Wherever Lynn Goes (14 page)

“You two girls staying here all by your
selves?
” Myrtle inquired as we stepped into the hall. “You're gutsy, I'll hand you that. You wouldn't catch
me
stayin' here, not for a million.”

“Mr. Cooper is in the carriage house,” I replied.

“Hump!
Him
,” she said, sniffing disdainfully. “I wonder what kind of protection you think
he
'd be. A bad 'un if I ever saw one, so
cocky
, and his brother, Lord Cooper, so respectable and grand. There're some who wonder what he
does
out here, and all those mysterious trips—well, it's mighty peculiar. I'll say that much—”

Myrtle would undoubtedly have said much more had I not smiled politely and opened the front door, ushering her out onto the veranda. Myrtle brushed at her skirt and swept the folds of her cape over one shoulder.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”

“Yes?”

“Well, ducky, I hate to admit it, but I had an ulterior motive in calling on you. I mentioned the jumble sale, I think. Didn't I? Well, it's starting tomorrow at one o'clock, and we're rather short of help. Clarissa Jennings took sick, and then Peggy O'Reilley had to leave for Coventry to be with that sister-in-law of hers, pregnant again, poor thing, and then—well, we could use a hand. I think Nell Stevens's niece is going to take over the bake sale, but that still leaves the book stall vacant, and I thought maybe—”

“I'm terribly sorry,” I interrupted. “I'd love to help out, but there are so many things I have to—”

“I know it's asking a lot in your time of distress, and ordinarily I wouldn't
dream
of making such a suggestion, but we
do
need help so desperately. It's all for charity, ducky. We're trying to raise enough to have a new roof put on the orphanage.”

“I'm sure it's a worthy cause, but—”

“Leaks somethin' awful, it does. Those poor little mites, dashin' around with pans and buckets when it rains, trying to keep the floors from floodin'—makes your heart bleed. Some of them sick, and—” She broke off, brown eyes mournful and filled with entreaty.

I felt trapped.

“We'd only require your services for an hour or two,” Myrtle continued in a persuasive voice. “I know you're bowed with grief, know how hard all this must be on you, but it would do you good to get out, keep busy, put on a brave front. It would mean so much to us—a real gesture, your helping out at a time like this. A real inspiration to others, seeing you there smiling through your tears, working for the good of those poor little orphans.”

“Well—”

“There! I knew you'd say yes! One o'clock, ducky, in the basement of the church. I'd appreciate it mightily if you could come a little early. Mobs always show up, searchin' for bargains. We like to be ready for the onslaught.”

“I'll be there.” My voice was singularly unenthusiastic.

Myrtle beamed with satisfaction. “Oh, just one other thing, ducky. We're a bit short on items to sell. I know for a fact that Daphne's attic is
crammed
with junk—old dishes, clocks, bits and pieces you couldn't possibly want. If you could possibly find time to gather up a few things to bring along, we'd be ever so grateful. It's all for the sake of those poor little—”

“I'll try to find time.”

“You're such a peach, ducky. So considerate, and you bowed down with grief—it's nothing short of noble. Does my poor heart good to know there are still some decent young people in the world. Well, I'd best be getting a move on.” She swirled her purple-lined cape, adjusted her hat again, and tripped nimbly down the stairs. “Ta ta!” she cried gaily. “See you at the funeral!”

Myrtle mounted her bike, shifted her plump body around on the seat, and kicked the stand free. Giving a loud blast on the horn, she waved merrily and pedaled down the drive. I watched with a sense of dismay, unable to believe I had committed myself to help at the jumble sale. I turned to Mandy, a sour expression on my face.

“You were a lot of help, I must say!”

“Don't look so unhappy, luv. It'll do you good to get out, keep busy, put on a brave front. Think of those poor little orphans.”

I gave her a venomous look and went back inside. Mandy followed me into the library. It was barely eleven. We had at least an hour before we had to dress for the funeral, and we continued to work on the files. Mandy was unusually silent, that preoccupied look back in her eyes. I could tell she was thinking about the murder, thinking about Myrtle's story of the man in the overcoat.

“You didn't actually believe her?” I said.

“What? I'm afraid I wasn't listening—”

“Myrtle. Her story about the man. It was absurd. She may have seen a man, but the rest of it is preposterous. He was probably a salesman or—or some kind of repair man.”

“Probably was,” she murmured.

“Mandy, you don't think there's anything to it?”

“Of course not. Hand me that folder, will you? I think I've got all these notes about Ninon in order. Is there an extra paper clip? This really isn't taking as long as I thought it would.”

I didn't press the issue. I saw that it would be futile. Mandy might change the subject, but she couldn't hide the truth. She wasn't that good an actress. She had listened to Myrtle's tale with intense interest, and I realized with some alarm that she had believed every word.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I was tense and nervous, dreading the ordeal of the funeral. Sensing this, neither Bart nor Mandy said anything as we drove to the village. Mandy wore a subdued royal-blue dress, her tawny gold hair in a French roll. Bart was impeccable in dark suit and tie, shoes polished to a sheen, his dark locks neatly combed. I was amazed at the change in him. The breezy, irreverent fellow of this morning was gone, in his place a quiet, sober man who seemed a tower of strength. During the drive he seemed unaware of our company, a remote expression on his face, mouth set in a grim line. I wondered what he was thinking about.

A place had been reserved for us in front of the church. I tensed even more when I saw the swarms of people congregated on either side of the walk, eagerly awaiting our arrival. It seemed that the whole village had indeed shown up, and the mood was far more festive than solemn. There was a great stir as the car pulled up. I saw Myrtle, surrounded by her cronies, all of them gabbling excitedly. Sergeant Duncan stood by the door, arms folded, a disapproving look on his face.

Mandy arched her brow as Bart got out and came around to open the door for us.

“It's a sell-out,” she said wryly. “S.R.O. Chin up, luv.”

“I'm all right.”

“I detest funerals. Always did think they were barbaric. It'll all be over in a little while. Lord, that mob! I feel just like Marie Antoinette on her way to the block.”

Bart helped us out of the car and took my arm. The crowd grew hushed. With Bart on one side and Mandy on the other, I made my way up the walk and into the church. A buzz filled the air. As we walked down the aisle to the front pew, there was a clamor behind us as people rushed in to grab their seats. Hundreds of avidly curious eyes watched as we sat down, and I knew they were taking in every detail of our dress and demeanor. Solemn organ music began to play. Mandy reached over and took my hand, squeezing it tightly.

The music rose and swelled. I saw the banks of gladioli and chrysanthemums, bright, florid, orange and blue, and I saw the closed bronze casket on its stand. Clive Hampton had made all the arrangements, following Aunt Daphne's instructions. I had caught a glimpse of him as we came in, his face sober yet avaricious. I knew he had expected me to call as soon as I arrived, but I was going to avoid him if possible. I didn't trust the man.

A door opened, and the vicar stepped to the pulpit. Vicar Peckinpah was a small, worried-looking little man with flushed cheeks and a too-tight collar. Reality seemed to fade. I seemed to be far off, observing everything with curious detachment.

The music died away. There was a prayer. The vicar began to speak in a strained, tremulous voice. I thought of my childhood, remembering my aunt as she was then, wishing I had been able to love her, wishing she had been the plump, rosy-cheeked, loving aunt of fiction with an apron around her waist and cookies baking in the kitchen. As I grew older, I had grown fond of her, in my way, but I had been glad so much distance separated us. She was gone now. I wished I could cry. My head ached. There was another prayer, then a stir in the crowd as six pallbearers marched to the casket and removed it from its stand, carrying it out the side door.

That feeling of detachment was still with me as Bart led me out to the graveyard in back of the church. We stood under a striped marquee. I saw the old tombstones under the spreading boughs of the oak trees. I was acutely aware of Bart's firm hand gripping my elbow as they lowered the casket into the ground, and then he was leading me away through the crowd. Several people spoke to me, expressing sympathy, and I think I must have answered them. Clive Hampton tried to stop me, but Bart shook his head at Hampton and led me past him.

And then we were standing in front of the church again, four of us now, Sergeant Duncan beside Mandy. People leaving watched us with open curiosity, but no one came near. The ordeal was over. Mandy was saying something to me, her voice low.

“I asked how you feel.”

“Much better.” The sense of remoteness evaporated. “I—I could use a drink, if you want to know the truth.”

Sergeant Duncan looked shocked. Mandy smiled.

“I imagine you could, luv.”

“The pub serves terrific stingers,” Bart remarked, some of his solemnity vanishing.

“A stinger would be divine.”

Mandy took Sergeant Duncan's arm. “Look, why don't you two go on. Douglas will drive me back to the house in the police car, won't you, Doug?”

“I'm not sure I ought to, ma'am. It's an official vehicle and—”

“Oh, come on, Sergeant. Bend a little.”

Duncan looked extremely dubious, but nevertheless he let Mandy lead him away. I turned to Bart. He stood with hands in his pockets, his neatly groomed hair beginning to wave a little, its natural unruliness gradually triumphing over brush and comb.

“People are going to talk,” he said lightly.

“Are they?”

“Going to the pub immediately after the services, particularly with an acknowledged rogue like me—they're going to say you're totally unfeeling. Sure you want to go?”

“Quite sure,” I replied. “I'm not at all concerned with what people might say. Let them think the worst.”

“Oh, they will. No doubt about it.”

He opened the car door and helped me in, gallant, extremely handsome in his dark suit. I was surprised at myself, glad that Mandy had gone on with Sergeant Duncan, that we were alone. Bart had been stern and protective at the funeral, genuinely concerned for me, and I appreciated that. Perhaps I hadn't been fair to him, I thought.

Bart started the motor and pulled away from the curb. He made no attempt at conversation, driving slowly, that remote expression in his eyes again. As on our drive from the house, he seemed unaware of my presence, and once again I wondered what he was thinking about. He was a total enigma, volatile one moment, thoughtful the next, and there was so much about him I didn't understand. What did he do for a living? Did his brother give him an allowance? Why had he gone to New York? He had mentioned a flat in London. If he could afford that, if he could afford the trip to New York, why did he maintain the rooms over the carriage house, so far away from all the activities and interests that were certain to appeal to a man of his nature?

“
Are
you a rogue?” I asked suddenly.

“Huh—oh, of course I am. If you don't believe it, just ask any of the local gossips. I live a life of total dissipation. I seduce young maidens. I perform mysterious experiments in my rooms over the carriage house. I roam the woods in the wee, small hours of the night—”

“Can't you be serious for a minute?”

“My brother's the serious one in the family. Edgar takes his position
very
seriously. He's staunch and steadfast and oh so aware of all the commitments and duties being a Lord entails. He's charitable. He's fair. He's
involved
. Gives blue ribbons at the livestock shows, awards prizes at all the school exercises, makes a speech at the drop of a hat. A dull fellow, Edgar, but much admired.”

“You resent him, don't you?”

“Resent Edgar? Whatever for?”

“Well, he did inherit Cooper House, and—”

“You couldn't pay me to live in that drafty pile of stone. No, I'm delighted to be the second son. I'd make a wretched Lord, entirely unsuited for the role.”

There were many things I longed to ask him, yet I sensed his replies would be equally frivolous and evasive. I couldn't help wondering if Bartholomew Cooper were as carefree as he pretended to be. I had sensed strength in him earlier, and I kept remembering that stern look in his eye when he put Clive Hampton off. There was, I decided, much more to him than what appeared on the surface.

Bart parked the car across the street from the pub. People stared at us openly as he helped me out of the car. I suppose it
was
outrageous, going to the pub right after the funeral, but I really didn't care what people might think. Bart seemed to find their stares amusing. He was obviously used to flouting convention.

“It'll be all over town in fifteen minutes,” he said amiably. “Mrs. Buchanan is peering out of the grocery-store window. She's almost as bad as Myrtle Clarkson, though not quite.”

“Myrtle came to see me this morning.”

“I know,” he said. “Amanda told me all about it while we were waiting for you to come downstairs.”