Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (22 page)

“—beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Charles inserted.

“—that something
was
missing,” Grant finished dramatically. “It gave me such a turn that Charles had to help me back into the garden before he rang you.”

My head came up. “Why did you ring me?”

“You tell her, Charles,” said Grant, turning his face away from me. “I simply can’t bear to be the bearer of such terrible news.”

“I rang you,” Charles said somberly, “because the burglar took only one item from Grant’s studio: the Fairworthy family tree.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” said Charles.

“But he isn’t,” Grant chimed in mournfully.

“Why in the world would anyone steal someone else’s family tree?” I asked.

“There’s a market for everything, Lori,” said Grant. “For all we know, there may be a collector out there who salivates at the mere mention of a Victorian illuminated family tree.”

“But why would a collector want something so ... grubby?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“Some works of art are more valuable in their original state,” Grant replied. “Finicky collectors won’t touch items that have been restored by an expert they haven’t hired.”

“I still don’t get it,” I said. “How would a collector ‘out there’ know that the Fairworthy family tree was in your studio?”

Grant studied his fingernails. “I may have mentioned it in the Emporium before we left on Monday, when I picked up a packet of travel tissues.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “I couldn’t help myself. It was such an exciting find!”

“Word could have spread from the Emporium to the ends of the earth,” said Charles. “You know how the villagers talk.”

“Have you reported the theft to the police?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said Grant. “I wanted to speak with you first, to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for betraying your trust. I shouldn’t have left William’s property in an unsecured location.”

“Stop it,” I chided him. “If you need to blame someone, blame the burglar. If you’d locked your front door, he probably would have jimmied it. We can’t live in concrete bunkers because we’re terrified that some fool will break a window. I’d rather risk a break-in and see sunlight than live safely in the dark.”

“I hope William will feel the same way,” Grant said mournfully. “I haven’t spoken with him yet, either. I thought you might want to deliver the crushing news to him yourself. It might be less painful, coming from you.”

I gazed absently at a cluster of scarlet poppies while I considered the best course of action to take. My first impulse was to race over to Fairworth House and point an accusing finger at the Donovans, but I didn’t think such a display would sit well with my father-in-law. He, like Aunt Dimity, would demand that I produce hard evidence to support my accusation, and I didn’t have a speck of evidence to connect the Donovans to the theft.

The sound of Peggy Taxman’s voice boomed over the garden wall and I glanced toward the front of the cottage, where the villagers were assembled. If I could find someone who’d seen one or both of the Donovans sneaking through Finch in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, Willis, Sr.—and Aunt Dimity—would be more inclined to listen to me. What I needed was an eyewitness.

“Let’s hold off on telling William about the burglary,” I said. “He’s at a critical stage in the negotiations he’s conducting for his client and he won’t welcome the distraction. And please don’t report the theft to the police until you hear from me. William may not want to involve them.”

“I understand,” said Grant, looking immensely relieved. “Mum’s the word until you tell us otherwise.”

“Our lips are sealed,” said Charles, drawing a finger across his mouth.

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” I stood. “I’m really sorry that you two had such a rotten homecoming.”

“We’ll get over it,” said Grant. “The studio may have been a mess, but nothing was damaged or defaced. After another g-and-t, I may forget the whole sorry incident.” He cocked his head to one side. “I liked your sermon about living in sunlight.”

“Is there any other way to live?” I said, smiling.

Charles, Matisse, and Goya walked me to the front door, but Charles hesitated before opening it.

“Brace yourself,” he cautioned. “The village paparazzi are about to ambush you.”

“I’m counting on it,” I said. “If I ask the right questions, I may learn a thing or two your constable overlooked.”

“I believe you could give the detective chief inspector himself a run for his money,” said Charles.

“We’ll see,” I said.

I gave Matisse and Goya farewell pats, lifted my chin, and stepped fearlessly into the waiting maelstrom.

Eighteen

“Did Grant have a heart attack?”

“Did the burglar daub foul language on the walls?”

“Did he smash up the furniture? ”

“Is Crabtree Cottage
cursed
?”

“No, no, no, and I very much doubt it,” I said, wading into the knot of hardcore busybodies who’d resisted the urge to return to their own homes and businesses. “Grant’s shaken but he’ll be fine, there’s no graffiti on the walls, nothing was smashed, and Crabtree Cottage is too beautiful to be cursed.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Barlow temporized, pursing his lips. “There was that woman who died there a few years ago, and now there’s been a burglary. It makes you think.”

“It makes me think that life is full of surprises,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the welling murmurs of agreement. “There’s not a house in Finch that hasn’t had a death associated with it at one time or another.”

“Maybe a long time ago,” Mr. Barlow allowed, “but not recently.”

“In a hundred years,
now
will be a long time ago,” I said. “And a burglary can happen anywhere.”

“It’s unusual for one to happen here,” Christine Peacock pointed out.

“I agree,” I said. “But what’s more unusual is that none of you saw any suspicious activity on the night of the burglary.” I surveyed my neighbors’ faces. “Come on, people. You know as well as I do that nothing goes unnoticed in Finch. The break-in took place between Monday afternoon and nine o’clock this morning. Think back. One of you must have seen something, and I’m talking about something
real
, not something you made up or heard about secondhand.”

Heads turned and feet shuffled and finally George Wetherhead stepped forward. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Mr. Wetherhead was the most timid man in Finch.

“I may have seen someone acting suspiciously on Monday night,” he admitted, fixing his gaze resolutely on the ground. “Well, on Tuesday morning, really. I got up a little after midnight to fill my hot water bottle because my hip was aching. It always aches when a storm’s coming.”

The villagers nodded. Most of them could predict the weather by referring to aches and pains in various body parts.

“While I was up,” George went on, “I thought I saw someone walking back and forth on the bridge. It was dark, though, and the bridge is at the far end of the green from my house, so I may have imagined it.”

“Did you tell the policeman what you saw?” asked Mr. Barlow.

“No,” George replied. “Didn’t get a chance to, with the rest of you mobbing him. And, like I said, I may have imagined it.”

“You’re coming with me, George,” Mr. Barlow said firmly. “I’m taking you straight to Upper Deeping. You need to make a statement to the investigating officer.”

“I don’t want to be a pest,” George mumbled.

“It’s your civic duty to be a pest,” said Mr. Barlow. “Come along, now. Best to get it over and done with.”

“Um,” said Elspeth Binney, raising her hand.

“Yes?” I said, peering intently at her.

“Before you make any statements to the police, George,” she said to Mr. Wetherhead, “I should tell you that I went for a stroll on Monday night. Well, on Tuesday morning, really. I was too restless to sleep—I always get restless when a storm’s coming—so I thought I’d stretch my legs. It may have been me you saw on the bridge.”

Peggy Taxman rounded on her. “What in blazes were you doing, wandering around in the middle of the night, Elspeth Binney? Is your telescope equipped with night vision?”

“I wasn’t the only one who was out and about,” Elspeth retorted, firing up at once. “And I didn’t need a telescope to see who
else
was up late. Ask Millicent what
she
was doing, lurking behind the war memorial.”

“I was keeping an eye on
you
,” Millicent Scroggins exclaimed. “I got up for a drink of water and saw you sneaking past my cottage. I wanted to find out what you were up to, so I put on my dressing gown and—”

“I wasn’t up to anything,” Elspeth broke in. “But Opal may have been.
She
was skulking in the doorway of the Emporium.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Opal Taylor, blushing crimson. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Selena Buxton said heatedly. “I heard your front door open and close at half past twelve, so I got up to make sure nothing was amiss. When I saw you walking toward the bridge, I went after you, to keep you from breaking our agreement.”

“What agreement?” asked Mr. Barlow.

“Our agreement to stay away from Fairworth House,” said Selena, staring hard at Opal. “If Elspeth hadn’t been on the bridge, Opal wouldn’t have stopped at the Emporium. She would have sneaked right up to Fairworth and peeked through the windows.”

“How
dare
you?” Opal cried melodramatically, clapping a hand to her breast. “I’m not a Peeping Tom!”

“Maybe not,” Selena conceded, her eyes narrowing, “but you’ve been dying to find out if William’s new housekeeper is up to snuff. A look through the windows would have told you whether or not she’s doing the dusting.”

“If you weren’t going to Fairworth,” Elspeth said to Opal, “where
were
you going?”

“I was following
you
,” Opal exploded, bristling. “I thought
you
were going to Fairworth. After your stunt with the telescope, I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

“Nor would
I
put anything past
you
!” Elspeth swept her arm in an arc that encompassed Selena and Millicent as well as Opal. “The only reason I blocked the bridge in the first place was to protect William from
you
!”

“Protect William?”
Serena, Millicent, and Opal chorused ferociously, closing in on Elspeth.

I backed away from the battlefield and climbed into the Rover. For one brief, shining moment I’d thought I’d struck gold, but Mr. Wetherhead’s lead had turned to lead. He’d evidently seen Elspeth Binney standing on the bridge on Tuesday morning, and the Handmaidens had seen no one but one another. I had no doubt whatsoever that the ladies had rattled off stories about drug lords and dictators in order to divert the constable’s attention away from their own nocturnal activities, none of which had had anything to do with the burglary.

I returned to the cottage, deep in thought. Though I had neither an eyewitness report nor a scrap of evidence linking the Donovans to the crime, I had a well-reasoned argument that pointed to the possibility of their guilt. Since my well-reasoned arguments had been known to fizzle ignominiously on past occasions, however, it seemed like a good idea to rehearse this one with Aunt Dimity before presenting it to Willis, Sr.

I dropped my shoulder bag on the hall table, called a greeting to Stanley, who was sleeping in Bill’s chair, and went to the study. The ivy covering the windows above the old oak desk glowed like stained glass in the bright sunshine and cast dappled shadows on the drawings Will and Rob had made of their trail ride with Kit.

“I may be jumping to conclusions,” I said to Reginald as I slid the blue journal from its shelf, “but I don’t think so.”

I was too wound up to sit, so I cradled the open journal in my hands as I paced back and forth from desk to doorway.

“Dimity?” I said. “There’s been a development.”

A development?
Shifting shadows swam across the page as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared.
Can you be more specific?

“A burglar broke in to Crabtree Cottage,” I said, “and stole the Fairworthy family tree.”

Oh, dear. William must be devastated.

“William doesn’t know about it yet,” I said.

Why ever not?

“Because I asked Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham to keep it to themselves until I’ve had a chance to look into it,” I said.

Surely they notified the police.

“The police know about the break-in, but not about the theft,” I explained. “If my suspicions pan out, William will want to inform the police himself.”

What do you suspect?

“I
know
that Crabtree Cottage was burgled while Grant and Charles were in London,” I said. “They left on Monday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock this morning.”

Ergo, we have a time frame for the crime.

“We also have a peculiar incident that took place within our time frame,” I said. “William heard someone use the elevator at Fairworth House at 2:57 on Tuesday morning.”

Yes, I recall the elevator incident. You and William assumed that Deirdre Donovan had used it to reach the attic apartment after staying up half the night, cleaning.

“What if William and I were wrong? What if the Donovans used the elevator to transport the family tree to their apartment? Bear with me, Dimity,” I said, before she could lodge a protest. “I’ve pieced this together very carefully.”

If you bring up Declan’s red hair or Deirdre’s beauty spot, I’ll refuse to listen to you.

“I’m offering supposition, not superstition,” I assured her.

In that case, you may proceed.

“On Monday, during brunch,” I began, “I told William that I’d delivered his grubby masterpiece to a local art restorer named Grant, who lived and worked in a place called Crabtree Cottage. I also told William that Grant and Charles would leave for London on Monday and return to Finch on Wednesday. Deirdre was manning the teapot during brunch. She could have heard the entire conversation.”