I looked over to where the deed lay, atop the fruitwood box on Sir Poppet’s desk. “Such as number three, Anne Elizabeth Court?”
“And the family farm up in Yorkshire, and a good deal more besides.” Sir Poppet sighed. “For the past two years, he’s done nothing but create documents assigning all of his family’s possessions to Sybil. Compensation, I assume, for his earlier neglect.”
I held a hand out toward the desk. “May I keep the deed?”
“I don’t see why not,” Sir Poppet said. “It might disturb Williston to see it again after presenting it to Sybella. Yes, by all means, take it with you, and the box as well.”
Nell shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Why did Williston talk about his mother?” she asked. “And about a theft? Why Sybella Markham instead of Sybella Willis? Was Sybil’s maiden name Markham?”
“No. It was Farrand.” Sir Poppet lifted his hands into the air, then let them fall. “I don’t pretend to understand everything, Lady Nell. I’ll have to analyze the transcripts of today’s encounter thoroughly before I can begin to work out the details.”
“Did he mention Sybella to my father-in-law?” I asked.
“Your father-in-law was treated to a detailed account of the bursting of the South Sea Bubble in 1720,” Sir Poppet replied. He gave an impatient little sigh and shook his head. “I don’t think you quite understand. This is the first time in two years that Williston’s spoken his wife’s name aloud. It’s an enormous breakthrough, and I can only say—” Sir Poppet broke off as a knock sounded at the door. He excused himself and left the office, to return a moment later with Bertie in his arms. “Sir Bertram declares that you are to be congratulated, Lady Nell, and I must say that I agree with him.”
I watched from the front stairs of Cloverly House as Sir Poppet, Nell, and Bertie took a turn around the lawn. Nell had been thoroughly shaken by her unwitting participation in Uncle Williston’s therapy, and I was grateful to Sir Poppet for taking the time to talk her through it.
We were stuck there for a while, anyway. I’d sent Paul up to London with the deed Uncle Williston had given Nell. I had a friend at the British Museum, an expert on papers and inks, and I wanted him to take a look at it. If Toby Treadwell said the deed was a fake, I’d believe it. If not, I’d begin to ask a whole new set of questions. Such as: Who was Sybella Markham? How had her property come into the hands of the Willis family? And what did any of this have to do with my father-in-law?
I pressed a hand to the small of my back and strolled over to sit on a wooden bench in the shade of a towering oak. It felt good to sit still for a moment and let my mind wander. I’d had what my mother would have called an eventful couple of days, during which I’d expended more emotional energy than should have been humanly possible. Maybe, I thought, bending to pick up one of the acorns littering the grass, just maybe it wasn’t the best time to make a decision that would affect the rest of my life.
I rolled the acorn between my fingers and stared out over the lawn. Bill and I had sat beneath an oak tree once, in the early days of our courtship, on a hill overlooking a peaceful valley. I’d been a basket case back then, nearly as crippled by guilt and grief as Uncle Williston. A lesser man would have kept me at arm’s length, but Bill had pulled me closer. He’d practically carried me through one of the most difficult periods in my life.
Perhaps, I thought, tucking the acorn into the pocket of my jeans, just perhaps I’d been a bit hasty in writing off my husband. I’d awakened him in the middle of the night, after all, and it wasn’t entirely fair to expect instant sympathy from someone who was woozy from painkillers and nursing a sore thumb. Besides, it would be monstrous to pull a Sybil on him and walk away without a word of warning.
I’d call him one more time, I decided, and I wouldn’t let him interrupt. I’d tell him exactly what I thought of the Biddifords and his aunts and his selfish refusal to talk about our future. Then I’d tell him that, if he still wanted to have a future with me, he’d better get his tail on a plane bound for England or I‘d—
“Missy!”
I blinked, jerked abruptly from my impassioned reverie. Had someone called me “Missy”?
“Hssst.”
The hiss came from behind me. I slowly turned my head and saw the wizened face of a little old man, half hidden by the oak tree’s trunk.
“Over here,” he whispered loudly, beckoning to me with one clawlike hand.
I scanned the lawn for keepers, but the nearest one was twenty yards away, and Sir Poppet, Nell, and Bertie had their backs to me. Ah well, I thought, the guy looks more like a gnome than a serial murderer, and besides, Sir Poppet had said they didn’t accept violent cases at Cloverly House.
I got up from the bench and walked around to the far side of the oak tree. The gnome was wearing a grimy set of blue coveralls and work boots. He was completely bald, extremely skinny, and tiny. I was a mere five feet four inches tall, but the gnome made me feel like a strapping giantess. His face was a deeply tanned mass of wrinkles, and I couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t put his teeth in for the day.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hush,” he replied. He looked furtively over his shoulder, then peered up at me. “You be the Shepherd, eh?”
“Uh-huh,” I said equably. “I be Lori Shepherd.”
The gnome leaned close to me and I caught a whiff of baby powder, lilacs, and an overpowering blast of motor oil. “I got summat for you,” he told me, sotto voce.
“Do you?” I asked, and before I knew quite what was happening, he pulled Aunt Dimity’s blue journal from the leg pocket of his coveralls, thrust it into my hands, and sidled toward the front steps of Cloverly House.
“Dimity,” I whispered, staring down at the journal in disbelief. I looked for the gnome and called to him to wait. “I’m sorry to keep you,” I said, coming up beside him. “But how—”
“Found it by me bucket when I was cleanin’ the loo,” he replied. “Note said to give it to you, quiet-like. Here, tuck it up under your jumper or the guv‘nor’ll see.” He waited until I’d slid the journal into the waistband of my jeans and pulled my sweater over it. Then he jutted his chin toward Sir Poppet. “Run along now, Missy.”
I backed away, half-expecting the little man to disappear in a puff of smoke. When he jutted his chin a second time, I turned and walked toward Sir Poppet, who was standing ten yards away.
“Does that man work for you?” I asked him, pointing at the gnome.
“That’s Cyril,” Sir Poppet replied. “He does odd jobs about the place. He’s getting on in years, but he’s still very clever with his hands. Cyril worked as a mechanic at Biggin Hill during the war. He actually participated in the Battle of Britain. I could listen to old Cyril’s tales for hours.”
As the tiny figure disappeared through the front doors, I murmured dazedly, “So could I.”
20.
Paul telephoned at five o‘clock, requesting permission to spend the night in London. My friend at the British Museum hadn’t had time to give the deed more than a cursory examination, but would do a more thorough job first thing in the morning. I gave Paul my blessing and accepted Sir Poppet’s invitation to spend a second night at his home. I managed to slip the blue journal into Uncle Williston’s fruitwood box, but didn’t get a chance to open it until Reginald and I were alone in my room, after dinner.