hard before I realized that the stranger standing not three feet away from me was Nell. Her own father would have needed a second glance.
Nell Harris was always well dressed. Her fashion sense had been honed, and her closets filled, by none other than the famous Nanny Cole, the most sought-after couturiere in London and a longtime friend of the Harris family. I’d come to Haslemere wearing my favorite summer-weight cotton sweater, jeans, and sneakers, but Nell had donned a natty pair of cuffed and pleated gabardine trousers and a demure white linen blouse with delicate embroidery on the collar and cuffs.
She wasn’t wearing them any longer.
Nell had traded her pleated trousers for sheer black hose and an exceedingly short black leather skirt, exchanged her demure blouse for a skin-hugging black turtleneck, wrapped herself in an oversized black blazer, cinched it in at the waist with a broad black leather belt, and pulled a black cloche over her curls. Bertie, who sat on the bureau, impassively watching the proceedings, sported a blue-and-white-striped Breton sweater and a tiny black beret. They looked like something out of a Shirley Temple movie scripted by Jean-Paul Sartre.
I closed the door behind me and eyed Nell warily. “Nicolette Gascon, I presume.”
“Mais oui, ” Nell replied, putting a hand to her cloche. “Do you like my disguise? I’ve brought one for you, too.” She nodded toward the bed, where she’d laid out a severely tailored dark-gray tweed skirt and blazer I’d buried at the back of my closet at the cottage; a high-necked pearl-gray silk blouse, plain black flats, and a clunky black briefcase belonging to Derek.
“What am I? The mortician?” I said, fingering the tweeds.
“No,” Nell replied. “You’re William’s executive assistant.”
Nell returned to her unpacking while I sat on the peach-colored armchair beside the bureau and folded my arms. The room was charming—cinnamon walls and pretty floral bedspreads, a marble-topped writing table before a broad, recessed window, fresh flowers in a china vase on the writing table, and a dainty bowl filled with potpourri next to Bertie on the bureau. I was particularly glad to see that we had our own bathroom. The Georgian might be more than two hundred years old, but its amenities were blessedly up-to-date.
“And who is Nicolette Gascon?” I inquired patiently.
“William’s ward.” Nell explained. “We’ve come down from London to bring him some important papers.” Nell paused to give me an anxious glance. “Am I being presumptuous ? Papa says that I am sometimes, and that I shouldn’t be, because it annoys people.”
I had to laugh: “Oh, what the hell, why shouldn’t we pull a fast one on Gerald? He’s probably doing the same thing to William.”
Nell nodded happily. “That’s what Bertrand thought.”
I got up and reached for the tweeds. I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about changing out of my comfy jeans and sweater, but I couldn’t spoil Nell’s fun. “So this was Bertie’s idea?”
“Bertrand,” she corrected. “He’s going to stay behind to chat up the maids.”
While I changed into the hideous tweeds, I told Nell about my interview with Miss Coombs. “There’s no doubt about it,” I concluded. “Miss Coombs is in love with Cousin Gerald.”
“Really?” said Nell. “So are Mandy, Karen, Jane, Denice, and Alvira. And Mr. Digby wouldn’t be at all surprised if the bartender wasn’t half in love with Gerald, too.”
I paused in my struggle to zip the tweed skirt. “Who ... ?” I asked.
“Mandy, Karen, and Jane are chambermaids; Denice works in the garden; and Alvira’s the cook’s helper,” Nell explained. “Mr. Digby is the porter. He said I reminded him of his granddaughter, and we had such a nice talk. His son-in-law manages the Midlands Bank here in town. Cousin Gerald has an account there. A remarkably large account. He draws on it twice a month.”
My investigative acumen seemed
Nell Harris was always well dressed. Her fashion sense had been honed, and her closets filled, by none other than the famous Nanny Cole, the most sought-after couturiere in London and a longtime friend of the Harris family. I’d come to Haslemere wearing my favorite summer-weight cotton sweater, jeans, and sneakers, but Nell had donned a natty pair of cuffed and pleated gabardine trousers and a demure white linen blouse with delicate embroidery on the collar and cuffs.
She wasn’t wearing them any longer.
Nell had traded her pleated trousers for sheer black hose and an exceedingly short black leather skirt, exchanged her demure blouse for a skin-hugging black turtleneck, wrapped herself in an oversized black blazer, cinched it in at the waist with a broad black leather belt, and pulled a black cloche over her curls. Bertie, who sat on the bureau, impassively watching the proceedings, sported a blue-and-white-striped Breton sweater and a tiny black beret. They looked like something out of a Shirley Temple movie scripted by Jean-Paul Sartre.
I closed the door behind me and eyed Nell warily. “Nicolette Gascon, I presume.”
“Mais oui, ” Nell replied, putting a hand to her cloche. “Do you like my disguise? I’ve brought one for you, too.” She nodded toward the bed, where she’d laid out a severely tailored dark-gray tweed skirt and blazer I’d buried at the back of my closet at the cottage; a high-necked pearl-gray silk blouse, plain black flats, and a clunky black briefcase belonging to Derek.
“What am I? The mortician?” I said, fingering the tweeds.
“No,” Nell replied. “You’re William’s executive assistant.”
Nell returned to her unpacking while I sat on the peach-colored armchair beside the bureau and folded my arms. The room was charming—cinnamon walls and pretty floral bedspreads, a marble-topped writing table before a broad, recessed window, fresh flowers in a china vase on the writing table, and a dainty bowl filled with potpourri next to Bertie on the bureau. I was particularly glad to see that we had our own bathroom. The Georgian might be more than two hundred years old, but its amenities were blessedly up-to-date.
“And who is Nicolette Gascon?” I inquired patiently.
“William’s ward.” Nell explained. “We’ve come down from London to bring him some important papers.” Nell paused to give me an anxious glance. “Am I being presumptuous ? Papa says that I am sometimes, and that I shouldn’t be, because it annoys people.”
I had to laugh: “Oh, what the hell, why shouldn’t we pull a fast one on Gerald? He’s probably doing the same thing to William.”
Nell nodded happily. “That’s what Bertrand thought.”
I got up and reached for the tweeds. I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about changing out of my comfy jeans and sweater, but I couldn’t spoil Nell’s fun. “So this was Bertie’s idea?”
“Bertrand,” she corrected. “He’s going to stay behind to chat up the maids.”
While I changed into the hideous tweeds, I told Nell about my interview with Miss Coombs. “There’s no doubt about it,” I concluded. “Miss Coombs is in love with Cousin Gerald.”
“Really?” said Nell. “So are Mandy, Karen, Jane, Denice, and Alvira. And Mr. Digby wouldn’t be at all surprised if the bartender wasn’t half in love with Gerald, too.”
I paused in my struggle to zip the tweed skirt. “Who ... ?” I asked.
“Mandy, Karen, and Jane are chambermaids; Denice works in the garden; and Alvira’s the cook’s helper,” Nell explained. “Mr. Digby is the porter. He said I reminded him of his granddaughter, and we had such a nice talk. His son-in-law manages the Midlands Bank here in town. Cousin Gerald has an account there. A remarkably large account. He draws on it twice a month.”
My investigative acumen seemed
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