“You seemed awfully pleased about something at dinner.” She giggled suddenly. “But I thought it was because of the herbal tea Sir Poppet gave you to settle your tummy.”
“Definitely a contributing factor,” I acknowledged. “I’ve asked him for a supply to go—no reason to risk a relapse in the back of Paul’s limo.”
“Do you think old Cyril knew Dimity?” Nell asked. “During the war, I mean.”
“It’s possible,” I replied. “Her fiance, Bobby, was stationed at Biggin Hill during the Battle of Britain. Dimity must have visited him there before his plane was shot down over the Channel, so she may have met Cyril.” I glanced at Reg and thought about Dimity’s other children. “I’m beginning to suspect that Dimity has a whole network of people she’s ... stayed in touch with.”
Nell slid her fingers across the journal’s front cover. “Did you ask if she’d learnt anything about Julia Louise?”
“No,” I replied.
“Did you ask her about Sybella Markham?” Nell asked.
“Well ... no,” I admitted sheepishly,
Nell cocked her head to one side. “What did you talk about?”
“Honeymoons,” I said, smiling. “And the road to true love.” I took the journal from Nell and put it back in the fruitwood box. “I did manage to glean a couple of pertinent factoids from our conversation, however. Aunt Anthea lives at a place called Cobb Farm, near the village of Lastingham, and William’s definitely gone to see her.”
Nell pulled her knees to her chest and frowned discon tentedly. “He’s going to ask her about the papers Lucy sent up from London. And he’ll believe in the false deed Aunt Anthea shows him, because he doesn’t know about Sybella Markham’s deed.”
“You think it’ll turn out to be authentic?” I asked.
“Of course it will,” Nell declared, with unwonted vehemence. “Sir Poppet can talk all he likes about projections and figments, but I know that Sybella Markham was a real person. And I’m going to prove it.” She leaned over to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Oh, Lori, I’m glad you brought Bertie and me along with you.”
I returned Nell’s hug, then sent her off to bed, wondering how I ever could have thought of her as cool and aloof.
Paul returned from London at ten the next morning, and after giving him a cup of tea, Sir Poppet thanked us warmly for our help with Uncle Williston, told Nell to give his best regards to her grandfather, and sent us on our way. The moment we turned out of his drive, Paul handed Sybella Markham’s deed to me through the window dividing his section of the limo from our own. He passed back a small tape recorder as well.
“Mr. Treadwell’s report, madam,” he explained. “He said you wouldn’t want to wait for a transcription.”
“Mr. Treadwell knows that I have the patience of a gnat,” I told Paul. I put the deed in my briefcase, pressed the play button on the tape recorder, and grinned as Toby Treadwell’s perpetually harassed voice filled the limo.
“Lori? Toby here. Sorry about the delay, but my cup was full to the brim yesterday. It’s this exhibit we’re mounting on the Buddhist texts from Turkestan. (No, don’t put your coffee there, you idiot. Yes, I know it looks like blotting paper, but it’s five hundred years old and worth more than you are.) Sorry, Lori. Breaking in a new assistant. Gawd. Green as grapes. Where was I?
“Oh, yes. This deed. I’ve had a look at it. Wire and chain lines all present and correct. Watermark belongs to Quimper’s of Bath, onetime purveyors of stock to the legal trade, went belly-up in 1755. Iron-gallotannate ink, not a trace of synthetic organic dyestuffs, so that’s all right, too. (Put it over there. No, there, you fool. Damn your eyes, must I do everything myself?)
“Sorry. Hmmm. Ah, yes. Asked Danuta Siegersson to have a squint at the handwriting, and she says it’ll fly. Something about the length of the descenders and the shape of the letter S. Not my province. Ring her for further details.
“In sum: The paper, the ink, the handwriting are consistent with what one would expect to find in a legal document created in the early part of the eighteenth century. The deed’s authentic, but whether it’s valid or not is for you to discover. They made fakes back then, too, you know.
“Tell Stan to get off his academic arse and come swell the ranks at my exhibit. You do, too, next time you’re in town. Give me a tinkle if I’ve left anything out. Must dash. (PUT THAT DOWN!)”
I pressed the stop button.