Aunt Dimity's Good Deed by Nancy Atherton

Author:Nancy Atherton [Atherton, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780140258813
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1996-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

Cloverly House was a redbrick Georgian not unlike Sir Poppet’s residence. There were no bars on the windows, and the front lawn was dotted with oaks and maples, beds of cheerful red geraniums, and well-dressed patients sitting on wooden benches or strolling with white-clad attendants. Overhead, congregating clans of swallows and house martins filled a sky hazed with dust from the hops harvest—Emma wasn’t the only gardener hastening to reap the rewards of August.

Sir Poppet breezed through the entrance hall to his ground-floor office, where he stopped to confer with his secretary in professional undertones before leading us up a curving staircase to a red-carpeted corridor. When I commented on how wide-open the place seemed, he explained that violent patients were not admitted to Cloverly House and that a variety of carefully concealed surveillance devices allowed his staff to monitor the movements of every resident.

Uncle Williston was a fortunate man, I thought. Cloverly House was more like an upscale country club than a home for the mentally ill. There were paintings on the walls, flower-filled vases on the tables, and a fresh, clean scent in the air—not a hint of the antiseptic tang that made hospital visits so trying.

Nell had dressed for the occasion in a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in white georgette. She looked like a Victorian valentine, with her daintily ruffled collar and cuffs, but she cut the sweetness by assuming an air of unapproachable dignity—a silent reproof, I was sure, for my refusal to change out of my old sweater and jeans. I didn’t care what she thought. My touchy tummy approved of what I was wearing, and as long as it was happy, I was happy.

Sir Poppet stopped at a door halfway down the corridor. “Here we are. I’ll come back in a hour, to see how you’re getting on.”

I gave the door a nervous glance. I hadn’t expected to face Williston alone.

“Don’t worry,” Sir Poppet said. “We’ll be listening.” He winked, turned on his heel, and strode back down the corridor toward the staircase.

“Let’s hear it for carefully concealed surveillance devices,” I muttered. I glanced at Nell and squared my shoulders. “Here goes,” I said, and rapped gently on the door.

“Come,” said a deep voice.

Nell followed me into a spacious drawing room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—or the eighteenth century. The walls were painted a pale leaf-green, damask drapes covered the windows, and a mirror-bright oak floor reflected fine antique furnishings. There were candle sconces on the walls and oil lamps on the tables, but no electric lights, no telephone, television, radio—no visible concession whatsoever to the modern world.

Uncle Williston sat in a shield-back chair at a Queen Anne kneehole desk, with his back to the door. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, as large as Arthur, but with none of his son’s softness. He wore a black tailcoat, black knee-breeches, white stockings, and square-toed black shoes with silver buckles. His long white hair had been pulled back into a softly curling ponytail that was held in place by a black velvet ribbon.

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