Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

Willis, Sr.’s face brightened. “I am so pleased to hear you say that, Miss Shepherd. You will proceed as planned, then? You will go to England and write the introduction? It meant so much to Miss Westwood.”

“Of course I’ll go,” I said. “It means a lot to me, too.”

“And you will accept my invitation to remain here as my guest?” he asked.

What could I do? Throw the old man’s kindness back in his face? I nodded and he looked well pleased. He placed the papers on the coffee table and we sat in companionable silence. I was still somewhat dazed by the prospects that lay before me. The biggest decision I’d had to make lately was the number of books I’d allow myself to check out of the public library at one time. Now here I was, with an overseas trip, an unlimited expense account, and a chance to earn ten thousand dollars doing something I knew I would enjoy. I didn’t know where to start. What did people do with expense accounts? I had no past experience to go on, but as I looked at Willis, Sr.’s patient smile, an idea began to take shape.

“Are you feeling okay, Mr. Willis?” I asked, twisting my hands nervously in my lap.

“How thoughtful of you to inquire,” he said. “Yes, thank you, Miss Shepherd, I feel quite fit.”

“Then would you… would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked, adding hurriedly, “If you’re not too busy, and if you don’t have other plans, and if you’re sure you’re feeling—”

“Miss Shepherd,” Willis, Sr., broke in gently, “I would be honored to accept your kind invitation.” He placed a wrinkled hand on my fidgeting fingers, and I didn’t have the slightest inclination to pull them away.

7

Willis, Sr., arranged for our dinner to be served in the large library on the ground floor, a room that might have been lifted, lock, stock, and bookplate, from one of the great English manor houses. “My great-uncle, Arthur Willis, saw an engraving of the library at Chatsworth,” Willis, Sr., explained, “and decided to pattern his after it.” The room was long and relatively narrow, with tall windows on one side and bookshelves on the other. A ladder and a narrow catwalk, resplendent in gold leaf, gave access to the highest shelves, and the ceiling was a marvel of sculpted plasterwork and medallion paintings.

We sat at a round table at one end of the room, I in my freshly laundered jeans and flannel shirt, and Willis, Sr., in a flawless charcoal-gray suit. He acknowledged my casual attire by slightly loosening the knot in his silk tie, and entertained me with talk of books and travel while the law students served our meal from the trolley Bill had used the night before.

Midway through the fish course it occurred to me that, before going down to the cottage, I might visit the places in London my mother had visited during the war, as a sort of preamble to reading the letters and writing about the stories. It wasn’t until the second sorbet that I got up the nerve to present it for Willis, Sr.’s appraisal. It received his full support.

I decided against telling him about the photograph. As gracious as he was, Willis, Sr., obviously felt that his first duty was to Dimity Westwood, which meant seeing to it that the introduction was completed on schedule. The sobering truth—the truth I couldn’t share with him—was that I might not finish the introduction at all. One month was all the time I would have at the cottage, and it might not be enough time to do everything. My first duty was to my mother, and I didn’t want to put Willis, Sr., in the position of having to disapprove of something I was determined to do anyway.

For the same reason, I couldn’t tell Bill, either. I would have to get rid of him once we got to Finch, of course, send him to stay at a hotel or a local guest house, but that would be easy enough to do without arousing suspicion. If anyone would be sympathetic to a plea of decorum, it would be Willis, Sr. And, partners or not, I thought I knew who called the shots in the family firm.

* * *

Bill’s behavior took a new and even stranger turn during the week we spent preparing for the trip.

The dressing room was empty when I returned to the guest suite after my dinner with Willis, Sr., but I was awakened the following morning by a scuffling noise in the hall. When I investigated, I found Bill and four staff members walking off with sixteen pieces of the most beautiful hand-rubbed leather luggage I had ever seen.

“More gifts?” I asked.

“I meant to head them off downstairs,” said Bill, “but I was too late.” He told the students to go ahead, then held up a particularly attractive garment bag. “You don’t happen to like it, by any chance?”

“It’s gorgeous, but no thanks,” I said. “Every thief between here and Bangkok would find it irresistible.”

“Right,” he said, setting the bag on the floor. “What do you usually use, then?”

“Canvas carryalls,” I replied. “Durable, lightweight, ordinary-looking, and when you’re done with them, you roll them up and shove them in a drawer.”

“Wouldn’t nylon bags be lighter?” he asked.

“Yes, but they’re harder to patch when they tear.”

“Very practical,” he observed.

“I’m a practical sort of person,” I said.

“So I’m discovering.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Father told me about Dimity’s plans, by the way. From this moment on, I am at your service. When would you like to get started?”

“Is ten too early for you?”

“Ten is perfect. Milady’s carriage will await her at the appointed hour. Until then.” He clicked his heels and executed a formal half bow, then picked up his share of the luggage and left.

I sighed and closed the door, wishing that someone would pull Bill aside and tell him that one simple offer of friendship was worth twenty Prince Charming routines.

* * *

For the next five days, Bill did everything but walk ten paces behind the. He was meek, he was polite, he was the very model of docility, but I didn’t buy it for a minute. There were too many times when I caught him smiling to himself—as though he found his own performance vastly entertaining.

My “carriage” turned out to be Willis, Sr.’s Silver Shadow. Bill insisted that he was following his father’s orders in using it, but I was not amused. It wasn’t the car I minded so much.

It was the little driving cap Bill wore, and the short woolen jacket, and the formal manner with which he opened the car door for me, as though he’d been rehearsing his role as chauffeur.

Our first stop was a local camping store, where I bought a pair of lightweight hiking boots—suitable for hill climbing—a durable down jacket, and a decent pair of jeans. I steered clear of anything fussy or feminine in order to demonstrate to Bill my idea of useful clothing. He kept his mouth shut and watched me like a hawk while I shopped, as though he were memorizing my every move. The salespeople treated him like a deaf-mute, nodding politely in his direction, but speaking only to me. It was mortifying, especially when he paid.

The next morning, I dropped by the temp agency to let them know that I would be unavailable for a while. They must have wondered why I’d bothered to give notice, once they’d ogled the Rolls, but I was burning no bridges. Bill continued to be on his best behavior, though he came close to going over the edge when he swept his cap off in a low bow to the women in the office and kissed my supervisor’s hand.

That afternoon, when he introduced himself to my roommates as “Miss Shepherd’s driver,” I’d had enough. I made him hand over the checkbook and go wait in the car. I thought it was a perfect solution—I’d fill out the checks and he could sign them somewhere far away from me. Then I caught sight of him smiling his little smile and suspected that I had been outmaneuvered. It occurred to me—fleetingly—that he might be aware of how reluctant I was to have him see my humble digs.