“What about Anthea?” I asked, scrambling to keep up. “What did she do after Douglas left?”
“Divorced him, chucked her career, and ran away to the family farm up in Yorkshire, where she’s known as Anthea Willis.” Emma paused for a breath. “She dispensed with Douglas’s last name, as did her daughters, and I can’t say I blame them. What self-respecting woman would want to be associated with a creep like Douglas?”
“Let me get this straight.” Emma’s zeal was admirable, but I felt as though I’d been hit by a hailstorm. “Thomas is sick, Williston’s crazy, Anthea’s gone into seclusion, and Douglas is a ... an expatriate junkie philanderer? Whew.” I mopped my brow. “Is all of this public knowledge?”
“Not really,” said Emma. “I got most of this information from Derek’s solicitor. If he hadn’t been an old friend, I don’t think he‘d’ve told me as much as he did. The legal world is pretty good about protecting its own.”
“Still,” I said, “it couldn’t have done the firm’s reputation much good.”
“Gerald held the firm rock-steady through the early days,” Emma told me. “Derek’s solicitor says that the clients trusted Gerald, and no one on the net has a bad word to say about him. They acknowledge that he made certain errors in judgment, but put it down to the pressure he was under at the time, which, as you can imagine, must have been considerable.”
“And his cousin Lucy’s been running the place since he left,” I mused.
“She’s doing a good job of it, too,” Emma added. “I didn’t learn much about her sisters or this other cousin, Arthur, but they must be pulling their weight, because the firm’s flourishing, in spite of everything.”
“Gosh,” I said, blinking dazedly down at the Thames. “Too bad you couldn’t dig up something juicy.”
Emma’s laughter blended with the sound of Ham barking in the background. She ordered the dog to be quiet, then asked me to hold, because someone was coming up the drive. I heard the front door open, a muffled exchange of words, the thump of the door as it was closed again, and the distant sound of an engine revving. A moment later, Emma was back.
“Another delivery,” she announced. “I assume you want me to put the fax machine in the shed with the photocopier.”
“Fax machine?” I shook my head. “Aunt Dimity’s right, Emma. William must be stopped.”
“Any trace of him?” Emma asked.
“His spoor’s been sighted, but so far he’s evaded capture.” I relayed Miss Kingsley’s news, adding that I still intended to visit Lucy Willis, on the off chance that she might know where Willis, Sr., had gone.
“Watch what you say about Anthea and that creep Douglas,” Emma cautioned. “They’re Lucy’s mom and dad. And crazy old Williston is Arthur’s father.”
“I’ll write it all down on my wrist,” I promised. Nell reminded me to ask Emma to keep her eyes open for any reference to a disputed legacy, and Emma agreed to tackle ancient history after she’d seen to her peppers.
“Well?” said Nell, as I hung up the phone.
I stared at her blankly for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Nell,” I began, “remember when I said that this branch of the family sounded interesting ... ?”
Anne Elizabeth Court was a tiny square of redbrick Georgian row houses surrounding a microscopic patch of lawn. The street bordering the lawn was so narrow that I thought the limo wouldn’t fit, but Paul was accustomed to navigating the medieval byways of his city and sailed up to number three without the slightest hesitation.
The Willises occupied one of five identical four-story buildings on the west side of the square. All had shiny white railings running along the sidewalk, fan windows above pristine white doors, and brass plates that identified their residents. Whereas the other plates were engraved with the names of two or more tenants, however, the plate at number three boasted a single occupant: “Willis & Willis.”
“Déjà vu all over again,” I muttered, remembering the first time I’d seen that name engraved on a brass plate. I’d been frozen by wintry Boston winds that day, but now I was broiling beneath a glaring London sun, already regretting my decision to wear the dark tweeds.
I waved to Paul, who’d elected to stay behind and defend the limo from the depredations of voracious traffic wardens, and reached up to twist the bell handle protruding from the center of the gleaming white door. I’d managed only a half-turn when the handle was yanked from my hand and the door was flung open by a tall, heavyset young man in a black three-piece suit.