Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (8 page)

“If they want to keep their jobs, they’ll go along with it,” I observed.

When Señor Cocinero departs, you will smuggle Sally out of Fairworth House and return her to the tearoom, restored to full health and ready to resume her vital role in village life.
There was a pause before the handwriting continued.
Sally will have to be uncivil to Señor Cocinero, of course.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

Sally will have to conceal her affection for Señor Cocinero. Otherwise, he’ll keep coming back. I doubt that William will agree to go through this more than once.

“I doubt that he’ll go through it even once,” I said.

He will. Gallant gentlemen can’t resist the urge to help a damsel in distress.

“He may buy into your plan,” I allowed, “but even if he does, it won’t succeed.”

Why not?

“Because, as you’ve told me on more than one occasion, nothing goes unnoticed in a village,” I replied. “Secrets don’t stay secret for very long in Finch.”

There’s a first time for everything, Lori. Consider the dreadful consequences of doing nothing. Can you imagine Finch without Sally Pyne’s jam doughnuts?

“I didn’t say I’d do nothing,” I protested. I was quite fond of Sally’s jam doughnuts, which bore little resemblance to the American pastries of the same name. Sally’s were dense and submarine-shaped, rolled in coarse sugar, filled with thick cream, and finished with the merest dab of homemade raspberry jam. They were the stuff of which food fantasies were made.

“I didn’t say I’d do nothing,” I repeated, coming out of my sugary reverie. “I was about to ask if you have a role for me in your charade.”

You’ll play yourself, Lori. William stays with Lady Sarah because her home is so near his son’s.

“Why doesn’t he stay with us?” I inquired.

Your cottage is too small to accomodate him, whereas Fairworth House has rooms to spare. The closer we keep to reality, Lori, the easier it will be to pull the whole thing off.

“Lies are easier to coordinate if they’re close to the truth,” I agreed.

Lies told to spare a foolish woman persecution and ridicule may, I think, be forgiven. If the conspirators play their parts to the best of their ability, I believe that my scheme has a fair to middling chance of succeeding.

“I’ll do
my
best,” I promised.

I know you will. My dear, you’ve been racing like a greyhound for nearly twenty-four hours. It’s time to curl up in your basket. Buenas noches, querida.

“
Buenas noches, Tía Dimity,
” I said, surprising myself with a few words of high-school Spanish that had until that moment lain dormant in a dusty corner of my brain.

I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and returned it to the shelf. I threw a halfhearted glance at the fax machine, but shook my head.

“No,” I said to Reginald. “I’ll go cross-eyed if I try to read Davina Trent’s faxes now. I’ll check up on the Donovans after I’ve had some sleep.”

A psychiatrist wouldn’t have understood it, but I could tell by Reginald’s expression that he approved of my decision. I twiddled his ears, banked the fire, and went upstairs.

Bill was, unsurprisingly, dead to the world by the time I climbed into bed. After persuading a reluctant Stanley to move from my pillows to a spot near my husband’s feet, I lay back and stared at the ceiling while thoughts of Aunt Dimity’s complex machinations rolled sluggishly through my brain. No one respected her craftiness more than I did, but I’d never heard of a plan in which so many things could go wrong.

“Not a snowball’s chance,” I murmured, and as dawn’s rosy fingers touched the sky, I plunged into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Six

Bill concurred with my dour assessment of Aunt Dimity’s scheme, but he thought it was worth a try. He, too, was a big fan of Sally’s jam doughnuts.

“We’ll pick up Father on our way to St. George’s,” he said, as we dressed for church the following morning.

“It’s a fine day,” I said, peering through the bedroom window at the cloudless blue sky. “He’ll probably want to walk.”

“Fine day or no, he’ll ride with us,” Bill said flatly. “When we get to Fairworth, I’ll keep the boys occupied while you run in and present the plan to Father. If he gives it the green light, we’ll start the ball rolling in the churchyard scrum.”

The “churchyard scrum” was Bill’s affectionate term for the knot of chattering villagers that formed in the graveyard surrounding St. George’s every Sunday after church. Wherever two or more were gathered in Finch there was bound to be gossip, so the scrum would be a perfect place to launch our disinformation campaign.

“And if William doesn’t give us the green light?” I asked.

“We’ll hope he comes up with a better plan.” Bill straightened the knot in his tie, then opened the bedroom door, saying, “
Vámonos, muchacha!
If we stand around talking much longer, the boys will decide to drive themselves to church.”

I followed him out of the bedroom, mentally rehearsing a condensed version of Aunt Dimity’s complicated scenario. A full rendition would make us miss the morning service and a missed church service would raise eyebrows I didn’t want raised.

Fairworth House glowed like old gold in the morning sun. Declan Donovan, clad in khaki shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and scruffy work boots, was already tending to his duties, using a rake to repair the damage done to the graveled drive by the flotilla of cars that had come and gone the previous evening. He stopped raking and raised a hand to greet us as we piled out of the Rover. Bill took the boys over to meet him while I scampered up the steps and into the entrance hall, where I found Willis, Sr., who was about to leave for church.

“Such haste on a Sunday morning,” he observed, clucking his tongue. “You are aware that the catering crisis is over, are you not?”

“Come with me,” I said, ignoring his quip. “I have something to tell you and it can’t wait.”

I led him to the settee near the window in the morning room, closed the door, and relayed the essential points of Aunt Dimity’s plan to him, shamelessly claiming them as my own. Although my father-in-law had known Dimity Westwood when she was alive, he was unaware of my ongoing relationship with her, and I had no idea how to explain it to him.

“Well?” I asked, when I’d finished. “What do you think?”

“An American cousin?” he said doubtfully. “I was rather hoping to play the role of the butler.”

I frowned at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Great minds think alike, Lori,” he said, smiling. “I devised a stratagem very similar to yours over breakfast this morning. Mrs. Donovan, by the way, is an excellent cook. My poached eggs were sublime. She is also knowledgeable about sheep.”

“Never mind about sheep,” I said impatiently. “What’s all this about playing the role of a butler?”

“I have always wanted to buttle,” Willis, Sr., replied wistfully. “My accent, alas, will not serve. The butler in an English country house would sound more ... English. I admit it, Lori. Your scheme trumps mine. I am better suited to the role of Lady Sarah Pyne’s American cousin.”

“You mean ... you’ll do it?” I said incredulously.

“Of course I shall do it. Mrs. Pyne is depending on me. When Señor Cocinero arrives at Fairworth tomorrow, he shall find Lady Sarah Pyne entertaining her American cousin, William Willis, who is whiling away the summer months as a guest in her splendid home. It is a role I was born to play.” He gave a satisfied nod before adding, “I have already taken the Donovans into my confidence and secured their full cooperation. As it happens, Mrs. Donovan is fluent in six languages, one of which is Spanish. She will be a most useful accomplice.” He glanced at his watch. “You must telephone the tearoom immediately.”

“No time,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll explain everything to Sally after church.”

“Mrs. Pyne may miss church this morning, but Rainey will almost certainly be there,” said Willis, Sr. “The child will need a word of warning about the story we are about to unveil. For now, ask her merely to agree with everything we say. We will acquaint her with the details later, when we have more time.” He stood. “While you are making the call, my dear, I will gather Bill and the twins. We shall await you in the Range Rover.” He smoothed his impeccable waistcoat and left.

I stared speechlessly at his retreating back. My father-in-law was a methodical, meticulous thinker. His eagerness to grab a leading role in an absurd masquerade was as out of character as his interest in sheep and his hasty decision to hire the Donovans. I’d heard that retirement could be a liberating experience, but Willis, Sr., seemed to be taking it to a whole new level. It was a bit unnerving.

A series of blaring honks from the Rover’s horn reminded me that I was supposed to be telephoning Rainey. I hit the speed dial on my cell phone and she answered on the first ring. Though mystified by my brief and cryptic message, she instantly agreed to follow our lead.

“I’ll do anything to help Gran,” she said earnestly. “She loves Finch. It would break her heart if she had to move to another village.”

A granddaughter, I thought, smiling, can be a great support in times of strife.

Elspeth Binney was playing the first chords of the processional as Bill, Willis, Sr., Will, Rob, and I slid hurriedly into a pew. I nodded to Rainey, who was seated across the aisle from us, then tried to pay attention to the service.

Theodore Bunting’s sermons were rarely stimulating, and this morning’s was no exception. It was all I could do to keep from nodding off as he elucidated yet another obscure biblical text, but I wasn’t alone in my struggle. The previous night’s revelries had taken a toll on almost everyone, and it was a subdued group of parishioners that shuffled into the churchyard at the service’s end. The only people who appeared to be well rested were Will and Rob, who ran off to play hide-and-seek among the headstones, and Peggy Taxman, who was sailing majestically toward me.

My cowardly husband took his father by the elbow and suggested that they pay their respects to the cemetery’s newest residents, a pair of ancient and identical twin sisters named Ruth and Louise Pym, who’d been laid to rest beneath a single headstone less than a year ago. Similarly, most of the villagers shot off home, to peruse the Sunday newspapers over a leisurely breakfast beyond the reach of Peggy’s voice. A select group, however, streamed after Peggy, knowing that they could rely on her to ask questions they were too polite—or too sleepy-headed—to ask.

“George Wetherhead tells me that he saw a ratty old van drive through town last night, after the party was over,” Peggy boomed as soon as she was within earshot. “He seems to think it was headed for Fairworth House. Did some of William’s guests arrive late?”

“No,” I replied. “His new housekeeper and his new gardener—a married couple—had car trouble on their way to Finch. They didn’t reach Fairworth until the wee hours.”

Eyes that had been drowsy brightened noticeably as the villagers digested my first news flash.

“Housekeeper? Gardener?” Peggy thundered. “What are they called? And why weren’t they in church?”

“Deirdre and Declan Donovan,” I told her. “And I don’t know.”

“Donovan, eh?” Peggy pursed her lips. “Sounds Irish to me. I’ll wager they’re at St. Margaret’s in Upper Deeping.”

“Possibly,” I said, aware that it would be futile to point out to Peggy that not everyone named Donovan was a Roman Catholic.

“William must be pleased to have them,” said Christine Peacock.

“He is,” I assured her. “Now he can enjoy his leisure time and leave the management of the household to the Donovans.”

“They’ll be doing the hiring, will they?” inquired Mr. Barlow. The handyman was always on the lookout for odd jobs.

“That’s right,” I said, thanking him silently for leading the way to my second bit of news. “William has put them in charge of all matters concerning his staff. If the Donovans decide that they need extra help,
they’ll
do the hiring.”

“They’ll need extra help,” Opal Taylor opined. “One solitary woman can’t keep up with the dusting at Fairworth House.”

“Or polish the silver,” said Selena Buxton.

“Or mop the floors,” said Elspeth Binney.

“Or beat the rugs,” said Millicent Scroggins.

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Bree Pym missed church again,” Peggy Taxman bellowed. She jutted her chin toward the headstone over which Bill and Willis, Sr., were standing. “Ruth and Louise would turn in their graves if they knew how often their great-grandniece sleeps in on Sunday mornings.”

“I’m quite sure that the Pym sisters know everything there is to know about their great-grandniece,” said Lilian Bunting, who’d left her husband’s side to join the throng. “I sense that Ruth and Louise are gazing down upon us from heaven even as we speak. I can almost hear them reciting one of their favorite verses: Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

The villagers tittered, knowing full well that Lilian’s minisermon had been aimed directly at Peggy.

“’Morning, all,” Bree Pym said cheerfully, striding up to stand next to me. She was clad in a skimpy slip-dress, striped leggings, and black flip-flops—an unusual ensemble in Finch, where modest dresses were the norm on Sundays. She ran a hand through her short spiky hair and beamed at the world in general. “It’s such a beautiful day that the vicar let me climb up into the belfry to listen to the service.” She gave Peggy a sly, sidelong look. “I could hear
every word
.”

The villagers eyed Bree with respect. They were used to the vicar’s wife crossing swords with Peggy Taxman, but it took courage for a relative newcomer to take a swipe at her.

Bree glanced over her shoulder at Bill and Willis, Sr. “Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise have company, I see. Think I’ll pop over for a chat. My aunties like to know who’s saying what in Finch.”

Since Ruth and Louise Pym had threatened posthumously, via a letter read aloud at their funeral, to smite anyone who was unkind to their great-grandniece, Bree’s words had a sinister tinge to them. While she sauntered off to sit cross-legged before her great-grandaunts’ grave, the villagers glanced skyward and backed surreptitiously away from Peggy, as if they expected a bolt from the blue to strike her at any minute.