Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

“He salted records with facts about Lex’s alleged background,” said Kate, “and he managed every pound of Lex’s income.”

“He managed to make it disappear,” the duke put in. “Crowley tied Lex’s money-trail in so many knots that it would have taken a magician to unravel it. He made it appear as though Lex had frittered away his fortune on playthings.” The duke clucked his tongue. “Just another self-indulgent pop star.”

Emma pictured Crowley’s storklike figure hunched over the keyboard of a computer late at night, after the bank had closed, sailing freely through the electronic networks, and she was filled with awe. It wasn’t every day that she got to meet a natural-born hacker who’d discovered computers at such an advanced age.

Derek rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know, Grayson. This doesn’t sound like you. I find it difficult to believe that you could be quite so cynical.”

“Of course I was cynical, dear chap,” the duke acknowledged easily. “But you must admit that it was a healthy sort of cynicism. Lex Rex did not wish to be loved—he wished only to be paid. It kept his ego in check, kept his mind focused—it kept him from drink, drugs, and all the other slings and arrows that had slain so many before him. He never promoted such things, either. My alter ego’s only sins were poor taste and a severely limited vocabulary—”

“Which you enjoyed to the hilt,” Nanny Cole reminded him.

“Well ... yes,” the duke admitted, with a shame-faced grin. “It was rather ... liberating.” He tugged on an earlobe, then settled back in his chair, businesslike once more. “At the end of the second year, we’d earned enough to replace the roof and begin restoring the hall’s interior. In four more years, we’d amassed a fortune, which Crowley invested with good results. Computers were not the only thing he studied at the bank.”

Derek nodded. “Then you decided that it was time for Lex’s abrupt departure from the world of rock music.”

“Poor old Lex,” the duke agreed, with mock sadness. “He never was much of a sailor, was he, Tom?”

“No, indeed, Your Grace.” The chief constable chuckled. “It were the Tregallis boys that fixed that up. Born fishermen, they are, and want nothin’ more’n to carry on as their father had done. The Tharbys at the Bright Lady felt the same way, and so did old Jonah Pengully and my mother. So we worked it all out with Hallard and watched the weather maps, waitin’ for a storm. When it looked as if a likely one was brewin’, His Grace hightailed it for France—”

“I was traveling a great deal by then,” the duke added, “recovering my family’s scattered treasures.”

“Me and the boys went aboard His Grace’s yacht,” the chief constable continued, “and had a fine old time, smashing it to bits. Ted and Jack steered it onto the shoals, and James picked them up in a dinghy.”

“Only expert sailors could’ve managed that trick,” Derek commented. He looked thoughtfully at the fire, then frowned. “But why go to all that trouble? Wouldn’t it have been safer to stage his death somewhere else, to make it a bit less spectacular?”

Kate shook her head. “Lex’s death would’ve attracted attention no matter where it took place,” she said flatly. “This way, we could control the situation and make the best use of the resources we had at hand.”

“Taciturn Cornish villagers make very credible eyewitnesses, really,” Hallard explained. “Lots of practice at it, I suppose, with all the smuggling that used to go on.”

“But what about the press?” Derek asked.

“A temporary nuisance,” Grayson said dismissively.

“Still,” Derek persisted, “you were taking an awfully big risk, weren’t you? How many people were involved? Fourteen? Fifteen? And now you’ll have to add me and Emma to the list. I’ve no doubt that Newland knows his stuff, but how can you be sure there’ll be no leaks?”

“We can’t,” the duke replied simply. “Look, Derek, I may very well be the dunderhead Nanny considers me to be, but Hallard isn’t.”

Hallard was cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. “Just have a devious mind, really. I knew the truth would come out eventually. It’s human nature to want to share a secret.” He carefully replaced his glasses, then folded his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “So I prepared a story line for every situation we’re likely to face.”

The duke smiled indulgently at Hallard. “It’s no use grilling him on what those story lines may be. He’s got them hidden away on Crowley’s blasted Series Ten, with instructions on how to get at them, should we ever need to. But he hates discussing his work. Won’t even let me read his book flaps.”

“Pesky things always give the plot away,” Hallard put in.

“All we know for certain,” said the duke, “is that Hallard’s come up with a number of likely and unlikely scenarios for us to follow. Based on his past performance, I have every confidence that, whatever happens, the outcome will be satisfactory for all concerned.”

Emma sipped tea that had long since grown cold, then put her cup and saucer on the tray. “There’s one more question I’d like to ask, if I may,” she said. “The answer may seem obvious to you, but ... Well, it sounds so complicated, and it took so long to plan. I’m just wondering why you were all so willing to help out.”

Uncertain looks were exchanged, throats were cleared, fingernails were examined, and feet were shuffled. Finally, Gash proposed an answer.

“It was fun,” he said. “Whether Lex Rex panned out or not, we had a good time working on him. When you get down to it, fixing flats in the local garage can be pretty bloody boring.”

Now Crowley spoke up. “Self-interest played a role, as well. There was always the outside chance that His Grace’s scheme would succeed, that we would achieve our individual goals. All I wanted was to return to my place at Penford Hall. Newland wanted a quiet patch of woods to prowl, Gash dreamt of a first-rate garage, and Hallard wanted privacy and time to write.”

“It’s the same in the village,” said the chief constable. “As I said before—”

“Balls!” roared Nanny Cole, rattling her knitting needles. “Sod that nonsense, Tom Trevoy, and the same goes for you, Ephraim Crowley. Fun and self-interest—what a load of rubbish.” She sniffed derisively. “You know as well as I do why we listened to His Grace, and why we went ahead when common sense told us we hadn’t a chance in hell of succeeding. It was him.” She looked proudly at the duke. “He’s a proper little wizard, is our Grayson, and always has been. He can charm water from a rock. He can twist a stiff-necked old biddy like me around his little finger.”

“Now, Nanny ...” Grayson murmured.

“Don’t you ‘Now, Nanny’ me, you cheeky blighter. They all know what I’m talking about. They know how you make folks believe that everything’s possible, that dreams were meant to come true. If you’d told us we could fly to the moon, we’d’ve tried to build a bloody rocket.” She glared fiercely around the room. “And I dare any of you to deny it.”

No one took up the challenge. Derek ran a hand through his curls, then shook his head, bemused. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Truly fascinating. And, in all that time, no one ever suspected the truth?”

The duke didn’t answer at first. A faint smile played about his lips as he rose and stood staring silently into the fire. Finally, he spoke. “In all those years, only one person saw through my ruse, and that was because I wanted her to. When the Great God of Thunder album went platinum, the fourteenth duke of Penford received a request for a rather hefty donation to a certain children’s fund in the City. I can recall the accompanying note word for word. It said: ‘Perhaps you can see your way clear to making other children’s dreams come true.’ It was signed by Aunt Dimity.”