Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“You told me you’d gotten over the food poisoning,” Bill said reproachfully.

“Guess I was wrong.” I sat up, pushed my curls back from my forehead, and returned the cup to Nell. “Thanks, Nell. I needed that.”

Nell looked from Bill’s face to mine. “You should see a doctor,” she advised. “Soon.”

“Maybe I will,” I said. “I’ve been feeling out of whack ever since we hit the road.”

“I’ll take you as soon as we’ve seen to Father,” Bill promised, kissing my forehead.

“Do you really think he’s in danger?” I asked.

Bill shrugged worriedly. “Father isn’t a fool. I’m confident that he wouldn’t walk into a dangerous situation without taking precautions, but I’ll feel a lot better when I know what they are.”

“I wonder how William found out about Sally,” said Nell. “Do you suppose Arthur told him?”

I leaned against Bill’s side and considered the question. “I think William got his information the same way we did,” I said. “A scrap here, a hint there—you know, if Lucy and Anthea had talked the problem through, they’d have come up with a solution in no time. They had all the pieces. They just never sat down together to put the puzzle together.”

“Communication was a leading topic in my little chat with Dimity this afternoon,” Bill said wryly.

“I hope you paid attention,” I teased.

“I took notes,” Bill assured me. He stared out of the window for a moment, then looked back at me and Nell. “Here’s another question for the experts. How did Father find out about Sybella? According to Sir Poppet, Uncle Williston never mentioned the name to him, and he hasn’t set eyes on that deed of yours. Yet he showed up at Uncle Tom‘s, asking about Sybella. Where did he run across the name?”

The experts pondered Bill’s question for the next few miles. Then I pressed the intercom button. “Paul?” I said. “Can’t you make this heap move any faster?”

28.

The limo’s headlights picked out the white sign hanging from the iron post at the mouth of the grassy drive. It was half past eight in the evening, dusk was moving in, and there was no other traffic on the Midhurst Road. Paul signaled his turn, pulled past the iron post, and drove cautiously into the darkening woods.

Nell twisted sideways on the fold-down seat and peered intently through the limo’s windshield. “William’s car,” she whispered.

Goose bumps rippled up my arms as I looked past her and saw the silver-gray Mercedes shimmer briefly in the headlights’ glare, then vanish as Paul nosed the limo in beside it. Bill was out of the backseat before he’d cut the engine.

Nell and I followed. She stopped to fetch Bertie from the front, and I paused to lay a hand on the Mercedes, but Bill marched straight up to the Larches and hammered insistently on the front door.

A river of light poured into the gloom as Mrs. Burweed opened the door. “There’s no need to make such a racket, young man,” she said irritably. “Especially at this time of night. Now. How may I—” She broke off as she spied Nell and me hastening up to join Bill on the doorstep. “Miss—Miss Shepherd, isn’t it? How nice. Mr. Gerald will be so pleased to see you again.”

“He will, will he?” Bill muttered.

Mrs. Burweed ignored him and went on speaking to me. “I’m afraid he’s with someone at present. Would you mind waiting—”

“Yes, we would,” Bill interrupted. “Where are they?”

“In the back parlor,” replied Mrs. Burweed, rattled by Bill’s peremptory manner. “But Mr. Gerald gave strict instructions—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Burweed,” said Bill, walking past her into the house. “No need to show me the way.”

I gave Mrs. Burweed a brief, apologetic shrug and dashed up the hall after Bill, with Nell hard on my heels. Bill put his hand out to open the parlor door, but Gerald must have heard the commotion, because he opened it first. He looked at Bill in confusion, then caught sight of me and smiled so sweetly that I went weak in the knees.

“Miss Shepherd,” he exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise.”

Bill growled incoherently, cocked his arm, and let loose a punch that picked Gerald up and sent him sprawling backward into the parlor. Fist clenched, Bill charged in to stand over him, thundering, “That’s for kissing my wife!”

Nell swung around to stare at me, goggle-eyed. “So that’s what happened at Saint Bartholomew‘s!”

“It didn’t happen at Saint Bartholomew‘s,” I snapped distractedly. “Bill! Stop it! Leave him alone.” I tugged at Bill’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the hallway, but it was like trying to uproot a sequoia.

A calm, familiar voice spoke from across the room. “My dear boy, if what you suspect is true, then I sympathize with your sense of outrage, but do you really think that this is an appropriate time to upset Lori?”

I froze, Bill gaped, and Nell gasped.

Gerald groaned.

“Bill, help your cousin to his feet,” Willis, Sr., directed from an armchair at the far end of the couch. “Nell, please advise Mrs. Burweed that a telephone call to the local constabulary will not be necessary. Lori, I realize that you grew up with few relations, but surely you must have learned by now that the term ‘kissing cousins’ is not to be taken literally.”

Willis, Sr., had to give Mrs. Burweed his personal assurance that Bill wasn’t a dangerous lunatic before she’d consent to put the phone down and fetch a pair of ice bags from the kitchen. One was for Gerald’s poor black-and-blue-green eye, the other for the bruised knuckles on Bill’s right hand.

“You idiot,” I lectured, kneeling in front of Bill’s chair and subjecting each of his fingers to a minute inspection. “This was the only hand you had left. I suppose you’ll expect me to spoon-feed you now.”

“Humph,” Bill replied, glowering at Gerald, who was stretched full-length on the tattered sofa.

“Stop that,” I scolded. “I told you, it wasn’t Gerald’s fault. He didn’t know I was your wife. He didn’t know I was anyone’s wife. Besides, he didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being kind. ”

Gerald spoke from beneath his ice bag. “Missing the point,” he murmured, slurring his sibilants. “Some things a chap has to make absolutely clear. Sanctity of marriage is one of them. No gray areas allowed.”

“Damned straight.” Bill nodded vigorously, caught himself mid-nod, and frowned at Gerald, clearly disconcerted to hear his cause championed by the man he’d just flattened.

I handed Bill his ice bag and sat on the arm of his chair, where I could keep an eye on him. The back parlor looked as drab and spiritless as it had the last time I’d been there. Darkness had swallowed the trees beyond the picture windows, and table lamps had been lit at either end of the couch. The soft light took the edge off the general dinginess and brought out the red-gold highlights in Gerald’s chestnut hair. Gerald was dressed much as he’d been when I’d last seen him, in faded jeans and a forest-green shirt made of soft, old cotton.

Willis, Sr., looked different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. He sat facing Bill and me, near the end of the couch where Mrs. Burweed had piled pillows for Gerald’s head. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and an exquisite silver-gray silk tie, but there was nothing unusual in that. Like Nell, Willis, Sr., was always well dressed. His white hair flowed back from his high forehead, and his gray eyes were as serene as ever. A bit brighter than usual, perhaps, when they sought me out, but I’d expected that. He had to be pleased as punch to see Bill and me together. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on Nell.