I’d call him one more time, I decided, and I wouldn’t let him interrupt. I’d tell him exactly what I thought of the Biddifords and his aunts and his selfish refusal to talk about our future. Then I’d tell him that, if he still wanted to have a future with me, he’d better get his tail on a plane bound for England or I‘d—
“Missy!”
I blinked, jerked abruptly from my impassioned reverie. Had someone called me “Missy”?
“Hssst.”
The hiss came from behind me. I slowly turned my head and saw the wizened face of a little old man, half hidden by the oak tree’s trunk.
“Over here,” he whispered loudly, beckoning to me with one clawlike hand.
I scanned the lawn for keepers, but the nearest one was twenty yards away, and Sir Poppet, Nell, and Bertie had their backs to me. Ah well, I thought, the guy looks more like a gnome than a serial murderer, and besides, Sir Poppet had said they didn’t accept violent cases at Cloverly House.
I got up from the bench and walked around to the far side of the oak tree. The gnome was wearing a grimy set of blue coveralls and work boots. He was completely bald, extremely skinny, and tiny. I was a mere five feet four inches tall, but the gnome made me feel like a strapping giantess. His face was a deeply tanned mass of wrinkles, and I couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t put his teeth in for the day.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hush,” he replied. He looked furtively over his shoulder, then peered up at me. “You be the Shepherd, eh?”
“Uh-huh,” I said equably. “I be Lori Shepherd.”
The gnome leaned close to me and I caught a whiff of baby powder, lilacs, and an overpowering blast of motor oil. “I got summat for you,” he told me, sotto voce.
“Do you?” I asked, and before I knew quite what was happening, he pulled Aunt Dimity’s blue journal from the leg pocket of his coveralls, thrust it into my hands, and sidled toward the front steps of Cloverly House.
“Dimity,” I whispered, staring down at the journal in disbelief. I looked for the gnome and called to him to wait. “I’m sorry to keep you,” I said, coming up beside him. “But how—”
“Found it by me bucket when I was cleanin’ the loo,” he replied. “Note said to give it to you, quiet-like. Here, tuck it up under your jumper or the guv‘nor’ll see.” He waited until I’d slid the journal into the waistband of my jeans and pulled my sweater over it. Then he jutted his chin toward Sir Poppet. “Run along now, Missy.”
I backed away, half-expecting the little man to disappear in a puff of smoke. When he jutted his chin a second time, I turned and walked toward Sir Poppet, who was standing ten yards away.
“Does that man work for you?” I asked him, pointing at the gnome.
“That’s Cyril,” Sir Poppet replied. “He does odd jobs about the place. He’s getting on in years, but he’s still very clever with his hands. Cyril worked as a mechanic at Biggin Hill during the war. He actually participated in the Battle of Britain. I could listen to old Cyril’s tales for hours.”
As the tiny figure disappeared through the front doors, I murmured dazedly, “So could I.”
20.
Paul telephoned at five o‘clock, requesting permission to spend the night in London. My friend at the British Museum hadn’t had time to give the deed more than a cursory examination, but would do a more thorough job first thing in the morning. I gave Paul my blessing and accepted Sir Poppet’s invitation to spend a second night at his home. I managed to slip the blue journal into Uncle Williston’s fruitwood box, but didn’t get a chance to open it until Reginald and I were alone in my room, after dinner.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, with Reg on a pillow beside me, and a lump in my throat big enough to choke a rhino. Would Aunt Dimity answer when I called, or would the pages remain stubbornly blank, as they had for the past two years? I opened the journal, cleared my throat, and called out, “Dimity? Can you hear me?”
I should think Emma could hear you back at the cottage. You must speak more softly, my dear. Sir Poppet would no doubt have a word to describe our little chats, but I don’t think you’d find it complimentary.
I clapped a hand to my mouth to suppress a semihys terical gurgle of laughter as I watched the familiar copperplate loop and scroll across the page. Aunt Dimity was back and all was right with the world. Or it very soon would be.
“Dimity, what are you doing here?” I asked, making a valiant attempt at selflessness. “Why have you left William to fend for himself?”
I don’t think Anthea will pose much of a threat to him, do you? Up there on Cobb Farm all alone, living quietly near a sleepy little village like Lastingham? And I must confess that life as a stowaway did not suit me. William is a dear man, but he’s distressingly proficient at keeping his thoughts to himself. Whereas you ... How I’ve missed you, Lori.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said fervently. “Where have you been?”
You may be celebrating your second honeymoon—such a charming idea!—but I’ve only just finished my first. Bobby and I never had a chance for one, you know.
“Oh,” I said, croggled by the notion of a two-year-long honeymoon. “Sounds wonderful.”
Furthermore, I assumed that you and Bill would like some time to settle into married life. Nothing poisons a new marriage faster than an old biddy prompting from the wings. Forgive me for asking, Lori, but is it the fashion nowadays for a bride to spend her second honeymoon without her groom?
“No,” I admitted ruefully. “Bill was supposed to come, but he got tied up with work and had to cancel.”
A long pause ensued; then: Lori? Is there a telephone nearby? If so, would you please pick it up THIS INSTANT and contact your husband? If you don’t know what to say to him, I’ll be more than happy to supply a few gentle hints.
“I can’t reach him,” I explained. “He was caught in a monsoon up in Maine. The phone lines have been out all day.”
Let that be a lesson to him! Dear me, it seems that you could do with some prompting from the wings. Foolish of me to stay away for so long. No one knows better than I that the road to true love is paved by the lowest badder. The handwriting stopped for a moment, then went on. Lori? I’m sorry, but I must be going. Another of my children has need of me. I’ll be back soon, my dear Give Reginald a hug for me
I closed the journal, feeling a little hurt. Another of her children? I’d always thought of myself as Dimity’s spiritual daughter—her only spiritual daughter—and for a moment I felt a pang of jealousy that threatened to put a damper on our joyful reunion.
Reginald came to my rescue by toppling from his pillow onto the blue journal, as though demanding his hug. The simple act of picking him up made me realize how silly I was being. It was absurd to think that I’d been the only child Dimity had comforted with her stories and stuffed animals. When she’d worked at Starling House after the war, she’d touched the lives of dozens, perhaps hundreds of orphans. It should have come as no surprise to me, of all people, to hear that some of those lives still required her guidance.
I returned the journal to the fruitwood box on the bedside table, leaned back against the pillows, and stroked Reginald’s whiskers with my index finger. “Well, Reg,” I said, “Bill’s still marooned in Maine; Willis, Sr., is hundreds of miles away in Yorkshire; and Nell and I are slowly sinking in a swamp of Willis family tragedies. So tell me—why do I feel so damned happy?”
There was a knock at the door, and Nell slipped into the room. She was wearing an ivory silk robe over a cornflower-blue nightgown and carrying a dress and a pair of beige flats. She placed the shoes on the floor near the dressing table and draped the loose-fitting, smock-topped cotton dress over a chair. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said diffidently, “but I picked this out for you to wear tomorrow. I think you’ll find it even more comfortable than your jeans and sweater.”
“Thanks, Nell,” I said. “The jeans are beginning to look a bit scruffy anyway.” I patted the bed. “Now,
come over here. I have a surprise for you.”
Nell hesitated. “I don’t know that I want any more surprises today.”
“Trust me,” I said, reaching for the fruitwood box. “You want this one.”
I had to describe my encounter with Cyril three times before Nell was able to take it in. She kept turning the journal in her hands and riffling through the pages, as though she couldn’t quite believe that Aunt Dimity had joined our merry band. I knew exactly how she felt.
“You seemed awfully pleased about something at dinner.” She giggled suddenly. “But I thought it was because of the herbal tea Sir Poppet gave you to settle your tummy.”
“Definitely a contributing factor,” I acknowledged. “I’ve asked him for a supply to go—no reason to risk a relapse in the back of Paul’s limo.”
“Do you think old Cyril knew Dimity?” Nell asked. “During the war, I mean.”
“It’s possible,” I replied. “Her fiance, Bobby, was stationed at Biggin Hill during the Battle of Britain. Dimity must have visited him there before his plane was shot down over the Channel, so she may have met Cyril.” I glanced at Reg and thought about Dimity’s other children. “I’m beginning to suspect that Dimity has a whole network of people she’s ... stayed in touch with.”
Nell slid her fingers across the journal’s front cover. “Did you ask if she’d learnt anything about Julia Louise?”
“No,” I replied.
“Did you ask her about Sybella Markham?” Nell asked.
“Well ... no,” I admitted sheepishly,
Nell cocked her head to one side. “What did you talk about?”
“Honeymoons,” I said, smiling. “And the road to true love.” I took the journal from Nell and put it back in the fruitwood box. “I did manage to glean a couple of pertinent factoids from our conversation, however. Aunt Anthea lives at a place called Cobb Farm, near the village of Lastingham, and William’s definitely gone to see her.”
Nell pulled her knees to her chest and frowned discon tentedly. “He’s going to ask her about the papers Lucy sent up from London. And he’ll believe in the false deed Aunt Anthea shows him, because he doesn’t know about Sybella Markham’s deed.”
“You think it’ll turn out to be authentic?” I asked.
“Of course it will,” Nell declared, with unwonted vehemence. “Sir Poppet can talk all he likes about projections and figments, but I know that Sybella Markham was a real person. And I’m going to prove it.” She leaned over to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Oh, Lori, I’m glad you brought Bertie and me along with you.”
I returned Nell’s hug, then sent her off to bed, wondering how I ever could have thought of her as cool and aloof.
Paul returned from London at ten the next morning, and after giving him a cup of tea, Sir Poppet thanked us warmly for our help with Uncle Williston, told Nell to give his best regards to her grandfather, and sent us on our way. The moment we turned out of his drive, Paul handed Sybella Markham’s deed to me through the window dividing his section of the limo from our own. He passed back a small tape recorder as well.
“Mr. Treadwell’s report, madam,” he explained. “He said you wouldn’t want to wait for a transcription.”
“Mr. Treadwell knows that I have the patience of a gnat,” I told Paul. I put the deed in my briefcase, pressed the play button on the tape recorder, and grinned as Toby Treadwell’s perpetually harassed voice filled the limo.
“Lori? Toby here. Sorry about the delay, but my cup was full to the brim yesterday. It’s this exhibit we’re mounting on the Buddhist texts from Turkestan. (No, don’t put your coffee there, you idiot. Yes, I know it looks like blotting paper, but it’s five hundred years old and worth more than you are.) Sorry, Lori. Breaking in a new assistant. Gawd. Green as grapes. Where was I?
“Oh, yes. This deed. I’ve had a look at it. Wire and chain lines all present and correct. Watermark belongs to Quimper’s of Bath, onetime purveyors of stock to the legal trade, went belly-up in 1755. Iron-gallotannate ink, not a trace of synthetic organic dyestuffs, so that’s all right, too. (Put it over there. No, there, you fool. Damn your eyes, must I do everything myself?)
“Sorry. Hmmm. Ah, yes. Asked Danuta Siegersson to have a squint at the handwriting, and she says it’ll fly. Something about the length of the descenders and the shape of the letter S. Not my province. Ring her for further details.
“In sum: The paper, the ink, the handwriting are consistent with what one would expect to find in a legal document created in the early part of the eighteenth century. The deed’s authentic, but whether it’s valid or not is for you to discover. They made fakes back then, too, you know.
“Tell Stan to get off his academic arse and come swell the ranks at my exhibit. You do, too, next time you’re in town. Give me a tinkle if I’ve left anything out. Must dash. (PUT THAT DOWN!)”
I pressed the stop button.
“Hasn’t it gone quiet in here?” Nell commented dryly.
“That’s why they call him Toby the Terrible,” I said, laughing. “He’s hell on assistants. You do realize what he’s told us, though, don’t you? Uncle Williston doesn’t have access to iron-gallotannate ink, or paper from Quim per’s of Bath. He gets his supplies from a local calligraphic studio—I asked Sir Poppet.” I added the tape recorder to the growing assortment of odds and ends rattling around in my briefcase. “I don’t know how Uncle Williston got hold of Sybella Markham’s deed to number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, but it’s the real thing, straight out of the good ole eighteenth century.”
“I knew it would be real,” Nell said serenely. “Just like Sybella Markham.”
Nell had dressed for the day in the pleated gabardine trousers and linen blouse she’d worn on our drive down to Haslemere, and brought with her the white leather shoulder bag she’d carried in London. She opened the shoulder bag now and drew from it a sheaf of typewritten papers.
“What’ve you got there?” I asked, peering curiously over her shoulder.
“It’s a copy of the transcript Sir Poppet’s secretary made of my conversation with Uncle Williston yesterday,” Nell replied. “I think it bears close examination.”
“Did Sir Poppet give it to you?” I asked suspiciously.
Nell twined a golden curl around her finger and glanced casually out of the window. “I’m sure he meant to,” she said. “There was a whole stack of them on the hall table this morning and I—”
“You stole it?” I exclaimed. “Nell! How could you? What about patient confidentiality? What about good manners?”
“I’ll let you read it when I’m done,” Nell offered.
“Hurry up, then.” I gave her a playful nudge with my elbow, and while she fell to perusing the purloined transcript, I poured a cup of herbal tea from the thermos Sir Poppet’s housekeeper had filled. I downed half the cup, then reached for the telephone. It was time to check in with Emma.
“A laser printer and a slick little computer setup,” Emma said when she heard my voice. “I wish he’d asked me about the computer,” she added fretfully. “I’m sure he paid too much for it.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, William’s on an independence kick.” I took a sip of tea. “I presume you’ve put his new toys in the shed with the others?”
“I would have, but... Emma paused. ”You know the vacant house on the square, across from Peggy Kitchen’s shop? Well, Peggy came by with her van and a crew this morning. She said she’d received orders to pick up everything that should have been delivered to the cottage and move it to the empty house on the square. Someone’s rented it, apparently.“
“Someone like my father-in-law.” I sighed. Willis, Sr., would soon be the only lawyer on his block with offices in Boston, London, and Finch. “Aunt Dimity will be pleased to hear that he’s not planning to desecrate the cottage. She’s back, by the way. With me, I mean.”
“No kidding,” said Emma. “Does that mean William’s out of danger?”
“For the time being
,” I told her. “Did you manage to dig up anything on Julia Louise?”
“I did,” said Emma. “I spent most of the night on-line with a professor of legal history in Oxford. Derek fixed the retaining wall of his back garden once, gratis, so he was more than willing to give me the lowdown on dear old Julia Louise.”
“He’d heard of her?” I said, surprised.
“She was infamous,” Emma replied. “The minute she moved from Bath to London, she began to throw her weight around. She brought hundreds of lawsuits against her sons’ competitors, which didn’t endear her to the legal community, and there was a lot of tittle-tattle about why she had to pack her younger son off to the colonies.”
“What kind of tittle-tattle?” I asked.
“Something to do with a woman,” Emma explained. “My professor wasn’t sure whether Lord William had gotten her pregnant or broken an engagement or what. He must have cleaned up his act when he got to the colonies, though, because he married well once he was there.”
“Hold on a minute.” I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and reported Emma’s findings to Nell.
“Ask Mama if she knows what Lord William’s wife was called,” Nell said.
I relayed the question to Emma, then repeated the answer to Nell. “Charlotte Eugenie Stoll. She was the daughter of some bigwig on the colonies.”
“Hmmm,” said Nell, and went back to reading the transcript.
“What about the older son?” I asked Emma.
“Sir Williston? He was Julia Louise’s hatchet man, did whatever Mother told him to do. Although ...” I heard the sound of papers being shuffled in the background; then Emma spoke again. “He became something of a saint after her death. He donated money to poorhouses and supported several orphanages.”
“Sounds like he was trying to disassociate himself from Julia Louise,” I commented. “Not a bad idea.”
“I’ve got something more on Gerald, if you’re interested,” Emma said. “It’s about why he left the firm. Let me see, where did I put it?”
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