“Smart woman,” I muttered.
The needles kept clicking while Lizzie’s pale eyes traveled from the spinning wheel to the skeins of yarn hanging overhead. “I raise the sheep and shear them, spin the wool, and make the dyes from berries, onion skins, lichens. People feel closer to nature when they wear one of my jumpers, and these days people pay dearly to feel close to nature.”
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“It sounds like hard work,” I commented.
“Hard work keeps me healthy,” she returned. “I’m seventy-fi ve years old, and I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life.”
“You’re seventy-five?” I said, impressed. “I thought you were younger.”
“That’s because I live alone,” she said, nodding wisely. “Mark my words, Lori Shepherd, the less you have to do with people, the healthier you’ll be, in mind as well as body. People are good for nothing but germs and arguments.”
“What about Dimity?” I asked.
“She was different,” Lizzie allowed. “She didn’t yammer on at me about finding a husband and having babies. As if I ever needed either.” She tossed her head disdainfully. “People think children will look after them in their old age. In truth, most children would as soon poison their old parents as look after them. As for husbands—I sleep much better without a man hogging the bed or raising the roof with his snoring or telling me to put out the light before I’ve finished reading.”
It suddenly struck me that Lizzie was as different from the Pym sisters as it was possible to be. Where they were vague and gentle, Lizzie was as sharp as an axe and just as lethal.
“Your animals depend on you, though,” I said. “What would happen to them if you fell ill?”
“A young couple, Rhys and Kim, live over the hill,” she said complacently. “I gave them a place to park their caravan ten years ago, and in return they help me with the heavy work. They drop in from time to time, to make sure I’m still ticking, but otherwise we leave each other be. When I pop my clogs, they’ll get the animals, the land, everything.”
She put down her knitting, picked up a poker, and stirred the fi re vigorously. I sipped my tea and basked in the fi re’s warmth.
“Did Dimity tell you about my mother?” I asked after a moment’s silence.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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“She mentioned her best friend, Beth, from time to time,” said Lizzie, returning to her knitting. “I’d forgotten that Beth had a daughter.” She tilted her head toward me. “You’d be the one with the rabbit.”
I grinned. “Yep. I’m the one with the rabbit. His name is Reginald, and he lives with me, my husband, and my sons in Dimity’s cottage.”
“Husband and sons, eh?” Lizzie shrugged. “To each her own.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and took a sip of the sweet, milky tea.
“Why did you come to see me, Lori Shepherd?” Lizzie eyed me shrewdly. “You’re not doing a piece on me for the Upper Deeping Despatch, are you?”
“I’m not a journalist,” I assured her. “I came here on my own account, to ask you about Aldercot Hall.”
The knitting needles stopped moving. “Why would you come to me with questions about Aldercot?”
I phrased my answer carefully. “Dimity Westwood left her personal journal to me along with the cottage. In the journal she wrote that you knew about certain legends associated with Aldercot.” I skated delicately around the fact that the journal entry had been written posthumously and continued, “I’m interested in local history, but I haven’t been able to find out anything about the DuCaral family or their home. So I decided to come to you. Was Dimity right? Can you tell me about Aldercot?”
“Oh, I can tell you about Aldercot,” Lizzie said darkly. “Whether you’ll believe me or not is another question.”
“Try me,” I suggested.
“Your sons,” she said, after a moment’s silence. “How old would they be?”
“They’ll be six in March,” I told her. “They’re twins.”
“Babies,” she murmured. After another pause she laid her knitting in her lap and nodded decisively. “All right, Lori Shepherd, I’ll tell you what I know. You can do with it what you will, but if
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you’re half as clever as I think you are, you’ll keep those sons of yours away from Aldercot Hall.”