Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  We spent the rest of the evening discussing the new information Emma had gleaned. Bill shared Gabriel’s aversion to descriptions of ball gowns, so I went straight to Fletcher Securities, a name he recognized.

  “I’ve never dealt with Walter Fletcher personally,” he said, “but I do know that he’s an influential and powerful man.”

  “Is he the kind of man who’d bully his son-in-law?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Bill. “Some powerful men are bullies, but not all. My father’s a powerful man and I can’t think of anyone less overbearing.”

  “Your father is a perfect peach,” I said.

  “You see?” Bill shrugged. “It’s useless to generalize.”

  “I doubt that I’ll have to deal with Grandpa Walter, anyway,” I said. “Chances are he’ll be at the London headquarters, not in the Newcastle office.”

  “Wait.” Bill shifted his position ever so slightly, so as not to disturb Stanley. “Run that by me again. Are you planning to go to Newcastle?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Gabriel and I are driving up there tomorrow. Someone has to tell Kenneth his sister is dead, and I’m certainly not going to break the news to him over the telephone.”

  “You’re driving up to Newcastle tomorrow,” Bill said doubtfully. “Were you planning to drive home as well?”

  “Yes,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your understanding of basic geography,” Bill answered. “Newcastle’s nearly three hundred miles from Oxford, Lori. It’ll take you half the day to get up there and half the day to get back, if the traffic’s moving, which it frequently isn’t. It doesn’t leave much time for chatting with Kenneth.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “Gabriel seemed to think we could do it.”

  “Then Gabriel drives too fast,” said Bill.

  “What are we going to do?” I said, at a loss. “I have to go to Newcastle, but I don’t want to camp out there. I’m supposed to work at St. Benedict’s on Thursday, and I promised the boys they could come with me.”

  “Let me make a few calls.” Bill looked down at Stanley, whose fast, breathy purrs could be heard across the room. “Would you bring the phone to me?”

  I brought the telephone to him and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Stanley, I thought, was a cat of great discernment. He couldn’t have picked a better human than my Bill.

  Twenty

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Gabriel advised me as I steered the Rover through a roundabout and onto the A44. It was twenty minutes past seven on Wednesday morning and Oxford’s major arteries were, as Bill had predicted, choked with commuters.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m going to the airport. There’s been a slight change of plans.”

  “Has there?” he asked. “Why?”

  “Because Newcastle’s nearly three hundred miles from Oxford,” I said. “And my husband made a few calls.” I glanced at him. “We’re not driving to Newcastle, Gabriel. We’re flying.”

  “In what?” Gabriel asked, and promptly answered his own question. “Never mind. I keep forgetting. You’re rich. Rich people have their own airplanes.”

  “We don’t,” I retorted. “Bill figures it’d be stupid to pay for maintenance and hangar space when he can hitch a ride with a friend when he needs one.”

  “Is that what we’re doing?” said Gabriel. “Hitching a ride?”

  “Yep.” I nodded. “Percy Pelham is heading north to look at a collection of antique cars a guy’s selling near Kirkwhelpington. He plans to spend the day there and fly back to Oxford this evening. We’ll have to finish up with Kenneth and meet Percy at the Newcastle airport by six, but that should give us plenty of time to do what we have to do.”

  “Percy Pelham?” Gabriel swung sideways in the passenger seat to stare at me. “Are you speaking of Sir Percy Pelham? The crackpot who did the Peking-to-Paris race in an ancient Bentley?”

  I winced, remembering the decrepit state of Percy’s ancient Bentley when he’d finally steered it, sputtering, across the finish line in Paris after its grueling ten-thousand-mile run.

  “Percy’s not a crackpot,” I protested. “He’s adventurous. But don’t fret. When he’s in the cockpit, he’s all business.”

  “Sir Percy Pelham is our pilot?” Gabriel emitted a ragged groan. “We’ll be lucky to get to Newcastle alive.”

  “I don’t know what you’re moaning about,” I said. “He made it to Paris, didn’t he?”

  Gabriel folded his arms and slouched in his seat, looking decidedly unreassured.

  Percy was waiting for us in the terminal when we reached the Oxford airport. He was a huge man, tall and broad rather than fat, and although he was in his late fifties, he had the boundless energy of a two-year-old. He greeted us effusively and introduced us to his copilot, a self-effacing young man named Atkinson, before taking us out on the runway to board his sleek, eight-passenger Learjet.

  “Happy to oblige, dear girl.” Percy waved off my thanks, put my shoulder bag in a compartment behind the cockpit, and relieved me of the canvas satchel I’d carried aboard. “I’ll have Atkinson tuck it in the hold, dear girl. Can’t have it whizzing about if the flight gets bouncy. Might stove your heads in. All present and correct? Buckles fastened? Faces scrubbed? Excellent.” He held up the canvas satchel. “Once Atkinson’s stowed the luggage, we’ll do the usual run-through and be off. Couldn’t ask for a prettier day.”

  “I could,” Gabriel murmured after Percy had squeezed himself into the cockpit.

  I peered through my tiny window at the overcast sky. “At least it’s not raining.”

  “Give it a minute,” said Gabriel.

  The heavens did not open, despite Gabriel’s pessimistic prediction, but he didn’t relax his grip on the armrests until after we’d flown through the low cloud ceiling and reached the sunny realm beyond. It was the first glimpse I’d had of the sun since it had shone on the ARC’s grand opening, and it lifted my spirits enormously.

  “Was your dinner party a hit?” I asked cheerfully.

  “It was,” said Gabriel. “Mr. Blascoe was tremendously helpful.”

  “Mr. Blascoe?” I said, surprised. “The baker with the bunions?”

  “That’s right.” Gabriel nodded. “He baked a pheasant pie for me, and Mrs. Chalmers at the mini-mart gave me her recipe for raspberry trifle.”

  My astonishment grew. “You asked Mrs. Chalmers at the mini-mart for a recipe?”

  “I didn’t ask her for it,” Gabriel explained. “When I told her I was planning to entertain a friend at home, she insisted on giving it to me. It was good of her, wasn’t it?”

  I tried not to grin too broadly. Less than a week ago, Gabriel had told me that he couldn’t imagine passing the time of day with the shopkeepers on Travertine Road. Now he was discussing his dinner parties with them, asking for their help, and using their recipes. He’d come a long way in a very short time. I was proud of him, and a little proud of myself for encouraging him to step outside of his safe circle of friends and connect with a wider world.

  “Joanna loved Mr. Blascoe’s pie,” he went on, “and Chloe had two helpings of Mrs. Chalmers’s trifle, so I think it’s fair to say that the dinner was a success.”

  “What about the framed sketch?” I asked.

  “Chloe seemed to appreciate it.” Gabriel tried and failed to conceal his satisfaction behind a modest smile. “She propped it on the chair beside hers so she could look at Toby during dinner. It’s the best review I’ve ever received.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “If Chloe wants to ride Toby again, I’m sure Emma would be willing to reduce the usual fees.”

  “I’ve already spoken with Emma,” said Gabriel. “I’m going to give Chloe riding lessons for her birthday. It’s not until December, so it’ll be an early birthday present—she starts in two weeks—but Joanna and I agree that when a child discovers her passion in life, it should be nurtured.”

  Joanna and I agreed . . . The words were
music to my ears. It was all I could do to keep from singing.

  “Did Joanna say anything about your furniture?” I asked.

  “She was gob-smacked,” said Gabriel. “She couldn’t get over the Queen Anne settee. I’m also pleased to report that she didn’t sneeze once, all evening.” Gabriel regarded me gratefully. “Thank you for looking after Stanley. Did he behave himself?”

  “He was splendid,” I replied, and assumed a pensive expression. “But I think it might have been a mistake to let him stay with us overnight. Will and Rob are crazy about him, Gabriel. They’ve already started drawing pictures of him, and they sat next to his bowls this morning, to watch him eat.” I allowed my shoulders to droop. “It’s going to be awfully tough for them to say good-bye.”

  Gabriel looked guilt-stricken. “I never dreamt that they’d become attached to him so quickly.”

  “He’s right up there with Thunder and Storm.” I gazed at Gabriel imploringly. “I don’t suppose you’d consider . . . that is, you wouldn’t be willing to . . . to let Stanley stay at the cottage permanently, would you?”

  To Gabriel’s credit, it wasn’t an easy decision for him to make. He took a long time to answer and when he did, he spoke with reluctance.

  “If he’s happy with you—”

  “He purrs like a Porsche,” I interjected.

  “Does Bill like him?” Gabriel asked.

  “Stanley spent the entire evening in Bill’s lap,” I said.

  Gabriel pursed his lips. “Joanna told me after dinner that she has a phobia about needles. Allergy jabs are not in the forecast. And if Stanley’s happy with you—”

  “He is,” I said.

  The tension left Gabriel’s face as he reached a decision. “We’ll load the Rover with the rest of Miss Beacham’s cat food when we get back. Stanley’s found himself a new family.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m truly grateful. The trouble with having twins is that you break two hearts at a time instead of one, and I know it would have broken my sons’ hearts to see Stanley go. You’ve made two little boys, and a cat, very happy.”

  I jumped, startled, as Percy Pelham’s voice boomed over the intercom.

  “Lady and gentleman,” he announced, “this is your captain speaking. We will touch down in fifteen minutes. Please make sure that your seat belts are fastened, your electronic equipment is turned off, and your chairs are in their upright and locked positions. Any passenger who fails to obey my orders will be force-fed commercial airline food for the duration of the return flight.” Percy’s uproarious laughter followed.

  “Fifteen minutes!” Gabriel exclaimed. “We should have been discussing a plan of action, Lori, not my dinner party and my cat.”

  “Calm down,” I said. “I’ve got a plan of action. Bill’s not the only one who can make a few calls. I telephoned Fiona MacDonald last night. Fiona works as a secretary for the Westwood Trust. One of her jobs is to keep track of movers and shakers in the fund-raising world.”

  “People like Dorothy and Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps?” said Gabriel.

  “They’re in Fiona’s computer files.” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearing nine o’clock. “Fiona will be contacting Kenneth’s secretary at Fletcher Securities at nine. I asked her to make an appointment for us to see him at eleven.”

  Gabriel seemed dubious. “It’s rather short notice, isn’t it?”

  “Not for a rich lady like me,” I said breezily. “When money talks, men in Kenneth’s profession tend to listen. I told Fiona to lay it on with a trowel. She’ll call me to confirm the appointment soon after we land.”

  “We’re not going there to talk to him about money,” Gabriel pointed out.

  “No,” I acknowledged, sobering. “It seemed heartless to tell him about his sister over the phone, so I asked Fiona to tell him that we want to see him about a matter of great personal importance.” I sighed. “He’s bound to think it has something to do with finances, but I couldn’t think of any other way to phrase it.”

  The cabin dimmed as we descended through the clouds, and didn’t brighten much when we broke free of them. Oxford’s dismal weather was holding sway in Newcastle as well, but Percy brought the jet in for a feather-light landing, taxied to the end of a row of commuter jets, and cut the engines without incident. I retrieved my shoulder bag from the compartment behind the cockpit, and Atkinson handed the canvas satchel to me after we’d disembarked. As we made our way into the terminal, Percy reminded us that the return journey would begin at 1800 hours on the dot.

  “If you’re late, you’ll have to walk home,” he growled, and went on his way to Kirkwhelpington, guffawing.

  Fiona MacDonald didn’t call until Gabriel and I had finished filling out the paperwork for our rental car. Since I’d expected to hear from her almost immediately after we’d landed, I was mildly concerned by the delay.

  “A bit of a hiccup, Lori,” she reported. “Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps doesn’t go in to the office on Wednesdays. According to his personal assistant—a nice woman, by the way, called Natalie—Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps spends Wednesdays at the Fairhaven Golf Club.”

  “It’s pretty crummy weather for golf,” I commented.

  “According to Natalie, Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps entertains clients in the clubhouse on inclement Wednesdays,” said Fiona. “He has no clients scheduled today, but the club secretary—a chap called Ian Drover—informed me that he’s been in the clubhouse lounge since seven and shows no signs of leaving. I gave your name to Mr. Drover, who promised to pass it on to Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps in the lounge.”

  “Thank you, Fiona,” I said.

  “Did you tell me last night that you were bringing a male friend with you to Newcastle?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering what had prompted the question.

  “He’ll need a jacket and tie,” Fiona advised me. “Fairhaven has a strict dress code.”

  I surveyed Gabriel’s casual tweed blazer, noted the knot of the navy blue tie peeking over the collar of his blue pullover, and decided that they’d pass muster.

  “He’ll do,” I told Fiona.

  “Mr. Drover also informed me that Fairhaven is a men’s-only club,” she went on. “You wouldn’t be allowed in without a male escort. Mr. Drover gave me directions from the airport to Fairhaven. Are you ready to take them down?”

  I pulled a pen out of my purse, scribbled Fiona’s directions on a pad of paper courteously provided by the rental car company, thanked her profusely, and rang off.

  Gabriel had read the directions over my shoulder.

  “Fairhaven Golf Club . . . ?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Are you golfing at Fairhaven?” the man behind the counter piped up. “Lucky you. I’ve heard that they have more than a hundred malt whiskeys to choose from in the lounge. It’s enough to make a golfer pray for rain. Enjoy.”

  I gave Gabriel an unhappy glance. I hoped Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps wasn’t enjoying himself too much in Fairhaven’s clubhouse. I didn’t think I could face another interview like the one we’d had with poor, lonely Mrs. Pollard.

  Twenty-one

  The Fairhaven Golf Club was located in gently rolling countryside twenty-five miles southwest of Newcastle. We’d learned from the chatty car rental agent that the property had once belonged to a Newcastle shipping magnate who’d sold his country estate piecemeal as his fortunes declined. The clubhouse was the magnate’s former home. The agent had apologized for having no brochures on Fairhaven, explaining that the club was so exclusive it didn’t feel the need to print them.

  “Exclusive means pricey,” Gabriel observed as we left the airport’s narrow lanes and cruised onto the open road. “If clever Kenneth spends every Wednesday at an exclusive golf club, I think we can take it as read that his move to Newcastle wasn’t a demotion.”

  Gabriel was driving the rental car, with my blessing. I clutched the canvas satchel to my chest and watched the rain-soaked hills roll by without really see
ing them. I was nervous about what we’d find when we reached Fairhaven’s well-stocked lounge.

  “I just hope Kenneth’s able to see straight by the time we get there,” I said.

  “If he’s been sampling malt whiskey since seven,” said Gabriel, “the state of his vision will be the least of our worries.”

  The sign for the Fairhaven Golf Club was so discreetly placed that we would have driven past it if Fiona MacDonald hadn’t warned us to look out for it, and the entrance was barred by black wrought-iron gates mounted on redbrick walls. Gabriel rolled down his window and used a conveniently located intercom to announce our arrival. He was somewhat disgruntled to learn that his name hadn’t been added along with mine to the club’s guest list.

  “I should have worn a blue suit and a cap,” he grumbled. “They seem to be under the mistaken impression that I’m your chauffeur.”

  “You still outrank me,” I said. “You’re a man.”

  The black gates swung open and we drove slowly up the paved, tree-lined lane to the clubhouse, a fairly hideous redbrick Victorian mansion with chunky yellow stone trim around the windows and a two-story bay protruding from the central block. The main entrance was at the far end of the west wing, tucked under a redbrick porte cochere.

  While a valet parked our car, a bellman greeted us. He took our rain jackets to the cloakroom attendant and offered to take my canvas satchel as well. When I refused to part with it, he escorted us to the reception desk. The receptionist—also male—had us sign the guest book while he rang the club secretary to inform him that Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps’s guests had arrived.

  Fiona had evidently outdone herself in celebrating my personal wealth. I doubted that we would have merited the club secretary’s attention otherwise, and I detected a flicker of disappointment in his blue eyes when he emerged from a doorway behind the reception desk and spotted me. He’d clearly been expecting to meet a grande dame draped in furs, not a small American woman clad in gabardine trousers and a black cashmere turtleneck.

  “Ian Drover, club secretary,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk. “Welcome to Fairhaven, Ms. Shepherd. I believe you wish to speak with Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps. Will you follow me, please?”