Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (4 page)

The slim cardboard box held two white envelopes. Both were addressed to me and imprinted with the return address of Pratchett & Moss, an Oxford law firm.
Miss Elizabeth Beacham
had been written in a large, shaky script above the firm’s return address on each.

The first envelope contained three sheets of white stationery covered with the same unsteady handwriting I’d noted on the envelopes. The date at the top of the first page indicated that the letter had been written the day before.

The second envelope contained two keys—one brass-colored, one silver—and a slip of slick paper that appeared to be an Oxford parking permit. I carefully set the keys and the permit to one side, spread the sheets of stationery on the desk, and began to read.

 
Miss Beacham had written her address and the name of her solicitor at the bottom of the page.

It took a few moments for me to collect myself after finishing the letter. When I could see clearly again, my gaze shifted from Miss Beacham’s astonishing words to the keys. Then I picked up the parking permit and stared at it, smiling in disbelief.

It seemed incredible to me that a woman on her deathbed could concern herself with such a trifling detail, but I was glad Miss Beacham had. Oxford wasn’t famous for its ample on-street parking. The permit would come in handy.

I fully intended to honor Miss Beacham’s last request, though I expected the task to bring me little pleasure. My desire to learn more about my late friend was as strong as ever, yet I shrank from the thought of invading her privacy. I remembered the cheap, hospital-issue bandana she’d used to cover her sparse hair, and the absence of personal belongings in her hospital room. I glanced down at the letter, reread the words
I’ve never owned a car,
and felt my heart sink.

Miss Beacham had been a retired legal secretary living on a fixed income. She’d had a great deal of personal dignity, but I doubted that she’d had much in the way of worldly goods. Her flat would be in one of Oxford’s cheaper apartment blocks. She would have furnished it frugally. She’d probably arranged the auction in order to pay off the extra cost of the private hospital room. It would be a heart-wrenching mission to survey the meager possessions of a woman who’d brought such richness to my life, but I would do it, because it was the only thing left I could do for her.

On a brighter note, I told myself, a visit to Miss Beacham’s flat might help me to discover the identity of the mysterious Hamish, who’d meant so much to her. I might even discover a clue to her brother’s whereabouts. If I did, I added grimly, I’d hunt him down like the dog he was and tell him in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of someone who’d let his sister go to her grave without—

The telephone’s jarring ring interrupted my rapidly overheating meditations. I answered it and heard the familiar voice of Julian Bright, the priest who ran St. Benedict’s, on the other end of the line. I returned his greeting, then leaned back in my chair.

“I know why you’ve called,” I said. “Lucinda Willoughby ordered you to check up on me, right?”

“Nurse Willoughby told me that you didn’t wish to speak with anyone,” Julian informed me. “But I
had
to call. The most amazing thing has happened. It’s nothing short of miraculous. You won’t believe it.”

“At the moment, I’ll believe almost anything,” I said, fingering the parking permit. “Fire away.”

“A courier arrived here not fifteen minutes ago,” Julian explained excitedly. “He delivered a letter to me from a Mr. Moss—the solicitor representing the woman you visited at the Radcliffe, the woman who died this morning.”

I sat upright. “Miss Beacham’s solicitor sent a letter to
you?
”

“That’s right,” said Julian. “According to Mr. Moss, Miss Beacham’s left twenty thousand pounds to St. Benedict’s!
Twenty thousand pounds!
”

My jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“Would I joke about a donation to St. Benedict’s?” Julian paused to catch his breath. “It’ll take some time to go through the probate process, but Mr. Moss has given me to understand that the amount of the bequest will not change. Lori! Do you realize how many hungry mouths we’ll be able to feed with twenty thousand pounds? What did you say to Miss Beacham? How did you inspire her to present us with such a generous gift?”

“I . . . I didn’t say anything special,” I stammered, bewildered. “I just told her some funny stories about Big Al and Limping Leslie and the rest of the guys.”

“Perhaps we should put you on the lecture circuit. In fact—” Julian broke off suddenly and gasped in dismay. “Good Lord, what am I saying? Forgive me, Lori. Flippancy is entirely out of place at a time like this. I do apologize.”

“There’s no need,” I said. “Miss Beacham would be delighted to hear you bubbling over.”

“I must confess that I find it difficult to do anything else. I feel quite giddy.” Julian heaved a sigh. “I wish I’d had a chance to meet our benefactress.”

“You would have liked her,” I said.

“I’m sure I would have,” Julian agreed. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Will you be shorthanded?” I asked in return.

“Not at all,” he replied. “As you know very well, volunteers have been lining up since we moved into the new building.”

“In that case, I’m going to play hooky,” I said. “Something’s come up, and I’d like to take care of it tomorrow. It’s to do with Miss Beacham. I’ll explain when we have more time.”

“Not a problem. Come when you can. You’re always welcome.” Julian’s jubilant laughter resumed as he rang off.

I hung up the phone and looked over my shoulder at Reginald.

“Twenty thousand pounds?” I said incredulously. “Where on earth did Miss Beacham get
that
kind of money?”

Reginald was still formulating a reply when the telephone rang again. This time it was Nurse Willoughby.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Lori,” she said, in a breathless tone of voice that reminded me strangely of Julian Bright’s. “But I
had
to ring you. The most amazing thing has happened. You’ll never guess what it is.”

“Does it involve a courier?” I asked, sinking back in the desk chair.

“How did you know?” she exclaimed.

“Latent psychic ability,” I replied, but Nurse Willoughby wasn’t listening.

“. . . a letter from Miss Beacham’s solicitor,” she was saying, “telling me that she’s left me ten thousand pounds!
Ten thousand pounds,
Lori! Can you
imagine?
”

“Sort of,” I said weakly.

“It’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me,” Nurse Willoughby declared. “I don’t know why she did it. I didn’t do anything for her that I wouldn’t do for any other patient.”

“Maybe that’s why,” I reasoned. “You’re a gifted nurse, Lucinda. You give each patient your undivided attention. It wouldn’t matter if it was the Duchess of Kent or a drunk panhandler like Big Al Layton. You’d treat each of them exactly the same.”

Nurse Willoughby snorted. “I’d never curtsy to Big Al.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded, “but everything else would be the same—the same combination of competence and compassion. If you ask me, the money’s Miss Beacham’s way of saying, ‘Keep up the good work.’”

“It’ll certainly help me pay off my loans,” Nurse Willoughby gushed.

“Even better,” I said. “But before you get too practical, take yourself out for a super dinner. You deserve it.”

“I will.” Nurse Willoughby laughed delightedly. “And I’ll drink a champagne toast to Miss Beacham. It’s simply
too
amazing. . . .” And on that giddy note, she rang off.

I was feeling a bit giddy myself. I couldn’t possibly be as stunned as Julian Bright and Lucinda Willoughby were, but I wasn’t lagging far behind. In the space of a few minutes, my frugal pensioner had become a woman of not inconsiderable means.

“Make that thirty thousand pounds,” I said to Reginald, and gazed uneasily at the telephone.

Who would call next? Miss Beacham had known Nurse Willoughby personally, but her knowledge of St. Benedict’s had come secondhand, through me. Had she left similar bequests to everyone I’d mentioned in my silly stories? Would all of my neighbors ring to tell me about the letters
they’d
gotten from Miss Beacham’s solicitor?

I was on tenterhooks. I didn’t know what to expect, so when a knock sounded at the study door I swung around so fast that I whacked my knee on the desk.

“Ouch,” I said, as my husband came into the room.

Bill was wearing what he called his teleconferencing outfit. From the waist up he dressed the part of a serious lawyer—impeccably tailored black suit coat and vest, gleaming gray silk tie, crisp white shirt. From the waist down, however, he wore the uniform of a casual, bicycle-riding dad—faded jeans, sweat socks, and muddy running shoes. The combination almost always made me giggle, but this time it won only a wan smile.

“Annelise telephoned,” he said, closing the door behind him. His dark hair was mussed and his cheeks were rosy, as if he’d interrupted his conference call and hurried home. “She told me what happened. She also mentioned that you’ve been locked up in here for quite a while. She didn’t want to disturb you, but I think you’ve disturbed her. How are you doing?”

“I’m . . . okay,” I answered, rubbing my knee. “It’s been a strange morning.”

“So I’ve heard.” Bill motioned toward the armchair I’d used while speaking with Aunt Dimity. “Tell me about it?”

I moved to the armchair and told him the whole story. He sat in the chair opposite mine and said nothing until I’d finished, when he asked to see the letter. He read it in silence, but when he reached the postscript naming Miss Beacham’s solicitors, he gave a low whistle.

“Pratchett and Moss,” he said. “I know the firm. They don’t deal with people of moderate incomes.” He handed the letter back to me. “You had no idea that Miss Beacham was well off?”

“None,” I said. “Oddly enough, the contents of her bank account never came up in our conversations.” I sat back in the chair and gazed down at the letter. “Maybe she was one of those women who pinch pennies all of their lives. You know, the kind who live on sardines even though they can afford caviar? I wonder if she left anything to her brother—”

“With whom she may have quarreled,” Bill put in.

“—or to Hamish, who is not a cat,” I continued. “And why has she given her keys to
me
? Shouldn’t her brother have first dibs on her possessions?”

“Maybe she didn’t care for her brother,” Bill suggested. “Or maybe she lost track of him.”

“How can someone lose track of a brother?” I demanded.

“Bad management?” Bill permitted himself a small smile, then shrugged. “I don’t know what happened to her brother, but I wouldn’t worry about whether or not she left anything to him. I deal with wills every day, Lori. Nothing about them surprises me anymore. One of my clients left his entire estate to his cockatiel. Another left fifty thousand dollars to a museum curator he’d met once, forty years prior to his death. By comparison, Miss Beacham’s bequests are of the ho-hum variety.”

“So far as we know,” I cautioned. “I swear, Bill, I’m expecting Peggy Taxman to call in a minute and tell me that Miss Beacham left her ten thousand pounds as a reward for being Finch’s all-time crankiest postmistress.”

“That
would
surprise me,” Bill allowed.

“A lot of things surprise me.” I leaned my chin on my fist and frowned pensively. “Thirty thousand pounds isn’t peanuts, Bill. How did Miss Beacham manage to tuck away such a big chunk of change on a legal secretary’s salary? And if she had so much spare cash lying around, why didn’t she use some of it to buy a car? And where the heck is her brother? I don’t care how estranged they were—Kenneth should have been on hand to say good-bye to his dying sister. Why wasn’t he? And who in the world is Hamish? It’s a Scottish name. Do you suppose she could have had a Scottish suitor? If she did, why wasn’t
he
with her at the hospital? Were
all
of the men in her life heartless swine?”