Bill’s ears reddened, but he carried on gamely. “If the diary was such a closely held secret, Gerald, how did you find out about it?”
Gerald thought for a moment before answering, “I suppose you could say that I learnt of it from Dr. Sarah Flannery—more commonly known as Sally the Slut.”
“Huh?” I said. “How did she—” I was interrupted by the distant sound of a ringing doorbell.
Willis, Sr., consulted his pocket watch once more, commenting, “Good. The train was on time.”
Mrs. Burweed opened the hallway door. Her nose was wrinkled in distaste, as though a foul odor had seeped into the hallway, and she addressed her words to Willis, Sr., not to Gerald. “The ... lady is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burweed,” said Willis, Sr., with a pleasant smile. “Please show her in. You will remember the rest of your instructions?”
Mrs. Burweed drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “That I will, sir.”
“Gerald,” said Willis, Sr., “I must remind you to remain silent.” He folded his hands in his lap, and his gray eyes turned to steel. “I will deal with the unsavory Dr. Flannery.”
30.
Sally the Slut was everything Anthea and Arthur had said she would be. She was short and round and she’d made the grave error of stuffing her dumpy body like a sausage into a tight black miniskirt and a brilliant red blouse of watered silk. I took one look at her shapeless legs and couldn’t help thinking of a tomato on sticks.
She was in her mid-fifties and wore her suspiciously dark brown hair in a simple pageboy style. Her nose was neither large nor unusually pointy, but she had a habit of thrusting her head forward and squinting nearsightedly that made her seem ferret-faced. Her eyes were like two tiny, reflectionless lumps of brown flint.
Swann was right, I thought. Sally must have learned some interesting party tricks in anatomy class, because she’d never make it on looks alone.
She entered the back parlor in a cloud of cloying perfume and paused just inside the doorway, obviously surprised to see so many faces turned in her direction. “Why, Gerald,” she said, giving each of us a measuring glance, “you should have told me that you’d have guests.”
“We are not guests, Dr. Flannery.” Willis, Sr.’s voice was like an icy breeze blowing through the room. “We are Gerald’s family.”
Gerald’s head turned swiftly toward Willis, Sr., and a look of startled pleasure crossed his face.
Bill coughed discreetly into his hand as Sally and her cloud of perfume passed between him and the couch. She walked with a sort of pert waddle and kept her hard eyes trained on Willis, Sr., whom she’d evidently identified as the alpha male in the room. His expression was as severe as a judge‘s, his elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and his hands were folded sternly over his immaculate waistcoat.
“I don’t recall seeing you before,” Sally said, a note of challenge in her voice.
“I am Gerald’s cousin,” Willis, Sr., informed her. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that this is a social occasion, however. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
Sally stopped short a few feet in front of Willis, Sr.’s chair.
“Gerald tells me,” Willis, Sr., continued, “that you are not a stupid woman. I assume, therefore, that you are aware of the fact that the penalties for extortion are extremely severe in this country.”
Sally poked her face forward and squinted. “And I assume that you don’t want your family’s dirty linen washed in public.”
“My family is quite capable of managing its household affairs,” Willis, Sr., said mildly. “But I can easily arrange for you to spend the next twenty to twenty-five years laundering linen, if that is what you prefer.” He pursed his lips and contemplated the ceiling. “To be frank, Dr. Flannery, it would give me so much pleasure to do so that I may arrange it without taking your personal preference into consideration.”
“Is that what you want, Gerald?” Sally folded her short arms across her bulging bosom and pivoted to face the couch. “Do you really want to destroy the firm? I’ve told you what it’ll do to your precious father.”
Willis, Sr., smiled indulgently, as though he were genuinely amused. “I would not put too much faith in your professional opinion, Dr. Flannery,” he said. “In truth, I would put no faith in it at all. Your record as a physician makes lamentable reading. I quite understand why you felt the need to ... supplement your income.”
Sally flushed. “That’s slander. There are laws against that as well in this country.”
“Are there? Oh dear.” Willis, Sr., clucked his tongue. “It seems I have made a fatal error. Perhaps we should call for an expert opinion.” He raised his voice. “Mrs. Burweed?”
Every head in the room turned to face the hall door as Mrs. Burweed returned, accompanied this time by a man of medium build with gray hair, glasses, and a small, neat mustache. He wore a navy-blue overcoat and carried a briefcase. He eyed Sally dispassionately and nodded to Willis, Sr.
Sally tossed her head. “I can afford my own solicitor, thanks very much.”
“I never doubted it,” said Willis, Sr. “This gentleman is not, however, a lawyer. Dr. Flannery, please permit me to introduce you to Chief Inspector Mappin, of Scotland Yard.”
Sally’s arms fell slowly to her sides as the color drained from her face.
“The chief inspector was kind enough to accept my invitation to join us this evening,” Willis, Sr., went on remorselessly. “He has generously offered to escort you back to London, Dr. Flannery. I am certain that he will be more than happy to answer any questions you might have regarding the laws in this country.”
Chief Inspector Mappin patted the briefcase. “I intend to ask a few questions, too.”
Sally the Slut thrust her chin forward and gave Willis, Sr., a poisonous glare. “I’ll see you in court.”
Willis, Sr., bowed graciously. “I look forward to it.”
“Come along ... Doctor.” Chief Inspector Mappin stood aside as Sally waddled past him, then followed her into the hallway. Mrs. Burweed, fanning her hand in front of her face, closed the door behind them, and for a few minutes the back parlor was filled with the deafening roar of stupefied silence.
“Fresh air, I think.” Willis, Sr., started to get up from the couch, but I was too quick for him. I scrambled to my feet, planted my hand on his shoulder, and escorted him back to his original armchair.
“Don’t move,” I commanded. I glanced over my shoulder. “Nell, would you please open the French doors? The room does need an airing, but William’s not going anywhere.” My eyes narrowed as I resumed my place on the arm of Bill’s chair. “He’s going to stay where he is until he and Gerald have told us everything.”
Nell scooted over to throw open the French doors, and the cool night air flooded in, cleansing the back parlor of Sally’s malevolent presence as well as her fragrance. As Nell returned to sit on the footstool near the hearth, I felt a heady sense of release, as though Willis, Sr., had broken the spell of a wicked sorceress. Gerald’s face held a curious mixture of relief and anxiety; he looked glad to be out from under Sally’s thumb, but worried about the consequences.
“Now, William,” I said. “It’s your turn to tell us what you’ve been up to.”
Willis, Sr., cleared his throat and tented his fingers. “Lori’s original assumption was correct,” he began. “I made this trip to England with a business proposition in mind. The notion of combining forces with my English relatives had long appealed to me, but when I began laying the groundwork, I heard a number of alarming rumors concerning Gerald. I decided that I could not bring my plan forward until I had ascertained the validity of those rumors.”
“But, William,” Nell said, “Lucy and Anthea told us that all you talked about was family history.”
“That was my calling card,” said Willis, Sr. “I cloaked my inquiries into the present with inquiries into the past. As it turned out, the two were related, in a manner I could not hav
e foreseen.” He turned to Gerald. “Would you care to explain?”
Gerald obliged. “Two years ago, Sally rang me at the office, asking me to meet her at the Flamborough Hotel. When I got there, she told me that she knew all about Arthur’s embezzling scheme.”
“Arthur?” said Nell doubtfully. “Arthur’s not clever enough to be an embezzler.”
“No, Nell, he isn‘t,” Gerald agreed. “But Arthur had made mistakes, costly errors in five separate cases, that could be interpreted as embezzlement. Sally explained it all to me during that first meeting. She knew names, dates, figures—”
“And she threatened to spill the beans if you didn’t pay up,” I interjected. “Once a blackmailer, always a blackmailer.”
Bill stroked the place where his mustache had once been. “How did she come by the information?”
“Douglas,” Gerald replied, his lip curling. “Anthea’s late husband used to look after our accounts. He knew what Arthur had done, but said nothing about it to anyone, except Sally. He joked about it with her, the contemptible swine.”
“You couldn’t have taken Sally’s word for it, though,” I said. “Did she have any proof?”
“Not in her possession,” said Gerald. “But she told me where to look for it. She said that Douglas kept a second set of books, a secret set, in which he’d recorded not only Arthur’s errors but his own, intentional mistakes.” Gerald’s broad shoulders slumped. “Poor Aunt Anthea. She thought he was an honest man until Sally turned his head, but he wasn’t. Douglas had been stealing from our clients for years.”
I saw Gerald’s chest heave, and for the first time sensed the full weight of the burden he’d borne for the past two years, and how many people would be hurt once he put it down. What little respect Anthea retained for her late husband would be destroyed, as would her reverence for Julia Louise. Nor would Lucy ever be able to regard the portrait in her office with anything but revulsion. Arthur’s career would be over, and the firm would face an uncertain future. As for Uncle Tom ... He might take the news about the diary in stride, but would he be so sanguine about his family’s other troubles? The thoughts flashed into my mind, one after another, searing it, giving me a small taste of what Gerald had suffered and why he’d suffered it so gladly.
“Where did Douglas keep the second set of books?” Nell was asking.
Gerald gave her a queer look. “You won’t believe me. I didn’t believe Sally at first. It was too fantastic, too ...” He closed his eye. “Grand Guignol at number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—who would’ve thought?”
I moved a little closer to Bill, disquieted. “He hid the second set of books at the office?”
“According to Sally,” Gerald answered, “he’d hidden them in a secret chamber he’d discovered in the vaults below the office. The vaults are a sort of enormous cellar, with an arched ceiling and walls of rough-cut stone.” Gerald raised his arms in an arch over his head, then wrapped them around himself, as though he’d taken a sudden chill. “They’re cold and dark and cavernous, full of shadows and strange noises. Lucy and I used to dare each other to go down there when we were children. I remember how terrified I was, and how brave I pretended to be....
“That night,” he went on, “after meeting with Sally, and after Lucy and Arthur had gone up to their flats, I went down to the vaults. I brought a hammer, and a torch as well, because the lighting’s very poor. I spent two hours tapping the walls until I found a section that sounded different from the rest. When I put my shoulder to it, it swung inward, making a queer, rasping noise that echoed like a thousand rustling whispers in the dark.”
Gerald sat huddled on the edge of the couch, staring at the bars of the electric fire, speaking half to himself.
“It was a little room,” he said, “no bigger than a closet, and lined with wooden shelves. Douglas’s private set of books was the first thing to catch my eye, and I scanned them quickly, by the light of the torch, to see if the Slut was telling the truth. I was tired by then, but not too tired to see that those books would cause an uproar.”
I understood at once. “You couldn’t afford another uproar at that point,” I said. “You’d just lost Williston, Anthea, and your father—you and Lucy were struggling to stay afloat. Another scandal would’ve put you out of business.”
Gerald didn’t seem to hear. “I don’t know how long I stood there, trying to think what to do,” he said, “but I suddenly noticed that there were other objects in the chamber—an old book bristling with papers, and a wooden crate.” Gerald rubbed his arms. “I can’t tell you what it felt like when I opened the crate and saw ...” He swallowed hard, and the rest of us swallowed with him.
“I stayed up all night, reading Sir Williston’s diary and putting the pieces together. In the morning, I came to a decision. I’d pay Sally for her silence and conceal everything else I’d discovered.” Gerald’s head dropped to his chest. “I had no choice.”
“You have always had a choice, my boy,” Willis, Sr., said, unmoved.
Gerald looked utterly wretched, sitting all by himself on the couch. My throat grew suddenly small and aching, and without pausing to think, I went to him; when he reached out blindly for my hand, I gave it to him.
“William’s right,” I said. “You did have a choice. And you chose to protect Lucy.”
Gerald nodded miserably. “She loves the firm as much as she loves Julia Louise. To reveal Arthur’s errors would ruin one, and to reveal what I’d found in that box would destroy the other. I couldn’t do that. Not to Lucy.”
“Of course you couldn‘t,” I murmured.
Gerald turned his head to look at me. His gaze was so tender and so filled with self-reproach that tears blurred my vision. “I’m not a hero, Lori. I didn’t act for Lucy’s sake alone. My pride was injured. I’d been rejected, as had my father, and I wanted nothing more to do with the Willis family.” He withdrew his hand from mine and stared somberly at the cheerless glow of the electric fire. “So I came here. I brought with me everything I’d found in the vaults, in case Sally ever took it into her spiteful head to tell Lucy about the hidden chamber. I paid Sally for her silence, and I told myself what a noble creature I was, to make such sacrifices for a family that had spurned me. And all the while I despised them, for their past sins and their present ignorance.” He turned back to me. “A hero would not have felt as I have.”
“Perhaps not.” Willis, Sr., got briskly to his feet and walked over to stand before Gerald, one hand behind his back, the other clasping his lapel. “There is a quality known as character, however, of which you have more than your share, young man. Regardless of your feelings, you acted nobly.” Willis, Sr., raised an admonishing finger. “Not sensibly, mind you, but nobly.”
Gerald hung his head. “I’ve been God’s own fool, Cousin William, and I know it.”
“William,” said Nell, “how did you guess what Gerald had done? No one in the family could have told you.”
Willis, Sr., smiled. “Gerald’s own sound character gave him away. Everyone I interviewed went on at length about what a fine young man he was. When Arthur informed me of Gerald’s assignations at the Flamborough, therefore, it struck me as exceedingly odd, and I called Scotland Yard to make inquiries.”
I laughed involuntarily. “You called in the Yard just to check up on Gerald?”
“I felt it would save time,” said Willis, Sr. “Chief Inspector Mappin, as it turned out, had harbored suspicions concerning Dr. Flannery’s activities for years, but no one had ever come forward to lodge a formal complaint against her. Armed with this new information, I returned to Haslemere with the chief inspector in order to ... persuade Gerald to tell us the truth.”
Gerald and Bill exchanged the rictus grins of men who knew what it meant to be subjected to Willis, Sr.’s powers of persuasion.
“It was the chief inspector’s idea to invite Dr. Flannery,” said Willis, Sr. “In my opinion, an excellent suggestion. She is a vile creature, and the sooner she is re
moved from the general populace, the better.”
Bill leaned back in his chair, beaming at Willis, Sr. “Never let it be said that my father doesn’t know how to stage a grand finale. Bravo, Father. Well done.”
Gerald ran his hand distractedly through his chestnut hair. “I don’t think we’ve reached the finale,” he said. “I still have to break a great deal of bad news to Lucy, and to my father as well.”
“I know how you can soften the blow to your father,” I said. “You can stop selling off his collection.”
Gerald stared at me, nonplussed. “But I’m not selling it off. I can’t. It’s not ours.”
“Lucy said it was,” Nell put in. “She told us that your father picked it up for a song after the war.”
“He did pick it up.” For the first time in the entire evening, Gerald’s dimple peeped out from among his bruises. “From the rubble of churches and the ruined homes of private collectors. When I started going through old auction catalogues to get an idea of what the pieces were worth, there they were—reliquaries, chalices, crucifixes—with the names of their original owners. I’ve been returning them, anonymously.”
Bill leaned his chin in his hand and sighed disconsolately. “I’m beginning to hate you very deeply, Gerald. Please. Cheer me up. Tell me that you had to rob a few widows in order to buy all those nice gifts for your uncle.”
Gerald’s crooked smile widened. “Sorry, Bill, but the widows of England are safe from me. Even after I left the firm, Lucy insisted on sending me my share of the profits. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to spend it on myself, so I used it to help my father buy his house in Old Warden, and to bring Uncle Williston a few things to cheer him up.”
Bill pursed his lips, disgusted. “That’s what I thought.”
From far down the hall came the sound of a ringing telephone. A moment later, Mrs. Burweed appeared, saying that the call was for Willis, Sr. He thanked her, then asked if he might have a word with Bill in private.
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