Aunt Dimity's Good Deed Read Online Free PDF Page B

heard rumors about financial improprieties and seen evidence of other... improprieties.”
    “Wine, women, and song?” I asked, amused by Miss Kingsley’s reticence. “Or something more serious?”
    “Let us say simply that, since his retirement, Gerald has taken to entertaining the sort of woman the Flamborough does not ordinarily welcome in its dining room,” Miss Kingsley replied primly.
    “Oh-ho,” I murmured.
    “It’s only to be expected,” Miss Kingsley assured me. “Gerald’s in his late thirties, very good-looking, and quite well off. Though why he should fasten onto an aging—” Miss Kingsley caught herself. “Ah, well, as my aunt Ed wina used to say, there’s no accounting for taste.”
    “Do you have Gerald’s address in Haslemere?” I asked. “Naturally,” said Miss Kingsley. “If you’ll wait one moment—”
    I heard the sound of drawers being opened and cards being shuffled. Miss Kingsley had opted out of the computer age and relied instead on a time-tested storage-and-retrieval system involving little wooden drawers and many, many index cards. No electronic thief could burgle Miss Kingsley’s files, and the conventional robber hadn’t been born who could break into her office. Only Miss Kingsley’s nimble fingers ever touched those cards, and in no time she came up with the information I needed.
    “One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said. “What profession was Gerald drummed out of?”
    “Didn’t I say?” Miss Kingsley said. “Gerald is— was —a solicitor. The family’s law offices are located in London. Would you like that address as well?”
    So traditions do hold true, I thought, jotting down the address of yet another Willis family firm. Gerald was a lawyer, just like Bill, though I couldn’t imagine Bill ripping off Willis & Willis and retiring to the Berkshires in disgrace. Gerald must have been a pretty successful solicitor—or a skillful embezzler, if the rumors were true—to be able to give up his job and still dine out with ladies of dubious repute at a place as swanky as the Flamborough. But where there were Willises, there usually was money.
    It required no imagination at all to understand why Dimity didn’t want Willis, Sr., haring off to Haslemere, asking questions. A black sheep like Cousin Gerald might object—violently, perhaps?—to being subjected to any kind of interrogation.
    “Well?” said Emma, when I’d hung up the phone.
    “I have Cousin Gerald’s address and telephone number,” I announced, “and Miss Kingsley told me—”
    I broke off as the sound of tires crunching on gravel came from the front of the house. I glanced at Ham, saw his ears prick forward, and started toward the hall, hoping against hope to hear Willis, Sr.,’s light step coming into the cottage.
    Instead, I heard the heavy clump of work boots as Derek Harris strode up the hallway from the front door to the study. At six foot four, he had to duck to come into the room, and even then his gray curls brushed the lintel. He’d evidently come straight from the church in Chipping Campden—his customary blue jeans and work shirt were pretty grubby, as were his hands and face.
    “Papa!” Nell exclaimed, in a voice filled with pure delight. Nell loved Emma, but she adored her father and always greeted him with a special warmth.
    “Hello, all,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the streak of dirt across his chin. “Saw your car in the driveway, Em. Knew you’d be here. What’s up?”
    “Oh, nothing much,” I said, sinking back into the chair at the desk. “Just that I’ve been in England for less than a week and already I’ve lost Bill’s father.”

5.
    Derek’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it widened. “Well, you’ll have to find him before Bill gets wind of it,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “Mustn’t make a habit of losing a chap’s father, you know. Disturbs a fellow. Now, were it my father, it’d be an entirely different—”