Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Read online

  The dining room was long, narrow, softly lit, and splendidly atmospheric. Small tables draped in white linen sat on either side of an aisle that ended at a bank of large diamond-paned windows. Heads turned nervously as rain crashed against the windows like ocean waves.

  A pair of slender oak columns in the aisle supported a low ceiling striped with exposed beams. Dozens of gilt-framed oil portraits hung from the paneled walls, and silver bowls, urns, and loving cups added a subtle gleam to the dark oak mantel of a beautifully carved stone fireplace. Since a roaring fire would have scorched the diners seated with their backs to the hearth, it was decorated, like the upstairs alcoves, with dried flowers and pieces of china.

  Every chair but one was taken, and murmured conversations in both French and English filled the air. Though I scanned the room for the fat little Frenchman, I didn’t see him. I wondered idly if he was a guest at the inn or an unwelcome intruder, but before I could mention him to Gavin, I spotted Christopher waving to me from a table beside the windows. He rose to his feet politely while Gavin seated me.

  “Due to a staff shortage, we’ve had to reduce the number of items on our menu tonight,” Gavin explained, “but we haven’t reduced the quality. Here’s Tessa. She’ll take good care of you.”

  He departed, and the dark-haired teenager whose parents owned a holiday home in Provence welcomed us warmly, filled our water glasses, and handed menus to us. I ignored mine. Christopher’s clerical collar had reminded me of his mission of mercy at St. Alfege’s.

  “Did you have a good turnout for evensong?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” he replied, laying his menu aside. “Two worshippers attended the service—double the number I anticipated. Mrs. Hancock tells me you’ve worked wonders with the attic.”

  “The bar was set pretty low,” I said without thinking. To prevent him from offering to swap rooms with me, I hastily amended my statement and changed the subject. “But it beats sleeping in my car. Did you get back from the church in time to tell Jemima and Nicholas about St. Alfege?”

  The blush that suffused the bishop’s kindly face suggested that Jean Hancock had had a word with him about the level of gore in his bedtime stories.

  “I told them about St. Alfege’s remarkable life,” he replied, “but at Mrs. Hancock’s behest, I refrained from mentioning his death. She thought it might upset them.”

  “They may not be used to hearing stories about saints who were hacked to death by Vikings,” I suggested.

  “St. Alfege wasn’t merely hacked to death,” Christopher said earnestly. “He was kidnapped by Danish raiders and held for ransom. When he refused to allow his people to pay the extortionate sum required to free him, the Danes beat him with ox bones and ax handles until one of them took pity on him and killed him with a resounding blow to the head.” He peered at me beseechingly. “Young Trevor Lawson found the story fascinating. It helped him to see the patron saint of his father’s church in a whole new light.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the average ten-year-old boy would find the marauding Danes vastly more fascinating than the martyred saint, so I focused on the disparity in the children’s ages.

  “Trevor Lawson is older than Jemima and Nicholas,” I pointed out gently.

  “Mrs. Hancock said much the same thing,” he acknowledged. “I shall henceforth be more selective in the stories I share with Jemima and Nicholas.” He opened his menu. “Mr. Hancock told me of your volunteer work in the kitchen. Did you assist with any of tonight’s dishes?”

  “I peeled parsnips,” I replied. “And carrots. And beets. Lots of beets.”

  “I’m sure your efforts were appreciated,” he said.

  I didn’t share his certainty, but I let the matter slide. After studying my menu, I ordered the crab and smoked sea trout roulade as an entrée and the filet of beef as a main course. I would have ordered a bottle of wine as well, but it seemed inadvisable to attempt the long trek to the attic on wobbly legs. Christopher ordered the same entrée and main course, so we were a bit confused when Tessa presented us with bowls of soup.

  “Cream of parsnip soup,” she informed us. “With the chef’s compliments.”

  “The fruits of your labor,” said Christopher, smiling. “The chef must have a sense of humor.”

  “Have you met Steve?” I asked, eyeing him skeptically.

  “I have not yet had the privilege,” he replied.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said. “He’s not a laugh-a-minute kind of guy.” I blew on my soup to cool it before adding thoughtfully, “He has a temper, though.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Christopher. “Did he criticize your work?”

  “He hardly said two words to me,” I said, “but I overheard him arguing with a Frenchman, in French, in a storeroom. He sounded furious, but the Frenchman flounced out before Steve could deck him.”

  “The French tend to be fussy about their food,” Christopher observed, “and chefs tend to resent fussy patrons.”

  “I don’t think they were arguing about food,” I told him. “One of them called the other a crook—un escroc—and said something about the price—le prix—of something.”

  “Perhaps the Frenchman was objecting to the price of his meals,” said Christopher. “It would be harsh to describe overpriced dishes as theft, but as I said, the French tend to be fussy about food.”

  “I’m glad I’m not French,” I said. “I’m happy when someone else cooks for me.”

  For the next two hours I was very happy. Our meal more than justified the hard work of Steve and his weedy sous chefs. The cream of parsnip soup was exquisite, the roulade was divine, and the beef was as tender as it was flavorful. When it came time to order dessert, I was disappointed to learn from Tessa that the kitchen had run out of apple crumble. She recommended the nutmeg custard tart with caramel sauce and toffee shards, however, and it proved to be an extremely satisfactory substitute.

  “For a big scary dude, Steve sure can cook,” I said after Tessa had cleared the table. “That was one of the finest meals I’ve ever eaten.”

  “The cream of parsnip soup compares favorably with the cream of celeriac soup served at The Mermaid Inn,” said Christopher, as if he could give Steve no higher praise. “Shall we conclude our repast with a pot of tea, or perhaps a brandy?”

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but it’s getting late and I still have to unpack.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Would you care to join me for breakfast? I booked a table for nine o’clock.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Splendid,” he said. “I don’t mind eating alone, but I prefer congenial company.”

  “So do I,” I said, beaming at him.

  We rose to leave. I would have forgotten my cell phone if Tessa hadn’t rushed up to me with it as well as the thermos of hot cocoa Gavin Hancock had promised. I explained the thermos to Christopher as we made our way to the foyer. He thought it an eminently practical way to compensate for the lack of heat in the attic.

  “I have an extra blanket in my room,” he began, but I refused the offer before he made it.

  “Thanks, Christopher, but I don’t need your extra blanket,” I said. “The Hancocks gave me a nice fluffy duvet. Between it and the hot cocoa, I should be as snug as a bug tonight.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear it,” he said.

  The foyer wasn’t nearly as crowded as it had been when I’d arrived at the inn, but the thrum of voices coming from the public parlors made me realize how fortunate I was to have the attic all to myself. Aunt Dimity, I thought, would applaud my change of heart, though I could also imagine I told you so scrolling across a page in the blue journal.

  Since I had no pressing appointments to keep, I returned to my dusty digs via the central staircase. I suspected Christopher of gallantry when he accompa
nied me all the way to the top floor, but my suspicion was unfounded. His room happened to be directly across the corridor from the Hancocks’ flat.

  “Mrs. Hancock offered me ground-floor accommodations,” he explained, lowering his voice to avoid disturbing the family, “but I requested a room higher up because of—”

  “The views?” I interjected playfully.

  “On a clear day, they would be magnificent,” he confirmed. He put his key in the lock, then hesitated. “I intend to volunteer at the village hall after breakfast tomorrow. I wonder if you . . . ?” He regarded me diffidently as his words trailed off.

  “As long as they don’t ask me to peel vegetables,” I said, “you can count me in.”

  He nodded happily, said good night, and let himself into his room. I headed for the powder room, reviewing the pleasant evening I’d spent with the bishop. There were, I thought, quite a few plus sides to being marooned at The King’s Ransom, not the least of which was Steve’s cooking.

  If it hadn’t been for the bath salts, I would have felt sorry for Bill.

  Eight

  I was rinsing my toothbrush in the pedestal sink when someone knocked on the powder room door. I hastened to make way for a staff member whose needs were greater than mine, but instead of a desperate housekeeper, Jean Hancock stood in the corridor, holding her daughter’s hand. Jean was still in her day clothes, but I was stricken with guilt when I saw that Jemima was clad in pajamas and pink bedroom slippers.

  “Bishop Wyndham and I didn’t wake Jemima with our chatter, did we?” I asked contritely.

  “It wasn’t you,” Jean replied stoically. “It’s the storm. My little night owls haven’t been able to settle. I probably should have let them race up and down the high street all day, but it’s too late to wear them out now.” She sighed a sigh I’d sighed many times before. “Jemima would like to speak with you.” A mother’s sixth sense prompted Jean to look over her shoulder just as Nicholas poked his tousled head out of their flat. She released her daughter’s hand and strode back to her son, whispering sternly, “Didn’t I tell you to stay in bed?”

  Jemima paid no attention to her brother’s misbehavior. Her unblinking gaze remained fixed on my face, and her grave expression suggested that she had something of great import to say to me. To prime the conversational pump, I pointed at the stuffed animal she held in the crook of her arm, a small pink pig sprinkled sparingly with smudgy black dots.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “Captain Pigg,” she replied.

  “Like the parlor downstairs?” I asked.

  “Yes, but my Captain Pigg isn’t a pirate,” she explained carefully. “He’s a Gloucester Old Spot.”

  “So I see,” I said, having encountered the venerable breed during family outings at the Cotswold Farm Park. “I have a pink bunny named Reginald. He’s been my best buddy for as long as I can remember. I’d introduce him to you, but I left him at home.”

  “Mr. Turner gave Captain Pigg to me,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “He raises Gloucester Old Spots on his farm. He likes them because they’re good mummies and daddies, and they don’t get in a flap when his dogs bark.”

  “What a lovely gift,” I said, wondering if the Mr. Turner who raised praiseworthy pigs was the same Mr. Turner whose terriers were gleefully dismembering rats in St. Alfege’s.

  “I want you to have Captain Pigg,” she said suddenly, holding the little pig out to me, “for if you get scared in the attic.”

  Though her words caught me off guard, they helped me to understand why she’d prefaced the presentation with a primer on Gloucester Old Spots.

  “Because he’ll look after me?” I hazarded. “And he won’t get in a flap even if I do?”

  She nodded somberly. Her concern for me was so touching that I accepted the pig without cavil.

  “I’m very grateful, Jemima,” I said. “I’ll take good care of Captain Pigg, but there’s nothing to be afraid of in the attic.”

  “Not during the day,” she said solemnly, “but at night the lady who died in your bed comes back.”

  “The . . . who?” I said. Before I could fashion a less addled response, Jemima turned and padded up the corridor to let herself into the family flat. I stared at her in astonishment, then looked down at Captain Pigg. “The bishop wouldn’t tell her a ghost story, would he?”

  I couldn’t read Captain Pigg’s gleaming black eyes as easily as I read Reginald’s, but he seemed doubtful.

  “I’ll ask him tomorrow.” I shook my head. “Jean won’t be happy if the answer is yes.”

  On that point, the pig clearly agreed.

  Another stab of guilt assailed me when I opened the creaking oak door, but since an oil can was one of the few things I hadn’t brought with me, I could do nothing to silence its hinges. I made it to the landing without tripping or slipping on the worn wooden steps, opened the landing door, and closed it behind me as I flicked on the overhead light. The wind was still roaring and the rain was still pounding, but the inn’s burly roof beams bore the assault with admirable indifference.

  Unlike the roof beams, I was a tiny bit shaken. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing uneasily at the iron bedstead as I deposited Captain Pigg, the thermos, and my cell phone on the octagonal table. Though it stood to reason that such an old bed would have witnessed a death or two, it wasn’t the sort of thing I cared to contemplate while I was drifting off to sleep in a cobwebby attic.

  I emptied my trouser pockets into my shoulder bag, slung it over the back of the Windsor armchair, and began to unpack. With a sigh, I passed over the lacy garments and pulled out a set of long underwear. I’d planned to wear the unglamorous underclothes while exploring the nature reserve in Rye. In Shepney, they’d impersonate pajamas.

  When I finished unpacking, I stowed my suitcase in the mahogany wardrobe and got ready for bed. The dormer windows were so grimy that I didn’t bother to cover them before I donned my ersatz pajamas. Finally, I set the alarm on my cell phone, turned on the camping lantern, turned out the overhead light, and crawled under the plump duvet.

  The camping lantern was useful, but it did little to calm my nerves. The shadows it cast were even weirder than those cast by the overhead light, so I switched it off quickly, telling myself that I could catch up with Aunt Dimity before I joined the bishop for breakfast.

  I said good night to Captain Pigg, pulled the duvet to my chin, and snuggled into the pile of pillows. Between the storm, the exceedingly strange surroundings, and the dead lady who walked by night, I thought I would have as much trouble settling as the Hancock children, but my eyes refused to stay open. The long day had finally caught up with me. In a twinkling, I was asleep.

  * * *

  —

  I woke in impenetrable darkness. The taste of dust on my lips and the rain’s steady patter brought my sleep-muddled thoughts into focus. I wasn’t at home. I was in a dead woman’s bed in the attic of an ancient inn. A cyclone had upset my plans and turned me into a refugee.

  The pattering rain caught my attention. Rain didn’t patter during a cyclone, I told myself. It crashed, dashed, and splashed, but it didn’t patter. Why was it pattering now?

  I pondered the question drowsily until it dawned on me that the wind was no longer driving the rain against the dormer windows. I vaguely recalled someone—the young rector at St. Alfege’s?—saying that the wind would ease off by midnight. Had his prediction come true? I wondered. Was it the witching hour?

  Instead of reaching for my cell phone to verify the time, I smiled into the darkness. Whether it was the witching hour or not, I hadn’t been awakened by Jemima’s ghost. I’d simply grown so accustomed to the wind’s roar that its absence had pulled me from sleep. If I relaxed, the rain’s rhythmic drumming would make it easy for me to find my way back to dreamland. I was halfway there when the oak door creaked.

>   I sat upright, instantly awake, and peered pointlessly into the gloom. Faintly, at the outermost edges of my hearing, I detected the sound of a measured footstep upon the stairs. I was absolutely certain that neither Bishop Wyndham nor the Hancocks would sneak up on me in the dead of night, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe that a wandering guest would be stupid enough to tackle the U-shaped stairs in the dark.

  I waited on tenterhooks for a strip of light to appear beneath the landing door, but the darkness remained absolute. With a trembling hand, I groped blindly for the camping lantern, found it, and switched it on.

  “Hello?” I called, half blinded by the lantern’s glare. “Who’s there?”

  No one answered. I listened hard for retreating footsteps but heard nothing.

  Fear segued rapidly into annoyance.

  “If you’re playing games with me,” I shouted, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, “I can guarantee that you’ll live to regret it.”

  I got up, grabbed the lantern, and marched furiously to the landing door. I was ready to give a tongue-lashing of epic proportions to the moron who’d ignored the PRIVATE sign, but when I stepped onto the landing with the lantern held high, I saw no one. The staircase was empty and the oak door was shut.

  The oak door had closed without creaking.

  A chill trickled down my spine. Was Jemima’s dead lady playing games with me?

  I backed slowly into the attic, shut the landing door, and returned the lantern to the octagonal table. To keep my feet from freezing, I crawled back under the duvet. To ward off the trickling chill, I reached for the blue journal.

  “You’re a fine fellow,” I said to Captain Pigg, “but you don’t have the kind of expertise I require right now.”

  I gave the little pig a pat on the head, then heaped my pillows into a pile behind me. The iron bedstead squeaked softly when I leaned against the pillows with the open journal propped on my bent knees.