Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

by Nancy Atherton

  You agreed to take riding lessons? At last! How clever of Kit to persuade you.

  “It wasn’t clever,” I protested. “It was heartlessly cruel and devious, and he only did it to torment me.”

  Don’t be silly, Lori. Kit is as kind as summer. He would never do anything to torment you.

  “He did today,” I said. “I gave him the perfect excuse to get away from the stables, and instead of thanking me for it, he used it to blackmail me into doing something I’ve been avoiding for years. Pure, unadulterated torment.”

  Why would Kit wish to get away from the stables?

  “Because he can’t stand the new stable hands,” I explained with a slightly malicious smile. “A small, multinational army of rich young bachelors followed Nell home from Paris and volunteered to work at Anscombe Manor. They’re falling all over themselves trying to prove that they’re worthy of Nell. Emma’s taking advantage of them shamelessly, but they’re driving Kit nuts.”

  I imagine they would.

  “I could hardly keep up with his mood swings today,” I said. “First he blackmailed me into riding, then he got really touchy when I discovered some footprints he missed on Sunday. When I mentioned Nell’s name, he went all wistful and sad-eyed, and on the way home he blew up at me.”

  Defensiveness, irritability, melancholy, unreasonable fits of bad temper… The ghost of a bosom-heaving sigh seemed to waft through the room. He sounds like a man very much in love. Nell’s scheme seems to be having the desired effect.

  I frowned uncomprehendingly, then gasped as the penny dropped.

  “Dimity,” I said, with a note of disapproval in my voice. “You’re not suggesting that Nell invited those guys to Anscombe Manor, are you?”

  I’m suggesting no such thing. Nell is an honorable young woman. I’m certain that her admirers came to Anscombe Manor without any encouragement from her. I’m equally certain, however, that she hasn’t gone out of her way to send them packing.

  “She’s keeping them around to torture Kit?” I said, dismayed.

  Kit is torturing himself, Lori. Never forget that. I suspect that Nell is simply using the situation as an opportunity to demonstrate—before his eyes—her unswerving devotion to him. If the scheme fails, I have no doubt that she’ll dismiss her young suitors in a trice and think of another way to rid Kit of his foolish conviction that he is too old for her.

  “You know what, Dimity?” I said. “I think we may be wrong about the age thing. Kit’s always used his age as an excuse to push Nell away, but I have a feeling that something else is going on.”

  Such as?

  “I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “When he blew up at me this afternoon, he told me that he has no intention of ever getting married. He told me that he’s meant to be alone. He said that it would be wrong of him to marry, not just Nell but anyone.”

  He’s meant to be alone and it would be wrong of him to marry. What interesting statements. I wonder what he means by them? Is he, by any chance, homosexual?

  “I asked him if he was, and he denied it,” I said.

  Perhaps he has a physical problem, then, a problem that, in his mind, renders him unfit to play the role of a husband. You must find out if this is indeed what’s troubling him.

  “How?” I asked uneasily.

  Men are, of course, more reticent about such problems than women are, but if you found the courage to ask Kit about his sexual orientation, I’m certain that you’ll find a way to discuss with him other subjects of an intimate nature.

  I gaped at the blue journal in disbelief. “You want me to ask Kit about his…his manliness?”

  You needn’t be quite so direct, my dear. You might simply suggest, as a way of opening the conversation, that Nell wouldn’t care if he were blind, deaf, and paralyzed from the neck down. She’s bound to his spirit, not to his body. You must reassure him on that score.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said weakly, shooting a horrified look at Reginald. My pink bunny seemed to understand the excruciating awkwardness of the task Aunt Dimity had set for me. Kit was one of my dearest friends, but I wasn’t sure he’d remain one if I started quizzing him on subjects of a much-too-intimate nature.

  I know you’ll do your best, Lori. Now, tell me about the vampire hunt. You mentioned footprints. Did they lead you to Rendor?

  “Not yet,” I said, overjoyed to move on to another topic. “But the footprints and a scrap of silk he left behind prove that he’s not a figment of the twins’ imaginations. Kit thinks he was heading for a place called Aldercot Hall, but before we could follow him there, we smelled smoke. When we went to check it out, we found a man camping in Gypsy Hollow, and we ended up having a very enjoyable lunch with him. I don’t know what his last name is, but his first name is Leo, and he’s a real charmer. Did you ever hear of him, Dimity? He’s spent most of his adult life in Australia, but he grew up in England, and he told us that he spent a fair amount of time around here when he was young.”

  I’ve known a number of Leos. It’s a pity you didn’t ascertain his surname. Did your lunch with Leo put an end to your vampire hunt?

  “No, but the rain did,” I said. “It started coming down in buckets, so Kit and I decided to storm Aldercot Hall tomorrow.” I stroked Stanley absentmindedly, then asked, “Why don’t I know about Aldercot Hall, Dimity? It’s only a few miles away, but I’d never heard of it until today.”

  Aldercot Hall is a private residence. It has never been opened to the public, and its owners, the DuCarals, have never involved themselves in the affairs of neighboring communities.

  “Is that how they’ve escaped the gossip grapevine?” I asked. “I mean, I’m a card-carrying member of the Finch busybody society, but I haven’t heard so much as a whisper about the DuCarals.”

  You haven’t listened to the right people, Lori. Most of the villagers with whom you exchange gossip are relative newcomers to Finch. They are no doubt unaware of certain…stories…associated with the DuCaral family. If you wish to hear those stories, you’ll have to listen to someone who has deep roots in the region, someone whose memories go back a long, long way.

  “Like the Pyms?” I asked, referring to a pair of ancient and identical twin sisters who lived between Anscombe Manor and Finch.

  No. Ruth and Louise Pym won’t be able to help you. As churchgoers they would find it distasteful to discuss the…legends…that are associated with the DuCarals.

  “What does churchgoing have to do with it?” I asked. “What kind of legends are you talking about, Dimity?”

  The kind that would make a creature such as Rendor seek sanctuary in Aldercot Hall.

  I stared hard at Aunt Dimity’s reply, then glanced foolishly around the study, as though I were afraid of being overheard, before whispering excitedly, “Are you saying that the DuCarals are vampires?”

  I would never say such a thing, Lori, but there have always been strange rumors connected to the family. Have you ever met a woman named Lizzie Black?

  “No,” I said. “Who is she?”

  She’s someone I think you should meet. She has a small freehold on the other side of Horace Malvern’s property. It’s called Hilltop Farm, and it’s been in Lizzie’s family for seven generations.

  “The Fowlers live on the other side of Mr. Malvern’s farm,” I reminded her.

  Hilltop Farm is tucked between the two properties, at the end of a rather uninviting lane. I’m sure you’ve passed it many times without giving it a second glance.

  I shook my head despondently. “There are way too many gaps in my local knowledge, Dimity. I didn’t know about the pet cemetery on Emma’s Hill until I stumbled into it today. I’d never heard of Aldercot Hall and the DuCarals until Kit mentioned them. Now you’re springing Hilltop Farm and Lizzie Black on me, and I’ve never heard of them either. I feel like a stranger in my own backyard.”

  You’re far from a stranger, Lori, but it will take you many years to become familiar with every nook and cranny of the countryside sur
rounding the cottage. As for the DuCaral family and Lizzie Black—they are equally reclusive. I would have been surprised if you’d claimed an acquaintance with them.

  “Is Lizzie Black related to the DuCarals?” I asked.

  No, but I believe she knows things about them that would be of interest to you. Lizzie is a most unusual woman. She was raised by her grandmother after her parents died in an influenza outbreak. The outbreak drove Granny Black into virtual seclusion. Over the years, she and her granddaughter became almost entirely self-sufficient. They grew their own food and made their own clothes and learned to do without whatever they couldn’t grow or make.

  “What about other people?” I asked.

  They had little use for other people. Lizzie was still a young girl when I first met her, but she was already extraordinarily antisocial. She stopped attending school at the earliest opportunity, and she made no friends while she was there. She rarely showed her face in the village, and when she did, she seldom spoke to anyone. She had no interest in the modern world, but she had an in-depth knowledge of local lore and legends. Her grandmother told her stories, you see, stories that had been passed down from one generation of Blacks to the next.

  “Stories about the DuCarals?” I said.

  I heard only vague hints from her about the DuCaral family’s curious history, and I had no reason to pursue the matter further. You, however, have the best of reasons: your sons’ well-being. I would strongly advise you to visit Lizzie before you visit Aldercot Hall.

  “Dimity,” I said, “if Lizzie Black is so antisocial, how did you come to know so much about her?”

  I met her shortly after Bobby died.

  The silence in the study seemed to deepen, and I found myself holding my breath. Bobby MacLaren had been Dimity’s fiancé, her heart’s delight, the one great love of her life. He’d died in the Second World War, his plane ripped to pieces by enemy fire and his body lost in the English Channel. After his death Dimity had almost lost the will to live. I hadn’t seen his name in the blue journal for many years.

  I don’t remember how I got there, but one stormy night I found myself at Hilltop Farm—delirious, barefoot, and dressed in nothing but my nightgown. Granny Black took me in and nursed me until I was strong enough to return to the cottage. Young Lizzie kept watch over me at night. I can still remember the cool touch of her hand on my brow and the soothing sound of her voice, comforting me. I suppose she felt the same pity for me that she’d feel for an injured animal.

  The handwriting stopped, and a log fell in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Stanley raised his sleek black head to see what had caused the commotion, then tucked his nose under his tail and went back to sleep. I remained silent, waiting for Aunt Dimity to go on. A moment later the handwriting resumed.

  After Granny Black died, I was one of the fortunate few Lizzie allowed into her life—very occasionally, mind you, because her tolerance for company was severely limited. But I went to Hilltop Farm every now and again, to make sure that Lizzie had everything she needed. She always did.

  “I’m sure she was glad to see you,” I said. “You grew up here, and you’ve always had a way with people. But what makes you think she’ll speak with me, Dimity? I’m not even English.”

  You may not be able to persuade her to speak with you, Lori, but I think you would be wise to make the attempt. If anyone can prepare you for what awaits you at Aldercot Hall, it’s Lizzie Black.

  Since I was beginning to get butterflies in my stomach every time I thought of what awaited me at Aldercot Hall, I decided to follow Aunt Dimity’s advice. It would mean missing dinner, but a missed meal would be a small price to pay if I could glean useful information about the DuCarals—and possibly Rendor—from Lizzie Black.

  “I’ll have to go now,” I said, glancing at the clock on the mantelshelf. “I won’t have time to visit Lizzie in the morning, and if I wait until after dinner, I’ll be intruding on her evening. I’ll leave a note for Annelise and take her car.”

  Don’t be put off by Lizzie’s manner, Lori. She can be somewhat…abrupt.

  “Right,” I said.

  And occasionally aggressive.

  “Okay,” I said.

  As well as abusive.

  “Stop fussing,” I scolded. “I’ll give it a shot, but if she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave.”

  My thoughts will be with you, my dear.

  “Thanks,” I said, and closed the journal before Aunt Dimity could make me jumpier than I already was.

  There was no denying that I was nervous about meeting Lizzie Black. Living alone year after year on an isolated farm could do strange things to a person. Lizzie might be a crazed survivalist by now, or a cackling, one-eyed hag—or an older, creepier version of Miss Archer. The awful possibilities were endless, but as I left the study, I reminded myself that whatever Lizzie Black had become, somewhere deep inside her was the girl who’d shown such kindness to Aunt Dimity.

  Ten

  I had a sneaking suspicion that Annelise would ask awkward questions if I told her I was going to see Lizzie Black, so I left a note telling her only that I wasn’t sure when I’d be back and that she shouldn’t hold dinner for me. If there was an emergency, I reasoned, she could always reach me by cell phone.

  I left the note on the kitchen table for her to find, fished her spare set of car keys out of The Drawer, grabbed a dry rain jacket from the coatrack in the front hall, and, as an afterthought, pulled on a pair of Wellington boots. My wellies would fare better than my sneakers in a farmyard.

  It was nearly four o’clock when I left the cottage, and the sun was sinking low on the horizon, but the rain had stopped, patches of blue sky were showing through the cloud cover, and there was still enough daylight left for me to locate the lane Aunt Dimity had described as “rather uninviting.” As it turned out, I had driven past it many times, because it had never occurred to me that anyone could drive up it. I’d assumed it was a cow path.

  By the time I reached the farmyard at the end of Lizzie’s lane, I was convinced that I would have to replace the entire suspension system in Annelise’s car. Although the small, boxy Ford had survived the deep ruts and bone-jarring potholes that made the lane uninviting, it hadn’t done so happily. When I switched off the engine, the beleaguered chassis let out a groan that seemed to say, “I was designed for fuel economy, you fool, not off-road adventuring!”

  The sight that met my eyes at the end of the lane, however, soon made me forget about the beginning and the middle. Hilltop Farm was nothing short of enchanting. The outbuildings were old and crooked and clustered companionably atop a modest hump of a hill, behind a small farmhouse decorated with living trees that had been trained and twisted to form arches over the front door and the small windows.

  The buildings were made of the same honey-colored limestone as the low walls that encircled the vegetable garden—now banked with straw for the coming winter—and the sheep-dotted pastures beyond it. The late-afternoon sunlight gave a rosy glow to the golden stone, made the rain-washed fields sparkle, and gilded the rust-colored lichen on the farmhouse’s slate roof.

  As I climbed out of the car, I felt as if I were leaving the twenty-first century behind and entering an earlier, simpler age. I could hear the homely clucks of unseen chickens, the grunt of a pig, the distant baaing of sheep, and the rush of water dancing downhill in a nearby stream. Smoke curled from the farmhouse’s chimney, and its windows were lit from within by a soft radiance that suggested candles rather than lightbulbs. There were no telephone lines, power lines, generators, or satellite dishes to spoil the illusion of stepping back in time. I’d rarely seen a place more at peace with itself.

  The peace, alas, was short-lived. The moment I closed the car door, the farmhouse’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. She was short and stocky, with pale blue eyes, a round face as weathered as Leo’s, and a long braid of white hair wound over the top of her head, like a close-fitting halo. She wore a bulky bro
wn wool sweater over durable canvas trousers, and she had old leather moccasins on her feet, as though she’d finished her farm chores and settled indoors for the evening.

  She looked as if she might be somewhere in her mid-sixties, and though she wasn’t aiming a shotgun at me, her body language wasn’t entirely welcoming. Her shoulders were squared, her hands clenched into fists, and her glare was so potent that I could feel its heat clear across the farmyard.

  “Who are you?” she shouted from the doorstep. “And what do you want?”

  “I’m Lori Shepherd,” I called back, and since I knew that my name would mean nothing to her, I added, “I’m the American who lives in Dimity Westwood’s cottage.”

  “Bought it up, did you?” she sneered. “Going to improve it? Going to make it better?”

  Her questions took me by surprise. My arrival at the cottage had been the hot topic of conversation in Finch for at least two years, and I still attracted a goodly amount of attention from the villagers. I was so used to people knowing all sorts of things about me that it came as something of a shock to find someone who knew absolutely nothing. If I’d needed proof that Lizzie Black lived in isolation, I’d just found it.

  “As a matter of fact, I inherited the cottage,” I answered. “Dimity left it to me in her will. And I haven’t done anything to it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”

  Lizzie cocked her head to one side and regarded me suspiciously. “Why would Dimity Westwood leave her cottage to you, Lori Shepherd?”

  “My mother was her best friend,” I replied simply.

  Lizzie’s whole demeanor changed. Her blue eyes widened, her balled fists relaxed, and her harsh voice softened as she said, “Your mother would be Beth, would she?”

  I blinked, startled to hear my mother’s name spoken in a place she’d never seen, by someone she’d never met.

  “Yes, my mother was Beth Shepherd,” I said. “She died shortly before Dimity Westwood passed away.”

  Lizzie pursed her lips, then nodded once. “You’d best come in, then, Lori Shepherd.”