Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

Emma was astonished. “How did you even know to try that?”

“I didn’t. I was just poking around and bumped into it. Thought I’d broken the blasted thing. Want to take a look inside?”

Emma edged past the decapitated angel into a round room with seamless marble walls rising to a domed ceiling. The curving walls were inset with a series of arched niches, and each niche held a stringed musical instrument. An antique mandolin was nearest to her, its neck intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Beside it was a lute, and next to that ...

Emma stared, dumbfounded, as the beam of Derek’s flashlight picked out a shiny black electric guitar inlaid with a silver lightning bolt, the trademark of Lex Rex.

“I don’t believe it,” she breathed, turning to face Derek, who had followed her into the room.

“Didn’t think you would,” said Derek proudly. “Doesn’t really prove that Grayson murdered Lex, though.”

An eerie peal of laughter cut through the moaning wind, and Emma gasped as a flash of lightning from the bedroom window limned a familiar figure in the doorway. Derek stiffened, then swung around as a voice sounded behind him.

“Don’t be squeamish, dear boy,” said the duke, stepping into the room. “Of course I murdered Lex Rex. And I know precisely what I’m going to do with both of you.”

19

“You’re back early, Grayson.” Derek took an unobstrusive backward step that placed him between Emma and the duke. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“Disappointed?” Grayson asked.

“Not at all,” Derek assured him. “Merely ... surprised.”

“I can see that,” the duke commented dryly. “Had I known of your interest in antique musical instruments, I would have returned sooner.”

Emma moved to Derek’s side. She appreciated his chivalrous instincts, but it was maddening to stand behind him, unable to see the duke. If something dreadful was about to happen, she wasn’t going to let Derek face it alone.

She was content to let him do the talking, though. So far, the two men were acting as though this were nothing more than a chance encounter at a somewhat unusual house party. Derek’s sangfroid suggested that it was perfectly normal to be facing a murderous madman in a secret room, lit only by the dimming beam of a dying flashlight and the brief white fire of lightning.

“It’s this ghastly weather that brought me home,” the duke was saying. “It may clear up overnight, or it may settle in for a week. Since neither Kate nor I could countenance another week in Plymouth, home we came, jiggety-jig.”

“Leaving Susannah behind you?” Derek asked.

“Indeed not.” The duke turned his head, distracted by a loud thump and a few muttered words that came from the dowager’s bedchamber. The keening wind made it impossible for Emma to identify the voices. She gripped Derek’s arm involuntarily as the duke turned back to them, smiling.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “Dr. Singh gave Susannah the all-clear, so we brought her with us, one big happy family. She’s in her room how, with Mattie and Nurse Tharby.” Grayson looked at Emma. “Nurse Tharby is Dr. Singh’s assistant, though she’ll be his equal once she’s completed her studies. I believe you met her proud mother at the Bright Lady.”

Emma nodded. She recalled Mrs. Tharby very well. She also recalled how loyal the villagers had been when facing the onslaught from the press. They wouldn’t welcome anyone who threatened the generous lord of the manor. They might even see to it that Susannah took a sudden and entirely plausible turn for the worse. The same thought must have crossed Derek’s mind, for his arm had turned to steel beneath the soft cotton of his blue workshirt.

“Like to see her,” he said, with absolute composure. “Susannah, that is. Welcome her back. Let her know she’s among friends.”

“Not possible, old man.” The duke raised his hands, palms out. “Nothing to do with me. Nurse’s orders. If she declares that Syd and Mattie are to be Susannah’s sole companions this evening, I’m afraid we must bow to her authority.”

Derek relaxed a bit. “Syd’s up there, is he?”

“Planning to camp there, by the looks of it. I say, Emma, it was awfully clever of you to put him to work in Grandmother’s garden. Magical place, that garden. It’s done him a world of good.”

The duke turned his head again as a wavering glow began to penetrate the darkness in the dowager’s bedroom. Fire? Emma thought. She cast an uneasy glance at the marble walls and tried very hard not to imagine what would happen if the duke barred the only exit after setting the well-oiled antique instruments ablaze.

“Please,” said the duke, facing them once more, “won’t you join me? It’s frightfully uncivilized to stand chatting in doorways. And we have so much to talk about.” As he turned on his heel and left the room, Derek looked down at Emma and smiled encouragingly. Emma couldn’t quite return his smile, preoccupied as she was by thoughts of how thick the walls were in Penford Hall’s hidden passages, and how easy it would be to seal someone—or a pair of someones—in an out-of-the-way dead end. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Derek was probably as good at demolition as he was at restoration. With a bit of luck and the blade of his penknife, they’d be able to dig their way out. In a year or so.

Gathering her courage, Emma followed Derek through the doorway.

They reentered the dowager’s bedchamber in time to see Crowley rise, red-faced, from the gold-veined marble hearth, where his exertions had produced a brightly burning fire. Emma saw at once that the divan had been moved to one side of the fireplace, a high-backed gold brocade armchair to the other, and the ornate end tables had been pushed together to form a coffee table.

Hallard stood nearby, illuminating Crowley’s labors with a gold candelabra filled with flickering white candles. Kate was there, as well, in an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s knit pullover and dark-brown trousers, standing with folded arms before the door-concealing tapestry. No one seemed surprised to see them.

As immaculate as ever, Grayson was dressed in fawn cavalry twills, a hacking jacket, an ivory shirt, and a silk tie. He nodded cordially to Crowley as he sank into the gold brocade chair and motioned Emma and Derek toward the divan.

Crowley tugged his waistcoat into place, straightened his black tie and upright collar, then gestured for Hallard to follow him through a pair of white-and-gold doors that led, apparently, to the hallway.

For a moment, the only sounds were the moaning wind, the snapping fire, and the distant rumble of thunder. Then another rumble sounded, just outside the bedroom doors.

“Watch where you’re going, you nincompoop!”

“Sorry, Nanny, but your needles nearly caught me in the—”

Emma jumped as the bedroom door banged open and Nanny Cole swept in, magnificent in a red plaid robe and brown corduroy slippers, clutching a yarn-filled basket bristling with half a dozen lethal-looking knitting needles. Chief Constable Trevoy trailed after her, carrying a flashlight and keeping a close watch on the basket.

“You’re a ninny, Tom Trevoy, and you always were,” Nanny declared. “A poke in the goolies might stiffen your backbone, but I doubt it. Now, stop your whingeing and fetch me a chair!” She paused to glower at Derek and Emma, growling, “Nosey-parkers. Can’t bear nosey-parkers.” Peering around the shadowy room, she demanded, “Where’s that blasted daughter of mine? Comes mincing in without so much as a by-your-leave. Ah! There you are!” She crossed over to Kate, while Chief Constable Trevoy hastened to move the other gold brocade chair close to the fire, then sat meekly on the low bench at the foot of the bed, stroking his red mustache.