I watched open-mouthed with admiration as Paul strode forward and planted his slight figure directly in front of the woman’s imposing one.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he declared. “And I’m very sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you in any way.”
“You haven’t inconvenienced me yet,” the woman informed Paul, in a less strident tone of voice, “but I’m expecting a caravan through at any moment, and it’ll never clear your bumpers. Kindly move them.”
“Very good, ma‘am,” Paul said. “I’ll see to it immediately.” He put a finger to his forehead, since his cap was in his hand, and made a beeline for the limousine.
Satisfied, the woman leapt back into the saddle, calmed her skittish steed, and trotted grandly out of the village on the road we’d taken in. Nell and I exchanged incredulous glances, then sprinted over to the limo and tumbled hastily into the backseat.
“Paul!” I cried. “Follow that horse!”
The widest part of Lastingham’s main street wasn’t very wide, but with the consummate skill of a London-trained cabbie, Paul pulled off a fifteen-point turn without losing a flake of paint and got the limo pointed in the right direction. The engine surged, the limo lunged forward, and a stream of curious onlookers spilled out of the Blacksmith’s Arms to watch us fly up the steep road leading out of town. As we crested the hill, Nell spotted horse and rider only a quarter of a mile ahead, taking a drystone wall in a single, breathtaking bound.
“She’s gone cross-country,” Nell exclaimed. “The roof, Paul! Open the roof!”
Paul pressed a button, the roof slid back, and the wind whipped Nell’s golden curls as she thrust her head and shoulders through the opening. I wrapped my arms around her knees to keep her from losing her balance while she stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see over the walls and hedges.
“She’s riding parallel to us,” Nell shouted from on high. “Keep going, Paul, but not too fast. We don’t want to overtake her.”
Paul slowed accordingly, then slowed some more, despite Nell’s exhortations, until the limo’s leonine roar had become a domestic purr and we were barely crawling.
“What are you doing?” Nell scolded, lowering herself into the limo. “She’s miles ahead of us! We’ll never catch her up now.”
“No need to, my lady,” Paul commented, glancing into the rearview mirror. He executed a smooth right-hand turn, drove between a pair of square stone pillars, and came to a halt in a graveled courtyard. Turning to Nell, he said, “There was a millstone back a ways, half sunk in the ground, with ‘Cobb Farm’ carved into it as clear as day. Being up top the way you was, my lady, you must have overlooked it.” While Paul chuckled heartily at his own joke, Nell and I got out of the limo.
Nell gazed at the courtyard and the surrounding countryside. “I think we’ve found the place where good horses go when they die.”
I knew what she meant. Cobb Farm was surrounded by rolling green hills and lush meadows that would have seemed incomplete without a grazing horse or two. A pyramid of cylindrical hay bales was stacked in a field behind us, across the road; ahead of us, on the far side of the graveled courtyard, a hay wagon and a high-perch black buggy had been drawn up before a sturdy stone barn.
To our right was a long stone building with a red-clay tile roof that looked and smelled very much like a stable. The wide wooden doors had been left open, revealing a series of well-kept box stalls, the floors littered with fresh straw, the posts neatly hung with buckets and brushes, bridles and bits. The only sign of life, however, was a dainty black-and-white cat who was busily cleaning her whiskers in a straw-covered patch of sunlight.
Facing the stable, across the courtyard, stood a large two-story house. It was perfectly square, with four massive chimney stacks rising from its mossy roof, and a white-painted door and fanlight set into its shallow porch. Before the house lay a small formal garden, a simple arrangement of statuary, clipped hedges, and square flower-beds flanking a paved walkway that led to the front door.
I saw no sign of Willis, Sr.’s Mercedes, but the notion that he’d slipped away from us once more didn’t bother me much. I’d catch up with him eventually, and I wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance to speak with Anthea Willis; I wanted to make the most of this one. I was curious to see how she’d coped with the trauma that had sent Uncle Williston round the bend.
“Hello!”
I turned to see a man standing on the doorstep of the house.