“One day,” I began, “perhaps when he was in his teens and showing the first signs of instability, Charlotte’s brother rearranged the letters of his last name and convinced himself that he, a DuCaral, was the direct descendent of the prince of darkness, Count Dracula.”
Ah. Yes, of course. It’s exactly the sort of thing an unstable young man might do. I expect we’ll call the brother “Rendor,” since we still don’t know his Christian name.
“Yes, we will,” I said, and went on. “Rendor became gradually more violent and more delusional until, some forty years ago, he decided to claim dominion over Aldercot Hall by murdering his own father. The Pyms think Maurice DuCaral was crippled by an accident, but he wasn’t. He was attacked by his own son.”
My goodness.
“The attack left Maurice incapacitated,” I continued, “and the DuCarals were finally forced to admit that their son was a dangerous lunatic. They couldn’t bring themselves to turn him in to the police, though, or to plunk him in an institution, because they didn’t want their old friends to find out about him.”
Because they couldn’t bear the humiliation of admitting to their old friends that their seemingly superior family was tainted with mental illness?
“Exactly,” I said. “So they called the attack an accident, shot Rendor full of tranquilizers, and locked him in the attic.” I snapped my fingers as a fresh new idea occurred to me. “They may have put the tranquilizers in glasses of deer’s blood. Since Rendor thought he was a vampire, he’d drink it down lickety-split.”
What an perfectly appalling image, Lori. How did they explain Rendor’s disappearance?
“They didn’t have to,” I said, “because from that point on they made do with a severely reduced staff and kept everyone else at bay. No guests, no visitors, and no mixing with the locals—they even made the milkman leave his deliveries at the gates.”
Ingenious. Go on.
“Maurice, Madeline, and Charlotte DuCaral made a solemn vow to take the family secret with them to the grave,” I said, “and two of them succeeded. Maurice died of his wounds three years ago, and Madeline died a year later.”
Leaving Charlotte to cope with Rendor on her own.
“She’s not completely on her own,” I pointed out. “I think Mr. Bellamy must be in on the secret by now. And I’m fairly sure that Jacqueline is just the latest in a string of household helpers who’ve let Rendor have his way with them.”
Some girls might think it thrilling to have their necks bitten. I can’t see the attraction myself.
“Nor can I,” I said impatiently. “But my point is, Charlotte’s too unstable to control her brother. When her mother died, she let Rendor get the upper hand. She cleared the house of anything that might upset him—mirrors, photographs, sunlight.”
Why did she get rid of nearly all of the furniture?
“She’s too unstable to earn a living,” I said, “so she sold the furniture to bolster her inheritance.”
I see. Sorry to interrupt. Please, go on.
“Charlotte sold the deer,” I said, “and hired girls like Jacqueline, hoping to satisfy Rendor’s lust for human blood, but it wasn’t enough. Now she’s allowing him to leave the attic and roam the countryside, looking for fresh prey.”
If Charlotte is allowing her mad brother to leave the attic, why did you find the attic door locked?
I stared pensively into the fire, then replied, “He locks himself in out of habit.”
Well, you’ve certainly been hard at work, Lori. Your explanation of the affairs at Aldercot Hall is stunningly comprehensive. I wish, for your sake, that it was also conclusive, but, alas, it isn’t. You haven’t proved that Rendor exists. Until you do, you’ll find it difficult to prove to the police that Will and Rob saw him in the woods.
“Kit and I are going to Upper Deeping on Monday,” I informed her. “We’re going search the archives of the Upper Deeping Despatch. Our original plan was to look for anything concerning the DuCarals, but you’ve just given me a better idea.”
I’m always glad to help. What idea have I given you?
“I think we should focus our efforts on finding references to Rendor,” I said. “That is, references to a DuCaral son. If we can find a birth announcement, or a piece about his school days, or any article that mentions him in any way, maybe we can file a missing-person report and get the police to start an investigation. They won’t let a locked door stop them, and once they’re inside the attic, they’ll know I’m right.”
I wish I could take credit for the idea, Lori, but it’s all yours and it’s quite brilliant. I’m sure the Despatch will provide you with the information you need. There is one other loose end that intrigues me, however. It’s not directly related to Rendor, but it troubles me nonetheless.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Your description of Leo as a kind, thoughtful, generous, charming man doesn’t square with the Pyms’ description of him as a cad, a bounder, a heartless scoundrel who would toy with a woman’s affections, then abandon her.
“Kit said the same thing, when we still thought Leo might be Charlotte’s rotten brother,” I acknowledged. “I guess Leo’s changed.”
Human nature isn’t as malleable as all that, Lori. If Leo was a cruel and selfish young man, he’d more than likely be a cruel and selfish old man.
“But he isn’t cruel or selfish,” I said. “He shared his stew with us. He made us laugh. He left his door unlocked today, in case someone needed to take shelter in his motor home.”
It does make one wonder what actually happened all those many long years ago. Is the Pyms’ version of events accurate? Is Charlotte’s? I suggest that you hear Leo’s side of the story before you pass judgment on his younger self.
“We’ll try,” I said, “but he isn’t the easiest man to find.”
I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later. When he does, listen to him. By the way, did you make any progress with Kit while you were out and about today?
“None,” I admitted. “I managed to hurt his feelings, though.”
Shame on you, Lori.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I protested. “He never used to mind it when I talked about the bad old days, when he was living on the streets, but when I brought it up today, he flinched.”
What inspired you to mention it today?
“Kit was worried that Leo might be cold-shouldered in Finch,” I explained. “And I told him that the villagers wouldn’t dare treat Leo the way they’d treated him when he was down and out, because the vicar wouldn’t let them.”
And he flinched?
“As if I’d smacked him in the face,” I said guiltily. “But I haven’t told you the worst part yet. After we left Aldercot, I started yammering like an idiot about mental illness. I didn’t stop to think about what had happened to Kit’s father until Kit finally told me to shut up. And then I wanted to kick myself, or let Kit kick me, for being so incredibly insensitive. I felt awful, Dimity, just awful.”
I can imagine. Did you say anything else that upset him?
“No,” I said. “I put my foot in my mouth twice, but otherwise I was positive and upbeat with him. When he started going on about being a deeply flawed human being, I told him that if he was deeply flawed, then there was hope for the rest of us.” I shook my head. “Tell me, Dimity: Why do saints always think they’re flawed?”
Because they’re saints.
“But what flaws could Kit possibly have?” I demanded. “A disgraceful streak of kindness? An overabundance of patience? A bigger heart than the law allows?”
Perhaps Kit doesn’t see himself as you see him, Lori. Or perhaps he sees something in himself that you don’t see. Or something that isn’t there.
“Sorry, Dimity,” I said, squinting at the page. “You’ve lost me.”
Never mind. It’s not important. Have you anything else to report?
“Not tonight,” I said. “But I hope that I’ll have more to tell you on Monday.”
As do I. Good night, Lori, and good luck at the Despatch. I hope the archives will lead you to the truth.
“Thanks,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”
When the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I closed the journal, held my feet out to the fire, and contemplated the trip to Upper Deeping with a purely girlie sense of satisfaction.
“Finding the truth is a good and noble thing, Reg,” I said, looking up at my pink bunny. “But so is a day without mud.”
Eighteen
Since Rob and Will approved of Annelise’s fiancé, they didn’t mind in the least when he spirited her off before church the following morning, although the questions they asked while we were in church made me wonder what kind of comic books Clive Pickle had been bringing to school lately.
Peggy Taxman’s head snapped in our direction when Will inquired, loudly, if Annelise and Oliver would have babies, and the vicar faltered in the middle of his sermon when Rob announced, after some thought, that Annelise would have lots of babies, because she had such a nice, soft tummy. I could do nothing but bow my head, not only to hide my blushes but to give heartfelt thanks to God that Annelise wasn’t there.
The boys and I trooped over to the vicarage after church, to apologize to the vicar for interrupting his sermon and to meet the white kitten he and Mrs. Bunting had adopted the night before. While Will and Rob played with Angel, Mr. Bunting took me to his study to admire the armchair his wife had given to him for his birthday.
“Your birthday!” I exclaimed, mortified. “It was last month, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry. I forgot all about it.”
“I didn’t bring you in here to make you feel guilty for forgetting my birthday,” said Mr. Bunting.
“I know, but I feel guilty anyway,” I said. “How could I have missed your birthday?”
“You haven’t been to see us since the boys started school,” he said gently.
“You’re kidding,” I said, gazing up at him in surprise.
“I’m not.” He smiled. “You’ve also been rushing off after Sunday services as if the church were on fire. We’ve hardly had a chance to say hello.” He ran a hand across the back of his new armchair. “I do understand, Lori. It’s not an easy transition for any mother to make, and you’ve had more reasons than most to worry about your little ones. My wife tells me, however, that the boys are doing wonderfully well at Morningside. Perhaps the time for worrying is over?” He smiled again. “It’s for you to decide, of course. I simply want you to know how pleased the whole village will be when you find time for us again. Now, let’s see if the boys have taught Angel a trick or two—or vice versa!”
I was grateful to Mr. Bunting for turning his attention to the kitten’s antics, because I was so choked up I couldn’t speak. I hadn’t believed my neighbors when they’d told me that I’d been gone for “an age and an age,” but the vicar’s kindly remonstrance had made me realize, finally, that they’d been telling me the truth.
It had been six weeks since the twins had started school, six weeks since I’d dropped out of village life to obsess about their safety, and in a tightly knit community six weeks was an age. I wondered how many other birthdays I’d forgotten, how many neighborly duties I’d neglected. Every role was vital in a tiny place like Finch, and I’d failed to play mine for six long weeks.
“Thank you,” I said to the vicar as the boys and I prepared to leave the vicarage. “Your message came through loud and clear. I’ll be at the nativity-play committee meeting on Friday evening, and everyone will know I’m there. And,” I added as we reached the doorstep, “I will most definitely stay for tea and buns afterwards.”
I stopped to chat with everyone I saw as I drove through the village, and instead of taking the twins back to the cottage for breakfast, we filled up on bacon and eggs—and plenty of gossip—at the tearoom. By the time we returned to the cottage to change out of our Sunday clothes, I felt as if I’d made up some of the ground I’d lost since the boys had started school.
We had a wonderful time at the Cotswold Farm Park, feeding the friendly, curious goats and petting the rabbits and sheep. My prayer for rain had evidently run its course, because the weather was fine enough for us to eat our picnic lunch at the park’s outdoor tables.
After lunch, we paid our respects to the oxen, the pigs, and the chickens. I said hello to the Gloucester Old Spots for Bill, and they grunted their best wishes back to him. The highlight of the boys’ visit was, of course, the stately Shire horses, and we spent the entire homeward journey discussing the many ways in which horses had served mankind.
Annelise floated into the cottage shortly after we’d eaten dinner. She was so love-drunk after her day with Oliver that she did nothing but smile seraphically when I informed her, very cautiously, that her tummy had been mentioned in church.
When Bill called, I spoke to him freely and without restraint, because for the first time since he’d left for London, I’d made it through an entire day without thinking once about Rendor.
“Look at it!” I expostulated as I climbed into Kit’s pint-size pickup truck on Monday morning. “Look at the sky! Bright sunshine, no clouds, not a hint of rain!”
“The old folks would tell you that St. Luke’s Little Summer has arrived,” said Kit, turning the truck toward the Upper Deeping road. “I believe it’s called Indian summer in the States.”
“I don’t care what it’s called,” I said grumpily. “What use is a beautiful day if we’re not outdoors to enjoy it?”
“If you’re going to start playing the imponderable-questions game, I have one for you,” Kit retorted. “Where’s Leo? I went to Gypsy Hollow twice yesterday and again early this morning, and I’m willing to swear that he hasn’t been back there since you and I saw him on Friday. So where is he? Where has he been for the past two days?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m fairly sure we can rule out both Finch and Aldercot Hall.”
I told Kit about my foray into Finch and my visit with the Pym sisters, then outlined for him the scenario I’d revealed to Aunt Dimity on Saturday evening. When I finished, he gave a low whistle.
“No wonder Charlotte reacted so strongly when she heard Leo’s name,” he said. “She’s a woman scorned.”
“She was scorned an awfully long time ago,” I pointed out.
“Which means,” said Kit, “that she’s had an awfully long time to brood over it. She was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Leo’s name set her off.”
“Why did he come back?” I asked pensively. “He said he was on a sentimental journey, but what kind of sentimental journey takes you back to a place where you broke someone’s heart?”
“Perhaps he didn’t intend to break Charlotte’s heart,” Kit suggested. “Perhaps he came back to explain.”
“I seriously doubt that Charlotte will listen to any explanation Leo has to offer,” I said. “But I will. We have to find him, Kit.”
“I’ve asked Emma to keep an eye on Gypsy Hollow,” he said. “If Leo turns up while we’re in Upper Deeping, she’ll ring me on my mobile.”
“Charlotte must have felt so lonely after he walked out on her,” I said. “All those years, stuck in that house with her invalid father and her snooty mother and her crazy brother…” I sighed. “It’s not hard to understand why she’s still so angry with Leo.”
“She did have one friend, apart from Leo,” Kit said. “While you were running around Aldercot Hall in your bare feet, Charlotte told me that my mother rode to Aldercot almost every day, after she married my father and moved into Anscombe Manor. She and Charlotte used to walk along the river and talk about everything under the sun, the way women do. She went there less often after she became pregnant with me, and when the car accident happened, Charlotte lost her best—her only—friend.”
“And you lost your mother,” I said. “How old were you when the accident happened?”
“I was barely a year old,” said Kit. “My mother was twe
nty-four.”
“So young,” I said, shaking my head. “Do you remember much about her?”
“I remember her smile,” Kit answered. “I think she must have been a very happy young woman, because her smile stands out so clearly in my memory. I’m almost glad that she didn’t live long enough to see my father…deteriorate.”
“Some blessings are extremely well disguised,” I murmured. I gazed somberly at the passing scenery for a while, then turned to Kit and asked, “Any luck with the online search?”
“Ah,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance. “I didn’t actually do an online search. Emma spent the weekend reformatting all the computers in the manor.”
“The new stable hands must have their own laptops,” I said. “Why didn’t you borrow one of theirs?”
“I didn’t wish to inconvenience them,” Kit said stiffly.
I suspected that I would be an Olympic equestrian champion before Kit would ask one of Nell’s rich young swains for a favor, but I said only, “Don’t worry about it. There’s always the Despatch. I had a brilliant idea about the Despatch, by the way.”
“Only one?” Kit said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s a good one. I want to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Rendor is alive and well and menacing my children, right?”
“Right,” said Kit.
“I want solid proof that I can take to the police,” I said. “So instead of searching the Despatch for articles about the DuCaral family in general, I think we should focus on finding articles about the troublesome brother with the shameful desires. The police will laugh at me if I tell them a vampire’s on the loose, but I don’t think they’ll laugh about a missing person.”
“They might even try to find a missing person.” Kit reached over to pat me on the head. “Brilliant.”
“I told you so,” I said smugly, and watched through the windshield as the church spires of Upper Deeping came into view.
The Upper Deeping Despatch offices took up the first two floors of a four-story building just off the main town square. Kit had to settle for a parking space six blocks away, but the weather was so mild that I didn’t mind the walk. We’d just reached the square when Kit stopped short and announced that he’d had his own brilliant idea.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter Page 18
