Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  Mr. Drover ignored Gabriel, who followed three steps behind us, looking peevish.

  The lounge was on the ground floor, in the spacious, highceilinged room that featured the central bay. It had probably been the shipping magnate’s living room before his fortunes had declined, but it was now a dimly lit gentlemen’s drinking establishment. The walls were oak-paneled, the mahogany bar stretched across the far wall, and the rest of the floor space was taken up by dark leather armchairs clustered around small walnut tables. There was a hint of cigar smoke in the air, though the handful of men seated here and there around the room were reading newspapers rather than smoking.

  Mr. Drover led us toward a table in the bay, where a man sat alone with his back to the room, facing the windows. The club secretary stopped a few feet away from the bay, put a fist to his mouth, and gently cleared his throat, in the manner of all good manservants everywhere.

  “Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps?” said Mr. Drover. “Your guests have arrived.” The club secretary nodded to us and departed, his duty done.

  The man rose from the chair and turned. If the day had been brighter, I would have had to squint to make out features backlit by sunshine streaming through the tall windows. As it was, the windows were streaming with rain and I could see his face quite clearly.

  Joanna Quinn had described him perfectly. Kenneth was utterly nondescript. He was neither tall nor short, broad nor slender, and his round face was as bland as vanilla pudding. A few gray strands had invaded his brown hair, but there weren’t enough of them to give him character, and although his pin-striped black suit was well made, it lent him no distinction. However closely I peered, I could see no trace in his hazel eyes of the light that had drawn me to Miss Beacham. He looked like a cardboard cutout of the average man.

  “Kenneth?” I said.

  “Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps of Fletcher Securities,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. There was an empty whiskey glass on the table, but he didn’t sound inebriated. His speech was crisp and professional, though his voice, like his face, was forgettable. “You must be Ms. Shepherd. Your assistant spoke with mine. Won’t you sit down?”

  I introduced Gabriel, and the three of us sat in a cozy triangle of chairs around the small table. I put the satchel on the floor between my feet and wondered what to say next. My mouth felt unaccountably dry. It was surreal to find myself sitting face-to-face with a man who’d haunted my imagination, but that wasn’t what troubled me. I’d never had to deliver the worst possible news to a next of kin before, and although I’d rehearsed suitable words and phrases, I wasn’t sure I could say them.

  “I do appreciate your driving out here to speak with me,” said Kenneth. “It may be an unconventional setting for a business meeting, but even on a rainy day it’s far more pleasant than my office.” He motioned for the barman to attend us. “May I offer you a drink?”

  We ordered a round of single malts. I didn’t normally drink hard liquor, but it seemed churlish to refuse. Apart from that, something told me that I’d need a dram or two to get me through the morning.

  The barman brought our drinks and returned to his post. Kenneth drank to our good health, set his glass on the table, and leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers over his pin-striped waistcoat.

  “Now that we’ve observed the formalities,” he said, “let’s move on, shall we? I realize that your time is both limited and valuable. How may I help you?”

  “I haven’t come here to discuss investments,” I said. “I . . . I came here to tell you . . .” I twisted my fingers in my lap and lowered my eyes.

  “Yes?” said Kenneth. “What did you come here to tell me?”

  I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, Kenneth, but your sister died a week ago last Monday.”

  His eyes narrowed and his lips parted slightly.

  “Lizzie?” he said faintly. “Lizzie . . . dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  Kenneth’s chest heaved, once. He ran his tongue across his lips, then reared his head back and regarded me angrily.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who told you about my sister?”

  “No one told me,” I said. “I spent time with your sister at the Radcliffe shortly before she died. I was there the day she passed away, though I came too late to say good-bye.” I nodded toward Gabriel. “My friend was her neighbor in the building on St. Cuthbert Lane.”

  Kenneth gave Gabriel an irate glance, but reserved most of his animus for me. “This is absurd. I shouldn’t be hearing about my sister from a pair of strangers. I didn’t even know she was in hospital. Why wasn’t I notified of her death immediately? Why has it taken over a week?”

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “Mr. Moss—”

  “You know Moss?” Kenneth interrupted.

  “I’ve never met him,” I said, “but I’ve spoken with him on the telephone several times.”

  “Why didn’t he—” Kenneth broke off suddenly. He gazed past me with unfocused eyes, then slumped in his chair and put his hand to his forehead, saying under his breath, “Oh, God, Dorothy . . . ”

  His words trailed off. He seemed deflated, defeated, drained of the righteous fury that had fueled his angry outburst. I studied him in silence and at last I understood.

  “Your wife,” I said in a hushed voice. “She knew. Mr. Moss tried to contact you, but she got in his way. She knew about your sister, and she never told you.” I went cold with shock. “Why?”

  “Have a drink, old man,” said Gabriel.

  Kenneth raised his glass and tossed back the whiskey in one gulp. Gabriel signaled the barman for a refill, motioned for him to leave the bottle on the table, and waved him off.

  “Was it the cancer?” Kenneth asked, after a time.

  I nodded.

  “I should have been there,” Kenneth murmured. “I would have been there, had I known. I suppose that’s why Dorothy didn’t tell me.”

  “Your sister was dying,” I said. “Why wouldn’t your wife want you to go to her?”

  “Dorothy . . . disapproved of Lizzie.” Kenneth sipped his drink, cradled his glass in his hands, and straightened slightly in his chair. “What you have to understand is that Dorothy is an only child, the spoiled daughter of an indulgent father. She never learned to share, and she didn’t like sharing me with Lizzie.”

  “But you and your sister were so close,” I said.

  “We were too close.” Kenneth sighed, as if some memory stirred in him. “Lizzie and I understood each other, despite the ten-year difference in our ages. We laughed at the same things. We finished each other’s sentences.”

  “Did Dorothy feel left out of the conversation?” Gabriel asked.

  Kenneth nodded. “She was jealous of Lizzie. She felt she couldn’t compete.”

  “It wasn’t a competition,” I commented.

  “It was, to Dorothy.” Kenneth shrugged. “She likes to be in control, and as long as Lizzie was around, there was one part of my life she couldn’t control. While we were engaged, she made me feel guilty for spending time with Lizzie. A month before our marriage, she gave me an ultimatum. If I didn’t stop seeing my sister, the wedding wouldn’t take place.”

  I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “And you chose Dorothy over your sister?”

  “I had to,” Kenneth insisted. “I’ve never been as clever as Lizzie.” He leaned forward and explained urgently, “She inherited our great-aunt’s antique furniture. I thought it was a load of old rubbish, but Lizzie knew better. She sold most of the pieces to private collectors, made a fortune, and invested it brilliantly. She had the brains in the family, not me.”

  “You needed Dorothy,” Gabriel observed.

  Kenneth turned to him eagerly. “She was my only chance of getting ahead,” he said. “I have no formal qualifications. I couldn’t manage a university degree. Dorothy’s father wouldn’t have hired me if she hadn’t taken a fancy to me, and if I hadn’t married her, I woul
d have been out of a job with dim prospects of finding a new one. Lizzie understood. She promised to stay away.”

  “And you agreed never to see your sister again,” I said. “You married Dorothy and were rewarded with the top spot at the Midlands branch of Fletcher Securities. That’s when you moved to the house on Crestmore Crescent, in Willow Hills, near Oxford.”

  Kenneth frowned. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”

  “It wasn’t easy for us to find you,” I said. “We had to do a fair amount of research along the way. I also know that your son was born a year later. Did your sister know she had a nephew?”

  “Of course she did.” Kenneth looked and sounded offended. “I sent her photographs, videotapes, photocopies of his school reports. She knew all about him.”

  “Did she ever meet him?” I asked. “Did she ever speak with him?”

  Kenneth shifted uneasily in his chair. “It made no sense to bring her into his life once we’d decided that she would no longer be involved in ours. It would only have confused the boy.”

  I had to hand it to Kenneth. There was a certain logic behind his reasoning. It was, in my estimation, both cruel and insane, but it was logic.

  Gabriel sampled his single malt and regarded Kenneth thoughtfully. “Did your son’s birth influence your decision to change your name?”

  “In a way,” said Kenneth. “We were thinking about his future. My father-in-law is a canny businessman, but he’s self-made. He had no social standing, and Dorothy wanted our son to have a secure place in the social world. She thought that if we combined our names and changed the spelling of mine, we’d make a better impression on the people who matter. And it worked. Dorothy made it work. She volunteered for the right committees, entertained the right people, made sure we dressed the part.” He absently fingered his lapel. “We’ve given Walter a head start in life.”

  “Wouldn’t Lizzie have been an asset to Dorothy?” Gabriel asked. “After all, your sister was a wealthy woman.”

  “She didn’t act like one,” Kenneth said irritably. “She didn’t have to work, but she kept her job as a legal secretary and plodded into the office every day. Dorothy found it embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?” I cried. “Embarrassing?” I cried.

  “Yes, embarrassing,” Kenneth retorted. He leaned toward me belligerently. “The women in our circles don’t work for a living. Furthermore, they don’t chat with shopkeepers and tramps and cabdrivers and God alone knows who else. My sister, good woman though she was, had an appalling habit of befriending the most inappropriate people. There were times when I blushed to be seen with her.”

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but before I could tell Kenneth exactly where he could put his blushes, Gabriel interceded.

  “Kenneth,” he said swiftly, “how did you find out that your sister was ill?”

  “She rang my office.” Kenneth settled back in his chair, smoothing his suit coat with his palms. “My assistant usually screens my calls, but she was away from her desk that morning and I answered the phone. As you can imagine, the news devastated me. When Lizzie asked if she could come to live in Oxford, I said yes.” He glared at me. “I’m not a monster, Ms. Shepherd. I would never have allowed my sister to face such a grave illness on her own.”

  I crossed my arms and legs and returned his glare with a potent one of my own. “You didn’t invite her to your home, though, did you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kenneth snapped. “Dorothy wouldn’t have welcomed her. After Lizzie came up from London, we arranged to meet for lunch twice a week, at a café on Travertine Road. I saw no need to discuss the matter with Dorothy, and Lizzie agreed. She understood my situation.”

  “Your sister,” I muttered, “was a very understanding woman.”

  “How did your wife find out that Lizzie was living in Oxford?” Gabriel asked. “I’m assuming, of course, that she did find out.”

  Kenneth sighed. “Dorothy stopped by the office one day, unannounced, and overheard me chatting with Lizzie on my speakerphone. I was confirming a lunch date.”

  Gabriel gave a low whistle. “Your wife must have hit the ceiling.”

  “She was upset, naturally,” Kenneth admitted. “She was afraid that Lizzie, having broken one promise, might break another. She thought Lizzie might try to contact our son, which would have been awkward, since we’d never told the boy about her. My wife was certain that Lizzie would set a poor example for Walter. He was fourteen at the time, a vulnerable age. We didn’t want him to start talking to cabdrivers.”

  “Heaven forbid,” I murmured, rolling my eyes.

  Kenneth rounded on me. “Do you have children, Ms. Shepherd?”

  “I have two sons,” I barked. “And they talk to panhandlers!”

  Newspapers rustled throughout the lounge and a few inquisitive faces turned our way. Kenneth raised his hands in a placating gesture.

  “We all raise our children as we see fit,” he said quietly. “My wife and I decided to leave Oxford, for Walter’s sake. The Newcastle office was about to open and Dorothy saw to it that I was put in charge of it.” He folded his hands and regarded me steadily. “I know what you must think of me, Ms. Shepherd, but I assure you that I would have gone to my sister’s bedside, had I known she was in hospital.”

  I wasn’t listening. I was watching a man who had entered the lounge and was now walking in our direction. He was a small, fine-featured man with white hair and gold-framed spectacles. His exquisitely tailored black three-piece suit reminded me strongly of the serious lawyer half of Bill’s teleconferencing outfit, right down to the gray silk tie.

  The man paused a few feet away from the bay, as Ian Drover had done earlier when presenting me and Gabriel, and gently cleared his throat. “Mr. Fletcher-Beauchamps?” he said. “May I speak with you?”

  Kenneth got to his feet, turned, and gasped.

  “Moss?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  Twenty-two

  Mr. Moss, of Pratchett & Moss, Solicitors, was a man of abstemious habits. He declined our offer of whiskey and requested a pot of Lapsang souchong tea from the barman instead. When it arrived, he drank it black.

  Kenneth seemed nonplussed by the lawyer’s presence, though he regarded his newest guest with an air of expectation that seemed strange to me until I remembered the will locked in Mr. Moss’s desk. Gabriel, who sat opposite Mr. Moss, favored him with furtive glances, as though he expected at any moment to be called to account for plundering Miss Beacham’s flat.

  I stared openly at the little man, marveling at how perfectly his physical appearance matched his prim and proper voice. His attire was impeccable, his hands were beautifully manicured, and there wasn’t a white hair out of place on his well-shaped head. He wore gold cuff links, but the gold was tastefully subdued, and no raindrops marred the muted sheen of his shoes or his splendid black briefcase. The only element I regretted were the spectacles. If he’d worn gold pince-nez, I would have applauded.

  “It’s great to finally meet you, Mr. Moss,” I said after he’d refreshed himself with a sip of tea. “But Kenneth has a point. What are you doing here?”

  “I came for several reasons.” He opened his briefcase, removed a sheet of paper, placed it on the table at Kenneth’s knee, drew a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and handed it to Kenneth. “First, I must ask you to sign a form releasing my client’s remains into my custody, for interment at St. Paul’s Church in Oxford. You will find everything in order. If you would simply sign there . . .”

  Mr. Moss conducted the operation so smoothly that Kenneth signed the form without taking the time to read it. The ink was barely dry when Mr. Moss whisked the form back into his briefcase, retrieved his fountain pen, and rested his elbows lightly on the arms of his chair. His expression revealed nothing, but I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d already finished the only task that truly concerned him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Second, I would like to
apologize to you for failing to notify you of your sister’s death in a timely manner.”

  “I should think you would,” said Kenneth, remounting his high horse. “Your failure has caused me considerable mental and emotional distress.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Moss’s face remained impassive. “As I said, sir, I would like to apologize, but I will not, because my firm is not to blame for your distress. I made many attempts to contact you, sir, and I was blocked at every turn. My telephone messages were intercepted, as were my letters and e-mails, and when I attempted to approach you at your place of business, I was informed by your personal assistant that you would not see me.”

  Kenneth blinked. “You came to Newcastle?”

  “I came twice, sir, and twice I was turned away.” Mr. Moss put a hand on his briefcase. “I have a detailed record of my fruitless attempts to contact you. Would you care to examine it?”

  “No need,” Kenneth said gruffly. “I believe you. I’m afraid my wife may have created the difficulties you encountered.”

  “I believe you are correct.” Mr. Moss folded his hands across his waistcoat and tapped the tips of his thumbs together. “Fortunately, my client anticipated your wife’s interference. My client assumed that your wife would focus her attention on official channels of communication—the telephone, the mail, the computer—and on me, as her official representative. With that in mind, she devised a secondary plan, one that would involve someone to whom your wife had never been introduced.”

  “A backup plan,” I said, smiling broadly. “You’re talking about me, right? I was Miss Beacham’s backup plan. I knew it!” My grin lingered briefly, then changed into a doubtful frown. “It was a pretty whacky plan, though, wasn’t it? I mean, the photo album and the desk and, honestly, the whole idea that I’d not only understand what she wanted me to do, but that I’d be willing to do it. You have to admit that she was taking a big risk by depending on me.”