Aunt Dimity's Death (28 page)

“Yes, but—” Bill gave me a sidelong glare and I subsided.

“We also know that she loved Bobby, probably as much as she loves you, if the Pym sisters are to be believed. Regardless of that, her … spirit … is unable to connect with his. Why? If she loved both of you, why can she make contact with you but not Bobby?”

I shrugged.

“I think it’s because her bond of love with you was never broken.”

“But her bond with Bobby was?” I ventured.

“In a way that required forgiveness.” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “A theory. Only a theory. One step at a time, and I don’t know about you, but my next step is going to be toward the bed.” His head moved from the pillow to my shoulder. “Now, about the sleeping arrangements …”

“They will stay as they are.” I nudged his head back onto the pillow and got to my feet. “We don’t want to scandalize Mrs. Hume.”

“I think Mrs. Hume could use a nice juicy bit of scandal.”

“Be that as it may,” I said, heading for the door, “you need your rest. Your fishy friends will be waiting at the crack of dawn.” Halfway out the door, I said over my shoulder, “Besides, Bill, we’re
hardly
a pair of teenagers, are we?”

I ducked as the throw pillow sailed past me into the hall.

There was fresh salmon at breakfast, but Andrew and I had to start without Bill. He was up in his room, changing into dry clothes.

“I warned him to watch his step,” said Andrew, “but he became overexcited when he saw the falcons. I don’t suppose he sees many in America.”

“No, I suppose he doesn’t,” I said, accepting another cup of tea from Mrs. Hume. She hovered silently between us, filling cups, removing plates, and generally overseeing the meal.

The night’s sleep and the morning’s outing had done little to refresh my host. His eyes were shadowed, his face drawn, and his thoughts seemed to wander at times, yet he seemed oddly bent on helping us to enjoy the rest of our stay.

“He asked if we could go up to the nest after breakfast,” Andrew continued. “He seemed so keen on it that I didn’t have the heart to refuse. I’ve loaned him some clothes, as his aren’t particularly well suited to our Highland terrain, and we’ll be starting up directly after breakfast.” He addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hume, will you please see to it that a picnic lunch is prepared? It may take us some time to complete the expedition.” Mrs. Hume gave him a curt nod and left the room. “With Colin’s help, I can still clamber up there and back,” Andrew added, “but
not as speedily as I once did. You’re welcome to join us, if you like, Miss Shepherd.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll stay here. I’m not nearly as outdoorsy as Bill.” I cast an admiring glance around the room. “And it’s not often that I find myself in a place like MacLaren Hall. We don’t have anything like this in America, either.”

“Then you must have a look round while you’re here,” Andrew offered.

“Really?”

“You’re more than welcome. Mrs. Hume is nearly as well versed in the hall’s history as I am. I’m sure she can take some time off from her morning duties to escort you.” When he put the proposition to Mrs. Hume, she agreed to it with her usual economy of words.

Bill entered the dining room a short time later, and I had to hand it to him—he was much better at concealing his emotions than I was. He must have been ready to throw me into the loch, but his greeting was as genial as ever. He made light of his dunking, waxed rhapsodic about going up to the falcons’ nest, and graciously expressed his gratitude to Andrew for his new apparel—a pale gray cashmere turtleneck beneath a navy pullover, and heavy wool knee socks tucked up into a pair of tweed plus-fours. He even dared to call a cheery good-morning to Mrs. Hume.

“Mr. MacLaren has promised me a pair of hobnailed boots for the climb.” He displayed a stockinged foot. “It’s going to be a while before my own shoes are dry enough to wear. Coffee, if you please, Mrs. Hume. I don’t think the tea is quite strong enough to take the chill away.” When he bent his head over the steaming cup, I noticed that his hair was curling in damp tendrils behind his ears. “Tell me, Lori, how do you plan to spend your time while the menfolk are away in the hills?”

“Mrs. Hume is taking me on a tour of the hall.”

“What a splendid way to spend the day,” said Bill, with more heartfelt sincerity than either Mrs. Hume or Andrew could have realized. “How I wish I could be here with you.”

*
**

MacLaren Hall was massive, but it seemed to grow even larger as I trailed behind Mrs. Hume, who was impervious to small talk and met any attempt at humor with a stony stare. More like a dour professor than a tour guide, she plodded methodically from room to room, giving a set speech about the contents of each, and achieving with ease the remarkable feat of turning a Scottish lilt into a monotone. If she expected to dull my wits, she
was in for a disappointment. She took me past smoky oil portraits and marble-topped pedestal tables, rosewood étagères and musty tapestries, from the dim and dusty attics to the spotless kitchens—she even showed me the linen closets—but there were three places in which we did not set foot. As we passed by Andrew MacLaren’s private suite and the staff apartments, Mrs. Hume merely gestured at the closed doors, as though no more needed to be said on the subject.

But one closed door, the fourth one up the hall from my bedroom, won neither gesture nor comment. We had passed it several times on our way to and from the main staircase, but Mrs. Hume acted as though it were invisible. I dutifully kept my eyes front and center.

After a late afternoon lunch, Mrs. Hume escorted me to the library, where she left me with a selection of dusty books about the history of the MacLaren family. At any other time they would have intrigued me, but at that moment my mind was on other things—such as breaking and entering. I sat for fifteen minutes by the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, then opened the door to see if the coast was clear.

Mrs. Hume looked up from polishing the time-darkened oak wainscoting that lined the hallway. “Yes, Miss Shepherd? May I help you?”

I gave her a frozen grin, then managed, “I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Hume put down her cloth and walked off in the direction of the kitchens, while I closed the door and thought fast. If I went up to my bedroom she’d probably move her polishing operation right along with me. There were miles of wainscoting to polish in MacLaren Hall. What I needed was a diversion. I scanned the room, spied a telephone, and a plan clicked into place. Hurriedly, I dialed, and began speaking the moment I heard Willis, Sr.’s voice.

“It’s Lori,” I said in low, urgent tones. “I can’t explain now, but I need you to do a favor for me. A really big favor, right away. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes, Miss Shepherd.”

“Then write this down.” The phone number of MacLaren Hall was printed on a small card affixed to the phone. “Did you get that?” I asked, glancing at the door. He read it back to me and I raced on before he could ask any questions. “I need you to call that number in about twenty minutes and ask for a Mrs. Hume. That’s
H-U-M-E
. She’s a housekeeper at a big old place way up in northern Scotland. Keep her on the line for as long as you possibly can, and don’t mention my name or Bill’s or anything about Dimity Westwood. Don’t tell her who you are, either. Can you do that?”
Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for him to give the matter his due consideration.

“I suppose I could present myself as an American relation,” suggested Willis, Sr., finally. “I could, perhaps, be in the midst of conducting an investigation into the genealogy of my family.”

“Perfect!” I said. “You’re a genius, Mr. Willis—and thanks. I’ll explain soon and, remember, give me twenty minutes. I have to go now.” I hung up the phone and was back behind the pile of dusty books in plenty of time to assume a suitably studious appearance. When Mrs. Hume arrived with the tea trolley, I closed the book I had opened at random, and yawned languorously.

“Gosh,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hume, but I don’t think I’ll have that tea after all. To tell you the truth, what I really need is a nap. I believe I’ll go up and stretch out until the men come back.”

Mrs. Hume’s lips tightened, but she conducted me up the main staircase without comment, pausing only to pick up her basket of polishing supplies.

“Is there anything else you require, Miss Shepherd?” she asked when we arrived at my room.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hume, but I think I’ve bothered you enough for one day.” I yawned again, and hoped I wasn’t overdoing it. “Thanks again for the tour. This is a marvelous place.”

Mrs. Hume’s head turned at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. A red-haired girl in a maid’s uniform approached, then proceeded to astonish me by dropping a curtsy to the housekeeper.

“Please, ma’am,” said the girl, “there’s a telephone call for you. A trunk call.”

“A trunk call?” Mrs. Hume queried sharply. “For me? You’re certain?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. “And Mr. Sinclair has come about the stove.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Hume’s knuckles went white on the handle of the basket. “Tell Mr. Sinclair to wait in the kitchen. I will attend to him presently.” The girl bobbed a curtsy once again, and left. Mrs. Hume turned back. “I trust that you will have a restful few hours, Miss Shepherd. I shall be up again shortly, to make sure you have everything you need. You will excuse me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hume. Good luck with the stove.” When both sets of footsteps had faded into the distance, I sprinted up the hall. I placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, sent a quick prayer to the god of locks, and followed it with thanks when the knob turned. Slipping into the room,
I closed the door gently behind me, then leaned against it to catch my breath. I felt so much like a little kid playing hide-and-seek that I wanted to giggle, but when I turned to view the room, the laughter died in my throat.

It was a boy’s room, still and silent, washed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. A stuffed badger peered down from the top of the wardrobe, and the shelves above the bed were crowded with clockwork tanks, lead soldiers, and gleaming trophies. A battered leather binocular case dangled from the gun rack in the corner and schoolbooks were arranged in ranks upon the bookshelves. Above my head a squadron of model airplanes hung at dramatic angles. An unfinished one, made of balsa wood and tissue paper, sat on a table against the wall, still waiting for its wings. I turned a slow circle to take it all in, then crossed the room.

The desk was covered with pencil drawings of gentle hills, a patchwork valley, a rose-covered cottage with a slate roof. The smiling face of Dimity Westwood looked out from a graceful silver frame that had been placed to one side. I looked from the portrait to the softly shaded drawings and knew that this was Bobby’s room, preserved in amber. The center drawer of the desk held pencil stubs, bits of eraser, a broken ruler— and a tattered exercise book that bore the name
robert
maclaren
. Burning with a sudden flush of shame, I closed the drawer and turned away.

This was no game. Blinded by my own cleverness, I had forgotten that we were dealing with death and loss and wrenching grief. I had betrayed the trust of my host, and I had invaded what must have been, for him, a shrine. My very presence felt like a desecration. If this was what it took to help Dimity, then I would have to fail her. I got up from the desk and headed for the door.

I was halfway there when it opened.

Andrew MacLaren stood erect in the doorway for a moment; then his shoulders drooped. I feared for a moment that he would collapse, but he called upon some inner reserve of strength, pulled himself to attention, and entered. Bill followed, closing the door behind him.

“I see that you have found my brother’s room,” Andrew said in a soft, tired voice. “When I saw Mrs. Hume, I suspected … but no matter. Had you waited, I would have brought you here myself.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, gesturing for us to sit in two others. He raised his eyes to the model airplanes overhead. “I have tried to keep it the way it was during his last visit. The last time before …” Andrew rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. “Perhaps I have tried to keep too much unchanged.”