Aunt Dimity's Death (13 page)

The faces of those boys remained with me throughout my time in London. My mother had always spoken of the war as a great adventure, a time of unforgettable sights and sounds, of strong friendships quickly made. She had never mentioned the friendships that had been even more quickly ended.

*
**

Bill seemed to hold the keys to the city. He got me into the building where my mother had worked—now just another maze of modernized corridors—and out on the roofs of St. Paul’s, where she had seen the incendiaries fall. He found an elderly general to give us a private tour of the Cabinet War Rooms, the underground bunkers from which Churchill had conducted the war during the Blitz, and he somehow got permission for me to view Imperial War Museum photo archives that were usually reserved for scholars.

Bill was so solicitous, in fact, that he made me edgy. There was nothing I could point to, no overt act that embarrassed or annoyed me, but there was something in his manner… . Perhaps it was the return of the same secret, knowing smile he had tried to hide during his tenure as my chauffeur in Boston. In London it gave me the feeling that something was up, that he was planning some monumental prank that would leave me flabbergasted.

As far as I could see, however, he only put his foot wrong once in London, and even that wasn’t his fault. It was pure bad luck that brought us together with a guy who had frequented the rare book reading room at my university in Boston; a genuine, bona fide, one-hundred-percent-guaranteed creep named Evan Fleischer. Evan was in his late twenties,
with stringy, shoulder-length black hair, thick glasses, and a hairy little potbelly that peeked out between the lower buttons of his ill-fitting shirts. I might have found him endearingly scruffy if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was the single most egocentric individual I had ever met.

I was never able to pin down Evan’s area of expertise because he claimed to know everything. The word “important” was frequently on his lips, but he defined it rather more narrowly than the rest of the English-speaking world. If anyone else had a deadline to meet, it was inconsequential, and the same went for ideas: only Evan’s were “important.” One day in the reading room, when he referred to his laundry as “important,” I laughed in his face. It didn’t faze him. He simply explained, in little words that even I could understand, why doing
his
laundry was a service to humanity. Looking pointedly at his grease-stained tie, I conceded that he had a point, but the jibe was lost on him. He merely assumed I’d seen the light.

And how he loved to enlighten people. He gathered around him a coterie of emotionally disturbed undergrads who hung on his every word, which reinforced his self-image as an altruistic mentor. He led them on in order to feed his own ego, and that, when all was said and done, was what made him a creep rather than just another obnoxious jerk. I had no time to explain any of this to Bill when I heard Evan call my name in the lobby of the Tate.

“Lori? Lori Shepherd?”

I would have tucked my head down and sprinted for the exit, but Bill was already shaking Evan’s hand, eager to meet another one of my friends.

“What a pleasant surprise,” said Evan.

“You’re half right,” I muttered.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before.” Evan blinked owlishly at Bill. “I am Dr. Evan Fleischer. You may call me Evan, if you wish, although naturally I prefer Dr. Fleischer. Lori and I are old friends.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dr. Fleischer,” said Bill. “I’m Bill Willis. Lori and I are—”

“I’m sure Evan doesn’t have time for small talk,” I interrupted.

“Only too true,” said Evan. “I’m delivering an important paper on Dostoyevski’s use of patronymics this coming Saturday at the British Museum. I’m sure you would find it instructive, though perhaps a bit esoteric. I find it difficult to write for a general audience, you see, because—”

“What a shame,” I said. “We’re leaving London on Saturday.”

“Where are you off to?”

In full Mr. Congeniality mode, Bill piped up: “We’ll be staying in a cottage in the Cotswolds, near a place called Finch.”

“What about our change of plans?” I asked Bill urgently.

“What change of plans?”

“Oh, but you mustn’t change a thing!” Evan exclaimed. “It’s a fascinating area. I’m sure I can find the time to visit you there. I’m always eager to give foreigners the benefit of my extensive knowledge of the sceptered isle.” Since Evan had been born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, his use of the word “foreigners” was highly suspect.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “Really, Evan, I’m going to be awfully—”

“It would be my pleasure.” He checked his watch. “I’d love to tell you about my paper, but I have some important appointments.”

“Picking up your laundry?” I asked.

“No, I had that seen to this morning,” he replied. “Now I’ve really got to run. Where are you staying?”

“The Flamborough,” said Bill.

“I’ll be in touch.” He strode off toward the exit, leaving me to glower at Bill.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” I said. “Only that you’ve saddled us with a visit from one of the most obnoxious human beings on the face of the planet. Once he moves in, we’ll never get rid of him. Oh, God,” I groaned, “he’ll probably try to read his paper to us.”

Bill had the grace to hang his head. “I thought he was a bit of a pill, but—”

“I know. You also thought he was my friend.” I sighed and took his arm. “Oh, come on. I’ll tell you all about him while we look at William Blake’s visions of hell. After a brush with Evan, they’ll seem soothing.”

*
**

Bill redeemed himself by showing up at my suite the next day with enough of the finest Scottish wool to keep Meg’s knitting needles flying for a good long time. Impressed, I had to admit that he noticed far more than I gave him credit for.

I bought a few things I couldn’t resist—a couple of sweaters, a book or two—and others I didn’t even try to resist. A flashlight, for instance. From Harrod’s, of all places. And I made sure to have a brand-new brolly handy when I went to the zoo. Even when I was caught up in shopping, Dimity and my mother were never far from my thoughts.

I kept seeing them in my mind’s eye, sharing a bag of chips, riding bicycles, running for shelter during an air raid. I touched the shrapnel-gouged walls of buildings along the Embankment and tried to imagine what it had been like to hear the rumble of German aircraft overhead, to feel the sidewalk shake as the bombs struck home. There was one moment, driving past Hyde Park, when I thought I saw the greensward scarred with trenches, sandbags piled high, conical canvas tents staked out in rows across the fields. The image was startlingly vivid. I called out for Paul to stop the car, but before he could pull over to the curb, the vision was gone, the helmeted Tommies replaced by the usual lunchtime throng of trench-coated Londoners. When Bill started to question me, I only shook my head and asked Paul to drive on.

Because the zoo had gained an almost mythic status since I’d read the letters—I guess I subconsciously expected to find a brass plaque commemorating the day Beth Shepherd met Dimity Westwood—I’d saved it for last. Needless to say, it was a bit of a letdown to see it bathed in sunlight and crowded with noisy families.

Bill had arranged for me to speak with one of the keepers who’d been there during the war, a pink-faced, elderly man named Ian Bramble. We sat with him by the Grand Union Canal, and he sighed when I asked him what the zoo had been like in those days.

“A sad place,” he said. “Terribly sad. Hated to come to work, myself. No children around, and the place all boarded up.” He pulled a handful of corn from his pocket and tossed it to some passing ducks. “It was a strange time. People were afraid there’d be lions in the streets if a bomb fell in the wrong place, and they had enough to worry about without lions. So we put them down, the lions, and others as well. Perfectly healthy they were, too. It’s not something we tell the kiddies, you understand, but perhaps we should. I sometimes think they’d be better off knowing it’s not all crisps and candy floss during wartime.”

Paul had been too young to enlist. “Not that I didn’t try, mind you,” he told us. “Lied like a rug, I did; used boot-blacking to give myself whiskers. Board told me to go home and wash my face.” We were speeding along a narrow, twisting lane, on our way to the cottage. We had left London very late in the afternoon the day after our visit to the zoo. I had wanted to leave earlier, but Bill had gone off to make some more of his mysterious arrangements and hadn’t surfaced again until after tea.

“That’s why I went to the Flamborough,” Paul continued. “The bartender there was a chum of mine, and I liked to listen to the lads. We were taking such a pasting in London that it was good to hear the Jerries were getting some of their own back. Finch should be coming up shortly, miss.” I had tried to break him of the “Miss Shepherd” habit, but he had been trained at the Old Servant’s School of Etiquette and “miss” was as far as he would unbend. “The cottage lies about two miles beyond the village.”

It was too dark and we passed through Finch too quickly for me to see much of it, but as we pulled into the drive, I could see that lights had been lit in every window of the cottage. It was exactly as I had pictured it. And it seemed to be waiting for me.

“Here we are,” said Paul, switching off the engine. An absolute silence settled over us. We climbed out of the limo to stand on the gravel drive and I shivered as the cold night air hit me.

“Touch of frost tonight, I’d say.” Bill blew on his hands and I could see his breath.

“A bit nippy for this time of year,” Paul agreed. “You two run along in and get warmed up. I’ll see to the luggage.”

Paul unloaded the limo and Bill headed for the front door, scrounging through his pockets for the keys Willis, Sr., had given him. I started to follow Bill, then stopped on the path to confirm my initial impression that the cottage looked … as it was supposed to look.

It was just as my mother had described it in her story, a two-story stone house with a broad front lawn, sheltered from the road by a tall hedgerow. The yard light glinted from diamond panes of leaded glass and hinted at the golden glow the walls would have in sunlight. The slate roof, the flagstone path leading from the drive to the weathered front door, all was as I had envisioned it, down to the bushes that were already heavy-laden with white lilacs.

“Lilacs in April,” I murmured. “They must bloom earlier here than they do at home.”

Paul came to stand beside me. “Lovely old place this is, miss.”

“Too good to be true,” I said, searching the facade for some flaw that would jar it, and me, back into the real world. I didn’t like the sense of belonging that was seeping into my bones. It made it too easy to forget that I was only a visitor.

But the yard light revealed no imperfection. With a shrug, I joined Bill on the doorstep. He seemed to be having difficulty with the lock.

“Let me try,” I offered. I turned the key, and the door swung open to reveal a brightly lit hallway.

“Look at the place,” said Bill. “It’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“The Harrises probably came by today to get things ready for us,” I said. “They must have forgotten to turn off the lights.”

“I’d talk to them about that if I were you, miss,” said Paul, Old Servant’s School disapproval in his voice. “The electric doesn’t come cheap these days.”

“Cheap or not, I’m glad they turned on the heat,” said Bill. “Let’s get inside before we all catch colds.”

Paul set the bags in the hall and returned to the car for the last of them. As I stepped across the threshold, the cottage seemed to pull me into its warm embrace, and when the door swung shut behind me, I thought: I may be only a visitor, but I sure do feel like a welcome one.

There was a gentle knock at the door. The Old Servant’s School again, I thought, rolling my eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, Paul, you don’t have to knock,” I called out. “Come on in, it’s open.”

His muffled voice came through from the outside. “Sorry, miss, I can’t budge it.”

“What do you mean, you can’t—” The door opened at my touch. Paul stood on the doorstep, a bag in each hand and a perplexed expression on his face.

“These old places do have their quirks, miss.” He set the bags beside the others while Bill fiddled with the door handle.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it,” Bill said, “but I’m not a locksmith. I think I’ll ask the Harrises to have this checked out.”

“Fine,” I said. “Now, how about a cup of tea before you go back to London, Paul? Or would you like to stay here for the night? You’re more than welcome.”

“Thanks very much all the same, miss, but I’d best be getting back, if it’s all right with you. Up early tomorrow, you know, can’t keep the ambassador waiting.” He offered to carry our bags upstairs, but we assured him that he had done more than his fair share of work for the day and walked him to the limousine. After he’d driven off, I turned in the still night air for another long look at the cottage.

The feeling of familiarity was uncanny. There was the shadowy oak grove and, there, the trellis ablaze with roses. Each item was in its proper place and the whole made a picture I remembered as clearly as the apartment house in which I had grown up. I probably would have stood there all night, lost in the déjà vu, but the crunch of Bill’s shoes in the gravel reminded me that I was not alone. He held out his jacket and I pulled it around my shoulders, grateful for the warmth.