After I’d taken my seat, Mr. Makepeace bustled over to the satinwood desk that sat before the windows. He returned to the fireside clutching a slim, black leather document case, lowered himself into the chair opposite mine, placed the document case on a mahogany table at his elbow, and leaned forward to peer at me imploringly.
“I do apologize for asking you to leave the comforts of your home and hearth on such an insalubrious day, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. “My health, alas, is not what it once was, and my doctors discourage me from indulging in unnecessary travel when the weather is disagreeable.”
“It was no trouble at all,” I assured him. “I don’t mind a little rain.”
“A little rain?” Mr. Makepeace chuckled heartily. “My clients described you as a stalwart soul, Ms. Shepherd, and I can see that they were quite correct. Ah, Mrs. Abercrombie . . .” He looked up as his secretary entered the room carrying a tea tray laden with cups, saucers, a pot of fragrant jasmine tea, and a plateful of what appeared to be shortbread cookies. She deposited the gleaming tray on the mahogany table, then withdrew.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Abercrombie to hold my calls,” Mr. Makepeace informed me. “I am at your service, Ms. Shepherd, for the rest of the morning—for the rest of the day, if need be.”
My host poured the tea and proffered the cookies, then waited until I’d had a sip and a nibble before finally getting down to business. I was relieved. Although it was undeniably pleasant to bask in the warmth of a well-stoked fire while bone-chilling bullets of rain hammered the windowpanes, I hadn’t braved the storm for the sole purpose of sampling Mrs. Abercrombie’s shortbread.
“I believe my clients discussed with you the, er, commission they wish you to undertake,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call it a discussion,” I said with a wry smile. “Ruth and Louise asked me to find someone named Aubrey, told me that you would explain everything, then went to sleep.”
Mr. Makepeace twinkled at me genially. “My family has served the Pyms for more than a century, Ms. Shepherd. I’m quite familiar with their little ways.”
“So . . . can you?” I asked. “Explain everything, I mean.”
“If I could, I would not require your help, dear lady,” he replied. “I can, however, impart to you some background information that I believe you will find useful as you move forward in your, um, mission.”
He drained his teacup, patted his lips delicately with a linen napkin, returned cup and napkin to the tray, sat back comfortably in his chair, and folded his dimpled hands across his remarkable waistcoat. As I watched him settle in for what appeared to be the long haul, my hopes for acquiring a map marked with a big red X began to fade.
“The first thing you must understand, Ms. Shepherd, is that there is more than one Aubrey Pym,” he said. “Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Senior, was my clients’ brother. He left England at the age of twenty. At the commencement of the Great War, he volunteered to serve in the armed forces. He died on the sixth of May, 1915, during the Gallipoli campaign.”
“Gallipoli? ” I said, nonplussed. “Ruth and Louise want me to go to Gallipoli? I don’t even know where Gallipoli is.”
“Gallipoli is in Turkey, Ms. Shepherd,” Mr. Makepeace informed me, “but I must confess that I have no idea why you would wish to go there.”
“I’m supposed to find their brother’s grave,” I explained, adding uncertainly, “aren’t I? ”
“Ah.” Mr. Makepeace’s blue eyes lost some of their twinkle. “I should perhaps explain that Aubrey Pym’s death was not . . . tidy. He was, lamentably, blown to bits during an artillery barrage.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “He has no grave.”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” I allowed a moment of silence to pass, out of deference to the dead, then pressed on. “I assume, then, that Ruth and Louise were talking about another Aubrey. You said there was more than one.”
“So I did,” Mr. Makepeace acknowledged. “The second Aubrey was the son of the first.” The solicitor clasped his hands together and smiled at me. “My clients respectfully request that you, Ms. Shepherd, attempt to establish a direct line of communication between them and their nephew, Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior.”
“I see, I said, nodding. “Would you happen to know where Aubrey Pym, Junior, might be?”
“Indeed, I would,” Mr. Makepeace said cheerfully. “My clients have given me permission to furnish you with Mr. Pym’s last known address.”
I squinted at him in confusion. “If you have his address, Mr. Makepeace, why haven’t you contacted him already?”
“I’ve tried, dear lady.” He sighed heavily. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Much to my dismay, Mr. Pym has failed to respond to my letters. I can think of several reasons for his silence—the address may be out of date, for example, or he may be out of town—but the only way to know for certain is to send a personal representative to find him and to speak with him directly. Hence my need for your services.”
“But . . . why bother with letters? ” I asked, baffled. “Why don’t you just march up to his front door and knock on it?”
“His front door is, alas, beyond my reach,” Mr. Makepeace answered. “It is, most unfortunately, located in Auckland, New Zealand.”
“New Zealand?” I echoed.
“New Zealand,” he confirmed.
“Oh.” I cocked my head to one side and peered at him questioningly. “New Zealand is . . . pretty far away from here, isn’t it?”
“It is approximately one thousand miles southeast of Australia,” Mr. Makepeace explained helpfully.
“New Zealand is a thousand miles southeast of Australia? ” I said, my voice rising to a squeak.
“It’s down under Down Under,” he told me, chuckling happily at his own wit.
I was too stunned to chuckle. I’d come to Upper Deeping fully prepared to spend a day, or perhaps a few days, squelching through muddy graveyards in search of an obscure headstone. Neither Aunt Dimity nor I had considered the possibility of leaving England, not to mention the Northern Hemisphere, in order to track down a live human being.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, eyeing Mr. Makepeace doubtfully. “Ruth and Louise want me to go to New Zealand to find their nephew? ”
“Correct,” he confirmed.
“Why can’t you go?” I demanded. “You’re their solicitor. Isn’t it your job to find long-lost family members?”
“I would go if I could,” Mr. Makepeace assured me, “but my health will not permit me to make the journey.” He patted his chest. “High blood pressure, you know, and a touch of diabetes. My doctors have advised me most strongly to avoid prolonged flights.”
“You could hire a private detective,” I suggested, adding with a perplexed frown, “Do they have private detectives in New Zealand? ”
“I’m quite certain they do,” said Mr. Makepeace, “but my clients do not wish to entrust such a delicate mission to a stranger.”
“What’s so delicate about finding someone’s nephew?” I asked.
Mr. Makepeace drummed his fingers on his waistcoat and regarded me levelly. “Family affairs are often fraught with difficulty, Ms. Shepherd, and my clients’ situation is more difficult than most. I’m sorry to say it, but their late brother was not a shining example of British manhood. He was, in fact, a bit of a black sheep. He left England because his involvement in a series of regrettable incidents created a deep rift between himself and the rest of his family.”
I had to credit the solicitor with a high degree of tact. According to Aunt Dimity, Aubrey Pym, Sr., had been an unrepentant wastrel who’d been disinherited, disowned, and cast out in disgrace. She would have been dumbfounded to hear him described as “a bit of a black sheep” whose behavior had been merely “regrettable.”
“The rift was never bridged,” Mr. Makepeace continued. “My clients were forbidden to communicate with their brother in any way. They were informed of his death, of course, but they were unaware of their nephew’s existence until ten d
ays ago, when they discovered a letter buried at the bottom of a trunk that had once belonged to their mother.”
“Who wrote the letter?” I asked.
“Aubrey, Senior,” the solicitor replied. “He wished to inform his mother of his son’s birth. I do not know whether she wrote back to him, but I do know that she concealed the letter and the information it contained from her daughters.” Mr. Makepeace touched a finger to the orchid in his lapel, then pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “As I indicated earlier, Ms. Shepherd, the family rift was quite deep.”
“What a stupid waste of energy,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “Ruth and Louise would have made wonderful aunts.”
“I’m afraid it is too late for them to establish a long-term relationship with their nephew,” Mr. Makepeace said softly. “But it is not yet too late for them to reach out to him. They must move cautiously, however, because they do not know how their overtures will be received. It is entirely possible that their nephew is unaware of their existence. It is also possible that his mind has been poisoned against them. Their intentions must, therefore, be conveyed with the utmost diplomacy.”
I couldn’t restrain a snort of laughter. I’d been called many things in my life, but I’d never been called diplomatic. I lost my temper too easily, I spoke too hastily, and I seldom let facts complicate a good theory. If Ruth and Louise expected me to act the part of a discreet, mild-mannered envoy, they’d made a grave error in judgment. An ambassador blessed with my diplomatic skills would be more likely to inflame their family feud than to douse it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Makepeace,” I said, disguising my laughter with a cough, “but I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”
“I beg to differ, dear lady,” he said, smiling broadly. “My clients regard you as the perfect person for the job. They believe that you will succeed where others might fail because you are”—he closed his eyes briefly, as if he were trying to recall the Pyms’ exact words—“strong-willed, determined, and naturally inquisitive.”
“Bossy, bullheaded, and nosy,” I said under my breath.
“I beg your pardon? ” said the solicitor.
“Never mind,” I said, motioning for him to go on.
“I have been given to understand that you are independently wealthy,” he said. “If such is the case, you will be able to make the journey without risking a loss of income or requiring a leave of absence from your employer.”
“I don’t work for a living,” I conceded, “but I have two young sons and a husband who travels a lot, so I don’t see how I can—”
Mr. Makepeace held up a chubby finger for silence.
“My clients,” he continued, “believe that your father-in-law, who currently resides with you, will not only be capable of looking after your sons, but glad of the opportunity to do so.”
“My father-in-law is great with the boys,” I acknowledged, “but he doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry, so—”
“My clients,” Mr. Makepeace broke in, “have informed me that your father-in-law’s, er, legions of admirers will, without hesitation, rise to the occasion. I have been advised that the, ahem, merry widows of Finch—my clients’ phrase, not mine,” he hastened to assure me, “will vie for the privilege of providing your family with the home comforts to which they have become accustomed.”
I pursed my lips. If I knew the merry widows of Finch—and I did—they’d provide my family with comforts usually found in five-star hotels. The cottage would be scoured daily, the laundry would be washed by hand, and my menfolk would be fed so many delectable dishes that they’d never again be satisfied by my cooking.
“Your expenses,” Mr. Makepeace concluded, “will, of course, be paid in full.”
“It’s not a question of money,” I said, waving the concern aside. “I have responsibilities at home, Mr. Makepeace. I can’t drop everything and run halfway around the world on a whim. My family needs me.”
The round-faced solicitor leaned forward and gazed at me with a new sobriety.
“You would not be making the journey on a whim,” he said quietly. “You would be fulfilling the deepest desire of my clients’ hearts. They wish to communicate with their only remaining blood relative before they die. They hope to heal the breach that sundered them from him before it is too late. Ruth and Louise need you, too, Ms. Shepherd. I would argue that their need is greater than your family’s.”
I felt as if he’d thrust a knife into my heart.
“I’ll have to talk it over with my husband and sons,” I mumbled, gazing at the floor.
“Naturally,” said Mr. Makepeace. “But please do so quickly. My clients may not have much time left.” He picked up the black leather document case and handed it to me. “My clients have authorized me to present you with papers giving you the power to act as their legal representative in this matter, Ms. Shepherd. They have also written a letter to their nephew, which they hope you will deliver to him personally. Mrs. Abercrombie will, if you wish, make your travel arrangements. We need but a moment’s notice.”
I slipped the document case into my shoulder bag and told Mr. Makepeace that I would give him my decision by the end of the day. He thanked me for my time and walked with me to the double doors. I was about to step onto the landing when I paused to look up at him.
“The letter Ruth and Louise found—the one their brother wrote to their mother,” I said. “It must have given their hearts a jolt.”
“It did,” said Mr. Makepeace. “But if you can find their nephew, you may, perhaps, give their hearts ease.”
It wasn’t until I started up the Mini that I remembered the rash vow I’d made the night before. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that I’d be called upon to keep it, yet it seemed that I would, in fact, have to travel to the ends of the earth in order to keep my promise to the Pyms.
That I would make the journey was a foregone conclusion—I could almost feel Bill’s hand on the small of my back as he pushed me out of the cottage and hear Willis, Sr.’s voice as he urged me to do my duty—but I wouldn’t travel alone.
“I hope you’re up for a trip, Dimity,” I muttered, “because it looks as though you and I are going to New Zealand.”
Six
Some time later, I watched Auckland’s bright carpet of lights emerge from the black immensity of the Tasman Sea.
“At last,” I muttered hoarsely.
I had no idea how many days had passed since Bill had dropped me off at Heathrow Airport. According to my itinerary, I’d spent twenty-three hours crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the North American continent, and the Pacific Ocean, and an additional four hours killing time during a layover in Los Angeles, but I’d somehow lost two days when I’d crossed the International Date Line, so my sense of time was completely out of whack. I felt as if I’d spent most of my adult life confined to the first-class cabin of an Air New Zealand jet. I shuddered to think of what the journey had been like for those traveling in coach.
I turned away from my window to gaze blearily at the smiling face of Serena, my smartly dressed and much too chipper flight attendant. Her clear eyes and glowing complexion brought back distant memories of what it had once been like to be freshly bathed, well-rested, and alert.
“It’s five twenty A.M. local time, and we’re about to land in New Zealand’s largest city,” Serena informed me. “If you include the suburbs, Auckland covers sixty square kilometers—that’s twenty-three square miles to you Americans—and it contains nearly a third of New Zealand’s entire population. Auckland was named after Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India. It was once the capital of New Zealand‚ and it’s ringed by forty-eight extinct volcanoes.”
“Volcanoes? ” I said, roused from my torpor.
“Extinct volcanoes,” said Serena. “The active volcanoes are farther south.”
“How much farther?” I demanded.
“Let’s prepare for landing, shall we
?” she asked, and moved on to her next victim.
I raised my seat back to its upright and locked position, then turned to gaze downward again. I hadn’t expected New Zealand’s largest city to be quite so large. Its glimmering lights seemed to go on forever and a surprising number of them seemed to belong to tall buildings. As the plane descended smoothly toward the runway, I couldn’t help wondering if it was safe to build skyscrapers in a city ringed by forty-eight allegedly extinct volcanoes. In my fragile, sleep-deprived state, I was a bit put out with everyone who’d had a hand in sending me to a place that might blow itself up without warning.
The family conference had gone exactly as I’d predicted. After I’d revealed the true nature of the Pym sisters’ request, Bill had pulled my suitcases down from the attic and Willis, Sr., had used the world atlas to show Will and Rob where Mummy would be going. There’d been no debate about whether I should go or not. My loved ones had simply assumed that I would leave as soon as possible.
A phone call to Mrs. Abercrombie had put me on the first flight out of London the following morning. I’d been so busy packing, fussing over the boys, making to-do lists for Willis, Sr., and conferring with Aunt Dimity that I hadn’t had a moment to spare for a last-minute visit with the Pyms. I’d had to settle instead for a hurried telephone conversation with Nell, who’d assured me that Ruth and Louise were doing as well as could be expected.
Bill had arranged via e-mail for one of his old school friends—a native New Zealander named Cameron Mackenzie—to meet me at the Auckland Airport and drive me to my hotel, which turned out to be a very good idea. By the time I exited the plane, retrieved my luggage, and passed through the customs and quarantine checkpoints, I could scarcely remember how to summon a taxi, let alone how to give directions to a driver, but thanks to Bill’s foresight, I didn’t have to fend for myself. I was simply scooped up at the arrivals barrier by a tall, soft-spoken blur of a man who guided me gently to a car and didn’t argue with me when I refused to relinquish my carry-on bag to him.
Aunt Dimity Down Under Page 5