Free Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton Page B

closed the bedroom door.
    I ran to the living room first. I’d tucked Miss Beacham’s letter into my shoulder bag before leaving the cottage, to use in case anyone questioned my right to enter her home. I took it out now, and prepared to use it to explain my presence in the flat.
    Armed with Miss Beacham’s words, I schooled my features into what I hoped would be an open, innocent, and above all, trustworthy expression and crept into the foyer. There I saw, to my relief, that the front door had been equipped with a security peephole. I tiptoed forward, holding my breath, and peeked into the corridor.
    If the man facing me was Mr. Moss, I decided, then Mr. Moss was neither as old nor as well dressed as I’d imagined him. The man in the corridor was, at a guess, in his midforties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his short dark hair was flecked with gray. He had a pleasant face—good-looking, but not strikingly handsome. His gray eyes seemed tired, and he’d evidently forgotten to shave—a stubble of beard marked the line of his jaw.
    He wore scuffed leather sandals—with, I shuddered to note, white socks—and his oversized cable-knit sweater was, to judge by its rattiness, an extremely old favorite. The sweater hung loosely over a pair of baggy sweatpants that were dappled with paint. I couldn’t tell by looking at him if he was one of Julian Bright’s disreputable lost sheep or an ordinary, middle-class Englishman dressed for a casual evening at home. He didn’t look like any lawyer I’d ever met.
    I leaned back from the door and called, “Who’s there?”
    “Gabriel,” he replied. “Gabriel Ashcroft, from downstairs. I’m looking for Stanley.”
    “There’s no one here by that name,” I responded, and clapped my eye to the peephole again.
    Gabriel Ashcroft remained where he was. He gazed at the door with a puzzled expression and opened his mouth once or twice before saying, “Forgive me, but your voice doesn’t sound familiar. Are you an American, by any chance? Are you new to the building?”
    “I am a Yank,” I replied, “but I haven’t moved in. I’m . . . visiting.”
    “Of course.” He shuffled his sandaled feet indecisively. “Well, if you happen to see a black cat with yellow eyes—”
    I flung the door wide.
    “—he . . . belongs . . . to me,” Gabriel finished haltingly. He stared at my unfamiliar face for a moment, then extended his hand cautiously. “Hello. I’m Gabriel Ashcroft. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “Lori Shepherd.” I gave his hand a perfunctory shake before asking, “Are you saying that you live in this building? And you own a black cat? And his name is . . . Stanley? ”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “Then who’s Hamish? ” I demanded.
    Gabriel rubbed his chin, as though my ridiculous question deserved careful consideration. After a moment, he answered, “I’ve no idea.”
    I tucked Miss Beacham’s letter into my back pocket and frowned. “I don’t suppose there could be two black cats with yellow eyes.”
    “In the universe, yes,” Gabriel said gravely. “In this building? No.”
    I gave him a suspicious glance. “Are you humoring me?”
    “You do seem a trifle . . . nervy.” He lifted his hands, palms upward. “I’m simply trying to find my cat, Ms. Shepherd—”
    “Lori,” I said automatically. “Call me Lori.”
    “Lori, then. And you must call me Gabriel.” He managed a tentative smile. “I let Stanley out most evenings, you see, and he sometimes finds his way up here. I think he’s convinced Miss Beacham—”
    “Are you a friend of Miss Beacham’s?” I broke in.
    “No. We just live in the same building.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Stanley has a habit of hoodwinking Miss Beacham into letting him in downstairs and bringing him up here, out of pity. I don’t think she minds his visits—she’s never complained about them, at any rate. She simply hands Stanley over and says good night.” He peered past me,