“Since you’re undaunted by the tempest,” I said, sitting across from him, “would you mind doing another favor for me? I’m supposed to be in Oxford at ten o’clock, to attend a board meeting for the Westwood Trust. I was going to beg off, but if you could—”
“Consider it done,” he said, with a nonchalant wave of his spoon. “I will gladly take your place at the board meeting. Will there be time to discuss the agenda before the boys and I depart?”
I gave him a quick rundown of the board’s most pressing business, signed a proxy letter that would allow him to make decisions in my absence, and fetched my briefcase from the study while he and the twins donned their rain gear in the front hall. As Willis, Sr., took the briefcase in his gloved hand he seemed to stand a little taller than he had since he’d first announced his retirement.
“If you require assistance in dealing with Mr. Makepeace, please do not hesitate to summon me,” he said, patting the pocket in which he kept his cell phone. “I am considered by some to be fairly fluent in the language of law.”
“You’re way too modest to be a big-shot lawyer,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “But I’ll call on you if I need you.”
I watched from the doorway while the trio splashed their way down the flagstone path to the Range Rover. After Willis, Sr., had strapped Rob and Will into their safety seats, I waved good-bye to them and retreated to the kitchen to feed Stanley, load the dishwasher, and wipe the table.
It seemed reasonable to assume that a provincial lawyer would be at his desk by nine o’clock on a Monday morning, so when the appointed hour arrived I reached for the telephone and dialed the number engraved on the business card I’d found on the Pyms’ mantelshelf. The woman who answered spoke with a lilting Scottish accent.
“Good morning,” she said. “You’ve reached the office of Fortescue Makepeace. Mrs. Abercrombie speaking. How may I help you? ”
“Good morning, Mrs. Abercrombie,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I—”
“Ah, Ms. Shepherd,” she broke in. “Please forgive the interruption, but Mr. Makepeace advised me that you would be ringing the office this morning on a matter of some urgency. Will it be convenient for you to meet with Mr. Makepeace today?”
“I can be there in an hour,” I said, adding thirty minutes to the journey because of the wet roads.
“I shall inform Mr. Makepeace,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “We will expect you at ten o’clock, Ms. Shepherd.”
“See you then,” I said, and hung up.
I was relieved to hear that the Pyms had paved the way for me with their solicitor. I didn’t want to waste time explaining who I was and why I needed to speak with him. Although I appreciated Aunt Dimity’s optimism, I wasn’t as sure as she was that time was on my side.
“The sooner he tells me what I need to know, the better,” I murmured as I headed for the front hall.
I pulled on a voluminous black raincoat that I hoped would withstand brambles and wasp attacks, slung my shoulder bag over my shoulder, and took my keys from the telephone table. After calling good-bye to Stanley, I ran through the pouring rain to my Morris Mini. With luck, I thought, I’d be standing over Aubrey’s grave before Rob and Will were out of school.
Number Twelve, Fanshaw Crescent, turned out to be the center section of a three-story Georgian row house located a few blocks south of the marketplace in Upper Deeping. If the sun had been shining, I would have paused to admire the building’s gracious, cream-colored facade, but since a frigid monsoon seemed to be in progress, I maneuvered the Mini into a nearby parking space, then made a mad dash for Number Twelve’s shiny black door.
I’d scarcely removed my finger from the brass doorbell when the door was opened by a tall, gray-haired woman wearing a tweed skirt, a white blouse, a bulky, oatmeal-colored cardigan, and low-heeled black pumps. She exuded an air of quiet competence as she ushered me across the threshold and relieved me of my dripping raincoat, which she hung in a small room off the foyer.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Abercrombie, Mr. Makepeace’s secretary, then led me up a curving flight of stone stairs to a pair of double doors that opened onto the second-floor landing. She knocked twice and the doors were opened by a short, round, pink-faced man whose sober black suit was brightened considerably by a white silk waistcoat embroidered with sprays of springtime flowers. What was left of his white hair was combed neatly back on both sides of his otherwise bald head, and he wore a gorgeous yellow orchid in his lapel. His eyes were bright blue and twinkling.
“Your ten o’clock appointment has arrived, Mr. Makepeace,” murmured Mrs. Abercrombie.