Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“Not between the two branches,” Miss Kingsley answered. “As I said, they do not communicate. The English branch, however, has had nothing but trouble for the past few years.”

“Has Gerald Willis been part of the trouble?” I asked.

“Indeed he has,” Miss Kingsley replied gravely. “Two years ago, he lost his position with the family firm, sold his London town house, and moved to Haslemere, in Surrey. His family was most disappointed in him. He’s the eldest male of his generation, you see.”

“How many of them are there?” I took a pencil from the desk drawer and scribbled names as Miss Kingsley reeled them off.

“An aunt, Anthea, and two uncles, Thomas and Williston, all of whom are retired. The firm is currently run by two cousins, Lucy and Arthur. Lucy’s younger sisters work for the firm as well, but they’re on maternity leave at the moment.”

Lucky them, I thought. Then, scanning the list with a quickening of interest, I added, Lucky me. An aunt, two uncles, and five cousins, two of whom were about to produce still another generation of Willises—I had a whole new world of in-laws to explore, a second chance to connect with Bill’s family. “Why did Gerald leave the firm?”

“No one knows for sure,” Miss Kingsley told me. “I’ve heard rumors about financial improprieties and seen evidence of other... improprieties.”

“Wine, women, and song?” I asked, amused by Miss Kingsley’s reticence. “Or something more serious?”

“Let us say simply that, since his retirement, Gerald has taken to entertaining the sort of woman the Flamborough does not ordinarily welcome in its dining room,” Miss Kingsley replied primly.

“Oh-ho,” I murmured.

“It’s only to be expected,” Miss Kingsley assured me. “Gerald’s in his late thirties, very good-looking, and quite well off. Though why he should fasten onto an aging—” Miss Kingsley caught herself. “Ah, well, as my aunt Ed wina used to say, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Do you have Gerald’s address in Haslemere?” I asked. “Naturally,” said Miss Kingsley. “If you’ll wait one moment—”

I heard the sound of drawers being opened and cards being shuffled. Miss Kingsley had opted out of the computer age and relied instead on a time-tested storage-and-retrieval system involving little wooden drawers and many, many index cards. No electronic thief could burgle Miss Kingsley’s files, and the conventional robber hadn’t been born who could break into her office. Only Miss Kingsley’s nimble fingers ever touched those cards, and in no time she came up with the information I needed.

“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said. “What profession was Gerald drummed out of?”

“Didn’t I say?” Miss Kingsley said. “Gerald is— was —a solicitor. The family’s law offices are located in London. Would you like that address as well?”

So traditions do hold true, I thought, jotting down the address of yet another Willis family firm. Gerald was a lawyer, just like Bill, though I couldn’t imagine Bill ripping off Willis & Willis and retiring to the Berkshires in disgrace. Gerald must have been a pretty successful solicitor—or a skillful embezzler, if the rumors were true—to be able to give up his job and still dine out with ladies of dubious repute at a place as swanky as the Flamborough. But where there were Willises, there usually was money.

It required no imagination at all to understand why Dimity didn’t want Willis, Sr., haring off to Haslemere, asking questions. A black sheep like Cousin Gerald might object—violently, perhaps?—to being subjected to any kind of interrogation.

“Well?” said Emma, when I’d hung up the phone.

“I have Cousin Gerald’s address and telephone number,” I announced, “and Miss Kingsley told me—”

I broke off as the sound of tires crunching on gravel came from the front of the house. I glanced at Ham, saw his ears prick forward, and started toward the hall, hoping against hope to hear Willis, Sr.,’s light step coming into the cottage.

Instead, I heard the heavy clump of work boots as Derek Harris strode up the hallway from the front door to the study. At six foot four, he had to duck to come into the room, and even then his gray curls brushed the lintel. He’d evidently come straight from the church in Chipping Campden—his customary blue jeans and work shirt were pretty grubby, as were his hands and face.

“Papa!” Nell exclaimed, in a voice filled with pure delight. Nell loved Emma, but she adored her father and always greeted him with a special warmth.

“Hello, all,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the streak of dirt across his chin. “Saw your car in the driveway, Em. Knew you’d be here. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I said, sinking back into the chair at the desk. “Just that I’ve been in England for less than a week and already I’ve lost Bill’s father.”

5.

Derek’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it widened. “Well, you’ll have to find him before Bill gets wind of it,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “Mustn’t make a habit of losing a chap’s father, you know. Disturbs a fellow. Now, were it my father, it’d be an entirely different—” Derek’s merriment faded as he took stock of our solemn faces. “You mean, you actually have lost William?” he asked, startled.

“He wasn’t here when Bertie and I arrived for our chess game,” said Nell.

“And he left a note that doesn’t say where he’s gone,” Emma added.

“And the blue journal’s missing, and so’s Reginald,” Nell continued.

“Oh, and we got another note,” I concluded. “You’ll never guess who wrote it.”

Derek held up his hands in self-defense. “Hold on, hold on. Something tells me I should be sitting down when I hear the rest of this. Cup of tea for your poor old dad, Nell, if you please.”

While Nell went to fetch another cup and saucer, Derek settled in the leather chair I’d vacated, and stretched his long legs out before him.

“How are things in Chipping Campden?” Emma asked.

“Dire,” Derek replied. “Church roofs shot.”

“The whole thing?” Emma leaned forward to wipe the grime from Derek’s chin with a napkin.

“No,” Derek answered. “Just the fiddly bit where the roof meets the tower. I’ll be astonished if we finish the job in ten days’ time. Bishop’ll simply have to bring his bum bershoot.”

“You can’t fix it?” Emma sat back, nonplussed.

“Oh, I can fix it, all right,” Derek conceded. “Give me ten twenty-five-hour days and it’ll be right as—” He put a hand on Emma’s knee. “Sorry, darling. Don’t think I’ll be of much use to you in the garden.”

“Never mind,” said Emma, putting her hand on his. “I’ll manage.”

I watched them wistfully, wishing I had Bill’s hand to hold, then averted my gaze and looked stoically into the fire.

When Nell returned, and her father’s cup had been filled, she resumed her place on the ottoman with Bertie. Derek drank his tea in one long draft, looked longingly at the emptied cup, and set it aside. “All right,” he said, “I’m ready. Fire away.”

He listened without interrupting while the three of us recounted what had happened. When we’d finished, he looked from me to Emma to Nell, then back to me. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “For reasons unknown, your father-in-law has set out to see a long-lost and possibly nefarious cousin, with Aunt Dimity and, er, Reginald in hot pursuit.” He clucked his tongue. “Can’t leave the three of you alone for a minute, can I.... What do you plan to do next?”