“Unfortunately, yes.” Jamie yawned. “But I’m sure a meal will perk us up.”
I brewed a pot of tea and helped Wendy set the table while Jamie artfully transformed a bowl of Catchpole’s eggs into a massive omelet supplemented by nibbly bits from the larder. After we’d polished off the omelet, Jamie won our undying adoration by making another batch of apricot compote.
“I asked Catchpole how to make it when I was stalling him on the stairs at lunchtime,” he told us. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say. It’s as easy as pie—much easier, in fact, because it doesn’t require a crust.”
The compote, and the half-hour break it gave us while it baked, did much to restore our collective sense of well-being.
“Have you noticed how the house seems to expand as we search it?” I asked as we carried the dishes to the sink. “I’m willing to swear that my bedroom had stretched to at least ten thousand square feet by the time I’d finished with it.”
“I had the same trouble with the bell tower,” Wendy acknowledged. “It must be as tall as the Empire State Building by now.”
“Did you know that steamer trunks breed?” Jamie added conversationally. “They’re like rabbits. You start with a pair and end up with a multitude.”
I could tell by Wendy’s fidgeting that she was anxious to get back to work, so I sent her on her way, assuring her that I considered dish washing the next best thing to having a bath. When Jamie offered to give me a hand, I ordered him in no uncertain terms to sit down, finish his tea, and relax. In my book, anyone who made dinner was exempt from washing up. Apart from that, Jamie had gotten less sleep than Wendy and I, and he’d spent a good chunk of the day dealing with Catchpole. He deserved an extra ration of rest.
He clearly needed one. By the time I finished filling the sink, he was slumped over the table, his head pillowed on his arms, dead to the world. My brain must have taken a catnap, too, because I was startled into full wakefulness when the back door swung open and Catchpole clomped into the room, shedding snow from his hobnailed boots with every step.
I shushed him furiously and pointed to Jamie, who hadn’t stirred. “Walk softly, will you? And keep your voice down.”
The old man’s tread was unexpectedly light as he approached the sink. “Feeling better, madam?”
“The broth worked,” I replied automatically.
“Knew it would.” Catchpole unwound his woolly scarves, unbuttoned his canvas jacket, and reached for a towel. “Here, let me help. Many hands make light work, my mother used to say.”
It was a strange sensation, to be sharing such a homely chore with a man who had once threatened me with a shotgun, but when I remembered the injured owl and the adopted bluetits, I stopped marveling. There was more to Catchpole than met the eye. As that thought crossed my mind, it sparked another, and I glanced at Catchpole with renewed interest. It had suddenly dawned on me that, in our zeal to keep the old man in the dark, Jamie, Wendy, and I had overlooked his potential as a source of information.
I looked over my shoulder. Neither the slosh of dishwater nor the occasional rattle of plate against plate had roused Jamie from his slumber. I doubted that a quiet conversation would disturb him. I’d have to be circumspect, of course. Quizzing Catchpole directly about the jewels would only set off his inner burglar alarm, and I wasn’t in the mood to squelch another diatribe about thieving Yanks.
“While I was lying in bed today,” I began, “I couldn’t help thinking about Miss DeClerke.”
“Stands to reason,” said Catchpole. “Miss DeClerke was the sort of woman who made people think.”
“I’m sure she was,” I agreed, and passed a dripping bowl to him. “The thing is, I was itching to get up after only a few hours. It seems incredible to me that Miss DeClerke spent years confined to one room.”
A reminiscent gleam lit Catchpole’s eyes. “She didn’t spend all of her time in her room, madam. She’d go out at night, sometimes, and wander about the grounds.”
“Is that right?” I looked thoughtfully at the cluster of outbuildings framed by the Gothic windows above the long stone sink. “Did she go anywhere in particular?”
When Catchpole was slow to answer, I gave him a sidelong glance and saw to my astonishment that a darker shade of red had risen beneath the wind-and sunburn coloring his grizzled face. For some reason, the old man was blushing.
“Not so’s you’d notice, madam. No particular place.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, his hobnails clicking on the tiles.
“Huh? What?” Jamie raised his head and blinked blearily in our direction. “Catchpole? What’re you doing here? Thought you’d gone back to your place.”
Catchpole seemed relieved by the interruption. “Popped in to make sure you’d given the ladies their dinner, Mr. Macrae.”
“Jamie gave us a beautiful dinner,” I said. “He even made apricot compote for us. It wasn’t as tasty as yours, but it was awfully good.”
“I expect you don’t use a range too often, eh, Mr. Macrae?” Catchpole asked.
“First time,” said Jamie.
“That’d explain it. Practice up and your compote’ll soon be as good as mine.” Catchpole hurriedly dried the last plate and returned it to its place on the white dresser. “I heard good news on the radio, madam. They’ll be sending the big plows our way sometime tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be glad to go home.”
“Absolutely,” I said, forcing a smile. “Can’t wait.”
“I’ll be off, then. Good night to you both.” Catchpole draped his damp towel over the drying rack, rewound his scarves, and let himself out the back door.
I watched the old man until he disappeared into the night, then let my gaze rove over the irregular roof lines of the squat buildings on the far side of the courtyard.
“Is there an outhouse out there?” I asked.
“An outhouse? As in privy?” Jamie stretched the kinks out of his arms and shoulders, then joined me at the sink. “Why do you ask?”
“Catchpole told me that Lucasta used to wander around outside at night,” I explained. “When I asked him where she went, he hemmed and hawed and went red in the face.”
Jamie waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe she visited his cottage for reasons a gentleman wouldn’t care to reveal.”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Catchpole has old-fashioned ideas about his station in life. I think maybe she went someplace he’d be too embarrassed to mention to me, like an outhouse.”
Jamie stroked his beard and leaned forward to peer through the windows. “There was a schematic of the grounds among the floor plans in the map case. If I recall correctly, the drawing shows a wash house, a bake house, a brewery—every large estate had its own in those days—and the stables, where Catchpole keeps his livestock. Beyond the courtyard, there’s his cottage, of course, and—”
I cut him off with a sharp intake of breath.
“Lori?” he said, eyeing me curiously. “Lori, what is it? Do you think the parure is hidden in one of the outbuildings?”
The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“Find Wendy,” I said. “Bring her to the kitchen. And tell her to put on her hiking boots.”
Jamie must have sensed the urgency behind my quiet words because he didn’t ask any more questions. He simply took off at a run, promising to return as quickly as possible.
When he’d gone, I continued to stare, aghast, into the darkness. I knew beyond any possibility of doubt where the Peacock parure had been hidden. And I knew it would break Jamie’s heart.
Twenty-one
I gave Jamie a head start before going upstairs. I stopped in Wendy’s room, and his, to retrieve their parkas and the Peacock parure, and to study the schematic of the grounds. Then I went to my own room.
Reginald was still sitting on the windowsill, gazing out.
“You knew,” I said numbly. “You were trying to tell me where to look, but I didn’t catch the hint. Forgive me, old bean.”
<
br /> I lifted Reginald from the sill and placed him on the slipper chair, where he could warm himself before the fire, then took my hat, gloves, and lightweight down jacket from the wardrobe and returned to the kitchen.
Jamie and Wendy were already there. I was glad to see that Wendy had brought her pry bar.
“Jamie tells me we’re going privy-dipping,” Wendy said brightly, but the smile faded from her face when she caught sight of my somber expression.
I motioned for them to sit down, piled the parkas and the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the table, and ran my fingers through my hair. I felt the need to prepare them for the final leg of their long and painful journey, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. I couldn’t bring myself to blurt out what I knew. I had to soften the blow, somehow.
“I’m no expert on fathers,” I said slowly, sitting across the table from them, “but I know, by knowing you, that yours must have been pretty wonderful. I have to believe that they stole the parure because the war clouded their judgment, or they were bewitched by Ladythorne—or maybe even because they hoped one day to make life easier for you.
“If your fathers hadn’t been fundamentally decent guys, the theft wouldn’t have haunted them. But . . .” I searched for the right words, and found them. “But old sins cast long shadows, and their sin cast a shadow over the rest of their lives. In the end it killed Wally, and it tortured James in ways I can’t begin to imagine. I know how angry you are with those two young men, but I hope you’ll find a way to forgive them. Because they never forgave themselves.”
Coals toppled inside the range. An oil lamp sputtered. Wendy’s gaze had turned inward, but Jamie’s never wavered.
“You’re leading up to something,” he said. “What is it? Do you know where the parure was hidden?”
I picked up the parcel and reached for my jacket.
“Put on your parkas,” I said, “and follow me.”
The night air was bitterly cold. The snow was crisp under our boots. The stars shone like pinpoints of ice in the raven-black sky, and a rising moon silvered the snow as we trudged, single file, along the narrow path Catchpole had carved with his plow.
“See how the moonlight turns night into day?” I said in a low-voiced murmur. “That’s why they had to wait for the dark of the moon. It was part of the treasure hunt, part of the game. They had to avoid being caught by the sentries the army had posted to protect the convalescent home.”
We passed the bake house, the wash house, the brewery, the stables.
“There was no need to dodge Catchpole’s cottage.” I lowered my voice further still as the snow-covered pines came into view. “Mr. Catchpole had gone away to war. Mrs. Catchpole and her young son had gone north to Shropshire, to help run the family farm. Their cottage was empty.”
When the plowed path ended, I guided them along a snow-covered trail that wound through the trees to a clearing. There, in the center of a wide circle of pale beeches, stood an edifice as eccentric as Ladythorne itself. It was luminous in the moonlight, made of polished white marble carved to look like a great square-topped tent, its sloping roof rising to a central peak, its walls falling in soft folds to the ground, its shadowy entrance flanked by a pair of imposing statues that made my flesh creep. The two looming, anonymous figures, shrouded in hooded capes, stood facing each other across the shadowy gap, heads bowed, as if in eternal mourning.
Jamie looked at me questioningly. “The mausoleum?”
“The marble box,” I said. “Lucasta had no heirs. I think she planned to take the parure with her when she died.”
Beside me, I heard Jamie gasp.
“Grave-robbers,” he whispered. “Dear God, they were grave-robbers.”
I drew a shuddering breath and felt dread rise within me. Although I had every intention of returning the parure to its rightful owner, I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to open a two-year-old grave.
The snow crunched crisply as Wendy took a step forward, her gaze fixed on the mausoleum.
“They were young and shattered,” she said evenly, as though in response to Jamie’s horrified whisper. “They’d seen their buddies’ mutilated corpses buried in sand, in mud, or left in the rain to rot.” She pointed the pry bar at the gleaming white tomb. “Here, death’s wrapped in a pretty package—how could they take it seriously? It was just a stage set to them, part of the game.” Her hand fell to her side. “After everything they’d been through, everything they’d seen, it must have been pure joy to feel such innocent chills. Like . . . like telling yourself spooky stories when you know Dad’s up the hall, ready to protect you. Dad knew he was safe here. He could afford to play childish games. He didn’t have to be afraid anymore.”
She blinked rapidly, gripped the pry bar with both hands, and started toward the gap between the ghostly statues. Jamie followed and I trailed after them, trying hard to blink away my own tears before they froze on my face. It was the first time I’d heard Wendy call her father “Dad.”
We hadn’t needed our flashlights while walking the moonlit path, but as we passed between the shrouded figures, we switched them on. The mausoleum’s door had been carved to resemble an intricately patterned rug, the kind bedouins used to cover a tent’s floor. Wendy bent low to examine the lock, then stood back, grasped the handle, and pulled. Icy fingers seemed to brush my face as the door swung outward.
We moved as lightly as disembodied spirits across the threshold, through a small anteroom lined with white marble benches, and into a chamber that had clearly been built to hold more generations of DeClerkes than it ever would. The chamber’s walls were smooth and vertical, but the ceiling rose to a central peak.
Grundy and Rose shared a tomb beneath the peak. Their white marble effigies, clad in medieval garb, lay side by side atop the white sepulcher, hands folded in prayer and faces turned heavenward. On the wall to the left, marble tablets memorialized three of their four sons. The tablets’ gold lettering spoke poignantly of the boys’ gallantry and the graves they occupied in the foreign fields of Flanders and northern France.
Lucasta’s mother and father had no effigies on their tombs. Their mortal remains were enclosed in simple oblong blocks of marble, in which their names had been carved above the dates of their births and untimely deaths. Lucasta’s tomb was equally unadorned, apart from a few fresh sprigs of rosemary.
“For remembrance,” I said under my breath, and recalled the pots of herbs in Catchpole’s cottage.
A fourth tablet had been set into the wall above Lucasta’s tomb. Our beams converged on it like searchlights, illuminating the curious inscription:
P. P. DECLERKE, ESQ.
1897-1940
I took note of the telltale initials and dates and nearly wept with relief. I wouldn’t have to test my nerves after all.
“Eighteen ninety-seven,” I said shakily. “Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. The first time Rose wore the parure.”
“Nineteen forty.” Jamie’s hushed whisper echoed eerily in the chamber. “Dunkirk—and the wedding that never took place.”
Wendy laid her pry bar on the floor and slid her fingers around the edge of the tablet.
“It’s hinged,” she said, and gave the tablet a firm tug.
It swung away from the wall, revealing a hollow cavity that served as the receptacle for a gold-hinged box made of luminous white marble. While Jamie slid the box from the niche, I passed the brown-paper-wrapped parcel to Wendy and backed away, reluctant to intrude on a moment that belonged to them alone.
Jamie set the box on Lucasta’s tomb, raised the lid, and paused.
“There’s an envelope.” His puzzled words echoed off the smooth walls as he lifted the ivory envelope into the light.
Two words had been written on it. I recognized the neat, round hand even from a distance, although I’d seen it only once before.
“ ‘Thank you,’ ” Jamie read aloud.
When he slid a single folded sheet of ivory stationary from the envelope, I couldn’t keep my
self from moving to his side to read the message sent from beyond the grave:
Whoever you are, and wherever you’ve come from, thank you for bringing my treasure back to me. You and I know, now, what really happened all those many long years ago. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be reading this, and I, of course, have gone to a place where everything is known.
I imagine you as a young man, a son or a grandson struggling to come to terms with a painful truth. Try to remember that it isn’t the whole truth. No man should be judged by his misdeeds alone. Where there was love, let there be love still. These are lessons learned too late by a dying woman. I hope that you will be wiser than she was.
Lucasta Eleanora DeClerke
Jamie stared at the letter for a long time, reading and rereading it, as if memorizing each curving line of script. Then he folded the ivory sheet, put it back in the envelope, and offered it to Wendy, who waved it off. Perhaps she understood that he needed it more than she did.
“You keep it,” she said. “I’ll always know where to find it.” Jamie hesitated only a moment before tucking the envelope into his parka.
Wendy placed the parcel beside the marble box. As she unfolded the plain brown paper, the diamonds caught our flashlights’ beams and tossed them into the air, showering the cold white marble with a thousand glittering sparks. The shimmering flecks danced and tumbled over the tombs as the individual pieces of the parure were transferred from the humble packet to their final resting place.
Wendy laid the tiara in the perfectly carved crescent in the center of the box, and Jamie placed the earrings in the two pear-shaped depressions designed to hold them. The brooches followed, then the bracelets, the choker, and, last of all, the magnificent necklace, encircling the rest of the parure in a halo of heavenly radiance. I felt a flutter of regret as Wendy closed the lid, but a few elusive gleams seemed to linger even after the jewels were out of sight.
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 19