Aunt Dimity's Death (21 page)

“Which may explain why the accident happened. Or rather—didn’t happen. Perhaps we had become overconfident and careless. Whatever the reason, Derek dropped his welding torch in a pile of paint-soaked rags. They should have gone up in smoke and taken the cottage with them, and Derek, too.” She tightened her hold on her teacup. “But nothing happened! Nothing. Derek ran out into the garden to find me and I went back inside with him to see. There wasn’t so much as a scorch mark anywhere.

“We were both shaken up, and as we sat there that afternoon, we began to remember all sorts of things that we had dismissed as they were happening, little things—warped boards that straightened overnight, tools that were always at hand when we needed them, boxes of nails that never seemed to run out—all sorts of things that we could explain in all sorts of ways, except when we added them up. When we did that, we had to admit that, as impossible as it seemed, something—or someone—was … helping us. I thought it sounded preposterous, until Derek reminded me of an even stranger experience we’d had in an old chapel in Cornwall. In the end, I was forced to agree that something extraordinary was taking place.”

It sounded so familiar; all the little, easily explained happenings that added up to something inexplicable. I realized that I was sitting there with my mouth hanging open, so I closed it, then said, “Well, at least she’s a friendly ghost.”

Emma laughed. “Yes, we were pretty sure we knew who was helping, but we didn’t know why.”

“Until Bill’s father called you.”

“Almost a year after Dimity died, the cottage was as complete as we could make it. Soon after that, Mr. Willis contacted us to ask us to get it ready.” Emma stood and rummaged through another shelf on the dresser until she found a tin tea caddy similar to the one at the cottage. Prying off the lid, she sat down again. “The day before you arrived, I went over to the cottage to stock the pantry. In the middle of the kitchen table I found this.” She pulled from the caddy a single piece of pale blue stationery. The note read:
Thank you
. By then I knew the handwriting as well as I knew my own.

“I can see now why you wanted to warn me,” I said.

Emma put the note back in the caddy and returned the caddy to the shelf, giving me a sidelong look. “Our motives weren’t entirely selfless. If all of that had happened to the bit players, we couldn’t wait to see what
would happen to the star. I take it that there have been further developments?”

“You could say that.” I reached for the manila envelope.

*
**

Because of her previous experiences, Emma took the story of Reginald and the journal in stride. She was far more intrigued by my mother’s account of Dimity’s collapse.

“That’s a new one on me,” she said. “Dimity never breathed a word about it to us, and if anyone in Finch knew of it, I’m sure we would have heard by now. As for the location of the clearing … I think I may be able to help you there. I discovered orienteering when I moved to England. It’s taught me the value of recognizing landmarks.” She noticed my blank expression and explained, “It’s a kind of cross-country race, using a map and compass.”

“Is that what Derek meant when he said you were always off roaming the countryside?” I asked.

“I’m afraid my husband doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the sport,” she replied. “But Peter and Nell and I belong to a club in Bath. It frequently holds meets in this area.” She pointed to one of the distant hills in the photograph. “It’s hard to say for sure—places like this change so much over the years—but I think … I think that’s the ridge Peter fell from last summer. No damage done, but it took a while to get him back up to the top. We came in last that day. Let me get some of my maps and—”

“Will this do?” I offered her the topographic map.

“Oh, yes, that will do nicely,” said Emma. “Now, let me see….” Her eyes darted back and forth from the photo to the map, as her finger moved along the curving lines. “They have contests like this in the orienteering magazines,” she commented. “I must say that I never expected to …” Her finger stopped. “I think … yes, that has to be it. I should have recognized it right away. It’s much steeper and more heavily wooded than most of the hills around here. It’s called Pouter’s Hill.”

“It’s right behind the cottage?”

“It’s part of the estate,” Emma explained. “I’ve never been up there myself, but it’s the correct orientation to give you this view of those hills.”

“Is that a path?” I asked, touching a broken line that ran up the hill.

“Yes,” said Emma. “It starts on the other side of the brook out back.” She pointed. “Here. From the way it’s marked I’d say that it was pretty rough going. I wouldn’t try it today if I were you.”

“Just knowing where it is is enough for now.” I started as a cold nose nudged my hand. Ham had come to claim a reward for his good behavior and he’d certainly earned it, curled patiently on his blanket while the humans had chattered endlessly. “Hello, you sweet thing.” I scratched behind his ears and glanced at Emma for permission to give him a treat from the table.

She shrugged. “Why should you be any different?” Ham approved of my oatmeal cookies, too, and wolfed down three of them before Emma called a halt. “Would you like to have a look round the place?” she offered.

By then I was glad of a chance to stretch my legs, and Ham was more than ready for a romp. He frisked at our heels as Emma took me from room to room. “The house was badly run-down when we bought it—a handyman’s dream, as we say in the States, and therefore an ideal home for Derek. We’ve battled dry rot and mildew, but our worst enemy has been our predecessors’ bad taste. Please don’t ask me to describe the wallpaper we found in the parlor. It took us a whole summer to get rid of it.”

The parlor walls were now plain whitewashed plaster, but the furnishings were eccentric, to put it mildly. The television sat atop an antique and worm-eaten altar, and the coffee table was an intricately carved wooden door overlaid with glass. A pair of elegant Louis XIV chairs faced a plain-as-dirt horsehair sofa, and a Chinese black-lacquered desk held a Victorian globe lamp, a brass pig, and a human skull. “Derek comes home with all sorts of things,” Emma explained, “and we thought that the family room should be furnished by the family.” She pointed to the television. “That’s Derek’s little joke, and the chairs were Nell’s idea. I don’t know who brought the skull in here, but Peter chose the desk.”

The parlor reflected an active family life. It was littered with books and magazines, a forgotten shoe peeked out from under the couch, and a bowl half-filled with cherry pits graced a marquetry chest beneath the windows. When I saw the chest, I realized that I had forgotten to ask Emma about the missing photo album. When I put the question to her, she nodded thoughtfully.

“Nell was working on a project for school last spring, something about the role of women in the Second World War. Dimity loaned her some pictures for it, but I thought she’d returned them.” She glanced toward the hall. “But let’s make sure.” With Ham galloping ahead, we went upstairs to what I thought was a second-floor bedroom. When I hesitated, Emma said reassuringly, “We’re not about to invade my daughter’s inner sanctum. This is the children’s study.”

In marked contrast to the parlor, the study was sparely furnished and orderly, with heavy-laden bookshelves, filing cabinets, and a pair of desks facing opposite walls. “I’m happy to say that the children take their schoolwork very seriously. They may make a shambles of the rest of the house, but they’re neat as a pin in here. Nell’s half is on the left.” Emma scanned the bookshelves on that side of the room while I went through the drawers in her daughter’s desk. Five minutes later, Emma came up trumps.

“Is this it?” She handed me a brown leather photograph album labeled
1939-1944.

Too excited to speak, I nodded, then opened the album on Nell’s desk and flipped rapidly through it. There were three or four pictures on each page, all of them affixed with black paste-on paper corners. Dimity had written brief captions beneath each of them: names, dates, places. I turned past pictures of Dimity posed alone or with groups of other women in military uniform, catching my breath when my mother’s young face appeared in the crowd, until I came to the end.

“Damn,” I muttered, “there’s nothing missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the photograph from Pouter’s Hill came from this album, there’d be an empty space somewhere. But there isn’t.”

“Oh, I see.” Emma half sat on the edge of the desk, her arms folded. “What a shame.”

“No, wait. Maybe I’m just jumping the gun again.” Sitting in Nell’s chair, I switched on her desk lamp, reopened the album, and began going through it slowly, spreading it flat at every page. “I used to work with rare books, and one of the things I had to check for was vandalism—theft, really. There’s a big market for old woodcuts and engravings.”

“Like those framed botanical illustrations you see in antique stores?” Emma asked.

“Right. Some come from books that are too far gone to salvage, but some …” I turned the fifth page, spread it flat, and stopped. “Some are razored out of perfectly sound volumes. Like this.” Emma bent low for a closer look as I thumbed a series of quarter-inch stubs, all that remained of twelve black pages.

“You don’t think—” I began, but Emma shook her head decisively.

“Not Neil. Not in a million years.”

I sighed, closed the album, and brought it back downstairs to the kitchen, where Reginald eyed me sympathetically and Emma looked once more at the photograph of the old oak tree.

“There’s still hope,” I said wistfully. “Maybe Bill’s father will find the missing pages.”

“I wonder who could have given this to your mother,” Emma mused. “The couple we bought this place from passed away several years ago, and I don’t know of any other … May I read your mother’s description?”

I had told her about it earlier. Now I dug out the letter and handed it to her. She read it intently.

“But this doesn’t say anything about a couple,” she murmured. “It only says ‘two of Dimity’s neighbors.’ ‘Elderly … not terribly coherent …”’ Suddenly she looked up, her eyes sparkling. “I think I know who you’re looking for.”

“The
Pym sisters?
” I exclaimed. “The sock-knitting Pym sisters? Are they still alive?”

“And kicking,” Emma replied. “Decorously, of course.” She went on to say that Ruth and Louise Pym were the identical twin daughters of a country parson. No one knew how old they were, not even the vicar, but most guesses placed them over the century mark. They had never married and had spent all of their lives in Finch. “I think they know more about what goes on in the village than most people would like to believe,” Emma concluded. “I’m sure they’re the ones who gave the photograph to your mother, and if they didn’t, they’ll know who did.”

“How do I get to meet them?”

“Invite them to tea, of course. They’ll be dying to meet you. I’ll ask them for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please. And you’ll come, too, won’t you?”

“Why don’t I come early to help you set up?”

“That would be terrific.”

Emma accompanied me to the mudroom, where I donned my jacket and gave Ham a last few pats.

“You’ll have to come over when the sun is shining so I can show you the grounds.” Emma held Ham’s collar while I opened the door. “Be sure
to let me know if you find out anything about those missing pages, and I’ll call as soon as I’ve set things up with Ruth and Louise.”

I unfurled my umbrella, then reached out to clasp Emma’s hand. “Thank you. I don’t know if you realize how much this means to me, but—”

“I think I do.” She smiled. “Derek and I loved Dimity, too.”

*
**

Bill was asleep in the study when I got back, his feet up on the ottoman, the date-filled notebook dangling from his fingertips. I woke him up by dropping Reginald in his lap, then sat on the ottoman and repeated everything Emma had told me that morning. I showed him the stubs in the photo album and he shared my disappointment, but agreed that Willis, Sr., might come through for us yet. He was delighted by the thought of meeting the Pym sisters, but the mention of tea made us both realize that we were ready for lunch. Greatly daring, I tried a spinach soufflé. It was flawless.

I couldn’t bring myself to face the correspondence after lunch. The things I had learned about my mother had spooked me and I shied away from learning any more. True to his word, Bill soldiered on in silence while I returned scattered archive boxes to their proper places on the shelves. I was sitting at the desk, paging through the photo album when he spoke up.

“Listen!”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s stopped raining!”

I could scarcely believe my ears. The steady drumming of the rain had been replaced by a stillness as heavy as Devonshire cream, and when I leaned forward to look through the windows I saw that a dense fog had settled in the storm’s wake.

Bill closed the notebook and put it in his pocket, then walked over to have a look for himself. “Ah, the glories of English weather.”

“I’ll bet it’s a big relief to Derek and the vicar. You think it’ll clear by tomorrow?”