Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (19 page)

“No kidding,” said Emma. “Does that mean William’s out of danger?”

“For the time being,” I told her. “Did you manage to dig up anything on Julia Louise?”

“I did,” said Emma. “I spent most of the night on-line with a professor of legal history in Oxford. Derek fixed the retaining wall of his back garden once, gratis, so he was more than willing to give me the lowdown on dear old Julia Louise.”

“He’d heard of her?” I said, surprised.

“She was infamous,” Emma replied. “The minute she moved from Bath to London, she began to throw her weight around. She brought hundreds of lawsuits against her sons’ competitors, which didn’t endear her to the legal community, and there was a lot of tittle-tattle about why she had to pack her younger son off to the colonies.”

“What kind of tittle-tattle?” I asked.

“Something to do with a woman,” Emma explained. “My professor wasn’t sure whether Lord William had gotten her pregnant or broken an engagement or what. He must have cleaned up his act when he got to the colonies, though, because he married well once he was there.”

“Hold on a minute.” I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and reported Emma’s findings to Nell.

“Ask Mama if she knows what Lord William’s wife was called,” Nell said.

I relayed the question to Emma, then repeated the answer to Nell. “Charlotte Eugenie Stoll. She was the daughter of some bigwig on the colonies.”

“Hmmm,” said Nell, and went back to reading the transcript.

“What about the older son?” I asked Emma.

“Sir Williston? He was Julia Louise’s hatchet man, did whatever Mother told him to do. Although ...” I heard the sound of papers being shuffled in the background; then Emma spoke again. “He became something of a saint after her death. He donated money to poorhouses and supported several orphanages.”

“Sounds like he was trying to disassociate himself from Julia Louise,” I commented. “Not a bad idea.”

“I’ve got something more on Gerald, if you’re interested,” Emma said. “It’s about why he left the firm. Let me see, where did I put it?”

While Emma searched through her notes, I stared out of the window. We were driving through open country now. The hedged-in, patchwork fields of the south had given way to the Midlands’ broader vistas. Great golden swaths of barley, corn, and rippling wheat filled the wide horizons. I fixed my gaze on a plume of dust trailing behind a distant combine harvester, and wished that my pulse wouldn’t jump every time someone mentioned Gerald’s name.

“Here, I’ve found it,” Emma said. “Rumor has it that Gerald misplaced a few decimal points on a client’s settlement. The money was restored, and the incident hushed up, but the timing was bad. The firm had just gone through the bad patch I told you about, and they were afraid that one more scandal would cause a fatal crisis of confidence.”

“He was under a lot of pressure at the time,” I murmured.

“What? Speak up, Lori. I missed that last bit.”

“I was just saying that Lucy’s under a lot of pressure,” I replied quickly. “It’s a shame Gerald had to leave. She could use his help.”

Nell reminded me to ask Emma to look for information on Sybella Markham, and her reminder prompted me to describe our visit to Uncle Williston. Emma was stunned to hear that Douglas and Sibyl were dead.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Nobody said a word about it to me.” She paused before adding thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s because they died in Canada. Nobody here pays much attention to what goes on there.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m sure the family kept the whole thing as quiet as they could,” I told her.

“Oh, Lori ...” Emma sighed. “If I wasn’t totally committed to my runner beans today, I’d hop in the car and race you to Aunt Anthea’s. I only get to
hear
about these people. You get to
meet
them.”

“I’ll invite them all to a family reunion at the cottage,” I promised, and I was only half joking. I’d be interested to see how my levelheaded friend reacted to Arthur, Lucy, Uncle Williston, and perhaps most of all, to Gerald.

I tried reaching Bill again, to no avail. We passed Don-caster, Pontefract, and Leeds, turned east for York, then northeast for Pickering. By two o‘clock, the open fields of golden grain had been replaced by solid walls of broad, steep hills that cut off the horizon. Patches of woodland shaded roads nestled into narrow valleys, and crooked streams ran fast and cold beneath medieval gray stone bridges. We’d reached the southern edge of the North York Moors.

Six miles beyond Pickering lay the village of Lastingham. It was a pretty place, a collection of gray stone houses tucked into a shadowy pocket of trees at the head of a small river. The parish church, according to Paul’s atlas, had been founded in the seventh century by Saint Cedd, a Northumbrian bishop and missionary, who was buried beneath its crypt. Saint Mary’s was a place of pilgrimage, and it drew me like a magnet, but as soon as Paul had parked the limo in the widest part of the village street, Nell pulled me toward the Blacksmith’s Arms.

“Lunch and information,” she murmured, “are more important than sightseeing.”

She was right, of course. Aunt Dimity had conveyed Anthea’s address with her usual carefree disregard for details. The village pub would no doubt be the place to get them—and lunch.

Much to my surprise, Paul joined us on the pub’s doorstep. For a brief, delightful moment I thought he’d finally thrown decorum to the wind, but, alas, his decision was motivated by strict propriety. It wouldn’t do, he told us, for ladies such as ourselves to go chatting up a pack of strangers. If we’d kindly stand aside, he’d undertake the onerous task of interviewing the landlord himself.

Nell and I were in the midst of giving our separate but strikingly similar responses to Paul’s offer—the phrase “perfectly capable of looking after ourselves” formed a chorus—when we both pulled up short, distracted by sounds that seemed to come from another age.

A clatter of hooves and a braying whinny were followed by the thump of riding boots hitting the asphalt as a tall woman dismounted from a fifteen-hand bay gelding not twenty feet away from us. The woman appeared to be on the far side of middle age, but she moved with the muscular grace of a natural athlete and cut an imposing figure in trim fawn jodhpurs, a fitted black riding coat, shiny black boots, and a black velvet riding helmet. Her hair was gray and her face weathered, but her full lips, high forehead, and dark-brown eyes marked her as a descendant of the infamous Julia Louise.

“Is that your bus?” she demanded, waving her riding crop in the direction of the limousine.

I watched open-mouthed with admiration as Paul strode forward and planted his slight figure directly in front of the woman’s imposing one.

“Yes, ma‘am,” he declared. “And I’m very sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you in any way.”

“You haven’t inconvenienced me yet,” the woman informed Paul, in a less strident tone of voice, “but I’m expecting a caravan through at any moment, and it’ll never clear your bumpers. Kindly move them.”

“Very good, ma‘am,” Paul said. “I’ll see to it immediately.” He put a finger to his forehead, since his cap was in his hand, and made a beeline for the limousine.

Satisfied, the woman leapt back into the saddle, calmed her skittish steed, and trotted grandly out of the village on the road we’d taken in. Nell and I exchanged incredulous glances, then sprinted over to the limo and tumbled hastily into the backseat.

“Paul!” I cried. “Follow that horse!”

The widest part of Lastingham’s main street wasn’t very wide, but with the consummate skill of a London-trained cabbie, Paul pulled off a fifteen-point turn without losing a flake of paint and got the limo pointed in the right direction. The engine surged, the limo lunged forward, and a stream of curious onlookers spilled out of the Blacksmith’s Arms to watch us fly up the steep road leading out of town. As we crested the hill, Nell spotted horse and rider only a quarter of a mile ahead, taking a drystone wall in a single, breathtaking bound.

“She’s gone cross-country,” Nell exclaimed. “The roof, Paul! Open the roof!”

Paul pressed a button, the roof slid back, and the wind whipped Nell’s golden curls as she thrust her head and shoulders through the opening. I wrapped my arms around her knees to keep her from losing her balance while she stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see over the walls and hedges.

“She’s riding parallel to us,” Nell shouted from on high. “Keep going, Paul, but not too fast. We don’t want to overtake her.”

Paul slowed accordingly, then slowed some more, despite Nell’s exhortations, until the limo’s leonine roar had become a domestic purr and we were barely crawling.

“What are you doing?” Nell scolded, lowering herself into the limo. “She’s miles ahead of us! We’ll never catch her up now.”

“No need to, my lady,” Paul commented, glancing into the rearview mirror. He executed a smooth right-hand turn, drove between a pair of square stone pillars, and came to a halt in a graveled courtyard. Turning to Nell, he said, “There was a millstone back a ways, half sunk in the ground, with ‘Cobb Farm’ carved into it as clear as day. Being up top the way you was, my lady, you must have
overlooked
it.” While Paul chuckled heartily at his own joke, Nell and I got out of the limo.

Nell gazed at the courtyard and the surrounding countryside. “I think we’ve found the place where good horses go when they die.”

I knew what she meant. Cobb Farm was surrounded by rolling green hills and lush meadows that would have seemed incomplete without a grazing horse or two. A pyramid of cylindrical hay bales was stacked in a field behind us, across the road; ahead of us, on the far side of the graveled courtyard, a hay wagon and a high-perch black buggy had been drawn up before a sturdy stone barn.

To our right was a long stone building with a red-clay tile roof that looked and smelled very much like a stable. The wide wooden doors had been left open, revealing a series of well-kept box stalls, the floors littered with fresh straw, the posts neatly hung with buckets and brushes, bridles and bits. The only sign of life, however, was a dainty black-and-white cat who was busily cleaning her whiskers in a straw-covered patch of sunlight.

Facing the stable, across the courtyard, stood a large two-story house. It was perfectly square, with four massive chimney stacks rising from its mossy roof, and a white-painted door and fanlight set into its shallow porch. Before the house lay a small formal garden, a simple arrangement of statuary, clipped hedges, and square flower-beds flanking a paved walkway that led to the front door.

I saw no sign of Willis, Sr.’s Mercedes, but the notion that he’d slipped away from us once more didn’t bother me much. I’d catch up with him eventually, and I wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance to speak with Anthea Willis; I wanted to make the most of this one. I was curious to see how she’d coped with the trauma that had sent Uncle Williston round the bend.

“Hello!”

I turned to see a man standing on the doorstep of the house.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he called. “My soufflé was at a crucial stage when you pulled in.” The man was even taller than Anthea, a strapping six foot two at least. He was quite a few years her junior as well, if his flaxen hair and relatively unlined face were anything to go by. He was dressed casually, in a faded green polo shirt, sand-colored chinos, and the first pair of penny loafers I’d seen in years. If he was surprised to find a black limousine parked in the courtyard, he didn’t show it.

“I’m Swann,” he said, making his way across the formal garden to where we stood. “If you’ve come to see Anthea, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. She’s supervising a delivery at a neighboring farm and won’t be back until after tea.” He gazed at us with polite surmise. “Have you come to see her about a horse?” .

“No,” I said. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Swann—”

“Just Swann,” he said.

“Swann, then. As I was saying, we’ve come about something else entirely. We were hoping—”

“You’re an American!” Swann swatted himself in the forehead. “Of course. How foolish of me.”

“Sorry?” I glanced at Nell, feeling as though I’d missed something, but she too seemed bewildered.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You must be Lori.” Swann turned to Nell. “And this must be Nell Harris. Lucy was just telling me about you.”

“Lucy’s here?” I said.

“She came up to spend the day with Anthea and me,” Swann replied. “She’ll be delighted to see you. We’re about to sit down to tea. Please join us.”

“Are you another cousin?” I asked hesitantly.

Swann threw back his head and laughed, revealing a set of strong white teeth. “Good Lord, no,” he said. “I’m Anthea’s husband.”

My brain skidded to a halt, did a sort of pirouette, then backed up a step or two. “I-I thought you were dead,” I said, gaping stupidly.

“That’s the other one,” Swann informed me affably. “I’m the husband Anthea should’ve had all along.”

Swann took us through to the kitchen, where Lucy Willis was keeping a watchful eye on his spinach soufflé, then went back to help Paul carry our luggage upstairs. No one who made the long journey to Cobb Farm, he declared, was permitted to leave without staying at least one night.

The kitchen was a warm, inviting room with a rosy redbrick floor, stripped-down redbrick walls, and a well-scrubbed wooden table set for two. A picture window above the double sink overlooked a pair of horses grazing in a tufted meadow, and pots and pans piled helter-skelter filled the shelves above a cream-colored Aga. Old wooden dressers and hutch bases, pushed together end to end along the walls, took the place of conventional countertops, and a massive glass-enclosed Irish-pine bookcase held stacks of crockery, rows of teapots, and assorted pieces of chintz china.

Swann clearly had a countryman’s notion of what constituted tea. A stockpot simmered on the stove, filling the room with the knee-weakening aroma of homemade vegetable soup, and a fresh-baked loaf of French bread cooled on a rack beside a glazed apple-and-custard tart. A brown earthenware pot filled with wildflowers sat in the center of the table, surrounded by a jug of iced lemonade, a crock of butter, and a silver trivet, where the soufflé was due to land at any moment.