Free Aunt Dimity's Death by Nancy Atherton Page B

you’re feeling—”
    “Miss Shepherd,” Willis, Sr., broke in gently, “I would be honored to accept your kind invitation.” He placed a wrinkled hand on my fidgeting fingers, and I didn’t have the slightest inclination to pull them away.

Willis, Sr., arranged for our dinner to be served in the large library on the ground floor, a room that might have been lifted, lock, stock, and bookplate, from one of the great English manor houses. “My great-uncle, Arthur Willis, saw an engraving of the library at Chatsworth,” Willis, Sr., explained, “and decided to pattern his after it.” The room was long and relatively narrow, with tall windows on one side and bookshelves on the other. A ladder and a narrow catwalk, resplendent in gold leaf, gave access to the highest shelves, and the ceiling was a marvel of sculpted plasterwork and medallion paintings.
    We sat at a round table at one end of the room, I in my freshly laundered jeans and flannel shirt, and Willis, Sr., in a flawless charcoal-gray suit. He acknowledged my casual attire by slightly loosening the knot in his silk tie, and entertained me with talk of books and travel while the law students served our meal from the trolley Bill had used the night before. Midway through the fish course it occurred to me that, before going down to the cottage, I might visit the places in London my mother had visited during the war, as a sort of preamble to reading the letters and writing about the stories. It wasn’t until the second sorbet that I got up the nerve to present it for Willis, Sr.’s appraisal. It received his full support.
    I decided against telling him about the photograph. As gracious as he was, Willis, Sr., obviously felt that his first duty was to Dimity Westwood,which meant seeing to it that the introduction was completed on schedule. The sobering truth—the truth I couldn’t share with him—was that I might not finish the introduction at all. One month was all the time I would have at the cottage, and it might not be enough time to do everything. My first duty was to my mother, and I didn’t want to put Willis, Sr., in the position of having to disapprove of something I was determined to do anyway.
    For the same reason, I couldn’t tell Bill, either. I would have to get rid of him once we got to Finch, of course, send him to stay at a hotel or a local guest house, but that would be easy enough to do without arousing suspicion. If anyone would be sympathetic to a plea of decorum, it would be Willis, Sr. And, partners or not, I thought I knew who called the shots in the family firm.
    *
**
    Bill’s behavior took a new and even stranger turn during the week we spent preparing for the trip.
    The dressing room was empty when I returned to the guest suite after my dinner with Willis, Sr., but I was awakened the following morning by a scuffling noise in the hall. When I investigated, I found Bill and four staff members walking off with sixteen pieces of the most beautiful hand-rubbed leather luggage I had ever seen.
    “More gifts?” I asked.
    “I meant to head them off downstairs,” said Bill, “but I was too late.” He told the students to go ahead, then held up a particularly attractive garment bag. “You don’t happen to like it, by any chance?”
    “It’s gorgeous, but no thanks,” I said. “Every thief between here and Bangkok would find it irresistible.”
    “Right,” he said, setting the bag on the floor. “What do you usually use, then?”
    “Canvas carryalls,” I replied. “Durable, lightweight, ordinary-looking, and when you’re done with them, you roll them up and shove them in a drawer.”
    “Wouldn’t nylon bags be lighter?” he asked.
    “Yes, but they’re harder to patch when they tear.”
    “Very practical,” he observed.
    “I’m a practical sort of person,” I said.
    “So I’m discovering.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Father told me about Dimity’s plans, by the way.