Aunt Dimity's Death (26 page)

“It was,” said Paul, “especially in those days, with so many house numbers disappearing, thanks to Mr. Adolf-bloody-Hitler—oh, excuse me, miss.” He covered his mouth with his hand and looked a good deal more shocked than anyone else in the room.

“No need to excuse yourself,” Archy declared. “Now, about the Telegraph …” Archy ran his hand lovingly up one of the pillars that supported the decorative woodwork overhead, every square inch of it covered with scrolls and flourishes. “I was the postman, you see, and this”—he pointed up to a knob that had been camouflaged by the elaborate carving—”was the postbox. That’s where I used to put all the messages the boys left with me. Didn’t want them getting wet, so I had Darcy Pemburton—where’s old Darcy got to these days, Paul?”

“Living in Blackpool with his sister.”

“Blackpool? What’s he want to live in Blackpool for?”

“Says he likes the donkey rides.”

“The
donkey
— You’re having me on, Paul.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Then he’s having
you
on. But never mind…. Darcy was a fine cabinetmaker in his day, and I had him fit this little box up for me to keep the notes and such out of harm’s way. You see, you just give the knob a twist and the door swings—” Archy’s mouth curved into an unbelieving grin as a cascade of papers rained down on his leonine head.

*
**

It took us a while to gather them all up, and a little while longer to persuade Archy to let us read them. Piled neatly on the bar were folded note-cards, sealed envelopes, and slapdash notes scrawled on scraps of napkins, train schedules, betting cards, whatever had been at hand, it seemed. Most were brief (“Pru: Bloody balls-up at HQ. Can’t make our date. Will call. Jimmy.”) and not all concerned romance (“Stinky: Here’s your filthy lucre, hope you lose your ration book”—unsigned, but accompanied by a faded five-pound note). A few were cryptic (“Rose: You were right. Bert.”) but some were all too clear (“Philip: Drop dead. Georgina.”),

“I can’t understand it,” Archy muttered, twirling one end of his drooping mustache. “I might have left one or two behind, but never this many.”

“Archy?” Paul said softly.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Archy continued. “The new man didn’t know about the Telegraph, so how could he manage it, eh? Tell me that.”

“Archy?” Paul repeated, a bit more loudly.

“Not as though he’d do a favor for—”

“I did it!” Paul declared.

Archy turned to Paul, shocked. “You, Paul?”

“I did it for the lads, Archy.” Paul’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “The notes kept coming in after you left, and someone had to look after them, so I did. Then Mr. Know-All caught me behind the bar one day and booted me out of the lounge, and after that I … I must’ve lost track of time.”

“I’ll say you did.” Archy looked from Paul to the notes and back again. “Poor old Stinky went short five pounds because of you.”

“I know, Archy,” Paul said miserably.

“And let’s hope this one hasn’t caused more serious mischief.” Archy bent down to retrieve a white envelope that appeared to have a raised coat of arms on the flap. Archy examined it closely, then, without saying a word, handed it to me.

“It’s addressed to Dimity.” I locked eyes with Bill. Archy came up with a polished breadknife, and I used it to slit open the envelope. The others clustered around me as I pulled out a single sheet of paper and read:

     
Miss Westwood
,

“It’s dated July 15, 1952,” noted Miss Kingsley. “Imagine, it’s been sitting here all these years.”

“Have I caused a terrible mess?” Paul asked in a low voice.

I leaned across the bar to squeeze his arm. “You were doing your best, Paul, and it wasn’t your fault that that jerk kicked you out of here. You’ve helped us enormously today, and we really appreciate it.” Bill echoed my words, but it wasn’t until Archy reached across to pat Paul’s shoulder that the smaller man finally perked up again.

“There’s no return address,” I said, looking once more at the white envelope.

“If we assume the writer to be
A. MacLaren
, that and the coat of arms should be enough,” said Miss Kingsley. “Let me check my files.” She reached the door of the lounge in time to head off the Flamborough’s current bartender, a slender man with flowing blond hair.

“Having a party?” he asked.

“We are having a private conference,” replied Miss Kingsley tartly, “and I’ll thank you to wait outside until I call for you.”

The man clucked his tongue at the empty glasses on the table, but he was no match for Miss Kingsley and left without further comment. Archy leaned on the bar and watched as the door closed behind the two. “A fine figure of a woman,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “Now, would anyone say no to another round? Bring those empty glasses over here.” While Paul gathered up the letters and Archy was busy at the tap, Bill and I walked over to look at the framed snapshots arrayed upon the wall.

“I wonder if Bobby’s here,” I said. “It’s so strange to think that we might be looking right at him and not know it.” I called over to the bar, “Archy—do you know if Bobby MacLaren’s picture is here?”

“’Course it is. His chums brought it in and I hung it there myself. Let me see, now.” Pint of stout in hand, Archy came over, with Paul at his heels. “That’s Jack Thornton,” said Archy, as his large hand moved slowly across the wall. “Brian Ripley. Tom Patterson. Freddy Baker. He was a wild one, old Freddy. Always getting himself put on report.”

“They never found fault with his flying, though,” Paul pointed out.

“No, Paul, they never did. Ah, it brings ‘em all back, this wall does. They were none of them saints, but they were there when we needed them. Here, now, here’s Bobby.” Archy unhooked one of the pictures and handed it to me, and the four of us looked down upon a young man in flying gear, standing beside a fighter.

“That’s his Hurricane,” said Paul. “Proud of it, he was. Said it streaked through the sky like a falcon. The picture doesn’t do him justice, though.”

“Hard to do that in a snap, but you’re right,” Archy agreed. “His eyes were brighter, and his smile …”

“Yes,” said Paul. “His smile.”

Sighing, the two men returned to the bar. Bill took Bobby’s picture from me and stared at it for a long time before hanging it back in place. “So many of them, and each one of them left someone behind.” He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat and looked down at the letter. “I think our next step is to contact A.M., if Miss Kingsley can discover who he is. I’d be interested to know if Dimity ever received word about this”—he tapped the letter— “‘object’ that belonged to Bobby.”

“Me, too, but what are we going to say to A.M.?”

“You leave that to me.”

Archy had not quite topped off Paul’s glass when Miss Kingsley returned, a piece of paper in her hand and a gleam in her eye.

“Mr. Andrew MacLaren is sixty-six years old, unmarried, and still living on the MacLaren estate in the mountains west of Wick,” she informed the table. “Quite far north, actually. He had only one sibling, a
brother, Robert, whose death made Andrew the sole heir to the family fortune, which is extensive—wool, whiskey, and, lately, North Sea oil. He’s something of a recluse, apparently, seldom sets foot off of the estate. I have his telephone number, if you’d like it.”

“Bless you, Miss Kingsley. Where would we be without you?” said Bill, as Miss Kingsley handed him the number. “I’d love to have a look through those files of yours someday.”

“I’m afraid they are held in the strictest confidence,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to come into my office to place the call? Yes, Archy, you and Paul may stay here and enjoy your drinks, but I’ll have to allow Bjorn to open the doors to the rest of our patrons as well.”

Archy snorted in disgust. “I might have known,” he said. “What’s a chap named Bjorn doing at the Flamborough, that’s what I’d like to know. Sign of the times, eh, Paul?”

“Yes, Archy, a sign of the times.”

Bill and I left them there and went with Miss Kingsley into her office. Bill sat at the desk, dialed the number, then began to speak in a voice that was businesslike, mature, authoritative—in short, completely unrecognizable. Listening to him, I began to understand how he had gained access to the Imperial War Museum archives.

“Good morning,” he said. “This is William A. Willis speaking, of the law firm of Willis & Willis. I am calling in regards to a certain matter pertaining to the disposition of the West-wood estate—yes, the Westwood estate. I am the estate’s legal representative and I would like to speak with Mr. Andrew MacLaren, if he is available. Yes, William A. Willis. Thank you, I’ll wait.” Bill covered the phone with his hand. “Don’t look so astounded,” he said to me. “This is my professional manner. Or did you think I didn’t have one?”

“I was just wondering if the ‘A’ stood for—”

“Admirable? Astute? Articulate? Modesty prevents me from saying, ‘All of the above.”’

Andrew MacLaren must have come on the line at that moment because Bill turned his attention back to the telephone. As he did, Archy Gorman came into the office. “Don’t bother your young man,” he said. “I just popped in to say I’d be on my way.” He held up the assembled notes. “Have to go home and sort this lot out. My duty as the postman, you know.”

“Paul’s driving you, isn’t he?” I asked.

“’Fraid not,” he said. “Has no head for lager, our Paul. He’ll be asleep in the lounge if you need him.”

“You wait out front, Archy,” said Miss Kingsley. “I’ll have another driver for you shortly. As for Paul … will you excuse me, Lori? I think my presence is required in the lounge.”

I turned to Archy and thanked him for all his help.

“Don’t give it a second thought,” he said. “You’ve given me a chance to finish up a job I should have finished years ago. I’m the one who should thank you.” He nodded in Bill’s direction. “You tell your young man I said cheerio, will you? He’s a nice fellow and the two of you make a fine couple. I’m very pleased to have met you both. You be sure to stop and visit if you’re ever passing through Greenwich.” He shook my hand, winked, and was gone.

Bill hung up the telephone.

“Well?” I asked.

“MacLaren invited us both to come up to his estate.” When my eyes lit up, he raised a cautioning hand. “It was a strange invitation. He was ready to hang up on me until I mentioned the long-lost letter. Apparently he doesn’t share Archy Gorman’s enthusiasm for chatting over old times.”

“He did lose his brother,” I said. “It must be a pretty painful memory.”

“Yes, but …” Bill stroked his beard. “No, never mind. Let’s wait and see if you get the same impression.” He stood up as Miss Kingsley returned.

“If anyone had told me that one day I would see our Paul dead drunk before noon …” She shook her head.

“He’s a lot smaller than Archy,” said Bill. “I suppose it goes to his head faster. And now, Miss Kingsley, I have another favor to ask of you.”

By seven o’clock that evening, Bill and I were on board a private jet bound for Wick.

Andrew MacLaren was at the airport to meet us. As tall as Bill and broader across the shoulders, he walked with a pronounced limp and used a cane, yet he seemed surprisingly agile. Certainly he was more fit and trim than I’d have expected for a man of his age, not to mention a man with a handicap.

He must have read the question in my eyes, and it must have been a familar one because he tapped the cane lightly against his leg. “Polio. Grew up with it. Doesn’t slow me down.” His nonchalant manner put me at ease and by the time we had reached the parking lot, Andrew’s lopsided gait seemed as unremarkable as Bill’s steady stride.

He led us to a dilapidated Land Rover. Uh-oh, I thought as we climbed in, an aristocrat on the skids. I wondered if that might explain his reluctant invitation; perhaps he was ashamed to have houseguests. But that theory went out the window as we approached MacLaren Hall. When the road narrowed from a one-lane gravel drive to a rutted track, I realized that Andrew’s choice of transport was merely practical.

“I’m sorry about the road,” he said. “We have a perfectly usable drive, of course, but this is faster and, as it’s getting late, I thought you might be in need of supper.”

There was no need for him to apologize. We were far enough north and it was still early enough in the year for there to be a good deal of
daylight left even at that late hour, and the scenery more than made up for the jouncing, jostling ride. We were surrounded by some of the wildest, most desolate country I’d ever seen, with mountains looming on all sides, barren, craggy, majestic. They took my breath away, but also left me feeling uneasy. This was a harsh, unforgiving place. I suspected it would not deal kindly with weakness and, given half a chance, it would kill the unwary.

MacLaren Hall did nothing to soften that impression. It was an enormous, intimidating old place faced in weathered red brick, with dozens of chimneys and deep-set, shadowy windows. It stood on a rocky hillside above a loch—magnificent, but terribly lonely, overlooking the black water in bleak isolation.