I glanced toward the overcast sky, then followed Kit onto a trail Will and Rob could have handled without difficulty. It took us less than fifteen minutes to reach the valley floor and less than ten to find a graveled drive that led through the grove of trees to Aldercot Hall. As Kit and I trudged down the drive, I peered into the woods surreptitiously, searching for a herd of anemic deer, but the only animal I saw was a damp pheasant.
I’d come to associate Aldercot Hall so closely with the undead that I expected it to be a grim, gray, gargoyle-infested Gothic monstrosity—the kind of place Miss Archer could call home. I felt a pinch of disappointment, therefore, when I saw the restrained lines and classical proportions of the stately, cream-colored Georgian mansion that stood at the end of the drive. I could detect nothing sinister in its appearance, except perhaps for the river mist that swirled around it like a ghostly veil and a certain air of neglect that made it appear unloved, almost abandoned.
Although the plane trees surrounding the house were magnificent specimens, the flower beds in the unkempt lawn had been left
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to languish, and a dank tangle of shrubbery seemed to be all that remained of a formal garden. Dead weeds straggled from the marble urns flanking the columned porch, balusters were missing from the roof’s parapet, and birds’ nests bristled on every window ledge. All the windows, save those on the topmost floor, were shrouded with black-lined drapes. The ones on the top floor had been boarded up.
“As if,” I said under my breath, “those who live here can’t bear the light of day.”
“Pardon?” said Kit, inclining his head toward me.
“The DuCarals must not like sunlight,” I said, jutting my chin toward the windows.
“Sunlight fades furniture,” said Kit. “Those are blackout drapes, Lori. They protect carpets and upholstery from the bleaching effects of ultraviolet rays. They’re quite common in historic houses.”
Kit’s commentary was so crushingly levelheaded that I suppressed the urge to ask him if he thought the humps in the patchy lawn looked like the unmarked graves of orphaned housemaids.
But I couldn’t help asking what he thought of the boarded windows.
“They conserve heat,” he said succinctly.
“Of course,” I said, and although I had my own ideas about why the attic story had been enclosed, I decided not to share them with Kit just yet.
“We’ll try the front entrance first,” Kit proposed. “And, Lori, it might be best if you let me—”
“Do the talking,” I broke in resignedly. “Go ahead. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
We climbed the steps to the columned porch, where I stood back, trying to look like a waif from a Dickens novel, while Kit rang the brass-mounted doorbell. I was starting to wonder if the doorbell was out of order when we heard the sound of locks and latches shifting from within. A moment later, the door was opened by a bald, pink-faced elderly man in a neatly pressed black suit. Although Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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he was a few inches shorter than Kit, he still managed to look down his nose at both of us.
“May I help you?” he said in an icy drawl.
“I hope so, sir,” said Kit. “My friend and I are in trouble, and we need your help.”
For the next few minutes, I did nothing but savor the sound of Kit’s exquisitely modulated voice as he crafted a tale so rich in pathos that it made me want to cry. By the time he finished, I felt so sorry for us that I wanted to whip out my cell phone and call in a rescue helicopter.
“You are in a pickle,” said the bald man, thawing just enough to employ a slang word. He regarded us through narrowed eyes, as if weighing the pros and cons of granting us shelter from the storm, then nodded. “Very well. You may wait here until the storm abates, but I’ll not have you tracking filth on my clean floors. Go around to the kitchen entrance. Mrs. Harcourt will give you a cup of tea while you wait.”
“Thank you, sir. Is Mrs. Harcourt the cook?” Kit inquired politely.
“She is, and I am Mr. Bellamy, the butler.” The old man leaned in close to Kit and said in an audible murmur, “Your friend there, is she mute?”
Kit had a sudden coughing fit that rendered him incapable of speech, so I had no choice but to answer.
“Too cold to talk,” I croaked feebly.
“You’d best get indoors, then,” opined Mr. Bellamy. “The kitchen entrance is around the side. Mrs. Harcourt will attend to you.”
As soon as the door closed, Kit leaned against one of the pillars, saying in short bursts between guffaws, “You. Mute. So funny.
Thought I’d burst . . . a blood vessel . . . trying not . . . to laugh.”
“I’m beginning to wish you had,” I grumbled.
“Sorry.” Kit caught his breath and wiped his eyes, then bowed me off the porch like a proper gentleman.
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