Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Read online

  “Not at all,” he assured me. “I’ve made it my business to know everyone who lives within a ten-mile radius of Shepney, but I do not, my dear madam, know you.”

  “I’m Lori Shepherd,” I said, “and this is—”

  “You need not introduce your companion,” Horatio interrupted. “His fame precedes him.” His chin multiplied briefly as he made a neck bow to Christopher. “You are, of course, Bishop Wyndham. Word of your visit has spread throughout Shepney with the speed of a plummeting falcon. It is an honor to meet you, sir. If the shop weren’t so crowded, I would give you a guided tour of my humble demesne, but the power is out in the village and very few of my neighbors own generators. I had one installed in my shop because the writing is writ large on the wall: Mother Earth will continue to punish us with floods, famines, and fires until we learn to behave as custodians of the natural world rather than as its conquerors.”

  “Most interesting,” said Christopher. “But what has a power outage to do with an increase in business?”

  “The two are inextricably linked, my dear bishop.” Horatio leaned forward and spoke in a low, quavering voice. “Imagine, if you will, the horror that engulfs a modern family when they realize that they cannot”—he made a moue of distaste—“charge their electronic devices. Their mobiles, tablets, laptops, and desktops are useless! Panic sets in. Without a screen to watch or keys to tap, all harmony is at an end. The ties that bind are on the verge of snapping when someone recalls a dim and distant memory of”—he thrust the dilapidated book into the air as his voice rose in strength and power—“the original virtual-reality device! A wondrous device that will allow them to go anywhere at any time with anyone they choose. A device powered by the imagination, a device gravity cannot shatter, a device that decays organically, leaving no toxic sludge behind to poison our precious planet!” He lowered the book, leaned back in his chair, and concluded matter-of-factly, “At which point they visit my shop.”

  “I see,” said Christopher. “Thank you. I hadn’t realized how beneficial a cyclone could be for a business such as yours.”

  “As the river rises, so, too, do my profits,” said Horatio. “Still, the river is kinder to us than the angry sea is to coastal communities.”

  “A couple moved to my village from the coast because of coastal erosion,” I piped up. “They were afraid their cottage would fall into the sea.”

  “Though our storms have become more frequent and more catastrophic in recent years, the coastline has always been vulnerable to the sea’s depredations,” Horatio informed us. “Old Winchelsea was a port town of enormous importance, with more than fifty inns and a populace numbering in the thousands, yet it was whittled away by sea incursions until 1287, when it vanished completely beneath the waves and the shifting sands.”

  “It vanished completely?” I said doubtfully.

  “Down to the last brick and cobble,” Horatio declared. “The hardy souls who survived the catastrophe moved inland and built a new town, also called Winchelsea, with a tidal harbor on the River Brede. The revived Winchelsea flourished until the 1520s, when the cumulative effects of French raids, the Black Death, and the unrelenting silting of its harbor brought its glory days to an end. Today it is considered by some to be the smallest town in England. If you have not yet visited Winchelsea, I recommend that you do so. It’s a paltry three-mile drive from Shepney and, though small, it pulses with history.”

  “I’ll add it to my must-visit list,” I said. “But while we’re here—”

  My words were drowned out by Horatio’s. Once he was on a roll, he simply kept rolling.

  “Then there’s Rye,” he went on. “Rye, too, was a prosperous and powerful port town until its harbor was cut off from the sea by the same powerful storm that destroyed Old Winchelsea. Though efforts were made to keep the harbor open, the costs of repeated dredging became prohibitive, and Rye’s significance as a center of sea trade faded. It remains, however, a town rich in beauty and history, and it, too, is well worth a visit. It takes less than ten minutes to drive from Rye to Winchelsea. If you visit one, you owe it to yourself to visit the other.”

  “I concur,” said Christopher. “Rye and Winchelsea are fascinating places. However, Lori and I hoped you might answer a question about—”

  “The sea has played an indirect but vital role in Shepney’s history as well,” Horatio went on. “As you may know, the town’s name is a combination of Old English words meaning ‘sheep island.’ Its lofty position has allowed it to—” He broke off, his roll brought to a sudden halt by a loud squawk and a series of thuds.

  With a grunt, he heaved himself up from his chair and stepped into the aisle. I slid from my perch to follow him and saw a man even fatter than Horatio sprawled on the floor beside an overturned step stool surrounded by scattered books.

  “Dennis Dodd!” Horatio thundered. “Have you forgotten to monitor your insulin levels again? Need I remind you that low blood sugar makes you dizzy?” He rushed forward to help Mr. Dodd to his feet, saying with real concern, “My dear fellow, are you all right?”

  “Bruised pride, but nothing worse,” said Mr. Dodd, though he looked shaken. “I’m sorry, Horatio. I’ll tidy up.”

  “Ursula will tidy up,” Horatio said sternly, gripping Mr. Dodd’s arm. “You’ll come with me to the back room for a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck, you old fool.” As he and Mr. Dodd passed us, he said, “Pray excuse me. My diabetic friend requires my undivided attention. Come back tomorrow morning with your question. The shop opens at ten. It will be less crowded then.” He threw the last two sentences over his shoulder as he guided Mr. Dodd through a door at the rear of the shop.

  Christopher and I retreated to the History bay.

  “Shall we return tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Unless we find someone else who knows why The King’s Ransom is called The King’s Ransom before then,” I said, “we shall.”

  “Good,” said Christopher. “Now that I’ve been released from volunteering, I’ll have an ample amount of free time to devote to our quest.”

  “A quest we might have finished today if Mr. Dodd hadn’t taken a tumble,” I said. “Is it selfish of me to resent him? Horatio was just getting around to telling us about Shepney when . . . bam!”

  “It is selfish,” he replied, “but understandable. I, too, feel a certain amount of frustration. Had Mr. Best—”

  “Horatio,” I said, wagging an index finger at him. “Mr. Best insists.”

  “Had Horatio gone on for a few more minutes,” he said, smiling, “we could have steered him toward the answer we’re seeking.”

  “We’ll just have to steer him tomorrow.” I stared at the empty armchair for a moment, then asked, “What about the other mystery? Does Horatio Best strike you as the type of chap who’d frighten children for fun?”

  “He’s a performer,” Christopher acknowledged, “but he’s also a teacher. I believe he prefers fact to fiction. I doubt that he would recount a ghostly tale without adding footnotes to explain the historical significance of the events that inspired it.”

  “I don’t know any seven-year-olds who would sit still for the kind of long-winded footnotes Horatio would add,” I said. “He’d bore them to tears and take all the fun out of being scared. No, I think we can scratch our local historian off the suspect list.”

  “There’s one way to find out who the guilty party is,” said Christopher.

  Our eyes met as we chorused, “We’ll ask Jemima.”

  Thirteen

  The sun had sunk low in the sky by the time we left Best Books. Sunsets came early in England in mid-October, but the relentless rain made the twilight seem darker than usual. Conversely, the shop windows seemed brighter. The high-street merchants had evidently seen the same writing on the wall as Horatio Best and equipped their businesses with generators.

 
As the bishop and I turned toward The King’s Ransom, we spotted Jean Hancock coming out of the souvenir shop. Though I couldn’t imagine why someone who lived and worked in Shepney would feel the need to buy souvenirs, a reusable shopping bag dangled from her wrist. She paused in the doorway to open a pink umbrella, then strode jauntily down the high street toward the inn. For a sleep-deprived woman, she looked astoundingly chipper.

  “I’m impressed,” I said to Christopher. “If my children kept me up half the night, I’d be dragging.”

  “Perhaps she’s learned to tune them out,” he said. “I’m told most parents do.”

  “She wouldn’t tune them out at bedtime,” I assured him. “There’d be too big a price to pay come morning.” A fresh suspicion darted into my mind. “Let’s catch up with her. I’d like to know if Jemima told her about the dead lady—or vice versa.”

  Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “Why would Mrs. Hancock fill her daughter’s head with such nonsense?”

  “To discourage her kiddies from sneaking up to the attic and getting their clean clothes filthy,” I said. “They know where she keeps the key. If I were seven years old, I’d find the inn’s attic irresistible.”

  “We’re all vulnerable to the lure of the forbidden,” said Christopher, lengthening his stride.

  Jean Hancock stopped before the candy shop’s window to survey a display of bonbons that had been wrapped in gold foil and artfully stacked in pyramids. When she saw our reflections bearing down on her, she turned to greet us. She seemed even perkier up close than she had at a distance.

  “Porcini,” she announced, indicating her shopping bag. “Steve ran short and everyone else was busy, so I nipped out to the souvenir shop to buy some.”

  “Porcini mushrooms?” I said, mystified. “At a souvenir shop?”

  “Karen Bakewell—the shop owner—keeps a few bits and bobs on hand for our local gourmets,” she explained. “Dried mushrooms, crystallized ginger, properly aged balsamic vinegar . . . all sorts of tasty things.” A smile lit her face as she looked at me. “I’m glad I ran into you, Lori. I’ve been wanting to thank you.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you said to Jemima last night,” she said, “but whatever it was, I’m grateful to you for saying it.”

  “I didn’t say much,” I told her. “Jemima did most of the talking.”

  “You must have a calming presence, then,” she said. “After she spoke with you, she went straight to bed—and she persuaded Nicholas to go to bed, too. They slept through the rest of the night without making a peep. Thanks to you, Gavin and I got the forty winks we needed instead of the two we expected.”

  “Jemima and Nicholas didn’t keep you up late?” I asked.

  “The storm kept them up a little later than usual,” she admitted, “but once Jemima came back to the flat, they went off to bed, no problem.”

  “If Jemima and Nicholas slept through the night,” I said, “why did I hear them laughing at half past two in the morning?”

  “I don’t know what you heard, Lori, but it wasn’t my children laughing,” she said. “Perhaps you were dreaming.”

  “I heard them, too, Mrs. Hancock,” said Christopher. “I was awakened at half past two by the sound of children laughing. I’m quite certain of the time. I looked at my travel clock.”

  “It must have been the wind,” said Jean. “The inn makes all sorts of queer noises in a high wind. I can promise you that my children were sound asleep at half past two.” She gave me another grateful look, then said, “I’m sorry, but I must get back to the inn. The children will be home from school soon and Steve needs his porcini!”

  She strode away from us with a definite bounce in her step, leaving Christopher and me to exchange puzzled glances.

  “It could have been the wind,” he said dubiously.

  “The wind died down around midnight,” I said. “When the rainfall changed from horizontal to vertical, I woke up.”

  “Perhaps we heard someone else’s children laughing,” he theorized. “The inn may funnel sounds from one floor to the next. It’s a very old building. It must be filled with hollow spots where the walls don’t quite meet.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but—” I broke off and banged a fist against my forehead. “I am such an idiot, Christopher! I forgot to tell Jean about Jemima’s dead lady!”

  “It’s not too late,” he said. “She hasn’t gone far.”

  Fortunately, Jean had paused to chat with a woman whose otterhound seemed unfazed by the rain. The dog walker departed and we hastened forward, coming up on either side of Jean as she sped toward the inn.

  “We meet again,” she said brightly.

  “Hi,” I said. “There’s something I forgot to mention when we were talking just now, and it’s something you ought to know.”

  I rapidly recounted Jemima’s warning about the lady who died in my bed. The faster I spoke, the more slowly Jean walked until, finally, she came to a halt.

  Christopher and I stopped, too, and waited for her reaction.

  “Jemima gave Captain Pigg to you because she thinks he’ll protect you from a ghost in our attic?” she said, her brow furrowing.

  “Captain Pigg’s a Gloucester Old Spot,” I explained. “They’re known for looking after their piglets.” I studied her perturbed expression and said, “I take it the story is new to you.”

  “Entirely new,” she confirmed. She giggled suddenly. “Captain Pigg and the dead lady. It sounds like a singing group—or a creepy fairy tale.”

  “A fairy tale you did not tell to Jemima,” I said, just to be sure.

  “When Gavin and I set up house in The King’s Ransom,” she said, “we eliminated fairy tales from our repertoire. The building is spooky enough without adding evil witches, helpless orphans, and ravenous wolves to the mix.” She smiled wryly. “Horse stories and dog stories are much safer. I won’t deny that some of them bring a tear to the eye, but at least they’re grounded in reality.”

  “I do hope you’ll believe me when I say that there are no ghosts in the stories I’ve shared with your children,” Christopher said gravely.

  “Of course I believe you,” said Jean. “Jemima’s more than capable of making up her own ghost stories. She has a vivid imagination, and we do live in a spooky building.” She sighed. “She’s scrupulously honest, though. If I ask her where the story came from, she’ll tell me the truth. Come on,” she said, gesturing for us to accompany her as she resumed her homeward stroll. “It’s time for me to have a chat with my children. They’ll be in the dining room. Steve always has a snack waiting for them when they come home from school.”

  “We’ll understand if you wish to speak with them privately,” said Christopher.

  “You brought the situation to my attention,” said Jean. “You’ve earned the right to hear what Jemima has to say.”

  * * *

  —

  The sun slipped below the horizon as we approached The King’s Ransom. The stained-glass lantern above the recessed entrance cast a soft light on the inn’s wooden sign as well as its front door. I glanced at the sign’s coin-filled barrel and felt another guilty twinge of resentment toward Mr. Dodd for his ill-timed accident. I was certain that Horatio Best knew what the coins signified. If Mr. Dodd had treated his diabetes with more respect, I might have known, too.

  We left our wet things behind the reception desk and made a beeline for the dining room. As we passed through the foyer, I detected a change in the sounds coming from the public parlors. Instead of moans, groans, and grumbles, I heard softly spoken conversations taking place. The French tourists, it seemed, were becoming reconciled to their fate.

  Tessa was setting tables for dinner when we entered the dining room. Jemima and Nicholas were there, too, drinking milk and munching on chocolate chip cookies at a table near the stone he
arth.

  “Tessa,” said Jean, holding the shopping bag out to the teenager, “would you please deliver these mushrooms to Steve, along with my apologies for their late arrival?” She smiled mischievously. “I dawdled on the high street.”

  Tessa grinned, took the bag from her, and disappeared into the kitchen corridor. Jean kissed her children’s rosy cheeks before seating herself at the table. When Christopher and I hung back, she motioned for us to join her. Christopher pulled up a chair and sat next to Jemima, but I sat beside Nicholas. I wanted to watch Jemima’s face as she responded to her mother’s questions.

  Jean took it slowly. She asked the children about their day at the informal school and listened to their replies before she switched gears.

  “Jemima,” she said, sounding curious rather than accusatory, “why did you loan Captain Pigg to Lori?”

  “For if she got scared in the attic,” Jemima replied.

  “Why would Lori get scared in the attic?” Jean asked.

  “Because at night the lady who died in her bed comes back,” said Jemima, dunking a cookie in her milk.

  “I see.” Jean nodded. “Who told you about the lady?”

  “Trevor Lawson,” said Jemima, keeping a watchful eye on her cookie.

  “The rector’s son?” Jean looked briefly at Christopher and me, and we nodded minutely to show that we knew who Trevor Lawson was.

  “Yes,” said Jemima.

  “When did Trevor tell you about the lady?” Jean asked.

  “When he came by with the parish magazine.” Jemima transferred the cookie from the milk to her mouth and swallowed a satisfyingly saturated bite of it before adding, “The day before Lori came. The day after the rain started.”

  “That would be Wednesday,” Jean said, nodding. “Trevor always delivers the parish magazine on Wednesdays. Why didn’t you tell me or Daddy about Trevor’s story?”

  Jemima looked into her mother’s eyes and replied with transparent honesty, “I thought you knew.”