Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (12 page)

I swung around to face Lady Eleanor, who was busily arranging Bertie and Reginald in her shoulder bag. “Nell?”

She smiled past me at our luggage. “Dear Mr. Digby! He brought our bags to the station in Haslemere, just as I asked him to. And his daughter was every bit as helpful. She said I reminded her of her little niece, and when I asked her to ring the Flamborough and speak with Paul—”

“She got straight on it,” Paul put in. “Miss Kingsley’s sent a chap to drive your car back to Finch, and says I’m yours for the duration, madam.” Paul had solved the dilemma of what to call a married woman who hadn’t taken her husband’s last name by referring to me exclusively as “madam.” Lady Eleanor’s title was, much to Paul’s delight, legitimate, thanks to her grandfather, the pompous old earl.

Nell gazed up at me, wide-eyed. “Have I been presumptuous again?”

“A bit,” I said dryly, “but I don’t mind. I just hope that you’ll think kindly of me when you rule the world.”

Paul thought I was joking, and laughed. “She does have a way with people, does Lady Eleanor. Now, if you’ll be so good as to follow me, madam, and you, too, my lady, the porter’ll bring your bags. The limo’s just round here.”

In truth, I was overjoyed to have Paul and his black limousine at our disposal. I couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue I’d been feeling ever since I’d arrived at the cottage, and my lower back was aching slightly from the tension of the long drive. It would be a pleasure to stretch my legs in the spacious backseat while a knowledgeable native took the wheel.

Apart from that, the limo was equipped with one essential piece of equipment the Mini lacked: a cellular telephone. I put in a call to Miss Kingsley before Paul had finished loading our luggage into the trunk.

“Mr. Willis did not check into the Flamborough last night,” she reported. “He stayed at number three, Anne Elizabeth Court. It’s near the Inns of Court.”

The address sounded strangely familiar. I glanced down at the slip of paper bearing directions to the family firm and said, “But that’s where we’re going now. I thought it was a business address.”

“Lucy and Arthur Willis live in flats above the family’s offices,” Miss Kingsley informed me. “I assume Mr. Willis spent the night in one of them. He left the building approximately one hour ago.”

I groaned. “Any idea where he went?”

“I’m sorry, Lori, but Bjorn lost him in traffic.”

“Bjorn?” I said. “Bjorn the barman?”

“That’s right,” said Miss Kingsley. “It was Bjorn’s night off, so I asked him to keep an eye on Lucy’s residence, in case Mr. Willis showed up there.”

I’d have to remember to tip poor Bjorn big-time the next time I had a drink in the Flamborough’s bar. I was pretty sure that Miss Kingsley hadn’t so much
asked
as
ordered
him to spend his night off staking out the Inns of Court. I thanked Miss Kingsley, asked her to call if she had anything new to report, then rang Emma.

“Lori!” she exclaimed, sounding out of breath. “If my bell peppers rot on the ground, I’ll know who to blame.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“It’s this search you sent me on,” she replied. “I’ve been up half the night sorting through your in-laws’ dirty laundry. I haven’t even been out to the garden yet.”

The flood of adrenaline that carried Emma through the rigors of harvesttime had evidently spilled over into her research project. She sounded giddy as a kitten. I glanced out of the limo’s tinted window, saw that we’d come to a standstill in a long line of cars on Waterloo Bridge, and figured I’d have time for several hampers’ worth of dirty laundry. “Do tell.”

“I haven’t gotten started on the old feud yet, but if it’s anything like more recent history, it’ll be a king-sized can of worms.”

“Sleeping dogs,” I corrected. “Never mind. Go on.” I could picture Emma settling onto the horsehair sofa in the family room at the manor house, leaning against the sofa’s arm and curling her legs up under her, with Ham sprawled on the hearth rug, and sunlight streaming through the windows behind her. The image made me so homesick for the cottage that I nearly missed the first part of what she was saying.

“It’s all to do with the older generation,” Emma began. “That’s two brothers and a sister: Thomas, the eldest, Williston, and Anthea. Three years ago, they were working full-time for the firm, then suddenly,
poof,
they all retired at once, leaving their children to pick up the pieces.”

“Gerald mentioned that his father had health problems,” I remarked.

“That takes care of Thomas,” said Emma, “but I’ll bet Gerald didn’t mention that they had to clap his uncle Williston into a madhouse!”

I jerked forward on the backseat. “You’re kidding.”

“That’s the least of it,” Emma went on. “Wait till you hear what caused his breakdown. Are you listening?
Willuton’s wife ran off with Anthea’s husband.”

“Good grief ...” I muttered.

“It gets better,” said Emma. “Apparently Anthea’s husband—his name is Douglas—was sound as a bell until he decided to have a midlife crisis and came under the influence of a doctor who was prescribing questionable medication. It brought out the beast in Douglas, and he started going through legal secretaries like there was no tomorrow. The next thing anyone knew, he’d bolted for Canada, with Williston’s pretty young wife in tow. A year later, Williston went stark, raving mad, and they had to lock him up. He’s still in a convalescent home down in Kent.”

“What about Anthea?” I asked, scrambling to keep up. “What did she do after Douglas left?”

“Divorced him, chucked her career, and ran away to the family farm up in Yorkshire, where she’s known as Anthea Willis.” Emma paused for a breath. “She dispensed with Douglas’s last name, as did her daughters, and I can’t say I blame them. What self-respecting woman would want to be associated with a creep like Douglas?”

“Let me get this straight.” Emma’s zeal was admirable, but I felt as though I’d been hit by a hailstorm. “Thomas is sick, Williston’s crazy, Anthea’s gone into seclusion, and Douglas is a ... an expatriate junkie philanderer? Whew.” I mopped my brow. “Is all of this public knowledge?”

“Not really,” said Emma. “I got most of this information from Derek’s solicitor. If he hadn’t been an old friend, I don’t think he‘d’ve told me as much as he did. The legal world is pretty good about protecting its own.”

“Still,” I said, “it couldn’t have done the firm’s reputation much good.”

“Gerald held the firm rock-steady through the early days,” Emma told me. “Derek’s solicitor says that the clients trusted Gerald, and no one on the net has a bad word to say about him. They acknowledge that he made certain errors in judgment, but put it down to the pressure he was under at the time, which, as you can imagine, must have been considerable.”

“And his cousin Lucy’s been running the place since he left,” I mused.

“She’s doing a good job of it, too,” Emma added. “I didn’t learn much about her sisters or this other cousin, Arthur, but they must be pulling their weight, because the firm’s flourishing, in spite of everything.”

“Gosh,” I said, blinking dazedly down at the Thames. “Too bad you couldn’t dig up something
juicy.”

Emma’s laughter blended with the sound of Ham barking in the background. She ordered the dog to be quiet, then asked me to hold, because someone was coming up the drive. I heard the front door open, a muffled exchange of words, the thump of the door as it was closed again, and the distant sound of an engine revving. A moment later, Emma was back.

“Another delivery,” she announced. “I assume you want me to put the fax machine in the shed with the photocopier.”

“Fax machine?” I shook my head. “Aunt Dimity’s right, Emma. William
must
be stopped.”

“Any trace of him?” Emma asked.

“His spoor’s been sighted, but so far he’s evaded capture.” I relayed Miss Kingsley’s news, adding that I still intended to visit Lucy Willis, on the off chance that she might know where Willis, Sr., had gone.

“Watch what you say about Anthea and that creep Douglas,” Emma cautioned. “They’re Lucy’s mom and dad. And crazy old Williston is Arthur’s father.”

“I’ll write it all down on my wrist,” I promised. Nell reminded me to ask Emma to keep her eyes open for any reference to a disputed legacy, and Emma agreed to tackle ancient history
after
she’d seen to her peppers.

“Well?” said Nell, as I hung up the phone.

I stared at her blankly for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Nell,” I began, “remember when I said that this branch of the family sounded
interesting ...
?”

 

Anne Elizabeth Court was a tiny square of redbrick Georgian row houses surrounding a microscopic patch of lawn. The street bordering the lawn was so narrow that I thought the limo wouldn’t fit, but Paul was accustomed to navigating the medieval byways of his city and sailed up to number three without the slightest hesitation.

The Willises occupied one of five identical four-story buildings on the west side of the square. All had shiny white railings running along the sidewalk, fan windows above pristine white doors, and brass plates that identified their residents. Whereas the other plates were engraved with the names of two or more tenants, however, the plate at number three boasted a single occupant: “Willis & Willis.”

“Déjà vu all over again,” I muttered, remembering the first time I’d seen that name engraved on a brass plate. I’d been frozen by wintry Boston winds that day, but now I was broiling beneath a glaring London sun, already regretting my decision to wear the dark tweeds.

I waved to Paul, who’d elected to stay behind and defend the limo from the depredations of voracious traffic wardens, and reached up to twist the bell handle protruding from the center of the gleaming white door. I’d managed only a half-turn when the handle was yanked from my hand and the door was flung open by a tall, heavyset young man in a black three-piece suit.

The man’s neat attire contrasted sharply with his brown beard, which was long and unkempt, and his thick brown hair, which stuck out all over his head in uneven wisps and tails. His state of disorder was promptly explained when he took one look at us, and as if by force of long habit flung a pudgy hand to his head.

“Good Lord,” he exclaimed, making his hair stand, quite literally, on end. “Is it noon already? Forgive me, dear ladies. I seem to have lost track of the time. Won’t you come in?”

Before I could inform him that noon was still an hour off, Nell’s fist in the small of my back sent me skittering across the threshold and into a small but tastefully furnished entrance hall. Ahead of us was an ivory-painted door framed by slender neoclassical pilasters; to our left, a narrow staircase with a graceful black wrought-iron balustrade. The effect was elegant and old-money expensive—a sharp contrast to the Larches.

The portly man didn’t seem to notice my stumbling entrance. He didn’t seem to notice much at all, apart from his shiny gold wristwatch, which he shook, tapped, and held to his ear repeatedly as he led us up the staircase to a second-floor office with windows that overlooked the square. The room was fine and lofty, with plasterwork arabesques on the ceiling and white-painted floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

The room’s harmonious lines were spoiled, unfortunately, by the books, which were in as sad a state of disarray as the large man’s hair. Some were stacked helter-skelter on their sides, some were lodged on their spines, and nearly all of them bristled with strips of paper tucked between the pages. The desk opposite the door was a marquetry affair large enough to serve as an emergency airstrip, and littered with sheafs of paper, document boxes, and still more books.

Nell and I took our places in delicate, oval-backed armchairs while the portly man made the long journey to the far side of the desk. His own chair was a sturdy, broad-backed executive’s recliner, distinctly out-of-period, but eminently suited to a man of his stature. Once seated, he left off rattling his watch, pulled a document box toward him, and began to shuffle hastily through its contents, talking all the while.

“You’ll be pleased to know, Lady Rutherford, that the disputed settlement has been resolved much faster than we’d anticipated. I’ve been authorized by the estate to release funds to you, and to your niece, on the quarterly schedule previously discussed.” He paused for a moment to fold his hands on his breast, his brown eyes melting with compassion. “And may I once again, on behalf of the entire firm, extend my heartfelt condolences to you on your grievous loss.”

I smiled weakly and glanced at Nell.

“Here we are,” the large man said at last, unearthing two typewritten sheets from the box. He rose from his chair and came around to clear a space on the desk and place the papers before me. Smiling vaguely, he patted each of his pockets in turn before bustling once more to the far side of the desk to retrieve a black fountain pen from the center drawer.

“As you can see, Lady Rutherford,” he said, puffing slightly as he strode back to stand over me, “I’ve signed the forms just here. If you would be so good as add your signature, I‘ll—”

He broke off as the door to his office opened and a dark-haired woman put her head inside. “Arthur?” she said. “Lady Rutherford and her niece have arrived early. They’re waiting for you ... in ... the ...” Her words trailed off as her eyes traveled from my face to Nell’s to the pen poised in the big man’s sausage fingers. “Arthur,” she said abruptly, with a bright, brittle smile, “may I speak with you? In my office?
Now?”

She vanished from sight, and Arthur trudged off after her, tugging worriedly at his scraggly beard, a haunted expression in his dark-brown eyes. The moment he left the office, Nell went over to listen at the door, but I pulled the papers toward me and stared hard at the portly man’s signature.

“William Arthur Willis,” I read aloud, with the same dizzy sense of dislocation I’d experienced upon seeing the brass plate beside the front door. My husband and my father-in-law were both named William Arthur Willis, and the Willis mansion in Boston had been built in large part by an American ancestor of the same name.