Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“He wasn’t here when I arrived for our chess game,” Nell replied. “And you know William—he always keeps his appointments.”

That much was true. Anything written in Willis, Sr.‘r engagement book was written in stone, and he wrote everything in that book. A game of chess with Nell would be recorded as meticulously as a luncheon date with a client, and treated with equal respect.

“I rang the bell and knocked,” Nell went on, “and when there was no answer, Bertie and I let ourselves in.” Whereas most twelve-year-olds would rather shave their heads than admit to a lingering affection for childhood toys, Nell was unabashedly devoted to her teddy bear. She took Bertie with her everywhere, consulted with him regularly, and referred to him un-self-consciously, whether she was in the privacy of her own home or in the company of strangers. Mindful of a certain pink flannel bunny with whom I’d developed a special, if less publicly acknowledged, relationship, I applauded Nell’s chutzpah. “We had a look round,” she concluded, “found the note, and called you.”

“There’s a note?” I asked sharply.

Nell nodded. “It’s on the desk in the study. It’s addressed to you, Lori. Bertie thinks—”

“Not now, Nell.” I waved her to silence, left the living room, and hastened up the hallway to the study, feeling a vast sense of relief. Willis, Sr., had left a note. Of course he’d left a note. The story about him disappearing with Aunt Dimity had been just that—a product of Nell’s over-fertile imagination. I should have guessed. Nell had a flare for the dramatic, and I knew better than anyone how readily flights of fancy took wing at the cottage.

The study was dim and silent, the hearth cold, the lamps unlit. Layers of ivy filtered the sunlight that fell through the windows onto the large wooden desk and cast murky shadows on the book-lined shelves and the pair of leather armchairs facing the fireplace.

I went straight to the desk, turned on the lamp, and saw a cream-colored envelope lying square in the middle of the blotter. I reached for it, hesitated, then turned back to face the hearth, vaguely disturbed. Willis, Sr.’s armchair was empty; his morning cup of tea sat, apparently untasted, on the low table where I’d placed it for him that morning; and the book he’d been reading was lying face-down and open on the ottoman.

It was the book that bothered me. The first edition of F. W. Beechey’s Arctic memoirs had been a birthday present from Stan and a welcome addition to Willis, Sr.’s collection. He valued it highly, yet there it lay, carelessly abandoned, treated as though it were a cheap airport paperback. Emma noticed it, too, when she followed Ham into the study with Nell and Bertie. She gave me a puzzled glance, picked up the volume, closed it, and placed it on the low table beside Willis, Sr.’s now frigid cup of tea.

I turned back to open the cream-colored envelope, rapidly scanned the message it contained, then read it again, aloud:

“My dear girl,

“I must leave shortly, so I will be brief. I have been called away unexpectedly on urgent business. It may take some time and I may have some difficulty apprising you of my whereabouts while I am gone, but there is no need to worry.

“Please convey my sincerest apologies to Eleanor, and tell her that I hope she will find the time to continue our match upon my return.

“Your most affectionate and obedient servant,

“William.”

I pursed my lips. “I think we’re the victims of a pair of merry pranksters,” I said, looking at Emma. “This note is a fake.”

Emma turned to Nell, her eyebrows raised.

“It’s certainly not like William to be so uninformative,” Nell agreed, fondling Ham’s ears.

I stared hard at Nell for a moment, then let myself relax. “Okay, Nell. It was a good joke while it lasted, but I’ve caught on.”

“Joke?” said Nell. “What joke?”

“This joke.” I tapped the envelope impatiently. “This note is preposterous. Not in a million years would William write something like this. He doesn’t say where he’s going or why or for how long ... and then he tells me not to worry?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. And I don’t see what any of this has to do with Aunt Dimity.”

Nell’s only response was to point wordlessly at the seat of the tall leather chair opposite Willis, Sr.‘s, where a folded sheet of paper lay, half hidden in shadow. When Emma turned on the mantelshelf lamps, I saw that the sheet of paper was white and unlined, with a ragged tear along one edge, as though it had been torn from—

My gaze darted to the place on the bookshelf where I kept Aunt Dimity’s blue journal.

“It’s not there,” Nell informed me. “That’s what made me think Aunt Dimity had gone with him.”

I nodded absently and looked swiftly past the narrow gap on the bookshelf to the far end of the same shelf. A spidery tingle crept down my spine when I saw another, larger gap.

“Good grief,” I said in a hushed voice. “He’s taken Reginald with him, too.”

4.

“Do you mean to tell me that my father-in-law has run off with Aunt Dimity and my pink flannel rabbit?” I demanded, swinging around to face Nell.

For the first time since our arrival, a slight frown creased Nell’s smooth brow as she looked up at the space on the bookshelf where my powder-pink rabbit should have been—but wasn’t.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps Aunt Dimity will tell you.”

“Right.” I crossed to the chair and peered suspiciously down at the page—for page it was, torn from the blue journal, folded in half, and placed carefully in the center of the seat cushion—then picked it up, unfolded it brusquely, and caught my breath, dumbfounded.

It was Aunt Dimity’s handwriting. There was no mistaking it. The fine copperplate in the royal-blue ink had shaped words of consolation to my mother and stories that had brightened my childhood. I’d pored over that hand for hours, memorized each loop and spiral—no forgery could fool me.

“It’s from Aunt Dimity,” I murmured, lowering myself carefully onto the chair.

Nell nodded, “Bertie thought it would be.”

“What does she say?” Emma sat across from me while Nell sat on the ottoman, with Ham curled at her feet.

“It’s about William,” I replied. “Listen:

“My dear Lori,

“What on earth has been going on since my last visit? Never mind. No time. William is nearly packed.

“Briefly, then: William has taken it into his head to conduct an enquiry into family matters past and present. He must be stopped. There’s no telling what kind of trouble he might stir up. People so often become intransigent when vast sums of money are at stake.

“He has gone to Haslemere to meet with his English cousin Gerald Willis. You must drive there and persuade the silly old fool to go about this business in a more orderly fashion. Reginald and I will travel down in William’s briefcase. We shall do our best to look after

him

until you arrive.

“I shall write more when I understand more, but I must be going now. William is in such a tearing hurry that I”

I looked at Emma.

“Go on,” she urged.

“That’s it,” I said. “That’s all she wrote. It ends there, in midsentence.” While I studied the journal page, and Emma stared at the empty hearth, Nell picked up the book Willis, Sr., had been reading and thumbed through it randomly. For a moment the only sounds were the fluttering of yellowed pages and the ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

Then Emma spoke. “I wonder what Dimity means by ‘trouble,’ ” she said thoughtfully.