I couldn’t explain how Aunt Dimity managed to bridge the gap between this world and the next—and she wasn’t too clear about it, either—but I didn’t much care. The important thing, the only thing that mattered, was that Aunt Dimity was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother. The rest was mere mechanics.
I twiddled Reginald’s pink ears, took Aunt Dimity’s journal from its shelf, and curled up with it in one of the tall leather armchairs facing the hearth. The fire crackled cozily as I opened the blue journal and gazed down at it.
“Dimity?” I said. “It’s still raining.”
I smiled as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop across the blank page.
Really? And here I was, thinking I heard fairy fingers tapping on the windowpane.
“Very funny,” I said. “Honestly, Dimity, I’ve never been to a wetter funeral.”
I believe I have. Fanny Preston’s grave was so waterlogged we had to wait a week to bury her, and even then we were afraid she might float out of it.
“You win, Dimity,” I said, grimacing. “At least we got Hector Huggins in the ground today.”
God rest his soul. Was the poor man’s funeral well attended?
“Naturally,” I said. “Everyone was there, including a surprise guest.”
Splendid! There’s nothing more intriguing than a surprise guest at a funeral. Come along, now. Fill in the picture. Man or woman? Young or old?
“A young man,” I said. “Midtwenties, blond, blue-eyed, adorable, and Australian.”
An adorable Australian? Oh, dear. I do hope he won’t turn your head.
I blushed. I couldn’t help blushing. Aunt Dimity knew all too well that I had, in the past, allowed my head to be turned by a certain kind of male charm. Nor could I deny that on one or two—possibly three—occasions, she’d felt distressed enough by my behavior to remind me of my marriage vows. I could, however, recall with some pride that she hadn’t had to trot them out in quite some time.
“My head is screwed on as tightly as a lid on a Mason jar,” I assured her, “but nearly every other head in Finch is spinning because our visitor is as nice as he is adorable. His name is Jack MacBride and he claims to be Hector Huggins’s nephew.”
Claims to be?
“The vicar’s willing to take his word for it, but I’d like him to prove it,” I said. “I would have asked him for proof this afternoon, but he was so wiggy from jet lag that it seemed unfair to badger him. Never fear, though. I’ll have another chance to wangle the truth out of him on Monday.”
Will he still be within wangling distance on Monday?
“Yes,” I said. “Jack’s staying in Ivy Cottage while he sorts out his uncle’s affairs.”
Affairs? What kind of affairs would a man like Mr. Huggins leave unsorted?
“I asked myself the same question,” I said, nodding.
Canceling a magazine subscription? Retrieving a suit from the dry cleaner? Emptying the refrigerator? Mr. Huggins’s solicitor could have sent a minion to attend to such trivialities. They scarcely merit the onsite oversight of an Australian relation.
“I agree,” I said, “which is why I’m having lunch with Jack on Monday. I want to know who he is and what he’s up to.”
You’re also dying to take a peek inside Ivy Cottage.
“True,” I acknowledged equably. “It would be a feather in my cap to go where no villager, apart from the late Mr. Huggins, has gone before. But my main goal will be to find out why Jack’s here. I’d also like to take a look inside the very interesting black box I saw in the trunk of his car. Bill thinks it’s filled with legal papers, but I’d prefer to see for myself before I decide.”
A wise policy. For all we know, it might contain a treasure map. Mr. Huggins may have buried a cache of gold doubloons beneath his bed.
“If he did, I’ll find out,” I said confidently.
I’d rather you stay out of the bedroom.
“Ho ho ho,” I said, rolling my eyes.
I’m not joking, Lori. Though I was joking about the treasure map and the doubloons. I can’t think of a man less piratical than Hector Huggins.
“Neither can I,” I said, “but you know what they say about the quiet ones—they always have a dark secret to hide.”
It’s hardly ever true, more’s the pity.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “Jack MacBride must have had a good reason to travel halfway around the world and I intend to find out what it is.”
I have no doubt that you will.
“Thank you, Dimity,” I said. “And there’s no reason to worry about . . . anything. Jack is a pretty boy, but Bill’s the man for me.”
I’m glad to hear it. Bill is worth more than all the pretty boys in the world put together. It’s getting late, Lori, and you’ll want to arrive at church early tomorrow, in case any news about Jack has surfaced overnight. I suggest that you lay your unturned head upon your pillow and get some sleep. Who knows? The skies may be clear by morning. You may be able to ride your shiny new bicycle to church.
“Ever the optimist,” I said pessimistically. “Good night, Dimity.”
Good night, my dear. Sleep well. And keep me informed!