Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1

by Nancy Atherton

  Bill phoned ahead and Miss Kingsley responded with characteristic efficiency. Our rooms were waiting for us when we arrived, and a late supper was ready in one of the Flamborough’s private dining rooms. At Bill’s invitation, Miss Kingsley joined us, and she lived up to her redoubtable reputation by remaining undaunted even by the vague nature of our quest.

  “Robert MacLaren?” she said. “Well, the name certainly doesn’t ring any bells, but I’m a relative newcomer. I’ve only been at the Flamborough for fifteen years. I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone who can tell you something about the old days, though. Retired military gentlemen are our mainstay. I shall make some inquiries, and I should be very surprised if I have nothing to tell you by tomorrow evening.”

  Miss Kingsley’s inquiries took a little longer than that—two days, to be precise—but the results were spectacular. Archy Gorman was worth a whole army of retired military gentlemen. He was a stout man with a magnificent head of wavy white hair and a drooping handlebar mustache, and before opening his own public house, he had spent seventeen years as the bartender at the Flamborough—including the war years. Archy had long since retired from bartending, but Paul had kept in touch with him, and Miss Kingsley had been able to reach him at his flat in Greenwich. Paul drove the limousine round to pick him up, and the two of them met us in the Flamborough lounge two hours before opening time. The polished dance floor shone in the light from the fluted, frosted-glass wall lamps as we gathered at one of the round wooden tables near the bar. Paul sat with us, but Archy immediately made his way to the taps and began pulling pints for the assembled group.

  “Have to keep my hand in,” he explained, with a wink at Miss Kingsley, “and I never was a stick-in-the-mud about the licensing laws, was I, Paul?”

  “No, you weren’t, Archy. And there’s many an airman who thanked you for it.”

  “Here you are, now.” Bill got up to carry the tray of drinks to our table and Archy joined us there, puffing slightly with the effort. “To happier days,” he said, and raised his glass. I watched over the top of my own as he expertly avoided dipping his mustache into the foam.

  “Now, you might be wondering why I was here at the Flamborough for the duration instead of out there doing my duty,” Archy began, folding his hands across his ample stomach. “The plain and simple fact is, they wouldn’t have me. Rheumatic fever and a heart murmur and no-thank-you-very-much said the board.” He thumped his chest. “But here I am, closing in on seventy and never a day’s bother with the old ticker. Never understood it, why they sent the healthy lads off and left the tailings at home, but there you are. You can’t expect common sense from the military, can you, Paul?”

  “Not a bit of it, Archy.”

  “What was it that Yank told us that one time? Snafu, he called it—you remember, Paul?”

  “‘Situation Normal, All Fouled Up’,” Paul recited dutifully.

  “That’s your military, the world over.” Archy took another long draught, then set his glass on the table. “Now, tell me again about this chap you’re looking for.”

  When I had recounted the little we knew about Bobby, Archy pursed his lips. “He must have flown during the Blitz,” he said. “The Battle of Britain, they called it. Not many survived to tell the tale, did they, Paul?”

  Paul shook his head soberly. “After a while, it was hard to strike up friendships with the lads. They were gone so fast, you see.”

  “Here today, and gone tomorrow, that’s the way it was, eh, Paul?”

  “A truer word was never spoken, Archy.”

  “You don’t happen to have a snap of this MacLaren fellow, do you?” asked Archy. “The old memory is sharp as a tack, but there were so many boys through here…”

  “No,” I replied, “but I do have some pictures of his girlfriend.” I handed him several photographs from Dimity’s album. “This is Dimity Westwood,” I said.

  “Dimity Westwood, you say? Well, there were a lot of girlfriends coming into the old Flamborough in those days. It was a lively place back then, not the museum piece it is now—begging your pardon, Miss K.”

  “That’s alright, Archy, no offense taken,” said Miss Kingsley. “Things are rather quieter around here nowadays.”

  “Dull as dishwater,” Archy muttered, with a conspiratorial wink at Paul. Stroking his mustache, he looked carefully at each picture. “I couldn’t say that I recognize…” He paused. “Wait, now…”

  The rest of us craned our necks to see what had caught his eye. He had come to one of my favorite pictures, a shot of Dimity standing in front of a shop with shattered windows. She had reached inside to touch the dress on a toppled mannequin, and was grinning mischievously at the camera. Archy contemplated the photo for a moment; then his eyebrows shot up and he slapped the table with his hand. “The belle of the ball,” he exclaimed. “You remember, Paul—the beautiful belle of the ball—that’s who she is.”

  “By heavens, you’re right, Archy. That’s who she is,” said Paul. “The sweetest girl you’d ever want to meet…”

  Archy cupped a hand to his mouth and in a stage whisper explained, “Paul took a fancy to her.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Paul retorted. “I seem to remember you being rather fond of her yourself.”

  “So I was, so I was,” Archy conceded. “But who could help being fond of her? She was… something else. Something you don’t find every day, I can tell you. You may know her as Dimity Westwood, but we called her Belle. She came in here all the time, on the arm of that Scottish fellow. Frightful accent, mind you, but how he could dance. Bobby… yes, Bobby and Belle. What a pair.”

  “Lit up the whole place when they came in,” said Paul.

  “I kidded them about spoiling the blackout—you remember that, Paul?”

  “I do, Archy.”

  Archy put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and the two men gazed, misty-eyed, at the photograph before Archy returned it to me. They emptied their glasses, and stared stolidly into the middle distance.

  “It’s easy to remember the happy times,” Archy said. “No one likes to think of the rest, but it was there all the same, wasn’t it, Paul?”

  “It was, Archy.”

  “I remember the last time Belle came in here. She was on her own that night and I could tell just by looking at her what had happened. I’d seen it so many times before, but my heart broke for her all the same. I gave her the message and off she went, without saying a word. She never came back after that.”

  “That’s how it was in those days,” said Paul. “Dancing one minute, and the next—”

  “There was a message?” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Archy replied. “The chaps were always leaving messages with me here at the Flamborough, billets-doux for their sweethearts and the like.”

  “That’s why they called it the Telegraph,” said Paul.

  “Do you remember what the message was?”

  Archy was taken aback. “I never opened it,” he said. “It wouldn’t have been proper.”

  My face must have fallen, because he pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet. Raising a crooked finger, he said, “Now, you come over here, and I’ll show you something. It’s not something I show to everyone, mind you. You can be sure I didn’t show that young bloke who came in after me. He got very snippy when I tried to show him the ropes—you remember him, don’t you, Paul?”

  “A regular Mr. Know-Ail,” said Paul.

  “So I said to him, ‘Fair enough, Mr. Know-All, figure it out for yourself.’ But seeing as you have a personal interest in all of this…”

  I followed him to the bar, and the others drifted over from the table. Archy lifted the hatch and motioned for me to go inside, then closed it behind him as he came in after me. He spread his hands flat on the smooth surface of the serving counter, looking very much at home.

  “They called it the Telegraph,” he said, “but in point of fact, it was more like a post office. It was a sight more efficient than
your official post office, and Paul here will vouch for that.”

  “It was,” said Paul, “especially in those days, with so many house numbers disappearing, thanks to Mr. Adolf-bloody-Hi tier—oh, excuse me, miss.” He covered his mouth with his hand and looked a good deal more shocked than anyone else in the room.

  “No need to excuse yourself,” Archy declared. “Now, about the Telegraph…” Archy ran his hand lovingly up one of the pillars that supported the decorative woodwork overhead, every square inch of it covered with scrolls and flourishes. “I was the postman, you see, and this”—he pointed up to a knob that had been camouflaged by the elaborate carving—“was the postbox. That’s where I used to put all the messages the boys left with me. Didn’t want them getting wet, so I had Darcy Pemburton—where’s old Darcy got to these days, Paul?”

  “Living in Blackpool with his sister.”

  “Blackpool? What’s he want to live in Blackpool for?”

  “Says he likes the donkey rides.”

  “The donkey—You’re having me on, Paul.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Then he’s having you on. But never mind…. Darcy was a fine cabinetmaker in his day, and I had him fit this little box up for me to keep the notes and such out of harm’s way. You see, you just give the knob a twist and the door swings—” Archy’s mouth curved into an unbelieving grin as a cascade of papers rained down on his leonine head.

  * * *

  It took us a while to gather them all up, and a little while longer to persuade Archy to let us read them. Piled neatly on the bar were folded note-cards, sealed envelopes, and slapdash notes scrawled on scraps of napkins, train schedules, betting cards, whatever had been at hand, it seemed. Most were brief (“Pru: Bloody balls-up at HQ. Can’t make our date. Will call. Jimmy.”) and not all concerned romance (“Stinky: Here’s your filthy lucre, hope you lose your ration book”—unsigned, but accompanied by a faded five-pound note). A few were cryptic (“Rose: You were right. Bert.”) but some were all too clear (“Philip: Drop dead. Georgina.”).

  “I can’t understand it,” Archy muttered, twirling one end of his drooping mustache. “I might have left one or two behind, but never this many.”

  “Archy?” Paul said softly.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Archy continued. “The new man didn’t know about the Telegraph, so how could he manage it, eh? Tell me that.”

  “Archy?” Paul repeated, a bit more loudly.

  “Not as though he’d do a favor for—”

  “I did it!” Paul declared.

  Archy turned to Paul, shocked. “You, Paul?”

  “I did it for the lads, Archy.” Paul’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “The notes kept coming in after you left, and someone had to look after them, so I did. Then Mr. Know-Ail caught me behind the bar one day and booted me out of the lounge, and after that I… I must’ve lost track of time.”

  “I’ll say you did.” Archy looked from Paul to the notes and back again. “Poor old Stinky went short five pounds because of you.”

  “I know, Archy,” Paul said miserably.

  “And let’s hope this one hasn’t caused more serious mischief.” Archy bent down to retrieve a white envelope that appeared to have a raised coat of arms on the flap. Archy examined it closely, then, without saying a word, handed it to me.

  “It’s addressed to Dimity.” I locked eyes with Bill. Archy came up with a polished breadknife, and I used it to slit open the envelope. The others clustered around me as I pulled out a single sheet of paper and read:

  Miss Westwood,

  It is my duty to inform you that I recently came into possession of a certain object that belonged to my late

  brother. Please contact me immediately, so that we may discuss its disposition.

  A.M.

  “It’s dated July 15, 1952,” noted Miss Kingsley. “Imagine, it’s been sitting here all these years.”

  “Have I caused a terrible mess?” Paul asked in a low voice.

  I leaned across the bar to squeeze his arm. “You were doing your best, Paul, and it wasn’t your fault that that jerk kicked you out of here. You’ve helped us enormously today, and we really appreciate it.” Bill echoed my words, but it wasn’t until Archy reached across to pat Paul’s shoulder that the smaller man finally perked up again.

  “There’s no return address,” I said, looking once more at the white envelope.

  “If we assume the writer to be A. MacLaren, that and the coat of arms should be enough,” said Miss Kingsley. “Let me check my files.” She reached the door of the lounge in time to head off the Flamborough’s current bartender, a slender man with flowing blond hair.

  “Having a party?” he asked.

  “We are having a private conference,” replied Miss Kingsley tartly, “and I’ll thank you to wait outside until I call for you.”

  The man clucked his tongue at the empty glasses on the table, but he was no match for Miss Kingsley and left without further comment. Archy leaned on the bar and watched as the door closed behind the two. “A fine figure of a woman,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “Now, would anyone say no to another round? Bring those empty glasses over here.” While Paul gathered up the letters and Archy was busy at the tap, Bill and I walked over to look at the framed snapshots arrayed upon the wall.

  “I wonder if Bobby’s here,” I said. “It’s so strange to think that we might be looking right at him and not know it.” I called over to the bar, “Archy—do you know if Bobby MacLaren’s picture is here?”

  “‘Course it is. His chums brought it in and I hung it there myself. Let me see, now.” Pint of stout in hand, Archy came over, with Paul at his heels. “That’s Jack Thornton,” said Archy, as his large hand moved slowly across the wall. “Brian Ripley. Tom Patterson. Freddy Baker. He was a wild one, old Freddy. Always getting himself put on report.”

  “They never found fault with his flying, though,” Paul pointed out.

  “No, Paul, they never did. Ah, it brings ’em all back, this wall does. They were none of them saints, but they were there when we needed them. Here, now, here’s Bobby.” Archy unhooked one of the pictures and handed it to me, and the four of us looked down upon a young man in flying gear, standing beside a fighter.

  “That’s his Hurricane,” said Paul. “Proud of it, he was. Said it streaked through the sky like a falcon. The picture doesn’t do him justice, though.”

  “Hard to do that in a snap, but you’re right,” Archy agreed. “His eyes were brighter, and his smile…”

  “Yes,” said Paul. “His smile.”

  Sighing, the two men returned to the bar. Bill took Bobby’s picture from me and stared at it for a long time before hanging it back in place. “So many of them, and each one of them left someone behind.” He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat and looked down at the letter. “I think our next step is to contact A.M., if Miss Kingsley can discover who he is. I’d be interested to know if Dimity ever received word about this”—he tapped the letter—“‘object’ that belonged to Bobby.”

  “Me, too, but what are we going to say to A.M.?”

  “You leave that to me.”

  Archy had not quite topped off Paul’s glass when Miss Kingsley returned, a piece of paper in her hand and a gleam in her eye.

  “Mr. Andrew MacLaren is sixty-six years old, unmarried, and still living on the MacLaren estate in the mountains west of Wick,” she informed the table. “Quite far north, actually. He had only one sibling, a brother, Robert, whose death made Andrew the sole heir to the family fortune, which is extensive—wool, whiskey, and, lately, North Sea oil. He’s something of a recluse, apparently, seldom sets foot off of the estate. I have his telephone number, if you’d like it.”

  “Bless you, Miss Kingsley. Where would we be without you?” said Bill, as Miss Kingsley handed him the number. “I’d love to have a look through those files of yours someday.”

  “I’m afraid they are held in the strict
est confidence,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to come into my office to place the call? Yes, Archy, you and Paul may stay here and enjoy your drinks, but I’ll have to allow Bjorn to open the doors to the rest of our patrons as well.”

  Archy snorted in disgust. “I might have known,” he said. “What’s a chap named Bjorn doing at the Flamborough, that’s what I’d like to know. Sign of the times, eh, Paul?”

  “Yes, Archy, a sign of the times.”

  Bill and I left them there and went with Miss Kingsley into her office. Bill sat at the desk, dialed the number, then began to speak in a voice that was businesslike, mature, authoritative—in short, completely unrecognizable. Listening to him, I began to understand how he had gained access to the Imperial War Museum archives.

  “Good morning,” he said. “This is William A. Willis speaking, of the law firm of Willis & Willis. I am calling in regards to a certain matter pertaining to the disposition of the West-wood estate—yes, the Westwood estate. I am the estate’s legal representative and I would like to speak with Mr. Andrew MacLaren, if he is available. Yes, William A. Willis. Thank you, I’ll wait.” Bill covered the phone with his hand. “Don’t look so astounded,” he said to me. “This is my professional manner. Or did you think I didn’t have one?”

  “I was just wondering if the ‘A’ stood for—”

  “Admirable? Astute? Articulate? Modesty prevents me from saying, ‘All of the above.’”

  Andrew MacLaren must have come on the line at that moment because Bill turned his attention back to the telephone. As he did, Archy Gorman came into the office. “Don’t bother your young man,” he said. “I just popped in to say I’d be on my way.” He held up the assembled notes. “Have to go home and sort this lot out. My duty as the postman, you know.”

  “Paul’s driving you, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “‘Fraid not,” he said. “Has no head for lager, our Paul. He’ll be asleep in the lounge if you need him.”