Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

“Me, too, but what are we going to say to A.M.?”

“You leave that to me.”

Archy had not quite topped off Paul’s glass when Miss Kingsley returned, a piece of paper in her hand and a gleam in her eye.

“Mr. Andrew MacLaren is sixty-six years old, unmarried, and still living on the MacLaren estate in the mountains west of Wick,” she informed the table. “Quite far north, actually. He had only one sibling, a brother, Robert, whose death made Andrew the sole heir to the family fortune, which is extensive—wool, whiskey, and, lately, North Sea oil. He’s something of a recluse, apparently, seldom sets foot off of the estate. I have his telephone number, if you’d like it.”

“Bless you, Miss Kingsley. Where would we be without you?” said Bill, as Miss Kingsley handed him the number. “I’d love to have a look through those files of yours someday.”

“I’m afraid they are held in the strictest confidence,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to come into my office to place the call? Yes, Archy, you and Paul may stay here and enjoy your drinks, but I’ll have to allow Bjorn to open the doors to the rest of our patrons as well.”

Archy snorted in disgust. “I might have known,” he said. “What’s a chap named Bjorn doing at the Flamborough, that’s what I’d like to know. Sign of the times, eh, Paul?”

“Yes, Archy, a sign of the times.”

Bill and I left them there and went with Miss Kingsley into her office. Bill sat at the desk, dialed the number, then began to speak in a voice that was businesslike, mature, authoritative—in short, completely unrecognizable. Listening to him, I began to understand how he had gained access to the Imperial War Museum archives.

“Good morning,” he said. “This is William A. Willis speaking, of the law firm of Willis & Willis. I am calling in regards to a certain matter pertaining to the disposition of the West-wood estate—yes, the Westwood estate. I am the estate’s legal representative and I would like to speak with Mr. Andrew MacLaren, if he is available. Yes, William A. Willis. Thank you, I’ll wait.” Bill covered the phone with his hand. “Don’t look so astounded,” he said to me. “This is my professional manner. Or did you think I didn’t have one?”

“I was just wondering if the ‘A’ stood for—”

“Admirable? Astute? Articulate? Modesty prevents me from saying, ‘All of the above.’”

Andrew MacLaren must have come on the line at that moment because Bill turned his attention back to the telephone. As he did, Archy Gorman came into the office. “Don’t bother your young man,” he said. “I just popped in to say I’d be on my way.” He held up the assembled notes. “Have to go home and sort this lot out. My duty as the postman, you know.”

“Paul’s driving you, isn’t he?” I asked.

“‘Fraid not,” he said. “Has no head for lager, our Paul. He’ll be asleep in the lounge if you need him.”

“You wait out front, Archy,” said Miss Kingsley. “I’ll have another driver for you shortly. As for Paul… will you excuse me, Lori? I think my presence is required in the lounge.”

I turned to Archy and thanked him for all his help.

“Don’t give it a second thought,” he said. “You’ve given me a chance to finish up a job I should have finished years ago. I’m the one who should thank you.” He nodded in Bill’s direction. “You tell your young man I said cheerio, will you? He’s a nice fellow and the two of you make a fine couple. I’m very pleased to have met you both. You be sure to stop and visit if you’re ever passing through Greenwich.” He shook my hand, winked, and was gone.

Bill hung up the telephone.

“Well?” I asked.

“MacLaren invited us both to. come up to his estate.” When my eyes lit up, he raised a cautioning hand. “It was a strange invitation. He was ready to hang up on me until I mentioned the long-lost letter. Apparently he doesn’t share Archy Gorman’s enthusiasm for chatting over old times.”

“He did lose his brother,” I said. “It must be a pretty painful memory.”

“Yes, but…” Bill stroked his beard. “No, never mind. Let’s wait and see if you get the same impression.” He stood up as Miss Kingsley returned.

“If anyone had told me that one day I would see our Paul dead drunk before noon…” She shook her head.

“He’s a lot smaller than Archy,” said Bill. “I suppose it goes to his head faster. And now, Miss Kingsley, I have another favor to ask of you.”

By seven o’clock that evening, Bill and I were on board a private jet bound for Wick.

21

Andrew MacLaren was at the airport to meet us. As tall as Bill and broader across the shoulders, he walked with a pronounced limp and used a cane, yet he seemed surprisingly agile. Certainly he was more fit and trim than I’d have expected for a man of his age, not to mention a man with a handicap.

He must have read the question in my eyes, and it must have been a familiar one because he tapped the cane lightly against his leg. “Polio. Grew up with it. Doesn’t slow me down.” His nonchalant manner put me at ease and by the time we had reached the parking lot, Andrew’s lopsided gait seemed as unremarkable as Bill’s steady stride.

He led us to a dilapidated Land Rover. Uh-oh, I thought as we climbed in, an aristocrat on the skids. I wondered if that might explain his reluctant invitation; perhaps he was ashamed to have houseguests. But that theory went out the window as we approached MacLaren Hall. When the road narrowed from a one-lane gravel drive to a rutted track, I realized that Andrew’s choice of transport was merely practical.

“I’m sorry about the road,” he said. “We have a perfectly usable drive, of course, but this is faster and, as it’s getting late, I thought you might be in need of supper.”

There was no need for him to apologize. We were far enough north and it was still early enough in the year for there to be a good deal of daylight left even at that late hour, and the scenery more than made up for the jouncing, jostling ride. We were surrounded by some of the wildest, most desolate country I’d ever seen, with mountains looming on all sides, barren, craggy, majestic. They took my breath away, but also left me feeling uneasy. This was a harsh, unforgiving place. I suspected it would not deal kindly with weakness and, given half a chance, it would kill the unwary.

MacLaren Hall did nothing to soften that impression. It was an enormous, intimidating old place faced in weathered red brick, with dozens of chimneys and deep-set, shadowy windows. It stood on a rocky hillside above a loch—magnificent, but terribly lonely, overlooking the black water in bleak isolation.

As if to compensate for the somber surroundings, Andrew had ordered his housekeeper to lay on a huge spread, including venison from a deer he had bagged himself and whiskey from the family distillery. While we ate, he regaled us with the history of MacLaren Hall. He was obviously proud of his ancestral home and he seemed to have a story about every family member who had ever lived in it. Except for Bobby. It wasn’t until we had retired to the library, whiskeys in hand, that Bill was able to broach the subject. On the flight up I had agreed to leave the questioning to him.

“As I mentioned on the telephone, Mr. MacLaren,” Bill began, “we found something in Miss Westwood’s papers that piqued our curiosity.” From his breast pocket he took the letter we had found at the Flamborough and handed it to Andrew. “The envelope was still sealed when we found it. We were wondering if the matter you mentioned was ever resolved.”

Andrew glanced briefly at the letter. “It was settled long ago,” he said. Then he crumpled it into a ball, and with a flick of the wrist, threw it on the fire. I started up from my chair, aghast, but Bill motioned for me to remain seated and continued on as though nothing had happened.