Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

The bedside phone had awakened me bright and early. It had been Emma, returning my calls. She and Derek hadn’t gotten home from the vicarage until after midnight, and Derek had returned first thing in the morning to put the finishing touches on his repairs. She asked me to come over later that morning, after she’d dropped Peter and Nell off at school. Bill and I had breakfast, then filled a manila envelope with the items I wanted to show to Emma: the journal, the photo, my mother’s letter to me. I threw in the topo map for the heck of it, and Reginald sat atop the envelope, ready to testify on my behalf. Bill stayed in the study to continue reading, while I filled a blue ceramic bowl with oatmeal cookies for the Harrises and killed time watching the storm. I had just finished lighting the fire when Bill called me into the study.

He was sitting on the desk when I came in. “It’s occurred to me,” he said, “that we haven’t asked Dimity about the missing album.”

“Why bother?” I replied. “I doubt that she’ll discuss anything related to her problem.”

“But we don’t know for sure if the album’s related to her problem,” Bill pointed out. “If she evades the question, however…” He nodded toward the manila envelope. “It’s worth a try.”

I took out the journal and opened it to a blank page. “Dimity?” I said. “Hello? It’s me, Lori. Do you have a minute?”

I always have time for you, my dear.

Wide-eyed, I glanced at Bill and nodded. “So, uh, how are you?”

As well as can be expected.

“You know, Dimity, Bill and I have been trying to figure out why you’re… stuck wherever you are, instead of moving on to where you’re supposed to be.”

It is a very long story.

“I always have time for you, Dimity.”

And I would prefer not to discuss it.

“Come on, Dimity, we want to help, but we don’t know where to begin. Couldn’t you just give us a hint? Like about the photo albums, for instance—”

Lori, I must insist that you drop this line of inquiry.

“You know me too well to think that I’ll do that, Dimity.”

In that case

Nothing more appeared on the page. I looked up at Bill and shook my head.

“Try again,” he said.

I tried again, several times, but not another word was added. Finally I closed the book and put it back in the envelope.

“I guess that answers our question,” said Bill.

“Or raises a few more,” I said.

“Such as?”

“What if we’ve gone too far? What if Dimity’s gone for good?”

Bill had nothing to say to that. With a pensive sigh, I left him to his reading. I brought Reginald, the manila envelope, and the bowl of cookies to the living room, and as I approached the hall closet to get my jacket, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” I called, and went to open the door, wondering who would come visiting on such an awful day.

Evan Fleischer was standing on my doorstep. He shook his greasy locks from his shoulders and sniffed. “Nice little place you have here,” he said. “It’s a shame about the modernization, but I’m sure that doesn’t bother you.”

Stunned, I took an involuntary step backward. The door flew past me and slammed in his face. If I’d had any presence of mind, I would have left it that way, but my politeness reflexes kicked in and I opened it again without thinking.

“Strong winds today,” he commented as he brushed by me to inspect the hallway. “Yes, yes, very nice. Plebeian, but it suits you. Ooh.” He shivered. “Drafty, though.”

He was right. The indoor temperature had plummeted. I was at a loss to explain how that had happened, but I hoped against hope that the chill would drive Evan away.

Fat chance.

“I’ll keep my coat on, since your heating is so primitive,” he said, striding into the living room.

“You’ll get everything wet,” I protested.

“For heaven’s sake, Lori, it’s only water.” Still bundled up in his sopping wet pseudo-Burberry, he sat and held his hands to the fire.

I stood poised in the doorway for a moment, decided not to hit him over the head with the poker, then marched to the study, which was as toasty as ever. Bill looked up as I entered. “I’ll be in in a minute,” he said.

“I think your services are required immediately, Mr. Facilitator. Your guest has arrived and I have to leave.”

He looked perplexed for a moment, and then the penny dropped. “Evan?”

“Live and in person and dripping all over the—Good Lord, what’s he done now?” Loud noises from the living room brought me running. The room was filled with smoke, and Evan was choking and coughing and banging at the windows, trying to get them open.

“Evan, you idiot, stop it!” I shouted. “If you break my windows I’ll break your neck!”

I elbowed him aside to open the windows, and the smoke dissipated rapidly. Evan collapsed in a chair, panting and sputtering, while I checked the flue in the fireplace. It was closed. I opened it, then eyed Evan suspiciously.

“Were you messing around with the fireplace?” I demanded.

“I was not,” he gasped indignantly. “I was sitting quietly when the room began to fill with smoke. The damned chimney is obviously defective. You should have it replaced at once. I could have suffocated.”

“Welcome, Dr. Fleischer.” Bill was standing in the living room doorway, smiling weakly. “So you’ve taken me up on my invitation. Lori said you might.”

The arrogant smirk returned to Evan’s face. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to visit this part of England,” he said. “I am, of course, intimately familiar with it. I once wrote a monograph on the Woolstaplers’ Hall in Chipping Campden. It was never published—academic publishing is so political, so corrupt—but I should be only too happy to summarize it for you.”

“I’d love to hear it,” said Bill, “but unfortunately, you’ve come at a bad time. I’m afraid that Lori was just about to—”

“This piece is quite nice, actually,” said Evan, running his fingers along the smooth leg of the table beside his chair. “A Twirley, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Evan,” I said, backing toward the hall, “I really have to be—”

“Aha,” said Evan, now on his knees and peering closely at the bottom of the table. “There’s his signature, a whirligig, you can see it quite clearly. Nice. Very nice. Augustus Twirley carved only twenty-seven of these tables, and thirteen of them are known to have been destroyed in fires.”

“Fascinating,” I said, although I was convinced that he was making it up as he went along.

“Not at all.” Evan rose, brushed his palms lightly together, and seated himself once more. “Knowledge is a gift that must be given freely. I dare say you knew nothing of the treasure lying under your own nose.” He sighed wistfully as he helped himself to a cookie from the bowl I’d left on the table. “It is my considered opinion that Americans have become blind to quality.” He was about to dispense more pearls of wisdom when he bit into his cookie and let out a yelp of agony.

“Evan, what’s wrong?” I asked in alarm.

“My toof!” he howled, grimacing horribly and gripping the front of his face with both hands. “I broke a toof!”

I raised a hand to my own jaw. If there is anyone for whom I have complete and instantaneous sympathy, it is someone with a broken tooth. The first time I broke one, I was a twenty-six-year-old, independent, and—in most other ways—mature human being, but I was so traumatized that I called my mother in tears, long-distance, right after it happened. I was shocked, therefore, to find myself suppressing a smile at Evan’s misfortune.