Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (4 page)

Then Emma spoke. “I wonder what Dimity means by ‘trouble,’ ” she said thoughtfully.

“I wonder what she means by ‘family matters past and present.’ ” Nell frowned down at Willis, Sr.’s book before setting it aside. “And Bertie wants to know about the vast sums of money.”

“Still, we’re better off than we were before,” Emma pointed out. “At least we know where William’s gone.”

“He’s gone to see his cousin Gerald,” Nell chimed in. “So now you know where to look for him, Lori.” She waited for me to respond, glanced covertly at her stepmother, then repeated, more loudly, “Lori?”

I heaved a tiny, forlorn sigh.

Emma put a hand on Nell’s arm, leaned toward me, and asked, “You do
know
Cousin Gerald, don’t you?”

I shook my head slowly. “Never heard of him. I didn’t even know there
was
an English branch of the Willis family. Not since back before the beginning of time, anyway. Bill never—” I put a hand to my forehead, stricken. “Oh, Emma, what am I going to tell
Bill?”

“I don’t think you should tell him anything ... yet,” advised Emma. “Not until we have something useful to tell him.” She reached for Willis, Sr.’s cup and saucer and got to her feet. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of tea. I’ll go and fill the kettle. Nell, you and Bertie get a fire started.” Emma headed for the doorway, rubbing her arms. “The warmth seems to have gone out of the day.”

A fire wasn’t strictly necessary—it was nearly eleven and there wasn’t a cloud in the sunlit sky—but I knew what Emma meant about the chill in the air. I’d had one too many shocks to the system already. My hands had turned to ice, my stomach was in a knot, and my mind was churning.

What had happened that morning? During the brief time—no more than a half hour—between my departure and Nell’s arrival at the cottage, something had caused Willis, Sr., to throw his book aside, scribble a meaningless note, and spin out of the driveway fast enough to throw gravel to the far side of the road. What kind of family matters had sent him racing off to Haslemere in such a panic? What
did
Aunt Dimity mean by “vast sums of money”? Above all, why hadn’t Bill told me about Cousin Gerald?

I had answers to none of the above, and I had no intention of asking Bill for them. If Cousin Gerald was a deep, dark secret, Bill would want to know how I’d found out about him, and that would lead to explanations that might distract him from his work.

I didn’t want him distracted. I might wish the Biddifords at the bottom of the blasted lake they owned in Maine, but their case was important to me. If Bill could achieve the Holy Grail of settling the Biddiford dispute, he might finally stop driving himself so hard. He might even find the time to start a family. How could I jeopardize all of that for something that might turn out to be a wild-goose chase?

Besides, I had other sources of information. I could think of at least one who might be able to tell me all I needed to know about Cousin Gerald.

“Where is Haslemere?” I asked, as Emma returned with the tea tray.

“So you
are
driving down?” Emma asked doubtfully.

“I certainly am,” I replied. “How long will it take me to get there?”

“Three or four hours, depending on the traffic. Haslemere lies in the extreme southwest comer of Surrey.” Emma was a whiz at orienteering, and when she wasn’t in the garden, she could usually be found on a hilltop, studying maps. “I’ve never been there, but Nell has.”

“Papa was called in as a consultant by the Saint Bartholomew’s church council, when they were rehanging the bells in the tower,” Nell explained, passing a cup of tea to me. “Bertie and I went with him.”

“What kind of place is it?” I asked.

“Much bigger than Finch,” Nell replied. “It has its own train station.”

“Do rich people live there?” I pressed. “Are there big houses? Estates?”

“Oh, yes. Papa showed Bertie and me some wonderful places. Tennyson’s home, and Conan Doyle’s ...” Nell paused to study me intently, then shook her head. “But that won’t tell you anything about Cousin Gerald. All sorts of people live in Haslemere.”

“Gerald might as easily live in a council flat as on a country estate,” Emma agreed. “It’s a shame Aunt Dimity didn’t have time to jot down his address.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” I shifted in my seat, uncomfortably aware of how foolish my next proposal was likely to sound. It depended entirely on whether or not the English Willises were as wedded to tradition as their American cousins. It was a long shot, but if my marriage to Bill had taught me anything, it was that old habits die hard in well-to-do families. Sons were given their fathers’ names, they belonged to the same clubs, sat on the same boards, practiced the same profession, for generation after generation. I wasn’t sure, however, if that kind of family loyalty extended to choice of hotels.

“Don’t laugh,” I said, setting my cup of tea on the low table, “but I was thinking that, if Gerald really is a Willis, and if he’s rich—if Haslemere is the sort of place a rich person might live—and if he ever stays in London ...”

Again, Nell caught on quickly. “The Flamborough! Well done, Lori. We’ll put a call through to Miss Kingsley.”

Miss Kingsley was the concierge at the eminently respectable Flamborough Hotel in London. She thought it a concierge’s duty to maintain detailed files on her guests in order to provide them with the kind of personal service that had brought the Flamborough its share of tastefully subdued fame. In other words, Miss Kingsley was to run-of-the-mill conciergedom what the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
was to a matchbook cover. She knew not only what her clients ate and drank, but what side of the bed they slept on and who was likely to be sleeping on the other side.

I sometimes thought she knew more about Bill than I did, since she’d been keeping notes on him since his first stay at the hotel, when he was twelve. He and Willis, Sr., had used the Flamborough as their London base for years. If the English Willises had done the same, I reasoned, Miss Kingsley would know about Gerald.

Nell had stayed at the Flamborough as the guest of her paternal grandfather, a stuffy old earl, and she knew Miss Kingsley well, so, while she explained my idea to Emma, I returned to the desk and dialed Miss Kingsley’s number. She answered promptly, and after the usual pleasantries I asked, in as conversational a tone of voice as I could manage, “Did you know that Bill has relatives in England? English ones, I mean.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Kingsley.

I flashed Nell and Emma a thumbs-up. “Has William called to ask you about them recently?”

“Certainly not,” said Miss Kingsley. “The two branches of the family haven’t communicated for ages.”

“Why the long silence?” I asked.

“I’ve been given to understand,” Miss Kingsley replied, choosing her words carefully, “that a falling-out between brothers led one branch of the family to emigrate to the New World in 1714. They haven’t spoken since.”

I was impressed. The Willises really knew how to hold a grudge. Could this be the “family matters past” Dimity had mentioned in her note? “Any idea what the fight was about?”

“A veil of discretion is always drawn over the story at the crucial point,” Miss Kingsley explained apologetically. “I’ve never been able to discover what precipitated the original argument.”

Had Willis, Sr., decided to dig up the cause of the ancient feud? It seemed unlikely. Willis, Sr., was all for family harmony, but I couldn’t envision him leaping from his chair to solve a fraternal spat that had been pending for almost three hundred years. “Have there been any recent quarrels?”

“Not between the two branches,” Miss Kingsley answered. “As I said, they do not communicate. The English branch, however, has had nothing but trouble for the past few years.”

“Has Gerald Willis been part of the trouble?” I asked.

“Indeed he has,” Miss Kingsley replied gravely. “Two years ago, he lost his position with the family firm, sold his London town house, and moved to Haslemere, in Surrey. His family was most disappointed in him. He’s the eldest male of his generation, you see.”

“How many of them are there?” I took a pencil from the desk drawer and scribbled names as Miss Kingsley reeled them off.

“An aunt, Anthea, and two uncles, Thomas and Williston, all of whom are retired. The firm is currently run by two cousins, Lucy and Arthur. Lucy’s younger sisters work for the firm as well, but they’re on maternity leave at the moment.”

Lucky them,
I thought. Then, scanning the list with a quickening of interest, I added,
Lucky me.
An aunt, two uncles, and five cousins, two of whom were about to produce still another generation of Willises—I had a whole new world of in-laws to explore, a second chance to connect with Bill’s family. “Why did Gerald leave the firm?”

“No one knows for sure,” Miss Kingsley told me. “I’ve heard rumors about financial improprieties and seen evidence of other... improprieties.”

“Wine, women, and song?” I asked, amused by Miss Kingsley’s reticence. “Or something more serious?”

“Let us say simply that, since his retirement, Gerald has taken to entertaining the sort of woman the Flamborough does not ordinarily welcome in its dining room,” Miss Kingsley replied primly.

“Oh-ho,” I murmured.

“It’s only to be expected,” Miss Kingsley assured me. “Gerald’s in his late thirties, very good-looking, and quite well off. Though why he should fasten onto an aging—” Miss Kingsley caught herself. “Ah, well, as my aunt Ed wina used to say, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Do you have Gerald’s address in Haslemere?” I asked. “Naturally,” said Miss Kingsley. “If you’ll wait one moment—”

I heard the sound of drawers being opened and cards being shuffled. Miss Kingsley had opted out of the computer age and relied instead on a time-tested storage-and-retrieval system involving little wooden drawers and many, many index cards. No electronic thief could burgle Miss Kingsley’s files, and the conventional robber hadn’t been born who could break into her office. Only Miss Kingsley’s nimble fingers ever touched those cards, and in no time she came up with the information I needed.

“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said. “What profession was Gerald drummed out of?”

“Didn’t I say?” Miss Kingsley said. “Gerald is—
was
—a solicitor. The family’s law offices are located in London. Would you like that address as well?”

So traditions do hold true, I thought, jotting down the address of yet another Willis family firm. Gerald was a lawyer, just like Bill, though I couldn’t imagine Bill ripping off Willis & Willis and retiring to the Berkshires in disgrace. Gerald must have been a pretty successful solicitor—or a skillful embezzler, if the rumors were true—to be able to give up his job and still dine out with ladies of dubious repute at a place as swanky as the Flamborough. But where there were Willises, there usually was money.

It required no imagination at all to understand why Dimity didn’t want Willis, Sr., haring off to Haslemere, asking questions. A black sheep like Cousin Gerald might object—violently, perhaps?—to being subjected to any kind of interrogation.

“Well?” said Emma, when I’d hung up the phone.

“I have Cousin Gerald’s address and telephone number,” I announced, “and Miss Kingsley told me—”

I broke off as the sound of tires crunching on gravel came from the front of the house. I glanced at Ham, saw his ears prick forward, and started toward the hall, hoping against hope to hear Willis, Sr.,’s light step coming into the cottage.

Instead, I heard the heavy clump of work boots as Derek Harris strode up the hallway from the front door to the study. At six foot four, he had to duck to come into the room, and even then his gray curls brushed the lintel. He’d evidently come straight from the church in Chipping Campden—his customary blue jeans and work shirt were pretty grubby, as were his hands and face.

“Papa!”
Nell exclaimed, in a voice filled with pure delight. Nell loved Emma, but she adored her father and always greeted him with a special warmth.

“Hello, all,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the streak of dirt across his chin. “Saw your car in the driveway, Em. Knew you’d be here. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I said, sinking back into the chair at the desk. “Just that I’ve been in England for less than a week and already I’ve lost Bill’s father.”

Derek’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it widened. “Well, you’ll have to find him before Bill gets wind of it,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “Mustn’t make a habit of losing a chap’s father, you know. Disturbs a fellow. Now, were it
my
father, it’d be an entirely different—” Derek’s merriment faded as he took stock of our solemn faces. “You mean, you actually
have
lost William?” he asked, startled.

“He wasn’t here when Bertie and I arrived for our chess game,” said Nell.

“And he left a note that doesn’t say where he’s gone,” Emma added.

“And the blue journal’s missing, and so’s Reginald,” Nell continued.

“Oh, and we got another note,” I concluded. “You’ll never guess who wrote it.”

Derek held up his hands in self-defense. “Hold on, hold on. Something tells me I should be sitting down when I hear the rest of this. Cup of tea for your poor old dad, Nell, if you please.”

While Nell went to fetch another cup and saucer, Derek settled in the leather chair I’d vacated, and stretched his long legs out before him.

“How are things in Chipping Campden?” Emma asked.

“Dire,” Derek replied. “Church roofs shot.”

“The whole thing?” Emma leaned forward to wipe the grime from Derek’s chin with a napkin.

“No,” Derek answered. “Just the fiddly bit where the roof meets the tower. I’ll be astonished if we finish the job in ten days’ time. Bishop’ll simply have to bring his bum bershoot.”