Sir Poppet delivered me into the hands of Mrs. Chumley, his housekeeper, who took me upstairs, supervised my bath, fed me dry toast and tea, and put me to bed before the sun had set. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and didn’t wake until seven the next morning, when the dry toast and tea decided to make a comeback. Food poisoning, I told myself, and swore off street vendors for life.
Once I’d taken a shower and pulled on my jeans and cotton sweater, though, I felt a bit steadier, and when Mrs. Chumley showed up with more dry toast, I was willing to give it a try. Afterward, the housekeeper escorted me to a paved terrace at the back of the house, where Sir Poppet, Reginald, and Bertie were seated on cushioned, bamboo lawn chairs, savoring the morning air. Sir Poppet was wearing a dapper gray three-piece suit that complemented his silvery hair, Bertie had donned a herringbone tweed blazer suitable for a country-house weekend, and Reginald was clad in his customary pink flannel.
The view was spectacular, in an understated, Kentish sort of way. Sir Poppet’s house rested on a hilltop overlooking the rolling, golden hops fields and neatly planted orchards of the Weald of Kent. In the distance I could see a straggle of dun-colored farmsteads, a white-clad windmill, and the weird, cone-shaped roof of an oasthouse. Oasthouses had once been used to dry the hops harvest, but many had been converted to chic, expensively decorated homes for simple country folk like Sir Poppet, who had to pull down several hundred thousand pounds a year just to afford the view.
“Ah, Ms. Shepherd,” said Sir Poppet, getting to his feet. “You’re looking much brighter this morning. I trust you slept well?”
“Like a rock,” I said. “And I’m sorry about last night. A touch of food poisoning.”
“But Lady Nell seemed to think—” Sir Poppet bit back his words, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’s good to see you looking so refreshed. Lady Nell has gone with your man Paul to feed the swans, but they should be back directly. Please, join us.” He offered his own lawn chair to me and pulled another over for himself.
“It was very kind of you to put us up for the night,” I said. “I take it you’re a friend of Nell’s family?”
“I was at school with her grandfather,” Sir Poppet explained. “It was he, in fact, who invented my soubriquet.” Sir Poppet’s lips tightened, as though the memory was not a particularly fond one. “Our paths diverged after that, of course. He went on to become ... what he is, and I went on to study medicine, but we’ve kept in touch over the years.”
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“Didn’t Lady Nell tell you?” Sir Poppet said. “I’m the director of Cloverly House. I understand you’re interested in one of our—” He stopped short when I began to laugh.
I couldn’t help it. When Nell had said she’d think of a way to get us in to see Uncle Williston, I’d expected her to come up with a scheme involving false mustaches, or rope ladders and grappling hooks. I’d seriously underestimated her audacity. “Forgive me,” I said, “but Nell’s resourcefulness sometimes leaves me speechless.”
Sir Poppet nodded his understanding. “She’s a remarkable child,” he commented, then surprised me by calling out to Bertie, “the most remarkable child we’re ever likely to meet, eh, Sir Bertram?”
Nell will introduce that bear to the queen one day, I thought, and no one will bat an eye.
“Lady Nell told me that you came here for much the same reason as your father-in-law,” Sir Poppet went on, “to discuss certain points of family history with Williston.”
“That’s right,” I said, silently blessing Nell’s ingenuity. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I encourage visitors. I’m happy to say that Williston has quite a few. Lucy comes to see him once a month, as do Gerald and Arth—”
“Gerald?” I said, sitting up.
Sir Poppet looked discomfited. “Hmmm. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, and I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself. Gerald Willis is persona non grata with his family, but I consider his visits a boon. He’s the only one of the lot Williston responds to. He comes here every month, all the way from Surrey—on the train, no less. A good man. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him.” I made a show of listening soberly, but I was singing inside. I’d been right, and Miss Kingsley and Arthur had been wrong. Gerald didn’t travel from Haslemere to London to dally with the Dumpling. He went there to catch the train to visit Uncle Williston at Cloverly House. He probably met the Dumpling at the Flamborough for a quick bite of lunch and an earful of professional gossip between trains.
And if Gerald went so far out of his way to visit his uncle in Kent, was it really so incredible to think that he might make a second monthly train trip to visit his father in Bedfordshire? Arthur could laugh all he liked, but I found it quite easy to believe. I reached over to plump Reginald’s cushions, then leaned back in my chair and tried to clear the red-gold haze from my mind.