Ruth and Louise Pym lived a half mile outside of Finch, in a thatched house made of mellow orange-red brick. Their house was an architectural oddity in a region where most buildings were made of locally quarried limestone and roofed with slate, but I loved it nonetheless. The shaggy thatch and the weathered bricks made the house seem warm and inviting even on the dreariest of days.
I parked the Mini on the grassy verge in front of the house and let myself through the wrought-iron gate between the short hedges that separated the front garden from the lane. The Pyms’ front garden was a thing of beauty in the spring and summer, but the recent rains had left it looking decidedly bedraggled.
The soggy, windblown plants reminded me of my own disheveled state, so I paused on the doorstep to brush the dried mud from my trousers before turning the handle on the old-fashioned bell.
The sisters opened the door together, but it was beyond my poor powers of observation to figure out which one was Ruth and which one was Louise. As the mother of identical twins, I’d grown accustomed to the idea of two people looking alike, but Ruth and Louise Pym looked so exactly alike that it was impossible for a mere mortal to tell them apart.
They were, as always, dressed identically, in matching dove-gray gowns with long sleeves, lace collars, and pearl-shaped buttons that ran in two rows from their tiny waists to the matching gray-and-cream cameos pinned at their throats. Their interchangeable black shoes were profoundly sensible, and their white hair was wound into identical buns on the backs of their identical heads. It wasn’t until they greeted me that I could identify them as individuals. Louise’s voice was softer than Ruth’s, and Ruth invariably spoke first.
“Lori!” she exclaimed. “What a…”
“…delightful surprise,” continued Louise. “It’s been an age and an age since we…”
“…last saw you,” Ruth went on. “Do come in!”
Listening to the Pyms was not unlike watching a tennis match. Both activities required concentration and supple neck muscles.
The sisters would have taken me straight into their front parlor, but I insisted on leaving my hiking boots with my jacket in the foyer and stopping in their powder room to freshen up. Since I couldn’t bear the thought of besmirching their lovely needlepoint chairs with my unfortunate trousers, I brought a towel with me when I joined them in the parlor and spread it on my chair before sitting down.
While I’d been washing up, the sisters had set the walnut tea table with an assortment of cakes, muffins, and sandwiches that Henrietta Harcourt would have looked upon with approval. As I took my seat near the fire, the teakettle’s whistle called Louise to the kitchen. She returned a short time later, carrying a tray with cups, saucers, and the hand-painted tea set the sisters always used when they had company.
“Don’t stir, Lori,” said Ruth. “I’ll toast a muffin for you and…”
“…I’ll fill your cup,” said Louise.
Although I found it deeply embarrassing to be waited on by a pair of centenarian spinsters, I made no effort to stop them. The sisters might look as frail as frost, but they were, in fact, as tough as old tree roots. They kept their house spotless; gardened in all weather; canned, preserved, bottled, pickled, and dried the fruits of their labors; and participated in village life with a vigor that put women half their age to shame. They were perfectly capable of toasting muffins and pouring tea without any help from me.
After a few minutes of industrious fluttering, they came to rest in chairs facing mine across the tea table, which was now amply supplied with hot, buttered muffins, and asked about Bill, the twins, Stanley, Annelise, and me. While I answered their questions, their bright bird’s eyes flitted interestedly over my less-than-formal attire.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” I apologized, dabbing melted butter from my lips with a lace-edged linen napkin. “Kit Smith and I hiked over to Aldercot Hall this morning, and the trails were pretty muddy.”
“Aldercot Hall?” said Ruth. “A splendid house. So sad that it fell into the hands of such dreadful people.”
“The DuCarals, you know,” said Louise. “Maurice and Madeline. Not one of our old families. They made their money…”
“…in washing-machine parts,” said Ruth, “and once they’d struck it rich, they left their old life behind and bought…”
“…Aldercot Hall, to impress their old friends,” said Louise. “They hired people to decorate the house and to tend the gardens, and they hired their help through a London agency. They bought a herd…”
“…of fallow deer,” said Ruth, “because they’d seen one at another stately home and thought it was de rigueur. They hired a gamekeeper…”
“…to manage the deer, the grouse, and the pheasants,” said Louise, “and a stableman…”
“…to look after a pair of hunters they never learned to ride,” said Ruth.
“So silly of them,” said Louise. “Maurice DuCaral didn’t know the first thing about shooting…”
“…or riding…”
“…or fishing,” said Louise, “but he bought the right outfits and the most expensive guns and rods and went about…”
“…pretending to be lord of the manor.” Ruth tilted her head to one side and peered vaguely at the ceiling. “He had no idea what it means to be lord of the manor. Maurice and Madeline thought local matters…”
“…were beneath their notice,” said Louise. “They never took an interest in their neighbors, and they never allowed their children to mix with…”
“…anyone who had less money than they did. They thought their money made them superior, you see.” Ruth clucked her tongue. “Poor things. They were wholly unsuited to country life.”
Louise nodded sadly. “They simply didn’t have a clue.”
“It must have been hard on the children,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” said Ruth. “Poor Charlotte. She had one chance to escape her parents’ clutches, but the young man…”
“…failed her,” said Louise. “She shouldn’t have put her faith in Leo. He never was very reliable.”
“Leo?” I said, startled. “Leo in the motor home?”
The sisters bobbed their heads in identical nods.
“He drove past our house yesterday morning,” said Ruth. “But of course…”
“…we ignored him,” said Louise. “We haven’t quite forgiven him…”
“…for his ill-treatment of poor Charlotte,” said Ruth.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “The Leo you saw in the motor home used to be Charlotte DuCaral’s boyfriend?”
“He was more than a boyfriend, I’m afraid,” said Ruth. “Leo and Charlotte were going to elope. They planned to run off in the dead of night. It was the only way…”
“…Charlotte could break free from her parents,” said Louise. “But Leo never came. He left her waiting—so humiliating for the poor girl—and disappeared without a word of warning…”
“…and Charlotte never saw him again,” said Ruth. “Then the accident happened and she had to stay at home because her mother was…”
“…a thoroughly incompetent nurse,” said Louise, “and her father was such a demanding invalid that the nurses they hired wouldn’t stay…”
“…for more than a week,” said Ruth. “But Charlotte wouldn’t have left Aldercot…”
“…even if she’d hadn’t had to care for her father,” said Louise. “Leo broke her heart, you see. She never recovered from the blow.”
I ran my hand through my hair dazedly. Leo was undoubtedly the black sheep who’d earned Charlotte’s ire, but he wasn’t in the right flock.
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I thought Leo was Charlotte’s brother.”
“Her brother?” said Ruth, blinking in surprise. “Oh, my, no, Leo wasn’t her brother. Her brother was a trial to her, of course, but in an entirely different way.”
“The shame, the guilt, the effort it took to conceal the truth…” Louise sighed regretfully. “One can’t blame him for his de sires, but…”
“…it would have been better for all concerned if he had controlled them,” Ruth concluded. “Have another muffin, dear.”
“And another cup of tea.” Louise refilled my cup, and both sisters began to chat about Miranda Morrow’s kittens.
I went with the flow, because I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to steer the conversation back to Maurice, Madeline, Charlotte, Leo, or the nameless brother with the shameful desires. When the sisters closed the door on a subject, it was impossible to get them to open it again, and they’d clearly closed the door on the DuCarals.
I couldn’t complain, though. Ruth and Louise might not have answered all my questions about the DuCaral family, but they’d answered at least as many as they’d raised. After indulging in one last buttery muffin, I left their house feeling as though the hour I’d spent with them had not been wasted.
As I climbed into the Mini, it occurred to me that Leo might have returned to his motor home while I’d been visiting the Pyms, but I quickly dismissed the notion of looking for him there. The Mini would never make it down the track to Gypsy Hollow, and I had no intention of walking down it. Leo, I decided, could wait until the morning. I was sick of traipsing through mud. I wanted to go home.
By the time Annelise, Will, and Rob returned to the cottage, I’d showered, changed, checked the freezer for ice cream, and thrown together a homemade pizza. Pizza, ice cream, and a movie were our Saturday-night treats, so after the boys were bathed and we were all fed, we gathered in the living room with bowls of ice cream to watch The Black Stallion for what had to be the seven-thousandth time. This time, however, I found myself thinking of old Toby and wondering idly what it would be like to bond with him the way the boy bonded with the stallion. I was almost sorry when the film ended and bedtime arrived.
Annelise worked on her wedding dress for a while after I’d put Will and Rob to bed, but she retired relatively early because she wanted to look her best for her fiancé the next morning.
Bill called right after she’d gone upstairs—he knew better than to interrupt our Saturday-night movie by calling earlier—but he was too tired to talk for very long. Mrs. Shuttleworth’s daughters had just discovered that their shares of their mother’s estate were smaller than Mr. Muddy-Buddy’s, and Bill had spent the day fielding telephone calls from them and their irate lawyers.
I cheered him with the news from Finch. He was so amused by the thought of Jasper Taxman painting the greengrocer’s shop mauve that he forgot to ask me about the historic home Kit and I had spent the day visiting, and I didn’t feel the need to mention it to him.
“I’m going to sleep in tomorrow,” he said finally. “What about you?”
“Church and the Cotswold Farm Park,” I said. “No rest for the weary mother.”
“Say hello to the polka-dotted pigs for me,” he said.
“I’ll give them your best,” I promised, and rang off.
I turned off the lights in the kitchen and went to the study, where I smiled at Reginald, lit a fire in the hearth, and curled up in the tall leather armchair with the blue journal in my lap. I paused for a moment to marshal my thoughts, then opened the journal and gazed down at the blank page.
“Dimity?” I said. “I hope you’re comfortable, because I have an awful lot to tell you.”
I smiled as Aunt Dimity’s response began to scroll across the page in her familiar, old-fashioned copperplate.
One of the great advantages of being disembodied is that one is always comfortable. Fire away!
I leaned back in the chair, stretched my legs out on the ottoman, and gave Aunt Dimity a detailed account of everything I’d done that day, both with Kit and without him. I described our fascinating—and thoroughly disquieting—visit to Aldercot Hall, our fruitless journeys to Gypsy Hollow, my solo tour of Finch, and the remarkable conversation I’d had with the Pym sisters.
After a lengthy digression, during which I had to answer Aunt Dimity’s questions about Miranda Morrow’s kittens (“Four—white”), Sally Pyne’s flood (“Knee-deep”), Peggy Taxman’s paint color (“Mauve”), and George Wetherhead’s locomotive (“No idea, I haven’t seen it yet”), I presented her with a scenario based on what I’d seen at Aldercot Hall and what I’d heard from Lizzie Black, Henrietta Harcourt, and the Pyms. I thought it was a pretty impressive piece of work.
“One day,” I began, “perhaps when he was in his teens and showing the first signs of instability, Charlotte’s brother rearranged the letters of his last name and convinced himself that he, a DuCaral, was the direct descendent of the prince of darkness, Count Dracula.”
Ah. Yes, of course. It’s exactly the sort of thing an unstable young man might do. I expect we’ll call the brother “Rendor,” since we still don’t know his Christian name.
“Yes, we will,” I said, and went on. “Rendor became gradually more violent and more delusional until, some forty years ago, he decided to claim dominion over Aldercot Hall by murdering his own father. The Pyms think Maurice DuCaral was crippled by an accident, but he wasn’t. He was attacked by his own son.”
My goodness.
“The attack left Maurice incapacitated,” I continued, “and the DuCarals were finally forced to admit that their son was a dangerous lunatic. They couldn’t bring themselves to turn him in to the police, though, or to plunk him in an institution, because they didn’t want their old friends to find out about him.”
Because they couldn’t bear the humiliation of admitting to their old friends that their seemingly superior family was tainted with mental illness?
“Exactly,” I said. “So they called the attack an accident, shot Rendor full of tranquilizers, and locked him in the attic.” I snapped my fingers as a fresh new idea occurred to me. “They may have put the tranquilizers in glasses of deer’s blood. Since Rendor thought he was a vampire, he’d drink it down lickety-split.”
What an perfectly appalling image, Lori. How did they explain Rendor’s disappearance?
“They didn’t have to,” I said, “because from that point on they made do with a severely reduced staff and kept everyone else at bay. No guests, no visitors, and no mixing with the locals—they even made the milkman leave his deliveries at the gates.”
Ingenious. Go on.
“Maurice, Madeline, and Charlotte DuCaral made a solemn vow to take the family secret with them to the grave,” I said, “and two of them succeeded. Maurice died of his wounds three years ago, and Madeline died a year later.”
Leaving Charlotte to cope with Rendor on her own.
“She’s not completely on her own,” I pointed out. “I think Mr. Bellamy must be in on the secret by now. And I’m fairly sure that Jacqueline is just the latest in a string of household helpers who’ve let Rendor have his way with them.”
Some girls might think it thrilling to have their necks bitten. I can’t see the attraction myself.
“Nor can I,” I said impatiently. “But my point is, Charlotte’s too unstable to control her brother. When her mother died, she let Rendor get the upper hand. She cleared the house of anything that might upset him—mirrors, photographs, sunlight.”
Why did she get rid of nearly all of the furniture?
“She’s too unstable to earn a living,” I said, “so she sold the furniture to bolster her inheritance.”
I see. Sorry to interrupt. Please, go on.
“Charlotte sold the deer,” I said, “and hired girls like Jacqueline, hoping to satisfy Rendor’s lust for human blood, but it wasn’t enough. Now she’s allowing him to leave the attic and roam the countryside, looking for fresh prey.”
If Charlotte is allowing her mad brother to leave the attic, why did you find the attic door locked?
I stared pensively into the fire, then replied, “He locks himself in out of habit.”
Well, you’ve certainly been hard at work, Lori. Your explanation of the affairs at Aldercot Hall is stunningly comprehensive. I wish, for your sake, that it was also conclusive, but, alas, it isn’t. You haven’t proved that Rendor exists. Until you do, you’ll find it difficult to prove to the police that Will and Rob saw him in the woods.
“Kit and I are going to Upper Deeping on Monday,” I informed her. “We’re going search the archives of the Upper Deeping Despatch. Our original plan was to look for anything concerning the DuCarals, but you’ve just given me a better idea.”
I’m always glad to help. What idea have I given you?
“I think we should focus our efforts on finding references to Rendor,” I said. “That is, references to a DuCaral son. If we can find a birth announcement, or a piece about his school days, or any article that mentions him in any way, maybe we can file a missing-person report and get the police to start an investigation. They won’t let a locked door stop them, and once they’re inside the attic, they’ll know I’m right.”
I wish I could take credit for the idea, Lori, but it’s all yours and it’s quite brilliant. I’m sure the Despatch will provide you with the information you need. There is one other loose end that intrigues me, however. It’s not directly related to Rendor, but it troubles me nonetheless.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Your description of Leo as a kind, thoughtful, generous, charming man doesn’t square with the Pyms’ description of him as a cad, a bounder, a heartless scoundrel who would toy with a woman’s affections, then abandon her.
“Kit said the same thing, when we still thought Leo might be Charlotte’s rotten brother,” I acknowledged. “I guess Leo’s changed.”
Human nature isn’t as malleable as all that, Lori. If Leo was a cruel and selfish young man, he’d more than likely be a cruel and selfish old man.
“But he isn’t cruel or selfish,” I said. “He shared his stew with us. He made us laugh. He left his door unlocked today, in case someone needed to take shelter in his motor home.”
It does make one wonder what actually happened all those many long years ago. Is the Pyms’ version of events accurate? Is Charlotte’s? I suggest that you hear Leo’s side of the story before you pass judgment on his younger self.
“We’ll try,” I said, “but he isn’t the easiest man to find.”
I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later. When he does, listen to him. By the way, did you make any progress with Kit while you were out and about today?
“None,” I admitted. “I managed to hurt his feelings, though.”
Shame on you, Lori.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I protested. “He never used to mind it when I talked about the bad old days, when he was living on the streets, but when I brought it up today, he flinched.”
What inspired you to mention it today?
“Kit was worried that Leo might be cold-shouldered in Finch,” I explained. “And I told him that the villagers wouldn’t dare treat Leo the way they’d treated him when he was down and out, because the vicar wouldn’t let them.”
And he flinched?
“As if I’d smacked him in the face,” I said guiltily. “But I haven’t told you the worst part yet. After we left Aldercot, I started yammering like an idiot about mental illness. I didn’t stop to think about what had happened to Kit’s father until Kit finally told me to shut up. And then I wanted to kick myself, or let Kit kick me, for being so incredibly insensitive. I felt awful, Dimity, just awful.”
I can imagine. Did you say anything else that upset him?
“No,” I said. “I put my foot in my mouth twice, but otherwise I was positive and upbeat with him. When he started going on about being a deeply flawed human being, I told him that if he was deeply flawed, then there was hope for the rest of us.” I shook my head. “Tell me, Dimity: Why do saints always think they’re flawed?”
Because they’re saints.
“But what flaws could Kit possibly have?” I demanded. “A disgraceful streak of kindness? An overabundance of patience? A bigger heart than the law allows?”
Perhaps Kit doesn’t see himself as you see him, Lori. Or perhaps he sees something in himself that you don’t see. Or something that isn’t there.
“Sorry, Dimity,” I said, squinting at the page. “You’ve lost me.”
Never mind. It’s not important. Have you anything else to report?
“Not tonight,” I said. “But I hope that I’ll have more to tell you on Monday.”
As do I. Good night, Lori, and good luck at the Despatch. I hope the archives will lead you to the truth.
“Thanks,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”
When the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I closed the journal, held my feet out to the fire, and contemplated the trip to Upper Deeping with a purely girlie sense of satisfaction.
“Finding the truth is a good and noble thing, Reg,” I said, looking up at my pink bunny. “But so is a day without mud.”