And Kit wants to speak with Henrietta because . . . ?
“Because he wants to ask her if the gamekeeper is still alive,” I said, spurred on by Aunt Dimity’s prompting. “If he is, we’ll track him down and find out everything he knows about what happened on the night Maurice DuCaral was shot.”
Bravo. Honestly, Lori, I thought you’d never cotton on. You’re not usually so slow on the uptake, my dear. In truth, you’re far more likely to jump over the facts in order to reach your conclusions more rapidly, but you seem rather distracted this evening. Is something bothering you?
“As a matter of fact, something is bothering me,” I admitted.
“Don’t get me wrong, Dimity. I want to do right by Leo. But in all the excitement about proving his innocence, we seem to have forgotten about Rendor.”
Oh, dear, so we have. Were you able to learn anything about him in Upper Deeping?
“Nothing,” I said gloomily. “But I found out from Leo that Charlotte had only one sibling, an older brother, who was setting up a children’s clinic in Africa on the night Maurice was shot and who died two years later in a plane crash. He was setting up a children’s clinic, Dimity. Why would the Pyms describe him as a man with shameful desires that had to be concealed? He sounds more like a saint to me.” I frowned unhappily. “Leo isn’t Rendor. Charlotte’s brother isn’t Rendor. There aren’t any guests at Aldercot Hall who could be Rendor. My theories are being knocked down faster than pins in a bowling alley.”
I suppose we must ask ourselves once again: Who is Rendor?
“I’d begin to suspect Bellamy the butler if he weren’t so old,” I said. “But he’d never make it from Aldercot Hall to the apple tree and back again without blowing a heart valve. And Henrietta’s the exact opposite of thin and pale. So who did I hear in the attic?”
Perhaps you heard a “what” rather than a “who,” my dear.
202 Nancy Atherton
“What do you mean?” I asked.
I mean that you may have heard bats. Not a vampire in bat form, but plain, ordinary, common or garden-variety bats. Their squeaks might easily be mistaken for a creaking floorboard.
“I had my ear pressed to a door covered in bats?” My toes curled in disgust. “Gross.”
There’s nothing remotely gross about bats, Lori, and I won’t have you maligning them. Bats are exceptionally helpful little creatures. If it weren’t for bats, the world would be overrun by midges and mosquitoes.
“I’ll take your word for it, Dimity,” I said, shuddering. “But even if I did hear bats in Charlotte’s attic, it doesn’t explain who Will and Rob saw on Emma’s Hill or who left the boot prints and the scrap of crimson silk there.”
No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But take heart. Gamekeepers are trained ob-servers. They know the lie of the land. They know what belongs on their property and what doesn’t. I imagine they see many strange things during the course of their careers.
“The DuCarals’ old gamekeeper might know who Rendor is,” I said, brightening. “Gosh, Dimity, I hope he’s still alive.”
As do I. And since it sounds as though you have yet another active, outdoor day ahead of you, I suggest that you get some sleep.
I didn’t need coaxing. I said good night to Aunt Dimity and to Reginald, put the blue journal back on its shelf, turned out the lights, and went upstairs to bed.
As I nestled my head into my pillow, I tried to focus my mind on how happy Leo would be when Kit proved that he wasn’t a murderer, or on how happy I would be when the gamekeeper revealed Rendor’s true identity, or on how happy we all would be when Bill came home on Thursday, but the last thought that floated across my consciousness was . . . Bats? Yecch!
Twenty-one
T he clear skies and balmy breezes of St. Luke’s Little Summer returned the following day. The morning air was so gloriously mild that I dressed Will and Rob in their lightweight summer riding gear before sending them off with Annelise to Anscombe Manor, though I took the precaution of stowing sweaters and jackets in the Range Rover, in case they were needed later on.
I shed one layer from my usual hiking attire, but I tucked the fleece pullover into my day pack, along with my rain jacket, because I’d lived in England long enough to know that St. Luke’s Little Summer could become St. Frosty’s Big Winter in the blink of an eye.