Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (21 page)

“What happened between the wars?” I asked.

Taxation, inflation, stagnation.... Many of our older families could no longer afford to maintain their ancestral residences. The National Trust attempted to preserve historic houses for posterity, but a great many were razed to the ground before laws were enacted to protect them.

“How did Fairworth House manage to survive?” I asked.

The last Fairworthys to live there sold it to a bank some fifty years ago. It was then sold to a succession of owners who didn’t have the wherewithal to maintain the property but who weren’t permitted to tear it down. It languished, unloved and unlived-in for more than a decade, until a certain American gentleman decided to establish a residence near his grandsons in England. William brought Fairworth to life again after many long years of neglect. I do like happy endings, don’t you?

“I’m a sucker for them,” I said, grinning. “I hope William goes ahead with his plan to buy some Cotswold Lions. They’ll put the true finishing touch on Fairworth’s restoration.”

I hope so, too. In the meantime, however, we must continue to do what we can to insure that Sally Pyne’s story has a happy ending. Whether it will be with Señor Cocinero or without him remains to be seen.

“I also have to make sure that the Donovans keep their greedy paws off of William’s things,” I said. “Which means that I’d better get some shut-eye. Heaven knows what tomorrow will bring.”

Sleep well, my dear.

“I always sleep well when it’s raining,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”

The curving lines of royal-blue ink slowly faded from the page. I closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, banked the fire, and gave Reginald a pat between the ears. I was about to leave the study when Bill’s figure loomed in the doorway.

“Frau Schniering died ten minutes ago,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll leave for Munich first thing in the morning.”

Bill would have been a basket case if he’d taken the loss of every client to heart, but he’d been extremely fond of Karla Schniering, and her death, though not unexpected, had clearly hit him hard.

I put my arms around him in silent sympathy. At that moment, Sally Pyne’s charade and the Donovans’ misdeeds seemed very trivial indeed.

Seventeen

Will, Rob, and I watched Bill drive away in his Mercedes on Wednesday morning, finished breakfast, and headed for Anscombe Manor in the Rover. The storm had blown itself out in the night, leaving a rain-washed landscape glistening beneath a clear blue sky. Silvery rivulets crisscrossed the lane, and the droplet-strewn hedgerows looked as though they’d been draped in diamonds.

Fortunately, the riding ring had an excellent drainage system, so the twins’ lessons could proceed as scheduled. I thanked Kit again for treating the boys to a trail ride the previous afternoon, watched them go through their warm-up exercises with Nell, chatted with Emma, and fed a few apples to Toby, the oldest and sweetest pony in the stable, before returning to the cottage, where I busied myself with household chores. I checked each of my telephones periodically throughout the morning, but since they were in good working order, I was forced to conclude that Willis, Sr., was managing to survive without me.

I was pleased, of course, that Willis, Sr., didn’t need my help, but when my cell phone rang just before noon, I slapped it to my ear so eagerly that I nearly concussed myself.

“Guten Morgen, mein Liebling,”
said Bill.

I felt momentarily disoriented when I heard my husband’s voice instead of my father-in-law’s, a state of mind exacerbated by his unusual greeting.

“Hi,” I said, pulling myself together. “I forgot that you speak German as well as Spanish.”

“I dabble,” he said modestly. “I’m in a limo on the Autobahn, en route to the Schniering estate, so I thought I’d touch base. What’s happening at Fairworth?”

“Smooth sailing,” I replied brightly. “Your father hasn’t called, which is fantastic because it means that everything’s hunky-dory at Fairworth and since yesterday was so stressful, I’m happy that today is going so well. I’m very happy for William. Very, very happy.”

“It’s good to be happy,” said Bill.

“I couldn’t be happier,” I gushed. “Did you have a nice flight?”

“Pretty routine,” he replied. “It wasn’t nearly as happy as your happy morning at home, but—”

“Oh, shut up,” I said without rancor. Bill could always see right through me, possibly because I wasn’t terribly opaque. “You’d think William would’ve called by now,” I grumbled, giving vent to my true feelings, “if only to tell me that he’s okay.”

“Maybe he hasn’t had a chance,” said Bill. “Maybe he’s caught up in a killer game of backgam—”

“Bill!” I broke in excitedly. “My phone just beeped. I’d better take it. It may be your father.”

“Talk to you later,” said Bill.

“Good luck with the Schniering brothers,” I said, and switched over to the incoming call.

“William?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not
William
, it’s
Charles
,” said Charles Bellingham.

“Back from London already?” I said, my excitement ebbing. “How time flies when you’re—”

“Stop
gibbering
,” Charles snapped. He sounded upset. “Oh, Lori, you have to get over here right away, and I do mean
tout de suite
. The constable’s come and gone, Grant’s having a full-blown anxiety attack, and I have absolutely no idea how to break the news to William.”

“Break the news about what?” I asked, bewildered.

“The burglary!” he cried. “Crabtree Cottage has been pillaged, plundered, ransacked—we’ve been robbed! No time to talk now, Grant needs me. Just hop in that sad little car of yours and stomp on the gas pedal, will you? Coming, Grant!” he called and cut the connection.

My brain spun wildly for a moment before it kicked into gear. I called Kit and asked him to keep the twins at Anscombe Manor until further notice, then grabbed my shoulder bag and ran for the Rover. My Mini was an unquestionably sad little car, but I could burn up the road in the Rover.

I simply couldn’t believe that Crabtree Cottage had been burgled. Finch was virtually crime-free. Local teenagers occasionally left a few beer bottles on the village green, but their parents always marched them back the next day to clean up after themselves. Local adults might fling unpleasant words at each other from time to time, but once they’d cleared the air they reverted to civilized behavior.

Yet it seemed equally unlikely that a non-local had broken into Crabtree Cottage. Finch was the exact opposite of a tourist mecca. It was so far off the beaten track that few outsiders were aware of its existence.

Unless, of course, one counted the outsiders who’d recently moved into Fairworth House. I recalled Aunt Dimity’s cautionary words and ordered myself to keep an open mind about the Donovans, but as I sped past Willis, Sr.’s drive I couldn’t help remembering that he’d heard someone use the elevator in Fairworth House at the curiously early hour of 2:57 a.m. on Tuesday.

“Grant and Charles left for London on Monday and returned on Wednesday,” I murmured as I crossed the humpbacked bridge. “Crabtree Cottage was burgled sometime between Monday and Wednesday. Someone at Fairworth used the elevator in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. No prejudice here, Dimity. Just a recitation of cold, hard facts.”

A sizable crowd of villagers had already gathered in front of Crabtree Cottage by the time I arrived. Under normal circumstances I would have plunged straight into the gossip fest, but Charles’s needs were greater than my own, so I pushed my way politely past my neighbors and through the cottage’s front door.

“Charles?” I called, peering down the narrow hallway that led to the living quarters at the back of the cottage.

Charles Bellingham appeared at the far end of the hall and beckoned frantically to me. I detected no signs of ransacking as I hurried toward him. His office was as neat as a pin, the dining room chairs were upright, and the framed watercolors that lined the hallway seemed undisturbed, but Charles was a bundle of nerves, wringing his hands and shifting anxiously from foot to foot. When I reached him, he put an arm around my shoulders and spoke in the hushed tones of an intensive care nurse.

“Grant’s in the garden with Goya and Matisse,” he said. “The dogs have calmed him down, but he’s still in a state of shock. You must convince him that none of this is his fault.”

“None of what?” I asked. “Forgive me, Charles, but I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’ll let Grant explain,” he said. “He believes in talk therapy, but I’ve thrown in a whacking great gin-and-tonic to help the process along. May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Best to keep a clear head.”

“‘When all about you are losing theirs,’” he quoted feelingly. “Kipling understood trauma. I regard him as one of England’s most underrated poets. Modern critics may dismiss his poems as doggerel, but in
my
opinion—”

“Charles?” I interrupted gently. “Grant?”

“Sorry,” he said, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Focus, Charles, focus.” He breathed in through his nostrils and out through his mouth, then dropped his hand. “There. I’m back again. Let’s go.”

Charles led the way through the kitchen and into the most charming garden in Finch. It was overcrowded and untidy and it would never win a prize for originality, but I loved every square inch of it, from the old-fashioned morning glories gracing the stone walls to the unruly clumps of thyme edging the rosy brick paving.

An ancient oak table and four wobbly, mismatched chairs usually occupied a spot in the center of the garden, but two of the chairs had been placed next to the bamboo chaise longue in which Grant reclined, shaded by the leafy boughs of the gnarled crabapple tree that had given Crabtree Cottage its name. His whacking great gin-and-tonic rested on a small wrought-iron table at his elbow.

Grant’s eyes were closed, but the dogs sharing the chaise longue with him were alert and thrilled to have company. They jumped down from their perch and bounded over to welcome me as soon as I stepped out of the kitchen. While I bent to scratch their ears, Charles crept forward to hover solicitously over his partner.

“Grant?” he said softly. “Lori’s here.”

Grant opened his eyes to peer first at Charles, then at me. He looked away for a moment, then shrugged resignedly and motioned for me to take the chair closest to the wrought-iron table. Charles helped Grant to sip his drink, then sank onto the second chair, which wobbled alarmingly until he shifted it to a more stable position on the bricks. Goya and Matisse trotted off to explore a thicket of fern fronds.

“I don’t know what to say,” Grant began, in a trembling voice. “One expects this sort of thing to happen in London, but not in Finch,
never
in Finch. That’s why I . . . I . . .” His words trailed off and he shook his head, as if he couldn’t go on.

Patience is a virtue I don’t have. I wasn’t about to spend half the day coaxing crumbs of information from Grant, so I decided to add a dose of shock therapy to the mix.

“You’re in no condition to talk, my friend,” I said, getting to my feet. “When you are, give me a buzz. You have my number.”

Grant lunged for my hand, crying, “You
can’t
go!”

“Then tell me what happened,” I said sternly, “without the theatrics.”

“All right,” he said grudgingly, “but sit down. I’ll get a stiff neck if I talk with you looming over me.”

I sat.

“You’re worse than the constable,” Grant muttered, but when he spoke again, his voice was quite steady. “Charles and I returned from London at nine this morning. We took Matisse and Goya for a run on the green, unpacked our bags, sorted through the mail—we did the usual things one does after a trip. At approximately half past nine, I went to my studio to resume work on the family tree. It was then that I discovered that my studio had been turned over.” He took a long pull on his g-and-t, without Charles’s assistance, and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a fingertip. “I don’t wish to become emotional,” he continued, “so I won’t describe the scene in great detail. Suffice it to say that my studio was a complete shambles.”

“I heard a heartrending shriek,” said Charles, “and dashed upstairs to find Grant on the verge of collapse. I brought him out here to recover from the initial shock—the garden is so soothing—then rang the police station in Upper Deeping. A constable arrived at half past ten. He wasn’t entirely sympathetic when Grant admitted—”

“It’s my fault,” Grant murmured, bowing his head. “It’s my fault and no other’s. You see, Lori, when Charles and I left for London, I ... I
didn’t lock our doors.
”

“So what?” I said. “I never lock my doors. I don’t think there’s a locked door in the village, except maybe at Fairworth House and that’s only because William’s new here. Finch isn’t a locked-door kind of place.”

“That’s what we thought,” Grant said mournfully. “Until today.”

“Today’s an aberration. Don’t let it destroy your peace of mind.” I put a comforting hand on his arm. “Did the constable discover any clues?”

“Not a sausage,” said Grant. “I expected him to find footprints or fingerprints or both, but the thunderstorm must have washed away the footprints and the burglar must have worn gloves because the constable didn’t find a thing.”

“Did he question the villagers?” I asked.

“He did,” Charles answered. “But after they bombarded him with stories about a drug lord, a film star, a footballer, a dictator with a taste for trotters, and a taxidermist named Tim Thomson, he concluded that they weren’t reliable witnesses.”

I groaned softly and buried my face in my hands.

“Before he left, the constable suggested that I compile a complete inventory of the studio’s contents and bring it to him in Upper Deeping,” said Grant. “At the time, we couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen.”

“The studio was such a mess, you see,” said Charles.

“I felt that I owed it to my customers to clarify the situation as quickly as possible,” said Grant, “so I set my shattered feelings aside and reentered the studio. After I returned everything to its proper place, I saw—”