A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (2 page)

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It was raining lightly in London when our taxicab wound its way around a familiar tree-lined square and pulled up to the front walk of Great-Aunt Penelope’s Victorian town house. I still think of it as hers, for the house seems to exist in its own 1920s time warp; an elegant, cozy, sheltering bulwark against twenty-first-century stress and strife. Every time I approach the front double doors with their frosted glass windows and immaculate white pillars on each side, I inwardly bless the mysterious Aunt Pen for her astounding, unexpected kindness in remembering Jeremy and me in her last will and testament.

The cabbie carried our suitcases to the top step, then said, “Thank you very much, sir,” as Jeremy tipped him.

“Home at last!” Jeremy proclaimed to me.

We had honeymooned on the Riviera and then gone straight to New York to visit my parents and friends. After that, it was off to California, where Jeremy did some legal advising for an old client, while I worked as an historical set-design consultant on a crazy movie called
Romeo and Juliet—Vampire-Hunters For Hire
, which some friends of mine were making as an independent film.

But now we both were glad to be back in London again.

Jeremy put his key in the lock, pushed open the front door and, without any warning, scooped me up in his arms. “The bride never
walks
in,” he proclaimed.

The cabbie looked as surprised as I did, and he drove away grinning.

“You do realize,” I squealed in protest as Jeremy carried me across the threshold, “that this is a very barbaric, arcane custom, from the days when pirates and soldiers kidnapped their brides.”

“Any excuse to get an armful of Penny is fine with me,” Jeremy declared as we passed through the vestibule.

Then he stopped in his tracks. I peered over his shoulder to see why.

Two total strangers were seated on the small black leather sofa in the little sitting room at the right, which we use to receive business clients. They were watching us with an expectant, amused look. Meanwhile, a harried guy named Rupert was standing at the reception desk, with the telephone receiver tucked under his chin, and a sheaf of paperwork in his hand. Rupert, who still worked at Jeremy’s old law firm, was keeping an eye on our business while we were away, by fielding clients old and new . . . and dealing with unexpected callers like these two.

“Oh, you’re here!” Rupert said to us, looking slightly flustered. He had a new haircut, with a shock of hair that stood up above his forehead and contributed to his surprised look. “Didn’t realize the time. Welcome back.”

With an infinitesimal nod of his head, he indicated the young man and middle-aged woman seated on the sofa, and said, “This is Harriet Fieldworthy and her son Colin. They are here from Cornwall at the, er, suggestion of the esteemed personage I e-mailed you about,” he added meaningfully.

My jet-lagged mind struggled to remember Rupert’s e-mail and to pick up his subtle cues. Cornwall. Yes. As in, the Duke of Cornwall
—
i.e., Prince Charles, heir to the throne of England. Or, to be more precise,
His Royal Highness The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Knight of the Garter, Knight of the Thistle, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Bath, Member of the Order of Merit, Knight of the Order of Australia, Companion of the Queen’s Service Order, Privy Counsellor, Aide-de-Camp, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland.

While we were away, His Royal Highness—or, H.R.H., as we peasants like to call him—had sent us an elegant, intriguing note about a possible assignment for our new company, Nichols & Laidley, Ltd. But the Prince’s office, upon discovering that we were on our honeymoon, had assured Rupert that it could wait until we returned to London. Now here we were . . . and so, apparently, were the people that the Prince wanted us to meet.

Jeremy was staring dubiously at our callers, who hardly look like palace courtiers. Colin appeared to be in his early twenties, and wore a black rock-and-roll T-shirt paired with traditional kilts (yes, that’s right, a man-skirt); whereas Harriet, his mum, was shod in a countrywoman’s boots and wore a fairly masculine tweed suit, and the kind of Alpine wool hat that you’d wear while hiking in the high country. I couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing was a massive hoax from some wiseguy at Jeremy’s old law office. But then I saw Rupert mouth the words
They’re for real
to Jeremy.

By now Harriet and Colin had risen to their feet, and probably would have shaken hands, except that Jeremy remained rooted to the spot, with his arms still full of “new bride”. So our guests paused, awkwardly waiting.

“Darling,” I said, with as much dignity as a gal could muster in such a position. “I think you can put me down now.” Jeremy awoke from his shock, and obliged.

“I’m Penny Nichols Laidley,” I said to our guests, trying to sound as dignified as my English mother might, even though my husband had just deposited me into the room like a sack of mail. “And this is Jeremy Laidley.” Rupert flushed, realizing he’d failed to formally introduce us.

“Oh, we know, we know!” the woman said, beaming at us while shaking my hand vigorously as if it were a water pump. “Our
friend
says if anyone can help us, you can. He thought you might be willing to take our case, because, you see, we believe it’s of vital personal interest to you as well. When we heard that you were coming back to England today, I thought, mercy, we’d better grab your attention straight away, before you two go off on another case.”

Gazing at her, I saw that Harriet’s green eyes had interesting crinkles around them, and her cheeks were a healthy, ruddy color, which hale-and-hearty folks get from spending every day outdoors in all kinds of weather. Her cheerful face was rimmed with unruly brown hair flecked with strands of grey.

“You see, it’s all got to do with your grand-mum. And her last wishes before she died,” she added. “Dear me, I did put that rather bluntly, but time is of the essence.”

“Grandmother Beryl?” I said with some surprise. My mother’s mum had died decades ago, so it seemed rather late indeed to speak of Grandma’s “last wishes” . . . and I wondered how time could possibly be of the essence.

“Why don’t we all have some tea?” I found myself saying, hoping that my travel-weary brain would catch up to all this after a “cuppa”.

Jeremy shot me one of his
Watch out!
looks. Because, Prince Charles or no Prince Charles, in our short time in business together, we’ve gotten into some tight spots at the behest of wealthy and powerful clients; so shortly after our wedding, we made a second set of vows to each other, this time regarding our work. To wit, we agreed on the following points:
One: No more cases involving relatives
; and
Two: No more accepting weird invitations from the big movers-and-shakers of the world.

This case had the dubious distinction of killing both rules with one stone.

But Harriet looked at me gratefully now and said, “Oh, yes, tea would be lovely. It was a long drive from Port St. Francis.”

“I’ve just had some take-away food delivered,” Rupert said to Jeremy, as if relieved to be able to be of some help now. “Cold meat and sandwiches, and scones and cake.”

“Got any beer?” Colin asked. Both he and his mother had an accent that sounded slightly Scottish. Harriet nudged him. Jeremy looked as if he would be only too happy to pop open some ale, but Harriet shook her head firmly.

So we all adjourned to the study, which is a nice big room smack dab between Jeremy’s office and mine. It’s where we meet up at the end of the day over a glass of wine. Jeremy’s butterscotchcolored leather chair and matching ottoman sit across from my paisley wing chair, right in front of the fireplace, with a round table beside us. Opposite the table is a horsehair sofa, and I gestured for Harriet and Colin to sit there together. Harriet patted the sofa approvingly, like someone who’s been around horses and farms all her life.

“Shall I light a fire?” Jeremy suggested, resigned to the idea that these guests would be here awhile. Although it was June, the room was chilly from the damp weather as evening descended. I helped Rupert arrange a large tray with the tea things, and then he murmured that he had to head back to his office. With a nod to me, Rupert slipped out of the room.

“Now then,” Harriet said briskly when everyone had filled their teacups and plates. “You’ll be wanting to know what this all about.”

She took a hungry bite of a dainty chicken sandwich, and a sip of her tea, then she sighed with relief and began. “I am the president of the Port St. Francis Legacy Society,” she explained in a matter-of-fact tone with a touch of pride. “We are responsible for the preservation and protection of our quality of life in the village, and the welfare of our citizens.”

“Which, these days, means that Mum and her crowd have to pick up all the slack for what the ruddy government doesn’t do,” Colin translated, slicing a scone in two and using his knife to spread whipped cream on one side, and jam on the other. Then he closed the scone as if it were a sandwich.

“The Legacy Society is
not
just a bunch of little ladies who feather-dust old landmark houses,” he declared, popping half the scone in his mouth. When he was not quite finished chewing, he continued. “Mum’s group has rescued everything and everybody in town, from the post office to the hospital.”

“True on the whole,” Harriet said with some humor, “except I
do
own a feather duster as well.”

In a maternal but unsentimental way, she had quietly patted Colin’s bare knee where it stuck out from his kilts, as if she were soothing a skittish horse or a lost lamb. Colin, for his part, was tough-looking and rough-edged, with his spiky haircut and his black T-shirt blazing with red and gold lettering in a language that I couldn’t comprehend. But I could see that he was one of those wild boys who are exceptionally tenderhearted when it comes to his mother. I couldn’t help liking both of them.

“Penny,” Harriet said, “perhaps you already know that your grandmother, Beryl Laidley, once owned a house-by-the-sea in our little village on the northern coast of Cornwall?” There was an affectionate twinkle in her eye as she mentioned my grandmother’s name.

“Oh, yes!” I blurted out. “We know all about
that
house. It’s where Jeremy and I met, years ago when we were just kids.”

“Did you really?” Harriet asked, looking from me to Jeremy. “How nice. Your gran’s property does have the most wonderful view of the sea,” she said to me.

“I remember,” I said softly, thinking of the lovely stone house with its old-fashioned parlor, where, during one magical summer, I’d spent hours ensconced in a window-seat reading a strange book of dark fairy tales while listening to the far-off whispering sound of the sea.

And in my mind’s eye, just as if it were yesterday, I could see myself as a nine-year-old, with my copper-colored hair in a ponytail, shyly walking into the garden to meet Jeremy and his parents for the first time. He was thirteen, a bit gangly but a good-looking fella even then, with dark hair and rebellious blue eyes, and the impeccable good manners of a boy who’d been raised with “all the advantages”.

Jeremy’s stepfather was my Uncle Peter, who was my mom’s brother. So, although Jeremy had no blood connection to my family at all, he had a special place in my childhood. When we first met as kids in Cornwall, Jeremy had already heard many curious things about this American girl called Penny Nichols, and, as he later confessed to me, he was eagerly awaiting my visit.

He’d been told that my English mother, who’d defiantly moved to America as soon as she graduated, was a children’s book illustrator, and she and my dad had written a series of picture books together featuring a little “Girl Detective” based on me. When I arrived in Cornwall, Jeremy was already convinced that I was some sort of American sleuth and celebrity.

Typically as kids, Jeremy and I quickly teamed up in our attempt to resist the grown-ups and create our own world of play. We went swimming and biking and spent hours listening to our favorite music on the radio. Behind the house, facing the sea, there was a beautiful garden where we’d cautiously confided our hopes for the future to each other, while making our way down the narrow, pebbled garden path and the flight of steep stone steps that led to a small, hidden sandy cove.

Running along the shoreline and darting in and out of the waves that summer, we could scarcely have known that we would meet again . . . let alone become partners in our own eccentric investigative firm, Nichols & Laidley, Ltd
.
Even in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have foreseen the exciting cases we’d work on together. Using my art history skills and Jeremy’s legal background, we pursued other people’s family histories and mysteries—as well as our own—to uncover priceless lost treasures and works of art.

Nor could we, in our youthful chats, ever imagine that we would end up married to each other! Still, as we like to remind ourselves, the little seeds of our future life together had been planted in Grandfather Nigel’s garden, long ago, during that very sweet summer in Cornwall.

 

Jeremy was grinning at me now, making me blush a little, so I knew he was revisiting the same memories. But when he turned to Harriet and Colin, his manner was more businesslike, and a bit protective of me. Ever since the inheritance from Aunt Pen, we’ve had to fend off our share of aggressive kooks who come knocking at our door with “business” propositions that are chiefly designed to relieve us of our windfall.