Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1

by Nancy Atherton

  “You wait out front, Archy,” said Miss Kingsley. “I’ll have another driver for you shortly. As for Paul… will you excuse me, Lori? I think my presence is required in the lounge.”

  I turned to Archy and thanked him for all his help.

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” he said. “You’ve given me a chance to finish up a job I should have finished years ago. I’m the one who should thank you.” He nodded in Bill’s direction. “You tell your young man I said cheerio, will you? He’s a nice fellow and the two of you make a fine couple. I’m very pleased to have met you both. You be sure to stop and visit if you’re ever passing through Greenwich.” He shook my hand, winked, and was gone.

  Bill hung up the telephone.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “MacLaren invited us both to. come up to his estate.” When my eyes lit up, he raised a cautioning hand. “It was a strange invitation. He was ready to hang up on me until I mentioned the long-lost letter. Apparently he doesn’t share Archy Gorman’s enthusiasm for chatting over old times.”

  “He did lose his brother,” I said. “It must be a pretty painful memory.”

  “Yes, but…” Bill stroked his beard. “No, never mind. Let’s wait and see if you get the same impression.” He stood up as Miss Kingsley returned.

  “If anyone had told me that one day I would see our Paul dead drunk before noon…” She shook her head.

  “He’s a lot smaller than Archy,” said Bill. “I suppose it goes to his head faster. And now, Miss Kingsley, I have another favor to ask of you.”

  By seven o’clock that evening, Bill and I were on board a private jet bound for Wick.

  21

  Andrew MacLaren was at the airport to meet us. As tall as Bill and broader across the shoulders, he walked with a pronounced limp and used a cane, yet he seemed surprisingly agile. Certainly he was more fit and trim than I’d have expected for a man of his age, not to mention a man with a handicap.

  He must have read the question in my eyes, and it must have been a familiar one because he tapped the cane lightly against his leg. “Polio. Grew up with it. Doesn’t slow me down.” His nonchalant manner put me at ease and by the time we had reached the parking lot, Andrew’s lopsided gait seemed as unremarkable as Bill’s steady stride.

  He led us to a dilapidated Land Rover. Uh-oh, I thought as we climbed in, an aristocrat on the skids. I wondered if that might explain his reluctant invitation; perhaps he was ashamed to have houseguests. But that theory went out the window as we approached MacLaren Hall. When the road narrowed from a one-lane gravel drive to a rutted track, I realized that Andrew’s choice of transport was merely practical.

  “I’m sorry about the road,” he said. “We have a perfectly usable drive, of course, but this is faster and, as it’s getting late, I thought you might be in need of supper.”

  There was no need for him to apologize. We were far enough north and it was still early enough in the year for there to be a good deal of daylight left even at that late hour, and the scenery more than made up for the jouncing, jostling ride. We were surrounded by some of the wildest, most desolate country I’d ever seen, with mountains looming on all sides, barren, craggy, majestic. They took my breath away, but also left me feeling uneasy. This was a harsh, unforgiving place. I suspected it would not deal kindly with weakness and, given half a chance, it would kill the unwary.

  MacLaren Hall did nothing to soften that impression. It was an enormous, intimidating old place faced in weathered red brick, with dozens of chimneys and deep-set, shadowy windows. It stood on a rocky hillside above a loch—magnificent, but terribly lonely, overlooking the black water in bleak isolation.

  As if to compensate for the somber surroundings, Andrew had ordered his housekeeper to lay on a huge spread, including venison from a deer he had bagged himself and whiskey from the family distillery. While we ate, he regaled us with the history of MacLaren Hall. He was obviously proud of his ancestral home and he seemed to have a story about every family member who had ever lived in it. Except for Bobby. It wasn’t until we had retired to the library, whiskeys in hand, that Bill was able to broach the subject. On the flight up I had agreed to leave the questioning to him.

  “As I mentioned on the telephone, Mr. MacLaren,” Bill began, “we found something in Miss Westwood’s papers that piqued our curiosity.” From his breast pocket he took the letter we had found at the Flamborough and handed it to Andrew. “The envelope was still sealed when we found it. We were wondering if the matter you mentioned was ever resolved.”

  Andrew glanced briefly at the letter. “It was settled long ago,” he said. Then he crumpled it into a ball, and with a flick of the wrist, threw it on the fire. I started up from my chair, aghast, but Bill motioned for me to remain seated and continued on as though nothing had happened.

  “Might I ask what it concerned?” he said.

  “Some property. It’s unimportant now. As I say, the matter was settled years ago.”

  “You relieve my mind,” said Bill, seemingly unconcerned. He raised his glass to the light. “This is from the family distillery? It’s marvelous. Tell me, do you use oak barrels for the aging process or do you prefer…” With unshakable aplomb, Bill led the conversation on a circuitous route. By the time he got back to Bobby, Andrew had tossed back three glasses of whiskey in quick succession and his mood had mellowed considerably.

  “Was Bobby your elder brother?” asked Bill.

  “By two years,” Andrew replied. “There was only the pair of us.”

  “You must have been very close.”

  “We were.” Andrew stared moodily into the fire, as though mesmerized by the dancing flames.

  I wondered how long it had been since he had spoken of his brother. I wondered if it came as a relief to him to say Bobby’s name aloud, or whether it fell like a hammerblow every time. How much more whiskey would it take before he could say the name without flinching?

  “I worshiped him,” Andrew went on. “You might think I’d feel a dram of jealousy or envy, with Bobby being the elder son and healthy to boot…”

  “But you didn’t?” said Bill.

  “Never crossed my mind.” Andrew emptied his fourth glass, then set it on a table beside his chair. “What you must understand is that Bobby treated me as an equal. When I couldn’t walk, he carried me up into the hills to see the falcons’ nest, or out to fish in the loch. He taught me how to track, how to use my eyes and my brain to compensate for the weakness in my legs. I’d have been bedridden for years longer if Bobby hadn’t lured me out to explore the world.”

  “He must have been a fine young man,” said Bill.

  “They come no finer,” said Andrew. “The curious thing was that he made me love the place much more than he ever had. He was so full of life himself that our barren crags left him feeling hungry for… something kinder, less austere, I suppose, something more like himself.” Andrew picked up the empty glass and held it out to Bill.

  “It must have been very hard on you when he joined up,” said Bill. When he handed the glass back, it was filled only halfway.

  “He was too young, much too young,” Andrew said with a note of bitterness. “But they didn’t question matters too closely in those days. There was a great demand for air crews and he was keen as mustard, so…”

  “They took him on.”

  “They did. He was stationed at Biggin Hill. God help me, I was so proud of him. It never occurred to me that he could be killed. My brother was young and strong and invulnerable. He was…” Andrew’s voice faltered, but another swallow steadied it. “He was shot down over the Channel on the ninth of September, 1940. His wingman saw the plane hit the water, but there was no parachute, and Bobby… The body was never recovered,” he finished gruffly.

  “My God,” I whispered.

  Andrew raised a hand to smooth his thinning gray hair. “It was a common enough occurrence during the war,” he said, bowing his head to stare into his glass, “but I’ll admit
that it was an uncommon blow to me. It may sound foolish, but I sometimes go into the chapel to be with him.”

  “The chapel?” Bill asked. “But I thought…”

  Andrew looked up. “It’s a family tradition,” he explained. “A family as old as ours has left its share of unburied sons on many battlefields. When Bobby died, we added his name to the memorial tablet. I like to think I can sense his presence down there. MacLarens are canny that way.” Andrew was silent for a few moments. Then he asked: “Would you like to see it?”

  “Thank you,” Bill replied. “We would be honored.”

  Carrying a lantern to light the way, Andrew led us to the family chapel, a narrow Gothic structure attached to the west wing of the hall. Generations of MacLarens were entombed there, and I’d never seen a darker, damper place in all my life. The weeping granite walls seemed to close in upon us, and the chill air made me wish I’d worn something warmer than my short-sleeved tea-party dress. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could rest in peace there. I could almost hear their bones rattling from the cold.

  Footsteps echoing on the uneven stone floor, we wound our way past recumbent lords and ladies to the far side of the chapel, where a large bronze plaque had been set into the wall. Many names had been inscribed on it, and many dates, and down in one dim corner Bobby’s name and birth date appeared above the words: LOST IN DEFENCE OF THE REALM, 9 SEPTEMBER 1940.

  “My brother had just turned twenty,” Andrew said. His voice rang hollowly in the chamber. On impulse, I bent down to touch the inscription, and when the locket slipped from the neck of my dress to hang glinting in the lantern light, I heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Andrew’s eyes on me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, straightening quickly, “I didn’t mean to—”

  He passed a hand across his face and seemed to shrink in on himself. “If you will excuse me… I have had a very tiring day.” Slowly, painfully, all agility gone, he made his way back to the entrance. His valet and the housekeeper were waiting there, as though Andrew’s visit to the chapel were a nightly ritual. Andrew leaned heavily on the strong arm of his valet, a stocky young man with broad shoulders.

  “I will show you to your rooms now,” said the housekeeper. She was a sharp-eyed older woman in a starched black dress, and her words seemed to be a statement of fact, not a suggestion.

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “You go ahead with Mrs. Hume. We’ll speak again in the morning.” He started off, then hesitated, and turned to Bill. “There’s good fishing nearby, if you’re up early enough.”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

  “It’s no imposition,” said Andrew. “Colin and I are usually up at first light. We’ll find a rod for you, young man, and a pair of waders.”

  “In that case, Bill would be happy to accept your invitation,” I said, treading lightly on Bill’s foot.

  “Uh, yes,” he said. “Yes, thank you, I’d be delighted.”

  “Good,” said Andrew, with a wan smile. “Colin will rouse you bright and early, and perhaps we’ll have fresh salmon for breakfast.” With one hand on Colin’s shoulder and the other on his cane, Andrew made his way slowly down the hall.

  The housekeeper led us up the dark-paneled main staircase to adjacent second-floor bedrooms overlooking the loch. She indicated the location of the nearest lavatory and bathroom, then added, in a cold, unfriendly voice, “Mr. MacLaren sometimes has difficulty sleeping. It would be appreciated, therefore, if you did not disturb his rest while you are here. Should you require assistance during your visit, you may use the bellpulls in your rooms to summon one of us.” She paused, and her brown eyes narrowed to slits. “There is always someone awake in MacLaren Hall. Good night.”

  We nodded obediently; then Bill went into his room and I entered mine. I half expected to hear a key turn in the lock, shutting me in for the night. Mrs. Hume’s words had sounded more like a warning than an offer of hospitality: you are being watched; don’t stray from your rooms. Creepy, but also tantalizing. Someone was afraid to let us roam MacLaren Hall unattended.

  My room had a funereal charm to it, with shoulder-high wainscoting, a single dim brass lamp, and grim Victorian furniture. Dark green velvet drapes blocked the view, and a green brocade quilt covered the rock-hard bed. Everything was spotless, though, and well maintained. Museum pieces, I thought, fingering the black tassel on the bellpull. When enough time had elapsed for Mrs. Hume to go back downstairs, I tiptoed over to knock at Bill’s door. He opened it, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside. He seemed somewhat peeved.

  “Waders? At dawn? What have you gotten me into?”

  “Keep your voice down.” I steered him over to sit on a low, burgundy plush couch at the opposite end of the room. “I have a feeling that Mrs. Hume’s hearing is excellent.”

  He glared belligerently at the door, but lowered his voice. “Lori, I’ll make a fool of myself out there. I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

  “I have complete confidence in your ability to fake it,” I said cheerfully. “Playing fisherman can’t be all that much harder than playing chauffeur.”

  “Are you still mad about that? Lori—”

  “I’m not mad about anything. You’ll do fine. Just take your cues from Andrew and let Colin bait your hook. And while you’re out there, suggest a walk around the grounds, maybe a hike up to the falcons’ nest.”

  “More hiking?” Bill groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I still have blisters from Pouter’s Hill.”

  “Then put on an extra pair of socks,” I said sternly. “Listen, Bill, do whatever you can to keep Andrew and Colin away from the house tomorrow.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Bill raised his head from his hands. “While I’m out there drowning, you’ll be in here searching for whatever it was that Bobby left to Dimity.”

  “You saw what Andrew did with the letter,” I said. “Why would he destroy it if he was telling us the truth? It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, don’t you think? Like shouting ‘I’m innocent’ before we’d even accused him of anything. He must have known it would arouse our suspicions.”

  “I don’t think MacLaren’s thinking very clearly,” said Bill. “That’s why I kept a certified copy.”

  “What?”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Bill, his good humor fully restored. “Remember Mrs. Hume.”

  “You rat,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted one of us to have an authentic reaction. I’m a lawyer, so he wouldn’t expect one from me, but—”

  “But authentic reactions are my specialty. Thanks a lot.”

  Bill stretched his legs out and tucked a fringed throw pillow behind his head. “I thought something might be up when I talked to him on the telephone. He wanted nothing to do with us at first, but as soon as I mentioned the letter, he couldn’t invite us up here fast enough. It seemed odd to me. There’s a photocopy machine in Miss Kingsley’s office, and Miss K counts among her many talents those of a commissioner for oaths. That’s a notary public, to you.”

  “Then you agree with me? You think he’s hiding something?”

  “I do. What’s more, I think it might be out in the open and he must think it’s something we’d recognize on sight. Otherwise, Mrs. Hume wouldn’t have dropped her leaden hint about staying in our rooms.”

  I nodded slowly, then got up and walked over to the windows. Pulling the drapes aside, I looked into inky darkness. Not a glimmer of starlight reflected from the lapping waves of the loch. With a shiver, I turned back to Bill. “Why’d he invite you to go fishing, then? You’d think he’d want us out of here as soon as possible.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s tired of hiding. Or maybe he feels safe with the dragon lady to watch his back. How do you plan to get around her?”

  “Mrs. Hume doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to give me a tour of the hall.”

  “Is she?”

  I returned to the couch. “You heard t
he way Andrew talked about the place—he’s bound to want to show it off, and if you persuade him to take you on an excursion, he’ll have to deputize someone. My guess is that it’ll be Mrs. Hume. If she’s going to be breathing down my neck anyway, I might as well make use of her.”

  “Thus, by a process of elimination…”

  “Whatever she doesn’t show me tomorrow must be what we want to see. That’s why I need you to keep Andrew away as long as possible. This is a big place and I’m going to insist on seeing all of it.” I paused for a moment in silent thought, then asked, “What did you think of the chapel?”

  Bill snuggled his head deeper into the pillow and shuddered. “Pouter’s Hill it most certainly is not.”

  “No. No light, no warmth, no open space.” I frowned. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that Bobby’s only monument should be a plaque in the damp corner of a mausoleum in the middle of nowhere. I find it very hard to believe that Andrew can sense his presence down there. Everyone we’ve talked to—his brother included—remembers Bobby as bursting with life, vibrant.”

  “Dancing, laughing, lighting up the room.”

  “Exactly. Bobby’s name seems out of place in that cold hole. And did you notice that Andrew never once mentioned Dimity? Not once. Do you suppose he was jealous of her? Afraid she would steal Bobby away from him? Is that what this is all about?”

  “I’ve got a better one for you. Why doesn’t Dimity take care of it herself?”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Lori, if she can fix Reginald and write in journals and send Evan packing, why can’t she just swoop in here and get whatever it is Bobby meant for her to have? For that matter, why can’t she just fly straight into Bobby’s arms?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Bill tented his fingers and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I think it’s because she loves you.”

  “But she loved Bob—”

  Bill’s hand shot up. “Hush. My theory, such as it is, requires patience.” Folding his arms, he went on. “Dimity loves you. You’re her spiritual daughter, so to speak. Every single manifestation of her supernatural power has been for your benefit, from lending a hand in the kitchen to helping Derek finish the cottage on time. This much we know for sure.”