“Ger-Gerald told us he was looking after his father,” I managed, wheezing.
“Looking after Uncle Tom? Up in Bedfordshire?” Arthur’s laughter rumbled up from deep within his barrel chest and burst out in a series of hearty guffaws. “Suppose he had to tell you something, but ... What’s he doing? Commuting from Surrey? Good old Gerald. Looking after Uncle Tom ...”
“Mr. Digby told us that he takes the train to London twice a month,” said Nell.
“Who’s Mr. Digby?” Arthur asked, wiping his eyes.
“The porter at the Georgian Hotel,” Nell replied. “His daughter works at the train station, and she said—”
“Infernal cheek!” Arthur exclaimed. “You tell Mr. Digby and his daughter to mind their own business and not go spreading rumors about old Gerald.” Arthur returned to his chair and accepted a third cup of tea from Nell. “Truth is,” he confessed after a moment’s thought, “Gerald asks for it. Can’t imagine what he sees in the wretched hag. Little round dumpling of a woman—peg legs, no waist, dyed hair. Not in the first bloom of youth, either. Pretends to be all sweetness and light, but one look at those eyes ...” Arthur shuddered. “Hard as flint. Worst part is, Gerald gives her lunch where we used to take our clients. Hard on Lucy, poor old thing.”
Nell offered the plate of petits fours to Arthur, who selected three and popped them into his mouth, one after another.
“Is it hurting the firm?” she inquired.
“Isn’t helping,” Arthur replied after a mighty swallow. “We’re doing all right, but it’s not the same, not without old Gerald. Trouts loved him. Eldest son of the eldest son of the Willis family—tradition and all that. Gerald would’ve charmed the garters off of old Lady Rutherford.” He glanced at the door and added, in a confidential murmur, “Excitable, you know. Shouldn’t have called her husband a prince among men. Accused me of insulting the Royals.”
“Why did Gerald leave?” I asked.
“Le coeur a ses raisons, as they say.” Arthur peered over the top of his teacup. “That is what they say, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and nearly gave me a heart attack.
“Arthur,” I said, with studied nonchalance, “what’s that on the bottom of your shoe?”
“Mmm?” Arthur glanced down at the piece of paper fluttering from the sole of his shoe. “Lucy’d have a fit if she saw that. She’s always going on at me for leaving rubbish about the place.” With a grunt of effort, he snatched the piece of paper from his shoe and tossed it toward the wastebasket near Lucy’s desk. He missed.
I watched in horrified fascination as the journal page wafted gently through the air and landed in the middle of the carpet. From the comer of my eye I saw Nell stiffen as the door opened and Lucy returned.
“Arthur, I’ve asked you a dozen times to at least try to keep your papers in order,” she said, staring pointedly at the unseemly litter.
“Not mine,” Arthur protested. “Rubbish. Here, I’ll pitch it.” He began to heave himself to his feet once more, but Lucy waved him back into his chair. She plucked the piece of paper from the floor, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Have you had a pleasant chat?” she asked.
Nell seized the opportunity and ran with it. “We have, but I wonder if you and Arthur could answer a question for me? Is that the tower of the Law Society or the Law Courts? And what’s that big gray building over there?”
While she drew the two cousins to the far end of the room, I scuttled behind the desk and rescued the journal page from the circular file. I cast a cautious glance toward the windows, then sidled over to the fireplace, where I quickly smoothed the piece of paper and read:
William’s gone to see Uncle Williston. Don’t ask me why. I’m beginning to think he’s lost his mind entirely, so perhaps Cloverly House is the best place for him.
Lucy’s
a pet, but I don’t know about this Julia Louise. I’ve never cared for mothers who dote on one child at the expense of the others. I’ll try to learn more about her on this end and you must do the same on yours.
Incidentally, Lori, if anyone ever offers to convey you in a briefcase, I’d advise you to turn them down flat. The past two days have made me long for the cottage. I do wish William would give up his ridiculous quest and let us all get back to the roses, the wrens, and the rabbits.
Please give my best to Reginald.
I thrust the journal page deep into the pocket of my tweed blazer and pressed it flat, trying not to draw attention to myself by giggling. Aunt Dimity’s note was so ... Dimity. What on earth did she mean when she said she’d try to learn more about Julia Louise “on this end”? Was there an ethereal information center where she was, filled with celestial bulletin boards and otherworldly Who’s Whos? Was there an Internet in heaven? I’d have to remember to pose the question to Emma.
In the meantime, however, I’d have to beat a polite but hasty retreat from number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, if I wanted to get down to Cloverly House before it closed its doors for the day. I was sorry to leave so soon. I liked Lucy Willis. She’d made me feel welcome, not only as a guest but as a new and delightful addition to the family. I wanted to get to know her better, to help her, if I could, and as I watched her straighten Arthur’s tie while patiently explaining every notch in the skyline to Nell, it occurred to me that Gerald was being as big a fool as Bill.
16.
Big Ben was tolling two o‘clock as we pulled away from number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, and my stomach was growling that it was way past lunchtime. Paul had said that Cloverly House—Uncle Williston’s rest home—was just outside the town of Goudhurst, in Kent, and I didn’t think I’d make it that far on petits fours and watercress sandwiches. For some reason, I was starving.
“Is there anything to eat back here, Paul?” I asked, hunting through the concealed compartments that lined the passenger section of the limo.
“Just the usual biscuits and mineral water, madam. I could stop at Fortnum’s for a hamper, if you like,” Paul offered.
“You can’t be hungry again,” Nell protested as she buckled Bertie and Reginald into the fold-down seat facing us. “You ate more than Arthur.”
“Don’t talk to me,” I said. “Talk to my stomach. It’s demanding chow.” I told Paul to forget Fortnum’s and grab a couple of sausages from the next sidewalk vendor he saw. Ten minutes later, as I was greedily wolfing down a pair of plump red puddings and a bag of spectacularly greasy chips, I noticed that Nell was staring intently at my stomach, as though she did mean to address it. “That was a joke,” I pointed out, with some asperity.
“Lori,” Nell said thoughtfully, “Paul could drive us back to the cottage, if you like. It might be a good idea to take a day off. You said you were getting fed up with running around.”
“Are you kidding?” I cried. “Give up the chase now, when we know so ... little? No way.” I ran a finger around the collar of my silk blouse. “Is it hot in here, or is it me?”
Nell turned on the air conditioning—to flush out the fumes of my al-fresco luncheon, I suspected, as much as to give me a breath of fresh air—adjusted Reg and Bertie’s seat belt, then sat back. “I think we’ve learned an awful lot,” she commented.
I smiled wryly. “That may be, but we don’t know what any of it means.”
“True.” Nell nodded judiciously. “I can’t think why William’s gone to see poor, mad Uncle Williston.” She tilted her head to one side and wound a golden curl around her finger. “Unless ...”