Oh, dear. What has happened to them?
“Their hearts are giving out,” I said gently. “Dr. Finisterre doesn’t think they have much longer to live. . . .” I went on to tell her about the doctor’s diagnosis, the villagers’ outpouring of affection, and the postponement of the long-awaited wedding. When I finished, there was an extended pause in which nothing new appeared on the page. Then the handwriting began again, more slowly this time, as if Aunt Dimity were lost in distant memories.
I owe them my life, you know. After Bobby died, I didn’t want to go on living.
I stopped breathing for a moment, then leaned closer to the page. Bobby MacLaren had been Aunt Dimity’s one true love. He’d been shot down over the English Channel during the Battle of Britain and his body had never been found. She rarely mentioned him.
Ruth and Louise wouldn’t let me give in to my grief. They rousted me out of the cottage and put me to work in their vegetable garden. They didn’t tell me that life goes on. They let me see it for myself. As I weeded and watered and watched green shoots reach for the sun, I gradually began to blossom again. I’ve never forgotten the lessons I learned in their garden. And one of those lessons is, of course, that every life comes to an end. So it’s their time at last. I can’t say that it’s unexpected, but it will be very strange to think of Finch without them.
“Yes, it will,” I agreed. In a small village, every person counted, but the Pyms counted more than most not only because they were good and decent women, but because they connected Finch to its past in a way no one else could. “The whole village will go into mourning when they die.”
I should hope so. But after the mourning, life will go on. I’m glad the boys had a chance to know them. It’s fortunate, too, that you’ve had time to say good-bye to them.
“I hope I have time to do more than that,” I said. “They asked me to do a favor for them, Dimity, and I’d really like to do it while they’re still around to know that it’s been done.”
What favor have they asked of you?
“They asked me to find Aubrey,” I said.
Aubrey? They asked for Aubrey?
“They asked me to find Aubrey,” I repeated.
They must have been delirious.
“They didn’t seem delirious to me,” I said. “To tell you the truth, they seemed remarkably clearheaded.”
They couldn’t have been clearheaded, Lori, or they wouldn’t have asked you to find Aubrey.
“Why not?” I asked.
Because Aubrey can’t possibly be alive. He was five years older than Ruth and Louise. He must be dead and buried by now.
“Let’s back up a step,” I said. “Who is Aubrey?”
Didn’t they tell you?
“They’re as weak as kittens,” I explained. “They asked me to find Aubrey, then drifted off to sleep before they could give me further details.”
Vagueness was ever their hallmark, bless them. Very well, then, I’ll tell you what I know. Ruth and Louise weren’t the only children in the Pym family. There was a boy as well. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym was the Pym sisters’ older brother.
“I didn’t know they had a brother,” I said, frowning.
Few people do. I never met Aubrey, but I heard stories about him when I was a little girl, whispers shared by grown-ups when good children were supposed to be in bed.
“What kind of stories?” I asked.
The kind that surface in the wake of a family tragedy. Aubrey wasn’t a nice young man, Lori. In fact, he was a scoundrel.
I leaned back in the chair and gazed skeptically at the journal. In my experience, whispering villagers favored highly colored rumors over the plain, unvarnished truth. Aunt Dimity might take the old, overheard stories seriously, but I found it almost impossible to believe that the genteel, hymn-singing Pym sisters could be related to a scoundrel.
“Aubrey was a bad boy, was he?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “What did he do? Leave the house without a clean pocket handkerchief? ”
Your customary flippancy is unwarranted in this case, Lori. Aubrey Pym was a disgraceful reprobate. His beleaguered parents could do nothing to stop his gambling, his drinking, his womanizing, and his fighting, but when he took money from the poor box to pay for his vices, they were forced to act. The poor box he emptied, I might add, was the one in St. George’s Church.
“The son of a parson robbed a poor box to pay for his betting and boozing?” I said, appalled.
He did. My father was strolling past St. George’s on the night in question. He caught young Aubrey red-handed.
I ducked my head, chastened. “Sorry about the flippancy, Dimity. I should have known that you wouldn’t trash a man’s reputation without being sure of your facts.”
Yes, my dear, you should have.
“Aubrey was a rat, all right,” I conceded humbly. “Was he arrested for stealing the money? ”
No. His parents couldn’t bear the shame of seeing their only son sent to prison, so they covered up the crime. When he refused to change his ways or to show any sign of remorse, however, he was summarily banished from the family home.
“Banished? ” I said.
He was sent away with little more than the clothes on his back. The servants were instructed to bar the door to him, his belongings were given to the poor, and he was cut out of his father’s will. To my knowledge, none of the remaining family members ever spoke his name again. They certainly did not do so in public.
“What happened to him? ” I asked.
No one knows. He was never seen again in Finch.
“How old was Aubrey when his parents gave him the boot?” I asked.
He’d just turned twenty.
“Good grief.” I said, taken aback. “He must have started down the wrong path at an early age.”
He broke his parents’ hearts, Lori. They were never the same after Aubrey left. My father believed that they blamed themselves for their son’s wickedness, but I suspect that they regretted their decision to banish him. I think they must have longed for a reconciliation that never took place.
“Loose ends,” I murmured, nodding. “Ruth and Louise told me that their mother and father would want to know what happened to Aubrey.”
I imagine they already know what happened to him, since he’s surely as dead as they are.
“Why are you so certain that he’s dead?” I asked. “If Ruth and Louise are anything to go by, the Pyms are a long-lived family.”
Long-lived, perhaps, but not immortal. Do you honestly believe that a man who lived as carelessly as Aubrey could outlive Ruth and Louise?
I had to admit that Aunt Dimity had a point. Men who drank, gambled, fought, slept around, and took things that didn’t belong to them stood a better than average chance of dying young. Nevertheless, I didn’t think the Pyms would have asked me to achieve the impossible. I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair while I turned the matter over in my mind.
“Maybe they want me to find Aubrey’s grave,” I said finally. “It might give them some peace of mind to know where he’s buried. Scoundrel or not, he was their big brother.”
He was an unrepentant villain, but I know what you mean. Time has a way of softening harsh memories. If you’ve interpreted the Pyms’ wishes correctly, how do you propose to find Aubrey’s grave?
“I’ll start by speaking with their family solicitor,” I replied. “I intend to meet with him tomorrow. His name is Fortescue Makepeace, his office is in Upper Deeping, and Ruth and Louise promised that he would explain everything.”
I hope he will.
“I hope he has a map with a big red X on it,” I said, “marking the spot where Aubrey is buried.”
I wouldn’t be quite that hopeful. But I’m sure that Mr. Makepeace will be as helpful as he can be. Have Bill and William voiced their opinions on your latest venture?
“They’re behind me one hundred percent,” I said.
As am I, my dear.
“I never doubted it.” I smiled br
iefly, then gazed pensively into the fire. “The Pyms have entrusted me with what feels like a huge responsibility, Dimity. Why do you suppose they picked me? ”
I can think of several reasons, but you cited the most important one. The Pyms trust you, Lori. They know that you won’t rest until you’ve carried out their wishes. They selected you because you’re demanding, tenacious, and inquisitive.
“In other words,” I said dryly, “I’m bossy, bullheaded, and nosy.”
You have a host of qualities the Pyms admire, my dear. They are depending on you to use those qualities to fulfill their last request.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. “But will it be good enough? What if they die before I find Aubrey’s grave?”
You mustn’t allow “what-ifs” to discourage you, Lori. Where there’s life, there’s hope, and the Pyms are—for the moment, at least—still very much alive. Cast aside your doubts and fears and get on with the task at hand.
“Easier said than done,” I murmured.
Most things are. I have faith in you, Lori. I’m certain that you will be able to locate Aubrey’s grave. I would suggest, however, that you get some sleep before you start looking for it. Old graves aren’t as easy to find as you might think. You’ll need to be well rested if you’re to contend with brambles, wasps’ nests, and mud.
“I’ll let you know what I find out from Mr. Makepeace,” I said.
I look forward to hearing each and every detail. Good night, my dear.
“Good night, Dimity,” I said.
I waited until the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its spot on the bookshelves. Reginald beamed down at me encouragingly as I knelt to bank the fire.
“Brambles, wasps’ nests, and mud won’t slow me down,” I told him, with more confidence than I felt. “If I have to, I’ll go to the ends of the earth to keep my promise to the Pyms.”
Had I known what the future held in store for me, I might have chosen my words more carefully. Instead, I patted Reginald’s powder-pink snout, turned out the lights, and made my way quietly to bed, where I lay awake for a long time, contemplating life and death and the love of two frail sisters for a banished scoundrel.
Five
Bill was gone before dawn the following morning. I rose early enough to see him off, but I didn’t linger on the doorstep because the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse. The wind had continued to rise throughout the night, bringing with it a cold, driving rain that lashed the windows and transformed the graveled drive into a short but challenging run of rapids. It felt as though Mother Nature were railing against the Pym sisters’ demise, but a telephone call to Nell assured me that such objections were premature. Ruth and Louise had requested tea and toast for breakfast and were resting comfortably, despite the storm.
Since it was still too early to wake the twins, I went upstairs to change out of my flannel nightie and into an ensemble I deemed suitable for my meeting with Mr. Makepeace. I wanted him to regard me as a serious person, capable of carrying out whatever task the Pyms had set for me, but I also wanted to keep warm, so I selected a gray cashmere sweater, black wool trousers, and a pair of black leather boots that would stand up to a bit of mud.
By the time I finished dressing, Will and Rob were up. I helped them to don their school uniforms and brushed their hair, then herded them downstairs to the kitchen for sustaining bowls of hot porridge slathered with cream and sprinkled with chopped dates. Willis, Sr., joined us a few minutes later, wearing a tweed suit and his sturdiest brogues.
“I see that you’ve dressed for the weather,” I commented as I ladled porridge into his bowl and mine. “There’s a definite nip in the air and it’s raining sideways. It seems more like late October than late September. Are you sure you want to take the boys to school? ”
“I am,” he replied. “Tempests hold no fear for me, Lori. Apart from that, I’d rather be of service than spend the day counting raindrops.”
“Do you count raindrops, Grandpa?” Will asked interestedly.
“Not often,” Willis, Sr., replied.
“You’d have to count fast,” Rob observed.
“And know big numbers,” Will added. “Bigger than a hundred million.”
“Bigger than a hundred million billion,” Rob countered.
While my sons continued their scholarly analysis of raindropcounting, I gave my father-in-law a thoughtful glance. His comment about wanting to be of service had given me a new and potentially useful idea. It stood to reason that a man accustomed to running a busy law firm would find idleness unappealing. Perhaps, I told myself as I put the saucepan in the sink, the best way to persuade Willis, Sr., to move in with us permanently would be to provide him with meaningful work.
“Since you’re undaunted by the tempest,” I said, sitting across from him, “would you mind doing another favor for me? I’m supposed to be in Oxford at ten o’clock, to attend a board meeting for the Westwood Trust. I was going to beg off, but if you could—”
“Consider it done,” he said, with a nonchalant wave of his spoon. “I will gladly take your place at the board meeting. Will there be time to discuss the agenda before the boys and I depart?”
I gave him a quick rundown of the board’s most pressing business, signed a proxy letter that would allow him to make decisions in my absence, and fetched my briefcase from the study while he and the twins donned their rain gear in the front hall. As Willis, Sr., took the briefcase in his gloved hand he seemed to stand a little taller than he had since he’d first announced his retirement.
“If you require assistance in dealing with Mr. Makepeace, please do not hesitate to summon me,” he said, patting the pocket in which he kept his cell phone. “I am considered by some to be fairly fluent in the language of law.”
“You’re way too modest to be a big-shot lawyer,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “But I’ll call on you if I need you.”
I watched from the doorway while the trio splashed their way down the flagstone path to the Range Rover. After Willis, Sr., had strapped Rob and Will into their safety seats, I waved good-bye to them and retreated to the kitchen to feed Stanley, load the dishwasher, and wipe the table.
It seemed reasonable to assume that a provincial lawyer would be at his desk by nine o’clock on a Monday morning, so when the appointed hour arrived I reached for the telephone and dialed the number engraved on the business card I’d found on the Pyms’ mantelshelf. The woman who answered spoke with a lilting Scottish accent.
“Good morning,” she said. “You’ve reached the office of Fortescue Makepeace. Mrs. Abercrombie speaking. How may I help you? ”
“Good morning, Mrs. Abercrombie,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I—”
“Ah, Ms. Shepherd,” she broke in. “Please forgive the interruption, but Mr. Makepeace advised me that you would be ringing the office this morning on a matter of some urgency. Will it be convenient for you to meet with Mr. Makepeace today?”
“I can be there in an hour,” I said, adding thirty minutes to the journey because of the wet roads.
“I shall inform Mr. Makepeace,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “We will expect you at ten o’clock, Ms. Shepherd.”
“See you then,” I said, and hung up.
I was relieved to hear that the Pyms had paved the way for me with their solicitor. I didn’t want to waste time explaining who I was and why I needed to speak with him. Although I appreciated Aunt Dimity’s optimism, I wasn’t as sure as she was that time was on my side.
“The sooner he tells me what I need to know, the better,” I murmured as I headed for the front hall.
I pulled on a voluminous black raincoat that I hoped would withstand brambles and wasp attacks, slung my shoulder bag over my shoulder, and took my keys from the telephone table. After calling good-bye to Stanley, I ran through the pouring rain to my Morris Mini. With luck, I thought, I’d be standing over Aubrey’s grave before Rob and
Will were out of school.
Number Twelve, Fanshaw Crescent, turned out to be the center section of a three-story Georgian row house located a few blocks south of the marketplace in Upper Deeping. If the sun had been shining, I would have paused to admire the building’s gracious, cream-colored facade, but since a frigid monsoon seemed to be in progress, I maneuvered the Mini into a nearby parking space, then made a mad dash for Number Twelve’s shiny black door.
I’d scarcely removed my finger from the brass doorbell when the door was opened by a tall, gray-haired woman wearing a tweed skirt, a white blouse, a bulky, oatmeal-colored cardigan, and low-heeled black pumps. She exuded an air of quiet competence as she ushered me across the threshold and relieved me of my dripping raincoat, which she hung in a small room off the foyer.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Abercrombie, Mr. Makepeace’s secretary, then led me up a curving flight of stone stairs to a pair of double doors that opened onto the second-floor landing. She knocked twice and the doors were opened by a short, round, pink-faced man whose sober black suit was brightened considerably by a white silk waistcoat embroidered with sprays of springtime flowers. What was left of his white hair was combed neatly back on both sides of his otherwise bald head, and he wore a gorgeous yellow orchid in his lapel. His eyes were bright blue and twinkling.
“Your ten o’clock appointment has arrived, Mr. Makepeace,” murmured Mrs. Abercrombie.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Abercrombie,” Mr. Makepeace protested, gazing jovially at me. “This is not my ten o’clock appointment. This is the delightfully obliging Ms. Shepherd, whose willingness to help her neighbors is so far beyond commendable that I scarcely have words to describe it. Do come in, dear lady, and take a seat near the fire. Tea, please, Mrs. Abercrombie, and some of your delicious biscuits. Our guest will be in need of sustenance after her trying journey.”
While he spoke, Mr. Makepeace escorted me to a plum-colored Regency chair, one of a pair flanking the rosewood settee that faced the gold-veined white marble fireplace in which a coal fire was burning merrily. The solicitor’s office, like his attire, was at once brightly colored and exceptionally elegant. The ceiling was covered with ornate plasterwork, the tall windows were draped in a pale peach brocade, and the settee was upholstered in lemon-yellow silk.
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