Aunt Dimity Down Under (5 page)

“Yes, it will,” I agreed. In a small village, every person counted, but the Pyms counted more than most not only because they were good and decent women, but because they connected Finch to its past in a way no one else could. “The whole village will go into mourning when they die.”

“I hope I have time to do more than that,” I said. “They asked me to do a favor for them, Dimity, and I’d really like to do it while they’re still around to know that it’s been done.”

“They asked me to find Aubrey,” I said.

“They asked me to
find
Aubrey,” I repeated.

“They didn’t seem delirious to me,” I said. “To tell you the truth, they seemed remarkably clearheaded.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Let’s back up a step,” I said. “Who
is
Aubrey?”

“They’re as weak as kittens,” I explained. “They asked me to find Aubrey, then drifted off to sleep before they could give me further details.”

“I didn’t know they had a brother,” I said, frowning.

“What kind of stories?” I asked.

I leaned back in the chair and gazed skeptically at the journal. In my experience, whispering villagers favored highly colored rumors over the plain, unvarnished truth. Aunt Dimity might take the old, overheard stories seriously, but I found it almost impossible to believe that the genteel, hymn-singing Pym sisters could be related to a scoundrel.

“Aubrey was a bad boy, was he?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “What did he do? Leave the house without a clean pocket handkerchief? ”

“The son of a parson robbed a poor box to pay for his betting and boozing?” I said, appalled.

I ducked my head, chastened. “Sorry about the flippancy, Dimity. I should have known that you wouldn’t trash a man’s reputation without being sure of your facts.”

“Aubrey was a rat, all right,” I conceded humbly. “Was he arrested for stealing the money? ”

“Banished? ” I said.

“What happened to him? ” I asked.

“How old was Aubrey when his parents gave him the boot?” I asked.

“Good grief.” I said, taken aback. “He must have started down the wrong path at an early age.”

“Loose ends,” I murmured, nodding. “Ruth and Louise told me that their mother and father would want to know what happened to Aubrey.”

“Why are you so certain that he’s dead?” I asked. “If Ruth and Louise are anything to go by, the Pyms are a long-lived family.”

I had to admit that Aunt Dimity had a point. Men who drank, gambled, fought, slept around, and took things that didn’t belong to them stood a better than average chance of dying young. Nevertheless, I didn’t think the Pyms would have asked me to achieve the impossible. I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair while I turned the matter over in my mind.

“Maybe they want me to find Aubrey’s grave,” I said finally. “It might give them some peace of mind to know where he’s buried. Scoundrel or not, he was their big brother.”

“I’ll start by speaking with their family solicitor,” I replied. “I intend to meet with him tomorrow. His name is Fortescue Makepeace, his office is in Upper Deeping, and Ruth and Louise promised that he would explain everything.”

“
I
hope he has a map with a big red
X
on it,” I said, “marking the spot where Aubrey is buried.”

“They’re behind me one hundred percent,” I said.

“I never doubted it.” I smiled briefly, then gazed pensively into the fire. “The Pyms have entrusted me with what feels like a huge responsibility, Dimity. Why do you suppose they picked me? ”

“In other words,” I said dryly, “I’m bossy, bullheaded, and nosy.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. “But will it be good enough? What if they die before I find Aubrey’s grave?”

“Easier said than done,” I murmured.

“I’ll let you know what I find out from Mr. Makepeace,” I said.

“Good night, Dimity,” I said.

I waited until the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its spot on the bookshelves. Reginald beamed down at me encouragingly as I knelt to bank the fire.

“Brambles, wasps’ nests, and mud won’t slow me down,” I told him, with more confidence than I felt. “If I have to, I’ll go to the ends of the earth to keep my promise to the Pyms.”

Had I known what the future held in store for me, I might have chosen my words more carefully. Instead, I patted Reginald’s powder-pink snout, turned out the lights, and made my way quietly to bed, where I lay awake for a long time, contemplating life and death and the love of two frail sisters for a banished scoundrel.

B
ill was gone before dawn the following morning. I rose early enough to see him off, but I didn’t linger on the doorstep because the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse. The wind had continued to rise throughout the night, bringing with it a cold, driving rain that lashed the windows and transformed the graveled drive into a short but challenging run of rapids. It felt as though Mother Nature were railing against the Pym sisters’ demise, but a telephone call to Nell assured me that such objections were premature. Ruth and Louise had requested tea and toast for breakfast and were resting comfortably, despite the storm.

Since it was still too early to wake the twins, I went upstairs to change out of my flannel nightie and into an ensemble I deemed suitable for my meeting with Mr. Makepeace. I wanted him to regard me as a serious person, capable of carrying out whatever task the Pyms had set for me, but I also wanted to keep warm, so I selected a gray cashmere sweater, black wool trousers, and a pair of black leather boots that would stand up to a bit of mud.

By the time I finished dressing, Will and Rob were up. I helped them to don their school uniforms and brushed their hair, then herded them downstairs to the kitchen for sustaining bowls of hot porridge slathered with cream and sprinkled with chopped dates. Willis, Sr., joined us a few minutes later, wearing a tweed suit and his sturdiest brogues.

“I see that you’ve dressed for the weather,” I commented as I ladled porridge into his bowl and mine. “There’s a definite nip in the air and it’s raining sideways. It seems more like late October than late September. Are you sure you want to take the boys to school? ”

“I am,” he replied. “Tempests hold no fear for me, Lori. Apart from that, I’d rather be of service than spend the day counting raindrops.”

“Do you count raindrops, Grandpa?” Will asked interestedly.

“Not often,” Willis, Sr., replied.

“You’d have to count fast,” Rob observed.

“And know big numbers,” Will added. “Bigger than a hundred million.”

“Bigger than a hundred million
billion,
” Rob countered.

While my sons continued their scholarly analysis of raindropcounting, I gave my father-in-law a thoughtful glance. His comment about wanting to be of service had given me a new and potentially useful idea. It stood to reason that a man accustomed to running a busy law firm would find idleness unappealing. Perhaps, I told myself as I put the saucepan in the sink, the best way to persuade Willis, Sr., to move in with us permanently would be to provide him with meaningful work.

“Since you’re undaunted by the tempest,” I said, sitting across from him, “would you mind doing another favor for me? I’m supposed to be in Oxford at ten o’clock, to attend a board meeting for the Westwood Trust. I was going to beg off, but if you could—”

“Consider it done,” he said, with a nonchalant wave of his spoon. “I will gladly take your place at the board meeting. Will there be time to discuss the agenda before the boys and I depart?”

I gave him a quick rundown of the board’s most pressing business, signed a proxy letter that would allow him to make decisions in my absence, and fetched my briefcase from the study while he and the twins donned their rain gear in the front hall. As Willis, Sr., took the briefcase in his gloved hand he seemed to stand a little taller than he had since he’d first announced his retirement.

“If you require assistance in dealing with Mr. Makepeace, please do not hesitate to summon me,” he said, patting the pocket in which he kept his cell phone. “I am considered by some to be fairly fluent in the language of law.”

“You’re way too modest to be a big-shot lawyer,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “But I’ll call on you if I need you.”

I watched from the doorway while the trio splashed their way down the flagstone path to the Range Rover. After Willis, Sr., had strapped Rob and Will into their safety seats, I waved good-bye to them and retreated to the kitchen to feed Stanley, load the dishwasher, and wipe the table.

It seemed reasonable to assume that a provincial lawyer would be at his desk by nine o’clock on a Monday morning, so when the appointed hour arrived I reached for the telephone and dialed the number engraved on the business card I’d found on the Pyms’ mantelshelf. The woman who answered spoke with a lilting Scottish accent.