Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Read online

  “They must have brought other things home with them as well,” said Emma.

  “They did,” said Tilly. “Some ‘old India hands,’ as they were called, filled their homes with Indian furnishings. A few built houses in the neo-Mughal style, an English interpretation of Indian architecture. Queen Victoria surrounded herself with Indian servants, and she made an effort to learn as much as she could about the culture.”

  I waited for a beat to make sure that she’d come to the end of her side note, then said, “Good to know, but it doesn’t connect many dots for us, does it? It sounds as though Victorian England was awash in all things Indian. The recipe and the artifacts could have been acquired in England, or they could have been acquired by someone who lived in or who visited India.”

  “It does leave us with a rather wide range of possibilities,” Tilly acknowledged apologetically.

  “On to question three, then,” I said after a bracing sip of tea. “What brought Miss Cecilia M. to Anscombe Manor?”

  “She could have been a neighbor or a family friend,” Tilly suggested. “Perhaps she went to school with an Anscombe daughter.”

  “Or she could have been engaged to an Anscombe son,” Emma asserted. “I’ve never come across a Cecilia Anscombe in the family archives, but I’ve never had a reason to search for one.” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “Kit may have heard of her, though. I’ll call him.”

  While she spoke with Kit on her cell phone, I gave Tilly a basic outline of his complicated parentage.

  “Emma’s son-in-law grew up here, in Anscombe Manor,” I told her. “He was raised by his late stepfather, who was an Anscombe by birth.” I shrugged. “Who knows what they discussed around the dinner table?”

  “I hope they discussed family history,” said Tilly.

  Emma ended the call and stood. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes or so—enough time for us to have a quick bite of lunch. I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving.”

  As it turned out, Tilly and I were starving, too. We slapped together a pile of sandwiches from Emma’s ample supply of leftovers and polished off three of them before Kit came through the back door, smelling of horses.

  “Sorry about the delay,” he said. “I was up to my knees in . . . Well, let’s just say that I had to change my boots and my trousers before I came indoors.”

  “We’re grateful,” I told him.

  He chuckled good-naturedly as he sat next to Tilly, but he stopped laughing when he spotted the golden heart. “Early Christmas present, Emma?”

  “More of a Christmas mystery,” Emma replied. “Have a sandwich while I tell you about our morning.”

  By the time she finished describing the priest hole, the Hindu altar, the initials on the golden heart, and the addendum to the besan ladoo recipe, Kit had finished two sandwiches.

  “No one mentioned the priest hole to me when I was growing up,” he said ruefully. “If I’d known about it, I would have won every game of sardines I ever played in the manor.”

  “Did anyone mention Miss Cecilia to you?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve never heard of her, but I can confirm that an Anscombe did go to India. His name was Albert Anscombe and he was born in 1837. The only reason I know his date of birth is because it was inscribed on a portrait of him that hung in the great hall before it was shipped off to a buyer in California. Albert Anscombe cut a dashing figure, but he was a bit of a family joke.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Kit dusted bread crumbs from his long, slender fingers, rested his folded arms on the table, and leaned forward. “Albert was a second son. Since his older brother was destined to inherit the family estate, Albert had to choose between the only two professions that were considered acceptable in the stratified world of the minor gentry.”

  “The church or the army,” Tilly put in, as if she was familiar with the stratified world of the minor gentry.

  “After he sowed his wild oats, Albert chose the army,” said Kit. “His father purchased a commission for him in the Fifty-Second (Oxfordshire) Regiment of Foot, and off he went to India.”

  “A famed regiment,” Tilly observed, sounding impressed.

  “Albert didn’t contribute to their fame,” Kit said with a wry smile. “He spent most of his time inspecting barracks and attending garden parties. He was decorative rather than competent, but he did his duty for an entire year before he was laid low by what was then known as a putrid fever. It could have been cholera or typhus or any one of a dozen diseases, but whatever it was, it brought him to his knees.”

  “He should have chosen the church,” I said. “His health wouldn’t have taken a hit if he’d stayed in England.”

  “It might have,” said Tilly. “Typhoid epidemics were a common occurrence in England throughout the Victorian era. Let us not forget that Prince Albert died of typhoid fever in the Blue Room at Windsor Castle.”

  “Albert Anscombe didn’t die,” said Kit. “He came home, and although he was never a well man again, he prospered. When his older brother died in a riding accident, he became the sole heir to the Anscombe estate. He married, produced seven children, and dined out on stories about his military career for the rest of his life.”

  “I still don’t understand why he was a family joke,” I said. “He may not have been a war hero, but as you say, he did his duty.”

  “If he’d told the truth, we would have treated him with the respect he deserved,” Kit explained. “Legend has it, however, that his tales became more and more outlandish as the years went by. Those who didn’t know better were convinced that he’d led his regiment into every battle, including the Battle of Waterloo!”

  I laughed, but Tilly looked perplexed.

  “The Battle of Waterloo took place in 1815,” she said.

  Realizing that humor wasn’t Tilly’s strong suit, Kit explained kindly, “That’s right, Tilly. The Battle of Waterloo took place before Albert Anscombe was born.”

  “I see,” she said, her face brightening as comprehension dawned. “You were illustrating Albert’s penchant for stretching the truth.”

  “I was,” Kit acknowledged.

  “I don’t blame him for padding his CV,” I said. “How could he tell his cronies that he’d served his country by ridding barracks of dust bunnies and dancing the night away? Leading soldiers into battle is much more respectable.”

  “And more entertaining,” Kit said dryly.

  “When did Albert go to India?” Emma inquired.

  Kit shrugged. “He wore a Victorian-era uniform in his portrait, but if I ever knew the precise dates of his military service, I’ve forgotten them.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain that his wife’s name wasn’t Cecilia?” Emma pressed.

  “I am,” said Kit. “I may not have a head for numbers, but I remember names. Albert married Miss Georgiana Weldstone of Weldstone Hall in Warwickshire. It was a good match. By all accounts, they were very happy together.”

  “I’m pleased for them,” Emma said sourly, “but their story contributes nothing to the one we’re attempting to unravel. Were there any Cecilias in your stepfather’s family?”

  “None that I’ve heard of,” Kit replied, “but the Anscombe family tree has many branches. I would never pretend to know every twig.”

  “Perhaps Albert’s wife ordered him to get rid of his Indian souvenirs,” Tilly said thoughtfully, “but instead of throwing them away or selling them, he hid them in the priest hole.”

  “The altar looks more like a shrine than a stash,” I said.

  “A shrine to whom?” Emma demanded, presumably of the universe. “To Miss Cecilia? Was she Albert’s lost love? Or was he hers?”

  “Four questions at once!” I exclaimed, falling back in my chair. “Oh, my poor aching head!”

  “Go ahead and joke,” Emma said with a grudging
smile, “but I intend to answer each and every one of them.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you in?”

  “Need you ask?” I said. “I finished my Christmas shopping two weeks ago, and if I hang another ornament on our tree at home, it’ll topple over. The church is decorated, there’s no Nativity play to rehearse, and there won’t be any more Christmas parties this year.” I sat up and made a courteous half bow in her direction. “I’m at your service.”

  “Should you, perhaps, check with your husband first?” Tilly asked, eyeing me uncertainly. “You have three young children, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said, “and Bill is perfectly capable of looking after them. In fact, I’ll be doing him a favor by making myself scarce. His job takes him away from home so often that he enjoys being a full-time dad during the holidays.”

  “What about you, Tilly?” Emma asked. “Are you in?”

  “You’d allow me to help?” she said, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

  “We’re counting on you to help,” I told her. “Frankly, I don’t think we’d get very far without you.”

  “Of course you would,” she said, blushing rosily, “but if you think I can be of assistance, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.” She smiled shyly. “I must admit that I’d like to know more about Miss Cecilia. If she did create the Hindu altar, we intruded on a place that was sacred to her. I feel as if I owe it to her to tell her story—to make sure that she’s not forgotten.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Emma.

  “Where will you start?” Kit inquired. “After you’ve shown me the priest hole, that is.”

  “I’ll start with the archives, if I may,” said Tilly.

  “I’ll work with you,” said Emma.

  “I’ll call Lilian Bunting,” I said.

  “The vicar’s wife?” Tilly asked.

  “The vicar’s wife who also happens to be a formidable scholar,” I said. “If there’s a Cecilia M. in the church records at St. George’s, Lilian will find her.”

  “I’m glad you thought of Lilian,” said Emma. “She forgave us for failing to wake her when Tilly rediscovered the chapel, but she’d never forgive us if we kept a priest hole and a Hindu altar to ourselves.”

  “She would not,” Kit agreed.

  “When and where shall we three meet again?” I asked, turning to Emma.

  “Ten tomorrow morning?” she suggested. “Here?”

  “Works for me,” I said. “For now, however, I must bid you adieu. My husband is the best of men, but I don’t want to push my luck. I promised him I’d be home in time for dinner.”

  After collecting my storage containers and taking one last look at the golden heart, I snatched up my jacket and my shoulder bag and let myself out through the back door. Unlike Mr. Barlow, I had no trouble lifting the latch.

  Twelve

  I came home to find Bill sprawled on the hearth rug in the living room, playing knock-down-the-wall with Bess. The game was a simple one—Bill built walls of wooden blocks and Bess knocked them down—but it was one of Bess’s favorites, especially when her father played it with her. Stanley watched the action from the comfort—and safety—of Bill’s favorite armchair.

  The twins had sequestered themselves and their race-car track in the blanket fort they’d constructed in the dining room. Such defensive measures were necessary with a toddler in the cottage. Knock-down-the-wall was one thing. Knock-the-race-cars-off-the-track was another.

  I’d arrived in plenty of time to make dinner, so I busied myself in the kitchen and had a meal on the table when the ravening horde descended, demanding sustenance. A green salad and a chicken-and-mushroom pie formed the main course, with homemade brownies à la mode for dessert. The hoard gave me rave reviews.

  I would have told my nap-deprived husband about the priest hole and its many surprises after the children were asleep, but he was so tired that he went to bed when the boys did. Since it was still relatively early in the evening, I tidied the kitchen and restored some semblance of order to the living and dining rooms before I flopped on the sofa and called Lilian Bunting. She was thrilled by my news and eager to play a role in the search for Cecilia M.

  “Submerging myself in the church records will make for a pleasant change from emptying wastebaskets filled with used tissues and listening to people describe the precise colors and textures of their bodily fluids,” she said. “Forgive me if I sound unchristian.”

  “No one expects you to be a saint,” I told her with a sympathetic chuckle.

  “Anyone who did would be sorely disappointed,” she returned. “I’ll dive into the records first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll be at Emma’s by ten, whether I find a relevant entry or not. Teddy and the Hobsons can attend to our sick parishioners without me for a few hours. A priest hole with a Hindu altar! In our parish! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime discovery!”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then said good night. Though I was beginning to feel the effects of a short night and an exciting day, I pried myself from the sofa and headed for the study. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if I’d gone to bed without telling Aunt Dimity about our once-in-a-lifetime discovery.

  The study was still and silent. The tinsel garland I’d strung around the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk twinkled in the light from the mantel lamps when I knelt to light a fire in the hearth. The flames seemed to dance in Reginald’s black button eyes as I straightened.

  “I met a wonderfully colorful elephant today,” I told him. “He’s a soft toy, but he’s not the kind of soft toy a child would take to bed. Tilly Trout thinks he represents Ganesha, the elephant-headed son of Parvati, the Hindu goddess of love and a few other things. I don’t know if there’s a rabbit-headed god in the Hindu pantheon, but Tilly might. She seems to know everything about everything.” I read a question in my bunny’s eyes as I reached for the blue journal. “No, Reg, she doesn’t know about Aunt Dimity. Some secrets are best kept to ourselves.”

  I touched a fingertip to his pink flannel snout, then carried the blue journal with me to one of the tall leather armchairs facing the hearth. I kicked off my shoes, braced my stockinged feet against the ottoman, rested the blue journal on my bent legs, and opened it.

  “Dimity?” I said. “It’s been another memorable day!”

  The curving lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the blank page as soon as I finished speaking.

  Good evening, Lori. Why was the day memorable? Did another car slide into one of Emma’s drainage ditches?

  “No,” I replied. “Derek spread straw on the lane to keep everyone from crashing on the way home, and by the time I went back to Anscombe Manor, the ice had melted.”

  Did Bree announce her decision to return to New Zealand to nurse her broken heart?

  “Bree’s not going anywhere,” I said flatly. “The last I heard, she was in Mr. Barlow’s workshop, removing the tires from Tilly Trout’s damaged car.”

  Has Bess learned to use the toilet?

  “I’ll send up fireworks when Bess’s diaper days are over,” I said, “and I haven’t sent any up yet.”

  What, then, made the day memorable?

  “Quite a few things,” I said, “but I’ll start with what will soon be the most talked-about story in Finch.”

  If it interests the villagers, you can rest assured that it will interest me.

  “It’ll knock your socks off,” I assured her. I nestled the journal more comfortably on my knees and continued, “Nell’s convinced that Mr. Barlow has fallen in love with Tilly Trout.”

  He must have fallen very quickly.

  “Such things happen,” I said. “Tilly has a helpless air about her, and Mr. Barlow likes to help helpless people.”

  True. A damsel in distress would appeal to his chivalrous nature.

  “If he could have, he would have wrapp
ed Tilly in cotton wool after the accident,” I said, smiling.

  Any man worth his salt would have felt protective toward Tilly.

  “Would any man go out of his way to spend time with her, once she was safe and sound?” I asked. “Mr. Barlow drove to Anscombe Manor this morning to talk to her about her car, even though he could have relayed the information through Emma over the telephone.”

  Suggestive, but hardly conclusive.

  “There’s more,” I said. “Before he left the manor, he offered to give Tilly a guided tour of St. George’s. And as he was leaving, he fumbled with the latch on Emma’s kitchen door.”

  He fumbled with the latch? He’s clearly a man in love. I bow down to Nell’s infallible intuition.

  “Who doesn’t?” I said dryly. “I won’t be surprised if it takes Mr. Barlow a month to fix Tilly’s car.”

  I hope, for his sake, that Tilly isn’t a nun.

  “She’s not,” I said. “When I asked her, she claimed to be nothing more than a lay member of the Church of England.”

  As is Mr. Barlow. So far, so good. Are his feelings reciprocated?

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Tilly has such a low opinion of herself that she may not believe she’s lovable.”

  Mr. Barlow has his work cut out for him, it seems, but he’s never been afraid of hard work. I hope with all my heart that his suit is successful.

  “So do I, Dimity,” I said. “Mr. Barlow has been alone for too long.”

  It sounds as though Tilly has, too. The handwriting paused for a moment, then continued to flow gracefully across the page. As gratified as I am to be brought up to date on the latest developments in Finch, I must confess to feeling the merest whisper of disappointment. I was rather hoping your day was memorable because you found a priest hole in Emma’s chapel.

  “We did find one!” I exclaimed. “To be accurate, Tilly found one. It’s hidden by two panels in the wall behind the spot where the altar once stood. I thought Tilly would faint when she opened the outer panel.”