Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (11 page)

“Telephone directories!” I exclaimed. “They’re all on the Net. If Kenneth lives anywhere in England, Emma will be able to track him down.”

“She can always say no,” I declared.

I rubbed my chin. “I’m working at St. Benedict’s tomorrow morning. I’ll swing by St. Cuthbert Lane in the afternoon and knock on a few doors. If anyone knows anything about Kenneth, I’ll ferret it out.”

“Thanks, Dimity.” When the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I returned the journal to the bookshelves and moved back to the desk to telephone Bill. I half-expected him to advise me to leave the search for Kenneth Beacham to the sleepy bloodhounds at Pratchett & Moss, but he foiled my expectations by giving me his full support.

“I know this will come as a shock to you, Lori,” he said with mock gravity, “but lawyers aren’t always trustworthy. I can think of several reasons—most of them unscrupulous—why Mr. Moss might not want Miss Beacham’s next of kin found. It strikes me as odd that he would tell you that she’d donated goods to St. Benedict’s, yet say nothing about the profits from the auction. I wonder if they’re earmarked for Kenneth, or if Mr. Moss has his finger in the auction-proceeds pie? He drew up her will, after all. He might have included a clause or two to benefit himself. Do you want me to tackle him for you?”

“Not yet,” I said. “A big-shot lawyer like you may come in handy later on. I’ll keep you in my back pocket for now.”

“Sounds cozy,” said Bill. “In the meantime, I’ll try to find out which law firm Miss Beacham worked for in London. It shouldn’t be difficult. If she worked in the same place for twenty-nine years, she’s bound to be remembered.”

“And she would have been working there
before
Kenneth’s disappearance,” I added, “so someone might know why he disappeared. Someone might even have met him.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Bill.

My next call was to Anscombe Manor. Emma answered more brusquely than usual and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was both preoccupied and exhausted.

“Look,” I said, “if you’re too busy to talk—”

“It’s okay,” Emma broke in. “I’ve been running all day. It’s nice to have an excuse to sit still.”

“Would you like another excuse?” I asked, and gave her a brief outline of the events that had led to my search for Kenneth Beacham. “Could you run his name through the computer for me, Emma? I’ll pay you back by lending a hand with the riding center.”

“How?” Emma asked. “You’re afraid of horses.”

“I’m not afraid of horses,” I protested. “I simply respect them. From a distance. Honestly, Emma,” I pleaded, “I’ll do anything. I’ll muck out the stables. I’ll wash your socks. I’ll patch your jeans. I’ll do your nails.”

I would have gone on if I hadn’t been interrupted by gales of cackling laughter. I glanced down at fingernails that had never known a manicure and got the joke. Several minutes passed before Emma regained control of herself.

“Whew,” she said. “I haven’t laughed out loud in a month, which means that I’m badly in need of a break. I’ll do the search tonight. I should know something by tomorrow.”

“Bless you, Emma!”

“Just don’t get so caught up in your new project that you forget about mine,” she added sternly. “I expect to see you at the grand opening on Saturday.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. “Rob and Will won’t let me.”

“Good, because I’ll have a special surprise for you,” Emma said. “As a matter of fact, it was a surprise for me, too.”

I was about to attempt to wheedle more information out of her when a voice in the background summoned her to the exercise yard.

“Sorry, Lori,” she said. “Duty calls.”

I thanked her again and hung up, feeling exultant. I would keep my promise to Dimity and return to St. Cuthbert Lane, but I had more faith in the Internet than in Miss Beacham’s neighbors. Finch’s grapevine might be alive and thriving, but I was certain that Oxford’s had withered from disuse.

Nine

I knew better than to suggest that the twins accompany me to St. Benedict’s the following morning. Nothing, not even the bump on Big Al’s head, could compete with the thrill of being needed at Anscombe Manor. I sent them off with Annelise and drove to Oxford, knowing that they would be as happy as larks all day.

When I’d first come to St. Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men, I’d been reluctant to cross the threshold. The building was smelly, damp, and so run-down that it would have been condemned if any but the underclass had used it. I was put off by its inhabitants, as well. Like the building, they were smelly and run-down, and I did my best to avoid them.

Julian Bright had inspired a change of heart in me. He was a good man, and I wanted to be good—or at least better than I was—so I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look beyond the grimy faces, into the eyes of men who’d once been invisible to me. There, I discovered a hundred kinds of pain I could do something about, even if it was something as simple as making a bed for a man accustomed to sleeping in doorways. I knew I’d never achieve Julian’s level of selfless devotion, but my soul was a little larger because he’d shown me, by example, how infinitely large a soul can be.

In gratitude, I used part of my comfortable fortune to buy a new building for Julian and his flock. The new St. Benedict’s was clean, well lit, and nearly stink-free. I crossed the threshold with pleasure now, knowing that I was among friends—and that the roof probably wouldn’t cave in on me before my shift was through.

My bed-making rounds took longer than usual that morning because I kept having to stop and explain why the twins weren’t with me.

“Horses, eh?” grumbled Limping Leslie, leaning on his broom. “Wouldn’t let a kid of mine mess about with horses. How do you think I got this limp?”

Leslie had in the past offered so many explanations for his limp—war wound, snake bite, yachting accident—that I was disinclined to believe any story involving horses, but I kept my doubts to myself. I was, as always, touched by his concern for my tots.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Kit’s looking after them.”

Leslie’s grizzled face lit up when I said the magic word. Kit Smith had once lived as a tramp among the men at St. Benedict’s. Many could still recall the day he’d saved Julian Bright’s life by disarming a knife-wielding lunatic. Kit had, in their eyes, achieved a kind of sainthood that day, and their reverence for him had never diminished.

“Ah, then there’s nothing to fret about,” said Limping Leslie, sweeping past me. “Kit’ll see they don’t come to no harm.”

I smoothed the last blanket at eleven, and when Julian offered to share a pot of tea with me, I didn’t refuse. We settled down in a corner of the dining room and I proceeded to tell him what I’d learned about the woman who’d left such a handsome sum to St. Benedict’s. He volunteered at once to help me in my search for Kenneth Beacham.

“Bring me a copy of his most recent photograph,” Julian suggested. “He may pass through our doors one day, or he may be here already. Drugs and drink have been responsible for more than one man’s disappearance.”

“The photograph’s twenty years old,” I reminded him.

“It’s better than nothing,” he replied. “I’ll show it round the hostel. If Miss Beacham’s long-lost brother is living on the street, one of the men might recognize him.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “It’s like having your own network of spies.”

“Beggars see and hear a lot more than you’d imagine.” As Julian sipped his tea, his expression grew thoughtful. “I know St. Cuthbert Lane. It’s in Father Musgrove’s parish. He’s the rector at St. Paul’s, the church on Travertine Road.”

“I saw the spire from Miss Beacham’s balcony,” I said. “Anglican, I presume.”

“High Anglican,” Julian replied. “Father Musgrove and I are old friends, though he’ll tell you that our friendship is based solely on a mutual love of good food. There’s a wonderful Indian restaurant just a few doors down from the church.”

“Gateway to India,” I said. “I tried their chicken tikka masala last night. It was superb.”

“We must go there together one day,” Julian proposed. “I’ll introduce you to the proprietor. You’ll like Mr. Mehta.”

“Mehta,” I said, under my breath.

“Have you met him already?” Julian asked.

“No, but the name rings a bell. I’m not sure why.” I scanned my memory, came up empty, and let it go, knowing that the name would place itself if I left it alone. “At any rate, I’m going back to Miss Beacham’s apartment after I leave here. Would Father Musgrove mind if I dropped in at the church to have a word with him about her?”

“I doubt that she belonged to Father Musgrove’s congregation,” Julian said quickly. “He’s a conscientious, hardworking priest. If Miss Beacham had been one of his parishioners, I can guarantee that he would have visited her every day at the Radcliffe. But I’ll ring him and let him know that you’re coming. He may know something useful.”

“I’m not sure when I’ll get to St. Paul’s,” I said.

“Of course,” said Julian, sounding amused. “You haven’t examined Miss Beacham’s books yet, and they could prove distracting. I’ll tell Father Musgrove to expect you around three o’clock, possibly later.”

We finished our tea and parted, Julian to deal with a pile of paperwork in his office, and me to unravel a pretty conundrum on St. Cuthbert Lane.

 
The sky was a shade brighter than it had been the day before, pale gray instead of charcoal, but the sun remained idle, refusing to chase off the chill or dry the damp, clinging air. I’d dressed for another blustery day, in tailored wool trousers, a fuzzy wool sweater, and my trusty rain jacket.

I drove from St. Benedict’s to Travertine Road with no unscheduled detours and only a few panicked screams. The traffic was so heavy on Travertine Road that I had time to note the names of the shops along the way. A few names seemed strangely familiar, as though I’d seen them somewhere before, but I put it down to my shopping spree the night I’d stayed at the apartment, and concentrated on finding the entrance to the small parking lot behind Miss Beacham’s building.

When I reached the lobby, I dutifully rang the bells for the other apartments in the building—taking care to skip the one marked
G. Ashcroft
—but no one responded. It was hardly surprising, since I was ringing in the middle of a workday. I bent to pick up a crumpled advertising leaflet that had missed the plastic wastebasket beneath the metal table, and stopped short as the trash-filled basket cued a memory.

“Stanley’s toy,” I muttered, remembering the crumpled ball of paper the black cat had batted across Miss Beacham’s front room. I’d smoothed it, read it, and forgotten all about it, until now. “The list of names and numbers . . .”

I tossed the leaflet into the basket. I was too excited to wait for the elevator, so I raced up the stairs, let myself into the apartment, and ran past the bookshelves without a backward glance. I flew straight to the cylinder desk, where I caught up the smoothed sheet of paper and carried it with me onto the balcony.

I saw at once that the names on the list matched those on the signs and shop windows of the businesses I’d patronized on Travertine Road. I’d bought groceries at Chalmers Corner Shop; toiletries at Formby: Chemist; underclothes and a nightgown at the Carrington-Smith Boutique; and dinner at the fabulous Gateway to India, which just happened to be owned by Julian’s friend—

“Mr. Mehta!” I exclaimed, reading the third name on the list. “No wonder his name rang a bell.”

Miss Beacham had included other names on the list as well, some fifteen in all, and while I couldn’t make out every sign on the busy thoroughfare, I was willing to bet my canary-yellow Range Rover that each name represented a local business.

I was so thunderstruck by my discovery that it took a while for me to work out what it might mean. I’d assumed that Miss Beacham had compiled a list of debts owed to tradesmen, but the name “Mehta” was followed by “700” and seven hundred pounds seemed an awful lot for a petite, single woman to owe a restaurant.

“What if she didn’t
owe
them money?” I said under my breath. “What if she
left
them money?”

When I considered the sums she’d bequeathed to people she’d never met—such as Julian Bright and Mr. Barlow—it didn’t seem wholly ridiculous to suppose that she’d bequeathed similar gifts to the shopkeepers she’d come to know while living on St. Cuthbert Lane.

“And if
she
knew
them,
” I whispered, “
they
must have known
her.
She might have told them something about Kenneth. She was a regular customer. Good businessmen always chat with regular customers.”

But would they chat with me? I was a highly irregular customer—I didn’t live in Oxford and I wasn’t even English. They’d have every reason to be suspicious of a foreigner who popped up on their doorstep, looking for information about a woman who’d left money to them in her will.

I was leaning on the brown metal railing, pondering the best way to approach a gaggle of suspicious English shopkeepers, when I spotted a familiar figure turning the corner and striding down St. Cuthbert Lane.

“Hey, Gabriel!” I shouted as the figure drew near.

Gabriel Ashcroft flinched at the sound of my voice and raised his eyes slowly and fearfully, as if he expected a water balloon—or a brick—to be hurled at his head.