“Giving him the third degree?” Emma sniffed. “Serves him right. Oh dear. Lori? I have to go. Derek’s come in with the crew, and I’ll have to lend a hand with lunch. Call me later, though. I want to hear all about how Bill got from Maine to Yorkshire so quickly.”
I hung up the phone and glanced at Bill. His only contribution to his dialogue with Aunt Dimity had been a murmured litany of penitent Yes‘s, and since he showed no sign of stopping soon, Nell and I began a whispered discussion of our strategy with Uncle Tom. We agreed that, if Uncle Tom confirmed our suspicions, we’d try to convince Gerald to come clean with the rest of the family and challenge the Slut to do her worst. As Swann had pointed out, direct confrontation was the only way to deal with blackmailers.
At last, Bill closed the blue journal, put it back into the briefcase, and mopped away the beads of perspiration that had popped out on his forehead. “Given a choice between a scolding from Aunt Dimity and another week at Little Moose Lake,” he announced, “I think I’d take the lake.”
“Rough?” I inquired.
“An exploding stove,” he replied. “What were you two whispering about?”
“I was just saying that we’ll have to tread lightly with Uncle Tom,” I told him. “If he’s too sick to handle a crisis, we’ll leave him in peace and head straight for Haslemere to talk with Gerald.”
“What a good idea,” Bill said, in an ominously genial tone of voice. “I’m looking forward to meeting Angel Face.”
I’d never realized how expressive Bill’s jaw muscles could be—his beard had always covered them before—but one look at the way they were rippling now made me wonder if this particular family reunion would prove to be more memorable than was absolutely necessary.
26.
The village of Old Warden could have served as the capital of Munchkinland. As Paul cruised majestically down the main street, I tried to look out of all the car windows at once, transformed on the spot into a bedazzled, unrepentant tourist.
Tiny cottages lined the street, each in its own separate island of green, some peeking over variegated gold-and-green hedges, others framed by lush rhododendrons, and all set against a backdrop of dark fir trees. Most were painted pale yellow, but no two were alike.
One house had diminutive bay windows capped with cones of thatch, like little pointed hats, and a towering round chimney carved with swirling candy-cane stripes. Next door stood a miniature mock-Tudor mansion with narrow Gothic windows and a chimney disguised to look like a delicate domed watchtower. There were roofs of deep, overhanging thatch and of intricately laid tile, trellis porches and lattice windows, curving dormers and scalloped bargeboards, each whimsical detail scaled down in size, like a model village designed by Santa’s elves.
“What is this?” Bill asked, peering out of the windows. “Mother Goose’s hometown?”
“No,” Nell replied. “Lord Ongley’s. It’s Picturesque.”
“I’d noticed,” said Bill.
“She means the architectural style,” I piped up. “That’s what it’s called. Picturesque.” Nell wasn’t alone in benefiting from Derek’s expertise. “It’s a romantic response to classical symmetry—playful instead of precise, a sort of goofy rustic fantasy. Lord Ongley probably decided that the real village was spoiling his view and replaced it with something he liked better.”
“The good old days,” Bill muttered, rolling his eyes.
I gripped Bill’s arm excitedly and told Paul to stop the car. “Look!” I said. “Pheasants!”
While Nell and Bill scanned the road, I was pointing upward. The pale-yellow house on our left had an outsized redbrick chimney pinned squarely in the center of a thick thatched roof that curved sinuously over three regularly spaced dormer windows. On the roofs ornamented ridgeline, a pair of thatch pheasants stood silhouetted against the sky.
“Now I understand why Lucy smiled when she told you how to find Uncle Tom’s house,” Bill said, following my gaze.
Paul dropped us off, saying that he didn’t want to leave the limo unattended, but I suspected that what he really wanted was to find a shady, private spot in which to read the espionage thriller he’d borrowed from Swann. We waved him off, Bill opened the white picket gate in the gold-and-green hedge, and we crossed the handkerchief lawn to the front door. I rang the bell, waited, and was about to ring again when a blond woman in a plain blue dress came around the side of the house.
“I thought I heard the bell,” she said, walking toward us. She was in her forties, stocky and muscular, with a round red face and gray eyes that reminded me of Miss Kingsley‘s—competent, intelligent, and a tiny bit intimidating. She introduced herself as Nurse Watling.
I told her who we were and asked if we might speak with Thomas Willis. “If he’s up to it,” I added. “I have a message from his niece Lucy.”