somehow less impressive than it had a short while ago. Nell hadn’t mentioned the Larches yet, but I expected at any minute to hear that Mr. Digby’s great-grandnephew was the plumber who’d refitted Cousin Gerald’s WC.
“So Gerald has ‘vast sums of money,’ ” I mused, recalling Aunt Dimity’s note. “I wonder how he manages that without a job?” I pulled on the tweed blazer and grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like the Executive Assistant from Hell.
“Mr. Digby told me that he takes the train into the city twice a month, regular as clockwork, right after he draws on his account,” said Nell. “Mr. Digby’s daughter works at the ticket office,” she added.
My reflected grimace turned into a disapproving sneer. The mystery woman in London twice a month, the entire female staff—and possibly the bartender—of the Georgian Hotel once or twice a week, and who knew how many others in between? No wonder the poor boy was trying to dip his hand in Willis, Sr.’s pocket. With a gruel ing schedule of debauchery like that, the expenses could add up.
“The more I hear about Cousin Gerald, the less I like him,” I said aloud. I handed Nell the town map, bid Bertrand adieu, and picked up my briefcase. “Now let’s go and find out what this lowlife has to do with my father-in-law.”
I didn’t actually close my eyes when we went through the five-way intersection at the top of the High Street, but I considered it. Derek had told me that the redevelopment of England’s south coast was putting a strain on the infrastructure, and I now saw what he meant. It was half past four and rush hour was well under way—fleets of semis lumbered along roads built for oxcarts, and increased commuter traffic choked all the main arteries. Once we’d passed the crossroads, however, the congestion let up and I relaxed.
It was a lovely drive. The forests of southern England had been thinned by the great gale of ‘87, but there were still plenty of tall trees around Haslemere, and the Midhurst Road was a dappled ribbon winding between them.
“There it is.” Nell spotted the sign before I did. It was small and white and hanging from an iron post at the mouth of a grassy drive that led back into the woods, and it had “The Larches” painted on it in green letters.
“Cousin Gerald must value his privacy,” I commented, turning cautiously into the drive. There were no other houses in sight, and we drove a good fifty yards into the trees before we got our first look at the Larches.
It wasn’t what I’d expected. Cousin Gerald’s woodland retreat was a graceless two-story box covered in patchy clam-gray stucco, with a few scraggly shrubs on either side of its nondescript front door. Whatever Gerald was spending his money on, it wasn’t his home.
“What a revolting little house,” Nell exclaimed.
“Ugh,” I agreed. “No sign of William’s car,” I added as I switched off the engine.
“It might be round the back,” suggested Nell. “Shall I have a look?”
“Too late,” I said.
Our arrival had been noted. The front door had opened and a tall, rawboned woman in a cotton housedress stood on the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron and watching us alertly.
“Let me do the talking,” I murmured to Nell as we got out of the car. My rare-book hunts had given me ample experience with dragon-lady housekeepers, and I wasn’t about to let this one frighten me away. I hefted the briefcase and, with Nell trailing a few steps behind me, marched up to the front door. “My name is Lori Shepherd,” I declared, “and I’ve come to see Mr. Gerald Willis.”
“Of course,” said the woman, with a disarmingly sweet smile. She patted the iron-gray bun at the nape of her neck. “I’ll fetch him for you. Won’t you come—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Burweed,” a deep male voice called from inside the house. “I’ll see to our visitors. You can go back to your meringues.” Mrs.
“So Gerald has ‘vast sums of money,’ ” I mused, recalling Aunt Dimity’s note. “I wonder how he manages that without a job?” I pulled on the tweed blazer and grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like the Executive Assistant from Hell.
“Mr. Digby told me that he takes the train into the city twice a month, regular as clockwork, right after he draws on his account,” said Nell. “Mr. Digby’s daughter works at the ticket office,” she added.
My reflected grimace turned into a disapproving sneer. The mystery woman in London twice a month, the entire female staff—and possibly the bartender—of the Georgian Hotel once or twice a week, and who knew how many others in between? No wonder the poor boy was trying to dip his hand in Willis, Sr.’s pocket. With a gruel ing schedule of debauchery like that, the expenses could add up.
“The more I hear about Cousin Gerald, the less I like him,” I said aloud. I handed Nell the town map, bid Bertrand adieu, and picked up my briefcase. “Now let’s go and find out what this lowlife has to do with my father-in-law.”
I didn’t actually close my eyes when we went through the five-way intersection at the top of the High Street, but I considered it. Derek had told me that the redevelopment of England’s south coast was putting a strain on the infrastructure, and I now saw what he meant. It was half past four and rush hour was well under way—fleets of semis lumbered along roads built for oxcarts, and increased commuter traffic choked all the main arteries. Once we’d passed the crossroads, however, the congestion let up and I relaxed.
It was a lovely drive. The forests of southern England had been thinned by the great gale of ‘87, but there were still plenty of tall trees around Haslemere, and the Midhurst Road was a dappled ribbon winding between them.
“There it is.” Nell spotted the sign before I did. It was small and white and hanging from an iron post at the mouth of a grassy drive that led back into the woods, and it had “The Larches” painted on it in green letters.
“Cousin Gerald must value his privacy,” I commented, turning cautiously into the drive. There were no other houses in sight, and we drove a good fifty yards into the trees before we got our first look at the Larches.
It wasn’t what I’d expected. Cousin Gerald’s woodland retreat was a graceless two-story box covered in patchy clam-gray stucco, with a few scraggly shrubs on either side of its nondescript front door. Whatever Gerald was spending his money on, it wasn’t his home.
“What a revolting little house,” Nell exclaimed.
“Ugh,” I agreed. “No sign of William’s car,” I added as I switched off the engine.
“It might be round the back,” suggested Nell. “Shall I have a look?”
“Too late,” I said.
Our arrival had been noted. The front door had opened and a tall, rawboned woman in a cotton housedress stood on the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron and watching us alertly.
“Let me do the talking,” I murmured to Nell as we got out of the car. My rare-book hunts had given me ample experience with dragon-lady housekeepers, and I wasn’t about to let this one frighten me away. I hefted the briefcase and, with Nell trailing a few steps behind me, marched up to the front door. “My name is Lori Shepherd,” I declared, “and I’ve come to see Mr. Gerald Willis.”
“Of course,” said the woman, with a disarmingly sweet smile. She patted the iron-gray bun at the nape of her neck. “I’ll fetch him for you. Won’t you come—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Burweed,” a deep male voice called from inside the house. “I’ll see to our visitors. You can go back to your meringues.” Mrs.
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