THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.”
Was this a stab at humor by Gladys Deacon? Or an excuse for her boorish behavior? One could hardly condemn the woman for her wild capers and socially devastating blunders. Poor thing, it was part of her destiny.
Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.
But in the end I am the daughter of the murderer.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
Annie stood near the gate, heaving as sweat trickled down the backs of her thighs. She was hot right then but the running shorts and windbreaker weren’t going to cut it if she stopped moving. Her legs and arms were already goose-pimpled from the chill in the air.
Hopping in place, Annie checked her watch. Suddenly a voice shouted her name. Annie looked down Banbury Road and spotted Gus waving from around the bend.
“Over here!” he called. “I’ve gone round back!”
“I can see that,” she said, running toward him. When she reached his side she grabbed a tree to catch her breath.
“Hello,” he said, smiling dryly.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t take you for a casual runner.”
“I’m not. I’m a most formal runner.”
What Annie was, was somebody in need of a reason to leave the hotel when Laurel wanted to sit around and sip tea. And wasn’t that just her luck? The one time Annie had plans her mother did not. Laurel was too confused to question Annie’s unexpected spurt of activity. Like Gus, she didn’t take Annie for a casual runner, or a runner at all.
“Why are we all the way back here?” Annie asked, sides cramping as she suffered the consequences of her lack of exercise regimen. She really should’ve visited the college rec center at least once. “Is this a secret entrance or something?”
Without a reply, Gus turned and marched down the alley. Annie followed dutifully, like a puppy, her sneakers rolling over the gravel and rocks.
“You’re awfully out of breath,” he noted. “For a ‘most formal’ runner.”
“It’s the backpack’s fault,” she said, pointing behind her. “Brought it for, you know, snacks. Water. Provisions.”
“Provisions?” Gus cranked his head to look at her. “Where exactly did you jog from?”
“The Banbury Inn?”
“That’s not a kilometer away!”
“But it’s up a slight incline.”
She raised her forearm in a much steeper pitch than the road ever dared be.
“Yes,” Gus said. “Slight. Very slight. Ah. Here we are.”
He paused next to a narrow limestone building the color of toast.
“The rumored former abode of Tom himself,” he said.
Annie peered into the windows, which were broken through, just like at the main house. Inside, the cottage was bare save the various spider colonies camped out in the corners of the room.
“Well.” She stepped back. “Looks empty.”
“Yes. That’s what happens when a property changes hands. I’d assume the main house is empty, too.”
It was, mostly, and she badly wanted to tell Gus what she’d found. Annie wanted to tell him about the revolver, the manuscript pages, and the books stacked inside a broken bed. And she wanted to ask what happened to the rest of it.
“When did Mrs. Spencer sell it?” Annie asked. “The house?”
“Well, she didn’t,” he told her. “Mrs. Spencer died in the late seventies. The family auctioned off most of her things the year after. They raised a tidy sum. I recall such goodies as a Chaucer manuscript, a 1526 Erasmus, and a book of sexually explicit drawings by D. H. Lawrence.”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover, indeed.”
“The drawings fetched more than the Chaucer. Damned shame, because I wanted to get my hands on them but lacked the requisite funds.”
“You ol’ perv,” Annie said and rolled her eyes. “So who bought the home?”
“A trust owns the building, according to public records. No one’s done anything with it, as you can see.”
“Her family didn’t want it?” she asked.
“S’pose not. Most of them were here, during the auction, to inspect the home and its contents. She had quite a few nieces and nephews.”
“Like Edith Junior?”
“She was her niece, yes, but Edith predeceased Mrs. Spencer. Edith Junior had three daughters herself,” Gus said. “All of them wealthy as the devil. They probably preferred the money over an old dump of an estate.”
Annie nodded, then shivered. The dried-sweat chill was starting to set in.
“So the intruder?” she said, gesturing toward the barn. “Was it Tom? Escaped from his cell? Arms out like zombies? Shackles clanging?”
“Not exactly. But this barn is how the intruder penetrated the property.” Gus jiggled the doorknob. “You see, someone left the back door unlocked. As a result, Pru’s new compatriot turned this very knob and walked right on through.”