Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 4

“A thief?” Catchpole raised his grizzled head to glare at her. “I’m Catchpole, the caretaker,” he barked. “I’ve worked at Ladythorne my whole life. It’s my job to look after the abbey and I’ll be damned”—he thumped the table with a fist—“if I’ll let a mob of gangsters ransack it!”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” I said impatiently. “Do we look like gangsters? We’re here because of the blizzard. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s coming down in buckets out there, and this is the only shelter for miles.”

  Catchpole jutted his chin toward Jamie. “I suppose himself there was looking for shelter in the family vaults?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was,” Jamie said mildly. “I didn’t realize there was a house until you marched me up to it. I’m glad you did. I wasn’t looking forward to camping out in a mausoleum.”

  The old man gazed sourly from Jamie’s face to mine. “Are you telling me that three Yanks came to the abbey in February by accident? ”

  If I’d been honest, I’d have admitted to Catchpole that I shared his incredulity. The odds against three Americans washing up on such a remote shore in England’s least trustworthy month struck me as very long indeed. I didn’t want to set the old man off again, however, so I simply nodded and said earnestly, “I promise you, Mr.—er—Catchpole, I didn’t come here to steal anything, and I’ll gladly reimburse Miss DeClerke for the coal and the tea and whatever else we might have to use while we’re here. I’ll pay for the broken lock as well,” I added, with a quick glance at Wendy. “And I’ll apologize to Miss DeClerke for any inconvenience we may cause her.”

  Catchpole gave a grim chuckle. “You’ll have a hard time doing that, missy.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because Miss DeClerke is dead.” Catchpole regarded me with gloomy triumph. “Miss Gibbs owns the abbey now. It’s her coal you’re thieving, her you’ll have to answer to, and she’s a rich lady, is Miss Gibbs. She’s not one to be trifled with.”

  “Miss Gibbs?” I stared at him openmouthed, then sank into the chair next to his. “You don’t mean Tessa Gibbs, do you? The actress?”

  “That’s the one,” said Catchpole. “She bought Ladythorne two years ago, closed the deal a month before Miss DeClerke died, and when she finds out—”

  “But I know her!” I exclaimed. “I know Tessa Gibbs. That is, my husband does. He’s an attorney. Tessa’s one of his clients. He told me that one of his clients had bought Ladythorne, but he didn’t tell me her name.”

  “Pull the other one,” Catchpole grunted. “It’s got bells on.”

  “He stayed at Tessa’s chalet in Lucerne,” I said, determined to convince the old man that I was telling the truth. “He told me about it. Tessa has a personal assistant, Liz something-or-other, and her masseuse is from Helsinki.”

  Catchpole sniffed. “Could’ve read about them in any fan magazine.”

  I searched my memory for other, more arcane tidbits Bill had let fall about the world-famous film star. “Tessa’s cook is named Rhadu.”

  “Rhadu?” echoed Wendy, doubtfully.

  “She’s Hindu,” I explained. “Tessa’s a vegetarian, except . . .”

  Catchpole’s gaze slid to my face.

  “Except for pork scratchings,” I finished. “She loved them as a child, apparently, and can’t shake the habit. It’s her dirty little secret. She told Bill that if word ever gets out that she binges on something as totally nonvegetarian as pork scratchings, she’ll lose credibility with—”

  “No one knows about the pork scratchings,” Catchpole interrupted irritably. “Who told you about the pork scratchings?”

  “My husband.” Exasperated, I dragged my day pack across the table, pulled the cell phone from the outer pocket, and presented it to the obstinate old man. “Here. Call him. His name is Bill Willis. He’ll back me up.”

  Catchpole eyed the cell phone nervously. “Your husband’s an attorney, is he?”

  “He’s a well-known and extremely powerful attorney,” I replied, carefully emphasizing the adjectives. “After he’s answered any questions you might have about me, I’m sure he’ll be able to fill you in on the gun laws in this country. I believe they’re rather strict, aren’t they, Jamie?”

  “So I’ve heard,” Jamie agreed.

  “Especially concerning guns pointed at people,” added Wendy helpfully.

  The old caretaker looked from one implacable face to the next, then cleared his throat, and waved the cell phone aside. “No need to ring your husband, madam. I’m sure Miss Gibbs won’t mind if her attorney’s wife visits the abbey. It’s my belief, in fact, that she’ll be well pleased to know that you found shelter here, you and your chums. I apologize for the misunderstanding and hope you won’t trouble your husband about it. And don’t worry your head about the broken lock. I’ll take care of it.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, then, who’d like milk in their tea?”

  We all wanted milk in our tea, and Catchpole obligingly went up the corridor to fetch it. We three Yanks remained silent until he’d shut the door behind him.

  “Do you suppose he’s gone to find another gun?” I asked, returning the cell phone to my day pack. “He’s certainly got a bee in his bonnet about Americans.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about another gun,” said Wendy. “You’ve graduated from ‘missy’ to ‘madam.’ He’s on our side, now. Your powerful attorney husband did the trick.”

  “No, no,” said Jamie, shaking his head solemnly. “I’m sure it was the pork scratchings.”

  A current of relief ran through our muted laughter. I couldn’t be sure about the others, but I felt as if I’d sought shelter in a cave only to find it occupied by a ferocious, Yank-eating lion. I considered myself fortunate to have emerged from the encounter unscathed.

  “That was a pretty slick move you pulled on the old man,” I said, gazing admiringly at Jamie. “It was brave, too. You couldn’t’ve known that the shotgun was unloaded.”

  “It’s experience rather than bravery,” said Jamie, deflecting the compliment. “I’ve run into men like Catchpole before. Their bark is nearly always worse than their bite.”

  “Still . . . thanks.” I was curious to know more about my brave compatriot, but I was also becoming slightly light-headed from hunger. Smiling, I offered him a sandwich and said, “Eat up. If you’ve been slogging through snowdrifts, you must be ravenous.”

  “I am a bit peckish,” he admitted.

  “Then dig in,” I said, and the long-delayed picnic lunch began.

  Emma’s lunch, though ample for one person, proved to be less so for three. We went through it like a swarm of locusts, leaving only a pair of well-gnawed apple cores in our wake. While Jamie and Wendy finished the cranberry muffins, I ate the last of the chocolate bars and daydreamed of roast suckling pig. I was so absorbed in my culinary fantasy that I didn’t bother to look up when Catchpole returned.

  “Sorry to be so long, madam,” he said, directing his words to me, “but I thought you might want something warm in your belly, so I brought a few bits and bobs to heat through.”

  I came out of my reverie as Catchpole approached the oak table, pushing a butler’s cart piled high with cans, bottles, and sealed packets. I peered at the assembled foods in wonder, taken aback by the old man’s largesse.

  “Is that”—I licked my lips—“lobster bisque?”

  “That’s right, madam,” confirmed Catchpole. “Lobster bisque, asparagus spears with truffle sauce, risotto with sun-dried tomatoes, dried chanterelle mushrooms, and smoked mussels. I can use the macaroons and the tinned fruit to make a pudding. Oh, and here’s some long-shelf-life milk for your tea.” He placed the carton on the table, adding, “There’s plenty more where that came from. Miss Gibbs keeps a full larder for her guests.”

  “God bless Miss Gibbs,” I said fervently, and promptly accepted Catchpole’s offer to prepare a hot meal for me and my chums.

  Catchpole completed his stunning transformation from cantank
erous curmudgeon to obsequious servant by removing his patched canvas jacket and collection of tattered scarves and revealing a set of garments that weren’t nearly as disreputable as I’d expected. The argyle sweater-vest might not have been the best choice to go with the plaid flannel shirt, but both were clean and tidy, and the corduroy trousers were spotless.

  “It’s a good thing Miss Gibbs keeps so much food on hand,” said Catchpole as he reached for a saucepan. “Looks like you’ll need it, madam.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if by some miracle I looked underfed.

  “I mean that you’ll be spending at least one night here, madam, and probably more,” said Catchpole. “Snow’s halfway up the doors already and shows no sign of stopping. It’ll be two days or more, I reckon, before the big plows reach the abbey.”

  Wendy, Jamie, and I rose as one and crossed to look out the Gothic windows. Catchpole was right. The snowdrifts were piled to the sills and getting deeper by the minute.

  I groaned softly. “We’ll be lucky to get out of here by May.”

  “We’re lucky to be here in the first place,” Wendy reminded me. “Imagine what would’ve happened if we’d been caught—”

  “Don’t.” I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself. I could imagine it much too vividly.

  “Let’s focus on counting our blessings,” Jamie suggested, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got food and shelter, warmth and companionship. What more could we ask?”

  “A change of underwear would be nice,” I muttered. I turned to gesture toward the backpacks. “You guys came prepared for camping out. I came prepared for a stroll. I was supposed to sleep at home tonight, in my own jammies, in my own warm bed. I don’t even have a change of socks.”

  Catchpole evidently overheard my plaintive grumbling because he called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry your head about clothes, madam. Miss Gibbs keeps spares on hand for her guests. And the guest rooms are finished up proper. I’ll show ’em to you after you’ve eaten.”

  “Ask and you shall receive,” Jamie murmured.

  “Amen,” I murmured back.

  While Jamie and Wendy rinsed the dishes from our first meal, I set the table for our second. The bisque’s spicy aroma wafted through the kitchen as Catchpole turned his attention to the simmering risotto.

  “Catchpole,” I said, returning to my chair, “if Miss Gibbs entertains so often, why hasn’t she installed phones? And why isn’t there any hot water? And why—”

  “She hasn’t entertained anyone yet, madam,” Catchpole interrupted. “She’s getting ready, you might say. Miss DeClerke let the abbey run down a bit before she died, you see, and Miss Gibbs has spent the past two years fixing it up. It’s been a big job, though, restoring the electric, laying on the gas, replacing old pipes, fixing the roof, making a kitchen Miss Rhadu won’t spit at and guest rooms fit for guests. Miss Gibbs’s got a big affair planned for April—the unveiling, she calls it—and we’re hoping everything’ll be finished by then. But for now it’s oil lamps for light, and fires in the grates for warmth.”

  “Do you live in the abbey?” I asked.

  “No, madam, I’ve a cottage out back, not too far from the family vaults.” Catchpole glanced at Jamie. “That’s how I spotted Mr. Macrae, creeping about.”

  Jamie was still at the sink with Wendy, but he turned at the mention of his name. “It’s hard to do anything but creep in knee-deep snow.”

  Catchpole shook a wooden spoon at him. “You didn’t half give me a turn, young man. Thought you were a DeClerke, risen from the grave. Not but what Miss DeClerke’ll be spinning in hers, knowing three Yanks have invaded the abbey. Won’t be a bit surprised if she comes back to cut your throats in the night.”

  My hand went involuntarily to my own throat.

  “What a grisly thing to say,” Wendy commented. “Especially after a meal.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Catchpole.” Jamie came to stand by my side. “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”

  Catchpole lowered the spoon and met Jamie’s level gaze with one of his own.

  “I believe in hatred,” he said. “And if hatred can bring a soul back from the grave, then you’d best keep a lookout for Miss DeClerke tonight. If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open.”

  For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the plop-plop of the simmering risotto. I saw Jamie glance uncertainly at Wendy, who stood frozen at the sink, plate in hand, staring hard at the caretaker. Their silence surprised me. Instead of scoffing at Catchpole for being a superstitious fool, they seemed to be taking him seriously.

  I didn’t. I thought the old humbug was trying to scare us again, and I refused to let him get away with it.

  “Thanks a lot, Catchpole,” I said, my voice laden with disgust. “The blizzard and the shotgun weren’t bad enough? Now you have to add a knife-wielding ghost to our evening’s entertainment? When my husband hears about this—”

  “I was only joking, madam,” Catchpole said hastily. He managed a nervous grin. “Some folk enjoy a good ghost story.”

  Wendy sighed softly. “I think we’ve had enough chills for one day.”

  “More than enough.” Jamie’s face had gone pale despite his windburn.

  “We don’t need any more,” I stated firmly. “So keep your spooky stories to yourself, please. Although . . .” I glanced diffidently at the others. “I wouldn’t mind hearing more about Miss DeClerke—the real Miss DeClerke, not the alleged ghost. She sounds fascinating. Why did she hate Americans so much?”

  “Because she was kind to ’em, madam,” Catchpole replied. “She was kind to ’em, and they betrayed her.”

  Five

  The lobster bisque was exquisite, the risotto superb, but the true highlight of the meal was the tale that accompanied it. As the food disappeared and dusk began to settle, Catchpole joined us at the table and told us what he knew about the mysteriously vindictive Miss DeClerke. He spoke so eagerly and at such length that I felt a touch of pity for him. As the caretaker of a remote country estate, he probably didn’t have many opportunities for social interaction. His garrulity seemed to me to be a wistful byproduct of loneliness.

  “What you have to understand right off is that, despite what I said earlier, I haven’t always lived at the abbey,” he began. “When Dad was called up, Mother and I went to live with her people in Shropshire. That was in September, nineteen forty. We didn’t come back till ’forty-six, so some of what I know I learned secondhand, after everything had gone to pieces.

  “It was the war that did it,” he went on. “Miss DeClerke was only seventeen when it started, and engaged to a viscount’s son. Her father was over the moon about the marriage. His wife had died years before and Miss DeClerke was his only child; his only living relative, in truth—the last of the line. He’d hoped she’d make a good match, and she did him proud. What’s more, she loved the lad, and he loved her.”

  “How did Miss DeClerke’s mother die?” Wendy asked.

  “Influenza epidemic, after the Great War,” said Catchpole. “Swept away millions.”

  “Influenza.” Wendy pushed her soup bowl aside and stared down at her risotto. “Sorry to interrupt. You were telling us about Miss DeClerke’s marriage.”

  “The marriage that never was,” said Catchpole. “Everything was arranged for a June wedding—dress made, invitations sent, the London house decked out for the reception—but it never happened. Miss DeClerke’s young man joined his regiment when war was declared, you see. He sailed off with the expeditionary force and died of wounds received during the evacuation of Dunkirk. That was in May.”

  “The end of May,” Jamie murmured, laying his spoon on the table.

  “Yes, sir,” said Catchpole. “He died on the twenty-ninth of May, nineteen forty. I was only six years old when it happened, but I remember the day Miss DeClerke came back from London. Dressed in black, she was, and looking as if a falling leaf might knock her over. My m
other sent me after her when she went walking in the woods, to watch over her, like, and make sure she didn’t do herself a mischief. Miss DeClerke didn’t seem to mind.” Catchpole caught my eye. “You may find it hard to believe, madam, but I didn’t talk much as a child. I believe that’s why Miss DeClerke let me tag along.” He pushed his chair back from the table and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, madam, I’ll fetch the oil lamps from the lamp room. We’ll be needing ’em shortly.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Wendy offered. “I’ve always wanted to see a lamp room.”

  “It’s through here, ma’am.” Catchpole directed Wendy into the darkened corridor, leaving Jamie and me alone in the kitchen.

  We’d finished the main meal. All that remained was the baked apricot compote Catchpole had prepared for dessert. While Jamie spooned the bubbling compote into bowls to cool, I washed the dinner dishes and scoured the pots and pans, leaving them to dry in the wooden rack.

  “One more,” said Jamie, crossing to hand me the saucepan he’d emptied.

  I scrubbed it clean and placed it in the rack, but remained at the sink, peering out the windows. The courtyard was unrecognizable. The outbuildings looked like white hillocks in an arctic desert, and although the wind had slackened, snow continued to tumble from the cloud-crowded sky. I felt cut off from the world, marooned in a landscape as alien as that of the moon.

  “Hard to believe it’s only half past three,” I said. “It’s getting dark already.”

  “It’s the clouds. They’ve swallowed the sun.” Jamie leaned back against the sink and asked, “Are you all right? You sound . . . melancholy.”

  I sighed. “Influenza epidemic, canceled wedding, dead fiancé, war—it’s a sad story.”

  “It may become sadder,” Jamie cautioned. “We haven’t heard the rest of it yet. Would you like me to ask Catchpole to stop?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” I glanced toward the corridor and lowered my voice. “He hasn’t gotten to the part about the Americans yet.”

  Jamie leaned forward, his elbows resting on the sink. “I wonder how they fit in? Miss DeClerke couldn’t blame them for Dunkirk, surely.”