Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “Not much at all,” Charles agreed. “I dug deeper, though, and I found out that the painting had been sold to a gallery in Upper Deeping some thirty years ago.”

  “Which gallery?” I asked.

  “Selwyn’s on Summer Street,” Charles replied. “Old Mr. Selwyn died ten years ago, but the gallery still carries his name. I asked the current owner if he could tell me who bought the Asazuki from the gallery, but he had no idea. The relevant sales records were destroyed in a fire shortly after Mr. Selwyn’s death.”

  “Too bad he didn’t keep them on a computer,” I said.

  “Mr. Selwyn was too old a dog to learn new tricks,” said Charles. “He preferred paper records. An unlucky preference, as it turns out.”

  I couldn’t help but admire the energy Charles had put into his revenge plot, even though I deplored the plot itself.

  “Whoever bought the painting from the gallery must have known what it was worth,” I said. “Why would he shove it in a box with a bunch of worthless daubs?”

  “Who knows?” said Charles. “The owner may have died without informing his relatives of the painting’s value. It’s the sort of thing that happens all the time in the art world. Grant insists, however, that the Asazuki was never in with the disposables.”

  “If it wasn’t there in the first place,” I said, “and you didn’t put it there, how did it get there?”

  “I’ve been mulling it over,” said Charles, “and it’s a funny thing, but I seem to recall hearing an odd noise in the back garden a couple of nights before I found the Asazuki. I thought it was the shed door rattling in the wind—Grant can’t be bothered to latch it properly—but it could have been someone closing the door.” He raised his hands, palms upward. “Who could it have been, though? The art fairy, leaving a treat for me because I’ve been a good boy?”

  I laughed and said, “I doubt it.”

  “I do, too,” said Charles. “A human being must have put the painting in the shed. I can’t imagine why he would and I sincerely wish he hadn’t. The Asazuki has caused nothing but strife.”

  “Don’t blame the painting,” I said severely, “or the person who gave it to you. You used a rare and wonderful work of art to score cheap points off of someone you love. If you want my honest opinion, Charles, I think you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am,” said Charles, looking crestfallen. “I behaved like a school-yard bully.” He scanned the green frantically, as if he were searching for a lost puppy. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Grant doesn’t come home.”

  “He’ll come home,” I said soothingly. “He just needs a little time to simmer down. For all you know, he could be working out a way to apologize to you. He said some pretty nasty things the other day.”

  “Nothing more than I deserve,” Charles said ruefully. “I am a paranoid neat freak with delusions of grandeur.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I said gently. “But Grant thinks you are, most of the time.”

  Charles managed a small smile.

  “If Grant rings you, will you tell him how sorry I am?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell him,” I promised, “but I’m sure you’ll speak with him before I do.”

  I reached over the white picket gate to pat Charles’s shoulder, turned, and struck out once more for George Wetherhead’s house. I’d taken no more than ten steps, however, when Elspeth Binney rushed up to me, looking desperate.

  Twenty-two

  “I’m so glad you’re fit again, dear,” said Elspeth. “Bill—”

  “—told you I was on my deathbed,” I broke in, nodding. “Not true. I’m fine.”

  “I wish I were,” she said. “I must apologize to you for the way Jemma behaved the other day.”

  “She was a tiny bit intrusive,” I allowed.

  “A tiny bit?” Elspeth exclaimed and the floodgates opened. “She’s a barbarian! She stays up half the night, sleeps until noon, eats whenever it suits her, and leaves dirty dishes, clothes, and photographs strewn all over my cottage. I found a brassiere hanging on the back of my Windsor armchair this morning and a bowl of congealed porridge on my Queen Anne table. It left a ring.” She raised her eyes to the heavens and groaned softly. “I wondered what it would be like to live with an artist and now I know. It’s like being locked in a prison cell with an ill-mannered, self-centered adolescent.”

  “I’m so sorry, Elspeth,” I said. “Have you asked Jemma to be a little more considerate?”

  “I’ve dropped several broad hints,” said Elspeth, “but she’s impervious to them. Honestly, Lori, I wouldn’t mind clearing up after her if she was doing something worthwhile, but her photographs are . . . are . . .”

  “Unique?” I ventured.

  “They’re appalling,” Elspeth said hopelessly. “I don’t know why she chose to take them at such odd angles. I suppose she considers it artistic, but the results are terribly unflattering. Everyone looks demented. If Jemma’s photographs ever get into print, no one in Finch will ever speak to me again.”

  “If the publisher doesn’t like them, they won’t be included in the book,” I said. “Who is Jemma’s publisher?”

  Elspeth looked chagrined.

  “It’s not a London house, as I thought,” she said. “It’s a small firm in Upper Deeping called Market Town Books. Jemma’s editor is a man named Gilbert Hartley. I believe he owns the company.”

  “Why not give Mr. Hartley a call?” I said. “Find out if he wants unflattering portraits in his cozy little book about the Cotswolds. Jemma may be trying to impress him with her originality when he would actually prefer something more conventional.” I smiled encouragingly. “Hand the problem over to Mr. Hartley, Elspeth. He’s Jemma’s boss. She’ll listen to him. Probably.”

  Elspeth’s expression became marginally less troubled, but before she could speak, Millicent Scroggins strolled up to us. She didn’t appear to be very pleased with the world.

  “You’re up bright and early this morning, Lori,” she said. “Bill—”

  “Bill is a worry wart,” I said patiently. “I’m perfectly fine. You look flustered, though.”

  “Blame Opal,” she snapped. “If she asks you to help her with her mail-order business, I’d advise you to run for your life.”

  “What has she done to upset you?” Elspeth asked eagerly.

  “She’s turned into Peggy Taxman,” Millicent declared. “God knows I’ve tried to be a good friend to her, but a friend shouldn’t be ordered about and barked at and told off every five seconds.” Her eyes narrowed into angry slits. “She expected me to lick three hundred labels yesterday. Three hundred labels in one go! My tongue would have been rubbed raw.”

  “You could have used a damp sponge,” I offered.

  “So I told her,” said Millicent. “I said licked labels were unsanitary and very probably illegal and she bit my head off!” Millicent sniffed indignantly. “It was the last straw. I told her exactly what I thought of her and her vaunting ambitions and left her to lick her wretched labels herself.”

  “Opal’s taken on too much,” said Elspeth. “She’ll give herself a nervous breakdown if she’s not careful.”

  “It would serve her right,” Millicent said tartly.

  “Ladies! You won’t believe what I’ve just heard!”

  Selena Buxton scurried across the cobbles to join Elspeth, Millicent, and me, and though she glanced at my bandaged thumb, she was too intent on imparting her news to inquire after my health.

  “It’s over,” she announced dramatically. “Opal rang Dabney Holdstrom last night and told him not to print the piece about her jams and marmalades because she couldn’t cope with the attention it would garner.”

  “Who told you about Opal?” asked Millicent.

  “Opal!” Selena replied. “I just came from her cottage. I stopped there to deliver the parish newsletter and she pulled me inside to tell me I’d been right all along.”

  “Right about what?” Elspeth asked.

  �
�I hinted that she might be minimizing the difficulties involved in running a mail-order business,” said Selena. “She took it badly at the time, but she saw the light after she calculated how much it would cost her to purchase jam jars in bulk. She’s decided to go on making small batches and selling them through the Emporium.” Selena’s gaze came to rest on Millicent. “Opal’s sorry about mistreating you.”

  “She should be,” Millicent said sourly.

  There was a pause in which the fate of four friendships seemed to hang in the balance. Selena—the loneliest of the Handmaidens—drew a deep breath and attempted to tip the scales.

  “I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea,” she said brightly.

  “I’m not setting a toe in the tearoom,” Millicent declared. “Peggy’s in there, baking hot cross buns. I expect the building to go up in flames any minute.”

  “I’m not suggesting that we have tea at the tearoom,” said Selena. “I’m inviting you, Elspeth, and Lori to my house for tea and scones. We’ll pick up Opal on the way. Now, Millicent,” she went on, putting a placating hand on her friend’s wrist, “I know she’s tried your patience, but you can’t deny that her strawberry jam is heavenly on scones.”

  “I’d be delighted to join you,” said Elspeth. “I’d have to tiptoe around my own cottage.” She exchanged expressive glances with Selena and Millicent. “Jemma’s still in bed.”

  “Such an interesting young woman,” said Selena.

  “I’ll come, too,” Millicent said instantly, as if she’d rather lick a thousand labels than miss a conversation concerning Elspeth’s “interesting” niece. “And I’ll be polite to Opal as long as she’s polite to me.”

  “Lori?” Selena said.

  Since I had no desire to crash a Handmaidens’ reunion, I declined the invitation. The ladies bid me good morning and went off together to call on Opal. I ran across the green to the old schoolmaster’s house, looking neither left nor right for fear of being waylaid yet again.

  I made it to the front step unmolested, raised my hand to knock on the door, and let it fall to my side as George Wetherhead swung the door open. The little man was wearing a light jacket and cradling a cardboard box to his narrow chest, and his comb-over was plastered to his mostly bald head. He started when he found himself standing face-to-face with me, but he quickly recovered himself.

  “Hello, Lori,” he said. “How are you feeling? Bill tells me—”

  “I’m fine,” I said, wondering if Bill had gone door to door with his thumb alert or if he’d climbed to the top of the war memorial and shouted it through a megaphone. “Are you going somewhere, George?”

  “There’s a model train show in Chipping Norton,” he informed me. He gazed lovingly at the cardboard box. “I’m bringing my new locomotive.”

  “The antique, brass locomotive you bought for a bargain price through an ad in a newsletter?” I inquired.

  “That’s the one,” George said proudly. “She’s a real beauty.”

  “Did you wish for her?” I asked. “At the wishing well?”

  George’s face reddened.

  “I, um, y-yes,” he stammered. “As a matter of fact, I did. Everyone else was doing it, so I thought I might as well have a go.” His eyes widened behind the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses. “It was quite remarkable, Lori. Two days after I visited the well, the newsletter arrived with an insert advertising the kind of locomotive I’d always dreamt of owning but could never afford. Luckily, I was the first to respond.”

  “Which newsletter was it?” I asked.

  “The Coneyham Express,” he replied. “A fellow enthusiast, a chap named Tim Coneyham, publishes it out of his home near Upper Deeping. I’ve subscribed to it for years.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d anticipated. I’d expected George’s newsletter to be as phony as Peggy Taxman’s real estate flyer. Instead, The Coneyham Express was as familiar to him as the daily newspaper. Moreover, it came from someone George knew.

  “Does Tim Coneyham usually include inserts in his newsletter?” I asked, clutching at straws.

  “Not usually,” George answered. “It’s something he does from time to time, when he needs to make room for a new acquisition. His own collection is enormous, Lori,” George went on, his voice tinged with awe. “It takes up seven rooms in his house. When he buys a new piece, he sometimes sells an old one because he’s a true enthusiast. He’d rather have his trains out in the open, where he can see them, than stored in boxes in his cellar.”

  “So you bought the locomotive from Mr. Coneyham,” I said, nodding. “Why do you suppose he sold it for so little?”

  “Tim’s quite well-off,” George informed me. “He can afford to be generous to collectors like me, who have to scrimp and save to add even a modest piece to our collections. I must say, though, that he’s never before sold such a valuable locomotive for such a low price. The wishing well definitely came through for me.” He shifted the cardboard box to one arm and pulled his car key out of his jacket pocket. “Forgive me, Lori, but I really must be going. The show starts at ten.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hold you up. Have a great time, George. I’m sure your locomotive will knock everyone’s socks off.”

  George ducked his head and smiled bashfully. I left his front doorstep, wandered aimlessly onto the green, and came to a standstill with names tumbling through my head—the Troy real estate agency, the Selwyn art gallery, Gilbert Hartley and Market Town Books, Tim Coneyham and The Coneyham Express. How did they fit together? I asked myself. How were they related to Dabney Holdstrom?

  I couldn’t answer my own questions. My brain felt sluggish, as if it had absorbed too much information too quickly, and my thumb was insisting that it was not fine. Since a painkiller would help one and a chat with Aunt Dimity would help the other, I decided to go home.

  I turned toward Bill’s car, but stopped short when I noticed Henry Cook sitting all by himself on the wooden bench near the war memorial. Plump, mustachioed, wavy-haired Henry was an outgoing, gregarious man. It worried me to see him alone.

  “Henry?” I called. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied with a melancholy smile.

  My thumb and I knew better than to believe him.

  “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he replied, moving over to make room for me on the bench.

  I sat beside him in silence, surveying the tranquil scene. When he, too, remained silent, I ventured tentatively, “Nice day.”

  “No, Lori,” he said, shaking his head. “It is not a nice day. It’s a bloody awful day. I don’t want to leave Finch and I don’t want to live in a caravan and I don’t want to marry my Sal in a registry office, but no one cares about what I want.”

  “I do,” I said promptly. “What do you want, Henry?”

  “I want everything to be back the way it was before the flipping wishing well was opened,” he said vehemently. “It wasn’t my idea to go there, Lori. Sally wanted me to do it, so I did it, to please her. I thought it would be a bit of a giggle.”

  “What wish did you make?” I asked.

  “I asked the blinking thing for one more turn on stage,” he replied, “one more chance to have a laugh with the punters before I hung it up for good. I didn’t believe for one minute that anything would come of it, but then this bloke, this Arty Barnes, shows up at the tearoom with his chum Dabney Holdstrom. Arty listens to my patter, he likes what he hears, and before you know it, he offers me a one-nighter at the club in Bristol.”

  “Your wish came true,” I said. “You must have been pleased.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Henry said. “But I wasn’t pleased. I was scared spitless.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “What scared you?”

  “If you’d ever been a comic, you wouldn’t have to ask,” said Henry. He hunched forward and stared at the tussocky grass around his feet. “I began to remember what it was like
to get up in front of a roomful of strangers, half of them pie-eyed and the other half yapping nonstop. I remembered the silence that crashes down like a guillotine when a joke bombs. The tension, the flop sweat, the nausea, the nerves—it all came back to me as clear as day.”

  He shuddered and his swarthy face turned pale. For a moment I thought he was going to be sick, but he smoothed his neat mustache, took a few breaths through his nose, and went on.

  “It was too much for me,” he said. “I was going to turn down Arty’s offer, but then Sally and Peggy had their slanging match and Sally came up with her grand plan and all of a sudden, I not only couldn’t say no to the one-nighter, I had to say yes to years of one-nighters.” He glanced mournfully at me. “It’ll never happen, Lori.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “For one thing,” said Henry, “Arty Barnes isn’t a bona fide theatrical agent. He’s the club owner’s brother-in-law. He lines up acts for the club, but he doesn’t have contacts anywhere else. He’s strictly small potatoes.”

  “Bang goes the movie contract,” I said, trying to lighten Henry’s mood.

  Henry chuckled in spite of himself.

  “You’re a wag, Lori,” he said, elbowing me gently in the ribs. “But I’d never have gotten a movie contract. I’m not a main-stage comedian. I’m not even a small-time comic anymore. I’m the chap in the tearoom who tells funny stories and I like being that chap. I wish I’d never wished for anything more.”

  “Wishing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I said. “Have you told Sally that her grand plan won’t work?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “It’s not easy to tell the woman you love that you’re not the leading man she thinks you are. Sally’s set her heart on seeing my name in lights.”

  “What about the tearoom?” I asked.

  “She’s put it behind her,” he said gloomily. “She says she won’t fight for it because she has to prove to Peggy that we can get along without it.”

  “I haven’t seen Sally this morning,” I said. “Where is she?”

  Henry pointed to the apartment above the tearoom.

  “In her flat,” he said, “making a new waistcoat for me to wear on my big night.”