I’d trusted Gerald. I’d believed everything he’d told me. I’d looked into those angelic eyes and seen someone who was honorable and decent and willing to put his father’s needs before his. career. It was terribly disappointing to discover that he was just another lawyer, wheeling and dealing and spouting half-truths in the name of self-interest. I had no right to feel disillusioned—little Nicolette and I hadn’t exactly played it straight with Gerald—but I did.
My bandaged finger began to throb as I reached to straighten Reginald on the gearbox. “We’ll sort it out,” I repeated.
“Of course we will,” Nell said. “But I think we could do with dinner first.”
“Mais non, ma petite,” I said, making an effort, for Nell’s sake, to sound lighthearted. “Food second. Phone calls first.”
A telephone message from Emma awaited us at the Georgian, but before I returned her call, I rang Miss Kingsley to ask if Willis, Sr., had checked in. She informed me that she’d neither seen nor heard from him since he and I had stayed at the Flamborough three days earlier.
Miss Kingsley readily agreed to find out if he’d done the unthinkable and checked into another hotel, and I could rest assured that her search would be thorough—she controlled more eyes and ears than the Metropolitan Police. On impulse, I dialed Lucy Willis’s number, in case Willis, Sr., had decided to meet with her before going to the Flamborough. After twelve rings, I hung up the phone, discouraged and more than a little depressed. For the first time in two years, I had no idea where my father-in-law was spending the night. It was a foretaste of what life would be like shorn of his comforting presence, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Emma hadn’t heard from Willis, Sr., either, but Bill had telephoned, asking for me. Emma had dutifully relayed Nell’s story about us driving down to Haslemere to see the bells, but she hadn’t given him our phone number at the Georgian.
“I told him you were still in transit,” Emma explained. “I thought you might not want to speak with him until after you’d dealt with Cousin Gerald. By the way,” she added, sounding vaguely puzzled, “did you order a photocopier?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“A deliveryman brought one to the manor house, because no one was home at the cottage,” Emma went on. “It’s addressed to you, but I wasn’t sure. what to do with it.”
“Don’t put it in the cottage!” I slumped back in the peach-colored armchair, pulled Reginald into my lap for moral support, and gave Emma a full report on Aunt Dimity’s latest cryptogram, my conversation with Gerald, and my theory about what Willis, Sr., was up to. “The photocopier’s the tip of the iceberg,” I concluded glumly. “If William has his way, the cottage’ll be covered in cables instead of roses.”
“Sounds like he intends to turn the cottage into a branch office for Willis & Willis,” Emma remarked.
“He does,” I said, “but I won’t let him. It may be selfish of me, but I need him back in Boston. He’s the only member of the family who doesn’t gag politely behind my back.”
“There’s Bill,” Emma pointed out.
“Is there?” I muttered. I glanced down, realized that I had Reginald in a choke hold, and tried to relax. “Anyway, would you stick the photocopier in one of your storage sheds for the time being? I’ll take it off your hands as soon as I get back.”
“No problem,” said Emma. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes,” I said, toying absently with Reginald’s ears. “You can put that highly trained brain of yours to work and get on the Internet. See if you can dig up anything about the quarrel Miss Kingsley told us about, the one that happened in 1714. There must be genealogical or historical files you can tap into.” Reg’s eyes flickered and I hastened to add, “If you have the time, that is.”
“I make it a rule never to work in the garden after dark,” Emma said dryly. “I’ll start in on it tonight. How are you and Nell getting along?”
I looked across the room, to where Nell was perusing the room-service menu. “I wouldn’t mind one just like her,” I said softly, “but I think she’s probably unique. Nell,” I called. “It’s Emma. Come and say hello.”
I handed the phone over to Nell, threw off my tweeds, and ran a hot bath. The worries of the morning combined with the tension of the long drive—not to mention the multiple shocks of the afternoon—had left me feeling restless and dispirited. I hoped the hot bath would help me unwind, but I emerged from the tub feeling more fidgety than ever. As I donned my jeans and cotton sweater, I considered returning Bill’s call, then remembered that I hadn’t yet paid a visit to Saint Bartholomew’s. I’d go now, I decided, not only to be able to describe the place to my husband, but to work up an appetite.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Nell asked when I told her my plans.
“Thanks, Nell,” I said, “but I think I’d like some time on my own.”
“But you haven’t had dinner,” she protested, reaching for the round tin Gerald had given me. “And you haven’t rung Bill back.”