Aunt Dimity Down Under (6 page)

“Good morning,” she said. “You’ve reached the office of Fortescue Makepeace. Mrs. Abercrombie speaking. How may I help you? ”

“Good morning, Mrs. Abercrombie,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I—”

“Ah, Ms. Shepherd,” she broke in. “Please forgive the interruption, but Mr. Makepeace advised me that you would be ringing the office this morning on a matter of some urgency. Will it be convenient for you to meet with Mr. Makepeace today?”

“I can be there in an hour,” I said, adding thirty minutes to the journey because of the wet roads.

“I shall inform Mr. Makepeace,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “We will expect you at ten o’clock, Ms. Shepherd.”

“See you then,” I said, and hung up.

I was relieved to hear that the Pyms had paved the way for me with their solicitor. I didn’t want to waste time explaining who I was and why I needed to speak with him. Although I appreciated Aunt Dimity’s optimism, I wasn’t as sure as she was that time was on my side.

“The sooner he tells me what I need to know, the better,” I murmured as I headed for the front hall.

I pulled on a voluminous black raincoat that I hoped would withstand brambles and wasp attacks, slung my shoulder bag over my shoulder, and took my keys from the telephone table. After calling good-bye to Stanley, I ran through the pouring rain to my Morris Mini. With luck, I thought, I’d be standing over Aubrey’s grave before Rob and Will were out of school.

 

 

Number Twelve, Fanshaw Crescent, turned out to be the center section of a three-story Georgian row house located a few blocks south of the marketplace in Upper Deeping. If the sun had been shining, I would have paused to admire the building’s gracious, cream-colored facade, but since a frigid monsoon seemed to be in progress, I maneuvered the Mini into a nearby parking space, then made a mad dash for Number Twelve’s shiny black door.

I’d scarcely removed my finger from the brass doorbell when the door was opened by a tall, gray-haired woman wearing a tweed skirt, a white blouse, a bulky, oatmeal-colored cardigan, and low-heeled black pumps. She exuded an air of quiet competence as she ushered me across the threshold and relieved me of my dripping raincoat, which she hung in a small room off the foyer.

The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Abercrombie, Mr. Makepeace’s secretary, then led me up a curving flight of stone stairs to a pair of double doors that opened onto the second-floor landing. She knocked twice and the doors were opened by a short, round, pink-faced man whose sober black suit was brightened considerably by a white silk waistcoat embroidered with sprays of springtime flowers. What was left of his white hair was combed neatly back on both sides of his otherwise bald head, and he wore a gorgeous yellow orchid in his lapel. His eyes were bright blue and twinkling.

“Your ten o’clock appointment has arrived, Mr. Makepeace,” murmured Mrs. Abercrombie.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Abercrombie,” Mr. Makepeace protested, gazing jovially at me. “This is not my ten o’clock appointment. This is the delightfully obliging Ms. Shepherd, whose willingness to help her neighbors is so far beyond commendable that I scarcely have words to describe it. Do come in, dear lady, and take a seat near the fire. Tea, please, Mrs. Abercrombie, and some of your delicious biscuits. Our guest will be in need of sustenance after her trying journey.”

While he spoke, Mr. Makepeace escorted me to a plum-colored Regency chair, one of a pair flanking the rosewood settee that faced the gold-veined white marble fireplace in which a coal fire was burning merrily. The solicitor’s office, like his attire, was at once brightly colored and exceptionally elegant. The ceiling was covered with ornate plasterwork, the tall windows were draped in a pale peach brocade, and the settee was upholstered in lemon-yellow silk.

After I’d taken my seat, Mr. Makepeace bustled over to the satinwood desk that sat before the windows. He returned to the fireside clutching a slim, black leather document case, lowered himself into the chair opposite mine, placed the document case on a mahogany table at his elbow, and leaned forward to peer at me imploringly.

“I do apologize for asking you to leave the comforts of your home and hearth on such an insalubrious day, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. “My health, alas, is not what it once was, and my doctors discourage me from indulging in unnecessary travel when the weather is disagreeable.”

“It was no trouble at all,” I assured him. “I don’t mind a little rain.”

“A
little
rain?” Mr. Makepeace chuckled heartily. “My clients described you as a stalwart soul, Ms. Shepherd, and I can see that they were quite correct. Ah, Mrs. Abercrombie . . .” He looked up as his secretary entered the room carrying a tea tray laden with cups, saucers, a pot of fragrant jasmine tea, and a plateful of what appeared to be shortbread cookies. She deposited the gleaming tray on the mahogany table, then withdrew.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Abercrombie to hold my calls,” Mr. Makepeace informed me. “I am at your service, Ms. Shepherd, for the rest of the morning—for the rest of the day, if need be.”

My host poured the tea and proffered the cookies, then waited until I’d had a sip and a nibble before finally getting down to business. I was relieved. Although it was undeniably pleasant to bask in the warmth of a well-stoked fire while bone-chilling bullets of rain hammered the windowpanes, I hadn’t braved the storm for the sole purpose of sampling Mrs. Abercrombie’s shortbread.

“I believe my clients discussed with you the, er, commission they wish you to undertake,” he said.

“I wouldn’t call it a discussion,” I said with a wry smile. “Ruth and Louise asked me to find someone named Aubrey, told me that you would explain everything, then went to sleep.”

Mr. Makepeace twinkled at me genially. “My family has served the Pyms for more than a century, Ms. Shepherd. I’m quite familiar with their little ways.”

“So . . . can you?” I asked. “Explain everything, I mean.”

“If I could, I would not require your help, dear lady,” he replied. “I can, however, impart to you some background information that I believe you will find useful as you move forward in your, um, mission.”

He drained his teacup, patted his lips delicately with a linen napkin, returned cup and napkin to the tray, sat back comfortably in his chair, and folded his dimpled hands across his remarkable waistcoat. As I watched him settle in for what appeared to be the long haul, my hopes for acquiring a map marked with a big red
X
began to fade.

“The first thing you must understand, Ms. Shepherd, is that there is more than one Aubrey Pym,” he said. “Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Senior, was my clients’ brother. He left England at the age of twenty. At the commencement of the Great War, he volunteered to serve in the armed forces. He died on the sixth of May, 1915, during the Gallipoli campaign.”

“Gallipoli? ” I said, nonplussed. “Ruth and Louise want me to go to
Gallipoli
? I don’t even know where Gallipoli
is
.”

“Gallipoli is in Turkey, Ms. Shepherd,” Mr. Makepeace informed me, “but I must confess that I have no idea why you would wish to go there.”

“I’m supposed to find their brother’s grave,” I explained, adding uncertainly, “aren’t I? ”

“Ah.” Mr. Makepeace’s blue eyes lost some of their twinkle. “I should perhaps explain that Aubrey Pym’s death was not . . . tidy. He was, lamentably, blown to bits during an artillery barrage.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “He has no grave.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” I allowed a moment of silence to pass, out of deference to the dead, then pressed on. “I assume, then, that Ruth and Louise were talking about
another
Aubrey. You said there was more than one.”

“So I did,” Mr. Makepeace acknowledged. “The second Aubrey was the son of the first.” The solicitor clasped his hands together and smiled at me. “My clients respectfully request that you, Ms. Shepherd, attempt to establish a direct line of communication between them and their nephew, Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym,
Junior
.”

“I see, I said, nodding. “Would you happen to know where Aubrey Pym, Junior, might be?”

“Indeed, I would,” Mr. Makepeace said cheerfully. “My clients have given me permission to furnish you with Mr. Pym’s last known address.”

I squinted at him in confusion. “If you have his address, Mr. Makepeace, why haven’t you contacted him already?”

“I’ve tried, dear lady.” He sighed heavily. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Much to my dismay, Mr. Pym has failed to respond to my letters. I can think of several reasons for his silence—the address may be out of date, for example, or he may be out of town—but the only way to know for certain is to send a personal representative to find him and to speak with him directly. Hence my need for your services.”

“But . . . why bother with letters? ” I asked, baffled. “Why don’t you just march up to his front door and knock on it?”

“His front door is, alas, beyond my reach,” Mr. Makepeace answered. “It is, most unfortunately, located in Auckland, New Zealand.”

“New Zealand?” I echoed.

“New Zealand,” he confirmed.

“Oh.” I cocked my head to one side and peered at him questioningly. “New Zealand is . . . pretty far away from here, isn’t it?”

“It is approximately one thousand miles southeast of Australia,” Mr. Makepeace explained helpfully.

“New Zealand is a thousand miles southeast of
Australia
? ” I said, my voice rising to a squeak.

“It’s down under Down Under,” he told me, chuckling happily at his own wit.

I was too stunned to chuckle. I’d come to Upper Deeping fully prepared to spend a day, or perhaps a few days, squelching through muddy graveyards in search of an obscure headstone. Neither Aunt Dimity nor I had considered the possibility of leaving England, not to mention the Northern Hemisphere, in order to track down a live human being.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, eyeing Mr. Makepeace doubtfully. “Ruth and Louise want me to go to
New Zealand
to find their nephew? ”

“Correct,” he confirmed.

“Why can’t
you
go?” I demanded. “You’re their solicitor. Isn’t it your job to find long-lost family members?”

“I would go if I could,” Mr. Makepeace assured me, “but my health will not permit me to make the journey.” He patted his chest. “High blood pressure, you know, and a touch of diabetes. My doctors have advised me most strongly to avoid prolonged flights.”

“You could hire a private detective,” I suggested, adding with a perplexed frown, “Do they have private detectives in New Zealand? ”

“I’m quite certain they do,” said Mr. Makepeace, “but my clients do not wish to entrust such a delicate mission to a stranger.”

“What’s so delicate about finding someone’s nephew?” I asked.

Mr. Makepeace drummed his fingers on his waistcoat and regarded me levelly. “Family affairs are often fraught with difficulty, Ms. Shepherd, and my clients’ situation is more difficult than most. I’m sorry to say it, but their late brother was not a shining example of British manhood. He was, in fact, a bit of a black sheep. He left England because his involvement in a series of regrettable incidents created a deep rift between himself and the rest of his family.”

I had to credit the solicitor with a high degree of tact. According to Aunt Dimity, Aubrey Pym, Sr., had been an unrepentant wastrel who’d been disinherited, disowned, and cast out in disgrace. She would have been dumbfounded to hear him described as “a bit of a black sheep” whose behavior had been merely “regrettable.”

“The rift was never bridged,” Mr. Makepeace continued. “My clients were forbidden to communicate with their brother in any way. They were informed of his death, of course, but they were unaware of their nephew’s existence until ten days ago, when they discovered a letter buried at the bottom of a trunk that had once belonged to their mother.”

“Who wrote the letter?” I asked.

“Aubrey, Senior,” the solicitor replied. “He wished to inform his mother of his son’s birth. I do not know whether she wrote back to him, but I do know that she concealed the letter and the information it contained from her daughters.” Mr. Makepeace touched a finger to the orchid in his lapel, then pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “As I indicated earlier, Ms. Shepherd, the family rift was quite deep.”

“What a stupid waste of energy,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “Ruth and Louise would have made wonderful aunts.”

“I’m afraid it is too late for them to establish a long-term relationship with their nephew,” Mr. Makepeace said softly. “But it is not yet too late for them to reach out to him. They must move cautiously, however, because they do not know how their overtures will be received. It is entirely possible that their nephew is unaware of
their
existence. It is also possible that his mind has been poisoned against them. Their intentions must, therefore, be conveyed with the utmost diplomacy.”

I couldn’t restrain a snort of laughter. I’d been called many things in my life, but I’d never been called diplomatic. I lost my temper too easily, I spoke too hastily, and I seldom let facts complicate a good theory. If Ruth and Louise expected me to act the part of a discreet, mild-mannered envoy, they’d made a grave error in judgment. An ambassador blessed with my diplomatic skills would be more likely to inflame their family feud than to douse it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Makepeace,” I said, disguising my laughter with a cough, “but I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

“I beg to differ, dear lady,” he said, smiling broadly. “My clients regard you as the perfect person for the job. They believe that you will succeed where others might fail because you are”—he closed his eyes briefly, as if he were trying to recall the Pyms’ exact words—“strong-willed, determined, and naturally inquisitive.”

“Bossy, bullheaded, and nosy,” I said under my breath.