“Is that where you were while Charlotte and I were eating jammy biscuits?” Kit asked. “In the attic?”
“Not quite,” I said. “The attic door was locked, so I couldn’t get inside. But someone was in there, Kit. I heard a floorboard creak, and I . . . I sensed someone listening at the door.” I smacked a fist into my open palm. “We have to find out more about the DuCarals.”
“Why?” Kit asked.
“It’s the only way we’re going to nail Rendor,” I explained.
“He’s obviously not a houseguest, because Charlotte doesn’t entertain guests and the staff isn’t allowed to have them.”
“Therefore,” said Kit, “Rendor must be a DuCaral. But if he isn’t Leo, then who . . . ?” He left the sentence hanging and glanced at me expectantly.
“Charlotte must have another brother,” I said thoughtfully, “a brother Henrietta doesn’t know about. He must be the one who’s locked in the attic.”
“How could Henrietta not know about him if he’s living in the attic?” Kit asked.
“Because Charlotte doesn’t want her to know,” I said. “He’s the crazy brother, the one who thinks he’s a vampire, so Charlotte wouldn’t want the world to know about him.”
“So you still think a vampire’s involved?” said Kit.
“A pseudo vampire,” I corrected him. “And yes, I do. Think about it, Kit. Did you see a mirror in Aldercot Hall, or a family photograph? Vampires don’t have reflections, and they can’t be photographed, because they have no soul, so if someone thought he was a vampire—”
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
151
“He’d avoid decorating his house with mirrors and photographs,” Kit cut in, nodding. “I see.”
“And what about the blackout drapes?” I said. “They’re all over the place, but the only furniture we saw was in the music room. So tell me: What are they protecting?”
“Mr. Pseudovampire,” Kit answered obediently, “because vampires can’t stand sunlight.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Mr. Bellamy must be in on the secret, and I’ll bet Jacqueline is, too, but Henrietta’s such a blabbermouth that they wouldn’t dare tell her.”
“She did say that she never went upstairs,” Kit recalled.
“Exactly,” I said. “She’s out of the loop.”
“We’re now assuming that Charlotte has two brothers,” said Kit. “Leo the reprobate, and . . . well, let’s continue to call the other one Rendor until we learn his real name.”
“We may as well,” I said. “For all we know, he patterned himself after the Destroyer of Souls in the comic book. Do you think the parents were mentally ill, too? Maybe they had the same vampire fixation as the crazy son. After seeing Charlotte’s schizophrenic turn, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that insanity runs in the family.”
“It often does,” Kit murmured. Then he laughed. “Fixation, schizophrenic . . . You’re tossing off jargon like a pro, Lori.”
“I’m not an expert,” I conceded, “but I do know that normal people don’t spy on little kids and live inside locked attics.” I stopped short and stared down at my trouser legs. “Do your trousers feel starched?”
“They are a bit stiff,” Kit acknowledged.
“They’re spotless, too,” I said. “It’s unnatural.”
“I have the perfect solution,” said Kit. “Let’s talk with Leo right now. He’ll know whether he has a brother or not.”
I looked up at him, stricken. “But that means we’ll have to—”
152 Nancy Atherton
“Climb down the hill into Gypsy Hollow,” Kit finished for me, grinning mischievously. “It’ll take the starch out of your trousers.”
“It may also take away my will to live,” I grumbled, but I agreed to Kit’s plan nonetheless.
My desire to interrogate Leo far outweighed my desire to avoid yet another undignifi ed slide into Gypsy Hollow.
Sixteen
I somehow managed to land in Gypsy Hollow in a dignified, upright position, but I was so pleased with my accomplishment that I failed to watch my next step, slipped on a slimy rock, and sat with a splash in a murky puddle.
“Yeah, I know,” I said wryly as Kit hauled me to my feet. “Pride goeth before a pratfall.”
“I wasn’t even thinking such a thing,” he protested, though a smile was playing on his lips. “But I was thinking that we should rename this place ‘Lori’s Bottom.’ ”
I laughed along with him, even though it was a bit depressing to realize that I wouldn’t be able to dry my wet drawers at Leo’s campfire, because there was no campfire, nor was there any sign that Leo had returned.
“The note’s still there,” I said, pointing to the message Leo had taped to the motor home’s door.
“Let’s have a look inside,” said Kit, striding forward. “He may be ill or injured and need our help.”