Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (26 page)

The understatement of the year, I thought. “We’ve been trying to figure out who she was,” I explained.

“If you do, you must tell your father-in-law,” Tom said. “I haven’t a clue.” He paused a moment, then repeated, “Your father-in-law. Dear me. The crafty old fox. He asked about the Slut, too, and now he’s on his way to see my son.”

“He’s probably thinking the same thing we are,” Bill said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Tom. “Sally’s an unscrupulous woman. She may have unscrupulous friends. If she feels that William poses a threat to her livelihood—”

“My God,” said Bill, getting to his feet.

“Be off with you,” said Tom, waggling his fingers at us. “Make haste. Slay the Sluttish dragon and box my foolish son’s ears.”

Bill looked seriously rattled. He said a hurried good-bye, then took off around the side of the house. By the time Nell and I had taken our leave of Uncle Tom, Geraldine, and Nurse Watling, Bill was standing at the white picket gate, gesturing furiously for Paul to pull the car around. As soon as the limo was within reach, Bill jerked the door open and practically shoved Nell and me into the back. He crawled in after us and spoke through the intercom to Paul.

“Paul,” he said, in a clipped, authoritative voice, “we have to get to Haslemere as quickly as possible. My father may be in grave danger.”

“Very good, sir,” Paul said calmly, and put his foot to the floor.

Newton’s third law of motion stayed my speech and nearly stopped my breath as Paul peeled out of Old Warden in a cloud of burning rubber. Every action of the steering wheel had an equal and opposite reaction in the backseat-Nell clung to the fold-down armrests for dear life as we skidded around a sharp bend, and I fell heavily against Bill.

“Good ... God,” I managed.

“Wow,” Bill agreed.

Paul hit a short straightaway and I hit the glove leather. “We’ll die before we get there,” I muttered, pressed flat against the back of the seat.

As Paul careened wildly around a succession of tight curves, I prayed fervently that he’d make it to the broad, straight lanes of an M road soon, because my stomach was lodging vigorous protests against the limo’s hideous swaying.

“Bill,” I said, beginning to feel lightheaded. “I know you’re worried about your father, and I’m worried, too, but I’m warning you that if Paul keeps up like this I’m going to ... be ... Ooooh ...”

Bill let his sprained wrist fall to his lap, punched the intercom, and shouted for Paul to slow down, then hugged me to his side and held me steady until we’d reached a tolerable speed.

“Are you okay, Lori?” Bill pressed his lips to my forehead, as though checking for a Fever, “You’re as white as a sheet.”

I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and kept taking deep breaths.

“Here,” said Nell. She’d whipped out the thermos filled with Sir Poppet’s herbal tea and poured a cupful. “Drink this.”

I took the cup from her and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. The aroma alone was enough to take the edge off my queasiness. “Another,” I said, holding the cup out for more.

“What’s in this stuff, anyway?” Bill asked, sniffing at the thermos.

“Serious miracles,” I mumbled. I finished the second cup, took another deep breath, and felt the color slowly creep back into my cheeks. The limo promptly sped up again, but a glance out of the window showed that we were on an entrance ramp to the M1. For the next couple of hours or so, swaying would not be a problem.

“You told me you’d gotten over the food poisoning,” Bill said reproachfully.

“Guess I was wrong.” I sat up, pushed my curls back from my forehead, and returned the cup to Nell. “Thanks, Nell. I needed that.”

Nell looked from Bill’s face to mine. “You should see a doctor,” she advised. “Soon.”

“Maybe I will,” I said. “I’ve been feeling out of whack ever since we hit the road.”

“I’ll take you as soon as we’ve seen to Father,” Bill promised, kissing my forehead.

“Do you really think he’s in danger?” I asked.

Bill shrugged worriedly. “Father isn’t a fool. I’m confident that he wouldn’t walk into a dangerous situation without taking precautions, but I’ll feel a lot better when I know what they are.”

“I wonder how William found out about Sally,” said Nell. “Do you suppose Arthur told him?”

I leaned against Bill’s side and considered the question. “I think William got his information the same way we did,” I said. “A scrap here, a hint there—you know, if Lucy and Anthea had talked the problem through, they’d have come up with a solution in no time. They had all the pieces. They just never sat down together to put the puzzle together.”

“Communication was a leading topic in my little chat with Dimity this afternoon,” Bill said wryly.

“I hope you paid attention,” I teased.

“I took notes,” Bill assured me. He stared out of the window for a moment, then looked back at me and Nell. “Here’s another question for the experts. How did Father find out about Sybella? According to Sir Poppet, Uncle Williston never mentioned the name to him, and he hasn’t set eyes on that deed of yours. Yet he showed up at Uncle Tom‘s, asking about Sybella. Where did he run across the name?”

The experts pondered Bill’s question for the next few miles. Then I pressed the intercom button. “Paul?” I said. “Can’t you make this heap move any faster?”

The limo’s headlights picked out the white sign hanging from the iron post at the mouth of the grassy drive. It was half past eight in the evening, dusk was moving in, and there was no other traffic on the Midhurst Road. Paul signaled his turn, pulled past the iron post, and drove cautiously into the darkening woods.

Nell twisted sideways on the fold-down seat and peered intently through the limo’s windshield. “William’s car,” she whispered.

Goose bumps rippled up my arms as I looked past her and saw the silver-gray Mercedes shimmer briefly in the headlights’ glare, then vanish as Paul nosed the limo in beside it. Bill was out of the backseat before he’d cut the engine.

Nell and I followed. She stopped to fetch Bertie from the front, and I paused to lay a hand on the Mercedes, but Bill marched straight up to the Larches and hammered insistently on the front door.

A river of light poured into the gloom as Mrs. Burweed opened the door. “There’s no need to make such a racket, young man,” she said irritably. “Especially at this time of night. Now. How may I—” She broke off as she spied Nell and me hastening up to join Bill on the doorstep. “Miss—Miss Shepherd, isn’t it? How nice. Mr. Gerald will be so pleased to see you again.”

“He will, will he?” Bill muttered.

Mrs. Burweed ignored him and went on speaking to me. “I’m afraid he’s with someone at present. Would you mind waiting—”

“Yes, we would,” Bill interrupted. “Where are they?”

“In the back parlor,” replied Mrs. Burweed, rattled by Bill’s peremptory manner. “But Mr. Gerald gave strict instructions—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Burweed,” said Bill, walking past her into the house. “No need to show me the way.”

I gave Mrs. Burweed a brief, apologetic shrug and dashed up the hall after Bill, with Nell hard on my heels. Bill put his hand out to open the parlor door, but Gerald must have heard the commotion, because he opened it first. He looked at Bill in confusion, then caught sight of me and smiled so sweetly that I went weak in the knees.

“Miss Shepherd,” he exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise.”

Bill growled incoherently, cocked his arm, and let loose a punch that picked Gerald up and sent him sprawling backward into the parlor. Fist clenched, Bill charged in to stand over him, thundering, “That’s for kissing
my wife!”

Nell swung around to stare at me, goggle-eyed. “So that’s what happened at Saint Bartholomew‘s!”

“It didn’t happen
at
Saint Bartholomew‘s,” I snapped distractedly. “Bill! Stop it! Leave him alone.” I tugged at Bill’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the hallway, but it was like trying to uproot a sequoia.

A calm, familiar voice spoke from across the room. “My dear boy, if what you suspect is true, then I sympathize with your sense of outrage, but do you really think that this is an appropriate time to upset Lori?”

I froze, Bill gaped, and Nell gasped.

Gerald groaned.

“Bill, help your cousin to his feet,” Willis, Sr., directed from an armchair at the far end of the couch. “Nell, please advise Mrs. Burweed that a telephone call to the local constabulary will not be necessary. Lori, I realize that you grew up with few relations, but surely you must have learned by now that the term ‘kissing cousins’ is not to be taken literally.”

 

Willis, Sr., had to give Mrs. Burweed his personal assurance that Bill wasn’t a dangerous lunatic before she’d consent to put the phone down and fetch a pair of ice bags from the kitchen. One was for Gerald’s poor black-and-blue-green eye, the other for the bruised knuckles on Bill’s right hand.

“You idiot,” I lectured, kneeling in front of Bill’s chair and subjecting each of his fingers to a minute inspection. “This was the only hand you had left. I suppose you’ll expect me to spoon-feed you now.”

“Humph,” Bill replied, glowering at Gerald, who was stretched full-length on the tattered sofa.

“Stop that,” I scolded. “I told you, it wasn’t Gerald’s fault. He didn’t know I was your wife. He didn’t know I was
anyone’s
wife. Besides, he didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being
kind.
”

Gerald spoke from beneath his ice bag. “Missing the point,” he murmured, slurring his sibilants. “Some things a chap has to make absolutely clear. Sanctity of marriage is one of them. No gray areas allowed.”

“Damned straight.” Bill nodded vigorously, caught himself mid-nod, and frowned at Gerald, clearly disconcerted to hear his cause championed by the man he’d just flattened.

I handed Bill his ice bag and sat on the arm of his chair, where I could keep an eye on him. The back parlor looked as drab and spiritless as it had the last time I’d been there. Darkness had swallowed the trees beyond the picture windows, and table lamps had been lit at either end of the couch. The soft light took the edge off the general dinginess and brought out the red-gold highlights in Gerald’s chestnut hair. Gerald was dressed much as he’d been when I’d last seen him, in faded jeans and a forest-green shirt made of soft, old cotton.

Willis, Sr., looked different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. He sat facing Bill and me, near the end of the couch where Mrs. Burweed had piled pillows for Gerald’s head. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and an exquisite silver-gray silk tie, but there was nothing unusual in that. Like Nell, Willis, Sr., was always well dressed. His white hair flowed back from his high forehead, and his gray eyes were as serene as ever. A bit brighter than usual, perhaps, when they sought me out, but I’d expected that. He had to be pleased as punch to see Bill and me together. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on Nell.

Nell was perched on a footstool between the hearth and Willis, Sr.’s chair, speaking quietly with him. Suddenly, they looked in my direction, and I saw Willis, Sr., nod. At which point, Nell gave me a smile so dazzling it nearly blinded me.

“Mr. Willis! You all right?” Paul stood in the doorway, peering suspiciously around the back parlor, clutching a tire iron in one hand and Reginald in the other. He must have realized what an incongruous picture he presented, because he immediately darted across the room to hand Reginald over to me.

“Thanks, Paul.” I deposited Reginald in Bill’s lap, hoping that my bunny would exert a benign influence on my husband’s bad temper. “But I think you’d better get rid of the tire iron before Mrs. Burweed sees it. We’ve only just persuaded her not to call the cops.”

Paul looked over his shoulder and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “But Master Bill said his father was in grave danger.”

“Did he?” Willis, Sr., looked at Bill, who was conducting a careful survey of the ceiling. “How extraordinary. Perhaps my son suffered a blow to the head when he broke his arm. As you can see, Paul, I am not in any danger, grave or otherwise.”

Paul hefted the tire iron. “I’ll shove this back in the boot, then, and see if this Mrs. Burweed of yours can scare us up a pot o’ tea.”

“And sandwiches,” Nell called. “Lori’s had no dinner.”

“Righty-ho, my lady,” said Paul. He scanned the room and shook his head. “Looks like a ruddy war zone in here.” He turned on his heel and was gone.

“Gerald,” said Willis, Sr., “since this is your home, I feel compelled to ask if you approve of the proposed changes to this evening’s schedule of events. Are you quite up to continuing our discussion?”

“By all means.” Gerald slid his long legs over the edge of the couch and pushed himself to a sitting position. He placed one hand on the pile of pillows to steady himself and lowered the ice bag from his eye, which was swollen shut and livid. The bruise was sure to cover half of his face by morning.

“Christ,” Bill muttered. He passed Reginald back to me and went to sit next to Gerald. “Let me have a look at that.” Gerald tilted his head obligingly and smoothed his chestnut hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry about this, Gerald.”

“Tush,” said Gerald. “Had I been in your position, I‘d’ve had the bounder’s head off.”

Bill frowned. “I think I should run you in for an X-ray.”

“A cup of tea will suffice.” Gerald raised the ice bag to his eye and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Cousin.”

Bill grinned shamefacedly and took Gerald’s hand gingerly in his own. “Likewise, Cousin. I’ve heard a lot about you, and although I hate to say it, it all seems to be true.”

“I believe I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Gerald.

Willis, Sr., stood. He was a slight man, not nearly as tall or as broad-shouldered as his son, but at that moment he seemed to fill the room. “Before we continue,” he said, fixing each of us with the stem gaze of a disapproving schoolmaster, “I would appreciate it if someone would tell me why the three of you are here. Eleanor, I think.” He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded to Nell. “A brief account, if you please ... ?”