Lucy shook her head ruefully. “Not with Mrs. Burweed in the kitchen.”
“In that case, we’re just going to have to do Gerald’s figuring for him.” I added sugar to my tea and took a sip. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions about him?”
“Go right ahead,” said Lucy. “I don’t mind being questioned by the Voice of Experience.”
“It’s about this woman he meets at the Flamborough,” I began. “Arthur told me about her. Have you ever actually seen her?”
“Not at close range,” Lucy said stiffly. “Why?”
I looked over her shoulder at the windows above the sink and fiddled with a triangle of toast on my plate. “I don’t know quite how to put this, but ... Your mother was telling us about Douglas last night, and the doctor he got mixed up with.”
“Sally the Slut,” Lucy said readily. “The tomato on sticks, as Mother calls her. Do you know that she once tried to blackmail Mother?”
“Yes. Anthea mentioned the compromising photographs. That’s what started me thinking.” I left off fiddling with my toast and began to toy with my teaspoon. “When Arthur told us about the woman Gerald meets at the Flamborough,” I said, “he used a very similar set of adjectives to describe her. He called her a dumpling with peg legs, a hard-eyed hag. He even said that she dyed her hair.”
Lucy slowly straightened in her chair, and her eyes took on the faraway look of intense concentration. Then her mouth fell open. “Oh my Lord,” she said, as though the light of revelation had fallen upon her. “Sally the Slut and Gerald.” She stared in blank amazement at thin air, then focused in on me. “Why?”
“Once a blackmailer, always a blackmailer.” I bent over my teacup and elaborated. “I happen to know that Gerald withdraws money from his bank account before he goes to London to meet with Sally. That’s what made me think—”
“How do you ‘happen to know’ something like that?” Lucy interrupted.
“Nell,” I said, and added, for good measure, Paul’s immortal words: “She has a way with people.”
Lucy still looked baffled, so I backtracked.
“I was worried,” I explained. “I’d heard nasty rumors about Gerald, and I thought my father-in-law was going into business with him, so I went to Haslemere to ... check Gerald out.”
“I’d have done the same thing,” said Lucy without hesitation.
“When we arrived in Haslemere,” I continued, “Nell got to talking to the porter at a local hotel whose son-in-law or nephew or second cousin twice removed is the manager at the bank where Gerald has his account, and—”
“And Nell has a way with people.” Lucy nodded. “I see what you mean.” She suddenly began to laugh, and, just as suddenly, the laughter turned into tears, the deep-breathing, word-sputtering flood of long-pent-up emotions finally released. “Ge-Gerald, you f-fool,” she stuttered, covering her face with her hands. “You d-darling, darling f-fool. Why d-didn’t you t-tell me ... ?”
“Tell you what?” I said, passing a kitchen towel to her.
Lucy used the towel to scrub her face. “That he’s being b-blackmailed, of course. That’s why he left the firm and went off to hide in H-Haslemere. I’ll lay you odds it’s something to do with Douglas. The Slut’s probably shown him those naughty photos and threatened to have them splashed across the tabloids.”
“Old news, don’t you think?” I said dubiously.
“Well, it’s something to do with protecting the firm or the family,” Lucy said resolutely. “I know him, you see. I know how much he cares for all of us. I knew it all along. Oh, Ge-Gerald ...” She buried her face in the towel.
I felt my own eyes grow misty. I knew what it was to have your faith in someone confirmed, against all odds. “Gosh,” I said dreamily, resting my elbows on the table and cupping my chin in my hands. “Gerald’s so ...”
“Isn’t he?” Lucy said with a sniff.
“Isn’t he what?” Bill stood behind me in the doorway, looking well rested but suspicious. He’d shown a great deal of understanding under the coverlet the previous night, when I’d finally made a clean breast of my encounter with Gerald, but it seemed foolhardy to ask for more.
“Loyal,” I replied, without missing a beat. “He’s so damned loyal to his family that it makes me dizzy. Cup of tea?”
Lucy pulled herself together and fixed Bill what she called a real breakfast. Fried eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and black pudding appeared on the table in short order, and though the mere sight of the grease-laden mess made me queasy, I gritted my teeth and poured Bill’s tea. While he ate, Lucy and I explained what I’d learned about the woman Gerald saw regularly at the Flamborough.
“So he’s meeting a known blackmailer,” Bill said. “What made him move to Haslemere, I wonder?”
“Cost of living,” Lucy said promptly. “He’s renting that horrible place in Haslemere from a friend for a pittance.”
“He must’ve sold his London town house to pump up his savings,” I put in, “so he could cover the Slut’s demands.”
Bill looked at Lucy. “Any idea what she could be blackmailing him about?”
Lucy leaned back against the sink and folded her arms. “Quite honestly, no. I thought at first that it might have something to do with Douglas, but Lori’s right, that’s as stale as yesterday’s loaf. Perhaps ...” She paused for a moment, as though struck by an ingenious notion. “I know,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You must go to see Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom knows Gerald better than anyone. He’s bound to have an idea of what’s going on.”
“If that’s so, Lucy, why hasn’t he told you?” Bill asked.
Lucy turned a becoming shade of dusky rose. “I’ve been biting people’s heads off or bursting into tears every time anyone mentions Gerald’s name,” she answered sheepishly. “I don’t suppose I‘d’ve listened, even if Uncle Tom had tried to talk to me.”
“Come with us,” I suggested, refilling Lucy’s cup.
“I can‘t,” said Lucy. “If I leave Arthur in charge of the firm for more than a day it takes me a month to sort things out again. I simply must be back in London this afternoon.”
“Surely—” Bill began, but I interrupted.
“You haven’t met Arthur,” I told him. “He’s not Mr. Reliable.”
Lucy sighed. “He’s a great bumbling oaf, as Mother says, but he’s got a kind heart and I love him dearly.” She paused as the sound of voices came from the front hall. Lowering her own voice, she said, “Don’t mention any of this to Mother or Swann. I don’t want them to get their hopes up until we know something more definite.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Bill promised.
Anthea, Swann, and Nell paraded into the room in stockinged feet and riding clothes, trailing clouds of glory liberally scented with eau de cheval. Anthea and Swann wore their own fawn jodhpurs and fitted coats, but Nell had borrowed an outfit left over from the days when the cousins had ridden together across the hills. She marched in with her head held high, her back ramrod-straight, as though she’d grown up in the saddle, but her upright bearing vanished the moment she noticed Bill.
“Bill!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. “Bertie and I knew you’d come.”
Bill looked a question at me over her shoulder, but I could only shrug. Nell usually reserved such exuberant greetings for her father. I couldn’t imagine what had brought this one on.
“I like your new specs,” Nell continued, standing back to survey my husband. “What have you done to your poor arm?”
“I take it you’re William’s boy,” Anthea put in.
I introduced Bill to Anthea and Swann, and after the three intrepid equestrians had showered and changed, we all retired to the sitting room, where Bill became the center of attention. He rose to the occasion, reshaping his ordeal into a self-deprecating tale of misadventure that repeatedly brought the house down. When Anthea learned that he hadn’t been permitted to flee Little Moose Lake with his luggage, she took Swann upstairs to ransack his own closets and prod
uce a suitable wardrobe.
While they were gone, and with Paul close at hand, I asked Lucy for directions to Uncle Tom’s home. She told us that he lived in a village called Old Warden, not far from Biggleswade. Paul was familiar with Old Warden, but when he asked how to find the house, Lucy smiled enigmatically and said to keep an eye out for pheasants.
“Uncle Tom won’t be able to put you up for the night,” she warned. “His house is quite tiny. But you’ll be able to find a place to stay in Bedford. I recommend the Swan Hotel, and not just because the name has such pleasant connotations. Oh, and be sure to say hello to Geraldine for me.”
“Reginald won’t let me forget,” I told her.
After arranging to have Bill’s car picked up by the rental firm in York, we were ready to leave. I’d slipped into the loose-fitting cotton dress I’d worn the day before, but Nell had changed into a high-collared white blouse with vertical pleats, a calf-length wool skirt, and a horsy-set tweed blazer that looked a lot like Bertie’s. Bill had decided to travel in a peach-colored polo shirt of Swann‘s—which suited him remarkably well—and the same brown corduroys he’d arrived in.
We milled around, giving hugs and thanks and invitations, then piled into the limo, Bertie and Reg up front with Paul, and Nell, Bill, and I in the back. As we pulled away, Anthea, Swann, and Lucy came out from between the stone gateposts and stood in the middle of the road, waving us on our way. I wondered briefly what Anthea and Swann made of the fact that Lucy was shouting, “Good luck!”
Nell sat on the limo’s padded fold-down seat, facing us. I sat on Bill’s right, where his good hand could find mine; his cast lay propped on a fringed paisley cushion by the door. The bandage on his thumb had shrunk-Swann, displaying hidden talents, had re-dressed it and checked the temperature of Bill’s fingertips, to make sure the cast had been properly applied. How Swann knew about such things wasn’t entirely clear, but Bill had informed me, wide-eyed and sotto voce, that he’d mentioned something about training in the SAS.
“Whew,” I said, falling back against the seat. “That was an instructive visit. I’d say we learned a thing or two, wouldn’t you?”
“Do you mean about Sally blackmailing Gerald,” Nell asked, “or about Julia Louise robbing poor Sybella?”
“Both,” I said. Nell’s ability to put two and two together no longer took me by surprise. Clearly, she’d made the connection between the woman Arthur had described to us and Sally the Slut as easily as I had, and the idea of blackmail had immediately crossed her quicksilver mind. She chose, however, to address the ancient rather than the modem problem.
“I learnt more about Julia Louise from the transcript than from Anthea,” Nell said. “Almost everything we need to know about Julia Louise is in the transcript, in Uncle Williston’s words. Sybella was supposed to marry Sir Williston so he could have everything she owned. When she fell in love with Lord William instead, Sir Williston and Julia Louise punished her by stealing her property.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “I imagine they packed Sybella off somewhere, the same way they did Lord William, and nobody noticed, because she was an orphan.” Nell sighed. “Poor Sybella.”
I nodded. “You may be right about that, Nell. After all—”
Bill cleared his throat. “If I might put in a word or two?”
Nell and I blinked at him for a moment. We’d grown so accustomed to being alone in the back of the limo that the sound of a new voice was startling.
“Sure,” I said, recovering quickly. “Put in as many words as you like.”
Bill stroked his nonexistent beard. “You two are the experts here, no doubt about it, and I don’t want to rain on your parade, but ... has it occurred to you that you may be getting a little ahead of yourselves? We don’t know for certain who Sybella Markham is. We may discover that Julia Louise bought the building from her legitimately.”
“Why are there two deeds, then?” I asked.
“Someone might have mislaid the original—the one Williston gave you-after the new one had been drawn up,” said Bill. “It happens all the time.”
Nell wasn’t buying it. “But Uncle Williston said—”
“I know,” Bill broke in, “and from what Lori’s told me, your experience with him was remarkable. But I’m not sure I’d classify Uncle Williston as a reliable witness.”
“What about Dimity?” I asked. I’d forgotten to tell Bill about Aunt Dimity’s most recent message, and I hadn’t had a chance to tell Nell. “Aunt Dimity thinks that Julia Louise must have done something truly wicked.”
“That could refer to any number of things.” Bill held his hand up in a pacifying gesture. “Don’t get me wrong. As I said, you’re the experts. But if you came to me with the evidence you have right now, I’d advise you to collect more. I wouldn’t feel comfortable bringing a case against Julia Louise based on the testimony of a madman and a ... a message from the Great Beyond.”
“We’ll find more evidence, then,” Nell said confidently.
“Seems to me Anthea’s combed the family papers pretty thoroughly,” Bill observed.
“She missed Sybella’s deed,” I pointed out. I drummed my fingers on the backseat and tried to imagine how Uncle Williston had gotten hold of Sybella Markham’s deed. “Maybe Williston found Sybella’s deed in a file Anthea doesn’t know about,” I said. “A three-hundred-year-old firm must have tons of paperwork stashed away in all sorts of nooks and crannies. I’ve done archival searches—something unexpected is always turning up.”
“Good point,” Bill said. “But even if Sybella’s deed is valid, it doesn’t explain why Father thinks her building belongs to us.” He gave a wry look that held more than a hint of self-recrimination. “Guess I should’ve paid attention to Father’s stories about family history. Nell, do you think Bertie would give me listening lessons? I seem to have lost the knack, but I’m eager to get it back.”
At that precise moment, the limo hit a bump, the briefcase fell to the floor, its locks snapped open, and the blue journal tumbled out. I gave Bill a sidelong look and bent to pick it up;
“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “Do you want to have a word with Bill, by any chance?”
Good morning, my dear. Yes, I most certainly do. A brief refresher course on the relative importance of work andfamily might prove useful, don’t you think? Especially now, when he’s in a receptive frame of mind.
“She wants to talk to you,” I said, handing the journal over to Bill. “Brace yourself.”
Bill tilted the journal to one side so that he alone could read Aunt Dimity’s words. A martyred expression slowly settled over his face, and when it became apparent that his refresher course would last more than a few minutes, I reached for the telephone and dialed Emma’s number.
“Hmmm?” Emma said, sounding drowsy. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry. Caught me napping in the hammock. It’s these late nights, plus the sun shining through the beech leaves, plus a conspicuous absence of deliverymen. Peggy Kitchen reports that the vacant house is filling up, though. Desks, cabinets. I think she said something about an aspidistra.”
“Bill will be thrilled to hear that,” I told her. “He’s with me right now, in the limo.” I clutched the telephone in alarm as I heard an un-Emma-like squeal, followed closely by a dull thud. “Emma? Are you okay?”
“Hello?” Emma’s voice was in my ear again, sounding fully awake. “Fell out of the hammock. Ouch. I think I bruised my knee.” She was interrupted by a snuffling sound I failed to identify until she said, “Thank you, Ham, I’m fine. No more kisses now, boy. Sit! Lori? Did I hear you right? Did you say that Bill’s with you? How on earth—”
“I’ll explain in a minute,” I said. “First off, have you found out anything about Sybella Markham?”
“Nothing,” Emma said apologetically. “I’ve searched backwards and forwards, but I haven’t found a thing about an orphan girl named Sybella Markham. I plan to hit the Mormon genealogical vaults tonight. Until then ...”
�
��Would you hold on for a minute?” I asked, and conveyed the discouraging news to Nell.
Nell was undaunted. “Tell Mama to look for Sybella in Bath,” she said.
“In Bath?” Emma said, when I’d relayed Nell’s request. “I was looking for her in London. Okay, I’ll see what I can find....”
“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s Derek’s roof coming along?”
Emma chuckled. “One of his crew dropped a hammer through the windshield of the local chief constable’s car yesterday,” she said. “The chief constable was livid, but since his car was parked illegally, he couldn’t make much of a fuss. It helps to have the bishop on our side, of course. Now, tell me about Bill before I burst. Better yet, put Bill on, so I can hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
“I can‘t,” I said. “He’s, um, in conference with Dimity. She wasn’t too happy about him missing his second honeymoon, so she’s ...”
“Giving him the third degree?” Emma sniffed. “Serves him right. Oh dear. Lori? I have to go. Derek’s come in with the crew, and I’ll have to lend a hand with lunch. Call me later, though. I want to hear all about how Bill got from Maine to Yorkshire so quickly.”
I hung up the phone and glanced at Bill. His only contribution to his dialogue with Aunt Dimity had been a murmured litany of penitent Yes‘s, and since he showed no sign of stopping soon, Nell and I began a whispered discussion of our strategy with Uncle Tom. We agreed that, if Uncle Tom confirmed our suspicions, we’d try to convince Gerald to come clean with the rest of the family and challenge the Slut to do her worst. As Swann had pointed out, direct confrontation was the only way to deal with blackmailers.
At last, Bill closed the blue journal, put it back into the briefcase, and mopped away the beads of perspiration that had popped out on his forehead. “Given a choice between a scolding from Aunt Dimity and another week at Little Moose Lake,” he announced, “I think I’d take the lake.”
“Rough?” I inquired.
“An exploding stove,” he replied. “What were you two whispering about?”
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