said triumphantly, pointing to the gravel. “William turned south, in the direction of Bath. I’m sure that’s where he is.”
“Uh-huh,” Emma replied noncommittally.
Apart from the missing car, the cottage looked as it had when I’d left it earlier that morning. The stone walls were the color of sunlight on honey, the slate roof was a patchwork of lichen and moss, and a cascade of roses framed the weathered front door. Even in winter’s thin gray light, with the rosebushes bare and a dusting of snow on the rooftop, the cottage looked warm and inviting. Now, in early August, with the mosses baked golden by the high summer sun, and the scent of new-mown hay from a neighboring field lingering sweetly in the air, Aunt Dimity’s cottage was, to my eyes, the prettiest place on earth.
All the same, I examined it carefully as I followed Emma up the flagstone path to the front door. I was convinced that the cottage would glimmer or gleam or do something to herald Aunt Dimity’s return, but it didn’t. The house martins flitted to and from their little round nests under the eaves, and a plump rabbit eyed us from the safe refuge of the lilac bushes, but if Dimity had come back, the cottage wasn’t telling.
Nell was waiting for us in the living room, where she and Willis, Sr., had set up the green-lacquered gaming table for their competition. Nell and Willis, Sr., were fairly evenly matched as chess players—their duels lasted for weeks, sometimes months, depending on how often Willis, Sr., came to visit. They were good friends, too, and though it gave my heart a pang when Willis, Sr., referred to Nell as his adopted granddaughter, I couldn’t resent it. Nell Harris was an exceptional child.
Nell was twelve years old, but she seemed to have bypassed the awkward preteen pupa stage and gone straight into being a butterfly. She was tall, slender, and exquisite, a Botticelli angel with a flawless oval face, a rosebud mouth, and her father’s dark-blue eyes. In the light from the bow windows, Nell’s blond curls gleamed like a halo of spun gold, and she moved with an inborn grace that made her seem regal even when dressed, as she was now, in khaki shorts, scuffed hiking boots, and a pale-blue T-shirt.
Bertie, Nell’s chocolate-brown teddy bear, was sitting on a pile of cushions in what should have been Willis, Sr.’s chair, perusing the chessboard with unwavering intensity, but Ham, Nell’s black Labrador retriever, clearly overcome by the excitement of the match, lay sprawled across the cushioned window seat, half asleep. Ham’s tail thumped twice to alert his mistress to our entrance, but her attention was, like Bertie‘s, focused on the board—as Ham’s tail rose for a third thump, Nell slid a white bishop three squares and smiled benignly.
“That should do it,” she murmured before turning to greet us. “Hello, Lori. Hello ... Mama!” she exclaimed. “You’re still wearing your wellies. I thought you loathed driving in them.”
“I do,” Emma replied, stepping out of her soiled black boots, “but I was in a hurry. What’s all this about William disappearing?”
“He wasn’t here when I arrived for our chess game,” Nell replied. “And you know William—he always keeps his appointments.”
That much was true. Anything written in Willis, Sr.‘r engagement book was written in stone, and he wrote everything in that book. A game of chess with Nell would be recorded as meticulously as a luncheon date with a client, and treated with equal respect.
“I rang the bell and knocked,” Nell went on, “and when there was no answer, Bertie and I let ourselves in.” Whereas most twelve-year-olds would rather shave their heads than admit to a lingering affection for childhood toys, Nell was unabashedly devoted to her teddy bear. She took Bertie with her everywhere, consulted with him regularly, and referred to him un-self-consciously, whether she was in the privacy of her own home or in the company of