Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“Yes. Anthea mentioned the compromising photographs. That’s what started me thinking.” I left off fiddling with my toast and began to toy with my teaspoon. “When Arthur told us about the woman Gerald meets at the Flamborough,” I said, “he used a very similar set of adjectives to describe her. He called her a dumpling with peg legs, a hard-eyed hag. He even said that she dyed her hair.”

Lucy slowly straightened in her chair, and her eyes took on the faraway look of intense concentration. Then her mouth fell open. “Oh my Lord,” she said, as though the light of revelation had fallen upon her. “Sally the Slut and Gerald.” She stared in blank amazement at thin air, then focused in on me. “Why?”

“Once a blackmailer, always a blackmailer.” I bent over my teacup and elaborated. “I happen to know that Gerald withdraws money from his bank account before he goes to London to meet with Sally. That’s what made me think—”

“How do you ‘happen to know’ something like that?” Lucy interrupted.

“Nell,” I said, and added, for good measure, Paul’s immortal words: “She has a way with people.”

Lucy still looked baffled, so I backtracked.

“I was worried,” I explained. “I’d heard nasty rumors about Gerald, and I thought my father-in-law was going into business with him, so I went to Haslemere to ... check Gerald out.”

“I’d have done the same thing,” said Lucy without hesitation.

“When we arrived in Haslemere,” I continued, “Nell got to talking to the porter at a local hotel whose son-in-law or nephew or second cousin twice removed is the manager at the bank where Gerald has his account, and—”

“And Nell has a way with people.” Lucy nodded. “I see what you mean.” She suddenly began to laugh, and, just as suddenly, the laughter turned into tears, the deep-breathing, word-sputtering flood of long-pent-up emotions finally released. “Ge-Gerald, you f-fool,” she stuttered, covering her face with her hands. “You d-darling, darling f-fool. Why d-didn’t you t-tell me ... ?”

“Tell you what?” I said, passing a kitchen towel to her.

Lucy used the towel to scrub her face. “That he’s being b-blackmailed, of course. That’s why he left the firm and went off to hide in H-Haslemere. I’ll lay you odds it’s something to do with Douglas. The Slut’s probably shown him those naughty photos and threatened to have them splashed across the tabloids.”

“Old news, don’t you think?” I said dubiously.

“Well, it’s something to do with protecting the firm or the family,” Lucy said resolutely. “I know him, you see. I know how much he cares for all of us. I knew it all along. Oh, Ge-Gerald ...” She buried her face in the towel.

I felt my own eyes grow misty. I knew what it was to have your faith in someone confirmed, against all odds. “Gosh,” I said dreamily, resting my elbows on the table and cupping my chin in my hands. “Gerald’s so ...”

“Isn’t he?” Lucy said with a sniff.

“Isn’t he what?” Bill stood behind me in the doorway, looking well rested but suspicious. He’d shown a great deal of understanding under the coverlet the previous night, when I’d finally made a clean breast of my encounter with Gerald, but it seemed foolhardy to ask for more.

“Loyal,” I replied, without missing a beat. “He’s so damned loyal to his family that it makes me dizzy. Cup of tea?”

Lucy pulled herself together and fixed Bill what she called a real breakfast. Fried eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and black pudding appeared on the table in short order, and though the mere sight of the grease-laden mess made me queasy, I gritted my teeth and poured Bill’s tea. While he ate, Lucy and I explained what I’d learned about the woman Gerald saw regularly at the Flamborough.

“So he’s meeting a known blackmailer,” Bill said. “What made him move to Haslemere, I wonder?”

“Cost of living,” Lucy said promptly. “He’s renting that horrible place in Haslemere from a friend for a pittance.”

“He must’ve sold his London town house to pump up his savings,” I put in, “so he could cover the Slut’s demands.”

Bill looked at Lucy. “Any idea what she could be blackmailing him about?”

Lucy leaned back against the sink and folded her arms. “Quite honestly, no. I thought at first that it might have something to do with Douglas, but Lori’s right, that’s as stale as yesterday’s loaf. Perhaps ...” She paused for a moment, as though struck by an ingenious notion. “I know,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You must go to see Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom knows Gerald better than anyone. He’s bound to have an idea of what’s going on.”

“If that’s so, Lucy, why hasn’t he told you?” Bill asked.

Lucy turned a becoming shade of dusky rose. “I’ve been biting people’s heads off or bursting into tears every time anyone mentions Gerald’s name,” she answered sheepishly. “I don’t suppose I‘d’ve listened, even if Uncle Tom had tried to talk to me.”

“Come with us,” I suggested, refilling Lucy’s cup.

“I can‘t,” said Lucy. “If I leave Arthur in charge of the firm for more than a day it takes me a month to sort things out again. I simply must be back in London this afternoon.”

“Surely—” Bill began, but I interrupted.

“You haven’t met Arthur,” I told him. “He’s not Mr. Reliable.”

Lucy sighed. “He’s a great bumbling oaf, as Mother says, but he’s got a kind heart and I love him dearly.” She paused as the sound of voices came from the front hall. Lowering her own voice, she said, “Don’t mention any of this to Mother or Swann. I don’t want them to get their hopes up until we know something more definite.”

“Our lips are sealed,” Bill promised.

Anthea, Swann, and Nell paraded into the room in stockinged feet and riding clothes, trailing clouds of glory liberally scented with eau de cheval. Anthea and Swann wore their own fawn jodhpurs and fitted coats, but Nell had borrowed an outfit left over from the days when the cousins had ridden together across the hills. She marched in with her head held high, her back ramrod-straight, as though she’d grown up in the saddle, but her upright bearing vanished the moment she noticed Bill.

“Bill!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. “Bertie and I knew you’d come.”

Bill looked a question at me over her shoulder, but I could only shrug. Nell usually reserved such exuberant greetings for her father. I couldn’t imagine what had brought this one on.

“I like your new specs,” Nell continued, standing back to survey my husband. “What have you done to your poor arm?”

“I take it you’re William’s boy,” Anthea put in.

I introduced Bill to Anthea and Swann, and after the three intrepid equestrians had showered and changed, we all retired to the sitting room, where Bill became the center of attention. He rose to the occasion, reshaping his ordeal into a self-deprecating tale of misadventure that repeatedly brought the house down. When Anthea learned that he hadn’t been permitted to flee Little Moose Lake with his luggage, she took Swann upstairs to ransack his own closets and produce a suitable wardrobe.

While they were gone, and with Paul close at hand, I asked Lucy for directions to Uncle Tom’s home. She told us that he lived in a village called Old Warden, not far from Biggleswade. Paul was familiar with Old Warden, but when he asked how to find the house, Lucy smiled enigmatically and said to keep an eye out for pheasants.

“Uncle Tom won’t be able to put you up for the night,” she warned. “His house is quite tiny. But you’ll be able to find a place to stay in Bedford. I recommend the Swan Hotel, and not just because the name has such pleasant connotations. Oh, and be sure to say hello to Geraldine for me.”