Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I gushed, sounding—even to my own ears—like a starstruck twelve-year-old. “Absolutely the coolest.” I slipped my arm through the gate to point at the tiny aircraft. “Did you make it yourself?”

  “The ultralight?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “No, I didn’t make it. I merely tweaked a few engine parts for its owner. He’ll be along later to pick it up. I think he’ll be happy with my improvements.” He cocked his head toward me. “Would you like to come in? Or were you merely passing by?”

  “No one could pass your gate accidentally, Arthur,” I said, grinning. “Of course I want to come in. Unless”—I looked down, feeling suddenly shy—“unless Bess and I are intruding.”

  “How could you intrude?” he asked. “I invited you.”

  He tugged on the gate and it swung aside soundlessly.

  “It’s not locked,” I said. “I thought it might be.”

  “Why would I lock it?” Arthur asked. “Your father-in-law is a decent chap. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “William is decent,” I said, as I wheeled Bess past him, “but he mystifies me. Come to think of it, so do you. The pair of you live next door to each other, with an unlocked gate between you, yet you haven’t exchanged so much as a how-do-you-do.” I looked up at Arthur, perplexed. “Is it a guy thing?”

  “Yes, Lori,” he said, closing the gate behind me. “It’s a guy thing. Hello, princess.” He bent to stroke Bess’s cheek with his knuckles, then squatted to study the pram. “My repairs seem to be holding up.”

  “So far, so good,” I said. “Thank you for calling the company’s CEO.”

  “It was no trouble,” said Arthur. “He said himself that he’d rather hear the bad news about the axle from me than from a mother whose child had been injured because of it.”

  “I wouldn’t have known how to get ahold of him,” I said, recalling Grant Tavistock’s comments about Arthur’s mysterious corporate connections. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “A former student,” Arthur replied.

  His answer seemed to demolish Charles Bellingham’s repeated assertions that the infamous Mr. Hargreaves was profoundly antisocial. I doubted that a recluse would feel comfortable in a classroom.

  “Are you a teacher?” I asked.

  “Everyone’s a teacher,” he said, standing. “I could do with a cup of tea after my test flight. What about you?”

  “I’d love one,” I replied.

  “Please, allow me,” he said, holding his hand out toward the pram. “You probably don’t get many chances to walk with your hands free.”

  “Not lately,” I agreed, wondering if I’d ever met a more perfect gentleman. No one who knew Arthur Hargreaves, I thought, could regard him as mean-spirited or uppity.

  He took control of the pram and we strode side by side across the broad meadow. Bess was entranced by her new companion. She smacked her lips, cooed, and gurgled, as if she were engaging him in conversation. When he responded with soft noises of his own, she kicked so enthusiastically that her blanket slithered to the ground. I picked it up, shook it out, and put it in the diaper bag. “How’s Marcus doing in Santiago?” I asked.

  “He’s having a ball,” Arthur replied. “He’s climbed a couple of cerros, eaten pastel de choclo in a barrio, shouted himself hoarse at a football game, and made lots of new friends.”

  “Didn’t he go there to attend a conference?” I asked uncertainly.

  “Oh, yes,” said Arthur, as if the conference were an afterthought. “His paper was very well received.”

  “Good for Marcus,” I said. “Are the rest of your grandchildren still here?”

  “Just the little ones,” he replied, “and Harriet. Her summer hols started last week.”

  “Harriet’s the one who got kite paste in her hair, isn’t she?” I asked and Arthur nodded. “Do your grandchildren stay with you often?”

  “As often as they please,” he said. “They seem to like it here.”

  “I can see why,” I said, gazing admiringly at the abbey. “Hillfont Abbey is—”

  “Absurd,” Arthur put in. “It’s utterly ridiculous.” He eyed his home ruefully. “Silly houses were all the rage when my great-great-grandfather built Hillfont. His name was Quentin Hargreaves and he had a taste for medieval kitsch. I’m thankful that he never toured India. If he had, I might be living in a scaled-down version of the Brighton Pavilion.”

  “I like Hillfont Abbey,” I said. “I guess I share your great-great-grandfather’s taste for medieval kitsch.”

  “It’s better than the Brighton Pavilion,” Arthur conceded. “I can’t bear Indo-Gothic architecture. Much too busy. It would be like living inside a kaleidoscope.”

  I did my best to conceal it, but I was shocked to hear Arthur speak so disparagingly about his family home. If he’d been around when Hillfont Abbey had been built, he would have sided with the Victorian villagers who’d dismissed it as an overdone eyesore. Did he realize that his opinion echoed theirs? I asked myself. Was he aware of the hostility his great-great-grandfather had roused in them?

  “I suppose Hillfont Abbey wasn’t to everyone’s taste when it was built,” I said cautiously. “What did your great-great—”

  “Please, call him Quentin,” Arthur interrupted. “It’ll save time.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What did Quentin’s neighbors think of his abbey?”

  “I wasn’t alive at the time,” Arthur said, with a wry, sidelong glance, “but my grandfather intimated to me that the abbey wasn’t a big hit with the locals. I imagine they preferred your father-in-law’s house.”

  “Fairworth is a little less, um, whimsical than Hillfont,” I allowed.

  “Fairworth is older than Hillfont,” said Arthur, “but it’s no less whimsical. Georgian architects looked to ancient Rome for inspiration. Building a Roman house in the English countryside is about as whimsical as it gets.”

  “Roman kitsch instead of medieval kitsch?” I said, smiling at the thought of what Willis, Sr., would say if I told him that his gracious home was kitschy.

  “Exactly,” said Arthur. “But people got used to seeing Corinthian columns and Palladian pediments in England. Hillfont was loathed because it was new, not because it was ridiculous.”

  “Do you really think your home is ridiculous?” I asked.

  “I think it’s bonkers,” said Arthur, “which is why I love it so dearly.” He grinned. “Who wouldn’t want to live in a mad abbey? It’s such fun! Here we are,” he went on. “Stay within shouting distance, won’t you? If you wander off, we’ll have to mount a search party for you. You’ll understand what I mean in a minute. It’s a bit of a maze.”

  We’d reached an arched opening in the wall surrounding the welter of courtyards and gardens I’d seen from afar. I tried to look everywhere at once as I followed Arthur through a small apple orchard, a berry garden, an herb garden, a burgeoning vegetable garden, and three or four minor courtyards.

  What I saw saddened me.

  It seemed to me that a man who could afford to purchase fine works of art—such as the da Vinci sketch Grant Tavistock coveted—should have been rich enough to keep his property in good order, but I saw little evidence of it. Though the gardens were moderately tidy, the courtyards were littered with broken statuary and loose stones that had fallen from dilapidated walls. Two possibilities crossed my mind as I steered the pram around the detritus: Either Arthur had suffered a financial setback or he wasn’t as wealthy as Grant and Charles believed him to be.

  We saw no one apart from each other and Bess until we entered a sunny, rectangular courtyard paved with large flagstones. It was bordered on three sides by a colonnaded arcade and on the fourth by the abbey’s west wing.

  “The fountain court,” said Arthur, coming to a halt. “We tend to congregate here.”


  The fountain court wasn’t quite as decrepit as the courtyards I’d already seen, but it, too, showed signs of neglect. The stumpy remains of a curved wall served as its centerpiece, piles of twisted metal lay rusting beneath the arcade, and several flagstones were missing entirely. It seemed like an odd place to congregate, but three children called “Hi, Grandad!” to Arthur when we entered it. They couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old.

  Two rosy-cheeked boys sat at opposite ends of a long wooden table in the arcade’s shadowy recesses. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but a small girl in a wide-brimmed straw hat knelt on the patch of bare dirt where the flagstones had been, digging industriously with a trowel.

  “Is she starting her own little garden?” I asked, smiling at the girl.

  “Emily isn’t planting seeds,” said Arthur. “She’s exhuming a corpse.”

  Fifteen

  I was sure—almost sure—that Arthur was joking, but I couldn’t detect a trace of humor in his face. To judge by his expression, exhumations were a normal playtime activity for preschool-age Hargreaveses.

  “A corpse?” I said faintly. “Whose corpse?”

  “I’m not certain,” said Arthur. “I’m afraid I didn’t ask her name before we ate her.”

  “You ate her?” I said, horrified.

  “It’s a reasonable thing to do with a chicken,” said Arthur, “unless you’re a vegetarian. Harriet is a vegetarian, but Emily isn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Most of the children go through a vegetarian phase, but—”

  “Stop,” I interrupted, raising a hand to silence him. “Are you telling me that Emily is digging up a chicken carcass?”

  “I am,” said Arthur. “She buried it yesterday, after dinner. I expect she wants to find out what it looks like now.” His blue eyes began to twinkle as he explained in gentle tones, “Emily’s mother and father are archaeologists.”

  “Of course they are,” I said, feeling gullible as well as relieved. “You were having a little fun with me.”

  “A very little,” he admitted. “Hillfont’s atmosphere creates certain expectations. One wouldn’t expect to find a grave robber at Fairworth House, but here”—he made a sweeping gesture—“anything’s possible!”

  Bess squawked insistently. Arthur lifted her into his arms and let her tug at his beard while he swayed gently from side to side. There was no doubting his experience with babies.

  “Hillfont does have a certain air about it,” I said. I looked at the piles of twisted metal beneath the arcade. “It seems neat and tidy from a distance, but up close it’s a bit”—I cudgeled my brains for an adjective that would be both accurate and polite—“rustic.”

  “I believe ‘rusty’ is the word you’re searching for,” Arthur said good-naturedly, following my gaze. “The unsightly stockpiles belong to my wife. She uses found objects in her art.”

  “I didn’t know that your wife was an artist,” I said.

  “Elaine is a structural engineer,” he said, “but in her spare time, she creates metal sculptures. Welding clears her mind. I’d introduce you to her, but she’s on an oil rig in the North Sea at present.”

  “Too bad she’s not a stonemason,” I said without thinking, “because some of your courtyards are”—I teetered on the verge of bluntness, but hauled myself back with the same lifeline—“rustic, too.”

  I winced and wished I’d kept my big mouth shut, but Arthur took my implied criticism in stride.

  “Hillfont was designed to fray at the edges,” he informed me. “Quentin may not have invented planned obsolescence, but he built the concept into his plans for practical as well as aesthetic reasons. Tumbledown walls make Hillfont look authentically antique, but they also make it cheaper to maintain. He didn’t want his extravagant masterpiece to become a burden on his descendants.”

  “Quentin was a very clever man,” I said. “Cleverness seems to run in your family.” I peered at the long wooden table beneath the arcade. “What are the boys up to?”

  “Stephen is constructing a remote-control Meccano digger, to help Emily with her excavations,” said Arthur. “He shares his grandmother’s interest in engineering. Colin is dismantling my wife’s carriage clock in an attempt to make it run backwards. We’re not sure whether he’s interested in mechanics or in practical jokes.”

  I looked at him doubtfully. “Is the carriage clock valuable?”

  “Not as valuable as the knowledge Colin will gain by pulling it apart,” said Arthur. “Let me show you a ruin Quentin didn’t create.”

  The busy children took no notice of us as we crossed to the stumpy, curved wall in the center of the courtyard. Bess surveyed the scene alertly over Arthur’s shoulder while I pushed the pram behind him and made faces at her.

  We were still a few steps away from the wall when I heard the sound of gurgling water. When I leaned over the weathered stones, a rush of cool air brushed my face. The soft, upwelling breeze rose from the openings in an iron grate bolted over the mouth of a well shaft.

  “If you drop down about ten feet or so, you’ll find a natural spring bubbling up from the earth,” said Arthur. “The spring inspired a Roman family to build a modest villa here in the fourth century. The well wall is all that remains of the villa. Quentin preserved the wall and named his home after the spring.”

  “Font,” I said, smiling. “Font as in fountain, as in fountain court, as in Hillfont. What happened to the rest of the villa?”

  “After the Romans departed,” said Arthur, “the locals used its dressed stones in their own building projects. Contrary to popular belief, recycling is not a new concept.”

  I continued to smile. I’d been in a red-hot rage when I left Fairworth House, but I’d cooled off considerably since then. Arthur’s world, with its ultralights, chicken bones, and Roman villas, was the perfect antidote to Bill’s toxic aunts.

  “What happened to your crown?” I asked. “There hasn’t been a coup, has there?”

  “No, indeed,” he said. “Another granddaughter, Alanna, is replacing the wilted buttercups with fresh ones.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “She has a keen interest in millinery.”

  Arthur laughed. “How did you—”

  “Grandad!”

  A pair of French doors in the abbey’s west wing had opened and a girl had stepped into the sunlight. She wore a striped red-and-white T-shirt, blue-jean shorts, and sandals, and it looked as though someone—an impetuous someone—had chopped a chunk out of her dark hair with a pocketknife. She was older than Colin, Stephen, and Emily—about ten, I thought—and after one hesitating step, she stood motionless, staring at us like a startled rabbit.

  “Is that a baby, Grandad?” she asked wonderingly. “Where did you get a baby?” She ran across the courtyard to peer eagerly at Bess. “We haven’t had a baby in the house since Emily.” She looked from Arthur to me. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Bess is my daughter,” I said. “I’m Lori Shepherd and you”—I surveyed her roughly chopped hair—“must be Harriet.”

  “I am Harriet,” she confirmed. “May I hold Bess? You can trust me. I’m good with babies.”

  “You can show Lori how good you are with babies by changing Bess’s nappy,” said Arthur. “Let’s go inside. I promised Lori a cup of tea.”

  Arthur didn’t thrust Bess at me, as Charles Bellingham had done in the churchyard. He simply picked up the diaper bag and walked toward the French doors, with Harriet racing ahead of him and me trailing behind with the pram. I parked the pram next to the doors and followed Arthur and Harriet into one of the most appealing rooms I’d ever entered.

  It was a library, a real library, a library that was used every day as opposed to an untouched, highly polished showpiece. The concave plaster ceiling was striped with slender oak ribs that curved down to form pilasters dividing one bookshelf from the next. The o
ak shelves were crammed with books as well as a jumble of odds and ends that included silver inkstands, bronze busts, building blocks, and baby dolls. Framed maps, technical drawings, and inky little hand prints hung from walls covered with a gorgeous, acanthus leaf–patterned wallpaper.

  The fireplace’s muted green tiles were framed by an exquisitely simple oak mantel and the room’s well-worn furnishings looked as though they’d come straight out of William Morris’s nineteenth-century workshop. I detected the hand of a master craftsman in each table, chair, lamp, and rug.

  While I gawked like a tourist, Arthur used his cell phone to ring for tea and stood over Harriet while she took care of Bess. I was clearly the only person in the room who was startled to see a sofa upholstered in what appeared to be original William Morris fabric used as a changing table. It then occurred to me that the designer would have been unfazed by the sight. He had, I reminded myself, believed in combining beauty with utility.

  “‘Have nothing in your home that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful,’” I said, quoting Morris.

  “Ah,” said Arthur, “you’re familiar with the Arts and Crafts movement.”

  “I’m a big fan of Arts and Crafts design,” I acknowledged. “I didn’t expect to find so many examples of it here. I thought Hillfont would be furnished with heavy, overdone Victorian pieces.”

  “William Morris was a Victorian,” Arthur pointed out, “but he and others like him rebelled against the Victorian norm. My great-great-grandfather was also a big fan of Arts and Crafts design, which is more than a bit ironic.”

  “How is it ironic?” I asked.

  “Quentin Hargreaves was a manufacturer,” said Arthur. “His fortune was based on industrialization and mass production, yet he filled his home with objects that were handmade by individual craftsmen in small workshops.”

  “I’m glad Bess isn’t a boy,” said Harriet. “Boys are squirty.”

  My snort of laughter was echoed by Arthur’s. Leave it to a ten-year-old, I thought, to bring a lofty conversation crashing back to ground level.