Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

by Nancy Atherton

  Well? What are you going to do about it?

  “What am I going to do about what?” I asked.

  What are you going to do to exonerate Leo Sutherland?

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but Kit has a plan. We’re returning to Aldercot tomorrow morning to talk with Charlotte’s cook, Henrietta Harcourt. I don’t know what Kit hopes to accomplish, but he seems to think—” I broke off as Aunt Dimity’s fine copperplate sped across the page.

  You’re being obtuse, Lori. Kit is trying to find out if Leo killed Maurice DuCaral intentionally, accidentally, or at all. Since there’s a great deal of difference between murder, manslaughter, and grievous bodily harm, I think you’ll agree that it’s important to establish the facts. Leo was drunk at the time of the shooting, so his account of the affair is unreliable. Maurice and Madeline DuCaral are dead, so Kit can’t turn to them for the truth. There is, however, one other person who was there that night and who might be willing to tell Kit what really happened.

  “But Henrietta’s only been at Aldercot Hall for a year or so,” I said. “She won’t be able to—”

  Not Henrietta, my dear dunderhead! The gamekeeper!

  “Oh. Oh.” My eyebrows shot up as the penny finally dropped. “I’d forgotten about the gamekeeper. He was on the scene before Madeline showed up. He may have witnessed the whole encounter between Leo and Maurice.”

  And Kit wants to speak with Henrietta because…?

  “Because he wants to ask her if the gamekeeper is still alive,” I said, spurred on by Aunt Dimity’s prompting. “If he is, we’ll track him down and find out everything he knows about what happened on the night Maurice DuCaral was shot.”

  Bravo. Honestly, Lori, I thought you’d never cotton on. You’re not usually so slow on the uptake, my dear. In truth, you’re far more likely to jump over the facts in order to reach your conclusions more rapidly, but you seem rather distracted this evening. Is something bothering you?

  “As a matter of fact, something is bothering me,” I admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, Dimity. I want to do right by Leo. But in all the excitement about proving his innocence, we seem to have forgotten about Rendor.”

  Oh, dear, so we have. Were you able to learn anything about him in Upper Deeping?

  “Nothing,” I said gloomily. “But I found out from Leo that Charlotte had only one sibling, an older brother, who was setting up a children’s clinic in Africa on the night Maurice was shot and who died two years later in a plane crash. He was setting up a children’s clinic, Dimity. Why would the Pyms describe him as a man with shameful desires that had to be concealed? He sounds more like a saint to me.” I frowned unhappily. “Leo isn’t Rendor. Charlotte’s brother isn’t Rendor. There aren’t any guests at Aldercot Hall who could be Rendor. My theories are being knocked down faster than pins in a bowling alley.”

  I suppose we must ask ourselves once again: Who is Rendor?

  “I’d begin to suspect Bellamy the butler if he weren’t so old,” I said. “But he’d never make it from Aldercot Hall to the apple tree and back again without blowing a heart valve. And Henrietta’s the exact opposite of thin and pale. So who did I hear in the attic?”

  Perhaps you heard a “what” rather than a “who,” my dear.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  I mean that you may have heard bats. Not a vampire in bat form, but plain, ordinary, common or garden-variety bats. Their squeaks might easily be mistaken for a creaking floorboard.

  “I had my ear pressed to a door covered in bats?” My toes curled in disgust. “Gross.”

  There’s nothing remotely gross about bats, Lori, and I won’t have you maligning them. Bats are exceptionally helpful little creatures. If it weren’t for bats, the world would be overrun by midges and mosquitoes.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Dimity,” I said, shuddering. “But even if I did hear bats in Charlotte’s attic, it doesn’t explain who Will and Rob saw on Emma’s Hill or who left the boot prints and the scrap of crimson silk there.”

  No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But take heart. Gamekeepers are trained observers. They know the lie of the land. They know what belongs on their property and what doesn’t. I imagine they see many strange things during the course of their careers.

  “The DuCarals’ old gamekeeper might know who Rendor is,” I said, brightening. “Gosh, Dimity, I hope he’s still alive.”

  As do I. And since it sounds as though you have yet another active, outdoor day ahead of you, I suggest that you get some sleep.

  I didn’t need coaxing. I said good night to Aunt Dimity and to Reginald, put the blue journal back on its shelf, turned out the lights, and went upstairs to bed.

  As I nestled my head into my pillow, I tried to focus my mind on how happy Leo would be when Kit proved that he wasn’t a murderer, or on how happy I would be when the gamekeeper revealed Rendor’s true identity, or on how happy we all would be when Bill came home on Thursday, but the last thought that floated across my consciousness was…Bats? Yecch!

  Twenty-one

  The clear skies and balmy breezes of St. Luke’s Little Summer returned the following day. The morning air was so gloriously mild that I dressed Will and Rob in their lightweight summer riding gear before sending them off with Annelise to Anscombe Manor, though I took the precaution of stowing sweaters and jackets in the Range Rover, in case they were needed later on.

  I shed one layer from my usual hiking attire, but I tucked the fleece pullover into my day pack, along with my rain jacket, because I’d lived in England long enough to know that St. Luke’s Little Summer could become St. Frosty’s Big Winter in the blink of an eye.

  Nell was in the large riding ring when I pulled into Anscombe Manor’s parking area. She was dressed more formally than she had been when I’d last seen her, in a midnight-blue velvet riding coat, spotless white breeches, and highly polished black riding boots, presumably because she was demonstrating dressage techniques to a half dozen children who, like the twins, took riding lessons before school hours.

  The children sat on the fence, silent and motionless, absorbed in the demonstration, while Nell and her chestnut mare, Rosie, performed the intricate ballet, flowing effortlessly from one difficult movement to the next. Although Nell’s gleaming crown of golden curls was hidden beneath her riding helmet, she rode regally nonetheless, with perfect posture, perfect balance, and in perfect harmony with her horse.

  The children weren’t the only ones observing Nell’s performance. The new stable hands had positioned themselves at various vantage points around the stables, and though they each held a shovel, a broom, or a pitchfork, they weren’t actually doing any work. I couldn’t blame them. I doubted that any male with a pulse would look away when Nell Harris was in the ring.

  Kit, of course, was the exception. He must have known what Nell was doing, but he’d elected to wait for me in the courtyard, which afforded him no view of the riding ring whatsoever. I wasn’t sure whether it was Nell he wanted to avoid seeing or the drooling young stable hands, but I suspected it was a little of both.

  He, too, had dressed for the fine weather, in a faded denim shirt and blue jeans, but I was sure that he’d also put a sweater and his rain jacket in his day pack. Ham, Nell’s black Labrador retriever, lay in a pool of sunlight near the wooden bench. The old dog thumped his tail when he saw me, but he was clearly much too comfortable to rise and greet me, so I squatted beside him to scratch his graying ears and say hello.

  “Ready?” Kit said, glancing at his watch.

  “I’m ready,” I said, straightening. “Lead on.”

  I’d almost forgotten what it was like to climb Emma’s Hill on a nice day. I was so pleased that it wasn’t raining, blowing, hailing, or snowing on us that I didn’t complain about the rapid pace Kit set. He moved like a man possessed. His violet eyes were burning with a fire I’d never seen in them before, and his mouth was set in a thin, determined line. He didn’t waste time explaining the day’s mission
to me or responding to my rapturous comments on the weather, and he took the shortest route to Aldercot Hall.

  The shortest route also happened to be the one least visible from Charlotte DuCaral’s music room. After coming down Emma’s Hill, we skirted the southern edge of the dense grove of trees, passed behind the stately yews that bordered the family cemetery, and approached the kitchen stairs screened by a row of plane trees.

  Henrietta’s florid face lit up when she saw Kit standing on her doorstep. She opened her mouth to say heaven-knows-what, but Kit cut her off before a single outrageous syllable left her lips.

  “You’re not going to play silly buggers with me today, Henrietta,” he said in a clipped, no-nonsense tone of voice. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them. Understood?”

  Henrietta’s green eyes narrowed, and I braced myself to catch Kit’s head, because I was sure she was going to knock it off his neck. Instead she folded her mighty arms across her bosom and regarded him levelly.

  “Right, then, ducky,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “A gamekeeper once worked for Maurice and Madeline DuCaral,” said Kit. “Is he still alive?”

  “’Course he is,” said Henrietta. “His name is Rory Tanner, and he lives not a mile away, in the cottage the DuCarals gave him when he retired.”

  “Where is Mr. Tanner’s cottage?” Kit asked.

  “In the woods north of here,” she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the direction. “If you follow the lane beyond the gates, you’ll see the path on your right. It’s got bracken growing all along it, and bluebells in the spring.”

  “If we go to Mr. Tanner’s cottage now,” said Kit, “will he be there?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Henrietta. “Old Rory doesn’t get out much anymore. Are you going to see him after you finish up with me?”

  “Yes,” said Kit.

  “In that case”—Henrietta held up a hand—“wait here. I’ve got something for you.”

  As soon as she turned her back on us and went into the kitchen, Kit began to drum his fingers on his leg and glance anxiously over his shoulder, like a man about to miss his boarding call.

  “What’s your hurry?” I murmured. “Leo’s not going anywhere. You made sure of that when you stole his keys.”

  “I don’t know what it is, Lori,” he said, “but something’s telling me that we have to hurry.”

  Henrietta returned in less than ten minutes, carrying two zippered, insulated bags the size of shopping bags, which she handed to Kit.

  “Rory’s meals,” she explained. “I tucked in a little something for the two of you as well.”

  “Thank you, Henrietta,” Kit threw over his shoulder as he dashed up the kitchen stairs.

  “Thanks,” I added, and ran up the stairs after Kit.

  We raced up the drive, through the gates, and down the lane, until we spotted the bracken-lined path Henrietta had described. We followed it through the grove of trees until we came to a clearing.

  The little house that stood in the clearing was a classic slate-roofed, stone-walled cottage, similar to many others I’d seen lining the winding lanes in our part of the Cotswolds. The clearing, on the other hand, was unique. It was littered with bird feeders, birdbaths, birdhouses, nesting hutches, small woodpiles, bales of hay, and chipped bowls containing grains, nuts, raw vegetables, and dried fruit. It was also alive with small furry creatures—squirrels, rabbits, shrews, mice—and a mixed flock of twittering birds. The animals scattered when Kit and I entered the clearing, but I could feel hundreds of tiny eyes watching us as we crossed to the cottage’s front door.

  Since Kit’s hands were full, I knocked on the door and called out, “Mr. Tanner?”

  “That you, Henrietta?” a quavering voice called back.

  “No, sir,” I replied, speaking more loudly, in case the old man was hard of hearing. “But we’ve brought the meals Henrietta prepared for you.”

  “Come in,” the voice called. “Door’s not locked.”

  Kit and I entered a corridor that divided the cottage in two. I was about to call out again for guidance when the sound of a hacking cough led us through a closed door on our right and into a room that had once served as a front parlor.

  It was now a sickroom. Its comfortable furnishings had been rearranged to make space for a hospital bed. The bed sat next to an open window overlooking the south end of the clearing, and although it had no side rails or call buttons attached to it, its upper half had been raised to allow the man lying in it to look out the window. I imagined that the day’s warmth meant far more to him than it did to me.

  The deep windowsill at his elbow held a pair of binoculars, several notebooks, and a coronation mug bristling with pens and pencils, but a bedside table was cluttered with pill bottles, inhalers, tissue boxes, and dirty dishes. A wastebasket beneath the table was overflowing with used tissues.

  The bed’s occupant was so thin that his legs barely made a bump in the smooth bedclothes. Although the electric fire in the hearth was pumping out a generous amount of heat, he was wearing a navy-blue stocking cap, fingerless gloves, and a bulky, navy-blue woolen sweater that hung loosely on his diminished frame. He had a prominent beak of a nose and a puckered mouth that suggested the absence of teeth, and his eyes were clouded with fatigue and pain. Kit’s impulse to get to the gamekeeper’s cottage quickly had, I realized, been a canny one. It didn’t look—or sound—as though the old man in the bed had much longer to live.

  The hacking cough that racked the man’s frail body made me wince. I pulled out my cell phone to call for an ambulance, but when the man saw what I was doing, he signaled to me to put the phone away.

  “No doctors,” he croaked irritably, when he could finally speak. “No hospitals. It’s too late for all of that anyway, and I’d sooner die here than on a ward.”

  “Are you Rory Tanner?” Kit asked.

  “No. I’m Winston Churchill.” The old man rolled his rheumy eyes. “Well, of course I’m Rory Tanner. Who else would be living in Rory Tanner’s cottage? And why are you two standing there like a pair of daft badgers? The room’s a tip, and I’m hungry.”

  Kit and I took the heavily dropped hint and got busy. While Kit made tea and dished up a bowl of Henrietta’s nourishing gruel in the surprisingly well-appointed kitchen, I washed the dirty dishes, emptied the wastebasket into a garbage bag I found in a kitchen drawer, and tidied the bedside table.

  Kit helped himself to a handful of the jammy biscuits Henrietta had packed, but the mere sight of the bleeding cookies still gave me the willies, so I abstained. We were both fascinated to discover that one of the insulated shopping bags held nothing but airtight containers filled with grains, nuts, raw vegetables, dried fruit, and birdseed. Henrietta, it seemed, had found an outlet for her banqueting skills.

  I went outside to top up the bowls and the bird feeders, then returned to the parlor to find Kit spoon-feeding Mr. Tanner. The old man’s color was a bit better after he’d had some gruel and tea, and his coughing fits came less often after he’d used one of his inhalers. Kit evidently thought the time was ripe to do what he’d come to do, because he pulled two comfortable walnut armchairs to the side of the bed and motioned for me to sit in one while he sat in the other.

  “Mr. Tanner,” Kit began.

  “Rory,” the old man corrected. “And what do they call you when you’re at home, sonny?”

  “My name is Christopher Anscombe-Smith,” Kit said. “Smith was added to our name when my father remarried. My father was Sir Miles Anscombe, and his first wife—my mother—was a girl named Amy Sutherland. Leo Sutherland is my uncle.”

  Rory’s rasping breaths seemed to stop. He stretched his neck out like a tortoise, to study Kit’s features at close range, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back on his pillow. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its flippant edge.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, sounding old and infinitely tired. “
I didn’t want the truth to die with me.”

  “What truth is that, Rory?” Kit asked gently.

  Rory opened his eyes and gazed up at the ceiling. “Maurice never did know one end of a gun from the other. Oh, he paid a fortune for a pair of Purdeys, but he never took the trouble to learn how to use them properly. Trembled in my boots every time I took him out for a shoot. Safest place to be was right next to the bird he was aiming at.”

  A snicker escaped me before I could stop it. Kit gave me a quelling look, but Rory rolled his head toward me and smiled.

  “I wanted to laugh at him sometimes,” he admitted. “But the man paid me an honest wage and let me manage the grounds as I saw fit, so I treated him with respect. Besides, I felt sorry for the poor sod. He was neither fish nor fowl, you see. He couldn’t go back where he came from and didn’t belong where he was. He reckoned his kids would figure it out, though. He pinned all his hopes on his kids.”

  “It must have been hard for him when he realized that his daughter had fallen in love with someone like Leo,” said Kit.

  “It damn near killed him,” Rory acknowledged. “His princess, in love with a scumbag like Leo?” The rheumy eyes swiveled toward Kit. “Sorry, son, but your uncle was a real piece of work in those days.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” said Kit. “Just keep telling me the truth. How did Maurice find out about the elopement?”

  “Miss Charlotte’s maid grassed on her,” said Rory. “Miss Charlotte had already sneaked out of the house, so Maurice grabbed a shotgun and went charging off to find her and stop the whole thing. I went after him, to make sure he didn’t blow his own daughter to pieces.”

  Rory paused to catch his breath, and Kit helped him to take another sip of tea. I looked out the open window and noticed that a pair of rabbits had returned to the bowl with the raw vegetables, and small birds were once again clustering around the feeders.