“She got straight on it,” Paul put in. “Miss Kingsley’s sent a chap to drive your car back to Finch, and says I’m yours for the duration, madam.” Paul had solved the dilemma of what to call a married woman who hadn’t taken her husband’s last name by referring to me exclusively as “madam.” Lady Eleanor’s title was, much to Paul’s delight, legitimate, thanks to her grandfather, the pompous old earl.
Nell gazed up at me, wide-eyed. “Have I been presumptuous again?”
“A bit,” I said dryly, “but I don’t mind. I just hope that you’ll think kindly of me when you rule the world.”
Paul thought I was joking, and laughed. “She does have a way with people, does Lady Eleanor. Now, if you’ll be so good as to follow me, madam, and you, too, my lady, the porter’ll bring your bags. The limo’s just round here.”
In truth, I was overjoyed to have Paul and his black limousine at our disposal. I couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue I’d been feeling ever since I’d arrived at the cottage, and my lower back was aching slightly from the tension of the long drive. It would be a pleasure to stretch my legs in the spacious backseat while a knowledgeable native took the wheel.
Apart from that, the limo was equipped with one essential piece of equipment the Mini lacked: a cellular telephone. I put in a call to Miss Kingsley before Paul had finished loading our luggage into the trunk.
“Mr. Willis did not check into the Flamborough last night,” she reported. “He stayed at number three, Anne Elizabeth Court. It’s near the Inns of Court.”
The address sounded strangely familiar. I glanced down at the slip of paper bearing directions to the family firm and said, “But that’s where we’re going now. I thought it was a business address.”
“Lucy and Arthur Willis live in flats above the family’s offices,” Miss Kingsley informed me. “I assume Mr. Willis spent the night in one of them. He left the building approximately one hour ago.”
I groaned. “Any idea where he went?”
“I’m sorry, Lori, but Bjorn lost him in traffic.”
“Bjorn?” I said. “Bjorn the barman?”
“That’s right,” said Miss Kingsley. “It was Bjorn’s night off, so I asked him to keep an eye on Lucy’s residence, in case Mr. Willis showed up there.”
I’d have to remember to tip poor Bjorn big-time the next time I had a drink in the Flamborough’s bar. I was pretty sure that Miss Kingsley hadn’t so much asked as ordered him to spend his night off staking out the Inns of Court. I thanked Miss Kingsley, asked her to call if she had anything new to report, then rang Emma.
“Lori!” she exclaimed, sounding out of breath. “If my bell peppers rot on the ground, I’ll know who to blame.”
“Whoa,” I said. “Slow down. What’s going on?”
“It’s this search you sent me on,” she replied. “I’ve been up half the night sorting through your in-laws’ dirty laundry. I haven’t even been out to the garden yet.”
The flood of adrenaline that carried Emma through the rigors of harvesttime had evidently spilled over into her research project. She sounded giddy as a kitten. I glanced out of the limo’s tinted window, saw that we’d come to a standstill in a long line of cars on Waterloo Bridge, and figured I’d have time for several hampers’ worth of dirty laundry. “Do tell.”
“I haven’t gotten started on the old feud yet, but if it’s anything like more recent history, it’ll be a king-sized can of worms.”
“Sleeping dogs,” I corrected. “Never mind. Go on.” I could picture Emma settling onto the horsehair sofa in the family room at the manor house, leaning against the sofa’s arm and curling her legs up under her, with Ham sprawled on the hearth rug, and sunlight streaming through the windows behind her. The image made me so homesick for the cottage that I nearly missed the first part of what she was saying.
“It’s all to do with the older generation,” Emma began. “That’s two brothers and a sister: Thomas, the eldest, Williston, and Anthea. Three years ago, they were working full-time for the firm, then suddenly, poof, they all retired at once, leaving their children to pick up the pieces.”
“Gerald mentioned that his father had health problems,” I remarked.
“That takes care of Thomas,” said Emma, “but I’ll bet Gerald didn’t mention that they had to clap his uncle Williston into a madhouse!”
I jerked forward on the backseat. “You’re kidding.”
“That’s the least of it,” Emma went on. “Wait till you hear what caused his breakdown. Are you listening? Willuton’s wife ran off with Anthea’s husband.”
“Good grief ...” I muttered.
“It gets better,” said Emma. “Apparently Anthea’s husband—his name is Douglas—was sound as a bell until he decided to have a midlife crisis and came under the influence of a doctor who was prescribing questionable medication. It brought out the beast in Douglas, and he started going through legal secretaries like there was no tomorrow. The next thing anyone knew, he’d bolted for Canada, with Williston’s pretty young wife in tow. A year later, Williston went stark, raving mad, and they had to lock him up. He’s still in a convalescent home down in Kent.”