“Australia?” said Kit, frowning. “But Henrietta didn’t say anything about Austra—” He came to a sudden halt and clapped a hand to his forehead. “Leo.”
“Knew you’d get there in the end,” I said serenely.
“Leo is Charlotte DuCaral’s rotten older brother,” Kit marveled as we resumed walking. “It would explain why he knows so much about our corner of the world. If he grew up at Aldercot, he’d know that Emma’s Hill used to be called High Point, and that Gypsies once camped in Gypsy Hollow. And his name did seem to trigger Charlotte’s…episode.”
I nodded. “She was going along just fine until I mentioned Leo’s name. Then she went ballistic.”
“It all fits.” Kit paused. “Except that Leo doesn’t seem like a rotten person. Do you remember the note he left taped to the motor home? ‘If you’re desperate, take what you need.’ It’s not the sort of message a rotten person would leave, is it?”
“Maybe he’s changed,” I said. “He’s been away an awfully long time. A lot can happen to a person.” I kicked gravel aimlessly, sighed, and dug my hands into my pockets as we entered the grove of trees.
“I think we should speak with him before we write him off,” said Kit, “but I have to admit that your version of events is plausible.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Why don’t you look more pleased with yourself?”
“Because none of it has anything to do with Rendor,” I said irritably. “Remember him? The creepy psycho pervert voyeur my sons spotted lurking in the woods? If Leo is Charlotte’s brother, then Charlotte’s brother can’t be Rendor. So I’ve figured out everything except what I came here to figure out. Who left the boot prints on Emma’s Hill? Who left the scrap of crimson silk in the pet cemetery? Above all, who’s living in the attic?”
“Is that where you were while Charlotte and I were eating jammy biscuits?” Kit asked. “In the attic?”
“Not quite,” I said. “The attic door was locked, so I couldn’t get inside. But someone was in there, Kit. I heard a floorboard creak, and I…I sensed someone listening at the door.” I smacked a fist into my open palm. “We have to find out more about the DuCarals.”
“Why?” Kit asked.
“It’s the only way we’re going to nail Rendor,” I explained. “He’s obviously not a houseguest, because Charlotte doesn’t entertain guests and the staff isn’t allowed to have them.”
“Therefore,” said Kit, “Rendor must be a DuCaral. But if he isn’t Leo, then who…?” He left the sentence hanging and glanced at me expectantly.
“Charlotte must have another brother,” I said thoughtfully, “a brother Henrietta doesn’t know about. He must be the one who’s locked in the attic.”
“How could Henrietta not know about him if he’s living in the attic?” Kit asked.
“Because Charlotte doesn’t want her to know,” I said. “He’s the crazy brother, the one who thinks he’s a vampire, so Charlotte wouldn’t want the world to know about him.”
“So you still think a vampire’s involved?” said Kit.
“A pseudovampire,” I corrected him. “And yes, I do. Think about it, Kit. Did you see a mirror in Aldercot Hall, or a family photograph? Vampires don’t have reflections, and they can’t be photographed, because they have no soul, so if someone thought he was a vampire—”
“He’d avoid decorating his house with mirrors and photographs,” Kit cut in, nodding. “I see.”
“And what about the blackout drapes?” I said. “They’re all over the place, but the only furniture we saw was in the music room. So tell me: What are they protecting?”
“Mr. Pseudovampire,” Kit answered obediently, “because vampires can’t stand sunlight.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Mr. Bellamy must be in on the secret, and I’ll bet Jacqueline is, too, but Henrietta’s such a blabbermouth that they wouldn’t dare tell her.”
“She did say that she never went upstairs,” Kit recalled.
“Exactly,” I said. “She’s out of the loop.”
“We’re now assuming that Charlotte has two brothers,” said Kit. “Leo the reprobate, and…well, let’s continue to call the other one Rendor until we learn his real name.”
“We may as well,” I said. “For all we know, he patterned himself after the Destroyer of Souls in the comic book. Do you think the parents were mentally ill, too? Maybe they had the same vampire fixation as the crazy son. After seeing Charlotte’s schizophrenic turn, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that insanity runs in the family.”
“It often does,” Kit murmured. Then he laughed. “Fixation, schizophrenic…You’re tossing off jargon like a pro, Lori.”
“I’m not an expert,” I conceded, “but I do know that normal people don’t spy on little kids and live inside locked attics.” I stopped short and stared down at my trouser legs. “Do your trousers feel starched?”
“They are a bit stiff,” Kit acknowledged.
“They’re spotless, too,” I said. “It’s unnatural.”
“I have the perfect solution,” said Kit. “Let’s talk with Leo right now. He’ll know whether he has a brother or not.”
I looked up at him, stricken. “But that means we’ll have to—”
“Climb down the hill into Gypsy Hollow,” Kit finished for me, grinning mischievously. “It’ll take the starch out of your trousers.”
“It may also take away my will to live,” I grumbled, but I agreed to Kit’s plan nonetheless.
My desire to interrogate Leo far outweighed my desire to avoid yet another undignified slide into Gypsy Hollow.
Sixteen
I somehow managed to land in Gypsy Hollow in a dignified, upright position, but I was so pleased with my accomplishment that I failed to watch my next step, slipped on a slimy rock, and sat with a splash in a murky puddle.
“Yeah, I know,” I said wryly as Kit hauled me to my feet. “Pride goeth before a pratfall.”
“I wasn’t even thinking such a thing,” he protested, though a smile was playing on his lips. “But I was thinking that we should rename this place ‘Lori’s Bottom.’”
I laughed along with him, even though it was a bit depressing to realize that I wouldn’t be able to dry my wet drawers at Leo’s campfire, because there was no campfire, nor was there any sign that Leo had returned.
“The note’s still there,” I said, pointing to the message Leo had taped to the motor home’s door.
“Let’s have a look inside,” said Kit, striding forward. “He may be ill or injured and need our help.”
The door was unlocked, so a desperate person could have taken what he needed from the motor home, but after surveying its cramped quarters I decided that a person would have to be truly desperate to need anything that Leo owned. His possessions were so shabby that they would have been rejected by a thrift shop.
Kit nodded at a neat pile of logs that filled the space between the bed and the small table. “He carries his own firewood.”
“Now we know how he got a fire going in such damp weather,” I said.
“He must still be in the village,” said Kit.
“I hope so.” I looked from the dented teakettle to the frayed blanket that covered the tiny bed. “It’s easy to see why he needs an infusion of cash. He doesn’t exactly live in the lap of luxury.”
“He seems happy, though,” Kit said.
“I know,” I said. “He’s cheerful, charming, generous…. How could such a nice man make Charlotte so angry?”
“Families are funny things,” said Kit. “He might show one face to us and an entirely different face to his sister.”
“Multiple personality syndrome,” I said wisely as we climbed out of the motor home.
“I wish you’d give the jargon a rest, Lori,” Kit said, with a tired sigh. “Not every character trait is a mental illness, and as you said before, you’re not an expert on the subject.”
I blinked at him, then ducked my head and colored to my roots, suddenly aware of how tactles
s it had been of me to harp on mental illness in the presence of a person whose father had suffered so cruelly from depression that he’d eventually hanged himself. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know how to apologize without mentioning Sir Miles, which would only make matters worse.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, too embarrassed to meet Kit’s eyes.
“Forget about it,” he said shortly. “Do you want to wait for Leo, look for him in Finch, or head home?”
“Home,” I said unhesitatingly. With my trousers soaked through again, I didn’t want to stay outdoors any longer than I had to.
“Let’s go,” said Kit.
We made our way through the gap in the trees to the muddy track that led to Anscombe Manor. An awkward silence hung between us until, at last, Kit spoke.
“I’ll look in on Leo in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime I’ll run an online search and see if the Web can tell us anything about the DuCarals.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m as useless with computers as I am with horses.”
“You won’t be useless with horses for much longer,” said Kit. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to take riding lessons.”
“I haven’t,” I said, grimacing. “But I was hoping you had.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Lori,” said Kit. “I’m a superb instructor.”
“Humble, too,” I muttered.
Kit smiled, and the tension between us dissolved.
“If there’s nothing on the Web,” he said, returning to the main topic of our conversation, “and if I fail to connect with Leo, I have another idea. How would you like to spend a day in Upper Deeping?”
“What’s in Upper Deeping?” I asked.
“The Upper Deeping Despatch,” he replied. “It’s been the local newspaper for nearly a hundred years. We might find some mention of the DuCarals in the Despatch’s archives.”
“It’s worth a try,” I said, brightening. “In fact, I’d like to search the archives regardless of what happens with Leo and the Web. We could find some valuable information there—like birth announcements for two DuCaral brothers.”
“It’ll have to wait until Monday,” Kit warned. “The office is closed on Sunday.”
“Monday’s fine by me,” I said. “I couldn’t go tomorrow anyway. Annelise is spending the day with her fiancé, and I promised to take Will and Rob to the Cotswold Farm Park after church.”
“All right, then,” said Kit. “I’ll pick you up at the cottage at nine on Monday morning, and we’ll see what we can find in Upper Deeping.”
Kit offered to drive me home when we reached Anscombe Manor, but I was able to turn him down because, as I explained to him, Mr. Barlow had kept his promise. An old, beat-up, rust-red Morris Mini sat among the sleek sports cars parked in front of the manor house, looking like a potato in a bouquet of tulips.
“Now, there’s a car I can drive in dirty trousers,” I said.
“I don’t think Mr. Barlow will mind,” Kit agreed.
“I don’t think Mr. Barlow will notice,” I said contentedly.
I dumped my day pack in the Mini, then went with Kit to the stables to check in with Annelise. I found her chatting with Fabrice, one of Nell’s many French admirers, while the twins watched the local farrier shoe Rocinante, Nell’s chestnut mare. Kit had evidently worked out a signal with Will and Rob, because before I quite knew what was happening, the twins’ hands were in mine and I was being led, gently but inexorably, to Toby’s stall.
The old gray pony stood with his head over the stall door. He snuffled when he saw the boys.
“Toby’s saying hello, Mummy,” Rob explained.
“You can let him smell your hand,” said Will. “He won’t bite.”
“Go ahead,” Rob coaxed. “You can do it.”
“But not too fast,” Will cautioned.
“You don’t want to spook him,” said Rob.
I raised my hand with infinite care until it was close to Toby’s nostrils, and the old pony rubbed it gently with his velvety nose.
“He likes you,” said Will.
“He rubs people he likes,” Rob added earnestly.
And for some reason I will never understand, I believed them.
Kit came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and said quietly, “Here endeth the first lesson.”
I felt an unexpected twinge of regret when the boys led me away from Toby, and before I left the stables, I turned back to give him a little wave. He snuffled again, as if to say, “See you later!” and a tiny part of me began to believe that learning to ride him might not be an irredeemably bad idea.
Since it was just past noon and the farrier had several more horses to shoe, the boys were not ready to leave the stables. I told Annelise that I’d see them at home and headed for the Mini.
Mr. Barlow had left the keys in the ignition, but before I got into the car, I placed a hand on its rusty roof and vowed solemnly that I would never drive it down Lizzie’s lane. It must have sensed my good intentions, because it started right away and puttered along without a squeak or a groan as I cruised down Anscombe Manor’s curving drive.
I stopped when I reached the end of the drive, and looked in both directions. A left-hand turn would take me to the cottage, but if I turned right, I’d soon be in Finch. I tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully.
I’d had plenty to eat at Aldercot Hall, so I wasn’t hungry, and the Mini’s heater was already drying my trousers, so I wasn’t in a hurry to change clothes. Annelise and the boys wouldn’t be home for several hours, so I didn’t need to put dinner on the table for a while. I could, in fact, think of no compelling reason to go straight back to the cottage. So I turned right.
I watched carefully for Leo as I negotiated the lane’s winding curves, paying particular attention to the hedges and ditches, in case he’d had an accident and was lying by the side of the road, injured. I even stopped the car once, to peer into the ditch Bill liked to call mine, but I made it all the way to Finch’s humpbacked bridge without seeing a soul, which wasn’t unusual. Even on a gorgeous spring day, there was rarely any traffic on my lane.
As I drove over the bridge, all of Finch lay before me, looking rather damp and deserted. Rain gushed out of downspouts and rushed down the cobbled street, and a small pond had taken shape just below the war memorial on the village green. No one was window-shopping or bench sitting or doing anything outdoors, except for Jasper Taxman, who was scurrying from the Emporium to the greengrocer’s shop next door, with a bucket of mauve paint in one hand and several paintbrushes in the other.
The Emporium, which served as Finch’s general store as well as its post office, was owned by the all-powerful Peggy Taxman. Peggy had recently purchased the greengrocer’s shop from old Mr. and Mrs. Farnham, who had retired and moved to Derbyshire to be near their three grown daughters. To judge by Jasper’s harassed expression, it looked as though Peggy had assigned to her husband the task of redecorating the latest addition to her empire.
Jasper paused beneath the shop’s green awning when he saw me, and I drove over to crank my window down and say hello.
“Keeping busy?” I said, looking pointedly at the paintbrushes.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “But better busy than bored, I always say. How is life treating you? I haven’t seen your face in Finch for quite a while.”
“I was at the Guy Fawkes Day committee meeting on Thursday,” I told him, experiencing a flutter of déjà vu. Hadn’t I said the same thing to Mr. Barlow just last night?
“Were you?” said Jasper. “I must have missed you. How are the boys getting along at Morningside?”
“They’re doing great,” I replied. “They couldn’t be happier. Listen, Mr. Taxman, I was wondering—have you seen a stranger in town today? An older man, with white hair and blue eyes. He would have been riding a bicycle.”
Jasper shook his head. “I don’t think so, Lori, but I’ve been so busy running back
and forth that I may have missed him.”
“Better busy than bored, eh?” I teased.
“That’s right.” Jasper held up the can of mauve paint. “And I’d best get busy or Mrs. Taxman will have something to say about it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Taxman,” I said.
“You’re welcome, Lori. And don’t stay away so long. People will begin to think you don’t like it here.” He gave me a friendly nod and went into the greengrocer’s shop.
I rolled up my window, parked the Mini near the tearoom, and sat in it for a moment, gazing perplexedly at the raindrops drizzling down the windshield. Why hadn’t Mr. Barlow or Mr. Taxman noticed me at the committee meeting on Thursday? I wondered. I’d often wished to be invisible during meetings, especially when Peggy Taxman had a bone to pick with me, but I was fairly sure I’d never actually disappeared. And why were both men under the impression that I’d been avoiding Finch?
“It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been to the village,” I said to the rearview mirror. “Mr. Barlow and Mr. Taxman must be losing track of time. It’s easy to do in the fall, when the days all look alike.”
I nodded confidently at my reflection and went into the tearoom, where I was greeted like a long-lost relative by Sally Pyne, George Wetherhead, Lilian Bunting, Miranda Morrow, and several other neighbors. Sally, who owned the tearoom, bustled off to make a pot of tea I hadn’t ordered, and the others proceeded to bombard me with questions.
“What’s Bill up to these days?”
“Are the twins enjoying school?”
“What do you think of the paint Peggy picked out for the greengrocer’s?”
“Have Will and Rob made lots of new friends?”
“Why are you driving Mr. Barlow’s old Mini?”
“What’s all this about a pervert on Emma’s Hill?”
“Do the boys like their teacher?”
“Here you go, dear,” said Sally Pyne, drawing a chair out from a table she’d set for me. “Have a seat and tell us how you’ve been.”
I looked at the circle of smiling, inquisitive faces and bowed to the inevitable. I took a seat, let Sally fill my teacup, and began firing off answers.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter Page 16
