Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity and the Duke

“The fritillaries?” Emma asked. She sat back down again. She’d been dying to get this off her chest. “It’d be hard not to notice them. Fritillaria meleagris might’ve worked in a pinch, but imperialis? That shade of orange—” Emma pulled herself up short, put a hand to her mouth, and blushed. “I’m sorry. That must sound pretty pretentious, coming from me. I’m sure the head gardener had a good reason for making the change.”

“If he did, he was unable to explain it to us,” said Louise firmly. “The Fritillaria imperialis was...”

“... a grave error in judgment. We have spoken with the head gardener...”

“... dear Monsieur Melier, and he quite sees our point.”

“We hope...”

“... indeed, we expect...”

“... to find them replaced with something more suitable next year.”

Emma would have given a lot to have eavesdropped on the Pyms’ conversation with dear Monsieur Melier. She suspected that the poor man had caved in before he knew what had hit him. Gallic spleen would be no match for the Pyms’ relentless British politeness.

As the sisters lapsed into a comfortable silence, Emma changed her mind about leaving. Keeping to her schedule seemed suddenly less important than sitting quietly with these two pleasant spinsters, watching the linnets dart in and out of the hornbeams while the shadows grew longer and the afternoon slipped away. Besides, she could always make up the lost time tomorrow.

“You are presently traveling to Cornwall?” Ruth inquired after a few moments had passed.

Emma nodded. “I have the whole summer ahead of me and I’ve never been there before and I... I thought some fresh horizons would do me good.”

“Of course they wih,” said Ruth. “Cotehele is particularly lovely at this time of year.”

“And Killerton Park,” Louise added. “You must not miss the azaleas at Killerton Park. Great banks of them, my dear...”

“... around an oriental temple.”

“Most striking.”

“The azaleas at Killerton Park are on my itinerary,” Emma confirmed.

Another silence ensued. Again, Ruth was the first to break it.

“Might we recommend one other garden?” she asked.

“It is not well known,” said Louise.

“It is not, in fact, open to the public,” admitted Ruth.

“Then how would I get in to see it?” Emma asked.

“The owner is a friend of ours, my dear. Young Grayson Alexander...”

“... the duke of Penford. A delightful young man. We met him quite by accident. His automobile ran off the road ...”

“... directly in front of our house...”

“... straight through the chrysanths ...”

“...and the birdbath. So exciting.” Louise sighed with pleasure. “He sent buckets of chrysanths to us afterwards, as well as a new birdbath, and ...”

“... kind Mr. Bantry to roll the lawn and Mr. Gash to repair the wall. We later discovered ...”

“... that we had a dear friend in common. Most unexpected ...”

“... for ours is a very small village.”

“We have kept up with him ever since.”

“It was. unfortunate about his papa, of course.”

“Poor as a church mouse ...”

“... and proud as a lion.”

“Gone now, poor man ...”

“... and now Grayson has the title...”

“... and the estate...”

“... and the worries that come with it. You really must stop by ...”

“... as a favor to us. Penford Hall is on your way...”

“... and you would do us a great service if you would bring him word of our...”

“... continued warm regard.” “Penford Hall?” Emma asked, her eyes widening. “Isn’t that where—”

“Yes, my dear,” Ruth broke in, “but that was long ago and it has all been sorted out...”

“... as we knew it would be. Such a thoughtful young man could not possibly be guilty ...”

“... of truly serious wrongdoing. Here, we’ll send a note with you ...”

“... a little note of introduction.”

Ruth opened her handbag and produced a calling card, while Louise opened hers and withdrew a fountain pen. They each wrote something on the back of the card, then handed it to Emma.

“Now, you must promise us that you will look in on our young friend.”

“And you must visit us on your way back to London.”

“The vicar will be able to find Finch for you on one of his maps.”

“He will be able to direct you to Penford Hall as well.”

“He is clever with maps. He has scores of them in his glovebox ...”

“... and he used every last one to bring us down from Finch today.”

“Come along,” said Ruth. The Pym sisters stood and Emma stood with them. “Let us find the dear man.”

Emma accompanied the two ladies to the car park, where they found the vicar dozing peacefully in the backseat of the Morris Minor. He insisted on presenting Emma with an ancient roadmap, so creased with use that she was afraid it might fall apart in her hands, upon which he marked the location of Penford Hall.

She thanked them all, promised to stop in Finch on her way back to London, and waved them off in a flurry of maps as they began their return journey. When they’d passed from view, Emma looked down at the card in her hand. On the back, the sisters had written:

This is our dear friend, Emma.

She knows gardens.

The parallel lines of curticued script were identical.

3

“Isn’t that where Lex Rex died?”

Mrs. Trevoy, the matronly widow who ran the guest house where Emma had spent the night, leaned so far over the breakfast table that the frills on her apron brushed the top of Emma’s teapot. She answered Emma’s question in a confidential murmur, presumably to avoid disturbing the honeymoon couple breakfasting at the far end of the small dining room. Glancing at the self-absorbed pair, Emma thought that nothing short of cannon fire would have distracted them, but she appreciated Mrs. Trevoy’s sensitivity and kept her own voice down.

“Five years ago,” Mrs. Trevoy hissed. “Went down just outside Penford Harbor, the whole drunken lot of them.” She leaned closer to add, with obvious relish, “Drowned like rats.”

“Drowned?” Emma said, alarmed.

Mrs. Trevoy nodded. “Served ‘em right,” she went on, her ruby-red lips pursed censoriously. “Stole His Grace’s yacht, didn’t they? And that rubbishy noise they called music ...” Mrs. Trevoy rolled her eyes. “Enough to make you spew. Bit of a to-do when it happened. News-men thick as fleas on a dog’s fanny. One of the cheeky buggers wanted to stop here for the night, but I sent him on his way. My sister-in-law lives in Penford’Harbor, and what Gladys don’t know about human nature would fill a fly’s pisspot. If she says His Grace is a nice boy, that’s good enough for me.” Straightening, Mrs. Trevoy plucked, at the ruffles on her apron. “But that’s all over now. Well, it’s been five years, hasn’t it? Story’s as old as last week’s fish, and twice as rotten. More eggs, dear?” Smiling weakly, Emma, declined, and Mrs. Trevoy tiptoed from the room, casting motherly smiles on the young couple at the other table.

Emma stared out of the window. No wonder Penford Hall had sounded so familiar. Richard had been one of Lex Rex’s biggest fans. And probably his oldest. Richard had plastered his studio with the rock singer’s lurid photographs, watched and rewatched the videos, cranking up the sound to such ear-splitting levels that Emma had fled to her garden for respite. Richard had followed Lex’s meteoric rise and been devastated by his death. He’d talked of the yachting accident for weeks, mourning the loss as though the world had been deprived of a young Mozart.