Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree by Nancy Atherton Page B

someone rapped on the study door.
    “Come in,” I called.
    The Donovans entered the room, Declan in his work clothes and Deirdre in the full-skirted white shirtdress she’d worn while serving lunch. Her long chestnut hair was bundled tidily into a black snood at the back of her head.
    “Sorry to disturb you, Lori,” she said. “Mr. Willis asked Declan to put the painting in your car, and I wanted to make sure that he took the right one.”
    “It’s pretty easy to identify,” I said, waving a hand toward the Sheraton sideboard. “It’s the nasty one sitting on the floor and the sooner it’s out of here, the happier I’ll be.”
    “Dear me,” said Declan, grimacing as he caught sight of the filthy picture. “It has seen better days, hasn’t it?”
    “It must have hung near a fireplace that smoked rather badly,” Deirdre observed. “Fetch a dust sheet from the storage room to wrap it in, Declan. Otherwise, you’ll leave a trail of soot behind you.”
    “I hear and obey.” Declan bowed to his wife with comic humility, then sauntered out of the room.
    I crossed to stand beside Deirdre, who was peering thoughtfully at the painting.
    “Was it in the house when Mr. Willis purchased it?” she asked.
    “No,” I replied. “The house was empty when William purchased it, but we found some stuff in one of the outbuildings—a book, a collection of paperweights—”
    “The Murano paperweights in the morning room?” Deirdre interjected.
    “That’s right,” I said. “The paperweights aren’t worth a great deal, but William decided to display them as relics of Fairworth’s history. The same goes for the brass compass in the billiards room, the enameled snuffboxes in the drawing room, and the flock of little silver sheep in the dining room. The silver sheep turned out to be Victorian salt and pepper shakers.” I nudged the painting gingerly with my toe. “A workman found this monstrosity wedged beneath a pile of rubble in the old stables. If it were mine, I’d put it on the scrap heap.”
    “You may think more highly of it after it’s been cleaned. I believe it’s from the late Victorian period.” Deirdre smiled briefly. “I could be wrong. I’m judging by the frame.”
    “You amaze me,” I said, giving her a sidelong glance. “Where did you learn to date picture frames?”
    “Oxford,” she replied. “I took a first in art history. One of my tutors was fanatical about frames, so I learned quite a lot about the art of frame-making—the art that frames the art, as he was fond of saying.”
    I was beginning to feel a faint twinge of annoyance every time Deirdre revealed a new area of expertise. I couldn’t imagine why a woman who cooked like Escoffier, spoke six languages, knew how to raise sheep, and possessed a degree in art history from an Oxford college would be content to work as a housekeeper.
    “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “what brought you to Fairworth House?”
    Deirdre tore her gaze away from the painting and faced me. “Haven’t you read the papers Mrs. Trent sent to you?”
    “Not yet,” I told her. “I’ve been a little distracted lately, what with the housewarming party and all.”
    “I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch,” she said. “After Declan and I were married, we decided to go into business for ourselves. We opened a guesthouse in Connemara—in the west of Ireland, where Declan’s people come from.”
    “Is that where you learned about sheep?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she said, looking faintly surprised. “You can’t live in Ireland for any length of time without learning a thing or two about sheep. At any rate, our business ran smoothly for the first four years, but during the fifth year we were plagued with problems, major problems that closed us down and cost the earth to repair—a gale damaged the roof, a grease fire destroyed the kitchen. ...” She shook her head ruefully. “After the boiler burst, we’d had enough. We sold up and started