“A year,” said Nell.
“Hardly any time at all,” I said, and before Nell could point out that it was nearly half of my married life, I changed the subject. “By the way, I forgot to ask—did Bertrand hear any juicy tidbits from the maids?”
“Nothing new.” Nell straightened Bertie’s beribboned sailor hat. “They’re dotty about Gerald, but the whole town seems to be dotty about Gerald. Did you learn anything new?”
“Gerald promised to do what he could to keep William from leaving Boston,” I told her, “but I don’t.think he’ll be able to do much. He. says he’s through practicing law.”
“Did you believe him?” Nell asked.
“I did,” I replied. “And I still do. If you’d seen his face last night, Nell, you’d have believed him, too. I don’t understand why Aunt Dimity expected him to lie to me.”
“Perhaps because she heard him lie to William about the other thing,” Nell suggested. “The ‘quarrel that happened so long ago.’ I have an idea about that.”
“Tell me,” I said, glad to divert Nell’s mind, and my own, from all thoughts of Bill and the D-word.
Nell’s gaze wandered to the suburban sprawl that had begun to crowd out the countryside. “Yesterday,” she said, “when I was poking round the Larches, I opened the door of a sort of storeroom and I saw the most marvelous thing—a cross made of gold and covered with jewels.”
“It’s called a reliquary.” I nodded. “I saw it, too. I went into the room by mistake and there it was, gleaming away at me.” I paused, distracted by the memory of Gerald’s breath on my hand as he’d bent to examine my cut finger. “Gerald said that the reliquary’s part of a collection he’s cataloguing for ...” I frowned, unable to recall his exact words.
“For whom?” Nell asked.
“A private collector or a museum, I imagine.” I shrugged. “Gerald didn’t mention any names.”
“Hmmm,” said Nell, still looking out of the window.
“What are you thinking, Nell?” I asked.
“I’m thinking that the reliquary must be worth lots of money.” Nell turned her head to stare at me. “Vast sums.”
I returned her stare uneasily. The Larches’ dismal state of disrepair had made me forget all about Gerald’s large bank account, and I’d never thought to question his possession of the golden cross. “Go on,” I said.
“What if the reliquary—and everything else in that storeroom—belongs to the American branch of the Willis family?” Nell proposed. “What if Gerald’s trying to rob William of his legacy?”
Could the reliquary be the sleeping dog Dimity wanted Willis, Sr., to avoid? I could think of several reasons why it might be in Gerald’s interest to conceal the existence of a valuable inheritance: His family might have borrowed against it, he might be intent on selling it, or he might have sold it already. In any case, it wouldn’t do for the rightful heir to appear out of nowhere and lay claim to it.
“It’s possible,” I conceded. “I’ll ask Emma to look for records of a disputed legacy out there on the net. Though I still can’t imagine why it would have popped into William’s mind yesterday morning.”
Nell tapped the round tin. “Did you remember to ask Gerald about the butterscotch brownies?”
I slapped a hand to my forehead. “Forgot all about it.”
“Never mind,” said Nell with a small, self-satisfied smile. “I asked him when he stopped by the hotel.”
“Ten points to you.” I bowed graciously, pleased to see her smiling again. “What did he say?”
“Thomas Willis didn’t serve in London during the war,” Nell informed me. “He was too young. He’s only sixty-three now.”
“So in 1945 he would have been”—I peered at the ceiling—“ twelve. I can’t picture a boy your age exchanging recipes in war-torn London, can you?”
“My brother,” Nell said authoritatively, “would have been too busy exploring the bomb craters.”
I nodded my agreement, but my mind was already on other things. I opened the briefcase and took from it the list of names Miss Kingsley had passed along, the drama-tis personae of the Willis family. “Thomas Willis is sixty-three, and he’s the oldest of the older generation here in England. That means they’re all younger than William. Thomas retired because of his heart trouble, but what about the other two—Anthea and Williston? Gerald told me that his cousin Lucy’s been running the firm shorthanded since he left. I wonder why Anthea and Williston haven’t come back to help her out?”
Nell returned the tin to her purse and folded her hands on the table, her eyes twinkling. “I’m looking forward to talking with Lucy Willis, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” I raised the list into the air with a flourish. “This branch of the family is getting more interesting by the minute.” I laughed and Nell chuckled, but as I put the list back into the briefcase I couldn’t repress the traitorous thought that perhaps Dimity had chosen my husband from the wrong side of the Atlantic.
13.
I’d planned to take a cab from Waterloo to Lucy Willis’s office, but it proved to be unnecessary. The moment Nell and I alighted from the train, a small white-haired man in a dark-blue uniform hailed us from beyond the ticket barrier.
“Good morning,. madam! Didn’t expect to see you back so soon. And if it isn’t Lady Eleanor. My, but you’re pretty as a picture today, my lady. Nanny Cole’ll sell those frocks hand over fist once the gentry see you parading in yours. Master Bertram’s in the pink, I hope? Oh, I see you’ve brought Master Reginald as well.”
“Paul!” I exclaimed. Paul, whose last name, if it existed, had never been vouchsafed to me, was the chauffeur who’d driven Willis, Sr., and me down to the cottage after our overnight in London. He worked for Miss Kingsley, but I had no idea how he’d learned of our arrival at Waterloo.
“A pleasure to see you, too, madam.” Paul put two fingers to his dark-blue cap, then beckoned to a railway porter who was, to my astonishment, trundling my suitcase and Nell’s along the platform on a wheeled trolley.
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.