Read Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday (17 page)
Claudia and Oliver departed soon after Bill and Gina, declaring their intention to keep the earl company until he fell asleep. When Emma elected to join Peter and Derek in their watch over Nell, Simon and I were left in sole possession of the drawing room.
It was a good night to be indoors, in front of a crackling fire. The rain had begun to fall with renewed vigor, and an occasional flash of lightning accompanied distant drumrolls of thunder.
After the others had gone, Simon poured tots of brandy into two glasses, handed one to me, and eased himself into an armchair facing the fire. I curled my legs beneath me and relaxed against the settee’s cushioned arm, studying him while he drank. He’d poured himself a fairly hefty tot.
“You must be exhausted,” I said.
“It has been rather a long day,” he acknowledged. He rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his hand. “On top of everything else, I was constantly afraid of running into the doctors who looked after me last night.”
I nodded. “It would’ve been awkward if they’d asked about your bruised ribs in front of the others.”
“Fortunately, a different shift had come on. No one recognized me.” Simon sipped his drink and gazed into the fire. He seemed unusually subdued and introspective. “They recognized my uncle, though. It seems he had a heart attack four months ago. Gina knew about it, but I didn’t. She told me at the time that he was in hospital for a routine examination and I, like a fool, believed her.”
“Ah,” I said, and focused my attention on my brandy. Simon’s marriage seemed like a joke to me, but I doubted that the punch line would bring much joy to anyone.
Simon was silent for a moment. Then he said in a low voice, “It’s my fault, Lori.”
I looked up from my drink. “What’s your fault?”
“When we were in the library yesterday, you asked if the note I showed you was the first I’d received,” he said. “It was, in fact, the sixth. The others look exactly like the ones I’ve shown you. They began arriving at my home four months ago. I ignored the first two—”
“How could you ignore them?” I broke in.
Simon shrugged. “They seemed faintly ridiculous. They accused me of destroying Hailesham Park. How could I take such an accusation seriously, when nothing could be further from the truth?”
“What did you do with the other messages?” I asked.
“I brought them to Uncle Edwin.” Simon slowly swirled the brandy in his glass. “He told me he’d take care of the problem. When the notes stopped coming, I thought he had.”
“Until you found one waiting for you here,” I said.
Simon tossed back the rest of his brandy. “I showed the notes to Uncle Edwin shortly before he went in for his supposedly routine examination. They must have disturbed him more than he let on. I believe they triggered his heart attack.” He raised his arm and hurled his empty glass into the fire. “I wasn’t satisfied with nearly killing my uncle,” he muttered. “I had to try to kill my cousin as well.”
I caught my breath and looked toward the shards of glass littering the hearth. “Simon,” I said carefully, “you’re not making any sense.”
“I should have forbidden Nell to ride Deacon.” His voice was taut with self-loathing. “I should have known the beast was dangerous after yesterday’s debacle. I’m as much to blame for her injuries as I am for my uncle’s failing health.”
The pain in his voice went straight to my heart. I wanted to go to him and croon comforting words. Instead, I set my glass aside and said sternly, “Don’t be stupid.”
Simon turned his face away, as though I’d struck him, but I hammered on regardless.
“From what I’ve seen of your uncle’s temper, I’d say he’s been on the verge of a heart attack for a long time. If the poison-pen letters pushed him over the edge, then the blame lies with the lunatic who wrote them, not you. Look at me, Simon.”
When he continued to avert his face, I got up from the settee and crossed to stand in front of him. He refused to meet my gaze.
“Nell’s accident was . . . an accident,” I insisted. “If you think you control life and death, you’re giving yourself way too much credit. You may look like a god, Simon, but you’re not God. You don’t have that kind of power.”
He closed his eyes. “It’s easy for you to—”
“No, it’s not easy,” I shot back. “But I’ve been where you are. When my mother died, I was so racked with guilt that I didn’t want to go on living, and if you think I’m going to let a friend start down the same path, then
you’re
a lunatic. Stop wasting my time with this self-indulgent nonsense. We have work to do.”
you’re
a lunatic. Stop wasting my time with this self-indulgent nonsense. We have work to do.”
Simon looked up at me, suddenly alert. “You’ve found something?”
“You bet I have.” I leaned over and took his hand. “Come with me to the nursery.”
The paper and paste were still in the toy cupboard, and the vandalized books had not been removed from the bookcase. The poison pen hadn’t yet attempted to cover his tracks.
When I told Simon about the curling strand of golden hair I’d discovered in
Romney to the Rescue,
he immediately shook his head and repeated, virtually word for word, each of Dimity’s objections to viewing Nell as a possible suspect. He was so adamant in his defense of his cousin that I decided to keep Dimity’s theories about Oliver to myself until after I’d revealed my most sensational find.
Romney to the Rescue,
he immediately shook his head and repeated, virtually word for word, each of Dimity’s objections to viewing Nell as a possible suspect. He was so adamant in his defense of his cousin that I decided to keep Dimity’s theories about Oliver to myself until after I’d revealed my most sensational find.
“I found it with the paste and paper,” I explained, showing him the straight razor inlaid with the Elstyn family crest. “I’d say it was used to cut up the Malson books.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. He took the razor from me and turned it over in his hands.
“It’s one of Uncle Edwin’s,” he said, sliding his thumb over the tortoiseshell handle. “I remember watching him shave himself with it when I was very small, but he gave up cutthroats before I went away to school.”
“What did he do with his old ones?” I asked.
Simon sank onto the window seat, his brow furrowed in concentration. “He gave them to his valet. He had one, years ago. . . . Chambers was his name. Uncle used to give him all sorts of castoffs—hats, suits, razors.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I put the defaced books back on the shelves. When it came to choosing a potential villain, I much preferred an unknown valet to a good-hearted brother.
I sat back on my heels. “Did Chambers dislike you?”
“No,” said Simon. “He was fond of all of us, and we were fond of him. He took Oliver, Derek, and me fishing on his days off. We were keenly disappointed when he left.”
My gaze drifted up to the seashells and birds’ nests cluttering the bookcase’s top shelves. “Why did Chambers leave?”
“As I recall, there was a general staff reduction the year after my aunt died,” Simon answered, “a tightening of the fiscal belt. Chambers wasn’t the only one to go.”
“He was the only one who took your uncle’s razor with him.” I stood and wandered over to the rocking horse. A memory was flickering at the back of my mind, something someone had said recently, but I couldn’t quite zero in on it. “Did your uncle hire any new servants four months ago?”
“I’ve no idea. Giddings supervises staff hirings.” Simon put a hand to his side and shifted his position on the window seat, as if his bruised ribs were giving him trouble. “Why do you ask?”
“The first threats you received,” I said, “the ones that began arriving four months ago—they looked exactly like the ones you’ve gotten here, right?”
“Yes.” Simon’s expression became thoughtful as his gaze fell on the bookcase. “The lettering was the same, which means that my persecutor has had access to those books for the past four months.”
“Precisely. The razor ties Chambers to the books, and the books were used to make the nasty notes.” I set the rocking horse rocking. “I think we should find out if your uncle’s ex-valet has returned to Hailesham.”
“Wouldn’t he run the risk of being recognized?” Simon objected. “His was a very familiar face.”
“Face . . .” I murmured, then clapped a hand to my forehead as the elusive memory snapped into focus. “That’s it, Simon!”
“Sorry?” he said.
I scampered over to perch beside him on the window seat. “Old Mr. Harris, the master carpenter,” I said excitedly. “Emma and I were talking with him yesterday and he mentioned seeing a face he hadn’t seen in
years.
It was one of the
old faces.
He said it took him
right back.
It must have been
Chambers
!”
years.
It was one of the
old faces.
He said it took him
right back.
It must have been
Chambers
!”
Simon was unconvinced. “If old Mr. Harris recognized him, why wouldn’t the rest of us?”
“The staff’s trained to be invisible,” I reasoned. “Apart from Giddings, they’re nothing more than a bunch of guys in black suits who park cars and carry luggage. Can you tell one from another?”
“Probably not,” Simon conceded.
I folded my arms in triumph. “Chambers couldn’t ask for a better disguise.”
“Why would Chambers accuse me of destroying Hailesham?” Simon asked, bewildered.
“Let’s find out if he’s here first,” I suggested. “We’ll worry about motivation later.”
Simon promised to speak with Giddings in the morning, slipped the razor into his own pocket, and looked toward the vandalized Malson books. He smiled.
“You seem as intent on avenging Romney Rat,” he said, “as you are on protecting me.”
“I don’t like seeing either one of you hurt.” I sighed and shook my head. “When I found those books, I was furious. Cutting them to bits is like burning the turtledove—a barbaric act.”
“A crime against civilization?” Simon teased.
“Yes,” I replied firmly.
“I’m beginning to think you love Hailesham as much as I do,” he said.
“I love the idea of Hailesham,” I allowed.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I rubbed the tip of my nose, folded my legs beneath me, and tried to explain. “The world is such a mess. . . . Why not preserve the bits of it that aren’t a mess?”
“Sounds fairly elitist to me,” Simon commented.
“Maybe it is, but so what?” I looked at the wonderful rocking horse. “The poorest people on earth carve wood, mold clay, sculpt stone—because the human spirit craves beauty. It thirsts for splendor. Its dreams reach beyond the ordinary. I’ll never go to the moon, but I’m glad someone went there. Even if I’d never seen Hailesham, I’d want to know that such a place exists. The mere idea of it feeds my dreams.”
Simon gazed at me in silence, then put his hand on mine. “Lori, my dear, you are a hopeless romantic.”
I grinned sheepishly. “I prefer to think of myself as a hopeful one.”
Simon patted my hand, then folded his in his lap. He cocked an ear toward the rain lashing the windowpanes behind us and said, “Sorry about the self-indulgent nonsense.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I told him. “You’re tired, you’re aching, and you’ve spent the day watching two people you love suffer.” I got up, turned off the wall lamp, and proceeded Simon into the dimly lit corridor. “You need to drink a glass of warm milk and go to bed.”
He gripped my arm and swung me around to face him. His midnight-blue eyes gleamed softly in the semi-darkness as he murmured, “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me.”
For a fleeting moment I wanted nothing more than to rise up on tiptoe and respond with sweet abandon to his invitation, but the moment passed and my feet remained firmly on the ground.
“In your condition?” I tossed my head. “I’d lose my status as your honorary nanny.”
“I
refuse
to think of you as my nanny,” he stated flatly.
refuse
to think of you as my nanny,” he stated flatly.
I smiled up at him. “Then think of me as your friend.”
“Friend.” He tilted his head to one side and pronounced the word experimentally. “Friend is better than nanny, I suppose.”
“Much better.” I took his hand and hooked it in the crook of my arm as we strolled toward the staircase. “But if you ever ask me to go to bed with you again, Simon, I reserve the right to box your ears.”
I left Simon at his bedroom door, then sailed straight through my firelit room and into Bill’s, but my husband was still burning the midnight oil with Gina. I gazed at his pillow reflectively and decided, on behalf of all hopeful romantics everywhere, to leave a note on his bed that might lure him into mine when he finally finished his working day.
Enticing phrases filled my mind as I returned to the writing table in my room in search of notepaper. I was giggling over a particularly sultry phrase when the drapes billowed inward.
I stepped toward them, wondering who’d left the window open, then recoiled in terror as a shadowy figure lunged at me, raising a clenched fist.
Eighteen
My assailant sneezed.
The shriek that had risen halfway up my throat emerged as a garbled “God bless you!”
“Thanks,” said the shadowy figure. He raised his fist again to cover a second sneeze. “Do you have a tissue? My handkerchief’s drenched.”
A log fell on the fire, sparks flew, and I caught a glimpse of my attacker’s face. I knew those delicately carved features. The fine, straight nose, the curving lips, and the wide-set violet eyes belonged to the most beautiful man I’d ever met.
“Kit?”
I squeaked.
I squeaked.
“Keep your voice down,” Kit urged. He stepped closer and asked, “How’s Nell?”
“She’s banged up,” I said. “But they let her come home this evening, so—”
“She’s
here
? Is she
alone
?” he demanded sharply.
here
? Is she
alone
?” he demanded sharply.
“No,” I replied, dizzied by the rapid-fire interrogation. “Derek, Emma, and Peter are with her.”
He seemed to relax. “About that tissue . . .”
I leaned on the desk for a moment, to recover from Kit’s heart-stopping entrance, then took a packet of tissues from my shoulder bag and thrust it at him.
“I should give you a kick in the backside for scaring me like that,” I said in a heated whisper.
“Sorry.” He blew his nose and tossed the crumpled tissue in the wastebasket. “I thought you might be another maid. Thousands have been tramping through here—turning down the bed, lighting the fire, freshening the vases. I had to slip out onto the balcony when the red-haired one hoovered the carpet.”
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