Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (14 page)

“They usually do, Arthur, but not in this case. I thought I told you ...” Lucy sighed. “Never mind, dear. You stay here and entertain our guests while I soothe Lady Rutherford’s ruffled feathers.” Lucy quickly introduced us to her cousin and left the room.

Arthur remained where he was, standing just inside the door, glancing shyly at us while he ran a hand back and forth through his hair.

“Arthur ... ?” Nell called softly. “Won’t you join us? I’ve brought something rather special for tea.”

“Eh?” said Arthur, his interest aroused. “What’s that?”

Nell took Gerald’s tin out of her shoulder bag. “Come and see.”

“Haven’t had one of these in an age.” Arthur sighed with pleasure as he polished off the last of the butterscotch brownies. “Old Uncle Tom baked ‘em up every Sunday before his ticker went west. Miss him. And the brownies.” He leaned back to brush crumbs out of his beard and his fragile chair emitted a tiny groan. “Uncle Tom’d enjoy meeting Cousin William. Good chap. Certainly hope he sends in reinforcements. Could use ’em.”

“Reinforcements?” I repeated, the light beginning to dawn. “Arthur, did my father-in-law talk to you about moving to England?”

“What?” Arthur cast a furtive glance in my direction, as though he’d only just remembered who I was. “Can’t say. No. Certainly not. Not a word. Ahem.” The arms of Arthur’s chair bowed dangerously as he heaved himself to his feet and strolled over to peer out of the windows. “Talked Lucy’s ear off, though. Poor old Lucy. That’s who I feel sorry for.”

“Why?” I half-turned on the settee to watch Arthur as he lumbered back and forth before the windows.

Arthur shrugged. “Ancien
régime
pooped out all at once. Aunt Anthea retired early, Uncle Tom took sick, m‘father went bonkers. Then Gerald left. Hasn’t been easy on her. Love the law, myself—set your own hours, dine well. Not much good at it, though. Detail work, not my forte. Great disappointment to m’father.”

“Lucy’s sisters ... ?” Nell asked.

“Sprats,” said Arthur. He wandered over to examine Lucy’s books. “Only just sprung from university, both of ‘em.”

“You’re not much older than that yourself,” Nell pointed out.

“Ah, but I’m a man. Different set of rules. Old trouts prefer an idiot male to a clever young woman. Stupid, but true.” He pointed to the portrait above the mantelpiece. “ ‘S’why Lucy makes such a fuss about old Julia Louise. Strong woman. Respected in her day. So Lucy says.”

I finished my first cup of tea and poured a second. I’d consumed an embarrassingly large number of the tiny sandwiches, but consoled myself with the thought that Lucy would assume Arthur had eaten most of them. Turning to him, I said sympathetically, “I can understand why you were all so upset with Gerald when he left.”

Arthur swung around to face me. “Did she tell you?” he said, his hand flying to his head. “Imagine that. Not Lucy’s style to moan. Still, if the love of my life went over the moon for a whey-faced old cow, suppose I’d want to howl about it every now and then. Good of you to lend her an ear.”

I sipped my tea and waited for my brain to finish translating Arthur’s staccato patter into standard English. Then I choked. Good Lord, I thought, coughing into a napkin,
Lucy’s in love with Gerald, too.

I should have seen it coming. Lucy had given a different set of signals from those of poor red-faced Miss Coombs, but the signs had been there all along, if only I’d had the wit to interpret them correctly. The irony made me wince. Lucy Willis, champion of an exceptional woman, was herself enacting one of the most traditional roles of all: a woman scorned.

“Ger-Gerald told us he was looking after his father,” I managed, wheezing.

“Looking after Uncle Tom? Up in Bedfordshire?” Arthur’s laughter rumbled up from deep within his barrel chest and burst out in a series of hearty guffaws. “Suppose he had to tell you something, but ... What’s he doing? Commuting from Surrey? Good old Gerald. Looking after Uncle Tom ...”

“Mr. Digby told us that he takes the train to London twice a month,” said Nell.

“Who’s Mr. Digby?” Arthur asked, wiping his eyes.

“The porter at the Georgian Hotel,” Nell replied. “His daughter works at the train station, and she said—”

“Infernal cheek!” Arthur exclaimed. “You tell Mr. Digby and his daughter to mind their own business and not go spreading rumors about old Gerald.” Arthur returned to his chair and accepted a third cup of tea from Nell. “Truth is,” he confessed after a moment’s thought, “Gerald asks for it. Can’t imagine what he sees in the wretched hag. Little round dumpling of a woman—peg legs, no waist, dyed hair. Not in the first bloom of youth, either. Pretends to be all sweetness and light, but one look at those eyes ...” Arthur shuddered. “Hard as flint. Worst part is, Gerald gives her lunch where we used to take our clients. Hard on Lucy, poor old thing.”

Nell offered the plate of petits fours to Arthur, who selected three and popped them into his mouth, one after another.

“Is it hurting the firm?” she inquired.

“Isn’t helping,” Arthur replied after a mighty swallow. “We’re doing all right, but it’s not the same, not without old Gerald. Trouts loved him. Eldest son of the eldest son of the Willis family—tradition and all that. Gerald would’ve charmed the garters off of old Lady Rutherford.” He glanced at the door and added, in a confidential murmur, “Excitable, you know. Shouldn’t have called her husband a prince among men. Accused me of insulting the Royals.”

“Why did Gerald leave?” I asked.

“Le coeur
a
ses
raisons,
as they say.” Arthur peered over the top of his teacup. “That is what they say, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and nearly gave me a heart attack.

“Arthur,” I said, with studied nonchalance, “what’s that on the bottom of your shoe?”

“Mmm?” Arthur glanced down at the piece of paper fluttering from the sole of his shoe. “Lucy’d have a fit if she saw that. She’s always going on at me for leaving rubbish about the place.” With a grunt of effort, he snatched the piece of paper from his shoe and tossed it toward the wastebasket near Lucy’s desk. He missed.

I watched in horrified fascination as the journal page wafted gently through the air and landed in the middle of the carpet. From the comer of my eye I saw Nell stiffen as the door opened and Lucy returned.

“Arthur, I’ve asked you a dozen times to at least
try
to keep your papers in order,” she said, staring pointedly at the unseemly litter.

“Not mine,” Arthur protested. “Rubbish. Here, I’ll pitch it.” He began to heave himself to his feet once more, but Lucy waved him back into his chair. She plucked the piece of paper from the floor, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Have you had a pleasant chat?” she asked.

Nell seized the opportunity and ran with it. “We have, but I wonder if you and Arthur could answer a question for me? Is that the tower of the Law Society or the Law Courts? And what’s that big gray building over there?”

While she drew the two cousins to the far end of the room, I scuttled behind the desk and rescued the journal page from the circular file. I cast a cautious glance toward the windows, then sidled over to the fireplace, where I quickly smoothed the piece of paper and read:

I thrust the journal page deep into the pocket of my tweed blazer and pressed it flat, trying not to draw attention to myself by giggling. Aunt Dimity’s note was so ... Dimity. What on earth did she mean when she said she’d try to learn more about Julia Louise “on this end”? Was there an ethereal information center where she was, filled with celestial bulletin boards and otherworldly Who’s
Whos?
Was there an Internet in heaven? I’d have to remember to pose the question to Emma.

In the meantime, however, I’d have to beat a polite but hasty retreat from number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, if I wanted to get down to Cloverly House before it closed its doors for the day. I was sorry to leave so soon. I liked Lucy Willis. She’d made me feel welcome, not only as a guest but as a new and delightful addition to the family. I wanted to get to know her better, to help her, if I could, and as I watched her straighten Arthur’s tie while patiently explaining every notch in the skyline to Nell, it occurred to me that Gerald was being as big a fool as Bill.

Big Ben was tolling two o‘clock as we pulled away from number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, and my stomach was growling that it was way past lunchtime. Paul had said that Cloverly House—Uncle Williston’s rest home—was just outside the town of Goudhurst, in Kent, and I didn’t think I’d make it that far on petits fours and watercress sandwiches. For some reason, I was starving.

“Is there anything to eat back here, Paul?” I asked, hunting through the concealed compartments that lined the passenger section of the limo.

“Just the usual biscuits and mineral water, madam. I could stop at Fortnum’s for a hamper, if you like,” Paul offered.

“You can’t be hungry again,” Nell protested as she buckled Bertie and Reginald into the fold-down seat facing us. “You ate more than Arthur.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I said. “Talk to my stomach. It’s demanding chow.” I told Paul to forget Fortnum’s and grab a couple of sausages from the next sidewalk vendor he saw. Ten minutes later, as I was greedily wolfing down a pair of plump red puddings and a bag of spectacularly greasy chips, I noticed that Nell was staring intently at my stomach, as though she did mean to address it. “That was a joke,” I pointed out, with some asperity.

“Lori,” Nell said thoughtfully, “Paul could drive us back to the cottage, if you like. It might be a good idea to take a day off. You said you were getting fed up with running around.”

“Are you kidding?” I cried. “Give up the chase now, when we know so ... little? No way.” I ran a finger around the collar of my silk blouse. “Is it hot in here, or is it me?”

Nell turned on the air conditioning—to flush out the fumes of my al-fresco luncheon, I suspected, as much as to give me a breath of fresh air—adjusted Reg and Bertie’s seat belt, then sat back. “I think we’ve learned an awful lot,” she commented.

I smiled wryly. “That may be, but we don’t know what any of it means.”

“True.” Nell nodded judiciously. “I can’t think why William’s gone to see poor, mad Uncle Williston.” She tilted her head to one side and wound a golden curl around her finger. “Unless ...”

“Unless what?” I asked.

“Unless William thinks Uncle Williston knows something about those papers,” Nell replied. “The papers Lucy sent to Aunt Anthea up in Yorkshire.”

“Funny about those papers ...” I took another bite of red pudding and washed it down with a swig of mineral water. “Odd that they should disappear from London just before William shows up, asking questions. I wonder if the deed to number three is as authentic as Lucy claims?”

“Do you think number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, might really belong to William?” Nell asked, her eyes widening.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone had faked a document to get what he—or she—wanted,” I told her. “I run into it once in a while when I’m hunting rare books for Stan Finderman.” I finished the first pudding and started in on the second. “But why would William want Lucy’s building? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Nell, but my father-in-law isn’t exactly strapped for cash. If he wants an office building in London, he can buy one without blinking.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want just any office building,” Nell suggested. “William’s awfully fond of tradition. He might want Lucy’s building because it’s been in the family for such a long time.”

“So he can hand it down to his son?” I snorted derisively. “As if Bill would ever give up his empire in Boston ...” I regretted the words the moment they were out, not because I didn’t mean them, but because I hadn’t meant Nell to hear them. She ducked her head and looked quickly out of the window, as though I’d wounded her, and the reproachful glint in Reg’s eyes was enough to make me reach for the telephone. “Speaking of whom,” I said brightly, “I still haven’t returned Bill’s call. I think I’ll do it now.”

Nell glanced at me worriedly. “That’s a very good idea.”

As I dialed Bill’s number at Little Moose Lake, I steeled myself to perform the role of the patient wife—for Nell’s benefit much more than Bill‘s—but the performance was canceled before it began, because there was no answer. None. Not even a frigid “Good evening” from a snooty servant.

Perplexed, I telephoned Bill’s secretary, who’d remained in Boston. He informed me that a potent summer gale had swept inland from the Maine coast, downing power lines and severing communications between certain rural areas and the outside world. He hadn’t heard from Bill all day and had no idea when telephone service would be restored. Nature, it seemed, had joined Fate in a tag-team assault on my marriage.

My frustration was leavened by a tiny grain of malicious pleasure at the thought of my city-bred husband roughing it in a Biddiford-infested wilderness. Even as I explained. the situation to Nell, I savored an image of Bill gnawing doggedly on a piece of beef jerky in the dark. It smacked of divine justice.