Aunt Dimity's Good Deed ad-3

by Nancy Atherton

  “She did.” Tom gave off another wheezing chuckle. “Cousin William said you’d be surprised.”

  Thunderstruck would have been more accurate. I’d taken it for granted that Dimity had been drawn back to the cottage solely because of her concern for Willis, Sr. I could see now that I’d been wrong. She must have been concerned about Uncle Tom as well. He was a Starling House kid, one of her own, part of the family she’d created to make up for the one she’d lost when the love of her life had been shot down over the Channel. Tom was as much Dimity’s child as I was. She must have known that something was troubling him, and decided to lend a hand. It just so happened that the hand she had to lend belonged to me.

  “Did the Willis family adopt you formally?” I asked.

  Tom nodded. “And sent me to school and university. It was rough going at first, but Williston stood up for me every time I put a foot wrong. After a while, I was known simply as the elder son of the family.”

  Bill leaned forward. “Does Gerald know that you were adopted?”

  “Naturally,” said Tom. “I’ve always been totally honest with my son.” He paused. “I wish I could say that he’s been equally truthful’ with me.” The flowing conversation stopped abruptly. Nurse Watling looked up from her book, but whether she was checking on her patient or simply waiting for him to go on, I couldn’t tell.

  “Do you have children?” Tom asked finally.

  “Not yet,” I replied, slipping my hand into Bill’s.

  “When you do,” Tom said, staring out at the distant horizon, “you will learn that the worst thing in the world is to know that your child is in torment, and not know why.” His fingers fluttered toward the cast on Bill’s arm. “Broken bones will mend, and so will broken hearts, given the proper care and attention. But you can give neither when you don’t know what’s wrong. Helplessness in the face of a child’s suffering is the curse of parenthood.”

  Nurse Wading put her book down, filled the glass with water, and brought it to Tom. She helped him to drink, tucked his blankets up again, and stood over him for a moment, as though debating whether or not he was fit enough to continue. Then she reached for the battered old giraffe and nestled it in the mound of blankets on Tom’s lap.

  “Dear old Geraldine,” Tom said, breathing slowly and evenly. “We’ve seen it all, haven’t we, old girl?”

  Nurse Watling sat down again, but left the book lying on the table and maintained a vigilant watch over her patient.

  “Gerald comes to see me every month,” Tom went on. “He always brings a beautiful new book for my library, sometimes a rare edition. We talk about the Shuttleworth Collection, the family, my health—but we never talk about Gerald. I know that my child is suffering, and I would give anything, anything in the world, if he would only tell me why.”

  I tightened my grip on Bill’s hand, wondering if Tom had made the same confession to Willis, Sr. Had the two men sat together beneath the clear summer sky, sharing stories about the dutiful sons who were breaking their hearts?

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to worry you,” I offered.

  Tom gave my words a moment’s thought before rejecting them. “It is a father’s privilege to worry about his son. What right has he to take that from me?”

  “The right of every son to protect his father,” said Bill, looking down at his cast. “I can testify from personal experience that the two rights often come into conflict.”

  “Can you?” said Tom. “You must tell me all about it one day. I might learn something useful.”

  “Mr. Willis,” said Nell, “do you know about the woman Gerald’s been seeing in London?”

  I turned on her, frowning. “Not now, Nell.”

  “No, no,” Tom reproved. “Let the child speak.” He shifted slightly in his cocoon of blankets, the better to see Nell. “Yes. Arthur’s spoken of her. William did as well, now that you mention it. I must say that she doesn’t sound like my son’s type.”

  “Do you remember the doctor Douglas got involved with?” Nell asked. “The one who gave him all of those pills?”

  “How could anyone forget Sally the—” Tom broke off suddenly, and his face took on the same glow of revelation that had graced Lucy’s. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cushions. “Blackmail,” he said after a time, in a voice that was scarcely audible. “It must be.”

  “That’s what we thought,” I said. “We hoped you might know something about it.”

  “Let me think,” Tom said. “Let me think....” A frail hand crept out from under the blankets to stroke Geraldine‘s crooked neck. “He said ... he left ... the firm ... because of mistakes.”

  “Swann told us that was nonsense,” I said.

  “ ‘Tis,” Tom agreed succinctly, and seemed to gather strength from the thought. “Gerald never put a foot wrong.”

  Nell twined a golden curl around her finger and looked out over the velvety green lawn. “It’s Arthur who makes mistakes,” she said reflectively.

  The frail hand danced in the air above Geraldine’s ears. “That’s it!” Tom exhaled the words in a violent puff of breath, and Nurse Watling was on her feet at once.

  “I believe we’ll take a little break,” she said, motioning us to silence. “Now, Mr. Willis, you know how much it pleases me to see you happy, but you’ll have to master yourself, or I’ll have to ask your visitors to leave.” While she was talking, she’d pulled the oxygen mask over Tom’s face and fiddled with the controls. “Gently does it, Mr. Willis. Nice, easy breaths.”

  As Nurse Watling went on coaching in her steady, soothing croon, I felt my own pulse speed up again. Lucy had said that Gerald would do anything to protect the firm or the family, but perhaps he was protecting both. The Slut must have learned of an error Arthur had made—not a small, easily remedied mistake, but a huge, unfixable one that would send shock waves through the legal world, should it ever be made public. She must have brought the information to Gerald, who’d decided to cover it up and pay the Slut for her continued silence. You fool, I thought, keeping my face carefully neutral, you heroic, darling fool ...

  Tom signaled for the oxygen mask to be removed, and Nurse Watling slipped it off and hung it on the tank again. She checked his pulse and looked into his eyes, wagged a warning finger at him, and resumed her seat.

  “That great oaf Arthur,” Tom said, giving another wheezing chuckle. “He’s always been Lucy’s pet. We wanted to sack him a hundred times—even Williston agreed—but Lucy wouldn’t hear of it. Always stuck up for him. Because she’s so quick, I suppose, and he’s so dreadfully slow.”

  “That would give Gerald another reason to shield him,” I said. “Not just to protect the firm or the family at large, but to protect Lucy’s pet.”

  “Quite right, quite right. Should have seen it months ago. Thank God someone has, anyhow.” Tom chucked the giraffe under the chin. “And we thought they came to talk about Sybella, like Cousin William, didn’t we, Geraldine?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, leaning forward. “Did you say something about Sybella?”

  Tom nodded. “Interested in her, eh?”

  The understatement of the year, I thought. “We’ve been trying to figure out who she was,” I explained.

  “If you do, you must tell your father-in-law,” Tom said. “I haven’t a clue.” He paused a moment, then repeated, “Your father-in-law. Dear me. The crafty old fox. He asked about the Slut, too, and now he’s on his way to see my son.”

  “He’s probably thinking the same thing we are,” Bill said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Tom. “Sally’s an unscrupulous woman. She may have unscrupulous friends. If she feels that William poses a threat to her livelihood—”

  “My God,” said Bill, getting to his feet.

  “Be off with you,” said Tom, waggling his fingers at us. “Make haste. Slay the Sluttish dragon and box my foolish son’s ears.”

  Bill looked seriously rattled. He said a hurried good-bye, then took
off around the side of the house. By the time Nell and I had taken our leave of Uncle Tom, Geraldine, and Nurse Watling, Bill was standing at the white picket gate, gesturing furiously for Paul to pull the car around. As soon as the limo was within reach, Bill jerked the door open and practically shoved Nell and me into the back. He crawled in after us and spoke through the intercom to Paul.

  “Paul,” he said, in a clipped, authoritative voice, “we have to get to Haslemere as quickly as possible. My father may be in grave danger.”

  “Very good, sir,” Paul said calmly, and put his foot to the floor.

  Newton’s third law of motion stayed my speech and nearly stopped my breath as Paul peeled out of Old Warden in a cloud of burning rubber. Every action of the steering wheel had an equal and opposite reaction in the backseat-Nell clung to the fold-down armrests for dear life as we skidded around a sharp bend, and I fell heavily against Bill.

  “Good ... God,” I managed.

  “Wow,” Bill agreed.

  Paul hit a short straightaway and I hit the glove leather. “We’ll die before we get there,” I muttered, pressed flat against the back of the seat.

  As Paul careened wildly around a succession of tight curves, I prayed fervently that he’d make it to the broad, straight lanes of an M road soon, because my stomach was lodging vigorous protests against the limo’s hideous swaying.

  “Bill,” I said, beginning to feel lightheaded. “I know you’re worried about your father, and I’m worried, too, but I’m warning you that if Paul keeps up like this I’m going to ... be ... Ooooh ...”

  Bill let his sprained wrist fall to his lap, punched the intercom, and shouted for Paul to slow down, then hugged me to his side and held me steady until we’d reached a tolerable speed.

  “Are you okay, Lori?” Bill pressed his lips to my forehead, as though checking for a Fever, “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and kept taking deep breaths.

  “Here,” said Nell. She’d whipped out the thermos filled with Sir Poppet’s herbal tea and poured a cupful. “Drink this.”

  I took the cup from her and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. The aroma alone was enough to take the edge off my queasiness. “Another,” I said, holding the cup out for more.

  “What’s in this stuff, anyway?” Bill asked, sniffing at the thermos.

  “Serious miracles,” I mumbled. I finished the second cup, took another deep breath, and felt the color slowly creep back into my cheeks. The limo promptly sped up again, but a glance out of the window showed that we were on an entrance ramp to the M1. For the next couple of hours or so, swaying would not be a problem.

  “You told me you’d gotten over the food poisoning,” Bill said reproachfully.

  “Guess I was wrong.” I sat up, pushed my curls back from my forehead, and returned the cup to Nell. “Thanks, Nell. I needed that.”

  Nell looked from Bill’s face to mine. “You should see a doctor,” she advised. “Soon.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said. “I’ve been feeling out of whack ever since we hit the road.”

  “I’ll take you as soon as we’ve seen to Father,” Bill promised, kissing my forehead.

  “Do you really think he’s in danger?” I asked.

  Bill shrugged worriedly. “Father isn’t a fool. I’m confident that he wouldn’t walk into a dangerous situation without taking precautions, but I’ll feel a lot better when I know what they are.”

  “I wonder how William found out about Sally,” said Nell. “Do you suppose Arthur told him?”

  I leaned against Bill’s side and considered the question. “I think William got his information the same way we did,” I said. “A scrap here, a hint there—you know, if Lucy and Anthea had talked the problem through, they’d have come up with a solution in no time. They had all the pieces. They just never sat down together to put the puzzle together.”

  “Communication was a leading topic in my little chat with Dimity this afternoon,” Bill said wryly.

  “I hope you paid attention,” I teased.

  “I took notes,” Bill assured me. He stared out of the window for a moment, then looked back at me and Nell. “Here’s another question for the experts. How did Father find out about Sybella? According to Sir Poppet, Uncle Williston never mentioned the name to him, and he hasn’t set eyes on that deed of yours. Yet he showed up at Uncle Tom‘s, asking about Sybella. Where did he run across the name?”

  The experts pondered Bill’s question for the next few miles. Then I pressed the intercom button. “Paul?” I said. “Can’t you make this heap move any faster?”

  28.

  The limo’s headlights picked out the white sign hanging from the iron post at the mouth of the grassy drive. It was half past eight in the evening, dusk was moving in, and there was no other traffic on the Midhurst Road. Paul signaled his turn, pulled past the iron post, and drove cautiously into the darkening woods.

  Nell twisted sideways on the fold-down seat and peered intently through the limo’s windshield. “William’s car,” she whispered.

  Goose bumps rippled up my arms as I looked past her and saw the silver-gray Mercedes shimmer briefly in the headlights’ glare, then vanish as Paul nosed the limo in beside it. Bill was out of the backseat before he’d cut the engine.

  Nell and I followed. She stopped to fetch Bertie from the front, and I paused to lay a hand on the Mercedes, but Bill marched straight up to the Larches and hammered insistently on the front door.

  A river of light poured into the gloom as Mrs. Burweed opened the door. “There’s no need to make such a racket, young man,” she said irritably. “Especially at this time of night. Now. How may I—” She broke off as she spied Nell and me hastening up to join Bill on the doorstep. “Miss—Miss Shepherd, isn’t it? How nice. Mr. Gerald will be so pleased to see you again.”

  “He will, will he?” Bill muttered.

  Mrs. Burweed ignored him and went on speaking to me. “I’m afraid he’s with someone at present. Would you mind waiting—”

  “Yes, we would,” Bill interrupted. “Where are they?”

  “In the back parlor,” replied Mrs. Burweed, rattled by Bill’s peremptory manner. “But Mr. Gerald gave strict instructions—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Burweed,” said Bill, walking past her into the house. “No need to show me the way.”

  I gave Mrs. Burweed a brief, apologetic shrug and dashed up the hall after Bill, with Nell hard on my heels. Bill put his hand out to open the parlor door, but Gerald must have heard the commotion, because he opened it first. He looked at Bill in confusion, then caught sight of me and smiled so sweetly that I went weak in the knees.

  “Miss Shepherd,” he exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Bill growled incoherently, cocked his arm, and let loose a punch that picked Gerald up and sent him sprawling backward into the parlor. Fist clenched, Bill charged in to stand over him, thundering, “That’s for kissing my wife!”

  Nell swung around to stare at me, goggle-eyed. “So that’s what happened at Saint Bartholomew‘s!”

  “It didn’t happen at Saint Bartholomew‘s,” I snapped distractedly. “Bill! Stop it! Leave him alone.” I tugged at Bill’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the hallway, but it was like trying to uproot a sequoia.

  A calm, familiar voice spoke from across the room. “My dear boy, if what you suspect is true, then I sympathize with your sense of outrage, but do you really think that this is an appropriate time to upset Lori?”

  I froze, Bill gaped, and Nell gasped.

  Gerald groaned.

  “Bill, help your cousin to his feet,” Willis, Sr., directed from an armchair at the far end of the couch. “Nell, please advise Mrs. Burweed that a telephone call to the local constabulary will not be necessary. Lori, I realize that you grew up with few relations, but surely you must have learned by now that the term ‘kissing cousins’ is not to be taken literally.”

  Willis, Sr., had to gi
ve Mrs. Burweed his personal assurance that Bill wasn’t a dangerous lunatic before she’d consent to put the phone down and fetch a pair of ice bags from the kitchen. One was for Gerald’s poor black-and-blue-green eye, the other for the bruised knuckles on Bill’s right hand.

  “You idiot,” I lectured, kneeling in front of Bill’s chair and subjecting each of his fingers to a minute inspection. “This was the only hand you had left. I suppose you’ll expect me to spoon-feed you now.”

  “Humph,” Bill replied, glowering at Gerald, who was stretched full-length on the tattered sofa.

  “Stop that,” I scolded. “I told you, it wasn’t Gerald’s fault. He didn’t know I was your wife. He didn’t know I was anyone’s wife. Besides, he didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being kind.”

  Gerald spoke from beneath his ice bag. “Missing the point,” he murmured, slurring his sibilants. “Some things a chap has to make absolutely clear. Sanctity of marriage is one of them. No gray areas allowed.”

  “Damned straight.” Bill nodded vigorously, caught himself mid-nod, and frowned at Gerald, clearly disconcerted to hear his cause championed by the man he’d just flattened.

  I handed Bill his ice bag and sat on the arm of his chair, where I could keep an eye on him. The back parlor looked as drab and spiritless as it had the last time I’d been there. Darkness had swallowed the trees beyond the picture windows, and table lamps had been lit at either end of the couch. The soft light took the edge off the general dinginess and brought out the red-gold highlights in Gerald’s chestnut hair. Gerald was dressed much as he’d been when I’d last seen him, in faded jeans and a forest-green shirt made of soft, old cotton.

  Willis, Sr., looked different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. He sat facing Bill and me, near the end of the couch where Mrs. Burweed had piled pillows for Gerald’s head. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and an exquisite silver-gray silk tie, but there was nothing unusual in that. Like Nell, Willis, Sr., was always well dressed. His white hair flowed back from his high forehead, and his gray eyes were as serene as ever. A bit brighter than usual, perhaps, when they sought me out, but I’d expected that. He had to be pleased as punch to see Bill and me together. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on Nell.