Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“Reginald won’t let me forget,” I told her.

After arranging to have Bill’s car picked up by the rental firm in York, we were ready to leave. I’d slipped into the loose-fitting cotton dress I’d worn the day before, but Nell had changed into a high-collared white blouse with vertical pleats, a calf-length wool skirt, and a horsy-set tweed blazer that looked a lot like Bertie’s. Bill had decided to travel in a peach-colored polo shirt of Swann‘s—which suited him remarkably well—and the same brown corduroys he’d arrived in.

We milled around, giving hugs and thanks and invitations, then piled into the limo, Bertie and Reg up front with Paul, and Nell, Bill, and I in the back. As we pulled away, Anthea, Swann, and Lucy came out from between the stone gateposts and stood in the middle of the road, waving us on our way. I wondered briefly what Anthea and Swann made of the fact that Lucy was shouting, “Good luck!”

Nell sat on the limo’s padded fold-down seat, facing us. I sat on Bill’s right, where his good hand could find mine; his cast lay propped on a fringed paisley cushion by the door. The bandage on his thumb had shrunk-Swann, displaying hidden talents, had re-dressed it and checked the temperature of Bill’s fingertips, to make sure the cast had been properly applied. How Swann knew about such things wasn’t entirely clear, but Bill had informed me, wide-eyed and sotto voce, that he’d mentioned something about training in the SAS.

“Whew,” I said, falling back against the seat. “That was an instructive visit. I’d say we learned a thing or two, wouldn’t you?”

“Do you mean about Sally blackmailing Gerald,” Nell asked, “or about Julia Louise robbing poor Sybella?”

“Both,” I said. Nell’s ability to put two and two together no longer took me by surprise. Clearly, she’d made the connection between the woman Arthur had described to us and Sally the Slut as easily as I had, and the idea of blackmail had immediately crossed her quicksilver mind. She chose, however, to address the ancient rather than the modem problem.

“I learnt more about Julia Louise from the transcript than from Anthea,” Nell said. “Almost everything we need to know about Julia Louise is in the transcript, in Uncle Williston’s words. Sybella was supposed to marry Sir Williston so he could have everything she owned. When she fell in love with Lord William instead, Sir Williston and Julia Louise punished her by stealing her property.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “I imagine they packed Sybella off somewhere, the same way they did Lord William, and nobody noticed, because she was an orphan.” Nell sighed. “Poor Sybella.”

I nodded. “You may be right about that, Nell. After all—”

Bill cleared his throat. “If I might put in a word or two?”

Nell and I blinked at him for a moment. We’d grown so accustomed to being alone in the back of the limo that the sound of a new voice was startling.

“Sure,” I said, recovering quickly. “Put in as many words as you like.”

Bill stroked his nonexistent beard. “You two are the experts here, no doubt about it, and I don’t want to rain on your parade, but ... has it occurred to you that you may be getting a little ahead of yourselves? We don’t know for certain who Sybella Markham is. We may discover that Julia Louise bought the building from her legitimately.”

“Why are there two deeds, then?” I asked.

“Someone might have mislaid the original—the one Williston gave you-after the new one had been drawn up,” said Bill. “It happens all the time.”

Nell wasn’t buying it. “But Uncle Williston said—”

“I know,” Bill broke in, “and from what Lori’s told me, your experience with him was remarkable. But I’m not sure I’d classify Uncle Williston as a reliable witness.”

“What about Dimity?” I asked. I’d forgotten to tell Bill about Aunt Dimity’s most recent message, and I hadn’t had a chance to tell Nell. “Aunt Dimity thinks that Julia Louise must have done something truly wicked.”

“That could refer to any number of things.” Bill held his hand up in a pacifying gesture. “Don’t get me wrong. As I said, you’re the experts. But if you came to me with the evidence you have right now, I’d advise you to collect more. I wouldn’t feel comfortable bringing a case against Julia Louise based on the testimony of a madman and a ... a message from the Great Beyond.”

“We’ll find more evidence, then,” Nell said confidently.

“Seems to me Anthea’s combed the family papers pretty thoroughly,” Bill observed.

“She missed Sybella’s deed,” I pointed out. I drummed my fingers on the backseat and tried to imagine how Uncle Williston had gotten hold of Sybella Markham’s deed. “Maybe Williston found Sybella’s deed in a file Anthea doesn’t know about,” I said. “A three-hundred-year-old firm must have tons of paperwork stashed away in all sorts of nooks and crannies. I’ve done archival searches—something unexpected is always turning up.”

“Good point,” Bill said. “But even if Sybella’s deed is valid, it doesn’t explain why Father thinks her building belongs to us.” He gave a wry look that held more than a hint of self-recrimination. “Guess I should’ve paid attention to Father’s stories about family history. Nell, do you think Bertie would give me listening lessons? I seem to have lost the knack, but I’m eager to get it back.”

At that precise moment, the limo hit a bump, the briefcase fell to the floor, its locks snapped open, and the blue journal tumbled out. I gave Bill a sidelong look and bent to pick it up;

“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “Do you want to have a word with Bill, by any chance?”

Good morning, my dear. Yes, I most certainly do. A brief refresher course on the relative importance of work andfamily might prove useful, don’t you think? Especially now, when he’s in a receptive frame of mind.

“She wants to talk to you,” I said, handing the journal over to Bill. “Brace yourself.”

Bill tilted the journal to one side so that he alone could read Aunt Dimity’s words. A martyred expression slowly settled over his face, and when it became apparent that his refresher course would last more than a few minutes, I reached for the telephone and dialed Emma’s number.

“Hmmm?” Emma said, sounding drowsy. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry. Caught me napping in the hammock. It’s these late nights, plus the sun shining through the beech leaves, plus a conspicuous absence of deliverymen. Peggy Kitchen reports that the vacant house is filling up, though. Desks, cabinets. I think she said something about an aspidistra.”

“Bill will be thrilled to hear that,” I told her. “He’s with me right now, in the limo.” I clutched the telephone in alarm as I heard an un-Emma-like squeal, followed closely by a dull thud. “Emma? Are you okay?”

“Hello?” Emma’s voice was in my ear again, sounding fully awake. “Fell out of the hammock. Ouch. I think I bruised my knee.” She was interrupted by a snuffling sound I failed to identify until she said, “Thank you, Ham, I’m fine. No more kisses now, boy. Sit! Lori? Did I hear you right? Did you say that Bill’s with you? How on earth—”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” I said. “First off, have you found out anything about Sybella Markham?”

“Nothing,” Emma said apologetically. “I’ve searched backwards and forwards, but I haven’t found a thing about an orphan girl named Sybella Markham. I plan to hit the Mormon genealogical vaults tonight. Until then ...”

“Would you hold on for a minute?” I asked, and conveyed the discouraging news to Nell.

Nell was undaunted. “Tell Mama to look for Sybella in Bath,” she said.