“Definitely not,” said Jean as we entered the dining room.
“Not that I want to leave,” I hastened to add. “I can’t think of a better port in the storm than The King’s Ransom.”
“I concur,” said Christopher. “Everyone who works at the inn should be commended for behaving with consummate professionalism despite the trying circumstances.”
“I’ll pass your commendation on to the staff,” said Jean. “They’re a stellar bunch. I don’t know what Gavin and I would do without them.”
“As it happens, I have a message to convey to you, too,” said Christopher.
While he told Jean about the Sunday service at the village hall, I surveyed our fellow diners. Since they were speaking French, I assumed that they were with the tour group. They, too, seemed more composed than they had the previous evening, though their conversations might not have been entirely benign. I’d never seen so many dirty looks cast at one man.
Monsieur Renault was the only diner to have a table all to himself. The fat little Frenchman sat in splendid isolation, reading a book while sipping daintily from a demitasse cup, seemingly immune to the hostility directed at him by his disgruntled countrymen.
I doubted that they knew about his mysterious white packets. They were so angry with him for stranding them in Shepney that they would have jumped at any excuse to rat him out to the police. As an image of Monsieur Renault being led away in handcuffs drifted idly through my mind, I realized with a start that I hadn’t yet told Christopher about Steve’s unfortunate past. I tucked the tidbit away for sharing later, when we were alone. Jean might not wish to discuss her chef’s unusual background with her guests.
Jean accompanied us to our table near the windows, then pulled up a chair and sat with us. Tessa appeared a moment later, bearing two cups of roasted cauliflower and white cheddar soup.
“With the chef’s compliments,” said Tessa. “Does your mobile need charging, Lori?”
“No,” I said, prying my ravenous gaze from the soup. “I’ve used it only once today, so it should be okay.”
“Enjoy,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Give us ten minutes, will you, Tessa?” Jean requested.
Tessa nodded and moved on to a group of diners who clearly approved of her familiarity with their language.
“I won’t keep you for more than ten minutes,” Jean assured us. “I’d like to apologize for asking you to speak with the rector. It seems I was wrong about Trevor Lawson. In fact . . .”
As Phillip Lawson had predicted, the neighbors Jean had telephoned had explained Shepney’s time-honored tradition to her. I felt as if I were betraying a maternal pact by not informing her that she’d been right about Trevor all along, but I couldn’t figure out a way to present my evidence without presenting Aunt Dimity, so I said nothing.
“Jemima knew about the village’s ghost stories,” Jean continued, “but she never mentioned them to Gavin or to me because—”
“She thought you knew about them,” I broke in.
“I’m afraid so,” Jean said ruefully. “I sometimes feel as if I don’t know what’s going on in that busy little head of hers.”
“You’re not alone,” I told her. “My children are constantly surprising me.”
“My village surprised me,” she said. “Apparently, The King’s Ransom is the backdrop for quite a few of Shepney’s ghost stories.”
“It’s a great setting for a ghost story,” I said.
“Phillip told us two such tales after evensong,” said Christopher.
“Which brings me back to how grateful I am to you,” said Jean. “To show my gratitude, I’ve asked Steve to prepare a special meal for you this evening. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” I said incredulously. “My mouth is already watering.”
“It will be a privilege to taste whatever Steve sends out to us,” said Christopher, “but the gesture is unnecessary, Mrs. Hancock. In truth, I should be thanking you. My conversation with Phillip was one of the most interesting I’ve had since I first visited Shepney.”
“Hush,” I said to him with mock severity. “If Jean finds out how little we did, she’ll cancel our special dinner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jean. “I have just a few more items to tick off my list before I leave you.” Her tone became businesslike as she turned to me. “You’ll be pleased to know that Gavin oiled the hinges on the attic’s downstairs door.”
“I’m very pleased,” I said. “I won’t have to worry about disturbing your family or your guests every time I visit the powder room. Please thank him for me.”
“I will,” she said. “You’ll find clean towels in the powder room as well as a laundry bag. If you leave your laundry in the powder room, we’ll have it back to you, washed, dried, and folded, before you come down to breakfast tomorrow morning. Tessa will have another thermos of hot cocoa ready for you when you finish here tonight. Finally . . .” Her elated gaze shifted between Christopher and me as she announced, “Good weather news at last! The rain is supposed to end tomorrow. As I explained, we’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a start. Please, enjoy your meal.” She caught Tessa’s eye and nodded, then left us to the pleasurable anticipation that precedes any fine dining experience.
The meal that followed fulfilled food fantasies I didn’t know I had. The bread basket alone was heaped with the stuff that dreams are made on. Out of respect for Steve’s culinary skills, however, I refrained from gorging on the buttery brioche, the savory fougasse, and the rustic sourdough known in France as pain de campagne.
My respect was rewarded. The soup and the bread were superb, but they were only the beginning of a fabulous meal. A shredded brussels sprout salad with a balsamic vinaigrette, shaved pecorino cheese, and bacon slivers was followed by a wild-rabbit terrine, which was followed in turn by the main course: local salt-marsh lamb served with roasted shallots, pickled carrots, and a porcini risotto so creamy, earthy, and rich I could have eaten it with a ladle. Fortunately, the portions Steve prepared for us were large enough to be satisfying but small enough to leave room for his very special dessert.
“Apple crumble,” I said, laughing. “With custard and cream.”
“Not both at once, surely,” said Christopher, reaching for the small pitcher of custard.
“I prefer cream, thank you,” I said.
I was too absorbed in the flavor fest to waste time talking while we ate. It wasn’t until we were lingering over an after-dinner pot of chamomile tea that I relayed Kenneth Cartwright’s tidbit about Steve’s prison record.
“He wouldn’t tell me the whole story,” I concluded, “because his mother doesn’t approve of hurtful gossip, but even the little bit I learned helped me to understand a remark Tessa made about Steve’s lack of social skills. The transition from life behind bars to life in the big wide world must be incredibly difficult.”
Tessa, who’d been hovering near us throughout the evening, stepped forward, hesitated, then said in a rush, “Steve may be rough around the edges, but he’s all right. He must be. The Hancocks wouldn’t allow him to live on the premises if they didn’t trust him.”
“He lives here?” I said. “In The King’s Ransom?”
“He lives in Hastings,” she clarified, “but when it looked as though the cyclone would close the roads, Jean and Gavin offered to put him up at the inn. He accepted the offer because he’s absolutely devoted to his work. I shouldn’t have joked about him this morning, Lori. He may not have polished manners, but he’s a good man and a bloody great chef.” She caught herself, blushed, and ducked her head. “Sorry, Bishop Wyndham, but I get sick and tired of people harping on about things that can’t be helped. Would you like another pot of tea?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“So am I,” said Christopher.
Tessa retr
eated to the stone fireplace, looking as if she wanted to kick herself for saying “bloody” in front of a bishop.
“A spirited defense,” said Christopher.
“And a persuasive one,” I said. “She’s right about the Hancocks. They wouldn’t let a convicted felon into their lives—and into their children’s lives—unless they were convinced he’d turned over a new leaf.” I looked down at my teacup. “But I have to admit that the insatiable gossip in me is dying to know what Steve did.”
“Does it matter?” Christopher asked. “I’m afraid I agree with Tessa. There’s no point in harping on about things that can’t be helped. You wouldn’t want a man’s past mistakes to hang around his neck like an anchor for the rest of his life, would you?”
“It depends on the mistakes,” I said.
“I don’t think it does,” Christopher argued. “Steve learned a valuable skill in prison. I believe it awakened him to his true purpose in life. To deprive him of the chance to use his God-given gift in an honorable manner merely because he served a prison sentence would be truly criminal. As long as he continues to move forward, his past mistakes are no one’s business but his own.”
“I’ll tell my inner gossip that he took a misstep,” I said. “As we all do.”
Christopher smiled wryly, then raised a hand to cover a cavernous yawn.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It must be past my bedtime.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I must be getting old, Lori. It’s only half past nine.”
“With age comes wisdom,” I said. “You’ve had plenty of fresh air today. You’ve earned an early night.”
“I prefer the fresh-air excuse to the old-age one,” he conceded. “It makes me seem outdoorsy instead of ancient.”
“I’ll go up, too,” I said. “Though my sons refuse to believe it, an early night never hurt anyone.”
Tessa handed my thermos to me as we left the dining room. She also reminded us of our nine o’clock reservation for breakfast the following morning, but when she began to apologize for intruding on our meal, I told her not to be silly and Christopher praised her for standing up for her friend.
Christopher did seem tired. As we climbed stairs and clomped through corridors, I wondered if he regretted his choice of a top-floor room. To allow him to conserve his energy, I kept my chatter to a minimum until we reached his door.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said.
“Breakfast at nine, bookstore at ten,” he said.
“What if Horatio Best manages by some miracle to tell us why the inn is called The King’s Ransom?” I sighed wistfully. “We’ll have no more mysteries to solve.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something else to do,” said Christopher. “Perhaps Phillip will teach us to milk cows.”
Reassured by the twinkle in his eye that he wasn’t on the verge of collapse, I said good night and headed for the attic. I intended to spend the rest of the evening curled up in bed with a good book.
Seventeen
After testing the oak door to make sure that it was creak-free, I opened and closed it with gay abandon as I climbed up and down the U-shaped stairs, filling my laundry bag and returning it to the powder room. Once I’d made use of the clean towels, I went back up to the attic, where I changed into my long underwear, gave Captain Pigg an affectionate pat on his pink head, and hunkered down under my duvet.
The pattering rain, the fabulous meal, and the overdose of fresh air should have made me drowsy, but I hadn’t retired early because I was tired. I’d done so because Aunt Dimity and I had a lot of catching up to do. Before I opened the blue journal, however, I reached for my cell phone. I knew that Bill would be waiting for my call.
He was.
“Thank God,” he said when he heard my voice.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as a hundred heart-stopping scenarios darted through my mind. “Is it the children? I meant to call your father, but—”
“The children are fine,” he interrupted, “but I’m not.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, limp with relief.
“Terminal boredom,” he replied. “Sir Roger Blayne must be the most tedious man on earth. He spent all day showing me his stamp collection.”
“Stamps are educational,” I said with exaggerated primness. “They’re tiny little windows on the world.”
“All day, Lori,” Bill complained. “His butler served our meals in the stamp room. I used to think Sir Roger chose to be a recluse. I know now that he’s a recluse because no sane person would choose to spend more than five minutes listening to him drone on about his favorite hobby—not if they wanted to stay sane, at any rate. Please tell me that you had an interesting day.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said, “but I didn’t charge my phone, so you’ll have to make do with the highlights.”
“Do they involve stamps?” Bill asked.
“Nope.”
“I’m all ears.”
Even the summarized version of my lunch at the village hall had Bill in stitches, as did my descriptions of Horatio Best’s steamroller monologues and Joe Turner’s rat report. Though I told him that Christopher and I were seeking an explanation for the inn’s name, I didn’t mention ghosts, ghost stories, ghost warnings, ghostly noises, or ghost-busting pigs. I loved the sound of Bill’s laughter, but not when he was laughing at me.
I also refrained from mentioning Monsieur Renault, the suspicious white packet, and the tattooed ex-con in the kitchen. I didn’t want my overprotective husband to get the idea that The King’s Ransom was a den of iniquity.
“Thanks,” said Bill when I ran out of highlights. “I needed that.”
“Be of good cheer,” I said. “It’s supposed to stop raining tomorrow.”
“And it may take a week for the floodwaters to recede,” he said with a distinct lack of good cheer.
“The wind has died down,” I said. “You could call for a helicopter to whisk you away from Blayne Hall.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” said Bill. “But Sir Roger means well, Lori. I may want to beat him over the head with a postage stamp album, but I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
It was my turn to laugh.
We talked for a few more minutes before saying good night. I set the alarm on my cell phone and exchanged it for the blue journal.
“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “Believe it or not, I feel sorry for Bill.”
I laughed again as Aunt Dimity’s fine copperplate unfurled across the blank page.
Will wonders never cease? What brought about your change of heart?
“I had a million things to tell him tonight,” I said, “but he had only one thing to tell me. You were right, Dimity. I have been lucky. I’d much rather be marooned in Shepney than in Blayne Hall.” I recounted both sides of my conversation with Bill, then waited for Aunt Dimity’s response.
You didn’t really tell him that stamps are educational, did you?
“He deserved it,” I said. “He frightened me half to death with his ‘Thank God.’ I thought Will and Rob had broken their necks.”
You’re a cruel woman, but I do understand.
“Thank you.” I leaned back against my piled pillows. “And now for the unexpurgated version of my day.”
I thought I detected a gap in your narrative. Your failed attempts to identify the king in The King’s Ransom couldn’t have taken more than a few hours, which leaves quite a few unaccounted for. I assume you had a good reason to omit certain items from the version you shared with your husband.
“I had a very good reason for not telling Bill about Monsieur Renault,” I stated firmly.
Who is Monsieur Renault?
“He’s a shady Frenchman who sneaks around the inn with white packets of an unknown substance on his person.” I took a deep breath an
d launched into a comprehensive account of my night as volunteer parsnip peeler. I described the choice of doors that faced me as I hunted for the kitchen, the heated argument I inadvertently overheard, Monsieur Renault’s abrupt departure, and my first impression of Steve.
“He looks like a pirate on steroids,” I said. “He’s about eight foot six, bulging with muscles, and covered in tattoos. He didn’t have a parrot on his shoulder or a peg leg, but he has a goatee and he was wearing a bandana on his head. He looks so scary that I wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that he’s an ex-con.”
Are his employers aware of his prison record?
“I imagine everyone in Shepney is aware of his prison record,” I said drily. “It’s not the sort of place where a secret stays secret for long.”
In that respect, at least, Shepney is very much like Finch.
“A village is a village,” I said.
And since villagers the world over like to gossip, you must have learned a few more things about Steve while you were out and about today.
“I didn’t learn why he went to prison or how long he spent there,” I said. “The mother of the young man who told me about Steve has given him strict orders to keep his mouth shut about the details. She doesn’t want idle gossip to get in the way of Steve’s attempt to turn over a new leaf.”
Good for her. As you know, gossip is a double-edged sword. It can be quite useful, but it can also do great damage.
“It doesn’t seem to have damaged Steve’s reputation in Shepney,” I said. “Our waitress overheard me talking about him and instantly came to his defense. She thinks he’s a stand-up guy.”
The Hancocks must think so, too, or they wouldn’t have hired him.
“They’ve also given him a room at the inn,” I said. “It’s not a permanent arrangement. He has a flat in Hastings, but when it looked as though the cyclone would close the roads, the Hancocks offered to put him up. If they didn’t trust him, they wouldn’t let him sleep under the same roof as their children, would they?”
No, they wouldn’t. Are the children fond of him?
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 14