Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (28 page)

Ms. Carrington-Smith sat beside Tina Formby, who wore an extraordinary black dress with see-through sleeves and leather inserts, presumably of her own design. Mr. and Mrs. Formby, Mr. Blascoe, Mr. Jensen, Mrs. Chalmers, and Mrs. Chalmers’s father—whose pink face glowed with good health—filled the rest of the pew.

Nurse Willoughby was there, too, seated toward the rear of the church, with Julian Bright, Blinker, Big Al, and Limping Leslie. Mr. Barlow had driven in from Finch to pay his respects, and Mr. Moss had abandoned Mr. Pratchett to pay his. I thought I recognized the waiter Gabriel and I had frightened when we’d dined with Joanna at the Italian restaurant, as well as the maitre d’.

Most of the pews were occupied by men and women I’d never seen before, but I could tell by their solemn expressions that each had known and cherished the woman whose urn was now buried beneath a yew tree in St. Paul’s churchyard, not far from the bustling traffic on Travertine Road.

The Fletcher-Beauchampses did not attend.

There’s the family you’re born to, and the family you choose, I thought as I surveyed the congregation. Miss Beacham’s chosen family had loved her well.

While everyone else took advantage of the general invitation issued by Mr. Mehta to enjoy a meal at his restaurant after the service, I slipped away on my own for a few minutes, to revisit Miss Beacham’s building one last time.

I’d seldom been more wrong about a place. I’d seen it as the essence of institutional bleakness, but within it Miss Beacham had created a haven of tranquil beauty. From its balcony she’d looked down on Travertine Road and seen a village filled with neighbors whose joys and sorrows mattered to her. I hoped her friends would continue what she’d started. It seemed to me that if they each held out a helping hand when a helping hand was needed, they’d form an unbreakable chain of caring that would one day encircle the world.

The auction, even without the furniture, raised an astonishing sum, which was disbursed among a number of charitable organizations. Gabriel’s extraordinarily truthful portraits of St. Benedict’s colorful crew will be featured in a special exhibition at a London gallery as soon as he and Joanna return from their honeymoon in August. The cylinder desk now sits in the master bedroom at the cottage, where it’s more or less safe from the children, and I got a call from Nurse Willoughby this morning.

I’m going back to the Radcliffe tomorrow.

Miss Beacham’s Raisin Bread

1
¹
⁄2 cups seedless raisins
1
¹
⁄2 cups water
1 egg, slightly beaten
1 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
2
¹
⁄2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
¹
⁄2 teaspoon baking soda

 
Preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.

Place raisins and water in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Cool to room temperature. In a separate bowl, mix the next four ingredients. Combine mixture with cooled raisins and raisin water. Sift together dry ingredients; add to mixture, beating well. Pour into greased bread pan. Bake about 60 minutes or until toothpick inserted in middle of loaf comes out just a bit moist.