Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’m ready when you are,” I said, grateful to him for the change of subject.

  “Excellent. Please feel free to stop me at any point, Miss Shepherd. I greatly dislike haste in these matters. It so often leads to misunderstandings.” He straightened his waistcoat, then folded his hands atop the papers. “Shortly before her death, Miss Westwood collected the Aunt Dimity stories into a single volume, which she intended to publish posthumously.”

  “She’s going to publish the Aunt Dimity stories?”

  “That was her intent, Miss Shepherd. Arrangements have been made with a reputable publisher, and the illustrations are nearing completion.”

  “You mean, other people have read them already?”

  “A small number of people, yes. My dear, does this trouble you?”

  The sound of my mother’s voice drifted through my mind. “I guess it does. Until yesterday evening I thought I was the only one who knew those stories. I guess I’ve always thought of them as mine.”

  “That,” said Willis, Sr., “is undoubtedly why Miss Westwood wanted you and no one else to write an introductory essay for the volume.”

  “She did?” I looked at him in surprise. “Is that the favor she mentions in her letter?”

  “It is. She wished for you to write an introduction focusing on the origins of the stories, which, according to Miss West-wood, are to be found in the collection of private correspondence now housed in her residence in England, near the village of Finch. I believe she refers to the correspondence in her letter to you?”

  I nodded.

  “You are to read the letters written by your mother and Dimity Westwood, locate within them the situations or characters or events that inspired the Aunt Dimity stories, and write about what you find.” Willis, Sr., paused, then added softly, “I think I can understand your reluctance to have these stories published, Miss Shepherd. They must have been a treasured part of your childhood. But, my dear, you shall not lose the stories by sharing them.”

  Willis, Sr., would have made a brilliant teacher. He had a way of showing you things you should have seen for yourself, without making you feel like a fool. I would lose nothing by the stories’ publication, and many children would gain a great deal. Aunt Dimity would come to life for them, too, and that was as it should be.

  “You’re right, Mr. Willis,” I said sheepishly. “It’s a fine idea. And I suppose they couldn’t really publish the thing without me in it somewhere. I must be the world’s greatest authority on Aunt Dimity.”

  “You are indeed,” said Willis, Sr., with a contented nod. He glanced down at the paper on top of the stack, then continued. “You shall have one month—that is, thirty days from the time of your arrival at the cottage—in which to do the necessary research and writing. I shall contact you periodically to confer with you and to ask certain questions Miss West-wood has prepared.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “The questions concern the contents of both the letters and the stories, Miss Shepherd.”

  “I should be able to answer questions about the stories right now.”

  “Undoubtedly, but we shall follow Miss Westwood’s wishes nonetheless. At the end of the month, if you have answered those questions satisfactorily and completed the introduction in the manner described by Miss Westwood, you shall receive a commission of… let me see…” He ran his finger down the sheet. “Ah, here it is.” He looked up and smiled pleasantly. “You shall receive a commission of ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand…” My voice cracked. “Isn’t that a bit much?” I added faintly.

  “It is the value Miss Westwood placed on the task. It was, I understand, very close to her heart.”

  “It must have been.” My mind flew to the stack of bills that was threatening to engulf my apartment at that very moment. I had expected to be paying them off with my Social Security checks, but now … ten thousand dollars. For one month’s work. I sank back on the couch and raised a hand to my forehead.

  Willis, Sr., peered at me worriedly. “Great heavens, I’ve done it again. Please, allow me to pour you a glass of sherry. You’ve gone quite pale.”

  While Willis, Sr., poured the sherry, I tried to gather my wits. It wasn’t easy, since visions of hundred-dollar bills kept them fairly well scattered. But by the time he returned with the sherry, I had at least calmed down enough to listen attentively.

  “Here you are, my dear. Drink that down while I continue.” He waited until I’d taken a sip, then referred once more to his notes. “You need not depart for England until you are fully prepared to do so. Miss Westwood felt that you might require some time to take leave of your friends, make the necessary arrangements with your employer, and so on.” Folding his hands, he added, “Miss Westwood also hoped that you would accept our hospitality and reside here at the mansion until it is time for you to leave.”

  “Is that a condition of the will?”

  “No, Miss Shepherd, but it coincides with my own wishes. I should be only too happy to welcome you as a guest in my home for as long as you wish to stay.” He leaned toward me and added confidentially, “It brings me great pleasure to have a fresh face in the house, especially one belonging to someone who is neither studying nor practicing the law.”

  I laughed. “I can understand that, Mr. Willis. Thank you, I’ll stay, as long as it’s no trouble.”

  “None at all.” He consulted the notes and continued, “Funds have, of course, been made available to pay for your travel and for any expenses incurred before or during your visit to the cottage. These expenses need not, I might add, relate directly to the writing of the introduction. Miss West-wood wanted you to be able to concentrate, you see, and felt that you would be able to do so only if your ancillary needs and desires were satisfactorily met. Anything, therefore, that ensures your comfort and well-being shall be considered a necessary expense.”

  A bottomless expense account. I could pay the bills, take care of the rent, buy some new clothes—of my own choosing—without even touching the commission. I was so dazzled that I almost missed Willis, Sr.’s next words.

  “…also for your convenience, Miss Westwood specified that the arrangements for your trip and the disbursement of funds be directed by my son.”

  A mouthful of sherry nearly ended up on Willis, Sr.’s immaculate waistcoat.

  “Bill?” I gasped.

  “Indeed. Miss Westwood did not wish to trouble you with the day-to-day details of travel and finance. My son, therefore, shall be responsible for looking after you from now until you have completed your task. He shall supply your transportation, oversee your expenses, and accompany you to England to act as your… facilitator, for want of a better term.” The expression on my face must have alarmed Willis, Sr., for he added reassuringly, “His role shall in no way limit your access to the funds, Miss Shepherd. You have only to ask, and you shall be given whatever you require.”

  “By Bill.”

  “Miss Westwood is quite specific on that point, yes.”

  “You mean that, without Bill, I can’t do anything else?”

  “I fear not.”

  “But why him?” I asked. “I’d much rather work with you.”

  “That is very kind of you, Miss Shepherd. I should be only too happy to be of service to you, but…” Willis, Sr., sighed. “I fear, alas, that my health will not permit it. I have for the past year been beset by some minor difficulties with:—”

  “Your heart,” I broke in. “Bill told me about it—”

  “Did he?” said Willis, Sr.

  “This morning. And, like an idiot, I forgot. Of course you can’t go off globe-trotting. Please—forget that I mentioned it.” I scowled at my shoes for a second, then asked, “How much does Bill know about all of this?”

  “I enlisted his aid in locating you, but other than that, I have told him nothing. Indeed, I have not yet informed him of the part he is to play in Miss Westwood’s plan. I felt it would be best to withhold that inform
ation until I was certain of your participation.” Willis, Sr., hesitated. “I do not wish to pry, Miss Shepherd, but do I detect a note of dismay?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, my chin in my hands. “I think you could put it that way.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  l turned to face him. “Do you know what your son did?”

  “I tremble to think.”

  “H,thought clothes for me! A whole closetful!” It sounded so trivial, now that I’d said it aloud, that I was afraid Willis, Sr., would laugh, but he seemed to understand exactly what I was getting at.

  “Without consulting you? How very presumptuous of him.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “And how unlike him. If you will permit a personal observation, Miss Shepherd, my son has always been most reserved with the young ladies of his acquaintance.”

  “Reserved?” I said. “Bill?”

  “I would go so far as to say he displays a certain degree of shyness in their company. I cannot imagine him selecting apparel for them.” Willis, Sr., leaned toward me. “Tell me, has he done anything else you deem noteworthy?”

  “He took me up on the roof this morning to look at a meteor shower.”

  Willis, Sr.’s jaw dropped. “He took you to Arthur’s dome? Oh, but that is extraordinary. Unprecedented, in fact. The students have access to it, of course, but I have never known him to invite anyone up there, aside from myself. I cannot think why…” He frowned for a moment, clearly at a loss.

  I wasn’t at a loss. It stood to reason that Bill couldn’t play Handsome Prince games with the rich and polished “young ladies of his acquaintance.” What he needed was a Cinderella, a grateful orphan girl to mold as he pleased. Just thinking about it made my blood pressure rise all over again, but it wasn’t something I could explain to his loving father.

  “My dear Miss Shepherd,” said Willis, Sr., finally, “I can offer no explanation for my son’s curious behavior. I can only hope that you will believe me when I tell you that he has a good heart. I am sure he meant well, however clumsily he may have expressed himself.

  “Be that as it may,” he went on, “I am compelled to inform you that his actions do not constitute grounds for circumventing Miss Westwood’s wishes. I confess that it saddens me, however, to think that my boy’s presence has become intolerable to you—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said hastily. “Your son isn’t intolerable, Mr. Willis. He’s just a little…”

  “Rash?” suggested Willis, Sr.

  “But in a thoughtful way,” I assured him. “I’m sure that it’s all a matter of … getting used to him.”

  Willis, Sr.’s face brightened. “I am so pleased to hear you say that, Miss Shepherd. You will proceed as planned, then? You will go to England and write the introduction? It meant so much to Miss Westwood.”

  “Of course I’ll go,” I said. “It means a lot to me, too.”

  “And you will accept my invitation to remain here as my guest?” he asked.

  What could I do? Throw the old man’s kindness back in his face? I nodded and he looked well pleased. He placed the papers on the coffee table and we sat in companionable silence. I was still somewhat dazed by the prospects that lay before me. The biggest decision I’d had to make lately was the number of books I’d allow myself to check out of the public library at one time. Now here I was, with an overseas trip, an unlimited expense account, and a chance to earn ten thousand dollars doing something I knew I would enjoy. I didn’t know where to start. What did people do with expense accounts? I had no past experience to go on, but as I looked at Willis, Sr.’s patient smile, an idea began to take shape.

  “Are you feeling okay, Mr. Willis?” I asked, twisting my hands nervously in my lap.

  “How thoughtful of you to inquire,” he said. “Yes, thank you, Miss Shepherd, I feel quite fit.”

  “Then would you… would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked, adding hurriedly, “If you’re not too busy, and if you don’t have other plans, and if you’re sure you’re feeling—”

  “Miss Shepherd,” Willis, Sr., broke in gently, “I would be honored to accept your kind invitation.” He placed a wrinkled hand on my fidgeting fingers, and I didn’t have the slightest inclination to pull them away.

  7

  Willis, Sr., arranged for our dinner to be served in the large library on the ground floor, a room that might have been lifted, lock, stock, and bookplate, from one of the great English manor houses. “My great-uncle, Arthur Willis, saw an engraving of the library at Chatsworth,” Willis, Sr., explained, “and decided to pattern his after it.” The room was long and relatively narrow, with tall windows on one side and bookshelves on the other. A ladder and a narrow catwalk, resplendent in gold leaf, gave access to the highest shelves, and the ceiling was a marvel of sculpted plasterwork and medallion paintings.

  We sat at a round table at one end of the room, I in my freshly laundered jeans and flannel shirt, and Willis, Sr., in a flawless charcoal-gray suit. He acknowledged my casual attire by slightly loosening the knot in his silk tie, and entertained me with talk of books and travel while the law students served our meal from the trolley Bill had used the night before.

  Midway through the fish course it occurred to me that, before going down to the cottage, I might visit the places in London my mother had visited during the war, as a sort of preamble to reading the letters and writing about the stories. It wasn’t until the second sorbet that I got up the nerve to present it for Willis, Sr.’s appraisal. It received his full support.

  I decided against telling him about the photograph. As gracious as he was, Willis, Sr., obviously felt that his first duty was to Dimity Westwood, which meant seeing to it that the introduction was completed on schedule. The sobering truth—the truth I couldn’t share with him—was that I might not finish the introduction at all. One month was all the time I would have at the cottage, and it might not be enough time to do everything. My first duty was to my mother, and I didn’t want to put Willis, Sr., in the position of having to disapprove of something I was determined to do anyway.

  For the same reason, I couldn’t tell Bill, either. I would have to get rid of him once we got to Finch, of course, send him to stay at a hotel or a local guest house, but that would be easy enough to do without arousing suspicion. If anyone would be sympathetic to a plea of decorum, it would be Willis, Sr. And, partners or not, I thought I knew who called the shots in the family firm.

  * * *

  Bill’s behavior took a new and even stranger turn during the week we spent preparing for the trip.

  The dressing room was empty when I returned to the guest suite after my dinner with Willis, Sr., but I was awakened the following morning by a scuffling noise in the hall. When I investigated, I found Bill and four staff members walking off with sixteen pieces of the most beautiful hand-rubbed leather luggage I had ever seen.

  “More gifts?” I asked.

  “I meant to head them off downstairs,” said Bill, “but I was too late.” He told the students to go ahead, then held up a particularly attractive garment bag. “You don’t happen to like it, by any chance?”

  “It’s gorgeous, but no thanks,” I said. “Every thief between here and Bangkok would find it irresistible.”

  “Right,” he said, setting the bag on the floor. “What do you usually use, then?”

  “Canvas carryalls,” I replied. “Durable, lightweight, ordinary-looking, and when you’re done with them, you roll them up and shove them in a drawer.”

  “Wouldn’t nylon bags be lighter?” he asked.

  “Yes, but they’re harder to patch when they tear.”

  “Very practical,” he observed.

  “I’m a practical sort of person,” I said.

  “So I’m discovering.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Father told me about Dimity’s plans, by the way. From this moment on, I am at your service. When would you like to get started?”

  “Is t
en too early for you?”

  “Ten is perfect. Milady’s carriage will await her at the appointed hour. Until then.” He clicked his heels and executed a formal half bow, then picked up his share of the luggage and left.

  I sighed and closed the door, wishing that someone would pull Bill aside and tell him that one simple offer of friendship was worth twenty Prince Charming routines.

  * * *

  For the next five days, Bill did everything but walk ten paces behind the. He was meek, he was polite, he was the very model of docility, but I didn’t buy it for a minute. There were too many times when I caught him smiling to himself—as though he found his own performance vastly entertaining.

  My “carriage” turned out to be Willis, Sr.’s Silver Shadow. Bill insisted that he was following his father’s orders in using it, but I was not amused. It wasn’t the car I minded so much.

  It was the little driving cap Bill wore, and the short woolen jacket, and the formal manner with which he opened the car door for me, as though he’d been rehearsing his role as chauffeur.

  Our first stop was a local camping store, where I bought a pair of lightweight hiking boots—suitable for hill climbing—a durable down jacket, and a decent pair of jeans. I steered clear of anything fussy or feminine in order to demonstrate to Bill my idea of useful clothing. He kept his mouth shut and watched me like a hawk while I shopped, as though he were memorizing my every move. The salespeople treated him like a deaf-mute, nodding politely in his direction, but speaking only to me. It was mortifying, especially when he paid.

  The next morning, I dropped by the temp agency to let them know that I would be unavailable for a while. They must have wondered why I’d bothered to give notice, once they’d ogled the Rolls, but I was burning no bridges. Bill continued to be on his best behavior, though he came close to going over the edge when he swept his cap off in a low bow to the women in the office and kissed my supervisor’s hand.

  That afternoon, when he introduced himself to my roommates as “Miss Shepherd’s driver,” I’d had enough. I made him hand over the checkbook and go wait in the car. I thought it was a perfect solution—I’d fill out the checks and he could sign them somewhere far away from me. Then I caught sight of him smiling his little smile and suspected that I had been outmaneuvered. It occurred to me—fleetingly—that he might be aware of how reluctant I was to have him see my humble digs.