Aunt Dimity Goes West (24 page)

Toby seems to be a true caretaker—in every sense of the
word. How fortunate that he was nearby when you saw the
dark-haired man in the sepia-toned photograph.

“The one who scared the bejabbers out of me,” I

said.

Indeed. It’s possible, I suppose, that the man in the photograph reminded you of Abaddon because he’s one of Abaddon’s ancestors. After all, Abaddon was an Englishman and
Englishmen helped to settle the American West. I think it
more likely, however, that you exaggerated the resemblance
because Abaddon has been so much on your mind of late.

“The lantern light and the storm may have influ-

enced my eyesight,” I conceded with a wry smile. “I

was already on edge when I saw the photograph. After

I’d calmed down a little, Toby had me take a closer

look, and I realized that the man wasn’t Abaddon’s

twin. He still gives me the willies, but he’s not the

creep who shot me on the cliffs.”

From your account, I gather that the dark-haired man is
featured in two photographs in the archival box—the individual portrait as well as the group portrait. Does the same

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hold true for the other men in the group photograph? Is each
man in the group represented by an individual portrait?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t compare the group

shot to the other photographs in the box. Does it

matter?”

It might. If the dark-haired man is the only individual
singled out from the group, it may mean that James Blackwell
took a particular interest in him. I wonder who he was? I
hope you’ll make a point of asking Mrs. Blanding about him
when she joins you for lunch tomorrow.

“I intend to,” I assured her. “I’ll check out the other

photographs, too, to see if they’re of men in the group

shot.”

Excellent. As for the curse . . . I’ve detected no trace of it,
yet I feel certain that something frightened Mrs. Auerbach.

“What else could it be but the curse?” I said. “Why

else would she suddenly decide to sell a place she’d

grown to love? And why would she refuse to explain

her decision to her husband? She was probably afraid

that he’d laugh at her for being scared of a silly superstition.”

James Blackwell knew all about the silly superstition. He
made it his business to learn as much about it as he could.

“And he didn’t start looking into it until
after

Florence Auerbach had left the Aerie,” I said. “Which

suggests to me that her fear triggered his interest.”

I agree. Still, we must ask ourselves: Did James enter the
Lord Stuart Mine in order to investigate the curse or simply
to line his pockets with ill-gotten gold? If he’s a common
thief, we can wash our hands of him. If, on the other hand, he

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was an honest man searching for the truth behind the curse,
then why did he leave the Aerie so hastily?

“I’ve told you what I think,” I said. “James went

into the mine to investigate the curse, and he left the

Aerie because he knew Danny Auerbach would fire

him for reopening the mine. It might even be illegal to

go into old mines. He might have been afraid that

Danny would have him arrested.”

James had no reason to believe that Danny Auerbach

would discover his scheme. Danny hadn’t visited the Aerie in
six months, and he gave no indication of returning.

“But James knew that other witnesses were on the

way,” I reminded her. “I refer, of course, to me, Annelise, Will, and Rob.”

Why would you worry James? He was forewarned of your
arrival. He had enough time to conceal his excavation project and enough sense, one imagines, to steer you away from it
while you were here.

“What if Annelise or I had stumbled across it acci-

dentally?” I asked. “We might have given him away.”

I doubt it. Neither one of you knows the first thing about
mine entrances. If you’d seen one that had been reopened,
James Blackwell could have told you that it was a colorful
relic of the Old West, and you would have believed him.

You would have avoided the hazard, certainly, but you
wouldn’t have reported it to Danny Auerbach. You would have
assumed—or James could have told you—that Danny knew
about it already. James Blackwell would have had nothing to
fear from you or Annelise—or the twins, for that matter.

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203

“All right,” I said reasonably. “If James wasn’t a thief, and if he wasn’t afraid of being fired or arrested, then why
did
he take off in such a hurry?”

I believe he discovered something in the mine that seemed
to confirm Mrs.Auerbach’s worst fears.

“He found proof that the curse is
real
?” I frowned in confusion. “But you just said—”

I’ve detected no trace of a curse, but facts have never
stopped people from believing in fantasies. James Blackwell had
witnessed Mrs. Auerbach’s sudden flight. He’d spent months on
his own, immersing himself in local lore.When he finally descended into the darkness of the mine, his mind might have
betrayed him. A strange shadow, a queer sound, an oddly shaped
rock could have taken on a terrifying significance.

I glanced at the shivering shadows on the ceiling

and understood at once what James might have gone

through, alone in the mine’s pitch-black depths. If I’d

been in his shoes, it wouldn’t have taken much to

make me believe in every superstition known to man.

“He convinced himself that the Aerie was cursed,”

I said, “without finding any real proof.”

I believe he did, but I wonder . . . Was he frightened by a
mere trick of the light or by something more substantial?

“If you think I’m going down there to find out,” I

declared, “you’ve got another think coming.”

I would never ask you to engage in such a dangerous under-taking. But you must admit that it’s an intriguing question.

“It’ll be a cold day in Panama before I risk my neck

to answer an intriguing question,” I said firmly.

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Naturally.

“Bill would kill me if I even
thought
about poking around in a collapsed mine shaft,” I insisted.

I don’t want you to set so much as a toe in the old mine,
Lori. As I said, there may be nothing down there but shadows
and dust.

“And bats. I’m sure there are bats.” I shuddered the-

atrically, then frowned. “If James Blackwell believed in the curse, he should have warned us. It wasn’t very

nice of him to leave us in the dark, so to speak. It’s as bad as leaving us at the mercy of a murderous madman.”

Before you condemn him, Lori, please try to remember
that we’re indulging in pure speculation.

“Our speculation is based on fact,” I retorted. “We’re

not pulling ideas out of thin air.We’re not making things up as we go along, like Amanda Barrow.”

Amanda Barrow? I don’t believe you mentioned her.

“Didn’t I?” I clucked my tongue at my oversight.

“Amanda would be crushed if she knew I’d forgotten

her, but it’s hard to remember everyone in a sea of

doppelgangers.”

Not another one, surely.

“Yes, another one,” I said, smiling. “Amanda Barrow

is Bluebird’s version of Miranda Morrow, but Amanda’s

more flamboyantly psychic than Miranda, and she uses

more props.”

What do you expect? She’s an American.

“Are you implying that Americans lack subtlety?” I

asked, feigning indignation.

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205

As a rule, yes, but there are, of course, exceptions to every
rule.

“You’re supposed to add, ‘and I count you among

the exceptions, Lori dear,’” I hinted.

But I don’t count you among the exceptions, Lori dear.

As you’ve just demonstrated, subtlety is not your strong suit.

“Ah, well,” I said, shrugging, “I can’t be good at

everything.”

Tell me more about Amanda Barrow. I adore flamboyant
psychics.They have such vivid imaginations.

“Like me,” I said without rancor.

I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Lori.What props
does Amanda Barrow use?

“You name it,” I said. “She specializes in palmistry,

tarot-card reading, rune casting, crystal-ball gazing,

past-life retrieval, and dream interpretation, but I

don’t think she’d turn down a chance to read tea leaves

if one came her way. Oh, and let’s not forget about her

inner eye. You should have seen the act she put on

when I walked into her shop. She went all wobbly and

mystical because, according to her, I was”—I raised my

arm in a melodramatic gesture—“accompanied by a

spirit from the great beyond.”

That would be me, I’m afraid.

I glanced down at the journal, did a double take

that nearly sent Reginald flying, and lowered my arm

very slowly.

The last sentence hadn’t been written by Aunt

Dimity.The handwriting was more flowery than hers,

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and the ink was bottle green instead of royal blue. I

closed my eyes, hoping that fatigue had produced a

fleeting hallucination, but when I opened them again,

the sentence was still there.

“Who . . . who are you?” I managed.

An excellent question.Who are you and what are you

doing in my journal?

Cyril Pennyfeather, at your service. I’m frightfully sorry to intrude on your private conversation, but there’s something I simply must tell you!

Eighteen

A s I gaped, dumbfounded, at the page,

Amanda’s words came back to me with

stunning clarity.

“Light hair?” I said unsteadily. “A slight

build? Pince-nez on a chain?”

Again, that would be me. I fit your excellent description in life, and under the right set of circumstances it applies to me still.

“Are you the . . . the male spirit who accompanies

me?” I asked, my voice cracking like a teenaged boy’s.

Only when decency allows, I assure you. I may have many

faults, but I am not a voyeur, Mrs. Shepherd.

I giggled weakly and fastened on the one thing my

shocked brain could handle.

“Please, call me Lori,” I said. “May I, er, introduce

Miss Dimity Westwood?”

I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Westwood. And may I tender my compliments on the wonderful means of communication you have devised? It’s so much more civilized than disembodied voices.

“Disembodied voices?” I said faintly and looked

around the room, half expecting an invisible army to

start whispering on cue. My befuddlement was such

that the reappearance of Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned

copperplate seemed like a welcome return to normalcy.

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Cyril Pennyfeather? The name seems familiar. Are you
the schoolmaster who led the miners to safety after the Lord
Stuart mining disaster?

Indeed, madam, I am he.

Forgive me if my next question is an indelicate one, Mr.

Pennyfeather, but would I be correct in saying that you died
in 1896?

You would be entirely correct, my dear lady. I have been dead for well over a century.

“Reginald,” I muttered, “forget what I said about

no shocks to the system.”

Aunt Dimity carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.
Are

you by any chance English, Mr. Pennyfeather?

I am. I was born and raised in Bibury, in the county of

Gloucestershire, the third son of a vicar who could scarcely afford to send his first two to university. Without a university degree, I had little hope of advancement in England, so I made my way to America and eventually to the American frontier, where the educational standards were less rigid. I was twenty-five years old when I opened my school in the boomtown of Bluebird, Colorado, and I taught there until my untimely death ten years later. They were the happiest ten years of my life.

It must have been a fascinating experience to live in an
American boomtown, Mr. Pennyfeather.

It was, Miss Westwood. To witness firsthand a young, dynamic country growing by leaps and bounds, unfettered by outmoded social constraints

The handwriting stopped when I cleared my throat,

and I had the eerie sensation that Cyril Pennyfeather

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209

was standing mutely beside the hearth, regarding me

attentively through his gleaming pince-nez.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Pennyfeather,” I said,

“but how long have you been, er, accompanying me?”

I’ve looked in on you from time to time since the first night you arrived at the Aerie, though I assure you that your privacy

“Yes, yes, I understand about my privacy,” I cut in.

“What I want to know is, was Amanda Barrow telling

the truth this afternoon? Did she see you with me

when I walked into her shop?”

I’m afraid so. Her cat saw me as well. I don’t know why the cat made such a fuss. I was quite fond of cats when I was alive, and they were fond of me. Be that as it may, when I became aware of the commotion I’d created, I immediately made myself as inconspicuous as possible. I’m a shy soul, really. I dislike being the center of attention.