Mr. Bellamy followed us into the corridor, handed each of us our clothes, and ushered us into separate unfurnished rooms down the hall from the music room.
“You will dress here,” he instructed us. “You will then meet me in the entrance hall, where I will be waiting with your boots, your packs, and your coats. Please do not dawdle.”
If Kit and I had been in a quick-change contest, we would have tied for first place. In less than ten minutes, we were in the entrance hall, fully dressed and swapping our lovely robes for our rain jackets.
“Mr. Bellamy,” Kit said as he shrugged the straps of his day pack into place, “please believe me when I tell you that whatever we did to upset Miss Charlotte, we did inadvertently.”
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“I believe that the storm has slackened, sir.” Mr. Bellamy opened the front door. “Good day.”
Kit and I pulled our hoods over our heads and stepped out onto the porch. The wind had let up, but the rain was still falling steadily. The river mist clung like cobwebs to the branches of the towering plane trees, and by the time we’d gone a few yards down the graveled drive, Aldercot Hall had become a mist-shrouded ghost. Kit paused for a last look at the stately mansion, then ducked his head self-consciously and turned his back on it.
“Don’t look now,” he said, “but we’re being watched.”
I looked, of course, and saw Charlotte gazing down at us from the music room.
“Damn,” I muttered. “I wanted to visit the family cemetery, but I’m not going to do it with her watching us from on high.”
“Why do you want to visit the cemetery?” Kit asked as we walked on.
“To check some names and dates,” I replied. “We don’t know nearly enough about the DuCaral family.”
“I don’t know anything at all.” Kit shook his head. “What happened back there?”
I studied him for a moment, to make sure he wasn’t joking, then said, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me,” he said.
“Didn’t you listen to Henrietta?” I asked.
“I was too busy watching her hands,” Kit replied.
“In that case, I’ll summarize the main points for you,” I offered.
“Father dies after a long illness. Mother dies of a stroke. Charlotte lives in a huge empty house. Big brother is persona non grata.”
Kit waited for me to go on. When I didn’t, he said, “So?”
“All right, then, I’ll spell it out for you,” I said, with the longsuffering sigh of an experienced gossipmonger teaching the basics to a neophyte. “Charlotte’s rotten older brother ran up gambling Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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debts that drove both of his parents to their graves and forced Charlotte to sell almost everything she owned. When the family ran out of money, big brother legged it to Australia to escape the heavies that were after him. Now he’s come back to see if he can squeeze any more cash out of his sister.”
“Australia?” said Kit, frowning. “But Henrietta didn’t say anything about Austra—” He came to a sudden halt and clapped a hand to his forehead. “Leo.”
“Knew you’d get there in the end,” I said serenely.
“Leo is Charlotte DuCaral’s rotten older brother,” Kit marveled as we resumed walking. “It would explain why he knows so much about our corner of the world. If he grew up at Aldercot, he’d know that Emma’s Hill used to be called High Point, and that Gypsies once camped in Gypsy Hollow. And his name did seem to trigger Charlotte’s . . . episode.”
I nodded. “She was going along just fine until I mentioned Leo’s name. Then she went ballistic.”
“It all fits.” Kit paused. “Except that Leo doesn’t seem like a rotten person. Do you remember the note he left taped to the motor home? ‘If you’re desperate, take what you need.’ It’s not the sort of message a rotten person would leave, is it?”
“Maybe he’s changed,” I said. “He’s been away an awfully long time. A lot can happen to a person.” I kicked gravel aimlessly, sighed, and dug my hands into my pockets as we entered the grove of trees.
“I think we should speak with him before we write him off,” said Kit, “but I have to admit that your version of events is plausible.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “Why don’t you look more pleased with yourself?”
“Because none of it has anything to do with Rendor, ” I said irritably. “Remember him? The creepy psycho pervert voyeur my sons spotted lurking in the woods? If Leo is Charlotte’s brother, then
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Charlotte’s brother can’t be Rendor. So I’ve figured out everything except what I came here to figure out. Who left the boot prints on Emma’s Hill? Who left the scrap of crimson silk in the pet cemetery? Above all, who’s living in the attic?”