Sir Poppet nodded his understanding. “She’s a remarkable child,” he commented, then surprised me by calling out to Bertie, “the most remarkable child we’re ever likely to meet, eh, Sir Bertram?”
Nell will introduce that bear to the queen one day, I thought, and no one will bat an eye.
“Lady Nell told me that you came here for much the same reason as your father-in-law,” Sir Poppet went on, “to discuss certain points of family history with Williston.”
“That’s right,” I said, silently blessing Nell’s ingenuity. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I encourage visitors. I’m happy to say that Williston has quite a few. Lucy comes to see him once a month, as do Gerald and Arth—”
“Gerald?” I said, sitting up.
Sir Poppet looked discomfited. “Hmmm. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, and I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself. Gerald Willis is persona non grata with his family, but I consider his visits a boon. He’s the only one of the lot Williston responds to. He comes here every month, all the way from Surrey—on the train, no less. A good man. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him.” I made a show of listening soberly, but I was singing inside. I’d been right, and Miss Kingsley and Arthur had been wrong. Gerald didn’t travel from Haslemere to London to dally with the Dumpling. He went there to catch the train to visit Uncle Williston at Cloverly House. He probably met the Dumpling at the Flamborough for a quick bite of lunch and an earful of professional gossip between trains.
And if Gerald went so far out of his way to visit his uncle in Kent, was it really so incredible to think that he might make a second monthly train trip to visit his father in Bedfordshire? Arthur could laugh all he liked, but I found it quite easy to believe. I reached over to plump Reginald’s cushions, then leaned back in my chair and tried to clear the red-gold haze from my mind.
“I’m convinced that Williston reacts well to Gerald,” Sir Poppet was saying, “because Gerald respects his delusions. He always brings a suitable present for his uncle—a silver card case, an enameled snuffbox, a gold watch-fob, that sort of thing.”
I wondered what kind of delusions demanded such expensive bibelots, but decided not to press the issue. I’d find out for myself soon enough. “When can we see Uncle Williston?”
“This morning would be best,” said Sir Poppet. “I’ve had my secretary advise him of your visit, and he seems to be looking forward to it. I believe that these historical discussions may prove beneficial. Are you familiar with his condition?”
“I know what caused it,” I replied. “His wife and his brother-in-law, Douglas ...” I left the distasteful details unspoken.
Sir Poppet nodded, to show that he understood, then swung his legs over the side of his chair. “Do you feel up to a stroll, Ms. Shepherd?”
We tilted a green-and-white-striped café umbrella to keep Reg and Bertie from fading in the sun, and made our way around the side of the house to a well-shaded path that dropped gradually to the edge of the small lake. Nell and Paul were on the far shore, tossing bread crusts to a cloud of clamorous swans, and they didn’t seem to notice our approach. Sir Poppet walked slowly, gazing down at the path.
“Williston was severely traumatized when he lost his wife,” he said. “He dealt with the trauma by withdrawing from the world entirely. In effect, he became someone else.” Sir Poppet clasped his hands behind his back. “I won’t bore you with technical jargon, Ms. Shepherd. I’m sure you’ve heard of patients who claim to be Sherlock Holmes or Mother Teresa or the pope. Williston chose something a little closer to home. One of his own ancestors, in fact.” Sir Poppet stopped walking and turned to face me. “Our Williston is firmly convinced that he’s the twin brother who took over the family firm in the early eighteenth century.”
“Uncle Williston thinks he’s ... Sir Williston?” I said, in some confusion.
“The diligent, conscientious Sir Williston,” Sir Poppet elaborated, “who harbored a deep hatred for a reprobate brother who went to the colonies.”
“Like the hatred Uncle Williston harbors for a reprobate brother-in-law who went to Canada,” I said, beginning to get the picture.
“Precisely.” Sir Poppet nodded. “The parallels are obvious. It isn’t difficult to understand why Williston identifies so strongly with his ancestor.”
“And you think our visit might help?” I asked.
Sir Poppet turned to gaze reflectively at Nell, who’d walked a little ways away from Paul to feed some of the outlying swans. “As I said, Ms. Shepherd—who knows? I’ve been attempting to get through to him for two years, without success. I’m willing to try a new approach.”
Cloverly House was a redbrick Georgian not unlike Sir Poppet’s residence. There were no bars on the windows, and the front lawn was dotted with oaks and maples, beds of cheerful red geraniums, and well-dressed patients sitting on wooden benches or strolling with white-clad attendants. Overhead, congregating clans of swallows and house martins filled a sky hazed with dust from the hops harvest—Emma wasn’t the only gardener hastening to reap the rewards of August.
Sir Poppet breezed through the entrance hall to his ground-floor office, where he stopped to confer with his secretary in professional undertones before leading us up a curving staircase to a red-carpeted corridor. When I commented on how wide-open the place seemed, he explained that violent patients were not admitted to Cloverly House and that a variety of carefully concealed surveillance devices allowed his staff to monitor the movements of every resident.
Uncle Williston was a fortunate man, I thought. Cloverly House was more like an upscale country club than a home for the mentally ill. There were paintings on the walls, flower-filled vases on the tables, and a fresh, clean scent in the air—not a hint of the antiseptic tang that made hospital visits so trying.
Nell had dressed for the occasion in a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in white georgette. She looked like a Victorian valentine, with her daintily ruffled collar and cuffs, but she cut the sweetness by assuming an air of unapproachable dignity—a silent reproof, I was sure, for my refusal to change out of my old sweater and jeans. I didn’t care what she thought. My touchy tummy approved of what I was wearing, and as long as it was happy, I was happy.
Sir Poppet stopped at a door halfway down the corridor. “Here we are. I’ll come back in a hour, to see how you’re getting on.”
I gave the door a nervous glance. I hadn’t expected to face Williston alone.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Poppet said. “We’ll be listening.” He winked, turned on his heel, and strode back down the corridor toward the staircase.
“Let’s hear it for carefully concealed surveillance devices,” I muttered. I glanced at Nell and squared my shoulders. “Here goes,” I said, and rapped gently on the door.
“Come,” said a deep voice.
Nell followed me into a spacious drawing room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—or the eighteenth century. The walls were painted a pale leaf-green, damask drapes covered the windows, and a mirror-bright oak floor reflected fine antique furnishings. There were candle sconces on the walls and oil lamps on the tables, but no electric lights, no telephone, television, radio—no visible concession whatsoever to the modern world.
Uncle Williston sat in a shield-back chair at a Queen Anne kneehole desk, with his back to the door. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, as large as Arthur, but with none of his son’s softness. He wore a black tailcoat, black knee-breeches, white stockings, and square-toed black shoes with silver buckles. His long white hair had been pulled back into a softly curling ponytail that was held in place by a black velvet ribbon. I could see the feathery tip of a quill pen bobbing in his right hand and hear the scratch of its sharpened tip across the paper. At our entrance, he stopped writing and turned slowly, his back erect, his face an expressionless mask.