One of the great advantages of being disembodied is that one is always comfortable. Fire away!
I leaned back in the chair, stretched my legs out on the ottoman, and gave Aunt Dimity a detailed account of everything I’d done that day, both with Kit and without him. I described our fascinating— and thoroughly disquieting—visit to Aldercot Hall, our fruitless journeys to Gypsy Hollow, my solo tour of Finch, and the remarkable conversation I’d had with the Pym sisters.
After a lengthy digression, during which I had to answer Aunt Dimity’s questions about Miranda Morrow’s kittens (“Four— white”), Sally Pyne’s flood (“Knee-deep”), Peggy Taxman’s paint color (“Mauve”), and George Wetherhead’s locomotive (“No idea, I haven’t seen it yet”), I presented her with a scenario based on what I’d seen at Aldercot Hall and what I’d heard from Lizzie Black, Henrietta Harcourt, and the Pyms. I thought it was a pretty impressive piece of work.
“One day,” I began, “perhaps when he was in his teens and showing the first signs of instability, Charlotte’s brother rearranged the
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letters of his last name and convinced himself that he, a DuCaral, was the direct descendent of the prince of darkness, Count Dracula.”
Ah. Yes, of course. It’s exactly the sort of thing an unstable young man might do. I expect we’ll call the brother “Rendor,” since we still don’t know his Christian name.
“Yes, we will,” I said, and went on. “Rendor became gradually more violent and more delusional until, some forty years ago, he decided to claim dominion over Aldercot Hall by murdering his own father. The Pyms think Maurice DuCaral was crippled by an accident, but he wasn’t. He was attacked by his own son.”
My goodness.
“The attack left Maurice incapacitated,” I continued, “and the DuCarals were finally forced to admit that their son was a dangerous lunatic. They couldn’t bring themselves to turn him in to the police, though, or to plunk him in an institution, because they didn’t want their old friends to find out about him.”
Because they couldn’t bear the humiliation of admitting to their old friends that their seemingly superior family was tainted with mental illness?
“Exactly,” I said. “So they called the attack an accident, shot Rendor full of tranquilizers, and locked him in the attic.” I snapped my fingers as a fresh new idea occurred to me. “They may have put the tranquilizers in glasses of deer’s blood. Since Rendor thought he was a vampire, he’d drink it down lickety-split.”
What an perfectly appalling image, Lori. How did they explain Rendor’s disappearance?
“They didn’t have to,” I said, “because from that point on they made do with a severely reduced staff and kept everyone else at bay. No guests, no visitors, and no mixing with the locals—they even made the milkman leave his deliveries at the gates.”
Ingenious. Go on.
“Maurice, Madeline, and Charlotte DuCaral made a solemn
vow to take the family secret with them to the grave,” I said, “and Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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two of them succeeded. Maurice died of his wounds three years ago, and Madeline died a year later.”
Leaving Charlotte to cope with Rendor on her own.
“She’s not completely on her own,” I pointed out. “I think Mr.
Bellamy must be in on the secret by now. And I’m fairly sure that Jacqueline is just the latest in a string of household helpers who’ve let Rendor have his way with them.”
Some girls might think it thrilling to have their necks bitten. I can’t see the attraction myself.
“Nor can I,” I said impatiently. “But my point is, Charlotte’s too unstable to control her brother. When her mother died, she let Rendor get the upper hand. She cleared the house of anything that might upset him—mirrors, photographs, sunlight.”
Why did she get rid of nearly all of the furniture?
“She’s too unstable to earn a living,” I said, “so she sold the furniture to bolster her inheritance.”
I see. Sorry to interrupt. Please, go on.
“Charlotte sold the deer,” I said, “and hired girls like Jacqueline, hoping to satisfy Rendor’s lust for human blood, but it wasn’t enough. Now she’s allowing him to leave the attic and roam the countryside, looking for fresh prey.”
If Charlotte is allowing her mad brother to leave the attic, why did you find the attic door locked?
I stared pensively into the fire, then replied, “He locks himself in out of habit.”
Well, you’ve certainly been hard at work, Lori. Your explanation of the affairs at Aldercot Hall is stunningly comprehensive. I wish, for your sake, that it was also conclusive, but, alas, it isn’t. You haven’t proved that Rendor exists. Until you do, you’ll find it difficult to prove to the police that Will and Rob saw him in the woods.
“Kit and I are going to Upper Deeping on Monday,” I informed her. “We’re going search the archives of the Upper Deeping Despatch.
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