“For heaven’s sake don’t let Treadwell testify in court,” Oona said. “He’s too scrupulously honest. The prosecution would make mincemeat of him and get him to tell about every occasion on which your father lost his temper, starting with his two-year-old tantrums in the nursery.”

“I agree,” Darcy said. “But I rather fear that will all be brought up at the trial, Treadwell or not.”

“Does he have a good lawyer?” Oona asked.

“Only Leach and Leach so far. No barrister has been engaged.”

“You should let Dooley help you,” she said, waving her arms with great enthusiasm.

“Uncle Dooley?”

“Oh yes. He studied law, you know. Even practiced it for a while. He was a second son, you see. Didn’t expect to inherit anything. But he gave a brilliant oration—had a young man sent to prison; but afterward Dooley doubted the man’s guilt. He gave up the profession after that. Said he hadn’t the stomach for the court but didn’t want to sit in a solicitor’s office all day. Then my father gave us Mountjoy when we married, and it came with enough money to live on in those days.”

“What happened to the money?” Darcy asked.

“Well, there were the death duties when Father died. And then when your grandfather died we had to sell off more of the land, and your father was put in bad financial straits. Never recovered, did he? But Dooley’s brain is razor sharp. He may come up with a defense you’ve never even thought of.”

“I thought I heard voices,” said a small voice in the doorway and we turned to see a tiny skinny man standing there. He had a shock of white hair that stood up in all directions and he was wearing a bright red waistcoat and a red bow tie. Like Oona’s his face was unlined and his eyes bright. “Visitors. How lovely. We don’t often get visitors these days. Please tell me they are not Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“It’s our great-nephew Darcy and his friend, Dooley,” Oona boomed. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“How are you, Uncle Dooley?” Darcy said, standing to shake the man’s hand. “This is my friend Georgie, visiting from London.”

The small man blinked and gave us a beaming smile. The vision of Jack Sprat leaped into my mind. Jack Sprat who could eat no fat, and his wife who could eat no lean.

“I’ve been concentrating too long up there,” he said. “But you’ll be pleased to know that Wellington is finally winning the day.”

“Wellington?” Darcy asked.

“Battle of Waterloo, my boy!” Dooley exclaimed with great enthusiasm.

I was beginning to think that Darcy’s description of “quite batty” wasn’t an exaggeration. I also questioned whether I wanted to stay in this crazy household, however much I wanted to be close to Darcy.