“Whatdoyoumeanthere will be hints and riddles?” I’m generally up for things, and if it were anyone else who had set up this … game? I don’t even know what to call it … I would gladly go along and have a great time. But this is Aunt Agnes. I simply cannot fathom the insanity I am about to step into.
“Once you solve a riddle or figure out a hint, you will take a photo of yourself at the location she has sent you to. Send the photo to me and you will receive the next clue after a prescribed amount of time,” Mr. Crawley says as he leans back in his high-backed leather chair.
I blow out a breath, hoping it doesn’t reach him across his wide mahogany desk. “So, she’s stretching this out? I can’t just knock it out and be on my way with my grandfather’s box?”
“I’m afraid that’s correct. The good news is, I can give you the first clue today and you can get started.”
I stare at him, wondering how any of this is good news. “How big is this box?”
“Bigger than a shoebox, smaller than a fridge.” He gives the smallest smile before schooling his features. There’s a bit of him that is enjoying this. He’s smart not having the box sitting out. I’d be tempted to nick it and run.
“Might I ask, why are you just now getting around t—. Never mind, I know why. Aunt Agnes said to wait a certain amount of time after her funeral, didn’t she?”
“She did indeed, sir.”
I’ve got to get out of this office; it smells like dust and hundreds of years’ worth of pipe tobacco. “Alright. Give me the first riddle, I suppose.”
He slides a piece of paper across his desk like we are in the middle of some sort of negotiation. “My mobile is on there. Best of luck.”
I look down at the paper where my first riddle awaits.
You wore a special hat
On your mother’s lap, you sat
A milestone, but not for you
Out of frame, but I’m there too
The riddle and the long day of travel combine, making me close my eyes. “I’m too knackered for this.”
I step into the foyer of my London home and, as if she were staring out the window waiting, I’m met almost immediately by the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown. Before making the transition to housekeeper, she had been my nanny, and she has a hard time remembering I am no longer the child who would sneak sticky buns and leave evidence of my crime all over the house.
“Master Alexander! How good it is to see you. Welcome home.” Mrs. Brown moves in to hug me but stops. “I apologize, Mr. Henry. I got carried away.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me. Especially not for a hug. I almost always fancy a nice hug.” I set down my suitcase and Mr. Brown—Mrs. Brown’s husband and the butler—who I had not heard approach, takes it and heads for the stairs with a muttered “Sir.” A man of few words. I wrap my arms around Mrs. Brown and squeeze just like I used to.
She smiles as I release her, patting my arm like I imagine a grandmother would.
“And please just call me Alexander. When you call me Mr. Henry, I think you’re talking to my father.”
“Alright, alright, but you know Mrs. Henry wouldn’t bepleased.”
“Ah, let’s give mum the benefit of the doubt. I like to think she would have softened as she aged. Yeah?”
“Perhaps you’re right … Alexander.”
I grin at my old friend, and despite my fatigue and deep desire for my bed, I put my arm around her shoulders and lead her toward the kitchen. “Now, tell me. What’s been going on with you?”
I wake the next morning, only to find it’s actually afternoon. Five a.m. in LA. Still, I’m rested and ready to get on with my first riddle. Mrs. Brown is nowhere to be seen, but she left me a tray of pastries, a tea service—its kettle now cold—and a note asking me to let her know when I’m up and she can cook a warm breakfast.
I let her keep doing whatever is currently occupying her; I’m sure I can find something in the fridge.
Warm tea, soft-boiled eggs, and two Danish pastries in hand, I sit at the small table where my mum always enjoyed her morning tea. It’s by a window and overlooks the small garden behind the house. I pull out the riddle and, for the first time, truly ponder it.
I wore a special hat? I can’t remember wearing a special hat.I wear hats now when I’m trying to conceal my identity. But … I was in my mother’s lap, so I would have had to have been small. Is she trying to send me somewhere I went when I was small for a special occasion? She thought I would remember that?
My gaze is drawn to my mother’s row of hydrangea bushes; their beautiful white blossoms would have made Mum happy. They make me smile. And I realize this is the first time I’ve been here since their death that the memory of her, of them, has brought happiness instead of mourning. They may have been strict, and often demanding, but there was always the strong undercurrent of their love threaded throughout it all.
