Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

“A regular Mr. Know-Ail,” said Paul.

“So I said to him, ‘Fair enough, Mr. Know-All, figure it out for yourself.’ But seeing as you have a personal interest in all of this…”

I followed him to the bar, and the others drifted over from the table. Archy lifted the hatch and motioned for me to go inside, then closed it behind him as he came in after me. He spread his hands flat on the smooth surface of the serving counter, looking very much at home.

“They called it the Telegraph,” he said, “but in point of fact, it was more like a post office. It was a sight more efficient than your official post office, and Paul here will vouch for that.”

“It was,” said Paul, “especially in those days, with so many house numbers disappearing, thanks to Mr. Adolf-bloody-Hi tier—oh, excuse me, miss.” He covered his mouth with his hand and looked a good deal more shocked than anyone else in the room.

“No need to excuse yourself,” Archy declared. “Now, about the Telegraph…” Archy ran his hand lovingly up one of the pillars that supported the decorative woodwork overhead, every square inch of it covered with scrolls and flourishes. “I was the postman, you see, and this”—he pointed up to a knob that had been camouflaged by the elaborate carving—“was the postbox. That’s where I used to put all the messages the boys left with me. Didn’t want them getting wet, so I had Darcy Pemburton—where’s old Darcy got to these days, Paul?”

“Living in Blackpool with his sister.”

“Blackpool? What’s he want to live in Blackpool for?”

“Says he likes the donkey rides.”

“The donkey —You’re having me on, Paul.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Then he’s having you on. But never mind…. Darcy was a fine cabinetmaker in his day, and I had him fit this little box up for me to keep the notes and such out of harm’s way. You see, you just give the knob a twist and the door swings—” Archy’s mouth curved into an unbelieving grin as a cascade of papers rained down on his leonine head.

* * *

It took us a while to gather them all up, and a little while longer to persuade Archy to let us read them. Piled neatly on the bar were folded note-cards, sealed envelopes, and slapdash notes scrawled on scraps of napkins, train schedules, betting cards, whatever had been at hand, it seemed. Most were brief (“Pru: Bloody balls-up at HQ. Can’t make our date. Will call. Jimmy.”) and not all concerned romance (“Stinky: Here’s your filthy lucre, hope you lose your ration book”—unsigned, but accompanied by a faded five-pound note). A few were cryptic (“Rose: You were right. Bert.”) but some were all too clear (“Philip: Drop dead. Georgina.”).

“I can’t understand it,” Archy muttered, twirling one end of his drooping mustache. “I might have left one or two behind, but never this many.”

“Archy?” Paul said softly.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Archy continued. “The new man didn’t know about the Telegraph, so how could he manage it, eh? Tell me that.”

“Archy?” Paul repeated, a bit more loudly.

“Not as though he’d do a favor for—”

“I did it!” Paul declared.

Archy turned to Paul, shocked. “You, Paul?”

“I did it for the lads, Archy.” Paul’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “The notes kept coming in after you left, and someone had to look after them, so I did. Then Mr. Know-Ail caught me behind the bar one day and booted me out of the lounge, and after that I… I must’ve lost track of time.”

“I’ll say you did.” Archy looked from Paul to the notes and back again. “Poor old Stinky went short five pounds because of you.”

“I know, Archy,” Paul said miserably.

“And let’s hope this one hasn’t caused more serious mischief.” Archy bent down to retrieve a white envelope that appeared to have a raised coat of arms on the flap. Archy examined it closely, then, without saying a word, handed it to me.

“It’s addressed to Dimity.” I locked eyes with Bill. Archy came up with a polished breadknife, and I used it to slit open the envelope. The others clustered around me as I pulled out a single sheet of paper and read:

Miss Westwood,

It is my duty to inform you that I recently came into possession of a certain object that belonged to my late

brother. Please contact me immediately, so that we may discuss its disposition.

A.M.

“It’s dated July 15, 1952,” noted Miss Kingsley. “Imagine, it’s been sitting here all these years.”

“Have I caused a terrible mess?” Paul asked in a low voice.

I leaned across the bar to squeeze his arm. “You were doing your best, Paul, and it wasn’t your fault that that jerk kicked you out of here. You’ve helped us enormously today, and we really appreciate it.” Bill echoed my words, but it wasn’t until Archy reached across to pat Paul’s shoulder that the smaller man finally perked up again.

“There’s no return address,” I said, looking once more at the white envelope.

“If we assume the writer to be A. MacLaren, that and the coat of arms should be enough,” said Miss Kingsley. “Let me check my files.” She reached the door of the lounge in time to head off the Flamborough’s current bartender, a slender man with flowing blond hair.

“Having a party?” he asked.

“We are having a private conference,” replied Miss Kingsley tartly, “and I’ll thank you to wait outside until I call for you.”

The man clucked his tongue at the empty glasses on the table, but he was no match for Miss Kingsley and left without further comment. Archy leaned on the bar and watched as the door closed behind the two. “A fine figure of a woman,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “Now, would anyone say no to another round? Bring those empty glasses over here.” While Paul gathered up the letters and Archy was busy at the tap, Bill and I walked over to look at the framed snapshots arrayed upon the wall.

“I wonder if Bobby’s here,” I said. “It’s so strange to think that we might be looking right at him and not know it.” I called over to the bar, “Archy—do you know if Bobby MacLaren’s picture is here?”

“‘Course it is. His chums brought it in and I hung it there myself. Let me see, now.” Pint of stout in hand, Archy came over, with Paul at his heels. “That’s Jack Thornton,” said Archy, as his large hand moved slowly across the wall. “Brian Ripley. Tom Patterson. Freddy Baker. He was a wild one, old Freddy. Always getting himself put on report.”

“They never found fault with his flying, though,” Paul pointed out.

“No, Paul, they never did. Ah, it brings ’em all back, this wall does. They were none of them saints, but they were there when we needed them. Here, now, here’s Bobby.” Archy unhooked one of the pictures and handed it to me, and the four of us looked down upon a young man in flying gear, standing beside a fighter.

“That’s his Hurricane,” said Paul. “Proud of it, he was. Said it streaked through the sky like a falcon. The picture doesn’t do him justice, though.”

“Hard to do that in a snap, but you’re right,” Archy agreed. “His eyes were brighter, and his smile…”

“Yes,” said Paul. “His smile.”

Sighing, the two men returned to the bar. Bill took Bobby’s picture from me and stared at it for a long time before hanging it back in place. “So many of them, and each one of them left someone behind.” He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat and looked down at the letter. “I think our next step is to contact A.M., if Miss Kingsley can discover who he is. I’d be interested to know if Dimity ever received word about this”—he tapped the letter—“‘object’ that belonged to Bobby.”