Nell twined a golden curl around her finger and looked out over the velvety green lawn. “It’s Arthur who makes mistakes,” she said reflectively.
The frail hand danced in the air above Geraldine’s ears. “That’s it!” Tom exhaled the words in a violent puff of breath, and Nurse Watling was on her feet at once.
“I believe we’ll take a little break,” she said, motioning us to silence. “Now, Mr. Willis, you know how much it pleases me to see you happy, but you’ll have to master yourself, or I’ll have to ask your visitors to leave.” While she was talking, she’d pulled the oxygen mask over Tom’s face and fiddled with the controls. “Gently does it, Mr. Willis. Nice, easy breaths.”
As Nurse Watling went on coaching in her steady, soothing croon, I felt my own pulse speed up again. Lucy had said that Gerald would do anything to protect the firm or the family, but perhaps he was protecting both. The Slut must have learned of an error Arthur had made—not a small, easily remedied mistake, but a huge, unfixable one that would send shock waves through the legal world, should it ever be made public. She must have brought the information to Gerald, who’d decided to cover it up and pay the Slut for her continued silence. You fool, I thought, keeping my face carefully neutral, you heroic, darling fool ...
Tom signaled for the oxygen mask to be removed, and Nurse Watling slipped it off and hung it on the tank again. She checked his pulse and looked into his eyes, wagged a warning finger at him, and resumed her seat.
“That great oaf Arthur,” Tom said, giving another wheezing chuckle. “He’s always been Lucy’s pet. We wanted to sack him a hundred times—even Williston agreed—but Lucy wouldn’t hear of it. Always stuck up for him. Because she’s so quick, I suppose, and he’s so dreadfully slow.”
“That would give Gerald another reason to shield him,” I said. “Not just to protect the firm or the family at large, but to protect Lucy’s pet.”
“Quite right, quite right. Should have seen it months ago. Thank God someone has, anyhow.” Tom chucked the giraffe under the chin. “And we thought they came to talk about Sybella, like Cousin William, didn’t we, Geraldine?”
“Excuse me?” I said, leaning forward. “Did you say something about Sybella?”
Tom nodded. “Interested in her, eh?”
The understatement of the year, I thought. “We’ve been trying to figure out who she was,” I explained.
“If you do, you must tell your father-in-law,” Tom said. “I haven’t a clue.” He paused a moment, then repeated, “Your father-in-law. Dear me. The crafty old fox. He asked about the Slut, too, and now he’s on his way to see my son.”
“He’s probably thinking the same thing we are,” Bill said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Tom. “Sally’s an unscrupulous woman. She may have unscrupulous friends. If she feels that William poses a threat to her livelihood—”
“My God,” said Bill, getting to his feet.
“Be off with you,” said Tom, waggling his fingers at us. “Make haste. Slay the Sluttish dragon and box my foolish son’s ears.”
Bill looked seriously rattled. He said a hurried good-bye, then took off around the side of the house. By the time Nell and I had taken our leave of Uncle Tom, Geraldine, and Nurse Watling, Bill was standing at the white picket gate, gesturing furiously for Paul to pull the car around. As soon as the limo was within reach, Bill jerked the door open and practically shoved Nell and me into the back. He crawled in after us and spoke through the intercom to Paul.
“Paul,” he said, in a clipped, authoritative voice, “we have to get to Haslemere as quickly as possible. My father may be in grave danger.”
“Very good, sir,” Paul said calmly, and put his foot to the floor.
Newton’s third law of motion stayed my speech and nearly stopped my breath as Paul peeled out of Old Warden in a cloud of burning rubber. Every action of the steering wheel had an equal and opposite reaction in the backseat-Nell clung to the fold-down armrests for dear life as we skidded around a sharp bend, and I fell heavily against Bill.
“Good ... God,” I managed.
“Wow,” Bill agreed.
Paul hit a short straightaway and I hit the glove leather. “We’ll die before we get there,” I muttered, pressed flat against the back of the seat.
As Paul careened wildly around a succession of tight curves, I prayed fervently that he’d make it to the broad, straight lanes of an M road soon, because my stomach was lodging vigorous protests against the limo’s hideous swaying.
“Bill,” I said, beginning to feel lightheaded. “I know you’re worried about your father, and I’m worried, too, but I’m warning you that if Paul keeps up like this I’m going to ... be ... Ooooh ...”
Bill let his sprained wrist fall to his lap, punched the intercom, and shouted for Paul to slow down, then hugged me to his side and held me steady until we’d reached a tolerable speed.