Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

A day ago Emma would have tripped over her own feet, trying to catch up. Now she watched with quiet amusement as Derek came to an abrupt halt, looked around in confusion, then turned back to her, bewildered.

“Good morning, Derek.” Emma descended from the terrace one deliberate step at a time. “Did you sleep well? Isn’t it a beautiful morning? And, by the way, do you think you could slow down, so I won’t have to run to keep up with you?”

Derek took the rebuke gracefully. “Sorry. Hear the same complaint from Nell all the time.” He swept an arm toward the arched entryway. “Please, you set the pace.”

Mollified, Emma crossed the lawn, and they entered the castle ruins together. “What was it you wanted to show me?” she asked.

“This and that.” Derek cast a glance over his shoulder. “Chapel first, then the library. Hope you don’t mind.” He smiled nervously when he saw Hallard seated on the wicker chair, tapping the keyboard of his laptop computer. “A pity Susannah hasn’t regained consciousness, but at least she hasn’t gone downhill.”

Emma nodded. Mattie had come to share the news with her first thing that morning. Derek had nothing new to add to Mattie’s report, and they walked down the grassy corridor in silence. Emma watched with increasing perplexity as Derek’s eyes darted from doorway to staircase, scanned the way ahead, and turned to look back the way they’d come, and when she realized that she was doing the same thing, she stopped and turned to peer at him. “Are you looking for something?”

Derek blinked down at her for a moment before replying, “Suppose I am, actually. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Need another outsider, someone who’s not familiar with Penford Hall, to bounce some ideas off of. Thing is”—he glanced over his shoulder—“just as soon we weren’t overheard.”

Emma looked around uneasily. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Does this have anything to do with Susannah?”

Derek was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It might.”

Emma nodded and they walked on, neither speaking again until they were in the chapel, with the door closed. Emma stood quite still, transfixed by the window’s radiant beauty, but Derek went right up to it, frowning.

“Fair warning,” he said, stalking back to Emma’s side. “Going to sound a bit daft, but bear with me. If you still think I’m off my nut by the time I’ve finished, we’ll forget the whole thing.” He looked down at her anxiously. “What d’you say?”

“Go ahead,” said Emma. “I’m listening.”

Derek turned and pointed at the window. “Exhibit number one. What do you make of her?”

“She’s glorious,” said Emma. “Is she a local saint?”

“Semimythic heroine would be more precise. Legend has it that she used that lantern to guide one of Grayson’s ancestors past the Nether Shoals one stormy night. Stood on this very spot. Chapel was built in her honor, window created to record her brave deed.”

Emma walked halfway down the center aisle, noticing things she’d overlooked during her first, brief visit. Bantry’s gardening tools were there, arrayed neatly along the back wall. Six rows of plain wooden benches sat on either side of the chapel’s main aisle. A few feet to the left of the window was a back door even lower than the one they’d just come through. Centered beneath the window was a small granite shelf—for posies, Emma thought, though the shelf was empty now. But there were no tools, no scaffolding, nothing to indicate that any work was taking place.

“Isn’t this the window you’re restoring?” Emma asked.

“It was supposed to be,” Derek replied, “but it’s wrong, it’s all wrong.”

“How do you mean?” Emma turned to look at the window as Derek walked past her to stand before it.

“Her cloak, for one thing. What color would you say it is?”

“Black,” Emma replied. “A sort of translucent, smoky black. Why?”

“According to the legend, the lady should be clad in purest white. Grayson claims that when he was a child the cloak was gray. His staff back him up. They all claim that the cloak, and only the cloak, has gradually changed from white to black. Now, I’m the first to admit that glass can change color, that it can cloud up or weather or get dirty.” He looked at Emma expectantly.

“I’m with you,” she said.

“None of those things have happened here. So, unless a chemical reaction has occurred that is entirely without precedent in the history of glass-making, I’ve no way to account for the darkening—no proof, in fact, that it’s even taken place. Do you follow?”

“Just talk, Derek,” Emma said impatiently.

Derek flushed. “Sorry. Being pedantic. Trouble is, I’ve tried to explain it to Peter and he’s refused to understand. Boy’s taken a liking to the lady. Been after me to ‘fix her cloak.’ That’s what Grayson wanted me to do, of course. He’d hoped I could change the color with a chemical treatment, which I can’t, or simply replace the glass, which I’m extremely reluctant to do, now that I’ve had a chance to examine it firsthand.”

“Why not?”

“I’m very good at my job, Emma, but whoever created that window was a master. Wouldn’t dream of interfering with his work. Grayson’s disappointed, naturally, but he sees my point and quite agrees.”

“But Peter doesn’t?”

“No. Don’t know why. He’s usually quite reasonable.” Derek ducked his head. “Don’t know why I’m going on about my son at the moment, either, when I’ve so much else to tell you. Shall we continue on to my second exhibit?” Derek strode up the center aisle to open the back door, and Emma followed him out. Sunlight blinded her for a moment and she blinked rapidly, then gasped, pressing herself back against the chapel wall, panic-stricken.

She was standing on the edge of a cliff. Like the lady in the window, Emma could look straight down two hundred feet to the monstrous waves crashing on the rocks far below.

“I say ...” Derek peered at her worriedly. “You don’t suffer from vertigo, do you?”

For the first time, Emma became acutely aware of the thundering surf, a sound that had hitherto gone as unnoticed as the beating of her own heart. “It’s a little late to be asking that question, isn’t it?” she managed.

Derek seemed perplexed, a little hurt. “Wouldn’t have let you stumble,” he said. “That’s why I came out first.”

Emma tore her gaze from the crashing waves to glare at him, but he’d already turned away.

“Exhibit number two,” he said, opening his arms to indicate the panorama of sea and sky. “What strikes you immediately about this setting?”

Now that she’d caught her breath, Emma had to admit that she wasn’t actually teetering on the edge of the cliff. It was the openness of the spot that had startled her. No stunted trees or tangle of bushes blocked the sweeping view, and no rail or retaining wall warned of the two-hundred-foot drop to the sea. All that stood between her and the precipice were a few yards of tussocky ground.

She released her hold on the chapel and took a cautious half-step forward. Ahead of her, the English Channel stretched blue to the horizon. To her left, the beacon flashed from its rocky promontory, and to her right, beyond the chapel, the cliffs curved abruptly inward. She suppressed a shudder as a gust of wind snatched at her hair.

“It’s unprotected,” she said, in answer to Derek’s question. “No shelter from the wind. I wouldn’t want to be out here during a storm.”

“But Grayson claims that this window’s been out here, in all kinds of weather, for hundreds of years. Now, look.” Derek reached up to run his hand across the irregular surface of the window. “You see? No pits, no scratches—no sign of weathering whatsoever. Even the solder is intact.”