“Are you okay, Lori?” Bill pressed his lips to my forehead, as though checking for a Fever, “You’re as white as a sheet.”
I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and kept taking deep breaths.
“Here,” said Nell. She’d whipped out the thermos filled with Sir Poppet’s herbal tea and poured a cupful. “Drink this.”
I took the cup from her and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. The aroma alone was enough to take the edge off my queasiness. “Another,” I said, holding the cup out for more.
“What’s in this stuff, anyway?” Bill asked, sniffing at the thermos.
“Serious miracles,” I mumbled. I finished the second cup, took another deep breath, and felt the color slowly creep back into my cheeks. The limo promptly sped up again, but a glance out of the window showed that we were on an entrance ramp to the M1. For the next couple of hours or so, swaying would not be a problem.
“You told me you’d gotten over the food poisoning,” Bill said reproachfully.
“Guess I was wrong.” I sat up, pushed my curls back from my forehead, and returned the cup to Nell. “Thanks, Nell. I needed that.”
Nell looked from Bill’s face to mine. “You should see a doctor,” she advised. “Soon.”
“Maybe I will,” I said. “I’ve been feeling out of whack ever since we hit the road.”
“I’ll take you as soon as we’ve seen to Father,” Bill promised, kissing my forehead.
“Do you really think he’s in danger?” I asked.
Bill shrugged worriedly. “Father isn’t a fool. I’m confident that he wouldn’t walk into a dangerous situation without taking precautions, but I’ll feel a lot better when I know what they are.”
“I wonder how William found out about Sally,” said Nell. “Do you suppose Arthur told him?”
I leaned against Bill’s side and considered the question. “I think William got his information the same way we did,” I said. “A scrap here, a hint there—you know, if Lucy and Anthea had talked the problem through, they’d have come up with a solution in no time. They had all the pieces. They just never sat down together to put the puzzle together.”
“Communication was a leading topic in my little chat with Dimity this afternoon,” Bill said wryly.
“I hope you paid attention,” I teased.
“I took notes,” Bill assured me. He stared out of the window for a moment, then looked back at me and Nell. “Here’s another question for the experts. How did Father find out about Sybella? According to Sir Poppet, Uncle Williston never mentioned the name to him, and he hasn’t set eyes on that deed of yours. Yet he showed up at Uncle Tom‘s, asking about Sybella. Where did he run across the name?”
The experts pondered Bill’s question for the next few miles. Then I pressed the intercom button. “Paul?” I said. “Can’t you make this heap move any faster?”
28.
The limo’s headlights picked out the white sign hanging from the iron post at the mouth of the grassy drive. It was half past eight in the evening, dusk was moving in, and there was no other traffic on the Midhurst Road. Paul signaled his turn, pulled past the iron post, and drove cautiously into the darkening woods.
Nell twisted sideways on the fold-down seat and peered intently through the limo’s windshield. “William’s car,” she whispered.
Goose bumps rippled up my arms as I looked past her and saw the silver-gray Mercedes shimmer briefly in the headlights’ glare, then vanish as Paul nosed the limo in beside it. Bill was out of the backseat before he’d cut the engine.
Nell and I followed. She stopped to fetch Bertie from the front, and I paused to lay a hand on the Mercedes, but Bill marched straight up to the Larches and hammered insistently on the front door.
A river of light poured into the gloom as Mrs. Burweed opened the door. “There’s no need to make such a racket, young man,” she said irritably. “Especially at this time of night. Now. How may I—” She broke off as she spied Nell and me hastening up to join Bill on the doorstep. “Miss—Miss Shepherd, isn’t it? How nice. Mr. Gerald will be so pleased to see you again.”
“He will, will he?” Bill muttered.
Mrs. Burweed ignored him and went on speaking to me. “I’m afraid he’s with someone at present. Would you mind waiting—”
“Yes, we would,” Bill interrupted. “Where are they?”
“In the back parlor,” replied Mrs. Burweed, rattled by Bill’s peremptory manner. “But Mr. Gerald gave strict instructions—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burweed,” said Bill, walking past her into the house. “No need to show me the way.”
I gave Mrs. Burweed a brief, apologetic shrug and dashed up the hall after Bill, with Nell hard on my heels. Bill put his hand out to open the parlor door, but Gerald must have heard the commotion, because he opened it first. He looked at Bill in confusion, then caught sight of me and smiled so sweetly that I went weak in the knees.