I elbowed him aside to open the windows, and the smoke dissipated rapidly. Evan collapsed in a chair, panting and sputtering, while I checked the flue in the fireplace. It was closed. I opened it, then eyed Evan suspiciously.
“Were you messing around with the fireplace?” I demanded.
“I was not,” he gasped indignantly. “I was sitting quietly when the room began to fill with smoke. The damned chimney is obviously defective. You should have it replaced at once. I could have suffocated.”
“Welcome, Dr. Fleischer.” Bill was standing in the living room doorway, smiling weakly. “So you’ve taken me up on my invitation. Lori said you might.”
The arrogant smirk returned to Evan’s face. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to visit this part of England,” he said. “I am, of course, intimately familiar with it. I once wrote a monograph on the Woolstaplers’ Hall in Chipping Campden. It was never published—academic publishing is so political, so corrupt—but I should be only too happy to summarize it for you.”
“I’d love to hear it,” said Bill, “but unfortunately, you’ve come at a bad time. I’m afraid that Lori was just about to—”
“This piece is quite nice, actually,” said Evan, running his fingers along the smooth leg of the table beside his chair. “A Twirley, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
“Evan,” I said, backing toward the hall, “I really have to be—”
“Aha,” said Evan, now on his knees and peering closely at the bottom of the table. “There’s his signature, a whirligig, you can see it quite clearly. Nice. Very nice. Augustus Twirley carved only twenty-seven of these tables, and thirteen of them are known to have been destroyed in fires.”
“Fascinating,” I said, although I was convinced that he was making it up as he went along.
“Not at all.” Evan rose, brushed his palms lightly together, and seated himself once more. “Knowledge is a gift that must be given freely. I dare say you knew nothing of the treasure lying under your own nose.” He sighed wistfully as he helped himself to a cookie from the bowl I’d left on the table. “It is my considered opinion that Americans have become blind to quality.” He was about to dispense more pearls of wisdom when he bit into his cookie and let out a yelp of agony.
“Evan, what’s wrong?” I asked in alarm.
“My toof!” he howled, grimacing horribly and gripping the front of his face with both hands. “I broke a toof!”
I raised a hand to my own jaw. If there is anyone for whom I have complete and instantaneous sympathy, it is someone with a broken tooth. The first time I broke one, I was a twenty-six-year-old, independent, and—in most other ways—mature human being, but I was so traumatized that I called my mother in tears, long-distance, right after it happened. I was shocked, therefore, to find myself suppressing a smile at Evan’s misfortune.
I was also just plain shocked. Bill and I had both sampled the cookies and none had caused bodily harm. I took one from the bowl and bit into it cautiously. It contained nothing more tooth-threatening than some chewy raisins.
“Would you like me to call a local dentist?” Bill was saying. “It’s a little early, but I’m sure—”
“Sod the local dentist!” Evan roared. “No country clown is going to touch a tooth of mine. I’m going back to London. I should never have left civilization in the first place.” He pitched the remnants of his cookie into the fireplace and stalked to the front door. Another gust of wind caught it as he crossed the threshold and I think it may have helped hasten his departure with a gentle shove as it slammed shut.
I held my breath until I heard his car speed down the road, then turned to Bill, who was sitting on the couch, looking dumbfounded.
“What did you do to the cookies?” I asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
We stared at each other, then spoke in one voice: “Dimity.”
I shook my head, torn between pity and relief. “Poor Evan. Well, she tried to freeze him out, then smoke him out, but he wouldn’t pay attention.”
“Attending to others doesn’t seem to be one of Dr. Fleischer’s strong points. All the same, we owe him a debt of gratitude. Thanks to him, we know that Dimity hasn’t left us.”
“But she still won’t talk to us.” I fetched my jacket and an umbrella from the hall, then gathered up Reginald, the cookies, and the manila envelope. “Not about the album, at least, and that makes me more determined than ever to find it. You’re sure you don’t want to come along?”
“One of us should be here in case Father calls,” said Bill, opening the door. “Besides, I’m making good progress with the correspondence. Who knows what the next letter will bring?”