Five minutes later, she came back into view and called to say she’d wait for me in the Mini. I waved to her to go ahead, heard Gerald’s step in the hall, turned, and found him beside me, smiling his radiant smile and handing me a round tin.
“They have a marvelous cook at the Georgian,” he explained, “but Mrs. Burweed is even better.” He rapped the tin lightly. “Especially when she uses my father’s secret recipe.”
“Thank you,” I said, touched by his thoughtfulness. “For everything. You’ve been very kind.”
“It has been my pleasure,” he assured me. “And I do hope we’ll have the chance to meet again.” He stood watching from the doorway while I got into the car, and waved as I drove off down the grassy drive.
“If that man’s a reprobate, I’ll swear off butterscotch brownies forever,” I declared.
“You think Miss Kingsley’s misjudged him?” Nell asked.
“I think everyone’s misjudged him,” I replied. “I think. he’s been maligned and slandered, and I’ll bet that woman Miss Kingsley’s seen him with at the Flamborough is his analyst. God knows he could use one, with all the abuse he’s taken.”
“Lori, there’s something you should—” Nell began.
“I mean, think about it, Nell,” I interrupted. “We burst into the guy’s house like a pair of demented ducklings, and what does he do? He serves us tea. Tries to, anyway.” I glanced at my bandaged finger and blushed to remember how I’d injured it. “Apart from that, he turned down William’s proposal flat, so he can’t be trying to con him. Which reminds me, William is—”
“Lori!” Nell cried.
I slammed on the brakes and turned to ask Nell what on earth was the matter, but the question never left my lips. For there, peering at me from within the folds of Nell’s oversized black blazer, was Reginald.
Nell blinked at me innocently. “I told you I saw a rabbit.”
10.
My supply of amazement had been exhausted. I’d used up my allotment of surprise. I had nothing left to give. I gazed into Reginald’s black button eyes and said, with the slow smile of the heavily sedated, “Hi there, Reg. Where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Nell. “He was in the back parlor. I nearly fainted when I saw a pink ear poking out from under the couch, but Mrs. Burweed didn’t seem to notice, so I scooped him up and stuffed him inside my blazer. I went upstairs as soon as I could and dropped Reg out of a window. Don’t worry. He landed on some nice, soft ferns.”
I let my hands slip from the steering wheel, leaned over, and gave her a hug. “Thank you, Nell. Thanks for rescuing Reg, and me, too, come to think of it. I’m not sure how William will feel about having an illegitimate granddaughter, but you were brilliant back there. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
Nell blushed prettily. “He’s very handsome.”
“That’s no excuse for me losing my head,” I said.
“He doesn’t look a bit like Bill, though,” Nell observed. “Not that Bill isn’t handsome, in his way,” she added hastily, “but I thought there might be a family resemblance.”
I pictured Bill’s dark-brown eyes, graying hair, grizzled beard, and stockbroker’s bulge and shook my head. “Nope. They’re about as different as night and day.” I gave Reginald’s ears a tweak. “So what were you doing under the couch, eh? Looking for dust bunnies?”
“I think he was trying to draw our attention to ... this.” Nell put a hand into the pocket of her black blazer and drew forth another page torn from the blue journal, folded in half, as the first had been, with my name written on it in Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned copperplate.
“Dimity!” I exclaimed, seizing the journal page. “Great! Maybe she’s figured out why William’s so interested in a three-hundred-year-old family feud.” I unfolded the note and read it aloud.
“My dear Lori,
“William has decided that there’s nothing to discover here and has gone to London to interrogate Lucy and Arthur Willis. Gerald lied to him, naturally, but perhaps it’s for the best. If William loses the scent we’ll all be spared a good deal of unnecessary fuss and bother. Really, William is being most exasperating. He’s no business poking his nose into a quarrel that happened so long ago. A gentleman of his mature years has had ample opportunity to learn that it is almost always best to let sleeping dogs lie.
“I expect Gerald will lie to you about William’s current plan, but you mustn’t be too hard on him. William has put him in an invidious position. Let me be very clear on one point, however: I will not have a photocopier in the cottage. It would look disagreeably out of place and I’m certain that the noise would frighten the rabbits.
“I must go now. Reginald will stay behind to alert you to this message. Do not lose track of William. He must be persuaded to let this matter drop, and I count on you to persuade him. ”
I scratched my head in thoughtful silence, then handed the note back to Nell and restarted the car. “Sleeping dogs and photocopiers. Good old Dimity. Clear as mud.”
Nell returned the journal page to her pocket and placed Reginald on the gearbox, between the seats. “Have you noticed that Aunt Dimity has a way of assuming one knows what she’s talking about?”
“It’s like a connect-the-dots puzzle without the connections,” I agreed. “But don’t fret, Nell. We’ll sort it out.” I continued to dispense heartening words until I turned onto the Midhurst Road and Reginald slipped sideways on the gearbox. When I felt his black button eyes boring into me, I fell silent.
You might be able to fool Nell with a cheerful façade, he seemed to be saying, but you can’t fool me. It was as though he’d seen the warning beacon flashing through the fog of hints and vagaries contained in Dimity’s note, and wanted to be sure I’d seen it, too.
Gerald Willis was a liar. If I’d interpreted Dimity’s message correctly—always a big if—he’d lied to Willis, Sr., about the famous family feud of 1714, and he’d lied to me about Willis, Sr.’s “current plan.” I couldn’t imagine why Gerald would find it necessary to conceal the truth about a quarrel that had taken place nearly three hundred years ago, but I thought I knew why he’d lied to me.
Willis, Sr., must have come to an understanding with him about establishing a partnership and sworn him to secrecy until he’d had a chance to discuss the plan with Lucy. Gerald had lied to me for sound business reasons, and though a part of me understood completely, another part—a clamorous, unreasoning part—felt dreadfully let down.
I’d trusted Gerald. I’d believed everything he’d told me. I’d looked into those angelic eyes and seen someone who was honorable and decent and willing to put his father’s needs before his. career. It was terribly disappointing to discover that he was just another lawyer, wheeling and dealing and spouting half-truths in the name of self-interest. I had no right to feel disillusioned—little Nicolette and I hadn’t exactly played it straight with Gerald—but I did.
My bandaged finger began to throb as I reached to straighten Reginald on the gearbox. “We’ll sort it out,” I repeated.
“Of course we will,” Nell said. “But I think we could do with dinner first.”
“Mais non, ma petite,” I said, making an effort, for Nell’s sake, to sound lighthearted. “Food second. Phone calls first.”
A telephone message from Emma awaited us at the Georgian, but before I returned her call, I rang Miss Kingsley to ask if Willis, Sr., had checked in. She informed me that she’d neither seen nor heard from him since he and I had stayed at the Flamborough three days earlier.
Miss Kingsley readily agreed to find out if he’d done the unthinkable and checked into another hotel, and I could rest assured that her search would be thorough—she controlled more eyes and ears than the Metropolitan Police. On impulse, I dialed Lucy Willis’s number, in case Willis, Sr., had decided to meet with her before going to the Flamborough. After twelve rings, I hung up the phone, discouraged and more than a little depressed. For the fi
rst time in two years, I had no idea where my father-in-law was spending the night. It was a foretaste of what life would be like shorn of his comforting presence, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Emma hadn’t heard from Willis, Sr., either, but Bill had telephoned, asking for me. Emma had dutifully relayed Nell’s story about us driving down to Haslemere to see the bells, but she hadn’t given him our phone number at the Georgian.
“I told him you were still in transit,” Emma explained. “I thought you might not want to speak with him until after you’d dealt with Cousin Gerald. By the way,” she added, sounding vaguely puzzled, “did you order a photocopier?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“A deliveryman brought one to the manor house, because no one was home at the cottage,” Emma went on. “It’s addressed to you, but I wasn’t sure. what to do with it.”
“Don’t put it in the cottage!” I slumped back in the peach-colored armchair, pulled Reginald into my lap for moral support, and gave Emma a full report on Aunt Dimity’s latest cryptogram, my conversation with Gerald, and my theory about what Willis, Sr., was up to. “The photocopier’s the tip of the iceberg,” I concluded glumly. “If William has his way, the cottage’ll be covered in cables instead of roses.”
“Sounds like he intends to turn the cottage into a branch office for Willis & Willis,” Emma remarked.
“He does,” I said, “but I won’t let him. It may be selfish of me, but I need him back in Boston. He’s the only member of the family who doesn’t gag politely behind my back.”
“There’s Bill,” Emma pointed out.
“Is there?” I muttered. I glanced down, realized that I had Reginald in a choke hold, and tried to relax. “Anyway, would you stick the photocopier in one of your storage sheds for the time being? I’ll take it off your hands as soon as I get back.”
“No problem,” said Emma. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes,” I said, toying absently with Reginald’s ears. “You can put that highly trained brain of yours to work and get on the Internet. See if you can dig up anything about the quarrel Miss Kingsley told us about, the one that happened in 1714. There must be genealogical or historical files you can tap into.” Reg’s eyes flickered and I hastened to add, “If you have the time, that is.”
“I make it a rule never to work in the garden after dark,” Emma said dryly. “I’ll start in on it tonight. How are you and Nell getting along?”
I looked across the room, to where Nell was perusing the room-service menu. “I wouldn’t mind one just like her,” I said softly, “but I think she’s probably unique. Nell,” I called. “It’s Emma. Come and say hello.”
I handed the phone over to Nell, threw off my tweeds, and ran a hot bath. The worries of the morning combined with the tension of the long drive—not to mention the multiple shocks of the afternoon—had left me feeling restless and dispirited. I hoped the hot bath would help me unwind, but I emerged from the tub feeling more fidgety than ever. As I donned my jeans and cotton sweater, I considered returning Bill’s call, then remembered that I hadn’t yet paid a visit to Saint Bartholomew’s. I’d go now, I decided, not only to be able to describe the place to my husband, but to work up an appetite.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Nell asked when I told her my plans.
“Thanks, Nell,” I said, “but I think I’d like some time on my own.”
“But you haven’t had dinner,” she protested, reaching for the round tin Gerald had given me. “And you haven’t rung Bill back.”
I consulted my watch. “It’s only three o‘clock in the afternoon in Maine. Plenty of time to phone him later. Go ahead and order dinner—I won’t be long.”
“You should have something now,” Nell insisted, prying the lid off the tin. “Let’s see what Mrs. Burweed ...” Nell’s words trailed off as she caught sight of the tin’s contents.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “They’re meringues, aren’t they?”
Nell shook her head slowly, with an almost comical look of confusion in her blue eyes. “Gerald’s father must have known your mother, Lori. I think these are butterscotch brownies.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “They couldn’t possibly—”
“Try one,” Nell suggested, holding out the tin.
I picked one up and took a bite. It was moist and chewy and slightly granular, with a whisper of vanilla and a full-bodied chorus of brown sugar—Thomas Willis’s brownie was, bewilderingly, identical to the ones I’d served at brunch that morning.
“Maybe Thomas Willis was in London during the war,” I hazarded.
“We’ll have to remember to ask Gerald the next time we see him,” said Nell.
Which won’t be anytime soon if I have anything to say about it, I thought. I dropped the unfinished brownie on the table and headed out into the twilight.
Dusk is a strange time to see a new town. There are no distinct colors, and all of the straight lines are softened, the sharp edges blurred, as in a smudged pencil drawing. The rumble of traffic on the High Street had faded to the occasional whoosh of a passing car, and the few pedestrians I encountered appeared to be hurrying home to their suppers. None paused to look into the darkened shop windows.
The streetlights made it easy to follow the route Miss Coombs had outlined on the town map—I turned left out of the hotel, then left again when I reached the pedestrian footpath, a paved passage enclosed by tall redbrick walls that meandered past a series of backyards. As I walked along, I felt a curious mixture of intimacy and isolation. I could hear voices close at hand—the chatter of families enjoying the cool evening air—but I could see no one.
I’d become aware of another sound as soon as I’d left the hotel, a sound that made the map almost unnecessary. Church bells were ringing, and the closer I got to Saint Bartholomew‘s, the louder they became. As dusk deepened into darkness, the ringing started up discordantly, stopped, then started again in better order—it sounded as though the bell-ringers of Saint Bartholomew’s were having a practice session. By the time the pedestrian footpath had deposited me across from the churchyard gate, however, the bells had fallen silent. Tonight’s rehearsal, it seemed, was over.
I entered the churchyard and stood to one side, gazing upward. The church rose before me, a jumble of rough stone walls and blunt arches with a squat, square bell-tower to the rear and a tile-roofed wooden porch extending from one side. The churchyard was dotted with tombs and gravestones, and as I squatted to peer at one lichen-covered tablet, the side door opened and the bell-ringers streamed onto the tile-roofed porch in a flood of lamplight and good-natured banter. I hung back, envious of their camaraderie, until the lights inside the church went out and a stocky, middle-aged man in a clergyman’s collar came bustling onto the porch, carrying a large key ring.
“Excuse me,” I said, emerging from the shadows.
The key ring clanked loudly as it hit the porch floor. “Good heavens!” the clergyman exclaimed, bending to retrieve his keys. “What a turn you gave me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’ve been waiting for the practice to end. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’d have been welcome,” the clergyman assured me, straightening. “I’m Steven Hawley, the rector here at Saint Bartholomew’s. From your accent I’d guess that you’re an American.”
I admitted that I was and, to avoid an involved discussion about Derek’s work on the bells, said that Miss Coombs had sent me over to see the church.
“Dear Miss Coombs,” said the rector. “What would we do without her?” The keys jangled as he turned his hand to consult his wristwatch. “She’s worth quite a dozen advertising agencies. I presume you’ve come to see the memorial windows?”
I nodded politely. I’d have asked to see the bells as well, but he didn’t give me the chance.
“Very well,” he said, and went on talking rapidly as he led me into the church and turned the lights b
ack on. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to it. I’m meeting with the church finance committee tonight, and the Lord knows we have a lot of business to get through.” He gestured to a narrow wooden table that stood along the wall beside the door. “Please feel free to take a pamphlet. I’ll lock up after my meeting.” He glanced once more at his watch before favoring me with a brief but friendly smile, then strode off at top speed through the doorway.
As his footfalls faded in the distance, my sense of isolation returned. I hadn’t wanted the company of strangers, but at that moment I’d have given anything to see Bill’s bearded face framed in the doorway. I felt a faint pang of regret followed closely by a mountainous wave of indignation. If Bill had kept his promise and come to England with me, as planned, Willis, Sr., wouldn’t be making arrangements to leave Boston, and I wouldn’t be standing in a deserted church, imagining how nice it’d be to have my husband close by.
It wasn’t fair, I thought, and the small voice in the back of my head murmured treacherously: He shouldn’t have chosen the Biddifords over you.
I told the voice to mind its own damned business, and roused myself to take a look around. Saint Bartholomew’s didn’t appear to be a very old church—the plaster walls were too neat and even, the stone pillars too smooth and plain—but I knew from recent experience how deceptive looks could be. There might be a twelfth-century crypt out of sight beneath my feet.
The bell-ringers’ chamber was at the foot of the square tower, opposite the altar, closed off from the rest of the church by a solid wooden screen with a door in the center. There was a large, open archway above the screen, and through it I could see the bell ropes gathered together like the spokes of an upside-down umbrella, but the door was locked, as bell-tower doors invariably were, for safety’s sake.
I followed the rector’s advice and thumbed through one of the pamphlets on the wooden table. It had been lovingly compiled by “M.B.”, and I dropped a handful of pound coins in the collection box as a tribute—and as a peace offering to the church finance committee, which was no doubt reprimanding the rector for wasting electricity on a solitary American tourist.
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