“And it wasn’t merely the limited ingredients I was dealing with,” Mrs. Spencer continued. “When I ventured out for provisions a shell landed thirty yards before me.”
“Mrs. Spencer, please.”
“My skirt was blown straight over my head! I was saved from flying shrapnel, and certain death, by my fur shawl. Miss Valentine, you’re so pale. You weren’t even there.”
“I don’t like talking about wars.”
She’d not told Mrs. Spencer the details of her so-called broken engagement. While the much-maligned “Edith Junior” was apprised of the situation, the two didn’t speak. Or if Edith spoke, Mrs. Spencer didn’t listen. For now, Charlie’s death was a fact Pru kept for herself. She didn’t know how Mrs. Spencer might use the information against her. Pru only sensed that she would.
“You don’t like wars? What do you even know of wars? Pretty girl locked safely in a house? Miss Valentine, right before me.” Mrs. Spencer tightened her jaw. She aggressively wiped away tears that were not even there. “Right before me four people were blown to atoms. For ten days I was constantly seasick from the memory of the sight.”
“Blown to atoms.” Pru cringed. “Wonderful. Many thanks for such a detailed description.”
“You are so weak-livered! My only point is that in a kitchen much smaller than ours and with bombs exploding around me, I devised a gourmet spread for a group of twelve.”
“I’m sure you impressed everyone with your talents,” Pru said as the dog hurtled down from her lap and took to relieving himself on a nearby rug. “But we’re not in Paris and there’s no war. At least not here. We have other options for a holiday feast. Plus you hate Christmas. What did you tell me? It is more…”
“More a day of sad recording of changes come than of satisfied banter. But no matter. I’m doing this! We’re doing this!”
The old woman sprang to her feet, dogs and eyedroppers flying. Without putting away the supplies or even changing out of her bedclothes, Mrs. Spencer grabbed a pair of boots and her old straw hat, and set out to town in her little black Austin.
“Dare I eat the feast?” Pru griped as she lifted herself from the ground. “Four medium cats, cooked in a red wine reduction sauce. Ouch! Damn it!”
She nearly tripped over a dog.
“So … many … animals…,” she said wearily and paused at the window.
Gazing out across the orchard, Pru placed both hands at her back, which ached from hunching over dogs. As she stretched, Pru noted how beautiful the property was that time of day. The sky was flat, the light draping across the frosted vines and branches. It hadn’t snowed but they promised it soon would. Moments like these, the Grange was not so bad.
As Pru turned away from the window, something caught her eye: a flash of white. A chill shot through her body. The white was from a man’s shirt.
After fumbling about for a pair of moccasins, Pru slipped on her shoes and tramped out across the yard, a coat wrapped tightly around her nightclothes. Pajamas in public were apparently de rigueur at the Grange. Birds of a feather, she thought with a smirk.
Suddenly, across the yard, the white flashed a second time.
Only the boy hoodlums, Pru told herself as her heart drummed. But not even she could buy her own lies.
To start, this person was inside the property, undeterred by the stone wall and its blanket of thorns. The figure was also taller and far better dressed than the neighborhood scallywags. Plus it was clearly a man, a grown adult. And he was walking straight toward her, his mouth stretched into a determined scowl.
Nineteen
THE GEORGE & DRAGON
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
Because of her mother’s transgressions, Gladys’s first taste of being the subject of gossips worldwide came at the tender age of eleven. One could speculate that this early introduction to the vagaries of public life made her the woman she became. Dramatic. Attention-seeking. Forever paranoid she was being watched.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“So that was Tom, right?” Annie asked. “That Pru saw in the garden?”
“You’re under the assumption Tom was a real person, then.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Spencer was nearly as crazy as she pretended to be. It was all part of her act.”
Gus smiled.
“That’s a bold theory,” he said, rising to his feet. “This early into the story. Well, Miss Annie. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”
He reached out a hand.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done!”
“Sorry, my captivating new friend. As engaging as I find your company, I have an appointment to keep.”
“An appointment? What appointment? I don’t believe you.”
“You might find this astounding but old men have obligations too, even ones that do not involve the swapping out of bandages and colostomy bags.”
“Sorry, Gus,” she said. “But I call BS.”
He chuckled and wound a plaid scarf around his neck.
“I’m sure it seems preposterous that another person would voluntarily meet with an old plonker like me,” he said. “Truly, what else do I need to accomplish other than to sit in a bar all day getting semipissed?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“Oh, but it’s true! Most of the time. But every once in a great long while I have a specific engagement to keep. You think I can hurtle this gracefully toward the grave on my own? No, there are doctors, dentists, and financial planners involved.”
Gus reached out his hand again. This time Annie reluctantly took it, but not before letting out a few grumbles.
“I’ve enjoyed our conversation,” he said. “I do hope to run into you again.”
Annie shook his hand, deliberating how she might manufacture another meet-up. She wanted more of his tale, something beyond the pages of transcript she had in her bag.
“Yeah, it’s been swell,” she muttered. “But before you leave, tell me who Pru saw in the garden.”
“You’ve decided it’s Tom. Let’s leave it at that. It’s probably better than the real story.”
“But the real story is what I want!”
“Tell me, Annie. Why do you care so much about the duchess? Or Pru? They’re just a bunch of unknowns, most of them dead.”
“I told you. I’m a researcher.”
The lie was now so thoroughly absorbed Annie might as well have been taking it intravenously. She believed it with every part of her.
“Right,” Gus said. “But researching what, exactly?”
“Er, um, literature!”
“Literature,” he said with a small grunt. “As in all the literature?” He made a sweeping motion with his hands. “The full canon of written works? That seems like an awfully big theme from which to bite.”
“No, no. Ha, ha, ha.” God, her forced laughter sounded way too much like a donkey braying. “It’s, er, um…” She thought of Eric. “War. The effect of war on cultures as revealed through prose.”
Annie smiled, feeling mildly pleased with herself. It sounded reasonable. She didn’t know much about thesis statements but probably would’ve accepted the story if someone tried to hawk it to her.
“War through prose, huh?” he said.
“Yup.” Annie bobbed her head.
“And how does The Missing Duchess fit in?”
“Well, you see, it’s an interesting study as it was written at the tail end of the Vietnam War.”
“By a Brit. And it wasn’t published until several years after the war ended.”
“But its protagonist lived through two world wars. Also, the shooting of her mother’s lover by her father. Love is war, right?”
“Hmm,” Gus said. “Interesting. Very interesting topic. Especially when one considers the background of Pru, who is not in the book but part of the story all the same.”
“Yes! Exactly! A happy accid
ent.”
“You know, I did wonder if you were making it up, the research bit. I thought perhaps you had another reason for nosing around.”
“Ha!” Annie yapped again. “I can see where you might’ve thought that!”
She laughed some more because what else could she do?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you who Pru met in the garden. But not now. I really must go. Can you meet me tomorrow?”
“Sure! Yes! Of course! Tomorrow would be perfect.”
Gus eyed her warily, his brows cocked and crooked. He’d likely never encountered a literary researcher with such a spastic level of interest.
“Meet me in the morning,” he said. “Is eight o’clock too early for you?”
“Too early for a bar?” Annie said and glanced around. “Uh, yeah.”
“Give me some credit. I do go other places. Tomorrow we change locations. Eight o’clock. Meet me at the Grange.”
Twenty
GD: Of course my father shot Coco.
WS: Why do you say “of course”?
GD: The man was with my mother, when she was four days postpartum, having just birthed a child that was probably the visitor’s and not the husband’s! Coco was unbothered by Father’s anger and so Father had to make a show. He shot Coco right through the couch.
WS: Do you mean “through the crotch”?
GD: Did you not hear me say “couch”?
WS: Is that a euphemism?
GD: No it’s not a euphemism! I’d say pecker or nads or twigs and berries if that’s what I meant.
WS: Yes, I suppose you would.
GD: It went like this. Coco hid behind the couch. My father shot him, three times. He died. There was a trial.
WS: Of worldwide fame.
GD: I’m not sure about “worldwide” but Henry James wanted to pen a book with Father as the primary character. After the trial, Daddy spent some time in prison. He was released and everyone eventually moved on. Everyone except dear old Dad. He died in a lunatic asylum, driven mad by remembering what he’d done. And as for me, mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin. That, dear writer, is how my story goes.
Twenty-one
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.”
Was this a stab at humor by Gladys Deacon? Or an excuse for her boorish behavior? One could hardly condemn the woman for her wild capers and socially devastating blunders. Poor thing, it was part of her destiny.
Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.
But in the end I am the daughter of the murderer.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
Annie stood near the gate, heaving as sweat trickled down the backs of her thighs. She was hot right then but the running shorts and windbreaker weren’t going to cut it if she stopped moving. Her legs and arms were already goose-pimpled from the chill in the air.
Hopping in place, Annie checked her watch. Suddenly a voice shouted her name. Annie looked down Banbury Road and spotted Gus waving from around the bend.
“Over here!” he called. “I’ve gone round back!”
“I can see that,” she said, running toward him. When she reached his side she grabbed a tree to catch her breath.
“Hello,” he said, smiling dryly.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t take you for a casual runner.”
“I’m not. I’m a most formal runner.”
What Annie was, was somebody in need of a reason to leave the hotel when Laurel wanted to sit around and sip tea. And wasn’t that just her luck? The one time Annie had plans her mother did not. Laurel was too confused to question Annie’s unexpected spurt of activity. Like Gus, she didn’t take Annie for a casual runner, or a runner at all.
“Why are we all the way back here?” Annie asked, sides cramping as she suffered the consequences of her lack of exercise regimen. She really should’ve visited the college rec center at least once. “Is this a secret entrance or something?”
Without a reply, Gus turned and marched down the alley. Annie followed dutifully, like a puppy, her sneakers rolling over the gravel and rocks.
“You’re awfully out of breath,” he noted. “For a ‘most formal’ runner.”
“It’s the backpack’s fault,” she said, pointing behind her. “Brought it for, you know, snacks. Water. Provisions.”
“Provisions?” Gus cranked his head to look at her. “Where exactly did you jog from?”
“The Banbury Inn?”
“That’s not a kilometer away!”
“But it’s up a slight incline.”
She raised her forearm in a much steeper pitch than the road ever dared be.
“Yes,” Gus said. “Slight. Very slight. Ah. Here we are.”
He paused next to a narrow limestone building the color of toast.
“The rumored former abode of Tom himself,” he said.
Annie peered into the windows, which were broken through, just like at the main house. Inside, the cottage was bare save the various spider colonies camped out in the corners of the room.
“Well.” She stepped back. “Looks empty.”
“Yes. That’s what happens when a property changes hands. I’d assume the main house is empty, too.”
It was, mostly, and she badly wanted to tell Gus what she’d found. Annie wanted to tell him about the revolver, the manuscript pages, and the books stacked inside a broken bed. And she wanted to ask what happened to the rest of it.
“When did Mrs. Spencer sell it?” Annie asked. “The house?”
“Well, she didn’t,” he told her. “Mrs. Spencer died in the late seventies. The family auctioned off most of her things the year after. They raised a tidy sum. I recall such goodies as a Chaucer manuscript, a 1526 Erasmus, and a book of sexually explicit drawings by D. H. Lawrence.”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover, indeed.”
“The drawings fetched more than the Chaucer. Damned shame, because I wanted to get my hands on them but lacked the requisite funds.”
“You ol’ perv,” Annie said and rolled her eyes. “So who bought the home?”
“A trust owns the building, according to public records. No one’s done anything with it, as you can see.”
“Her family didn’t want it?” she asked.
“S’pose not. Most of them were here, during the auction, to inspect the home and its contents. She had quite a few nieces and nephews.”
“Like Edith Junior?”
“She was her niece, yes, but Edith predeceased Mrs. Spencer. Edith Junior had three daughters herself,” Gus said. “All of them wealthy as the devil. They probably preferred the money over an old dump of an estate.”
Annie nodded, then shivered. The dried-sweat chill was starting to set in.
“So the intruder?” she said, gesturing toward the barn. “Was it Tom? Escaped from his cell? Arms out like zombies? Shackles clanging?”
“Not exactly. But this barn is how the intruder penetrated the property.” Gus jiggled the doorknob. “You see, someone left the back door unlocked. As a result, Pru’s new compatriot turned this very knob and walked right on through.”
Twenty-two
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1972
“What are you doing?” Pru yelled as she clambered across the wintered gardens. “Hey! You there! I see you!”
The figure disappeared.
“Might as well show yourself! Get back here!”
But the man had vanished. Like a ghost.
Pru stopped at the goose pond, its surface just starting to crackle and freeze. Where did he go? Behind a tree? Inside the barn? How did he even get onto the property in the first place? The boy hooligans had been trying for years, to no success.
“Hello?” Pru called out meekly.
She glanced do
wn at her feet and the shabby, crummy slippers that covered them. Above the shoes, her legs were bare and speckled with fleabites. Farther up was the ratty gray nightgown last laundered on some other continent. Pru looked out across the orchard to the old house. The place was making her mad.
She turned to go.
Then: another rustle. Louder. Heavy-footed.
“I know you’re there!” she called. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all. Or not in that particular way. “We have guns!”
Pru scrambled toward the noise, tripping over branches and stones.
“I’m not screwing around here,” she said. Then mumbled, “As evidenced by the seriousness of my attire.”
The right words, as it happened. The would-be sneak thief couldn’t resist. He stepped out into the sunshine.
“There’s nothing wrong with your attire. Comfort first, I always say. The name’s Seton.”
He extended a hand.
Pru jumped and promptly backslid down an embankment toward the pond. She grabbed on to a tree branch to save herself from submersion, not to mention death by hypothermia. The pond was partially frozen and, worse, infested with goose excrement.
“Need some help there, miss?”
“How did you get through the gate?” Pru asked, huffing as she hoisted herself back up to safety.
“A little chicken wire never held me back,” the man said.
“You broke through the wire?”
“Sure.”
Truth was, he’d come through Tom’s mythical barn. The girl seemed pleasant enough but the man had seen something in the building. Maybe even something big. So he preferred to keep the information to himself. For now.
“Chicken wire’s like an old chum,” he added. “Mum used it around my cot to keep me inside.”
“Seriously?” Pru’s eyes went wide.
“Nah.” The man laughed. “Not that I can recall. But it does sound like something she might do. Anyhow. Like I said, the name’s Seton. Win Seton.”
He extended his hand again as Pru studied his face.
This Win Seton was on the youngish side, though definitely older than Pru. He was tall, his blond hair thick and cropped tightly to his head in a manner that surprised. Pru had grown accustomed to the shaggy mops at Berkeley. Even Charlie’s hair hung to his shoulders before he buzzed it off for the army.
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