When I’d entered the study, I’d been ready to laugh at Lizzie Black and her bizarre fantasies. Now I was almost ready to believe that everything she’d said was true. I’d gone from chiding myself for taking Lizzie too seriously to scolding myself for not taking her seriously enough. It was a strange turn of events. Aunt Dimity usually pulled me back from the edge of hysteria, but tonight she’d waved a red flag in my face.
“Thank heavens for Dimity,” I said to Reginald. “I gave too much weight to Annelise’s opinion of Lizzie Black. If I hadn’t spoken with Dimity, I would have written Lizzie off as a crackpot and ignored the possibility that she might know more about the DuCarals than Annelise does. But I know better now. Lizzie’s version of history might be garbled, but it’s based on one true thing: Something bad happened at Aldercot Hall forty years ago, and the person responsible for it is still there. If I don’t find him and stop him, bad things will start happening again. So he’d better watch out, because I’m on my way.”
Reginald’s eyes gleamed with approval. I gave him a hug, stood, and returned the blue journal to its shelf. As I returned Reginald to his, I felt the full weight of the day close in on me. It was all I could do to shut off the lights and drag myself upstairs.
“I’m coming to get you, Rendor,” I murmured sleepily as I crawled into bed. Then I added, at Kit’s request, a short and fairly sincere prayer for rain.
Twelve
My prayer was answered with such ferocity that the boys’ trail ride was canceled the next morning.
“It’s been raining like blazes all night,” Emma told me over the phone, “and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to stop anytime soon. The trails have turned into waterfalls, the outdoor rings are flooded, and the arena’s roof is leaking. I’ve canceled tomorrow’s sessions as well as today’s. Thunder and Storm will stay in the stables, along with the rest of the horses, until the monsoon passes.”
“I’ll let the boys know,” I said. “By the way, Emma, has Kit spoken to you about tightening security around the stables?”
“He has,” Emma replied. “And we’re on top of it. I’m sorry that I didn’t take the twins seriously the other day. It sounds as if we might have a voyeur on the premises. If he shows his face around here again, I’m notifying the police.” She paused to speak with someone on her end of the line, then said to me, “I’ve got to run, Lori. The buckets in the arena need emptying. Tell the boys that if they want to spend their Saturday doing stable chores, they’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll tell them,” I said, and rang off.
The twins took the news of their washed-out trail ride philosophically, explaining to me that it was never a good idea to go riding in a heavy downpour because slick footing could be hazardous for both rider and pony. Preoccupied as I was by an entirely different kind of hazard, I listened with only half an ear.
Neither Annelise nor I was surprised when the twins leapt at the chance to spend the day at Anscombe Manor doing stable chores—my sons shared an inexplicable enthusiasm for shoveling muck—but Annelise was frankly astonished when I appeared in the front hall dressed in my hiking gear.
“You’re not going rambling today, are you?” she asked incredulously.
“Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” And since Kit had asked me to pray for it, I added silently, he wouldn’t cancel our trip to Aldercot Hall because of it.
“A little rain?” Annelise said, and her tone of voice indicated in no uncertain terms that anyone who would voluntarily spend time outdoors on such a filthy day had to be as mad as Lizzie Black.
If Annelise had spotted the rowanberry necklace I was wearing beneath my rain jacket or glimpsed the array of nonstandard supplies filling my day pack, she probably would have made an emergency call to Bill—after locking me in my bedroom—so I kept my jacket zipped and my pack securely closed while we bundled the boys into the Range Rover.
It was raining so hard that the drops exploded when they hit the road surface, creating a mist that made it hard to see where the lane ended and the hedgerows began. If I’d been driving, I would have turned back, but Annelise handled the challenging conditions with her usual aplomb, and we reached Anscombe Manor without incident.
We parted company in the stable yard, Annelise and the boys heading for the ponies’ stalls while I made for the courtyard. Kit was waiting for me in the shelter of the doorway that led to his spartan second-floor flat. His shoulders were hunched against the gusting downpour, and he’d pulled the hood of his rain jacket so far forward on his head that from a distance I could see only the tip of his perfectly shaped nose.
“If I ever doubt the power of prayer,” I called as I strode across the courtyard, “remind me of today.”
“I will,” he said, and came out of the doorway to meet me. “Listen, Lori, I’m sorry that I was so ratty yesterday. I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, with a careless wave of my hand. “I find it somehow reassuring to know that you can be ratty.”
He glanced fleetingly at the manor house, then looked down at his boots. “I realize that you view me as some sort of saint, Lori, but I’m not a saint. I’m a deeply flawed human being.”
For one slim whisker of a second, I was tempted to pursue the line of questioning Aunt Dimity had suggested and ask Kit if his flaws included an inability to perform adequately—or at all—in certain intimate situations, but I chickened out. He seemed to be in a fairly good mood, and I didn’t want to risk spoiling it so early in the day.
“If you’re deeply flawed, my friend, then there’s hope for the rest of us,” I said bracingly. “Can we get going? If I stand still much longer, I’ll get moldy.”
Kit managed a small smile and led the way out of the courtyard. Much to my relief, he didn’t return to the absurdly steep game trail we’d climbed to reach the gnarled apple tree, but went instead to the splendidly level track that ran alongside the north pasture. The track was a swampy mess, to be sure, but at least it hadn’t turned into a waterfall.
“Do you know a woman named Lizzie Black?” I asked as we squelched along.
“Lizzie of Hilltop Farm?” said Kit. “Yes, of course, I know her. She’s extraordinarily wise in woodlore. Knows when and where to find the best berries, mushrooms, nuts. She’s mad as a spoon, of course—believes in banshees and werewolves and such—but she’s very reliable when it comes to berries and nuts. Why?”
Since Kit’s opinion of Lizzie Black seemed to match Annelise’s, I decided not to tell him about my visit to Hilltop Farm. Annelise had already told me how crazy Lizzie was. I didn’t need to hear it all over again from Kit. Aunt Dimity had convinced me to keep an open mind about Lizzie’s claims, and I intended to do just that.
“Idle curiosity,” I replied lightly. “I heard someone mention her name and I just wondered if you knew her. Are we going to Gypsy Hollow?”
“We’ll pass through it on our way to Aldercot Hall,” Kit replied.
“Good,” I said. “I want to make sure that Leo’s okay. It can’t be much fun for him to be cooped up in his little motor home on a day like this.”
“I was planning to look in on him,” Kit assured me, “but I suspect that he’s coped with worse things than a rainy day.”
I gave him a curious glance. “Why were you so eager for it to rain today?”
“It’s part of my cunning plan to gain access to Aldercot Hall,” he informed me with a wily, sidelong glance. “The DuCarals have a reputation for being standoffish when it comes to visitors, so I doubt that we’d get very far with them if we drove over there. I think we’ll have a better chance of getting our boots inside the hall if we present ourselves as a pair of hapless ramblers who’ve lost their way.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I still don’t see why we need an extra helping of rain.”
“We’re going to appeal to their sense of humanity,” Kit explained. “If we’re drenched and freezing when we arri
ve on their doorstep, they’ll be more likely to take pity on us and let us in. Once we’re inside, we’ll try to find out more about Rendor. Is he a member of the family? A friend?”
“A voyeuristic pervert?” I interjected.
“Let’s not leap to any conclusions,” Kit advised. “He may simply be a shy man who enjoys watching children at play.”
“And I may be the rightful heir to the throne of England,” I said sardonically.
Kit pursed his lips and began, “Now, Lori—”
“All right, all right,” I interrupted. “I’ll reserve judgment until I meet him face-to-face. And I like your plan. I get lost naturally, so I won’t have any trouble acting like a hapless rambler.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he said.
The rain was still hammering down when we reached Gypsy Hollow. The lowest spots in the hollow had turned into quagmires, and the rest of the ground was so thoroughly saturated that I half expected to see mushrooms sprouting up before our eyes. Leo had evidently brought his belongings into the motor home, because there was no sign of the awning or of the furniture that had been clustered beneath it when we’d eaten lunch with him.
There was no sign of Leo either, and when we walked up to the motor home, we found a note taped to the door.
Sorry to miss you, whoever you are. I’ve
gone out and I don’t know when I’ll be
back. If you’re desperate, take what you
need. If not, please respect my home.
“He must have gone to Finch,” I said. “You don’t think he walked, do you?”
“He has a bicycle,” Kit reminded me. “I imagine he cycled to the village in order to save petrol. I wish I’d known. I’d have given him a lift.”
“He’ll be fine once he reaches the village,” I said confidently. “Sally Pyne will give him a hot breakfast in the tearoom, and the Peacocks will let him spend the rest of the day in the pub. And Mr. Barlow will give him a lift when he decides to come back to the motor home.”
“You have great faith in the villagers,” Kit commented.
“I have great faith in the vicar,” I retorted. “He’ll skin them alive if they treat Leo the way they treated you when you were down and out.”
Kit flinched as if I’d slapped him, and turned away.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” he murmured.
“Those days are long gone,” I pointed out, wondering what had come over him. We’d always discussed his troubled past quite openly. I’d never known him to be sensitive about it.
“Of course they are,” he said with a brittle sort of cheerfulness. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
“Right,” I said, trying not to show how flustered I was. “So how do we get to Aldercot? Through the cleft between the hills?”
“The cleft will be a running stream by now,” said Kit.
He looked at me, then at the slope I’d slithered down the day before. My heart sank as I followed his gaze.
“You’re not suggesting that we climb the hill, are you?” I asked. “There must be an easier way.”
“There are lots of easier ways, but imagine how awful we’ll look after we take this one,” said Kit, starting forward. “It’ll add authenticity to our story.”
I emitted an entirely authentic groan, tightened the straps on my day pack, and clambered up the hill as best I could. By the time I had crawled on all fours onto the familiar shelf near the top of the hill, I was gasping, red-faced, and as muddy as a wallowing warthog. Kit reached down to pull me to my feet, then stood back to survey me critically.
“I knew you could play the part, Lori,” he said. “But now you look like a hapless rambler.”
I gave him the evil eye, then raised my grimy hands and smeared mud across his beautiful face, like war paint. “There,” I said. “Now you look the part, too.”
Kit wiped a streak of damp clay from his lips and grinned. “Touché,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know that it’s all downhill from here, on a well-drained and gently sloping trail.”
He led the way around the shoulder of the hill to the ledge on which he’d discovered Rendor’s most suggestive boot print, then paused to gaze down at the valley below. Shredded wisps of river mist curled sinuously through the dense grove of trees that concealed Aldercot Hall.
“Look,” I said, pointing to a patch of open ground to the right of the grove. “The family cemetery.”
“So it is,” said Kit.
A border of stately yew trees delineated the graveyard, in which smaller headstones surrounded a boxy white tomb.
“There aren’t many graves,” I noted nervously.
“There may be some we can’t see from up here,” said Kit. “And the mausoleum may contain the remains of more than one family member.”
If I were Lizzie Black, I thought, I’d argue that there aren’t many graves because the vampires who live at Aldercot Hall are virtually immortal. Since I’m Lori Shepherd, however, I’ll go with Kit’s explanation and hope to high heaven he’s right.
I glanced toward the overcast sky, then followed Kit onto a trail Will and Rob could have handled without difficulty. It took us less than fifteen minutes to reach the valley floor and less than ten to find a graveled drive that led through the grove of trees to Aldercot Hall. As Kit and I trudged down the drive, I peered into the woods surreptitiously, searching for a herd of anemic deer, but the only animal I saw was a damp pheasant.
I’d come to associate Aldercot Hall so closely with the undead that I expected it to be a grim, gray, gargoyle-infested Gothic monstrosity—the kind of place Miss Archer could call home. I felt a pinch of disappointment, therefore, when I saw the restrained lines and classical proportions of the stately, cream-colored Georgian mansion that stood at the end of the drive. I could detect nothing sinister in its appearance, except perhaps for the river mist that swirled around it like a ghostly veil and a certain air of neglect that made it appear unloved, almost abandoned.
Although the plane trees surrounding the house were magnificent specimens, the flower beds in the unkempt lawn had been left to languish, and a dank tangle of shrubbery seemed to be all that remained of a formal garden. Dead weeds straggled from the marble urns flanking the columned porch, balusters were missing from the roof’s parapet, and birds’ nests bristled on every window ledge. All the windows, save those on the topmost floor, were shrouded with black-lined drapes. The ones on the top floor had been boarded up.
“As if,” I said under my breath, “those who live here can’t bear the light of day.”
“Pardon?” said Kit, inclining his head toward me.
“The DuCarals must not like sunlight,” I said, jutting my chin toward the windows.
“Sunlight fades furniture,” said Kit. “Those are blackout drapes, Lori. They protect carpets and upholstery from the bleaching effects of ultraviolet rays. They’re quite common in historic houses.”
Kit’s commentary was so crushingly levelheaded that I suppressed the urge to ask him if he thought the humps in the patchy lawn looked like the unmarked graves of orphaned housemaids.
But I couldn’t help asking what he thought of the boarded windows.
“They conserve heat,” he said succinctly.
“Of course,” I said, and although I had my own ideas about why the attic story had been enclosed, I decided not to share them with Kit just yet.
“We’ll try the front entrance first,” Kit proposed. “And, Lori, it might be best if you let me—”
“Do the talking,” I broke in resignedly. “Go ahead. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
We climbed the steps to the columned porch, where I stood back, trying to look like a waif from a Dickens novel, while Kit rang the brass-mounted doorbell. I was starting to wonder if the doorbell was out of order when we heard the sound of locks and latches shifting from within. A moment later, the door was opened by a bald, pink-faced elderly man in a n
eatly pressed black suit. Although he was a few inches shorter than Kit, he still managed to look down his nose at both of us.
“May I help you?” he said in an icy drawl.
“I hope so, sir,” said Kit. “My friend and I are in trouble, and we need your help.”
For the next few minutes, I did nothing but savor the sound of Kit’s exquisitely modulated voice as he crafted a tale so rich in pathos that it made me want to cry. By the time he finished, I felt so sorry for us that I wanted to whip out my cell phone and call in a rescue helicopter.
“You are in a pickle,” said the bald man, thawing just enough to employ a slang word. He regarded us through narrowed eyes, as if weighing the pros and cons of granting us shelter from the storm, then nodded. “Very well. You may wait here until the storm abates, but I’ll not have you tracking filth on my clean floors. Go around to the kitchen entrance. Mrs. Harcourt will give you a cup of tea while you wait.”
“Thank you, sir. Is Mrs. Harcourt the cook?” Kit inquired politely.
“She is, and I am Mr. Bellamy, the butler.” The old man leaned in close to Kit and said in an audible murmur, “Your friend there, is she mute?”
Kit had a sudden coughing fit that rendered him incapable of speech, so I had no choice but to answer.
“Too cold to talk,” I croaked feebly.
“You’d best get indoors, then,” opined Mr. Bellamy. “The kitchen entrance is around the side. Mrs. Harcourt will attend to you.”
As soon as the door closed, Kit leaned against one of the pillars, saying in short bursts between guffaws, “You. Mute. So funny. Thought I’d burst…a blood vessel…trying not…to laugh.”
“I’m beginning to wish you had,” I grumbled.
“Sorry.” Kit caught his breath and wiped his eyes, then bowed me off the porch like a proper gentleman.
I smiled grudgingly but took his arm as we walked down the steps, because I wasn’t really annoyed with him. I was such a chronic chatterbox that anyone who knew me would have found Mr. Bellamy’s question highly amusing. Apart from that, Kit’s cunning plan had succeeded in a way that would delight Aunt Dimity. She’d urged me to speak with the servants, and here we were, on our way to the kitchen.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter Page 12
