Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Read online

  “It’s worth a try,” Phillip said encouragingly.

  “I’m game,” I said, “but my husband will want to know where I am. What’s the inn called?”

  “If all goes well,” the bishop replied, “you’ll be spending the night at The King’s Ransom.”

  I smiled wryly. At that moment I would have given a king’s ransom to be sitting quietly before the fire in my room at The Mermaid Inn.

  Five

  The rector wished me luck, bade the bishop a respectful farewell, and hurried off to stack chairs with his son. I pulled up the hood on my rain jacket and cinched it securely under my chin. Christopher donned his hat and wrapped his wool scarf more snugly around his neck. Though I tried to return his gloves, he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I may be old, but I’m not frail,” he declared. “And we don’t have far to go.”

  We waited for a gap in the line of fodder toters filing into St. Alfege’s, then made our way through the south porch and into the churchyard. I felt even guiltier about the glove situation when Christopher had to clap a bare hand to his hat to keep it from flying away in the swirling wind.

  I clapped my hands to my ears. The siren’s wail, which had been muted by the church’s thick walls, was almost deafening in the churchyard. The wind was howling louder than ever and the driving rain only made matters worse. I had to tug on Christopher’s sleeve to draw his attention to Bill’s Mercedes, which was blocked on three sides by pickup trucks loaded with animal grub, and on the fourth by the churchyard wall.

  “It’s just as well we don’t have far to go,” I shouted. “Unless you can levitate my car, we’ll have to walk.”

  “I leave levitation to a higher power,” Christopher bellowed merrily, pointing heavenward. “But never mind. I suspect that a car would be a liability during the current crisis. The high street will no doubt be congested and the car park at The King’s Ransom will almost certainly be full.” He patted my arm. “Best to leave your car where it is for the time being, Lori. We’ll stop to fetch your luggage, then be on our way.”

  “My luggage,” I said hollowly, recalling the all-season wardrobe I’d brought with me and wishing I’d left half of it at home. Though my wheeled suitcase functioned well in airports, I wasn’t sure how it would behave on cobbles, especially when it was overloaded. If Christopher hadn’t been standing beside me when I opened the Mercedes’ trunk, I would have transferred some of my clothing to Bill’s overnight bag, but I’d packed a few lacy garments I was reluctant to reveal to a bishop.

  “Allow me,” he said, reaching for the suitcase with a hand that had turned lobster pink.

  “Thanks, Christopher, but I can manage,” I said. “I may be a woman, but I’m not a weakling.”

  I hauled the suitcase out of the trunk before he could get a grip on it, locked the Mercedes, slung my shoulder bag across my body, and leaned into the wind as we walked side by side up the cobbled lane, with the suitcase thudding resentfully behind me.

  “So,” I said, “you’re a bishop.”

  “A retired bishop,” Christopher reiterated. “A retired suffragan bishop.”

  “Suffragan?” I queried.

  “I was a mere assistant to the diocesan bishop,” he said, “which makes me very small potatoes indeed.”

  “The rector seems to think otherwise,” I said.

  “I recommended Phillip for his present position,” Christopher explained. “I’ve always thought very highly of him.”

  “The feelings are clearly mutual,” I observed.

  “Phillip has a generous heart,” said Christopher.

  “He must have,” I said. “Only a man with a generous heart would open his home to four adults, four children, two dogs, and a cockatoo. Can you imagine the noise?”

  “It will no doubt rival the storm’s,” said Christopher, chuckling.

  I had to walk attentively to avoid twisting an ankle. Though the high street’s cobbles were relatively smooth, the side street was paved with irregular rows of vicious, pointy stones made even more treacherous by the pouring rain. The lane’s only redeeming feature was that it, like the high street, was level.

  “Thank heaven for flat-topped hills,” I said, with a meaningful glance at the cobbles.

  “Amen,” said Christopher. “Shepney sits upon the remnant of what was once a prominent limestone ridge. Eons of erosion reduced the ridge to a relatively modest bump in the landscape.”

  “A useful bump,” I said, “especially during flood season.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “It offers wonderful views as well. No place in England is more than forty-five miles from the sea, and Shepney is a good deal closer. On a clear day, one can see the French coastline from St. Alfege’s bell tower.”

  “I’ll have to come back on a clear day,” I said.

  My suitcase’s wheels survived the tortuous journey up the lane, but I could almost hear them groan with relief when we turned onto the high street’s broad sidewalk. My ankles survived as well, but I made a mental note to change into my hiking boots before I returned to Bill’s car.

  As Christopher had predicted, the high street was congested, but it wasn’t chaotic. Small herds of livestock and a handful of horseback riders mingled with cars, vans, and trucks in a complex ballet directed by traffic monitors who waved long-nosed orange flashlights and wore high-visibility rain gear.

  The sidewalks, too, were bustling with purposeful activity. Groups of men and women were clearing away objects the storm might turn into missiles—flowerpots, hanging signs, sandwich boards, café tables and chairs—while across the street a human chain transported boxes, bags, and bottled water from idling vehicles into a large redbrick building with a gabled roof.

  “The village hall,” Christopher explained, following my gaze.

  “Cyclone HQ,” I said, nodding. “The emergency operation seems to be very well organized.”

  “After enduring two major floods in two years, the villagers must have the drill down pat,” said Christopher.

  “Practice, practice, practice,” I murmured.

  Conditions weren’t optimal for sightseeing, but even through the pounding rain I could tell that Shepney’s high street featured a smorgasbord of architectural styles. As we walked along I spotted Tudor, Georgian, and Victorian buildings as well as a few plain-faced modern ones. Similarly, its shops were a mixture of the touristy and the practical. In one short stretch we passed a hardware store, an accountant’s office, a bookstore, an eye-catching candy shop, and a shop laden with souvenirs.

  “We’re almost there,” said Christopher. “I think you’ll like The King’s Ransom, Lori. It isn’t as sophisticated as The Mermaid Inn, but it’s every bit as interesting. It began life as a medieval alehouse. It’s gone through several rebuilds since then, but its basic structure hasn’t changed since Tudor times.”

  “I hope it has twenty-first-century plumbing,” I said.

  “I doubt that it would attract many guests if it were still equipped with chamber pots,” Christopher observed drily. He stopped before a building that looked as though it had come straight out of a fairy tale. “Here we are, Lori. First impressions?”

  The wind’s howl seemed to fade into the distance as I stood back to survey the place where—if all went well—I would spend the night I should have spent in Rye. The King’s Ransom had come a long way since its days as a simple alehouse. The rambling timber-framed Tudor gem was by far the most interesting building on the high street.

  After a pause, during which I took in the overhanging upper stories, the wavy diamond-paned windows, the gnarled grapevine that snaked across the black-and-white facade, and the stained-glass lantern that illuminated the recessed oak door, I turned to Christopher with a broad grin and said, “Wow.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” he said with a satisfied nod. He pointed to an iron bar projecting f
rom an oak beam above the doorway. “They must have removed the inn’s sign for safety’s sake. I’ll have to remember to ask Mrs. Hancock to show it to you. It’s quite charming.”

  “The whole place is charming,” I said, “but to be honest, Christopher, I’d rather be in it than in front of it.”

  “Of course you would,” he said and hastened forward to hold the door open for me.

  I dragged my suitcase over the threshold and into a narrow corridor lit by wrought-iron hanging lamps that bathed us in a soft and comforting glow. I’d expected the inn to be quieter than the high street, but as soon as Christopher shut the door, the storm’s roar was replaced by a hubbub of raised voices. The King’s Ransom sounded as if it were bursting at the seams with guests, which made it seem highly unlikely that all would go well for me. It was not a comforting thought.

  While Christopher shook the rain from his hat, I lowered my hood and gazed sadly from the corridor’s raftered ceiling to its oak-paneled walls to the pattern of small golden roosters on its burgundy carpet. I was certain that, despite Christopher’s best efforts, I wouldn’t be allowed to stay at the inn long enough to savor its manifold charms.

  Keeping a tight grip on my suitcase—and my dwindling hopes—I followed Christopher past a small, overcrowded side parlor to a low-ceilinged, rectangular open space that seemed to be the crossroads for a myriad of hallways, doorways, and staircases, all of which were chockablock with people moving to and from various parts of the inn. To judge by their perplexed expressions, it wasn’t an easy place to navigate.

  “We’ve reached the foyer,” Christopher explained, stopping just short of the human whirlpool. “I don’t know why it’s called the foyer, but it is.”

  The foyer looked as though it had been decorated by a manic antiques dealer. A white marble bust of a mustachioed dandy sat on a wooden stand in one corner; a Jacobean blanket chest stood beneath a bank of wavy windows that overlooked a three-tiered fountain in a tiny enclosed courtyard; and the paneled walls were hung with etchings, paintings, maps, hunting horns, tankards, cutlasses, and blunderbusses.

  A petite blond woman dressed in a bulky brown woolen pullover, black jeans, and green Wellington boots stood in the midst of the whirlpool, consulting a clipboard while she answered questions put to her in broken English by four disheveled travelers whose suitcases were twice as big as mine.

  The travelers’ French accents suggested that they were members of the stranded tour group Phillip Lawson had mentioned. I somehow doubted that they would find solace in knowing that, on a clear day, they could have seen their country’s coastline from St. Alfege’s bell tower.

  “Jean Hancock,” Christopher informed me, tilting his head toward the blond woman. “She and her husband, Gavin, bought The King’s Ransom just over a year ago. They have two children: Jemima, who’s seven, and Nicholas, who’s five and a half. You mustn’t forget the half, by the way. Nicholas is quite proud of it.”

  “They always are, at his age,” I said, smiling reminiscently.

  Mrs. Hancock looked as though she might be in her early thirties. There wasn’t a trace of makeup on her pretty face, and she wore her long hair in a sensible pony tail. She appeared to be holding up well under the pressure of presiding over a jam-packed hotel, but she was clearly very busy. When she caught sight of Christopher, however, she asked a dark-haired teenaged girl to deal with the French tourists, excused herself politely, and crossed to speak with him.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hancock,” he said.

  “I suppose it could be worse,” she responded. She looked over her shoulder at the dark-haired teenager. “Thank goodness Tessa’s parents have a holiday home in Provence. She speaks French like a native.” She nodded at Tessa, then flipped through the sheets of paper on her clipboard, pulled a pen from behind her ear, and crossed something out with a flourish. “There. I’ve completed our head count. Yours was the only unticked name on my list, Bishop Wyndham.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Hancock,” said Christopher. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Do you mind if we talk in the office?” Mrs. Hancock interrupted. “I can scarcely hear myself think out here, and I should look in on the children. I didn’t want to leave them alone in our flat, so I stowed them in the office to keep them from being trampled underfoot.”

  “A prudent precaution,” said Christopher.

  I parked my suitcase beside the blanket chest and trailed after the bishop as Mrs. Hancock led us through another corridor and down a short flight of stairs to a room with linoleum flooring and distinctly nonantique furnishings: a massive metal desk, a handful of battered office chairs, and a row of gunmetal-gray filing cabinets.

  Two flaxen-haired children in brightly striped woolen pullovers sat at the desk, tongues between their teeth, drawing vigorously with crayons. The girl was working on a landscape in which most of the kelly-green countryside was covered with aquamarine water. The boy seemed to be illustrating the wind’s power by drawing a triangular roof tilted at an extreme angle from a square house.

  “Hi, Mum,” the children chorused as their mother closed the door behind us. They glanced shyly at me from beneath their long lashes, but their faces lit up when they saw Christopher. He was evidently as popular with them as he was with the rector’s son.

  Mrs. Hancock motioned for Christopher and me to sit in two of the office chairs, then dropped her clipboard on a filing cabinet and walked around the desk to hug her children.

  “Steve made an apple crumble,” she informed them. “I told him to save two big bowls of it for you because you’ve well and truly earned a treat. You’ve been as good as gold.”

  I ducked my head to hide my smile. As a parent, I appreciated the value of bribery.

  “Carry on with your artwork,” Mrs. Hancock continued, “while I chat with Bishop Wyndham and . . .” She regarded me questioningly.

  “Lori Shepherd,” I said. “But everyone calls me Lori.”

  “Lori,” said Mrs. Hancock, “meet Jemima and Nicholas.”

  “Hi,” I said to the children. “I like your pictures.”

  “Thank you,” said Jemima. “May I call you Lori?”

  “You may,” I said.

  Nicholas, who seemed to be less at ease around strangers than his sister, remained silent.

  Mrs. Hancock ruffled her son’s hair affectionately, then came out from behind the desk and sank with a groan into a third office chair. “I can’t begin to describe how wonderful it feels to be off my feet. I haven’t had a proper sit-down since dawn.”

  “I didn’t intend to make your job more difficult by missing the head count,” Christopher said contritely. “I’d no idea that the situation had become life threatening until I spoke with Phillip Lawson at St. Alfege’s.”

  “I imagine he took forever to come to the point,” said Mrs. Hancock, rolling her eyes. “His sermons—” She broke off abruptly, as if remembering that whatever she said about the rector’s sermons would eventually be repeated by her offspring. “I’m just glad you’re safe, Bishop.”

  “I may be safe, but Lori isn’t,” said Christopher. “Lori was driving to Rye when the storm inspired her to seek shelter in the church. I realize that your guest rooms are fully booked, Mrs. Hancock, but I was rather hoping that you might have a sofa to spare for her in one of your public parlors. She has nowhere else to go.”

  Mrs. Hancock emitted another groan. “I’m sorry, Lori, but don’t have a square inch of floor space to spare in the parlors, let alone a sofa. A coachload of French tourists—”

  “Phillip Lawson told us about the tour group,” I broke in, “and I saw for myself how crowded the inn is. Please don’t worry about me, Mrs. Hancock. I can sleep in my—”

  “You mustn’t sleep in your car,” Christopher interrupted, frowning fretfully. “Cars tumble about in cyclones. You could be seriously, perhaps fatally, injured.”
His frown vanished suddenly. “I know what we’ll do. You’ll take my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor in my room.”

  “I’m not kicking you out of your bed, Christopher,” I protested. “I’ll sleep on a chair in St. Alfege’s before I—”

  “You can’t sleep in the church,” he objected.

  “Why not?” I demanded. “It won’t tumble about in the cyclone.”

  “True,” he said, “but the sights and sounds of Mr. Turner’s terriers gleefully dismembering rodents may make it difficult for you to nod off.”

  He had a point, but I refused to acknowledge it.

  “I’m not taking your bed,” I said stubbornly. “End of discussion.”

  “There’s a bed in the attic,” said Jemima.

  Christopher and I stared at the little girl for a moment, then looked at her mother.

  “Is there a bed in the attic, Mrs. Hancock?” he inquired.

  “Well . . . yes,” she said doubtfully. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Desperate times . . .” said the bishop.

  “You’d have to be desperate to sleep in our attic,” said Mrs. Hancock. “It doesn’t have heat or running water, and there are no electrical outlets. It has a smoke detector, of course, but if, God forbid, a fire blocked the staircase, you’d have to climb through a window to reach the fire escape.”

  “I’m fairly agile,” I said.

  “Lori’s not a weakling,” Christopher added, with a teasing glance in my direction. If he hadn’t been a man of the cloth, I would have elbowed him.

  “Then there’s the dust,” Mrs. Hancock went on. “The attic must be an inch thick in dust. It’s been used as a general dumping ground for ages, and we haven’t even begun to sort it out. There’s a wardrobe that looks as if it’s been there ever since the inn was built. It’s empty, thank heavens, but I’d have to excavate the bed before you could use it, Lori.”