“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Abercrombie,” Mr. Makepeace protested, gazing jovially at me. “This is not my ten o’clock appointment. This is the delightfully obliging Ms. Shepherd, whose willingness to help her neighbors is so far beyond commendable that I scarcely have words to describe it. Do come in, dear lady, and take a seat near the fire. Tea, please, Mrs. Abercrombie, and some of your delicious biscuits. Our guest will be in need of sustenance after her trying journey.”
While he spoke, Mr. Makepeace escorted me to a plum-colored Regency chair, one of a pair flanking the rosewood settee that faced the gold-veined white marble fireplace in which a coal fire was burning merrily. The solicitor’s office, like his attire, was at once brightly colored and exceptionally elegant. The ceiling was covered with ornate plasterwork, the tall windows were draped in a pale peach brocade, and the settee was upholstered in lemon-yellow silk.
After I’d taken my seat, Mr. Makepeace bustled over to the satinwood desk that sat before the windows. He returned to the fireside clutching a slim, black leather document case, lowered himself into the chair opposite mine, placed the document case on a mahogany table at his elbow, and leaned forward to peer at me imploringly.
“I do apologize for asking you to leave the comforts of your home and hearth on such an insalubrious day, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. “My health, alas, is not what it once was, and my doctors discourage me from indulging in unnecessary travel when the weather is disagreeable.”
“It was no trouble at all,” I assured him. “I don’t mind a little rain.”
“A little rain?” Mr. Makepeace chuckled heartily. “My clients described you as a stalwart soul, Ms. Shepherd, and I can see that they were quite correct. Ah, Mrs. Abercrombie . . .” He looked up as his secretary entered the room carrying a tea tray laden with cups, saucers, a pot of fragrant jasmine tea, and a plateful of what appeared to be shortbread cookies. She deposited the gleaming tray on the mahogany table, then withdrew.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Abercrombie to hold my calls,” Mr. Makepeace informed me. “I am at your service, Ms. Shepherd, for the rest of the morning—for the rest of the day, if need be.”
My host poured the tea and proffered the cookies, then waited until I’d had a sip and a nibble before finally getting down to business. I was relieved. Although it was undeniably pleasant to bask in the warmth of a well-stoked fire while bone-chilling bullets of rain hammered the windowpanes, I hadn’t braved the storm for the sole purpose of sampling Mrs. Abercrombie’s shortbread.
“I believe my clients discussed with you the, er, commission they wish you to undertake,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call it a discussion,” I said with a wry smile. “Ruth and Louise asked me to find someone named Aubrey, told me that you would explain everything, then went to sleep.”
Mr. Makepeace twinkled at me genially. “My family has served the Pyms for more than a century, Ms. Shepherd. I’m quite familiar with their little ways.”
“So . . . can you?” I asked. “Explain everything, I mean.”
“If I could, I would not require your help, dear lady,” he replied. “I can, however, impart to you some background information that I believe you will find useful as you move forward in your, um, mission.”
He drained his teacup, patted his lips delicately with a linen napkin, returned cup and napkin to the tray, sat back comfortably in his chair, and folded his dimpled hands across his remarkable waistcoat. As I watched him settle in for what appeared to be the long haul, my hopes for acquiring a map marked with a big red X began to fade.
“The first thing you must understand, Ms. Shepherd, is that there is more than one Aubrey Pym,” he said. “Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Senior, was my clients’ brother. He left England at the age of twenty. At the commencement of the Great War, he volunteered to serve in the armed forces. He died on the sixth of May, 1915, during the Gallipoli campaign.”
“Gallipoli? ” I said, nonplussed. “Ruth and Louise want me to go to Gallipoli? I don’t even know where Gallipoli is.”
“Gallipoli is in Turkey, Ms. Shepherd,” Mr. Makepeace informed me, “but I must confess that I have no idea why you would wish to go there.”
“I’m supposed to find their brother’s grave,” I explained, adding uncertainly, “aren’t I? ”
“Ah.” Mr. Makepeace’s blue eyes lost some of their twinkle. “I should perhaps explain that Aubrey Pym’s death was not . . . tidy. He was, lamentably, blown to bits during an artillery barrage.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “He has no grave.”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” I allowed a moment of silence to pass, out of deference to the dead, then pressed on. “I assume, then, that Ruth and Louise were talking about another Aubrey. You said there was more than one.”
“So I did,” Mr. Makepeace acknowledged. “The second Aubrey was the son of the first.” The solicitor clasped his hands together and smiled at me. “My clients respectfully request that you, Ms. Shepherd, attempt to establish a direct line of communication between them and their nephew, Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior.”