Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (23 page)

“Why would a place like Crestmore Crescent be invaluable to someone like you?” I asked.

“Sounds like Kenneth’s wife,” I said. “Social life on Crestmore Crescent seemed to revolve around Dorothy Beacham, and the events she organized must have had a certain amount of prestige. Mrs. Pollard seemed to think that ‘the right people’ attended them.”

“Dorothy didn’t get her name in any newspapers,” I said.

“Dorothy’s name didn’t turn up in Emma’s Internet search,” I explained. “Not in any significant way, at least. If she was trying to get her name in print by running fund-raisers, she didn’t succeed.”

How strange. How very odd. I’ve never encountered a charity hostess who refused to advertise her good works.
Dimity’s fine copperplate stopped flowing. Several minutes passed before it began again, to form a simple sentence that struck me like a thunderbolt.
Perhaps Dorothy Beacham changed her name.

I sat forward in my chair.

“Why?” I asked.

“Do their husbands go along with it?” I asked.

I sighed and leaned my chin on my hand. “How on earth will we find Miss Beacham’s brother if we don’t know his last name?”

“So Smith becomes Smythe?” I said.

“Bow-champs?” I said, pronouncing the name phonetically.

I eyed Dimity’s statement doubtfully. “Are you serious?”

I immediately closed the journal and went to the desk, to put in a phone call to Emma. Since she was one of a tiny circle of friends who knew all about Aunt Dimity, I could explain Dimity’s revolutionary new idea to her without mincing words. Then I sat by the phone and waited.

 
Emma didn’t bother to call. She arrived on my doorstep an hour later, clutching a damp day pack in her arms. I’d hardly opened the door when she rushed past me.

“Was Dimity right?” I asked.

“Yes and no.” Emma pulled off her dripping raincoat and stepped out of her muddy boots. “Put the kettle on, will you? I’m chilled to the bone.”

Emma padded after me into the kitchen, where I lit a fire under the kettle and set the table for tea. While I filled the creamer and put out the sugar bowl, she pulled a fat file folder out of the day pack and placed it on her side of the table. A curious light gleamed in her blue-gray eyes.

“It looks as though you found
something,
” I said, nodding at the folder.

“I did,” she said, “but it wasn’t under Beauchamps.”

I put the teapot on the table and sat facing Emma. It was clear that she had a tale to tell and that she planned to take her own sweet time telling it. I curbed my natural impatience while she tipped cream into her tea, stirred it, and cupped her wind-reddened hands around her mug.

“Dimity was almost right,” she began. “When I ran a search on Kenneth Beauchamps, I still came up empty. So I went back to the initial search—and that’s when I had the brainstorm.” She put her mug down and leaned toward me. “When Derek and I married, I took his last name. You kept your own when you married Bill. It occurred to me that there’s a third thing couples do with their last names when they get married.”

I thought for a second. “They hyphenate them?”

Emma nodded. “They combine their last names and stick a hyphen in between. So I tried various combinations of Dorothy’s and Kenneth’s last names and when I tried Fletcher-Beauchamps, I hit pay dirt.” She pushed the file across the table. “Voila!”

My spine tingled as I opened the folder and leafed through page after page of closely printed items trumpeting the social, professional, and academic accomplishments of the three members of the Fletcher-Beauchamps family, residents of number 6 Crestmore Crescent, Willow Hills, Oxfordshire.

The vast majority of the pieces focused on Dorothy and young Walter James, but a short notice toward the back of the file announced that Kenneth Fletcher-Beauchamps had been promoted to vice chairman of Fletcher Securities and given the weighty responsibility of opening the firm’s Newcastle office.

“Fletcher Securities . . . his father-in-law’s firm. Oh, Emma,” I said, in a voice choked with awe, “you are a genius, a bona fide brainiac, a postgraduate-level smarty-pants. I’m . . . stunned.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Dimity,” she said. “The Beacham/Beauchamps connection would never have occurred to me.”

“That’s because you speak sensible American instead of eccentric English.” I beamed at her. “Thank you, Emma. Thank you very much.”

“Glad to be of help,” she said. “I’ve invited Annelise and the boys to stay for lunch at my place. I expect you’ll be running off to Oxford, to share the file with Gabriel.”

“I may drive sedately to Oxford, but I’m too sore to run anywhere,” I confessed, and told her about my labor-intensive redistribution of Miss Beacham’s property. “I expect to hear from

Mr. Moss around noon today, after the auctioneers inform him that the sale catalogue will have to be reduced considerably in size.”

“Do you think he’ll be upset?” Emma asked.

“If he’s the crook I think he is, he’ll be
livid,
” I replied. “But I am not afraid. With Bill as my bulwark, I fear nothing.”

“Except horses,” said Emma, with a puckish twinkle.

I swallowed my usual protest and graciously conceded the point. If anyone had earned the right to tease me, it was Emma.

 
I phoned Gabriel as soon as Emma left. He and I had agreed to take the day off, but Emma’s brainstorm had changed everything.

“How are you feeling?” I asked when Gabriel picked up the phone.

“As if someone had driven a large lorry over me, repeatedly,” he replied. “Apart from that, it’s as if I’m in a dream. I’ve been wandering round the flat all morning, touching things. How are you?”

“I offered my body to science, but they turned me down,” I told him.

He laughed. “Have you heard from Mr. Moss yet?”

“Don’t worry about Mr. Moss,” I said. “We have more important things to think about. Such as figuring out the shortest route to Newcastle.”

“Newcastle? You said it would be pointless to go there unless . . .” His words trailed off as he put two and two together. “Have you discovered the name of Kenneth’s firm?”

“Emma did.” I gave Emma full credit for the discovery because I had no intention of trying to explain Aunt Dimity to Gabriel. “I’d like to tell you about it in person. I know today was earmarked for rest and recovery, but—”

“Hang rest and recovery!” Gabriel exclaimed. “I’ll come out to your place this time. How do I find you?”

Since Gabriel had already been to Anscombe Manor, the directions were simplicity itself.

“And don’t bother to stop for lunch,” I added. “I’ll feed you when you get here.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, considering my debilitated state,” he said, and hung up.

I called Bill, to ask him to join me and Gabriel for lunch, but he’d already decided to grab a quick bite at the pub in Finch. I tantalized him with a sneak preview of the information Emma had unearthed, then went to the kitchen to take a container of homemade vegetable soup out of the freezer and put a chicken in the oven. The one would be thawed and the other roasted by the time Gabriel and I were ready to eat.

The homely scent of roasting chicken drifted through the cottage as I sat in the living room, reading the printouts Emma had given me. I was deep into an article about a fancy-dress ball Dorothy had hosted at the Randolph Hotel when my cell phone rang. I went to the hallway, took the phone from my shoulder bag, and braced myself. It was ten minutes past noon and the number displayed on the cell phone’s tiny screen was Mr. Moss’s.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Shepherd,” he said pleasantly.

“Hello, Mr. Moss,” I said.

“I’ve received a rather puzzling telephone message from one of the gentlemen assigned to remove Miss Beacham’s furniture to the auction house.” Mr. Moss paused and when I said nothing, he continued. “He informs me that my late client’s belongings have dwindled alarmingly. I wondered if you might help to clarify the situation.”

“My husband can help you, Mr. Moss,” I said, and gave him Bill’s office number.

“I see.” Mr. Moss sighed. “You have nothing more to say?”

“My husband can help you,” I repeated. “Good-bye, Mr. Moss.”

I ended the call, speed-dialed Bill’s office, warned him that Mr. Moss was on the warpath, and wished him luck, though I knew he wouldn’t need it. I’d scarcely returned the cell phone to my bag when the doorbell heralded Gabriel’s arrival. I opened the door to find him standing halfway between my doorstep and the driveway.

“Come in out of the rain,” I called.

Gabriel took three steps toward me, stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and cleared his throat nervously.

“Um,” he said, “I had an ulterior motive for driving out here today.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder at his car, which was parked in the driveway, then back at me. “You see, I’ve invited Joanna to dinner at my place this evening.”

Quick work, I thought, but said aloud, “I hope she can find a babysitter for Chloe on such short notice.”

“Chloe’s coming too,” Gabriel said. “I framed the sketch Joanna liked so much. I thought I might present it to Chloe this evening, as a memento of her first pony ride.”

I wanted to pump my fist in the air and shout
Yes!
on behalf of the worldwide tribe of matchmakers, but I controlled myself and said matter-of-factly, “It solves the babysitting problem.”

“True, but it doesn’t solve another problem.” Gabriel took a deep breath and held his hands out to me pleadingly. “I know it’s an awful imposition, Lori, but would you consider taking Stanley for the night? He’s fond of you and I can’t have Joanna sneezing all through dinner. I’ve brought everything you’ll need. He’s a sweet cat, as you know, and frankly, I don’t think you’ll see much of him. He hasn’t fully recovered from last night yet.

He’ll probably hide in a quiet corner. You’ll hardly know he’s here.”

“You want me to take Stanley?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Just for the night,” said Gabriel. “I’ll come and fetch him tomorrow.”

Gabriel may have thought he was telling the truth, but I knew better. Joanna’s allergies were forcing him to make a choice. He might come back for Stanley tomorrow, but eventually he’d have to find a new home for his sweet cat.

Miss Beacham’s words returned to me suddenly, as clearly as if she were whispering them in my ear: “My flat has no back garden, you see, and I don’t believe a cat can be
truly
happy without a back garden.” I had a back garden, a meadow, a forest, and two little boys who would make sure Stanley was never lonely. Bill liked cats and although we’d never discussed getting one, I think we’d both assumed it would happen one day. It looked as though the day had finally arrived.

“Stanley’s welcome to stay here as long as he likes,” I said. “Bring him inside, and I’ll grab his stuff.”

Nineteen

Stanley’s bowls looked as though they’d always been there, on the floor in a corner of the kitchen, and the so-larium was the obvious spot for his litter box. As I fingered the cat-shaped handle of his special spoon, I recalled that Aunt Dimity had once had a cat, a belligerent ginger tom who’d left claw marks on the legs of the dining room table. Stanley’s presence seemed so inevitable, so right, that the only thing left to wonder was why it had taken so long for a cat to return to Aunt Dimity’s cottage.

Stanley had vanished from view ten seconds after emerging from his cat carrier. I assumed he was either exploring his new domain or, as Gabriel had predicted, seeking safety in a dark corner. I put his spoon in the silverware drawer and turned my attention to basting the chicken. If its luscious aroma didn’t lure Stanley out of hiding, nothing would.

“Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes,” I announced, and sat at the kitchen table to explain Emma’s brainstorm to Gabriel. He was suitably dazzled.

“Fletcher-Beauchamps,” he repeated incredulously. “Now that I think of it, Mrs. Pollard never mentioned Kenneth’s last name. He was always ‘dear Kenneth’ or ‘clever Kenneth.’ Never Kenneth
Fletcher-Beauchamps
. She must have thought that we already knew his name. And Joanna took it for granted that Kenneth shared his unmarried sister’s last name.” He slapped the table. “No
wonder
we couldn’t find him in the telephone directory. We were looking for Beacham, not Fletcher-Beauchamps. Remarkable. We owe Emma a great deal.”