Aunt Dimity and the Duke

by Nancy Atherton

  “Using Grayson as a decoy?” Derek asked.

  “More like a lamb to the slaughter,” Kate confirmed. “You’ve no idea what we went through when Lex died. Photographers behind every bush. So we may be away for some time. I hate to leave you short-handed, but with Crowley looking after Mattie—”

  “We’ll be fine,” Derek assured her. Kate nodded gratefully, handed Derek a card with a phone number where she could be reached in Plymouth, and turned to run up the stairs. Dr. Singh’s helicopter roared briefly overhead, then faded in the distance.

  The entrance hall was suddenly silent. Derek looked down at Emma. “Library?” he suggested hesitantly. “Drink?”

  “Maybe two,” she replied.

  Emma rested her elbow on the arm of the brocade couch in the library and ran a finger around the rim of her glass. It was almost ten A.M., and she wished she’d eaten breakfast. The first sip of the duke’s single-malt whiskey had steadied her nerves, and the second had cleared her head, but a third, taken on an empty stomach, would probably put her under the table.

  She glanced over at Derek. He sat at the other end of the couch, legs crossed and arms folded, frowning silently at the empty hearth. He hadn’t moved since Bantry had stopped by to ask if Master Peter and Lady Nell might go with him to Madama’s kitchen garden. Even then he’d only nodded.

  He wasn’t worrying about Susannah, Emma knew. He’d responded to Emma’s words of consolation with a blank stare, followed by a shrug and an automatic “Bad show,” as though he’d momentarily forgotten who had been injured.

  Was he still brooding over his children? Emma honestly didn’t think he had much to worry about on that score. Nell seemed to be handling the situation very calmly, and Peter appeared unfazed. Emma suspected that the children were more resilient than their father gave them credit for.

  Emma, too, had recovered quickly, not only from the morning’s shocking events, but from her brief infatuation with Derek. She was no longer tongue-tied and clumsy in his presence, at any rate, and she thought she knew why: Whether widowed or divorced, a single man raising a family was invariably looking for someone to mother his children. And since motherhood, even by proxy, had never been one of Emma’s career goals, Derek was indisputably out of bounds. The realization came as a relief; Emma was tired of making a fool of herself over a pair of handsome blue eyes.

  “Derek,” she said, putting her glass on the end table, “I think I’ll step outside. I need a breath of fresh air.”

  Derek surprised her by immediately unfolding his long limbs and rising from the couch. “I’ll come with you,” he said. And then, as they were strolling slowly across the great lawn, he surprised her again by saying that it was his first visit to Penford Hall.

  “I thought you and Grayson were old friends,” Emma said.

  Derek pursed his lips. “We met in Oxford ten years ago,” he said. “I was touching up some plasterwork in the cathedral and he was practicing a Bach cantata on the organ.” Derek stopped walking and swung around to face the hall. “Haven’t really been in touch since then.” Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he tilted his head back and let his gaze travel slowly along the irregular roofline. “A hodgepodge,” he muttered, “but a structurally sound one.” He looked over his shoulder at Emma. “You wouldn’t call Penford Hall a ruin, would you?”

  Pointing at the fragmented façade of the castle, Emma replied, “That’s a ruin.”

  “But he was talking about that.” Derek gestured to the hall. “Natural enough, given my line of work.”

  “Which is ... ?” Emma prompted.

  “Hmmm?” Derek looked at her vaguely, then nodded. “Ah, yes. I’m, um ...” He patted the unbuttoned breast pocket of his shirt, then began to search through the pockets of his jeans. He extracted a penknife, a keychain, a few coins, a tape measure, miscellaneous rubber bands and bits of string, and what looked like the remains of a roll of duct tape before coming up with a crumpled and lint-covered business card, which he handed to Emma. “Don’t use the cards much,” he muttered. “I work out of my home and, well, it’s a word-of-mouth sort of trade.”

  “Harris Restoration,” Emma read aloud, smoothing the card as best she could. She noted the Oxford address and phone number, then tucked the card into the pocket of her denim skirt. “You do restoration work?”

  “Right. Rotted timbers, damaged frescoes—”

  “Stained glass?” Emma put in.

  Derek gave her a sharp glance, then lowered his eyes and resumed walking. “Only natural that Grayson would tell me about his plans to refurbish the hall. Roof leaked like a sieve, he said, and damp had buckled the floorboards. Fact is, he left me with the distinct impression that the place was a bit of a shambles.”

  “But that’s what Susannah said last night,” Emma exclaimed. “You remember—at supper?”

  “Yes. She also said he was a sailor.” Derek rubbed his jaw, then turned to look down at Emma. “Busy tomorrow?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Emma stammered. “It depends on—”

  “Good.” Derek pointed to the balustraded terrace. “Meet me there, say, eleven-ish? Got something I’d like to show you. Need to know—” He broke off, and the worried frown returned to his face. “No. Wait till tomorrow.” And without saying another word, he swung around and strode swiftly back into the hall.

  Emma turned to look up at Penford Hall. As far as she could tell, the octagonal slates on the roof were all present and correct, the forest of chimneys stood strong and tall, and the leaded glass sparkled in the many and variously shaped windows, not a pane cracked or missing. People sometimes spoke disparagingly of their own homes, especially when they were stuck with a place that didn’t suit their taste or their style of living, and Susannah might ridicule her cousin’s home out of sheer spite. But Grayson seemed to love the rambling, Gothic sprawl. If he’d called Penford Hall a ruin; Emma suspected that he hadn’t been speaking figuratively.

  “You there! Miss Porter!”

  Emma looked up and saw Nanny Cole leaning out of a second-floor window some twenty feet to her left. In one massive arm Nanny Cole held a brown-paper parcel; with the other she beckoned to Emma. Obediently, Emma strode over to stand beneath the open window.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” Nanny Cole bellowed. “And what was the quack doing here?”

  “The duke’s cousin fell and hurt herself in the chapel garden,” Emma called back. “The doctor came to take her to the hospital in Plymouth and—”

  “Never mind,” barked Nanny Cole. “I can guess the rest. Brats all right?”

  “Fine,” said Emma.

  “Loving every minute of it, I’ll wager, the bloodthirsty little beasts. Where’s Mattie?”

  “In her room,” said Emma. “She fainted—”

  “Yes, yes,” Nanny Cole broke in impatiently. “Dratted child. That’s what comes of hero worship. Well, I can’t spend all day running a blasted delivery service. This is for you. Catch!”

  The parcel was bulky but soft, and Emma caught it easily. When she looked up again, the window was shut. Curious, Emma carried the parcel over to the terrace steps, where she sat and opened it. It contained two pairs of generously cut denim trousers, with elastic waistbands and padded knees, and two violet-patterned gardening smocks with deep pockets and hammer loops. Emma stared in puzzlement at the smocks for a moment, then shrugged, gathered up the discarded wrapping paper, and headed into the hall to change, murmuring wryly, “If ever there was a sign from heaven ...”

  10

  All I need now are work gloves, Emma thought as she stepped into Madama’s kitchen garden. It was late morning, the mist had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly overhead. Squinting skyward, Emma reminded herself that a sunhat might not be a bad idea, either. She was about to add a pair of wellies to her mental shopping list when she stopped midway down the rows of radishes, to gape at Bantry.

  The old man had lurched out of a shadowy doorway a few yards away, brand
ishing a stalk of celery and growling ferociously. A bit of rag bound a pair of carrots to his head, like horns, with the greens trailing behind in a verdant, ragged mane. Emma took one look at Penford Hall’s head gardener and burst out laughing.

  Bantry’s growling ceased as he stood up. Grinning good-naturedly, he untied his makeshift headband, put one carrot in the bib pocket of his canvas apron, and offered the other to Emma, who accepted it gratefully.

  “Just havin’ a bit o’ fun with the kiddies,” he said. “Tryin’ to, anyway. Not really their cup o’ tea, I don’t think.”

  “Don’t they like vegetable monsters?” Emma asked.

  “Oh, I dunno.” Bantry glanced over his shoulder. “Master Peter tries, but it shouldn’t be so much of an effort, now, should it? And Lady Nell, she’s just gone half the time.” He touched the side of his head. “Up there. Talkin’ half to that bear o’ hers and half to herself. Never know what she’s goin’ to say next, that one.” Bantry eyed Emma’s new attire shrewdly. “So you’re startin’ in today, are you? Well, and why not? Constable Trevoy’s been up from the village to take his snaps. He says it’s clear enough what happened, and it’s not as though the young lady’s passed on.” He turned as the sound of whispering came through the veil of vines on the birdcage arbor. “All right, you two,” he called, “come on out. Miss Emma needs our help in the chapel garden.”

  Emma touched the old man’s arm and shook her head. “I don’t think Derek would approve of the children going in there so soon after the accident,” she said.

  “May be you’re right,” Bantry acknowledged equably, “but you could fill a barn with what Mr. Derek don’t know about young ‘uns.” He bit into his celery stalk and chewed for a moment before adding decisively, “Won’t do ’em a bit o’ harm to go in there. Best for ’em to face it fair and square, or the bogeyman’ll move in and they won’t want to face it at all.”

  Peter and Nell were waiting expectantly on the steps of the wrought-iron arbor. Nell and Bertie had exchanged sailor outfits for matching cherry-red sweaters and scaled-down bib overalls. Peter still wore his white polo shirt, but had traded his short pants for a pair of neatly creased khaki trousers. Bantry beckoned to them to follow as he and Emma crossed the banquet hall, and the four of them entered the grassy corridor together.

  An unanticipated flutter of dread ran through Emma as they drew closer to the green door, and the children, who’d been talking quietly as they walked, fell silent. Bantry must have sensed their rising unease because, when they reached the door, he turned to address the children. Bending down, his hands braced upon his knees, he said, “You both know about Miss Susannah bumping her head this morning, right? Well, now, I’m not goin’ to lie to you. There might very well be a splash o’ blood or two where she fell, but there’s no need—”

  “Like when the lions tore the Christians limb from limb,” Nell put in with a knowing nod. “Or when Lancelot stabbed the Black Knight to the heart.”

  “Or when Professor Moriarty smashed on the rocks at the Reichenbach Falls,” Peter added thoughtfully, but Nell objected that the water had probably washed that blood away, so it didn’t really count.

  “What about when Duncan Robards knocked his tooth out at football?” Peter proposed. “He was bleeding all over the place.”

  Bantry gave Emma a sidelong look and stood upright, muttering, “Don’t know why I bother....”

  Bantry pulled the green door open, and for a moment they stood together, peering down at the grassy space at the bottom of the stairs. The oilcloth had been removed and a pair of stout planks had been placed on the stairs—a ramp for the wheeled stretcher, Emma thought. But the main focus of her attention, the damp grass near the tool-filled wheelbarrow, where Susannah’s battered head had lain, had been obliterated by the passage of many feet.

  Nell turned a reproachful eye on Bantry. “No blood,” she said, somewhat testily.

  “Wait,” said Peter. He leaned forward slightly, then ran down the planks to point triumphantly at a dark stain on the handle of the grub hoe.

  “Let me see.” Nell shouldered her way between Bantry and Emma and joined Peter beside the wheelbarrow. Brother and sister bent low over the. stain, discussing it with an almost clinical detachment.

  “She must’ve whacked her head on the hoe when she fell,” Peter reasoned, and Nell nodded.

  “That’s as may be,” Bantry said, walking briskly down the planks, “but we’ll be whackin’ weeds with it.” He picked up the grub hoe and the scythe and carried them over to the chapel.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Bantry?” asked Peter.

  “Movin’ the tools into the chapel,” Bantry explained. “Remember the rain we had last night? Might come back again tonight, and as we’ll be needin’ the barrow, and as I don’t want my tools to get rusty, I’m goin’ to put ’em inside where it’s dry.”

  “But Dad won’t want the chapel cluttered up,” Peter objected.

  Bantry shifted the load in his arms and looked curiously at Peter’s worried face. “Don’t your father look after his tools?” he asked. “That’s all I’m doin’, son. Your father won’t begrudge us a bit o’ roof. Now, you come over here and see that it’s all stacked tidy.”

  “It’s all right, Peter,” said Nell. “Bertie says that Papa won’t mind.”

  Peter glanced at his sister and seemed to relax a bit as he strode over to lend Bantry a hand. When the barrow was empty, Bantry looked up at Emma and asked, “Where do you want us to begin?”

  The rest of the morning passed quickly. Bantry and Peter stripped dead vines from the walls, Emma turned the soil in the raised beds, and Nell trotted to and fro, carrying armloads of debris to the wheelbarrow, while Bertie sat on an upturned bucket, supervising.

  Bantry and Emma took turns wheeling the barrow up the ramp and tipping its contents in a windswept, rocky meadow outside the east wall of the castle. A broad path cut through the meadow, a bright-green ribbon of moss running through the gorse bushes and clumps of tamarisk, and beyond the path the land fell away abruptly, dropping nearly two hundred feet to the foaming waves below.

  “The cliff path,” Emma said. She turned to Bantry. “Isn’t that where Peter was this morning?”

  “Aye,” said Bantry, “but Master Peter knows not to go beyond the path. And Lady Nell’s not allowed outside the castle walls on her own.”

  Emma nodded absently, listening as Peter called to Nell to bring him the pruning shears. Only fifty yards separated the cliff path from the east wall of the chapel garden. If Susannah had cried out, Peter almost certainly would have heard her. She must have fallen silently, Emma thought with a shudder, and quickly thrust the matter from her mind.

  It was nearing one o’clock when a heavyset man with a bristly red mustache appeared in the doorway of the chapel garden. Emma recognized him as one of the men she’d seen eating breakfast in the kitchen. Like the others, he had a radio clipped to his belt, but at the moment he was also burdened with a large wicker hamper.

  “Mr. Bantry, sir,” he called respectfully, coming down the stairs, “Madama thought you might be wanting a bite to eat.”

  “Madama was right, Tom,” said Bantry. He stepped down from the low retaining wall and walked over to take charge of the hamper. “Everything peaceful?”

  “So far,” the man said. He nodded pleasantly to Emma and the children before leaving.

  Emma stuck her pitchfork in the ground, Peter tossed a last handful of dead vines in the wheelbarrow, and Nell went to fetch Bertie before joining them on the stairs. Once Bantry had handed plates and glasses around, he set out a jug of cider, a bunch of grapes, a round of cheese, a long loaf of crusty bread, a covered bowl filled with rosemary chicken, and a dozen strawberry tarts topped with shredded coconut.

  “God bless Madama,” Bantry said reverently, and Emma murmured a heartfelt “Amen,” smiling when Nell’s hand darted toward the tarts. Bantry clucked his tongue and the hand hesitated, then picked up the bunch of gra
pes instead.

  “Who was that man?” Emma asked, opening the cider. “The man who brought the hamper.”

  “Tom Trevoy,” Peter informed her. “He’s the chief constable in Penford Harbor.”

  “He’s the only constable in Penford Harbor,” Nell added.

  “Trevoy?” said Emma. “I think I met a relative of his. She runs a guest house where I stayed, near Exeter.”

  “That’ll be Tom’s Aunt Mavis,” Bantry confirmed.

  “Why’s Tom wearing that thing in his ear?” Nell asked.

  “That’s a radio,” Peter explained. “It’s so he can talk with the other men. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bantry?”

  “Aye,” Bantry said shortly. “Now, who wants a nice bit o’ cheese?”

  Emma finished pouring the cider, then put the jug down and leaned back to survey the results of the morning’s work. Clearing away the dead growth had given her a better idea of the chapel garden’s basic shape and structure. There were more weeds to pull, more vines to remove, but her next step would be to the drafting table, to make some preliminary sketches. When the meal drew to a close, she declared a half-holiday.

  “You’ve earned it,” she said, plucking twigs from Nell’s curls. “You’re hard workers and I want you both to know that I really appreciate all your help.”

  “No one works harder than Peter,” Nell informed her. “At home, when Papa’s away, Peter—”

  “Would you like me and Nell to take the hamper back, Mr. Bantry?” Peter interrupted, getting to his feet.

  “Miss Emma and I’ll see to that,” Bantry said. “Run along and play, now, the both of you.”

  “But I wanted to tell Emma—” Nell began.

  “Here, Nell, have the last tart,” said Peter, thrusting it toward her as he hustled her up the steps. “You heard Mr. Bantry. We’re supposed to play now.”

  Bantry waited until the children were out of earshot, then shook his head. “ ‘We’re supposed to play, now,’ ” he mimicked gruffly. “Lad acts like it were an order.” Piling dishes into the hamper, he went on. “Has a bee in his bonnet about keepin’ busy, that one. Left him alone in my pottin’ shed for five minutes last week, and when I came back, he’d swept the floor.”