Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“And who is Nicolette Gascon?” I inquired patiently.

“William’s ward.” Nell explained. “We’ve come down from London to bring him some important papers.” Nell paused to give me an anxious glance. “Am I being presumptuous ? Papa says that I am sometimes, and that I shouldn’t be, because it annoys people.”

I had to laugh: “Oh, what the hell, why shouldn’t we pull a fast one on Gerald? He’s probably doing the same thing to William.”

Nell nodded happily. “That’s what Bertrand thought.”

I got up and reached for the tweeds. I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about changing out of my comfy jeans and sweater, but I couldn’t spoil Nell’s fun. “So this was Bertie’s idea?”

“Bertrand,” she corrected. “He’s going to stay behind to chat up the maids.”

While I changed into the hideous tweeds, I told Nell about my interview with Miss Coombs. “There’s no doubt about it,” I concluded. “Miss Coombs is in love with Cousin Gerald.”

“Really?” said Nell. “So are Mandy, Karen, Jane, Denice, and Alvira. And Mr. Digby wouldn’t be at all surprised if the bartender wasn’t half in love with Gerald, too.”

I paused in my struggle to zip the tweed skirt. “Who ... ?” I asked.

“Mandy, Karen, and Jane are chambermaids; Denice works in the garden; and Alvira’s the cook’s helper,” Nell explained. “Mr. Digby is the porter. He said I reminded him of his granddaughter, and we had such a nice talk. His son-in-law manages the Midlands Bank here in town. Cousin Gerald has an account there. A remarkably large account. He draws on it twice a month.”

My investigative acumen seemed somehow less impressive than it had a short while ago. Nell hadn’t mentioned the Larches yet, but I expected at any minute to hear that Mr. Digby’s great-grandnephew was the plumber who’d refitted Cousin Gerald’s WC.

“So Gerald has ‘vast sums of money,’ ” I mused, recalling Aunt Dimity’s note. “I wonder how he manages that without a job?” I pulled on the tweed blazer and grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like the Executive Assistant from Hell.

“Mr. Digby told me that he takes the train into the city twice a month, regular as clockwork, right after he draws on his account,” said Nell. “Mr. Digby’s daughter works at the ticket office,” she added.

My reflected grimace turned into a disapproving sneer. The mystery woman in London twice a month, the entire female staff—and possibly the bartender—of the Georgian Hotel once or twice a week, and who knew how many others in between? No wonder the poor boy was trying to dip his hand in Willis, Sr.’s pocket. With a gruel ing schedule of debauchery like that, the expenses could add up.

“The more I hear about Cousin Gerald, the less I like him,” I said aloud. I handed Nell the town map, bid Bertrand adieu, and picked up my briefcase. “Now let’s go and find out what this lowlife has to do with my father-in-law.”

I didn’t actually close my eyes when we went through the five-way intersection at the top of the High Street, but I considered it. Derek had told me that the redevelopment of England’s south coast was putting a strain on the infrastructure, and I now saw what he meant. It was half past four and rush hour was well under way—fleets of semis lumbered along roads built for oxcarts, and increased commuter traffic choked all the main arteries. Once we’d passed the crossroads, however, the congestion let up and I relaxed.

It was a lovely drive. The forests of southern England had been thinned by the great gale of ‘87, but there were still plenty of tall trees around Haslemere, and the Midhurst Road was a dappled ribbon winding between them.

“There it is.” Nell spotted the sign before I did. It was small and white and hanging from an iron post at the mouth of a grassy drive that led back into the woods, and it had “The Larches” painted on it in green letters.

“Cousin Gerald must value his privacy,” I commented, turning cautiously into the drive. There were no other houses in sight, and we drove a good fifty yards into the trees before we got our first look at the Larches.

It wasn’t what I’d expected. Cousin Gerald’s woodland retreat was a graceless two-story box covered in patchy clam-gray stucco, with a few scraggly shrubs on either side of its nondescript front door. Whatever Gerald was spending his money on, it wasn’t his home.

“What a revolting little house,” Nell exclaimed.

“Ugh,” I agreed. “No sign of William’s car,” I added as I switched off the engine.

“It might be round the back,” suggested Nell. “Shall I have a look?”

“Too late,” I said.

Our arrival had been noted. The front door had opened and a tall, rawboned woman in a cotton housedress stood on the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron and watching us alertly.

“Let me do the talking,” I murmured to Nell as we got out of the car. My rare-book hunts had given me ample experience with dragon-lady housekeepers, and I wasn’t about to let this one frighten me away. I hefted the briefcase and, with Nell trailing a few steps behind me, marched up to the front door. “My name is Lori Shepherd,” I declared, “and I’ve come to see Mr. Gerald Willis.”

“Of course,” said the woman, with a disarmingly sweet smile. She patted the iron-gray bun at the nape of her neck. “I’ll fetch him for you. Won’t you come—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Burweed,” a deep male voice called from inside the house. “I’ll see to our visitors. You can go back to your meringues.” Mrs. Burweed nodded pleasantly before disappearing into the house, and a moment later a man took her place.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Gerald Willis.”

8.

If an angel could be six foot two, with softly curling chestnut hair, a generous mouth, and a chiseled chin as smooth as any choirboy‘s, then Gerald Willis was an angel. His blue-green eyes were filled with light, like chips of glacier ice, and fringed with long, dark lashes beneath delicately arched brows. He was wearing small round spectacles, and as he took them off he smiled, and a solitary dimple appeared in his left cheek.

I thought I heard a heavenly choir sing.

“May I help you?” he asked, with emphasis, as though he’d said it once already.

He was about Bill’s age, but fit, with a stomach as flat as a Nebraska wheatfield. He wore a dark-brown shirt of old, soft cotton tucked into jeans so faded they were nearly white. The black leather belt that hugged his hips reminded me of the one Nell had wrapped around her outsized blazer and was equally superfluous—Gerald’s snugly fitting jeans were in no danger of drooping.

“Have you come about the telephone?” he inquired.

I tried to speak. I could feel my lips move, but the words refused to come, so I stood there mouthing air like a stranded guppy.

“No, we have not come about the telephone.” Nell’s voice seemed to come from some distant planet. “I’ve come to see my grandfather. I know he doesn’t want to see me, but I won’t be turned away.” In an aside to me she added, “I’m sorry I lied to you, Miss Shepherd, but I must see your employer face-to-face. Pardonnez-moi. ...” Whereupon Nell shouldered her way relentlessly past a dumbfounded Cousin Gerald and sailed into the Larches, calling, “Grandpapa! I know you’re here! Come out at once!”

He’s a womanizer, I was reminding myself urgently. He’s a threat to Willis, Sr. He‘s— Grandpapa ? Nell’s words finally penetrated the dense fog shrouding my brain, and I gaped at Cousin Gerald in stark confusion. Grandpapa ? What script were we working from now?

“Oh dear,” Gerald said, with a sympathetic wince. “Child-minding for the boss?”