Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “Inheritance, followed by clever investments, or so we’ve heard,” said Grant. “I’ve never heard it said that he works for a living.”

  “Nor have I,” said Charles.

  “But you have heard it said that he’s mad,” I reminded them.

  “Ever so slightly mad,” Charles corrected me. “He has an absolute mania about privacy. He doesn’t give interviews. He doesn’t make public appearances. He doesn’t leave the abbey, if he can help it. He’s the very definition of a recluse. Hence, his soubriquet: the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey.”

  “Yet he’s tremendously influential,” Grant chimed in.

  “We’ve always pictured him as a spider sitting at the center of a web,” said Charles. “He has only to twang a silk thread to make things happen.”

  I remembered Bill’s telephone call to the pram manufacturer and his subsequent comments about the clout Arthur appeared to wield in the corporate world.

  “Would he have a direct line to the CEO of a big company?” I asked.

  “My guess is that Arthur Hargreaves has many direct lines to many CEOs of many big companies,” said Grant.

  I’d been keeping an eye on Bess, but she’d shown no signs of feeling neglected. She’d followed our conversation with rapt attention, inserting an occasional stream of baby babble that had been adoringly mimicked by Charles, despite his keen interest in the subject under discussion. He would, I thought, have made a wonderful father.

  “You can imagine our surprise,” Grant continued, “when you told us that Arthur Hargreaves fixed Bess’s pram. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a high-powered mystery mogul would do.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but the Arthur Hargreaves Bess and I met is nothing like the man you’ve described. He wasn’t standoffish or intimidating, and there was nothing spider-like about him. The man we met was warm, funny, and down-to-earth.”

  “Perhaps he has a soft spot for children,” Charles suggested. He turned to Bess and said in his talking-to-infants voice, “Who wouldn’t have a soft spot for you, my little angel?”

  “We must, of course, defer to your better judgment, Lori,” said Grant. “Unlike you, Charles and I are not on a first-name basis with Mr. Hargreaves.”

  “Bess is on a first-name basis with him, too,” I said proudly. “She may not be able to say Arthur’s name yet, but if she could, I’m sure he would allow it.”

  “Who could refuse you anything?” Charles asked Bess. “You’re irresistible.”

  A pair of dimples appeared in Bess’s plump cheeks and three hearts melted simultaneously.

  “Do not tell me it’s gas,” Charles commanded, with a stern look in my direction. “I know a smile when I see one.”

  “It’s not gas,” I said obediently, but as a familiar aroma rose from the carry cot, I was forced to add, “It is, however, time for a diaper change.”

  The speed with which Charles passed the carry cot to me gave me second thoughts about his fitness for fatherhood.

  “Forgive us,” he said as he backed away from the scene of the crime. “We’ve kept you talking too long.”

  Grant seemed to be making a valiant attempt not to grimace as he retreated alongside his partner.

  “You will give Mr. Hargreaves our number, won’t you?” he said from a safe distance. “You’ll tell him we’re right here in Finch? Charles and I would be honored to clean, restore, and/or appraise any work of art in his collection.”

  “If I see him, I’ll tell him,” I promised. “If you see Bill, will you tell him that Bess and I are in St. George’s?”

  “Will do,” Charles called. “Until we meet again, little angel.”

  He kissed his fingers to Bess and followed Grant out of the churchyard.

  It would have been disrespectful to use Joseph Cringle’s tomb as a changing table, but I knew the vicar wouldn’t object to me using a church pew. There wouldn’t be another service until Evensong, and as he’d said himself, the mess in a child’s nappy was nothing compared to the mess left behind in St. George’s after the beast blessing.

  I chose the pew my family and I had recently vacated, swapped Bess’s dirty diaper for a clean one, and gathered her up for a cuddle. The humble old church’s serene atmosphere seemed to seep into us and we remained blessedly undisturbed until a footstep sounded in the south porch.

  Seven

  The iron-banded oak door swung inward and after a moment’s pause, Mr. Barlow entered the church. Mr. Barlow was a compact but powerfully built man with grizzled hair and a strong work ethic. When he wasn’t busy looking after the church and the churchyard, he looked after the village at large.

  I thought of him as Finch’s own Mr. Fix-It. If the Range Rover refused to start, I called Mr. Barlow. If one of the twins batted a cricket ball through the kitchen window, I called Mr. Barlow. If the Summer King hadn’t repaired Bess’s all-terrain pram, I would have called Mr. Barlow. Everyone in Finch called on Mr. Barlow for help because he was the rarest of entities: an honest, reliable, highly skilled handyman.

  I was always pleased to see him, but my promise to Aunt Dimity made me even happier than usual to catch him on his own. I was certain that he’d be able to answer the questions she’d posed about Rose Cottage’s structural integrity.

  Mr. Barlow had already changed out of his Sunday best and into his everyday work attire—a short-sleeved cotton shirt, twill trousers, and well-worn leather work boots. The slight delay in his entry was explained by the fact that he strode into St. George’s carrying a stepladder under his left arm and a toolbox in his right hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Barlow,” I said.

  I spoke softly to avoid startling him, but I might as well have screeched. He took one look at Bess and me, blushed to his roots, and would have executed an abrupt about-face if the ladder hadn’t hindered him. He seemed to be under the impression that I was engaged in a maternal activity he didn’t wish to witness.

  “Sorry, Lori,” he said, staring stolidly at his feet. “Came to mend the ceiling lamp in the vestry. Didn’t see you there. I can come back later.”

  “Diaper change, Mr. Barlow!” I called, to put him at ease. “Not . . . the other. And I’m done with the diaper. We’re both perfectly decent, I promise you.”

  Mr. Barlow slowly raised his head to peek at us.

  “Please don’t go,” I said. I returned Bess to her carry cot and tucked a blanket around her to ward off lurking drafts. “If you can spare a minute, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Mr. Barlow leaned the ladder against the wall, placed the toolbox on the floor, and crossed to sit in the pew in front of ours, half-turned, with his arm draped over the back. He looked down at Bess and chuckled ruefully.

  “You must think I’m as old-fashioned as a butter churn,” he said.

  “So what if you are?” I retorted. “I’d rather you were old-fashioned and polite than modern and rude.”

  “How’s the little one coming along?” he asked. “I didn’t have a chance to look in on her after church, what with the ladies crowding round you like a flock of old biddies.”

  “Bess is healthy, happy, and as sweet as honey,” I replied. “I’m a lucky mum.”

  “That you are,” he said, gazing tenderly at Bess.

  “Would you like to hold her?” I asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said, recoiling in alarm. “I’m better with shovels than babies, Lori. I’d only make Bess cry. Or drop her. Or worse.”

  “You wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” I said. “If you can mend a light fixture, you can hold a baby.”

  “That’s as may be,” said Mr. Barlow. “But I’d rather not risk it.” He cleared his throat and got down to business. “What can I do for you, Lori? Will and Rob break another window?”

  “Not yet,” I said with a wry smile, “but it’s only a matter of time. No, Mr. Barlow,
there’s nothing wrong with my cottage. I want to know if there’s something wrong with Rose Cottage.”

  “Like what?” he asked, frowning slightly.

  I remembered the litany of ills Aunt Dimity had cited the previous evening and used it in my reply.

  “A problem that isn’t easy to see from the outside,” I explained, “like a cracked foundation or rising damp or an infestation of deathwatch beetles.”

  “Rose Cottage is as sound as a bell,” Mr. Barlow stated firmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanding took good care of it before they moved up north to be near their son. I had to replace a few slates on the roof, patch a flagstone in the hearth, and rehang a sash window in the back bedroom for them, but those are routine maintenance jobs, not major overhauls.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? What have you heard? If Peggy Taxman has been spreading nasty rumors about—”

  “She hasn’t,” I broke in. “Not within my hearing, anyway. I’m simply trying to figure out why Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage have been sitting around, unsold, for the past five months.”

  “It has nothing to do with their condition,” Mr. Barlow said stoutly. “Jack MacBride spent a small fortune updating Ivy Cottage before he and Bree took off on their trip. He left the place in tip-top shape.” Mr. Barlow glanced at me. “Have you heard from them lately, Jack and Bree?”

  “Postcard on Saturday,” I said. “They’re still in Australia and having a mostly wonderful time.”

  “Hope they come back,” Mr. Barlow said with a worried frown.

  “I’m sure they will,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Bree’s attached to her great-grandaunts’ house and Jack’s attached to Bree, so I can’t imagine them living anywhere else after they’re married.”

  “Are they to be wed?” Mr. Barlow leaned toward me attentively, demonstrating that no one in Finch, not even our down-to-earth handyman, was immune to the gossip bug.

  “They haven’t picked a date yet,” I told him, “but I’ll be utterly amazed if they don’t pick one as soon as they get back.” I paused to munch on a foot Bess had kicked free from her blanket, then covered her up again and continued, “Why would Peggy Taxman spread nasty rumors about Rose Cottage?”

  “Because she’s greedy,” he replied. “Enough is never enough for Peggy. She always wants more. She’s already got the Emporium and the greengrocer’s shop, and she tried to snatch the tearoom from Sally Cook last year. She must be licking her chops over Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. I reckon she’d rent them out as holiday homes for part-timers. You know, weekenders and such, like that woman who had Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle.” He clucked his tongue in disgust. “Glad to see the back of that woman. Slept here, that’s all she did. Didn’t even come to the church fête.”

  “If Peggy wants to buy the cottages,” I said, bypassing the conversational detour, “why hasn’t she gone ahead and bought them? Why would she waste time inventing rumors about them?”

  “To drive the price down, of course,” said Mr. Barlow, as if it were the most obvious conclusion one could draw. “If she makes the places look bad, she’ll scare away the competition and Marigold Edwards will have to lower the prices.”

  Bess was absorbed in a second attempt to free her foot, so I switched three-quarters of my attention to Mr. Barlow. I had a feeling that I was about to strike gold again.

  “Who is Marigold Edwards?” I asked.

  “She’s an estate agent,” said Mr. Barlow. “The estate agent, really. Marigold married into the business, but her husband’s agency, the Edwards Estate Agency, has handled property in Finch for as long as I can remember. Old man Edwards—Marigold’s father-in-law—he’s retired now, but he found my house for me, just like Marigold found Pussywillows for Amelia Thistle.”

  Since I’d inherited the cottage from Aunt Dimity, and since the inheritance had been handled by a law firm well versed in English property law, I hadn’t had to deal with a real estate agent when I’d moved to Finch, but I had a vague recollection of seeing one show Pussywillows to Amelia.

  “Petite woman?” I said tentatively. “Blond? Well dressed? Not quite as young as she’d like to be?”

  “That’s Marigold,” said Mr. Barlow, nodding.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have her phone number with you, would you?” I asked.

  “Have it right here,” said Mr. Barlow, tapping the side of his head, “but I’ll write it down for you, if you like.”

  “Please,” I said.

  Mr. Barlow took a small notebook and a carpenter’s pencil from his shirt pocket, wrote the phone number on one of the notebook’s pages, tore the page out, and handed it to me.

  “Her office is in Upper Deeping,” he said. He looked down at his roughened hands, then raised his eyes to look straight into mine as he asked, “You and Bill aren’t thinking of selling your cottage, are you?”

  “Definitely not,” I replied, as I tucked the scrap of paper into the diaper bag. “I asked for Marigold’s number so I can have it on hand if I run into someone who’s in the market for a country cottage.” I hesitated, then said, “I don’t mean to pry, Mr. Barlow, but . . . why do you know Marigold’s phone number by heart?”

  “I work for the Edwards agency,” he said. “Marigold pays me good money to look after Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage. I look in on Bree’s house, too, but I don’t have to be paid to do that.”

  I peered at him curiously. “When you say you ‘look after’ the cottages, what do you mean, exactly?”

  “I air them, check the roofs and the windows for leaks, keep the gardens from running wild, make sure the plumbing’s in good working order, that sort of thing,” Mr. Barlow replied. “I expect I’ll do the same for Pussywillows, once Amelia Thistle becomes Mrs. Willis and moves into Fairworth House.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Houses like to be lived in, Lori. They go to rack and ruin if they’re left on their own for too long.”

  “I suppose they do,” I said. “It sounds as though Marigold Edwards knows her business.”

  “She does,” said Mr. Barlow. “Some people think she’s flighty, but she isn’t. She has a good head on her shoulders, does Marigold. If Peggy Taxman is up to her old tricks again, Marigold will put a spoke in her wheel. I hope she will, anyway.” His brow furrowed and a shadow seemed to cross his face. “Finch is a small place, Lori. Folk who choose to live here have to do their bit or nothing will get done. Holiday-makers like to watch the sheep dog trials, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty, setting up the hurdles. They take, but they don’t give back.”

  “They give money,” I reminded him. “They buy groceries at the Emporium. They have meals at the pub and the tearoom. A few of them even buy the pamphlets Lilian Bunting wrote about St. George’s.”

  “It’s not enough,” Mr. Barlow insisted. “I want those cottages to go to people who are willing to do the real work of the village, not to tourists who think it all happens by magic.” He ducked his head suddenly and grinned sheepishly at me. “Sorry about the sermon, Lori.”

  “What better place to give it?” I said, raising a hand to indicate our surroundings. “But you’re preaching to the choir, Mr. Barlow. I’m already on your side. Residents have a stake in the community, visitors don’t, and I know which ones I’d prefer to have as neighbors.”

  Mr. Barlow stood.

  “I’ve enjoyed our little chat,” he said, “but I’d best be on my way. I promised the vicar that I’d have the vestry lamp working by Evensong.”

  “I should be going, too,” I said. “Bill will think I’ve fallen asleep in here. He and the boys must be eating their way through Sally Cook’s entire stock of pastries.”

  “They could do worse.” Mr. Barlow smiled down at Bess. “Good-bye for now, young lady.”

  He caught her flailing foot in his hand and gave it a gentle shake, then retrieved his ladder and his toolbox and carried them into the vestry.
/>
  “Interesting,” I murmured when he was out of earshot. “I wonder if everyone thinks Marigold Edwards is the bee’s knees? I don’t think Mr. Barlow would allow a paycheck to influence his opinion of her, but you never know. I believe we’ll have to meet Marigold for ourselves, Bess, and make our own judgment.”

  Bess flexed her toes and cooed, which I took to be a clear sign of agreement. I pulled the blanket over her foot again, then checked my immediate surroundings for stray socks, toys, tubes of ointment, and other baby-related detritus. I put those I found into the diaper bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, picked up the carry cot, and left the church through the south porch.

  My eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight when I noticed that I was not alone in the churchyard. Lilian Bunting was standing at the foot of the newest grave, unaccompanied by her husband, the Reverend Mr. Theodore Bunting. I could scarcely believe my luck.

  Lilian Bunting was a scholar and a local historian, but above all, she was an exemplary vicar’s wife. While Mr. Bunting viewed his parishioners through a benign haze, Lilian saw them clearly and managed them cleverly, for the good of St. George’s. She could bring order to a tempestuous parish meeting without offending anyone in attendance; she knew better than to pair Peggy Taxman with Sally Cook in the church’s flower-arranging rota; and she was aware of the chaos that would ensue if she asked bashful, soft-spoken George Wetherhead to make public announcements during the church fête.

  The vicar might live with his head in the clouds, but Lilian had her sensibly shod feet planted firmly on the ground. If I asked her what she thought of Marigold Edwards, she’d tell me the unvarnished truth, though she would phrase it diplomatically.

  “It looks as though we’ll make one more stop,” I murmured to Bess, “before we round up our missing menfolk.”

  I’d just finished speaking when Lilian looked toward me and smiled.

  “Lori,” she called. “Do you have a moment?”

  “I do,” I responded, and wove my way between tilted headstones and lichen-speckled tombs to join her.