Read Online Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Atherton
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He’s beautiful, for one thing, and he’s like a little bouncy ball when he’s playing. He’d be good company for a woman living on her own.”
“I’m sure he would,” said Bill, “but you can’t take him with you to the Randolph. What are you going to do with him?”
The ball of paper popped out from beneath the bookstand and Hamish popped out after it. He chased it to the Queen Anne settee and gave it a smack that sent it skidding across the carpet to land at my feet, whereupon he seemed to lose interest in his improvised toy. He preened his gleaming black coat for a moment, then jumped up onto the settee and began to clean his whiskers. He seemed completely at ease, as if a spot of postprandial grooming before the hearth were part of his regular routine.
“I can’t take him to the Randolph,” I said slowly, “I can’t leave him alone in the apartment, and I can’t throw him out into the rain.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay here tonight and figure out what to do with him tomorrow. I’ll call Miss Beacham’s lawyer and ask if I can use her guest room.”
“I wouldn’t mention Hamish to him,” cautioned Bill. “Mr. Moss may not be as softhearted as you are.”
“Mum’s the word,” I said. “And if Mr. Moss vetoes the idea, Hamish and I will camp out at St. Benedict’s. Julian won’t mind feeding an extra pair of strays.”
“Julian lives to feed strays,” Bill said with a chuckle. We chatted for a few more minutes, then said good night.
I dug Miss Beacham’s letter out of my shoulder bag and tapped in the number for the law firm of Pratchett & Moss. A youthful-sounding female answered. When I told her my name, she put me through directly to Mr. Moss.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. His sober tone and cultivated accent brought to mind an image of a well-tailored, white-haired gentleman who preferred trained hunting dogs to playful cats. I warmed to him nevertheless, if only because he’d gotten my name right. Most people got it wrong because I hadn’t changed it when I’d married. My husband was Bill Willis, but I was and always would be Lori Shepherd.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Moss,” I said. “I’m calling from Miss Beacham’s flat.”
“Have you decided which item or items you wish to acquire?” he asked. “My client thought the Sheraton cylinder desk might be of particular interest to you.”
“It’s lovely,” I replied, “but so is everything else. It’s all so tempting that I can’t quite make up my mind, and I haven’t even begun to look at the books.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “I know it’s an odd thing to ask, Mr. Moss, but would you mind if I spent the night here? I’ll stay in town regardless—my husband doesn’t want me driving home in this awful weather—but staying here would give me extra time to look at things. I’d use the guest room, of course, and I’d tidy up after myself.”
Mr. Moss surprised me by answering promptly, “I have no objection to your proposal.”
“Great.” I loosed a sigh of relief, glanced down at the crumpled ball of paper Hamish had batted at me, and bent to pick it up. “Mr. Moss? There’s something else I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”
“I am at your service,” he said.
“I’ve been poking around a little and I’ve noticed that there aren’t any papers here. Personal papers, I mean. You know—letters, bills, things like that. Do you know where they are?”
“Miss Beacham discarded most of her papers,” said Mr. Moss, “and deposited the remainder with us.”
“Did she leave her family photographs with you, too?” I asked.
“I believe there are a certain number of photographs among her papers,” Mr. Moss replied. “You will find no items of clothing in my late client’s flat, either, Ms. Shepherd. Miss Beacham donated her wardrobe to a charity shop.”
“What about the coats in the front closet?” I asked.
Mr. Moss sighed. “One can only presume that they
“I’m sure he would,” said Bill, “but you can’t take him with you to the Randolph. What are you going to do with him?”
The ball of paper popped out from beneath the bookstand and Hamish popped out after it. He chased it to the Queen Anne settee and gave it a smack that sent it skidding across the carpet to land at my feet, whereupon he seemed to lose interest in his improvised toy. He preened his gleaming black coat for a moment, then jumped up onto the settee and began to clean his whiskers. He seemed completely at ease, as if a spot of postprandial grooming before the hearth were part of his regular routine.
“I can’t take him to the Randolph,” I said slowly, “I can’t leave him alone in the apartment, and I can’t throw him out into the rain.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay here tonight and figure out what to do with him tomorrow. I’ll call Miss Beacham’s lawyer and ask if I can use her guest room.”
“I wouldn’t mention Hamish to him,” cautioned Bill. “Mr. Moss may not be as softhearted as you are.”
“Mum’s the word,” I said. “And if Mr. Moss vetoes the idea, Hamish and I will camp out at St. Benedict’s. Julian won’t mind feeding an extra pair of strays.”
“Julian lives to feed strays,” Bill said with a chuckle. We chatted for a few more minutes, then said good night.
I dug Miss Beacham’s letter out of my shoulder bag and tapped in the number for the law firm of Pratchett & Moss. A youthful-sounding female answered. When I told her my name, she put me through directly to Mr. Moss.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Shepherd,” he said. His sober tone and cultivated accent brought to mind an image of a well-tailored, white-haired gentleman who preferred trained hunting dogs to playful cats. I warmed to him nevertheless, if only because he’d gotten my name right. Most people got it wrong because I hadn’t changed it when I’d married. My husband was Bill Willis, but I was and always would be Lori Shepherd.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Moss,” I said. “I’m calling from Miss Beacham’s flat.”
“Have you decided which item or items you wish to acquire?” he asked. “My client thought the Sheraton cylinder desk might be of particular interest to you.”
“It’s lovely,” I replied, “but so is everything else. It’s all so tempting that I can’t quite make up my mind, and I haven’t even begun to look at the books.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “I know it’s an odd thing to ask, Mr. Moss, but would you mind if I spent the night here? I’ll stay in town regardless—my husband doesn’t want me driving home in this awful weather—but staying here would give me extra time to look at things. I’d use the guest room, of course, and I’d tidy up after myself.”
Mr. Moss surprised me by answering promptly, “I have no objection to your proposal.”
“Great.” I loosed a sigh of relief, glanced down at the crumpled ball of paper Hamish had batted at me, and bent to pick it up. “Mr. Moss? There’s something else I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”
“I am at your service,” he said.
“I’ve been poking around a little and I’ve noticed that there aren’t any papers here. Personal papers, I mean. You know—letters, bills, things like that. Do you know where they are?”
“Miss Beacham discarded most of her papers,” said Mr. Moss, “and deposited the remainder with us.”
“Did she leave her family photographs with you, too?” I asked.
“I believe there are a certain number of photographs among her papers,” Mr. Moss replied. “You will find no items of clothing in my late client’s flat, either, Ms. Shepherd. Miss Beacham donated her wardrobe to a charity shop.”
“What about the coats in the front closet?” I asked.
Mr. Moss sighed. “One can only presume that they
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