Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  “So many questions begging for answers,” I said aloud. “So many lost things waiting to be found.” I pressed my palms against the pebbled leather, as if taking a vow. “Okay, Miss Beacham, you’ve got yourself a bloodhound. I don’t know how, but I’ll find Kenny for you.”

  I was in bed a half hour later, though I lay awake long into the night, haunted by the image of a sister who’d lost the baby brother she adored.

  Rain had stopped falling in Oxford, but the sky was still cloud-covered and the sun provided nothing more than a hint of silvery brightness without warmth. When I reached the open road beyond Oxford, fine droplets of mist dappled my windshield and scarves of fog drifted in the folds of the plowed fields. The gray day dampened my spirits and I began to have second thoughts about the stirring conclusion I’d reached the night before.

  If Miss Beacham had wanted me to find her brother, why hadn’t she asked me? She could have put the request to me directly, at the Radcliffe, or indirectly, in the letter she’d written. There’d been no need to drop vague clues that I might or might not understand, or play hide-and-seek with objects that clearly meant the world to her. What if I’d decided to take something other than the cylinder desk? The desk would have been auctioned off and its contents would have ended up in the hands of a stranger who neither knew nor cared about Miss Beacham’s next of kin. She was an intelligent woman. If she’d really wanted me to find Kenneth, she could have come up with a less risky scheme for letting me know.

  Doubt assailed me all the way home. I wanted to discuss my stunning insight with Bill, but since he was at work, I decided to run it by Aunt Dimity first. I could rely on her to tell me if I was way off base.

  I came home to a silent cottage. A note from Annelise— taped to the mantel shelf in the living room—informed me that she’d given in to the twins’ demands to return to Anscombe Manor and help Emma Harris and Kit Smith prepare for the grand opening of the Anscombe Riding Center. Worried that the boys might be more hindrance than help, I went to the study to put in a call to the manor.

  Kit Smith answered the phone. Kit was the stable master at Anscombe Manor and one of my most cherished friends. He lived in a spartan flat overlooking the stable yard and seemed to ask nothing more of life than peace, quiet, and the company of horses. Bill and I loved him, and the twins idolized him. When I asked if the boys were underfoot, he assured me that they were not.

  “We have ten crates of rosettes and ribbons that need sorting,” he said. “Rob and Will are making a vital contribution to the ARC with their nimble fingers—and freeing me and Emma for other tasks.” His voice softened as he added, “Annelise told me about your friend, the woman who died. I’d love to hear more about her, Lori.”

  “You will,” I promised. “But you’ve got your hands full at the moment, so I’ll fill you in later.”

  “You know where to find me,” said Kit, and rang off.

  I put down the phone and smiled, picturing the twins up to their elbows in colorful rosettes, many of which would grace our mantel shelf once Bill and I got around to buying the pair of ponies we’d been meaning to buy for the past year. I added ponies once again to my mental to-do list, knelt to light a fire in the hearth, and stood to introduce Hamish to Reginald.

  “He’s an orphan,” I said, and the explanation seemed to suffice. The two sat side by side in the same niche, and though Hamish’s eyes remained blank, Reginald’s seemed alight with understanding. I was left with the irrational but nonetheless comforting feeling that Reg would do his best to make the poor, raggedy hedgehog feel at home while he was at the cottage.

  I placed the photo album on the ottoman, took the blue journal from its place on the bookshelves, and curled up in the tall leather armchair before the fire.

  “Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I’m counting on you to tell me if I’m making sense or being a sentimental fool.”

  Dimity’s fine copperplate curled across the page without hesitation. It is possible to make sense and be sentimental at the same time, my dear, but I will do my best to detect any trace of foolishness. Proceed.

  I told Dimity about the letter, the keys, and the money Miss Beacham had left to St. Benedict’s, Nurse Willoughby, and Mr. Barlow.

  She clearly wasn’t the poor pensioner you thought she was.

  “Definitely not,” I said. “I’ve been to her apartment and it’s not the run-down walk-up I expected. The building’s quite nice, in a horrible modern sort of way, and her flat’s not only exquisitely decorated but furnished with priceless antiques. If she’d needed extra cash, she could have raised it easily by selling off a chair or two. She wasn’t elderly, either. She was only in her midfifties when she died.”

  Serious illness can age one prematurely.

  “So can heartache.” I took a deep breath, and braced myself for ridicule. “I think Miss Beacham’s brother broke her heart, Dimity. I think he vanished from her life without warning and never bothered to contact her again. And I think I’m supposed to find him.”

  I see. I presume you have reasons for your beliefs?

  I laid out my argument as logically as I could—the letter leading to the desk, the desk leading in turn to the album that told the tale of a beloved, lost brother who would never be found by a lawyer who refused to take his disappearance seriously—but even to my ears, it sounded far-fetched. I was taken aback, therefore, when Dimity agreed wholeheartedly with my conclusion.

  You must find Kenneth, if it’s at all possible. It is exactly what Miss Beacham wished you to do.

  I blinked in surprise. “But . . . why didn’t she just ask me?”

  I can’t know for certain, of course, but I would guess that she wanted to make the task fun for you. After listening to your tales of adventure, she must have decided that you would enjoy sniffing out a mystery more than responding to a straightforward request for help. It might have been fun for her, too, constructing the labyrinth and leaving just enough string for you to follow. Then again, the subject might have been too painful for her to discuss. If she’d brought it up face-to-face, you would have besieged her with questions.

  “True enough,” I said. “I’ve got about a thousand I’d like to ask her right now. The only thing she told me about her brother was that he attended an Oxford college, but I don’t know which one, or when he was there. And Mr. Moss is useless. When I asked him about Kenneth, he told me to mind my own business. So where do I go? Where do you go to find a missing person?”

  I’d start with the telephone directory. Miss Beacham was unmarried. She and her brother must have shared the same last name.

  “I checked,” I said. “I looked in the Oxford directory before I left Miss Beacham’s apartment. There’s no listing for Kenneth Beacham.”

  Have you spoken with her neighbors? A woman living on her own is apt to confide in those who live nearby. They might know something about Kenneth.

  I snorted derisively. “If Miss Beacham had lived in Finch, I’d know Kenneth’s height, weight, shoe size, and the results of his latest dental checkup. Everyone would. But Oxford’s a city, Dimity. There’s no such thing as neighbors. I met a guy who lived downstairs from Miss Beacham for four years and didn’t know the first thing about her. He didn’t even know she’d been hospitalized.”

  Nevertheless, I’d have a nose around the neighborhood. She was too interesting a woman to have no friends.

  “What kind of friends would leave her alone while she was dying?” I asked.

  Busy friends? Ignorant friends? She may not have told anyone of her illness, Lori.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Miss Beacham might have concealed her illness. “Why wouldn’t she tell her friends that she was sick?”

  Perhaps she didn’t want to burden them with her troubles. Perhaps she didn’t relish being pitied. The news of her death may come as quite a shock to those who cared for her.

  “It’ll certainly come as a shock to Kenneth,” I said. “If I’m interpreting the photo alb
um correctly, he disappeared twenty years ago and left no forwarding address.” I stared moodily at the ivy-covered window above the desk. “I’m an only child, Dimity. I don’t know what it’s like to have brothers or sisters, but I’d like to think that if I’d had one, I would have kept in touch.”

  Relationships among siblings can be fraught with difficulties, my dear. Childhood disagreements can lead to lifelong animosity.

  “But Miss Beacham loved her brother,” I objected.

  Perhaps he loved her, too. People disappear for many reasons, Lori. What if Kenneth committed a crime? What if he’s been in prison for the past twenty years? He may have cut himself off from his sister out of shame, or out of a laudable desire to protect her from the stigma of his incarceration.

  I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “A crime worth a twenty-year sentence would be reported in the newspapers, wouldn’t it?”

  Possibly.

  “Of course it would,” I said. “Kenneth probably pulled a bank heist or kidnapped the queen’s corgis. It’d have to be something pretty big. They don’t put shoplifters away for twenty years.”

  They might not have put Kenneth away at all! Please, Lori, I beg you to remember that prison is simply one possible explanation out of many for Kenneth’s disappearance.

  “It’s a good explanation, though,” I said. “It would explain why Miss Beacham didn’t want to talk about him, and why Mr. Moss doesn’t give a hoot about him. I’ll ask Emma to do an Internet search for me. If Kenneth Beacham’s a major-league criminal, his name’s sure to turn up somewhere.”

  Just remember that his name may turn up for other reasons as well.

  “Telephone directories!” I exclaimed. “They’re all on the Net. If Kenneth lives anywhere in England, Emma will be able to track him down.”

  My dear child, I realize that you’re hopeless with computers, and that Emma Harris is highly skilled, but isn’t she rather busy at the moment? There’s the small matter of the riding center to consider, isn’t there?

  “She can always say no,” I declared.

  Whatever she says, I would urge you to speak to Miss Beacham’s neighbors. Internet searches are all very well and good, but they don’t hold a candle to a neighborhood grapevine. You may be surprised by what you learn.

  I rubbed my chin. “I’m working at St. Benedict’s tomorrow morning. I’ll swing by St. Cuthbert Lane in the afternoon and knock on a few doors. If anyone knows anything about Kenneth, I’ll ferret it out.”

  I know you will, my dear. Finch has trained you well. Good luck.

  “Thanks, Dimity.” When the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I returned the journal to the bookshelves and moved back to the desk to telephone Bill. I half-expected him to advise me to leave the search for Kenneth Beacham to the sleepy bloodhounds at Pratchett & Moss, but he foiled my expectations by giving me his full support.

  “I know this will come as a shock to you, Lori,” he said with mock gravity, “but lawyers aren’t always trustworthy. I can think of several reasons—most of them unscrupulous—why Mr. Moss might not want Miss Beacham’s next of kin found. It strikes me as odd that he would tell you that she’d donated goods to St. Benedict’s, yet say nothing about the profits from the auction. I wonder if they’re earmarked for Kenneth, or if Mr. Moss has his finger in the auction-proceeds pie? He drew up her will, after all. He might have included a clause or two to benefit himself. Do you want me to tackle him for you?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “A big-shot lawyer like you may come in handy later on. I’ll keep you in my back pocket for now.”

  “Sounds cozy,” said Bill. “In the meantime, I’ll try to find out which law firm Miss Beacham worked for in London. It shouldn’t be difficult. If she worked in the same place for twenty-nine years, she’s bound to be remembered.”

  “And she would have been working there before Kenneth’s disappearance,” I added, “so someone might know why he disappeared. Someone might even have met him.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Bill.

  My next call was to Anscombe Manor. Emma answered more brusquely than usual and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was both preoccupied and exhausted.

  “Look,” I said, “if you’re too busy to talk—”

  “It’s okay,” Emma broke in. “I’ve been running all day. It’s nice to have an excuse to sit still.”

  “Would you like another excuse?” I asked, and gave her a brief outline of the events that had led to my search for Kenneth Beacham. “Could you run his name through the computer for me, Emma? I’ll pay you back by lending a hand with the riding center.”

  “How?” Emma asked. “You’re afraid of horses.”

  “I’m not afraid of horses,” I protested. “I simply respect them. From a distance. Honestly, Emma,” I pleaded, “I’ll do anything. I’ll muck out the stables. I’ll wash your socks. I’ll patch your jeans. I’ll do your nails.”

  I would have gone on if I hadn’t been interrupted by gales of cackling laughter. I glanced down at fingernails that had never known a manicure and got the joke. Several minutes passed before Emma regained control of herself.

  “Whew,” she said. “I haven’t laughed out loud in a month, which means that I’m badly in need of a break. I’ll do the search tonight. I should know something by tomorrow.”

  “Bless you, Emma!”

  “Just don’t get so caught up in your new project that you forget about mine,” she added sternly. “I expect to see you at the grand opening on Saturday.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. “Rob and Will won’t let me.”

  “Good, because I’ll have a special surprise for you,” Emma said. “As a matter of fact, it was a surprise for me, too.”

  I was about to attempt to wheedle more information out of her when a voice in the background summoned her to the exercise yard.

  “Sorry, Lori,” she said. “Duty calls.”

  I thanked her again and hung up, feeling exultant. I would keep my promise to Dimity and return to St. Cuthbert Lane, but I had more faith in the Internet than in Miss Beacham’s neighbors. Finch’s grapevine might be alive and thriving, but I was certain that Oxford’s had withered from disuse.

  Nine

  I knew better than to suggest that the twins accompany me to St. Benedict’s the following morning. Nothing, not even the bump on Big Al’s head, could compete with the thrill of being needed at Anscombe Manor. I sent them off with Annelise and drove to Oxford, knowing that they would be as happy as larks all day.

  When I’d first come to St. Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men, I’d been reluctant to cross the threshold. The building was smelly, damp, and so run-down that it would have been condemned if any but the underclass had used it. I was put off by its inhabitants, as well. Like the building, they were smelly and run-down, and I did my best to avoid them.

  Julian Bright had inspired a change of heart in me. He was a good man, and I wanted to be good—or at least better than I was—so I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look beyond the grimy faces, into the eyes of men who’d once been invisible to me. There, I discovered a hundred kinds of pain I could do something about, even if it was something as simple as making a bed for a man accustomed to sleeping in doorways. I knew I’d never achieve Julian’s level of selfless devotion, but my soul was a little larger because he’d shown me, by example, how infinitely large a soul can be.

  In gratitude, I used part of my comfortable fortune to buy a new building for Julian and his flock. The new St. Benedict’s was clean, well lit, and nearly stink-free. I crossed the threshold with pleasure now, knowing that I was among friends—and that the roof probably wouldn’t cave in on me before my shift was through.

  My bed-making rounds took longer than usual that morning because I kept having to stop and explain why the twins weren’t with me.

  “Horses, eh?” grumbled Limping Leslie, leaning on his broom. “Wouldn’t let a kid of mine mess ab
out with horses. How do you think I got this limp?”

  Leslie had in the past offered so many explanations for his limp—war wound, snake bite, yachting accident—that I was disinclined to believe any story involving horses, but I kept my doubts to myself. I was, as always, touched by his concern for my tots.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Kit’s looking after them.”

  Leslie’s grizzled face lit up when I said the magic word. Kit Smith had once lived as a tramp among the men at St. Benedict’s. Many could still recall the day he’d saved Julian Bright’s life by disarming a knife-wielding lunatic. Kit had, in their eyes, achieved a kind of sainthood that day, and their reverence for him had never diminished.

  “Ah, then there’s nothing to fret about,” said Limping Leslie, sweeping past me. “Kit’ll see they don’t come to no harm.”

  I smoothed the last blanket at eleven, and when Julian offered to share a pot of tea with me, I didn’t refuse. We settled down in a corner of the dining room and I proceeded to tell him what I’d learned about the woman who’d left such a handsome sum to St. Benedict’s. He volunteered at once to help me in my search for Kenneth Beacham.

  “Bring me a copy of his most recent photograph,” Julian suggested. “He may pass through our doors one day, or he may be here already. Drugs and drink have been responsible for more than one man’s disappearance.”

  “The photograph’s twenty years old,” I reminded him.

  “It’s better than nothing,” he replied. “I’ll show it round the hostel. If Miss Beacham’s long-lost brother is living on the street, one of the men might recognize him.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “It’s like having your own network of spies.”

  “Beggars see and hear a lot more than you’d imagine.” As Julian sipped his tea, his expression grew thoughtful. “I know St. Cuthbert Lane. It’s in Father Musgrove’s parish. He’s the rector at St. Paul’s, the church on Travertine Road.”