Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (24 page)

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” I said, and handed him the file folder. “It’s all there, Gabriel, everything that should be there—Dorothy’s charity balls, Walter James’s cricket scores, Kenneth’s promotions. . . .”

Gabriel opened the folder and began to read. I left him at the table and returned to the stove to ladle soup into bowls. I was slicing a loaf of homemade bread when Gabriel closed the file.

“That was quick,” I said over my shoulder.

“I skimmed most of the articles,” he admitted. “There are only so many descriptions of ball gowns I can take before I begin feeling queasy.”

“Those were my favorite parts,” I said, laughing. I placed the soup bowls and the basketful of bread on the table and took a seat.

“You know what’s strange about Kenneth’s name change?” I said as we began to eat. “It didn’t happen until more than a year
after
the wedding.”

“How did you reach that conclusion?” Gabriel asked.

“Think back to Emma’s first search,” I said. “It was keyed to Beacham and the postings we found ended with Walter James’s birth announcement. So Kenneth was still Kenneth Beacham when his son was born. He must have waited until
after
his son’s birth to change his name. And Walter James was born more than a year
after
the marriage.”

“Interesting.” Gabriel finished his soup and reached for a slice of bread. “Why did Kenneth and Dorothy wait so long to change their name?”

“I can make an educated guess.” I took our empty bowls to the sink and returned to the table with the roasted chicken, potatoes, and carrots neatly arranged on a serving dish. “According to Mrs. Pollard, Walter James was named after his grandfather, Walter James Fletcher. I think Grandpa had a hand in getting Dorothy and Kenneth to change the family name. I’ll bet that once his grandson and heir came into the world, Grandpa decided it would be best to give the kid his last name as well as his Christian names. Note, please, that Fletcher precedes Beauchamps.”

Gabriel helped himself to the main course. “You think the old tyrant bullied them into it?”

“Why not?” I said. “He has the power to call the shots. Walter James, Sr., isn’t simply Kenneth’s father-in-law, but his employer and the head of the firm. If Kenneth had to choose between changing his name and losing his job, I’m pretty sure he’d change his name.” I caught a glimpse of gleaming black out of the corner of my eye and cried, “
There
you are!”

Hunger had evidently conquered Stanley’s fears. The black cat slipped furtively into the kitchen and explored every nook and cranny before returning to the table to butt my calf peremptorily with his head. I could take a hint. I shredded a slice of warm chicken and placed it in his food bowl. He attacked it greedily, making loud smacking noises and flinging bits here and there beyond the bowl.

“You’d think I
starved
him,” Gabriel grumbled. He took another slice of bread, tore it in half, and swirled it in the juices pooled on his plate. “I’m not sure I agree with you about the coercion, Lori. If Kenneth was running the Midlands branch of the firm, he must have been good at his job. He could have found a position at another firm if he had serious disagreements with his father-in-law.”

“Unless his wife objected,” I said, returning to the table. “She might have insisted that he work for her father.”

“You could be right,” said Gabriel. “But I still doubt that our ambitious young couple were pressured into ‘improving’ their name. The material I’ve read gives me the distinct impression that they were both social climbers.”

I shredded another piece of chicken for Stanley while I mentally reviewed the newspaper articles in Emma’s file.

“You’re right about the ambition,” I said. “Dorothy worked her way into chairing some high-status fund-raisers. You know the sort of thing—bleached hair, ridiculous dresses, an orchestra making feeble attempts to play groovy tunes.”

“Sorry,” said Gabriel. “Not my scene. My pockets aren’t deep enough.”

“It’s not my scene, either,” I told him. “I’m glad those people raise so much money for charity, but they give me a headache. Bill and I turn down invitations from them all the time. We’ve probably turned down Dorothy’s invitations. I’ve got better things to do than hobnob with the rich and ridiculous.”

“Like making beds at St. Benedict’s?” Gabriel shook his head. “Dorothy would find you mystifying.”

“It’s mutual, I’m sure.” I pointed to the file folder. “Did you see the piece about Kenneth’s promotion?”

“I did.” Gabriel paused to savor a mouthful of roasted potato, then laid his fork aside and regarded me knowingly. “Fletcher Securities will surely be listed in the telephone directory. No need to stand on a street corner and holler.”

“Emma’s given us the lead we’ve been looking for,” I said. “When do we leave for Newcastle?”

“It depends,” he said, “on whether or not you’ve made dessert.”

 
I had made dessert—a blackberry crumble, using berries the twins and I had gathered the previous autumn—but it was much too late in the day to start the long drive north, and Gabriel’s dinner engagement would have prevented him from leaving in any case. We arranged to meet at his flat at seven o’clock the following morning and drive to Newcastle in the Rover.

Annelise brought Will and Rob home in time for dinner, filled with wondrous tales of their first full day with Thunder and Storm. Kit wouldn’t allow them to ride the ponies yet, but he had permitted them to clean tack, rake stalls, and stand on bales of hay to curry their new treasures. I heard no complaints.

The twins were so bowled over by Stanley’s charms that I wondered how I’d ever console them if Gabriel confounded my expectations and decided to keep his cat despite Joanna’s allergies. Stanley regarded Rob and Will warily at first, but soon succumbed to their adoring coos as well as their generous offerings of tuna, salmon, and leftover chicken.

“Two ponies and a cat,” Annelise commented. “What’s next? A cocker spaniel and a canary?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “I didn’t see the ponies or the cat coming.”

My husband accepted our newest arrival with an air of amiable resignation, asking only that I buy an extra lint brush. As the evening progressed, however, it became increasingly clear that Stanley had chosen Bill to be his primary human. The cat followed Bill from room to room, working his way gradually closer, as if he were patiently stalking an unsuspecting mouse. By the time the boys were in bed and Bill was settled in his favorite armchair in the living room, Stanley, too, was asleep, sprawled contentedly across Bill’s lap.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” Bill said, looking askance at the recumbent animal.

“He senses your natural sweetness,” I said, curling my legs under me on the sofa. “He’s also used to living with a man and you’re the only one in the cottage who fits that description. How did it go with Mr. Moss?”

“Oddly,” said Bill.

“Did he put up a fuss?” I asked.

“No,” Bill said. “That’s what was odd.”

He raised a hand to stroke his chin, a habit he’d acquired in the olden days, when he’d worn a beard, but the hand hovered briefly in midair before changing course completely and drifting down to stroke Stanley. Bill seemed unaware of his actions, but I watched, mesmerized. It was as if the cat had strange, magnetic powers.

“I expected a barrage of civilized bluster,” Bill went on, “but I didn’t get one. I explained to Mr. Moss the legal implications of Miss Beacham’s letter and he simply accepted my explanation. No protests, no threats, no objections. As far as I can tell, the matter’s closed.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked. “And after all, the auction won’t be a complete flop. Those snuffboxes will bring in a pretty penny.”

“He didn’t seem to be concerned about the money,” said Bill.

“He must have been intimidated by your penetrating grasp of legal minutiae,” I declared.

“I didn’t get a chance to intimidate him,” Bill countered. “Our conversation was polite, brief, and to the point. I don’t know. . . . I can’t quite put my finger on it, Lori, but something strange is going on.”

I waggled my eyebrows suggestively. “Is it time to arm Joanna with a bobby pin and send her in to rifle Mr. Moss’s desk?”

Bill smiled wryly. “I’m tempted, but no. I think we’ll let sleeping dogs—or cats, as the case may be—lie for the moment. Tell me more about Emma’s brainstorm.”

We spent the rest of the evening discussing the new information Emma had gleaned. Bill shared Gabriel’s aversion to descriptions of ball gowns, so I went straight to Fletcher Securities, a name he recognized.

“I’ve never dealt with Walter Fletcher personally,” he said, “but I do know that he’s an influential and powerful man.”

“Is he the kind of man who’d bully his son-in-law?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea,” said Bill. “Some powerful men are bullies, but not all. My father’s a powerful man and I can’t think of anyone less overbearing.”

“Your father is a perfect peach,” I said.

“You see?” Bill shrugged. “It’s useless to generalize.”

“I doubt that I’ll have to deal with Grandpa Walter, anyway,” I said. “Chances are he’ll be at the London headquarters, not in the Newcastle office.”

“Wait.” Bill shifted his position ever so slightly, so as not to disturb Stanley. “Run that by me again. Are you planning to go to Newcastle?”

“Of course,” I said. “Gabriel and I are driving up there tomorrow. Someone has to tell Kenneth his sister is dead, and I’m certainly not going to break the news to him over the telephone.”

“You’re driving up to Newcastle tomorrow,” Bill said doubtfully. “Were you planning to drive home as well?”

“Yes,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Your understanding of basic geography,” Bill answered. “Newcastle’s nearly three hundred miles from Oxford, Lori. It’ll take you half the day to get up there and half the day to get back, if the traffic’s moving, which it frequently isn’t. It doesn’t leave much time for chatting with Kenneth.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Gabriel seemed to think we could do it.”

“Then Gabriel drives too fast,” said Bill.

“What are we going to do?” I said, at a loss. “I have to go to Newcastle, but I don’t want to camp out there. I’m supposed to work at St. Benedict’s on Thursday, and I promised the boys they could come with me.”

“Let me make a few calls.” Bill looked down at Stanley, whose fast, breathy purrs could be heard across the room. “Would you bring the phone to me?”

I brought the telephone to him and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Stanley, I thought, was a cat of great discernment. He couldn’t have picked a better human than my Bill.

Twenty

“You’re going the wrong way,” Gabriel advised me as I steered the Rover through a roundabout and onto the A44. It was twenty minutes past seven on Wednesday morning and Oxford’s major arteries were, as Bill had predicted, choked with commuters.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m going to the airport. There’s been a slight change of plans.”

“Has there?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because Newcastle’s nearly three hundred miles from Oxford,” I said. “And my husband made a few calls.” I glanced at him. “We’re not driving to Newcastle, Gabriel. We’re flying.”

“In what?” Gabriel asked, and promptly answered his own question. “Never mind. I keep forgetting. You’re rich. Rich people have their own airplanes.”

“We don’t,” I retorted. “Bill figures it’d be stupid to pay for maintenance and hangar space when he can hitch a ride with a friend when he needs one.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” said Gabriel. “Hitching a ride?”

“Yep.” I nodded. “Percy Pelham is heading north to look at a collection of antique cars a guy’s selling near Kirkwhelpington. He plans to spend the day there and fly back to Oxford this evening. We’ll have to finish up with Kenneth and meet Percy at the Newcastle airport by six, but that should give us plenty of time to do what we have to do.”

“Percy Pelham?” Gabriel swung sideways in the passenger seat to stare at me. “Are you speaking of
Sir
Percy Pelham? The crackpot who did the Peking-to-Paris race in an ancient Bentley?”

I winced, remembering the decrepit state of Percy’s ancient Bentley when he’d finally steered it, sputtering, across the finish line in Paris after its grueling ten-thousand-mile run.

“Percy’s not a crackpot,” I protested. “He’s adventurous. But don’t fret. When he’s in the cockpit, he’s all business.”

“Sir Percy Pelham is our
pilot
?” Gabriel emitted a ragged groan. “We’ll be lucky to get to Newcastle alive.”

“I don’t know what you’re moaning about,” I said. “He made it to Paris, didn’t he?”

Gabriel folded his arms and slouched in his seat, looking decidedly unreassured.

Percy was waiting for us in the terminal when we reached the Oxford airport. He was a huge man, tall and broad rather than fat, and although he was in his late fifties, he had the boundless energy of a two-year-old. He greeted us effusively and introduced us to his copilot, a self-effacing young man named Atkinson, before taking us out on the runway to board his sleek, eight-passenger Learjet.

“Happy to oblige, dear girl.” Percy waved off my thanks, put my shoulder bag in a compartment behind the cockpit, and relieved me of the canvas satchel I’d carried aboard. “I’ll have Atkinson tuck it in the hold, dear girl. Can’t have it whizzing about if the flight gets bouncy. Might stove your heads in. All present and correct? Buckles fastened? Faces scrubbed? Excellent.” He held up the canvas satchel. “Once Atkinson’s stowed the luggage, we’ll do the usual run-through and be off. Couldn’t ask for a prettier day.”

“I could,” Gabriel murmured after Percy had squeezed himself into the cockpit.

I peered through my tiny window at the overcast sky. “At least it’s not raining.”

“Give it a minute,” said Gabriel.