A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper
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into cut-crystal snifters, “and see if we can pull a Sherlock Holmes on this singular case.”
To no avail. Nolan Hunter himself appeared to be uninvolved in whatever was going on. He had actually remained in England, for example, when Apollo’s Ice was standing at stud in Kentucky, where Brent had witnessed the live cover that resulted in Leopold Legacy’s conception.
Brent checked on his sleeping daughters. The two could be exhausting, but they were unquestionably the joy of his life. He couldn’t imagine the world without them. He thought of his late wife, Marti. She’d never been to England. She would have loved it, but with two young children, they’d decided to delay any major trips until the girls were older. Now here he was alone, wishing Marti were with him.
The long day’s tension gradually seeped from his tired muscles and frazzled nerves. Pouring most of the whisky down the sink, he rinsed the glass, undressed and climbed into the other queen-size bed.
He awakened to the sounds of giggling and the room flooded with light. The clock on the bedside table said nine-fifteen. The girls, to his amazement, were already dressed, Rhea sitting behind her sister on the other bed, brushing her long brown hair.
“I’m hungry,” Katie said. No new phenomenon.
“Good morning to you, too,” he returned with a yawn and a stretch. It had been over twelve hours since any of them had eaten. He discovered he was famished, as well.
Twenty minutes later the three of them were on their way downstairs for breakfast and a day on the town. The girls stuck up their noses at the kippered herring offered on the hotel buffet, but they decided they “really, really liked” the sausage links called bangers. He wondered if it might be because of the name.
“This bread tastes funny,” Rhea said as she bit into her second triangle of buttered toast.
“Not funny,” Brent corrected her. “Different. You’ll find a lot of things are different here. It’s one of the best parts about traveling, getting to try new and different things.”
“It’s good,” Rhea agreed reluctantly, as she picked up another slice. “But I still say it tastes funny.”
The next day they did what most first-time London tourists did. Watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Gawked their way through the Tower of London. Craned their necks at the imposing edifices of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. They went to see The Lion King, rode double-decker buses—always on the upper level, of course—and took refuge in Victoria Station during a torrential downpour.
And then it was time to try to solve the mystery of Leopold’s Legacy.
Finally, after another “proper” English breakfast at the hotel buffet, the three of them set off from Paddington Station for Oxford.
The sky was pewter and the trees bare, but once past the suburbs and outskirts of London, the English countryside took on a quaint, nostalgic quality with its Tudor houses, thatch-roofed cottages and thick-walled Norman churches. An hour later they arrived in the famous university town.
Getting a taxi wasn’t nearly as difficult as comprehending what the driver was saying as he chatted with the girls along the way. What amazed Brent was that they had so little difficulty understanding his lingo, at least after the first few exchanges.
Briar Hills Academy for Girls occupied a nineteenth-century manor house of brown brick tucked neatly among low rolling wooded hills a few miles northwest of Oxford.
Brent had arranged for the visit before leaving the States, saying he was an American businessman anticipating an assignment to England in the not-too-distant future and wanted to check out schools where he could send his daughters. He’d called again yesterday from London to confirm this morning’s appointment. He wasn’t altogether surprised when a young lady in her early twenties emerged from the stone-arched doorway to meet them as they alighted from the cab.
“Mr. Preston?” she asked.
Stepping forward as the taxi circled around in the gravel forecourt and grumbled away, he admitted he was. “These are my daughters, Rhea and Katie.”
She offered her hand. “I’m Heather Wilcot. Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin, the headmistress, asked me to welcome you and take you to her straightaway.”
Beyond a small vestibule, she led them into a central hall that was dominated by a wide, gracefully curving staircase with an ornate wrought-iron banister topped with a shiny wood rail. A thick, red wool runner covered the white marble stairs, softening their ascent.
At the head of the stairs, Heather led them to a heavy, dark paneled door on the right and turned the polished brass handle. They entered a reception area.
“If you’ll wait here, sir.”
She went to the open doorway beyond and tapped on the framework. “Mr. Brent Preston and his daughters, Rhea and Katie, have arrived, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”
The woman who emerged was tall, close to six feet, and Raphaelesque in build.
“Mr. Preston,” she said in a strong but pleasant voice, “how very good of you to visit us. I’m delighted to meet you.” She immediately shifted her attention to the girls. “Rhea and Katie. So which twin is which?” Her smile seemed genuine.
More the extrovert, Rhea spoke up. “I’m Rhea. She’s Katie.”
Eyes twinkling, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin took a minute to study the two of them, her attention flicking from one to the other. After what seemed like a very long interval, she asked, “Do the two of you always dress alike?”
“Mostly,” Rhea said brightly. “Except Aunt Melanie bought us ugly green dresses. I think they look like barf, so I never wear mine. But Katie wears hers sometimes.”
“I didn’t bring it with me,” Katie informed her. “And it doesn’t look like barf. It’s more like…celery pudding.”
Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin’s brows rose precipitously. “Celery pudding? I’ll have to think about that. Rather an unusual image, I must say.” She was clearly straining to control a smile. So was Brent.
“Let’s go for a walk, shall we? I’ll show you our grounds before it starts to rain, and you can tell me about your school back home in Kentucky.”
Brent had mentioned where they were from when he’d called from the States to make the appointment. She’d obviously made note of it. The day was overcast and gloomy. The headmistress queried the girls about the subjects they were studying in school and asked questions to determine their level of advancement. Satisfied with their answers, she let them run ahead to the play area.
A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground.
“Katie, you dropped something.”
One girl turned around, while the other looked over at her sister.
“Right there.” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin pointed to the ticket stub from one of the places they’d visited.
Katie stared at her, her expression one of awe bordering on fear.
“Pick it up, dear. When we go inside I’ll show you where you can throw it in the dustbin.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Katie replied softly. She picked up the litter, then ran after her sister.
“Congratulations. We have friends at home,” Brent remarked, “who’ve known them since they were born and still can’t distinguish them.”
He wondered if it was luck that she’d picked the right name or if she really could tell them apart on only a minute’s acquaintance.
“Several sets of twins are in attendance here, Mr. Preston. I find them an interesting challenge.”
They walked on. She recited a brief history of the school, the enrollment numbers, staff qualifications and the most recent awards the academy had received.
“When