Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (17 page)

“It’s not so bad,” I said with false cheer. “Not a dinosaur in sight.”

“Perhaps I should add a few,” said Gabriel. “It would liven up the place.”

So would a match and a bucket of kerosene, I said to myself, and bent to lift a purring Stanley to my shoulder.

“My wife—my ex-wife—took most of the furniture with her when she left,” Gabriel explained.

“But
she
left
you,
” I protested. “I would have taken an axe to everything before I let her walk off with so much as an ashtray.”

“I didn’t want any of it,” Gabriel said quietly. “We’d bought everything together, you see. It only reminded me of . . . absurd hopes.” He reached over to rub Stanley’s chin. “And as Stanley will gladly point out, I don’t spend much time here. I tend to live at the studio.”

Poor old Stanley, I thought, stroking the black cat’s sleek rump. Dry food, no back garden, and no one to play with. It wasn’t a proper life for a cat.

“I’d better feed him,” said Gabriel, taking Stanley from me. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

I was relieved that he hadn’t invited me into the kitchen. The sight of a solitary cereal bowl sitting forlornly in the sink would have turned my soft heart to mush. I didn’t like the look of the vinyl armchair, however, so I wandered over to the worktable. It was extremely tidy. Pencils, rulers, pastels, charcoals, and sketching pads—each had its particular place, and the angled lamp clamped to the edge of the table was in good working order.

A sheaf of loose sheets lay in the center of the table, charcoal sketches of a man’s hands, the same hands, done over and over again. As I leafed through the sketches I realized that Gabriel wasn’t merely skilled, he was gifted. Each drawing revealed something different about the hands. One emphasized their age, another their strength, and a third combined age and strength with an indefinable sense of tenderness.

“Snooping?” Gabriel said, coming up behind me.

“Of course.” I held up the sketches. “Whose hands are these?”

“They belong to an eminent botanist,” he answered. “I doubt you’d know him.” you’d know him.“

“I feel as though I do,” I said, looking at each drawing in turn. “I can see him digging in the soil, caring for seedlings, ripping out stubborn weeds—it’s all there, in his hands.” I looked up at Gabriel. “You’re really good.”

“I’m a really good liar.” Gabriel took the sketches from me and slid them into a portfolio case. “The man’s a theoretician, Lori. His hands are as soft as putty, but these are the hands he wants, so these are the hands I’ll give him.”

“Isn’t art supposed to involve the imagination?” I asked.

“Portraits should contain truth,” Gabriel replied. A strong note of self-contempt crept into his voice. “Not the whole truth, perhaps, but a kernel of it. Mine are pure flattery. I’m a clever hack, Lori. That’s why I’m so successful.” He set the portfolio case against the wall and nodded toward the stack of telephone directories supporting the end of the worktable. “Shall we get on with it? I’ve brought the current directory from the kitchen. I believe the one we want is the second from the bottom.”

He held the table to keep it from tilting while I swapped the new book for the old. I laid the old directory on the worktable, opened it, and paged through it until I came to the place where Kenneth Beacham’s name should have been.

“It’s not there,” I said, greatly disappointed. “Kenneth must have had an unlisted number.”

“It’s not uncommon for a man of means to go ex-directory,” said Gabriel. “And we’re assuming Kenneth’s well-off, because of his expensive suits.”

I closed the directory and sighed. “We’ve hit a brick wall, Gabriel. I don’t know where to go next.”

“Perhaps your friend’s Internet search will give us a lead,” said Gabriel.

“If she ever gets around to it,” I said. “She’s awfully busy just now.”

“What about your computer skills?” Gabriel asked.

“Nonexistent,” I said. “I couldn’t find a Web site if my life depended on it. I’m not even sure what a Web site
is.
That’s why I need Emma.”

“I’m computer-illiterate, too,” Gabriel admitted. “I suppose we could visit the library and do a manual search of old newspapers, local magazines. If Kenneth was a prominent businessman, he’ll be mentioned somewhere.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “But it’ll have to wait until Monday.”

“Monday?” Gabriel said in dismay.

I nodded. “It’s time for me to go home today, and I have to be somewhere tomorrow, and it’s my turn to pick up litter in the churchyard after church on Sunday.” I shrugged. “The library will have to wait until Monday.”

Gabriel seemed put out by the delay. “I thought finding Kenneth was important to you.”

“It is, but so’s my friend Emma,” I told him. “She’s launching her riding academy tomorrow and if I’m not there, she’ll never forgive me. Apart from that, Joanna will think I’ve abandoned her, and my sons will never speak to me again.”

“Joanna?” Gabriel said, taking the cunningly concealed bait.

“Didn’t I say?” I looked up at him with my best imitation of wide-eyed innocence. “I invited Joanna and Chloe Quinn to the party tomorrow, so I have to be there to introduce them to everyone.”

“Naturally, if you invited them you should be there.” Gabriel straightened a few pencils that didn’t need straightening.

I glanced at him offhandedly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to come.”

“Yes, I would,” he said quickly, then focused once more on the pencils. “That is, I’ve been meaning to sketch some horses to put in the background of one of my portraits. An opportunity like this—”

“—is meant to be seized,” I interrupted, trying hard to hide my satisfaction. “My sons will be thrilled to meet a fellow artist. They may be willing to teach you the finer points of drawing equine portraits. It’s their field of expertise.”

“I’m always willing to learn,” said Gabriel.

I gave him the directions, said good-bye, and headed for the parking lot, pleased with the progress I’d made on both of my current projects. I was switching on the engine when my cell phone rang. It was Julian Bright.

“Lori?” he said. “Are you still in Oxford?”

“I’m in my car, behind Miss Beacham’s building,” I replied.

“Can you drop by St. Benedict’s?” he asked. “I think it’ll be worth your while. It’s about your late friend’s brother.”

“I’m on my way,” I told him, and backed out of the lot at what Bill would have considered a reckless rate of speed.

 
Julian was waiting for me in his paper-strewn office when I arrived. He cleared a pile of file folders from a chair, motioned for me to sit, and left, telling me he’d be right back. He returned a moment later, with Big Al Layton in tow.

Big Al was unusual among St. Benedict’s regulars because he didn’t look like one of St. Benedict’s regulars. He shaved almost every day, brushed his thick black hair, bathed regularly, and kept his secondhand clothes neat and fairly clean. He was well-spoken and capable of working low-paying jobs, but chronic alcoholism kept him from earning a decent living. The bandage on his head reminded me of the most recent fall he’d taken, when he’d been, in Nurse Willoughby’s words, “drunk as a lord.”

“How’s your head?” I asked as he took a seat near Julian’s cluttered desk.

“Not too bad, Ms. Lori,” he replied. “Stitches are coming out on Tuesday. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I said, and turned to Julian, who’d settled into the swivel chair at his desk. “So, here I am. What’s up?”

Julian looked toward Big Al. “Why don’t you tell Lori what you told me, Al?”

“Yes, sir, Father,” said Big Al, and cleared his throat. “I was talking with Blinker when he came back from talking with you, Ms. Lori, and it suddenly came to me that I’d seen the bloke you’re looking for.”

I sat forward. “Kenneth Beacham?”

“I’m pretty sure it was him,” he said. “I worked at Woolery’s Café a few years ago, sweeping up, you know, and a bloke named Kenny used to come in there with his sister for lunch. That’s what she called him: Kenny. And he called her Lizzie. Dressed to the nines, he was, and carried a fancy leather briefcase.”

“That’s him.” I nodded eagerly.

“Thing is, Woolery’s isn’t the only place I saw him,” said Big Al. “I went to his house, too.”

I gasped. “You went to Kenneth Beacham’s
house?
”

“I did,” said Big Al. “His wife was holding a charity do in her garden. The chap who catered it was a friend of Mr. Woolery’s. He asked me if I wanted to earn a few extra bob, cleaning up after, so I went along.”

“When were you there?” I asked. “How long ago?”

“Five, six years, maybe,” said Big Al. “Reason I remember is because I’d never been to a house like that before. Big place, all mod cons, and a bloody great garden. It made an impression.”

“Do you remember the address?” I asked.

“I don’t remember the number,” said Big Al, “but it was on Crestmore Crescent, in one of them swanky new developments north of town. I’d know it again if I saw it, though. Had a pair of stone lions guarding the driveway.”

“Big Al,” I declared, “I could kiss you.”

He grinned. “No need for that, Ms. Lori. But if you could see your way to lending us a few bob . . .”

I held up a hand to silence Julian’s protests and put a five-pound note in Big Al’s outstretched palm. He pocketed the money and left, carefully avoiding Julian’s reproachful gaze.

“I know, Julian,” I said. “Virtue is supposed to be its own reward, but nothing says thank you like a little cash in hand. Besides, how drunk can he get on five pounds?”

“Extremely drunk,” Julian replied repressively. “But he’s had his monthly binge, so I imagine he’ll spend your charitable donation on something other than drink. I assume his information is useful?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I said. “Your network of spies is coming up trumps for me. Without Big Al, I would have been doomed to spend countless hours poring over the newspaper archives in the library. Instead, I’ll be visiting Crestmore Crescent on Monday, to have a chat with Kenny Beacham’s former neighbors.”

“Anything to help Miss Beacham,” said Julian.

“You have,” I assured him and, with a light heart, headed for home.

 
The sun managed to break free of the clouds shortly before sunset, and by nine o’clock the stars were out in force. I hoped the clear skies would stick around for Emma’s big day.

The boys were asleep, Annelise had retired to her room, and Bill was in the living room, reading. I’d strolled out to the back meadow for a breath of fresh air and a peek at the stars. Their crystalline brilliance, the soothing gurgle of the stream at the bottom of the meadow, and the distant bleating of sheep in neighboring fields were three more reasons why I would never move back to a city.

I’d telephoned Gabriel as soon as I’d reached the cottage, to deliver the good news about Kenneth Beacham’s former address. We’d agreed to meet on Monday morning and drive together to Crestmore Crescent.

If it hadn’t been for Big Al Layton, the day would have been a complete washout. Bill hadn’t yet identified Miss Beacham’s London law firm. He’d been forced to make an unscheduled trip to Paris, to rewrite a codicil for a fussy French client, and he’d had no time to spare for telephone calls. He was very surprised to learn that Miss Beacham had worked for Pratchett & Moss, and agreed with Gabriel that her double role as client/employee would complicate Mr. Moss’s task of protecting her privacy.

“It might explain why Moss is being so careful about Miss Beacham’s affairs,” he’d said. “It almost certainly explains why he’s hiding the files from Joanna Quinn. Joanna was indebted to Miss Beacham. She wouldn’t be able to view the case objectively.”

When I explained my less charitable interpretation of Mr. Moss’s behavior—“He
wants
Kenneth to stay lost so he can grab a bigger share of Miss Beacham’s money!”—Bill’s only response had been to say, more pointedly than was strictly necessary, that he hoped no one would encourage Joanna to break into Mr. Moss’s desk in order to read Miss Beacham’s will. I’d assured him that Joanna would never do such a thing and repaired hastily to the study, to hide my guilty blushes and telephone Emma.

The leaking water tank and a host of additional last-minute emergencies had driven the Internet search right out of Emma’s head. She’d promised to give it her undivided attention as soon as she had a minute to spare, which meant that I probably wouldn’t see the results until we were both in our dotage.

With a sigh, I bid the stars good night, made my way back to the cottage, and slipped quietly into the study. I’d collected my thoughts. Now I was ready to deliver them to Aunt Dimity.

I curled comfortably in the leather armchair facing the hearth, opened the blue journal, and said, “I’m glad I followed your advice, Dimity. I’ve learned a lot more by talking with the people than by relying on Emma’s computer.”

The familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled steadily across the blank page as Dimity responded.
Have you learned anything of value?

I told her about Gabriel’s impressive solo chats with the shopkeepers—including the interesting bit about Mr. Blascoe’s bunions—Blinker’s useful tip, Joanna Quinn’s story, and Big Al’s amazing revelations. When I finished, I shook my head.

“The first time I saw Miss Beacham’s apartment, I pictured her sitting alone every evening, playing solitaire,” I said, “but between working full-time for Pratchett and Moss, baking hundreds of loaves of raisin bread, and taking care of everyone she met, I don’t think she spent much time on card games.”

I nodded. “I imagine that’s why she never invited anyone to visit her. She must have craved peace and quiet by the time she closed the door, especially after her illness began to wear her down.”