Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

Apart from that, the limo was equipped with one essential piece of equipment the Mini lacked: a cellular telephone. I put in a call to Miss Kingsley before Paul had finished loading our luggage into the trunk.

“Mr. Willis did not check into the Flamborough last night,” she reported. “He stayed at number three, Anne Elizabeth Court. It’s near the Inns of Court.”

The address sounded strangely familiar. I glanced down at the slip of paper bearing directions to the family firm and said, “But that’s where we’re going now. I thought it was a business address.”

“Lucy and Arthur Willis live in flats above the family’s offices,” Miss Kingsley informed me. “I assume Mr. Willis spent the night in one of them. He left the building approximately one hour ago.”

I groaned. “Any idea where he went?”

“I’m sorry, Lori, but Bjorn lost him in traffic.”

“Bjorn?” I said. “Bjorn the barman?”

“That’s right,” said Miss Kingsley. “It was Bjorn’s night off, so I asked him to keep an eye on Lucy’s residence, in case Mr. Willis showed up there.”

I’d have to remember to tip poor Bjorn big-time the next time I had a drink in the Flamborough’s bar. I was pretty sure that Miss Kingsley hadn’t so much asked as ordered him to spend his night off staking out the Inns of Court. I thanked Miss Kingsley, asked her to call if she had anything new to report, then rang Emma.

“Lori!” she exclaimed, sounding out of breath. “If my bell peppers rot on the ground, I’ll know who to blame.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“It’s this search you sent me on,” she replied. “I’ve been up half the night sorting through your in-laws’ dirty laundry. I haven’t even been out to the garden yet.”

The flood of adrenaline that carried Emma through the rigors of harvesttime had evidently spilled over into her research project. She sounded giddy as a kitten. I glanced out of the limo’s tinted window, saw that we’d come to a standstill in a long line of cars on Waterloo Bridge, and figured I’d have time for several hampers’ worth of dirty laundry. “Do tell.”

“I haven’t gotten started on the old feud yet, but if it’s anything like more recent history, it’ll be a king-sized can of worms.”

“Sleeping dogs,” I corrected. “Never mind. Go on.” I could picture Emma settling onto the horsehair sofa in the family room at the manor house, leaning against the sofa’s arm and curling her legs up under her, with Ham sprawled on the hearth rug, and sunlight streaming through the windows behind her. The image made me so homesick for the cottage that I nearly missed the first part of what she was saying.

“It’s all to do with the older generation,” Emma began. “That’s two brothers and a sister: Thomas, the eldest, Williston, and Anthea. Three years ago, they were working full-time for the firm, then suddenly, poof, they all retired at once, leaving their children to pick up the pieces.”

“Gerald mentioned that his father had health problems,” I remarked.

“That takes care of Thomas,” said Emma, “but I’ll bet Gerald didn’t mention that they had to clap his uncle Williston into a madhouse!”

I jerked forward on the backseat. “You’re kidding.”

“That’s the least of it,” Emma went on. “Wait till you hear what caused his breakdown. Are you listening? Willuton’s wife ran off with Anthea’s husband.”

“Good grief ...” I muttered.

“It gets better,” said Emma. “Apparently Anthea’s husband—his name is Douglas—was sound as a bell until he decided to have a midlife crisis and came under the influence of a doctor who was prescribing questionable medication. It brought out the beast in Douglas, and he started going through legal secretaries like there was no tomorrow. The next thing anyone knew, he’d bolted for Canada, with Williston’s pretty young wife in tow. A year later, Williston went stark, raving mad, and they had to lock him up. He’s still in a convalescent home down in Kent.”

“What about Anthea?” I asked, scrambling to keep up. “What did she do after Douglas left?”

“Divorced him, chucked her career, and ran away to the family farm up in Yorkshire, where she’s known as Anthea Willis.” Emma paused for a breath. “She dispensed with Douglas’s last name, as did her daughters, and I can’t say I blame them. What self-respecting woman would want to be associated with a creep like Douglas?”

“Let me get this straight.” Emma’s zeal was admirable, but I felt as though I’d been hit by a hailstorm. “Thomas is sick, Williston’s crazy, Anthea’s gone into seclusion, and Douglas is a ... an expatriate junkie philanderer? Whew.” I mopped my brow. “Is all of this public knowledge?”

“Not really,” said Emma. “I got most of this information from Derek’s solicitor. If he hadn’t been an old friend, I don’t think he‘d’ve told me as much as he did. The legal world is pretty good about protecting its own.”

“Still,” I said, “it couldn’t have done the firm’s reputation much good.”

“Gerald held the firm rock-steady through the early days,” Emma told me. “Derek’s solicitor says that the clients trusted Gerald, and no one on the net has a bad word to say about him. They acknowledge that he made certain errors in judgment, but put it down to the pressure he was under at the time, which, as you can imagine, must have been considerable.”

“And his cousin Lucy’s been running the place since he left,” I mused.

“She’s doing a good job of it, too,” Emma added. “I didn’t learn much about her sisters or this other cousin, Arthur, but they must be pulling their weight, because the firm’s flourishing, in spite of everything.”

“Gosh,” I said, blinking dazedly down at the Thames. “Too bad you couldn’t dig up something juicy.”

Emma’s laughter blended with the sound of Ham barking in the background. She ordered the dog to be quiet, then asked me to hold, because someone was coming up the drive. I heard the front door open, a muffled exchange of words, the thump of the door as it was closed again, and the distant sound of an engine revving. A moment later, Emma was back.

“Another delivery,” she announced. “I assume you want me to put the fax machine in the shed with the photocopier.”

“Fax machine?” I shook my head. “Aunt Dimity’s right, Emma. William must be stopped.”

“Any trace of him?” Emma asked.

“His spoor’s been sighted, but so far he’s evaded capture.” I relayed Miss Kingsley’s news, adding that I still intended to visit Lucy Willis, on the off chance that she might know where Willis, Sr., had gone.

“Watch what you say about Anthea and that creep Douglas,” Emma cautioned. “They’re Lucy’s mom and dad. And crazy old Williston is Arthur’s father.”

“I’ll write it all down on my wrist,” I promised. Nell reminded me to ask Emma to keep her eyes open for any reference to a disputed legacy, and Emma agreed to tackle ancient history after she’d seen to her peppers.

“Well?” said Nell, as I hung up the phone.

I stared at her blankly for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Nell,” I began, “remember when I said that this branch of the family sounded interesting ... ?”

Anne Elizabeth Court was a tiny square of redbrick Georgian row houses surrounding a microscopic patch of lawn. The street bordering the lawn was so narrow that I thought the limo wouldn’t fit, but Paul was accustomed to navigating the medieval byways of his city and sailed up to number three without the slightest hesitation.

The Willises occupied one of five identical four-story buildings on the west side of the square. All had shiny white railings running along the sidewalk, fan windows above pristine white doors, and brass plates that identified their residents. Whereas the other plates were engraved with the names of two or more tenants, however, the plate at number three boasted a single occupant: “Willis & Willis.”