Aunt Dimity and the Duke (21 page)

“It was fun,” he said. “Whether Lex Rex panned out or not, we had a good time working on him. When you get down to it, fixing flats in the local garage can be pretty bloody boring.”

Now Crowley spoke up. “Self-interest played a role, as well. There was always the outside chance that His Grace’s scheme would succeed, that we would achieve our individual goals. All I wanted was to return to my place at Penford Hall. Newland wanted a quiet patch of woods to prowl, Gash dreamt of a first-rate garage, and Hallard wanted privacy and time to write.”

“It’s the same in the village,” said the chief constable. “As I said before—”

“Balls!”
roared Nanny Cole, rattling her knitting needles. “Sod that nonsense, Tom Trevoy, and the same goes for you, Ephraim Crowley. Fun and self-interest—what a load of rubbish.” She sniffed derisively. “You know as well as I do why we listened to His Grace, and why we went ahead when common sense told us we hadn’t a chance in hell of succeeding. It was him.” She looked proudly at the duke. “He’s a proper little wizard, is our Grayson, and always has been. He can charm water from a rock. He can twist a stiff-necked old biddy like me around his little finger.”

“Now, Nanny ...” Grayson murmured.

“Don’t you ‘Now, Nanny’ me, you cheeky blighter. They all know what I’m talking about. They know how you make folks believe that everything’s possible, that dreams were
meant
to come true. If you’d told us we could fly to the moon, we’d’ve tried to build a bloody rocket.” She glared fiercely around the room. “And I dare any of you to deny it.”

No one took up the challenge. Derek ran a hand through his curls, then shook his head, bemused. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Truly fascinating. And, in all that time, no one ever suspected the truth?”

The duke didn’t answer at first. A faint smile played about his lips as he rose and stood staring silently into the fire. Finally, he spoke. “In all those years, only one person saw through my ruse, and that was because I wanted her to. When the
Great God of Thunder
album went platinum, the fourteenth duke of Penford received a request for a rather hefty donation to a certain children’s fund in the City. I can recall the accompanying note word for word. It said: ‘Perhaps you can see your way clear to making other children’s dreams come true.’ It was signed by Aunt Dimity.”

21

Outside the warm cocoon of the dowager’s bedchamber the storm raged on. Thunder cracked and rolled, lightning slashed the roiling sky, and driving rain battered the windows and walls, the roofs and towers, the balconies, turrets, and terraces of Penford Hall.

Crowley and Hallard had cleared away the tea things, replacing them with a decanter of port and nine delicately etched wineglasses. The decanter was passed from hand to hand, the aromatic wine glinting ruby-red in the firelight.

What an amazing story, Emma thought. It was the most amazing—No. The most amazing story was that she had been permitted to sit there and listen to such an amazing story. Sipping the sweet wine, she contemplated the still figure of the duke. She knew that she was in the presence of a remarkable man, a man who inspired such devotion that those who knew him best had given years of their lives to ensure that his dream would come true.

Nanny Cole’s offhand comment about building a rocket to the moon was more apt than the old woman probably realized. The world of rock music must have been as alien to these elderly people as the red dust of Mars, yet they had mapped the terrain and exploited it as fearlessly as any team of space explorers.

While clearing away the tea trays, Crowley had described Lex Rex as a limited partnership in which all members of the core group, staff and villager alike, held equal shares. Thanks to Crowley’s impeccable management, each person in that room was independently wealthy. All of them could have left the hall behind to build their own castles, but they stayed on, because Penford Hall was their home, and the world beyond its walls offered nothing they didn’t already have.

“Grayson,” Derek said gruffly, “owe you an apology, old man. Shouldn’t have doubted you. Sorry I did.”

“Me, too,” Emma added. “I should have trusted the Pym sisters. They told me you couldn’t be guilty of any serious wrongdoing, and they were right.”

“Were they?” the duke mused. He turned his glass slowly in his hands. “I’m not so sure. One person, at least, appears to have suffered greatly as a result of my scheming. We mustn’t forget about Susannah.”

“What do you mean?” Derek said sharply.

“Can’t you guess?” the duke asked in return.

Derek’s eyes narrowed and he glanced down at Emma, who nodded for him to go on. Looking back to the duke, Derek said, “Susannah told me she had reason to believe you’d had a hand in Lex’s death.” He hesitated. “Do you know about her father?”

“Syd told me, on the way to the hospital,” Grayson answered. “Until that moment, I had no idea that such a tragedy had occurred. When I think of her poor mother coming here, asking for help, and being turned away ...” Grayson bowed his head. “No wonder Susannah felt unable to approach me directly. But we’ll discuss this matter later. Please, continue.”

Derek explained the way in which Susannah’s accident had triggered doubts in his own mind about the circumstances surrounding Lex’s death. He described the reasons he’d enlisted Emma’s aid, and the gradual evolution of their suspicions. “But none of it matters now, does it?” he asked. “If you were prepared to deal with the consequences of exposure, then none of you would’ve had a motive to harm Susannah. Her fall must have been an unhappy accident.”

“Unhappy, to be sure,” said the duke gravely, “but not, I fear, an accident. Tom?”

The red-haired chief constable nodded grimly. “Knew there was some funny business going on the minute I heard about her shoes. Kate told me they was all clean and shiny, like she’d just polished ’em up that morning.”

Emma could picture Susannah’s high-heeled shoe poking out from beneath the oilcloth; the broken heel had gleamed in the morning sun, but it hadn’t registered until now. “It had rained the night before,” she said slowly. “If she’d walked to the chapel garden in those shoes, they would have been muddy.”

“And they wasn’t even wet,” the chief constable declared. “But I didn’t hear about it until two days later. The evidence was gone by then, and the crime scene was contaminated, as they say, so I thought I’d just ask around, quiet-like, before reportin’ to my superiors. Asked Newland to give me a hand.” He stared down into his wineglass. “Between us, we’ve been able to account for everyone in the hall and the village. We’ve come up with a lead, but ...” His voice trailed off and he looked to the duke for support.

The duke cleared his throat, then ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. He favored Derek with a troubled, almost apologetic smile, then hunched forward and said, in a confidential murmur, “You see, old man, we know that Susannah was pestering you a great deal. As you observed earlier, it’s difficult to keep secrets in a place like this.”

Derek blinked in surprise. “Grayson, if you’re accusing me—”

“I’m not. Madama has confirmed that you were breakfasting with Bantry in the kitchen.” The duke wet his lips. “Fact is, old man, I’m accusing your son.”

“Peter?”
Derek stared at the duke in astonishment.

The duke sighed regretfully. “Wanted to discuss this with you privately, but ... The truth of the matter is that Peter was seen going into the garden early that morning.”

“By whom?” Derek demanded.

“Bantry. He didn’t think anything of it until Tom and Newland had struck everyone else off the list. It was only then that he recalled Peter’s repeated expressions of concern about Susannah interfering with your work. Viewed in that light, the boy’s presence in the garden on that particular morning suggested the possibility ...” The duke averted his gaze. “I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at.”

“Yes,” Derek murmured, setting his wineglass on the tray. “Yes, I quite see.”

“No,” Emma broke in. “You don’t see at all. None of you do.” She reached for Derek’s hand and hoped that Peter would forgive her. “Peter did go into the garden that morning, but he didn’t spend any time there. He was in the chapel until the shouting started; then he slipped out through the back door and went around the outside to the cliff path. You can check with the Tregallis brothers. They saw him go out there.” She pulled Derek around to face her. “He didn’t want to get into trouble for hanging around the chapel. That’s why he told you he was—”

“Shouting?” Newland spoke from the doorway, then came to stand over Emma. “Did you say that the boy heard shouting?”

“Well ... yes,” Emma replied, unnerved by the man’s hawkish gaze. “That’s what he told me.”

“First I’ve heard of any shouting,” Newland growled. He surveyed the other faces in the room. “Any of you lot forget to tell me about shouting?”

As murmurs of denial sounded all around her, Emma tried to recall whether she or Nell had cried out upon finding Susannah. She was sure they hadn’t. She clearly remembered being impressed by Nell’s calmness and amazed by her own, but, before she could open her mouth to reply, she felt a tremor pass through Derek’s body.

“My God,” he murmured, half to himself. “If none of you were shouting, then Peter must have heard someone else.” His head snapped up. “I breakfasted alone that morning. Bantry only stopped by for a cup of coffee.” He grabbed Emma’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “Come on. We’ve got to get up to the nursery.”

As they darted into the darkened hallway, Emma’s mind raced. She refused to believe that Bantry would harm Peter, but he might have lashed out at Susannah. She remembered that first afternoon in the garden, when he’d spoken so harshly against anything that threatened to disrupt the peace of Penford Hall. He’d known where the grub hoe was and he had the strength to wield it. He’d cleaned the oilcloth, as well, and stowed it safely in his cupboard. And now it looked as though he’d tried to cast suspicion on Peter, the one person who might identify his voice and place him in the garden with Susannah at the crucial time.

Footsteps pounded behind them and flashlights glinted maniacally from the rippled panes of leaded glass that lined the long, arcaded corridor. The main staircase loomed ahead and Derek leapt for it, nearly colliding with Bantry, who was hastening downstairs.

Derek seized the old man’s shoulders, shouting, “Where’s my son? What have you done with my boy?” until Newland got to him and wrestled him away.

Bantry took a faltering step backward, then sat abruptly on the stairs, squinting dazedly as half a dozen flashlights focused on his nut-brown face. When he had elbowed his way to Bantry’s side, the duke bent down to ask calmly if Master Peter were still in the nursery.

The old man shook his head. “No, Your Grace,” he said earnestly. “I were just comin’ down to tell you. The boy’s gone. Don’t know how he slipped by me, but he’s not in his bed nor anywhere else up there.” He gripped Grayson’s arm urgently and jutted his grizzled chin toward the windows. “He’s taken his jacket and a torch, Your Grace. Lady Nell thinks he’s out there in that storm.”

Without a second thought, Emma headed down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Derek cried.

“To the chapel,” she replied, over her shoulder. “Don’t you see? He’s gone to check the window.”

Derek shook off Newland’s hold and plunged down the stairs after Emma, while Grayson hung back, issuing rapid orders to his troops. The last thing Emma heard before reaching the entrance hall and turning for the dining room was Nanny Cole calling out to Kate to phone for Dr. Singh.

“Should’ve brought the flashlight,” Derek muttered as they groped their way through the darkened dining room.

“I don’t think it’d be much use out there,” Emma said. The wind buffeted the French doors, and rain gusted in sheets against the panes. “I won’t be much use, either,” she added, raising a hand to her glasses. “I won’t be able to see a thing.”

“We’ll be even, then,” Derek said wryly. He reached for the door handles and, when Emma nodded, he flung the doors wide.

Emma gasped as the cold rain hit her, and she was soaked to the skin before reaching the terrace steps. Tucking her chin to her chest, she fought her way across the lawn, blinded by the driving downpour and slipping on the sodden grass until they reached the relative sanctuary of the ruins, where the wind’s roar became a moaning chorus as it swirled and eddied through empty hearths and gaping doorways.

Trailing fingers along the rain-slicked walls, Emma sprinted down the grassy corridor until she reached the banquet room, where the constant strobe of lightning showed a scene of utter chaos. Stakes and leaves and flattened stalks littered the graveled path, and vines streamed from the arbor’s dome like pennants in the wind. Derek tried to rush ahead, tripped, and sprawled, but Emma hauled him to his feet, and together they staggered forward to the far end of the room and the corridor beyond.

They left the green door banging on its hinges as they stumbled down the chapel garden’s stairs. Waterfalls spilled from the raised beds’ low retaining walls, and the flagstone path was a mire of clinging mud. Emma longed to reach the stillness of the chapel, to slam the door on the storm and catch her breath, but although Derek strained against it, the chapel door refused to budge. Teeth chattering, Emma darted forward to add her weight to Derek’s, and the door slowly gave way, moving inward inch by inch, until the gap was wide enough for them to slip inside.

Emma paused to wipe her glasses, then gazed about in stark confusion. Peter’s orange emergency lantern lay on its side on the granite shelf, pointing toward the back door. The back door had been left wide open, and the force of the wind that ripped through the doorway had shoved the benches askew and held the front door shut against them. The old wheelbarrow had been wedged into the gaping doorway, and a rope stretched tautly from its wooden handles into the seething darkness.

“What the—” Derek turned to Emma, but she was already tugging on the rounded door, held fast once more by the roaring wind.

“Don’t touch the barrow until we’ve had a look outside!” she shouted. “We don’t know what that rope is holding!”

Derek seized a pitchfork and used it to lever the front door open. It banged shut again behind them as they raced up the stairs and out of the chapel garden. Together they ran along the garden wall, but when they swerved into the rocky meadow, the wind slammed into Emma and drove her to her knees.

“Go!” she screamed when Derek stopped to pull her up, and he barreled ahead, while she groped blindly for the wall on hands and knees, searingly aware of the long fall that lay only a few yards away.

The knuckles of her flailing left hand scraped rough stone and she struggled to her feet. Hugging the stone wall, she stumbled forward until she reached the corner, rounded it, and saw the faint pool of light outside the chapel’s rear wall, where the rope stretched, glistening, over the edge of the cliff and straight down into the devouring darkness. Derek was almost there, the rope was almost in his hand, when Peter’s lantern faded and winked out.

“
No!
” Derek’s anguished cry rang out above the roaring wind, and Emma froze, paralyzed by fear. Then, through her rain-blurred glasses, Emma saw the air begin to shimmer.

The glow was all around them. It came from nowhere and from everywhere and grew brighter by the minute, until the rain glittered bright as diamonds, bright as Peter’s tears, streaking downward like a million falling stars. Emma saw her bloodied knuckles, saw the blades of stunted grass, saw each rock and leaf and puddle as clearly as though it were midday.