companions are attempting to return it? How intriguing. Old sins cast long shadows, my dear. There’s no escaping them, and the shadows shrouding Ladythorne are very old indeed. . . .
I had little doubt that Dimity would piece together the whole story before I got back to her, so I left her to her deductions and took up the cell phone. I’d gone for almost twenty-four hours without hearing the voices I loved best in the world. If that didn’t constitute an emergency, nothing did.
Bill was glad to hear my voice, too, and he was filled with information on the DeClerkes. I’d forgotten that I’d asked him to learn what he could about the family, but he hadn’t. Although confined to our cottage, he’d kept his promise by employing the simple expedient of telephoning Miss Kingsley.
Miss Kingsley, a longtime friend, was the concierge at the venerable Flamborough Hotel in London and a veritable font of information on England’s older and wealthier families. Her font, on this occasion, turned out to be much shallower than mine. Nothing she’d told Bill about the DeClerkes was news to me.
When he’d finished relaying Miss Kingsley’s information, Bill went on to impart the unwelcome news that the country was beginning to recover from the unprecedented storm. Heathrow was creaking to life again, and fleets of heavy-duty snowplows were moving along the major arterial roads. Finch’s narrow lanes remained low on the plowing priority list, but their time would come sooner than I’d hoped.
“There’ve been some interesting developments here at Ladythorne since we last spoke,” I told him. “Nothing dangerous, just interesting. Do you think you could refrain from rescuing me for another day or so?”
Bill laughed. “Since it’ll take me a full day to dig out the drifts blocking the drive, I think a delayed rescue can be arranged. Why? What’s up?”
“I’m doing a good deed.”
“Can I help?” “Can I help?”
I thought for a moment, then asked, “If you were a young woman whose fiancé had just died, where would you hide the jewels you were meant to inherit on your wedding day?”
“Hmmm . . .” There was a pause as Bill applied his considerable intellect to a conundrum he could not have anticipated. “Nope, sorry, love,” he said eventually, “I haven’t the faintest idea, but I can’t wait to hear the story behind the question.”
“It’s a good story,” I acknowledged, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. I’ll explain why, I promise, but not right now. Put the boys on, will you?”
I held a breathless, three-way conversation with Will and Rob, who were bursting to tell me of their plan to dig a tunnel from the cottage to Emma Harris’s stables in order to make absolutely sure that the horses were safe and sound. Their utter lack of concern about my own well-being was slightly daunting, but since it argued a high degree of confidence in Mummy’s survival skills, I decided to take it as a compliment.
When our conversation ended, I switched off the cell phone and cocked an ear toward the windows, distracted by an annoying noise rising from the courtyard. It was the faint roar of a motor, the first mechanized sound I’d heard since arriving at Ladythorne Abbey. I sat motionless for a moment, realizing with a faint sense of surprise how much I’d miss the abbey’s stillness, then went to the windows, parted the drapes, and looked down, squinting against the dazzling glare of sunlight on snow.
There was Catchpole, in his patched canvas jacket and collection of woolly scarves, driving a plow the size of a riding mower across the courtyard, on his way to the front of the house. The path he’d cleared from his cottage to the courtyard ran like a slender thread through the vast white counterpane blanketing the landscape.
“He’ll be at it till midnight,” I murmured happily, and turned to take stock of my room.
The old floor plans had identified eight rooms on the second floor as family bedrooms: four for the sons who’d died in two different world wars, and one two-room suite each for Grundy and Rose. I knew that Tessa Gibbs had converted at least three of the boys’ bedrooms to guest rooms because Wendy, Jamie, and I were staying in them, and I assumed she’d done the same with the rest. Since Wendy and Jamie had already searched their own rooms, I decided to start with mine, skip theirs, then go on to the two-room suites at the end of the corridor and work my way back toward the main staircase.
I spent the next two hours in my bedroom, industriously tapping the walls and rolling back the rugs to thump the floorboards. I emptied the wardrobe of clothes and ran my fingernails along every join in the wood; pulled the drawers out of the dressing table and the writing table; prodded the chairs’ plump cushions; and crawled under the bed, looking for loose floorboards. I climbed up on the tables and ran my hands along the cornice boards, checked the windowsills for hollow spaces, and pressed my fingertips to every square inch of the white marble mantelpiece, hoping to activate a spring-loaded door to a secret compartment.
I found nothing.
“I’ve given it my best shot, Reg,” I said, after I’d restored the room to its original state. “If there’s a hidey-hole in here, it’s too well-hidden for me to find. Next stop: the two-room suites.”
My first thought upon entering the suite on Jamie’s side of the corridor was that it had been decorated to suit Grundy DeClerke’s tastes. The ponderous mahogany furnishings, the many-layered drapes, and the bloodred damask wall coverings were exactly what I would have expected to find in the private sanctuary of a self-made and prosperous Victorian gentleman.
I went straight through the bedroom to the adjacent dressing room and flung open the wardrobe, hoping to discover a turn-of-the-century treasure trove of floor-length paisley dressing gowns, gold-buttoned waistcoats, and velvetlapeled smoking jackets. I was keenly disappointed to find it filled instead with well-made but unimaginative modern clothes. A thorough search revealed that it contained nothing else.
The bedroom, by contrast, presented a wealth of possibilities. Whoever had furnished the room had evidently been obsessed with boxes because they were everywhere—on the mantel shelf, the desk, the bed tables, the occasional tables, the windowsills. Every horizontal surface seemed to exist solely to display the wildly diverse collection. I opened marquetry boxes, lacquered boxes, boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, teak boxes, boxes covered in gold leaf, bamboo boxes, porcelain boxes, and one large velvet-covered box that filled my heart with hope until I remembered that the parure’s box was made of marble.
Mildly dispirited, I turned my attention to the floorboards, the walls, and the ponderous furniture. By the time I finished tapping, rapping, and probing my way through the vast bedroom and the spacious dressing room, my knuckles were becoming quite tender and I was fairly sure that I’d inhaled every speck of dust the weekly chars had missed. But I was completely sure I hadn’t found the parure’s custom-made box or a place where it might have been
hidden.
I was sitting on my heels beside a hidey-holeless secretaire, sucking my bruised knuckles and feeling a bit sorry for myself, when Wendy nearly stopped my heart by flinging the door wide.
“Quick!” she cried. “Get back in bed! Catchpole’s coming!”
Nineteen
Wendy fled to her room and I scampered back to mine, acutely aware of the sound of voices rising from the staircase. Jamie seemed to be doing his level best to stall Catchpole, but the old man was beginning to sound impatient. I pulled the linen nightgown over my clothes, leapt into bed, and yanked the blankets to my chin. I was still catching my breath when a familiar banging sounded on my door.
“Lunch, madam,” Catchpole roared. “You awake?”
“I am now,” I muttered. I glanced at my watch, realized to my amazement that it was noon, and called for Catchpole to enter.
“Beef broth and poached eggs,” he announced as he placed the bed tray on my lap. “There’s a little pot of caviar, too, in case you’d like to dress your eggs.”
“Yum,” I said, willing myself to breathe evenly.
“Mr. Macrae didn’t think you’d be hungry,” Catchpole continued, “but I told him that, hungry or no, you had to eat. Got to build up your strength, I told him.” He peered at me worriedly. “You’re looking a bit flushed, madam. I think you may have a fever. Nasty things, fevers. Never know where they’ll lead. Why don’t we use that mobile of yours to ring for a doctor? They’ve got helicopters these days and I’m sure—”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I blurted, then let my head fall back against the pillows and smiled angelically. “All I need is bed rest and your good broth.”
Catchpole nodded his approval. “My mother swore by the power of beef broth. You drink it down, madam. It’ll chase off that fever in a trice.”
“How’s the plowing coming along?” I inquired.
“Slow but sure,” he answered. “I’ve cleared the cloisters. As soon as I’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll make a start on the courtyard.”
“When you’ve finished, I want you to have an early supper, go straight back to your cottage, and put your feet up,” I said. “There’s no need to bother about bringing supper to us. Jamie will take care of it.”
“Are you sure about that, madam?” said Catchpole. “Because it’s no trouble—”
“I insist,” I said. “Jamie’s been fooling around all day, while you’ve been slaving away. A stint of kitchen duty won’t do him any harm.”
“Might even do him some good,” he conceded. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning, then, madam. I hope you’re feeling better by then.”
“Give my best to the budgies,” I said.
“I will.” Catchpole paused to add coal to the fire before leaving me to my poached eggs and powerful broth.
After listening for a few minutes, I set the tray to one side, hopped out of bed, and tore off the nightgown. I had every intention of returning to the hunt, but the broth’s rich aroma lured me back to the tray to make quick work of the savory meal. I’d removed the tray and was arranging the pillows on the bed to look like my reclining figure when there was a tap at my door.
I froze, pillow in hand, panic-stricken, until my brain registered the difference between the soft tap I’d just heard and Catchpole’s hearty thumps.
“Jamie?” I called.
“No,” Wendy replied. “It’s me. Again. I’m beginning to get used to talking to you through a door. You haven’t barricaded this one, have you?”
“No,” I called. “Come in.”
She entered the room, dressed in her slipper socks, loose black leggings, head lamp, and another lovely hand-knit sweater—this one in shades of lavender and cornflower blue flecked with gray.
“Hi,” I said brightly, remembering my half-promise to Jamie. “Thanks for sounding the alarm. I’d completely lost track of time. Any luck in the bell tower?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Jamie’s struck out so far, too. What about you?”
“If I’d found the box, you’d know it,” I told her. “I’d be dancing up the corridor whispering exultant hoorahs.” I pulled the blankets over the pillows, made a few artful tucks, and stood back to survey my masterpiece of deception. “What do you think? Will it fool Catchpole?”
“It’s not bad,” Wendy allowed. “I’ll do the same thing in my room, in case we’re caught short again.”
I was secretly delighted to learn that I’d thought of the trick before she had, but hid my childish glee by looking toward the sound of Catchpole’s diminutive plow. The roar rising from the courtyard was a reassuring sign that he was fully occupied. I turned back to Wendy.
“If you’ve spoken with Jamie, maybe you can answer a question I’ve been asking myself over the poached eggs,” I said. “Catchpole’s convinced that you and I are bedridden invalids, but what does he think Jamie’s doing downstairs?”
“Playing billiards,” Wendy answered. “Catchpole thinks it’s the sort of thing a man can do all day, and who are we to disabuse him?”
I laughed. “I’m pretty sure I convinced Catchpole to let Jamie take care of dinner, so I don’t think we’ll be ambushed again. Still,” I added, patting the pillows, “we can’t be too careful.”
Wendy wandered over to the bedside table and gazed abstractedly at Reginald. “Have you finished searching the bedrooms?”
I shook my head. “I’ve gone through mine and the suite on Jamie’s side of the corridor.”
“Would you mind coming with me for a minute?” Wendy nodded toward the door. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
I gave the blankets a last tug and followed Wendy into the hall. I expected her to lead me to the bell tower, but she turned in the opposite direction and strode toward the far end of the corridor. She had a strange, unreadable expression on her face.
“I found it when I was looking for you,” she explained. “It’s . . . weird. I’d like to hear what you think of it.” She stopped outside the two-room suite opposite Grundy’s, opened the door, and stood aside to allow me to enter first.
I noticed the smell before anything else—the musty, stale odor of a room seldom aired and never dusted. Then I noticed the dead bird. It was big and black and propped against the pillows of a large four-poster bed. The bed’s graceful fluted posts were draped with lengths of muslin that had once been white but were now ragged and yellowing with age. The bed’s quilted white satin coverlet had taken on an unwashed, grayish hue, and loose threads dangled from its frayed hems.
Dingy oak floorboards peeked through holes in a stained and threadbare Aubusson carpet. The tattered, rose-patterned wallpaper had been inexpertly patched with strips of a different pattern, and fringed swags parted the rose-colored velvet drapes to reveal windows so filthy that they transformed bright daylight into twilight.
There was a porcelain chamber pot beneath the night-stand, a basin and ewer on the dressing table, and a blackened teakettle hanging from a pivoting fire-arm in the fireplace, mute witnesses to an impoverished self-sufficiency. The writing table held an oil lamp with a frosted globe enclosing the wick, a stamp box, an old-fashioned tortoise-shell fountain pen, a bottle of dried ink, and a half-ream of Ladythorne’s ivory stationary.
Above the fireplace hung a gilt-framed oil portrait of a fine-featured young man in uniform. The only ornament on the mantel shelf was a sepia-toned wedding portrait of a couple dressed in the style of the early 1920s. The bride wore the Peacock parure.
“It’s hers,” I whispered. “It’s Lucasta’s room.”
“That’s what I thought.” Wendy pointed at the sepia photograph. “It was probably her mother’s room. My guess is that Lucasta moved in when her father died in the Blitz. I don’t think anyone else has used the room since Lucasta passed away.”
“Good guess.” I shuddered and shrank back toward the doorway. “They could have buried the dead bird.”
“It’s not real,” Wendy told me. “But it’s not a toy, e
ither. Come and see.”
The distant roar of Catchpole’s plow invaded the twilit room as we crossed to stand beside the bed. When Wendy lifted the bird for a closer inspection, I saw at once that it wasn’t a cute, cuddly stuffed animal but an exquisitely wrought piece of needlework.
The beak and legs were made of fine-grained black leather. A pair of flawless black pearls served as the eyes. The black wings, head, and body were covered with miraculously intricate beadwork sewn in a pattern that mimicked feathers. The stitches were so tiny that the seams were invisible, and the haughty cock of the bird’s head gave it a personality that was the exact opposite of cuddly.
“I think it’s a raven,” said Wendy, returning the bird to the pillows.
“It might as well be a buzzard.” I surveyed the room with a mixture of pity and distaste. “So this is where she lived out her final days—if you can call it living. The Catchpoles must have been faithful, to haul her meals up here from the kitchen.”
“Catchpole said she wasn’t eating much, toward the end,” Wendy reminded me.
“Tea and toast and hatred,” I murmured, looking at the blackened teakettle. “Not a balanced diet.”
Wendy approached the mantelpiece. She touched the framed photograph, then tilted her head back to look up at the oil portrait. “Her parents and her fiancé, I’d say. Reminders of what she’d lost.”
“Fuel to keep her rage burning,” I muttered. More loudly, I said, “If you ask me, she was halfway round the bend before your father ever set foot in Ladythorne.”
Wendy swung around to face me. “I thought you were Lucasta’s great defender.”
“I am. My heart aches for her, but now that I’ve seen this . . .” I swept a hand through the air to encompass the room and every shabby thing in it. “I mean, millions of people had to deal with death and crushed dreams after the war, and the vast majority of them didn’t shut themselves up in self-imposed squalor and write nasty letters to whoever it was they blamed for their grief.” I walked to the writing desk and took up the fountain pen. “Why didn’t she write nasty letters to the German air crews who strafed Dunkirk and bombed London? They robbed her of something far more precious than the Peacock parure.”
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 17
