I introduced Bill to Anthea and Swann, and after the three intrepid equestrians had showered and changed, we all retired to the sitting room, where Bill became the center of attention. He rose to the occasion, reshaping his ordeal into a self-deprecating tale of misadventure that repeatedly brought the house down. When Anthea learned that he hadn’t been permitted to flee Little Moose Lake with his luggage, she took Swann upstairs to ransack his own closets and produce a suitable wardrobe.
While they were gone, and with Paul close at hand, I asked Lucy for directions to Uncle Tom’s home. She told us that he lived in a village called Old Warden, not far from Biggleswade. Paul was familiar with Old Warden, but when he asked how to find the house, Lucy smiled enigmatically and said to keep an eye out for pheasants.
“Uncle Tom won’t be able to put you up for the night,” she warned. “His house is quite tiny. But you’ll be able to find a place to stay in Bedford. I recommend the Swan Hotel, and not just because the name has such pleasant connotations. Oh, and be sure to say hello to Geraldine for me.”
“Reginald won’t let me forget,” I told her.
After arranging to have Bill’s car picked up by the rental firm in York, we were ready to leave. I’d slipped into the loose-fitting cotton dress I’d worn the day before, but Nell had changed into a high-collared white blouse with vertical pleats, a calf-length wool skirt, and a horsy-set tweed blazer that looked a lot like Bertie’s. Bill had decided to travel in a peach-colored polo shirt of Swann‘s—which suited him remarkably well—and the same brown corduroys he’d arrived in.
We milled around, giving hugs and thanks and invitations, then piled into the limo, Bertie and Reg up front with Paul, and Nell, Bill, and I in the back. As we pulled away, Anthea, Swann, and Lucy came out from between the stone gateposts and stood in the middle of the road, waving us on our way. I wondered briefly what Anthea and Swann made of the fact that Lucy was shouting, “Good luck!”
Nell sat on the limo’s padded fold-down seat, facing us. I sat on Bill’s right, where his good hand could find mine; his cast lay propped on a fringed paisley cushion by the door. The bandage on his thumb had shrunk-Swann, displaying hidden talents, had re-dressed it and checked the temperature of Bill’s fingertips, to make sure the cast had been properly applied. How Swann knew about such things wasn’t entirely clear, but Bill had informed me, wide-eyed and sotto voce, that he’d mentioned something about training in the SAS.
“Whew,” I said, falling back against the seat. “That was an instructive visit. I’d say we learned a thing or two, wouldn’t you?”
“Do you mean about Sally blackmailing Gerald,” Nell asked, “or about Julia Louise robbing poor Sybella?”
“Both,” I said. Nell’s ability to put two and two together no longer took me by surprise. Clearly, she’d made the connection between the woman Arthur had described to us and Sally the Slut as easily as I had, and the idea of blackmail had immediately crossed her quicksilver mind. She chose, however, to address the ancient rather than the modem problem.
“I learnt more about Julia Louise from the transcript than from Anthea,” Nell said. “Almost everything we need to know about Julia Louise is in the transcript, in Uncle Williston’s words. Sybella was supposed to marry Sir Williston so he could have everything she owned. When she fell in love with Lord William instead, Sir Williston and Julia Louise punished her by stealing her property.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “I imagine they packed Sybella off somewhere, the same way they did Lord William, and nobody noticed, because she was an orphan.” Nell sighed. “Poor Sybella.”
I nodded. “You may be right about that, Nell. After all—”
Bill cleared his throat. “If I might put in a word or two?”
Nell and I blinked at him for a moment. We’d grown so accustomed to being alone in the back of the limo that the sound of a new voice was startling.
“Sure,” I said, recovering quickly. “Put in as many words as you like.”
Bill stroked his nonexistent beard. “You two are the experts here, no doubt about it, and I don’t want to rain on your parade, but ... has it occurred to you that you may be getting a little ahead of yourselves? We don’t know for certain who Sybella Markham is. We may discover that Julia Louise bought the building from her legitimately.”
“Why are there two deeds, then?” I asked.
“Someone might have mislaid the original—the one Williston gave you-after the new one had been drawn up,” said Bill. “It happens all the time.”
Nell wasn’t buying it. “But Uncle Williston said—”
“I know,” Bill broke in, “and from what Lori’s told me, your experience with him was remarkable. But I’m not sure I’d classify Uncle Williston as a reliable witness.”