Our original plan was to look for anything concerning the DuCarals, but you’ve just given me a better idea.”
I’m always glad to help. What idea have I given you?
“I think we should focus our efforts on finding references to Rendor,” I said. “That is, references to a DuCaral son. If we can find a birth announcement, or a piece about his school days, or any article that mentions him in any way, maybe we can file a missingperson report and get the police to start an investigation. They won’t let a locked door stop them, and once they’re inside the attic, they’ll know I’m right.”
I wish I could take credit for the idea, Lori, but it’s all yours and it’s quite brilliant. I’m sure the Despatch will provide you with the information you need. There is one other loose end that intrigues me, however. It’s not directly related to Rendor, but it troubles me nonetheless.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Your description of Leo as a kind, thoughtful, generous, charming man doesn’t square with the Pyms’ description of him as a cad, a bounder, a heartless scoundrel who would toy with a woman’s affections, then abandon her.
“Kit said the same thing, when we still thought Leo might be Charlotte’s rotten brother,” I acknowledged. “I guess Leo’s changed.”
Human nature isn’t as malleable as all that, Lori. If Leo was a cruel and selfish young man, he’d more than likely be a cruel and selfish old man.
“But he isn’t cruel or selfish,” I said. “He shared his stew with us.
He made us laugh. He left his door unlocked today, in case someone needed to take shelter in his motor home.”
It does make one wonder what actually happened all those many long years ago. Is the Pyms’ version of events accurate? Is Charlotte’s? I suggest that you hear Leo’s side of the story before you pass judgment on his younger self.
“We’ll try,” I said, “but he isn’t the easiest man to fi nd.”
I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later. When he does, listen to him. By the way, did you make any progress with Kit while you were out and about today?
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
173
“None,” I admitted. “I managed to hurt his feelings, though.”
Shame on you, Lori.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I protested. “He never used to mind it when I talked about the bad old days, when he was living on the streets, but when I brought it up today, he fl inched.”
What inspired you to mention it today?
“Kit was worried that Leo might be cold-shouldered in Finch,”
I explained. “And I told him that the villagers wouldn’t dare treat Leo the way they’d treated him when he was down and out, because the vicar wouldn’t let them.”
And he flinched?
“As if I’d smacked him in the face,” I said guiltily. “But I haven’t told you the worst part yet. After we left Aldercot, I started yammering like an idiot about mental illness. I didn’t stop to think about what had happened to Kit’s father until Kit finally told me to shut up. And then I wanted to kick myself, or let Kit kick me, for being so incredibly insensitive. I felt awful, Dimity, just awful.”
I can imagine. Did you say anything else that upset him?
“No,” I said. “I put my foot in my mouth twice, but otherwise I was positive and upbeat with him. When he started going on about being a deeply flawed human being, I told him that if he was deeply flawed, then there was hope for the rest of us.” I shook my head.
“Tell me, Dimity: Why do saints always think they’re fl awed?”
Because they’re saints.
“But what flaws could Kit possibly have?” I demanded. “A disgraceful streak of kindness? An overabundance of patience? A bigger heart than the law allows?”
Perhaps Kit doesn’t see himself as you see him, Lori. Or perhaps he sees something in himself that you don’t see. Or something that isn’t there.
“Sorry, Dimity,” I said, squinting at the page. “You’ve lost me.”
Never mind. It’s not important. Have you anything else to report?
“Not tonight,” I said. “But I hope that I’ll have more to tell you on Monday.”
174 Nancy Atherton
As do I. Good night, Lori, and good luck at the Despatch . I hope the archives will lead you to the truth.
“Thanks,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”
When the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I closed the journal, held my feet out to the fire, and contemplated the trip to Upper Deeping with a purely girlie sense of satisfaction.
“Finding the truth is a good and noble thing, Reg,” I said, looking up at my pink bunny. “But so is a day without mud.”
Eighteen