Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

“Might I ask what it concerned?” he said.

“Some property. It’s unimportant now. As I say, the matter was settled years ago.”

“You relieve my mind,” said Bill, seemingly unconcerned. He raised his glass to the light. “This is from the family distillery? It’s marvelous. Tell me, do you use oak barrels for the aging process or do you prefer…” With unshakable aplomb, Bill led the conversation on a circuitous route. By the time he got back to Bobby, Andrew had tossed back three glasses of whiskey in quick succession and his mood had mellowed considerably.

“Was Bobby your elder brother?” asked Bill.

“By two years,” Andrew replied. “There was only the pair of us.”

“You must have been very close.”

“We were.” Andrew stared moodily into the fire, as though mesmerized by the dancing flames.

I wondered how long it had been since he had spoken of his brother. I wondered if it came as a relief to him to say Bobby’s name aloud, or whether it fell like a hammerblow every time. How much more whiskey would it take before he could say the name without flinching?

“I worshiped him,” Andrew went on. “You might think I’d feel a dram of jealousy or envy, with Bobby being the elder son and healthy to boot…”

“But you didn’t?” said Bill.

“Never crossed my mind.” Andrew emptied his fourth glass, then set it on a table beside his chair. “What you must understand is that Bobby treated me as an equal. When I couldn’t walk, he carried me up into the hills to see the falcons’ nest, or out to fish in the loch. He taught me how to track, how to use my eyes and my brain to compensate for the weakness in my legs. I’d have been bedridden for years longer if Bobby hadn’t lured me out to explore the world.”

“He must have been a fine young man,” said Bill.

“They come no finer,” said Andrew. “The curious thing was that he made me love the place much more than he ever had. He was so full of life himself that our barren crags left him feeling hungry for… something kinder, less austere, I suppose, something more like himself.” Andrew picked up the empty glass and held it out to Bill.

“It must have been very hard on you when he joined up,” said Bill. When he handed the glass back, it was filled only halfway.

“He was too young, much too young,” Andrew said with a note of bitterness. “But they didn’t question matters too closely in those days. There was a great demand for air crews and he was keen as mustard, so…”

“They took him on.”

“They did. He was stationed at Biggin Hill. God help me, I was so proud of him. It never occurred to me that he could be killed. My brother was young and strong and invulnerable. He was…” Andrew’s voice faltered, but another swallow steadied it. “He was shot down over the Channel on the ninth of September, 1940. His wingman saw the plane hit the water, but there was no parachute, and Bobby… The body was never recovered,” he finished gruffly.

“My God,” I whispered.

Andrew raised a hand to smooth his thinning gray hair. “It was a common enough occurrence during the war,” he said, bowing his head to stare into his glass, “but I’ll admit that it was an uncommon blow to me. It may sound foolish, but I sometimes go into the chapel to be with him.”

“The chapel?” Bill asked. “But I thought…”

Andrew looked up. “It’s a family tradition,” he explained. “A family as old as ours has left its share of unburied sons on many battlefields. When Bobby died, we added his name to the memorial tablet. I like to think I can sense his presence down there. MacLarens are canny that way.” Andrew was silent for a few moments. Then he asked: “Would you like to see it?”

“Thank you,” Bill replied. “We would be honored.”

Carrying a lantern to light the way, Andrew led us to the family chapel, a narrow Gothic structure attached to the west wing of the hall. Generations of MacLarens were entombed there, and I’d never seen a darker, damper place in all my life. The weeping granite walls seemed to close in upon us, and the chill air made me wish I’d worn something warmer than my short-sleeved tea-party dress. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could rest in peace there. I could almost hear their bones rattling from the cold.

Footsteps echoing on the uneven stone floor, we wound our way past recumbent lords and ladies to the far side of the chapel, where a large bronze plaque had been set into the wall. Many names had been inscribed on it, and many dates, and down in one dim corner Bobby’s name and birth date appeared above the words: LOST IN DEFENCE OF THE REALM, 9 SEPTEMBER 1940.

“My brother had just turned twenty,” Andrew said. His voice rang hollowly in the chamber. On impulse, I bent down to touch the inscription, and when the locket slipped from the neck of my dress to hang glinting in the lantern light, I heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Andrew’s eyes on me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, straightening quickly, “I didn’t mean to—”

He passed a hand across his face and seemed to shrink in on himself. “If you will excuse me… I have had a very tiring day.” Slowly, painfully, all agility gone, he made his way back to the entrance. His valet and the housekeeper were waiting there, as though Andrew’s visit to the chapel were a nightly ritual. Andrew leaned heavily on the strong arm of his valet, a stocky young man with broad shoulders.

“I will show you to your rooms now,” said the housekeeper. She was a sharp-eyed older woman in a starched black dress, and her words seemed to be a statement of fact, not a suggestion.

“Yes,” said Andrew. “You go ahead with Mrs. Hume. We’ll speak again in the morning.” He started off, then hesitated, and turned to Bill. “There’s good fishing nearby, if you’re up early enough.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“It’s no imposition,” said Andrew. “Colin and I are usually up at first light. We’ll find a rod for you, young man, and a pair of waders.”

“In that case, Bill would be happy to accept your invitation,” I said, treading lightly on Bill’s foot.

“Uh, yes,” he said. “Yes, thank you, I’d be delighted.”

“Good,” said Andrew, with a wan smile. “Colin will rouse you bright and early, and perhaps we’ll have fresh salmon for breakfast.” With one hand on Colin’s shoulder and the other on his cane, Andrew made his way slowly down the hall.

The housekeeper led us up the dark-paneled main staircase to adjacent second-floor bedrooms overlooking the loch. She indicated the location of the nearest lavatory and bathroom, then added, in a cold, unfriendly voice, “Mr. MacLaren sometimes has difficulty sleeping. It would be appreciated, therefore, if you did not disturb his rest while you are here. Should you require assistance during your visit, you may use the bellpulls in your rooms to summon one of us.” She paused, and her brown eyes narrowed to slits. “There is always someone awake in MacLaren Hall. Good night.”

We nodded obediently; then Bill went into his room and I entered mine. I half expected to hear a key turn in the lock, shutting me in for the night. Mrs. Hume’s words had sounded more like a warning than an offer of hospitality: you are being watched; don’t stray from your rooms. Creepy, but also tantalizing. Someone was afraid to let us roam MacLaren Hall unattended.

My room had a funereal charm to it, with shoulder-high wainscoting, a single dim brass lamp, and grim Victorian furniture. Dark green velvet drapes blocked the view, and a green brocade quilt covered the rock-hard bed. Everything was spotless, though, and well maintained. Museum pieces, I thought, fingering the black tassel on the bellpull. When enough time had elapsed for Mrs. Hume to go back downstairs, I tiptoed over to knock at Bill’s door. He opened it, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside. He seemed somewhat peeved.