“Do you have Gerald’s address in Haslemere?” I asked. “Naturally,” said Miss Kingsley. “If you’ll wait one moment—”
I heard the sound of drawers being opened and cards being shuffled. Miss Kingsley had opted out of the computer age and relied instead on a time-tested storage-and-retrieval system involving little wooden drawers and many, many index cards. No electronic thief could burgle Miss Kingsley’s files, and the conventional robber hadn’t been born who could break into her office. Only Miss Kingsley’s nimble fingers ever touched those cards, and in no time she came up with the information I needed.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said. “What profession was Gerald drummed out of?”
“Didn’t I say?” Miss Kingsley said. “Gerald is—was—a solicitor. The family’s law offices are located in London. Would you like that address as well?”
So traditions do hold true, I thought, jotting down the address of yet another Willis family firm. Gerald was a lawyer, just like Bill, though I couldn’t imagine Bill ripping off Willis & Willis and retiring to the Berkshires in disgrace. Gerald must have been a pretty successful solicitor—or a skillful embezzler, if the rumors were true—to be able to give up his job and still dine out with ladies of dubious repute at a place as swanky as the Flamborough. But where there were Willises, there usually was money.
It required no imagination at all to understand why Dimity didn’t want Willis, Sr., haring off to Haslemere, asking questions. A black sheep like Cousin Gerald might object—violently, perhaps?—to being subjected to any kind of interrogation.
“Well?” said Emma, when I’d hung up the phone.
“I have Cousin Gerald’s address and telephone number,” I announced, “and Miss Kingsley told me—”
I broke off as the sound of tires crunching on gravel came from the front of the house. I glanced at Ham, saw his ears prick forward, and started toward the hall, hoping against hope to hear Willis, Sr.,’s light step coming into the cottage.
Instead, I heard the heavy clump of work boots as Derek Harris strode up the hallway from the front door to the study. At six foot four, he had to duck to come into the room, and even then his gray curls brushed the lintel. He’d evidently come straight from the church in Chipping Campden—his customary blue jeans and work shirt were pretty grubby, as were his hands and face.
“Papa!” Nell exclaimed, in a voice filled with pure delight. Nell loved Emma, but she adored her father and always greeted him with a special warmth.
“Hello, all,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the streak of dirt across his chin. “Saw your car in the driveway, Em. Knew you’d be here. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said, sinking back into the chair at the desk. “Just that I’ve been in England for less than a week and already I’ve lost Bill’s father.”
5.
Derek’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it widened. “Well, you’ll have to find him before Bill gets wind of it,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “Mustn’t make a habit of losing a chap’s father, you know. Disturbs a fellow. Now, were it my father, it’d be an entirely different—” Derek’s merriment faded as he took stock of our solemn faces. “You mean, you actually have lost William?” he asked, startled.
“He wasn’t here when Bertie and I arrived for our chess game,” said Nell.
“And he left a note that doesn’t say where he’s gone,” Emma added.
“And the blue journal’s missing, and so’s Reginald,” Nell continued.
“Oh, and we got another note,” I concluded. “You’ll never guess who wrote it.”
Derek held up his hands in self-defense. “Hold on, hold on. Something tells me I should be sitting down when I hear the rest of this. Cup of tea for your poor old dad, Nell, if you please.”
While Nell went to fetch another cup and saucer, Derek settled in the leather chair I’d vacated, and stretched his long legs out before him.
“How are things in Chipping Campden?” Emma asked.
“Dire,” Derek replied. “Church roofs shot.”
“The whole thing?” Emma leaned forward to wipe the grime from Derek’s chin with a napkin.
“No,” Derek answered. “Just the fiddly bit where the roof meets the tower. I’ll be astonished if we finish the job in ten days’ time. Bishop’ll simply have to bring his bum bershoot.”
“You can’t fix it?” Emma sat back, nonplussed.
“Oh, I can fix it, all right,” Derek conceded. “Give me ten twenty-five-hour days and it’ll be right as—” He put a hand on Emma’s knee. “Sorry, darling. Don’t think I’ll be of much use to you in the garden.”
“Never mind,” said Emma, putting her hand on his. “I’ll manage.”