Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  Postmistress Peggy considered it her sworn duty to read each and every postcard that passed through her hands.

  “It’s winter in New Zealand,” I pointed out.

  “They should have gone there in summer,” she retorted.

  I waited for Peggy to lecture me about the correct way to carry an infant, but she plunged into another topic altogether.

  “William brought his sisters in here this morning,” she thundered. “I’m not one to speak ill of a man’s nearest and dearest, Lori, but those sisters of his should be shut up in a box and shipped straight back to America.”

  “If you figure out how to do it,” I said, “I’ll cover the postage.”

  “Like that, is it?” she roared, giving me an appraising look.

  “It’s exactly like that,” I replied. “I hear you’re not buying Rose Cottage or Ivy Cottage.”

  “Jasper was against it,” she shouted. “It’s a pity, because they’ll never be cheaper, but he’s right. We’re busy enough as it is.”

  “How cheap are they?” I asked.

  “Not cheap as chips,” she hollered. “But reasonable.”

  “You’d think someone would have taken advantage of the reasonable prices by now, wouldn’t you?” I said.

  “I would,” Peggy bellowed. “Don’t know why someone hasn’t.”

  “Maybe the buyers Marigold Edwards has lined up are persnickety,” I said. “Have you met any of them?”

  “Of course I have,” Peggy roared. “Marigold always brings them in here for a bottle of water or a tube of sun cream or some such. That’s when I give them my volunteer sign-up sheets.” A manic gleam lit Peggy’s eyes as she shook a meaty index finger at me. “I tell them not to bother moving here if they don’t intend to pull their own weight. I tell them we need all hands on deck in Finch. Flower shows and church fêtes don’t happen by accident, I tell them.” She folded her beefy arms and squared her broad shoulders. “Then I give them my sign-up sheets and send them on their way.”

  I’d heard all I needed to hear. I thanked Peggy for the postcard and left the Emporium, ready to cast my nets wider.

  I left Bess in her car seat while I removed the all-terrain pram from the Rover.

  “Reasonable prices wouldn’t scare off house hunters,” I explained to her as I unfolded the pram and locked its safety latches, “but Marigold’s machinations would. First she lets Mr. Barlow tell them what’s wrong with the cottages, then she lets Mrs. Taxman bury them in a mountain of sign-up sheets. They’d have to be crazy to stick around after that.” I put Bess and the diaper bag in the pram, then gazed across the green at the tearoom. “Let’s find out what Mrs. Cook has to say about Marigold’s clients.”

  Sally Cook had a lot to say.

  “They come in here, asking for sugar-free, fat-free, cholesterol-free snacks,” she said, sounding highly affronted. “No cream, no eggs, no sugar, and above all, no butter. How am I supposed to make pastries without butter? God knows I don’t like to send folk away hungry, Lori, but they give me no choice. Pack of food-faddy fools, the lot of them.” Her round face grew pink with exasperation. “The architect and his wife ordered wine, for heaven’s sake. Does my tearoom look like a wine bar? I sent them to the pub.”

  I was ninety-nine percent certain of the torture the architect and his wife had endured at Peacock’s pub, but I trundled Bess across the green again to hear a firsthand account of it from Christine Peacock.

  “I remember those two,” she said disdainfully as she served me a large glass of water. “They were no better than the rest of folk Marigold’s brought in here lately. Wine snobs, every last one of them. If a bottle doesn’t have a fancy label, it’s not fit to drink. Dick tries to pry their closed minds open by giving them a taste of his homemade wine, but they never get past the first sip.” She sniffed disparagingly. “There’s no pleasing some people.”

  I drank my water and left the pub, feeling as though my suspicions were being amply vindicated.

  “Mr. Peacock’s wine upset Daddy’s tummy once,” I told Bess, recalling the revolting aftermath of Bill’s stint as a judge in Dick’s wine-tasting competition. “At least Marigold’s clients had the good sense to stop at one sip.”

  “Lori!”

  I turned to see the Handmaidens bearing down on me. Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, Elspeth Binney, and Selena Buxton were eager to tell me that they, too, had had the dubious pleasure of meeting Charlotte and Honoria.

  “William’s sisters dress beautifully,” Selena began.

  Then the others jumped in.

  Insulting comments whizzed through the air like thrown daggers, each of them prefaced with: “I don’t wish to insult William’s relatives, but . . .” By the time the collective diatribe was over, every possible criticism of Bill’s aunts had been aired, re-aired, and aired again. I could have hugged the quartet individually and as a group.

  “At least they’re not moving into the empty cottages,” I said. “I imagine Marigold Edwards’s clients are more polite than William’s sisters.”

  “Oh, they’re splendid,” Opal said effusively, her eyes glowing. “The young lawyers we met are from Tunbridge Wells originally, but they’ve been living in a London flat for the past year, poor things. They’ll keep the flat, of course—so handy for their work—but they’d like a quiet place in the country for weekends.”

  “Marigold’s Mr. Partridge is a martyr to hives,” said Millicent. “He’s on medication, but I told him an oatmeal bath is what he needs. His wife wants him to find a less stressful job, but I don’t see it happening. He’s spent the whole of his working life in advertising. At his age—he’ll be fifty-five next April—he won’t find it easy to start over.”

  “He’s better off than the banker,” said Elspeth. “He has a rash all over his . . . private area. I recommended lashings of calamine lotion.”

  “They’re both better off than Mr. Fortnam,” Opal declared, adding for my benefit, “Mr. Fortnam is an Oxford don. His life has been in tatters ever since his wife left him for one of his students, but why it took him by surprise, I’ll never know. The girl was half his age! A mature woman would make him a better wife, and so I told him.”

  “There was the surgeon as well,” said Selena. “Hands like velvet and clothes to die for—all of them tailor-made, right down to his shoes. He’s had trouble with his hair plugs—they keep getting infected—but I told him he doesn’t need hair plugs. Bald men are very attractive, especially when they work out as often as he does.” She tossed her head. “Not like that pudgy computer hardware engineer . . .”

  “He can’t help gaining weight,” Millicent objected. “It runs in his family. His mother and father were simply enormous. . . .”

  The Handmaidens went on and on, sharing a wealth of personal information they could have obtained only by subjecting Marigold’s clients to the kind of interrogations usually reserved for hardcore criminals. I’d long since grown accustomed to their impertinence, but someone facing them for the first time would, I was certain, feel as if he’d been stripped naked by a flock of budgies.

  Bess was eyeing my chest beadily by the time the Handmaidens trotted off to refresh themselves at the tearoom. I was about to wheel her back to the Rover when Grant Tavistock called to me from behind Crabtree Cottage’s white picket gate.

  “Charles is preparing lunch,” he said when I was within chatting distance. “It was supposed to be brunch, but his culinary reach exceeded his grasp and he had to start over. Join us?” Grant opened the gate and crooned enticingly, “He’s making his chocolate mousse.”

  I suspected that the proposed meal would include a heaping helping of questions about Arthur Hargreaves, but I didn’t mind. I had a few questions of my own to ask Grant and Charles, so I accepted the invitation with one caveat.

  “I’ll have to feed Bess first,” I said.

 
“We’ll avert our eyes,” Grant said, tutting impatiently. “Come in!”

  Eighteen

  Charles, Grant, and I had lunch at the claw-footed oak table in their back garden, surrounded by old-fashioned flowers and fragrant clumps of thyme.

  Well-fed, dry-diapered, and sheltered from the sun by the crabapple tree that had given the cottage its name, Bess dozed in the pram’s bassinet, waking occasionally to chew on her toes or to watch Goya, Charles’s golden Pomeranian, and Matisse, Grant’s lively Maltese, prowl around our ankles. The dogs paid absolutely no attention to her. Their eyes were fixed adoringly on Charles, who fed them under the table when Grant wasn’t looking.

  Charles’s titanic efforts in the kitchen had paid off handsomely. The dishes he’d prepared—twice—were light, flavorful, and, by Finch’s standards, epicurean. Sally Cook’s tearoom menu didn’t include chilled cucumber soup with crème fraîche and a watercress garnish, bruschetta with tomato tapenade and a pesto drizzle, or a spectacular, eight-layer vegetable terrine, but if it had, I would have eaten lunch there every day.

  “Charles has been reading cookbooks again,” Grant said, smiling wryly as we surveyed the feast Charles had placed before us.

  “Lucky you,” I said.

  “Thank you, Lori.” Charles gave Grant a frosty glance as he seated himself at the table. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  Charles was a temperamental chef at the best of times. When he was “reading cookbooks,” he could be as prickly as a porcupine.

  “I wasn’t criticizing you,” Grant protested.

  “Of course he wasn’t,” I said placatingly. “How could anyone criticize a man who produced such beautiful dishes?” I gazed at the food as adoringly as the dogs gazed at Charles. “You’ve outdone yourself, Charles. The great Escoffier himself would envy us.”

  “Now you’re being silly,” Charles said with a modest smile, but his mood improved perceptibly from then on.

  The meal began, as did the inquisition I’d anticipated.

  “Have you run into Arthur Hargreaves since we last saw you?” Grant asked with feigned nonchalance.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” I replied. “Bess and I spent a few hours with him yesterday at Hillfont Abbey.”

  Charles gasped and Grant choked on his cucumber soup.

  “You penetrated the inner sanctum?” Charles said incredulously.

  “He showed me around his library,” I said.

  “Did you see the da Vinci sketch?” Grant asked wheezily, pressing a napkin to his lips.

  “I may have,” I said. “There were lots of technical drawings hanging on the walls. One of them may have been done by Leonardo.”

  “Why didn’t you ask?” Grant demanded.

  “We were talking about other things,” I replied. “But I promise to ask Arthur to point out the Leonardo the next time I’m in his library.”

  “‘The next time I’m in his library,’” said Charles, mimicking my carefree tone. “Do you intend to make a habit of visiting Hillfont Abbey?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll make a habit of it,” I said, “but I do intend to go back. I like it there. I like Arthur, too.” I looked from Charles to Grant and sighed deeply. “You’ve got him all wrong, you know.”

  “Not all wrong, surely,” said Grant.

  “You’re right about him being rich and having exquisite taste,” I acknowledged, “but he’s not a crazy, cave-dwelling spider-guy. He’s a homebody, not a hermit, and he doesn’t control the corporate world by twanging a thread in his web. He offers friendly advice to a few bigwigs who used to be his students.”

  “Was he a teacher?” Charles asked interestedly.

  “He gave scientific lectures all over the world,” I told him. I remembered the tired expression that had crossed Arthur’s face as he’d gazed at his framed maps. “I think he got sick of the lecture circuit, sick of the attention as well as the traveling. If you ask me, the attention embarrassed him. He’s super-smart, but he’s not a showoff. If he doesn’t give interviews, it’s because he’s too humble to toot his own horn.” I finished my soup and helped myself to a piece of bruschetta. “But don’t take my word for it. Let me introduce you to Arthur. Honestly, guys, if you met him, you’d like him as much as I do.”

  “We’d also risk losing friends in the village,” said Grant.

  “If you lose them so easily,” I said, “they weren’t real friends to begin with.”

  “We still have to live with them,” Grant pointed out.

  “Maybe you should set an example for them,” I said. “If I praise Arthur, I’m a lone voice in the wilderness. If the three of us praise him, we’re a trio. A trio is louder than a lone voice. We might be able to persuade others to sing along with us.”

  Charles gazed reflectively at a cluster of blowsy peonies.

  “Arthur Hargreaves is a humble homebody who gives friendly advice to former pupils,” he mused aloud. “You’ve smashed our preconceptions to bits, Lori. I don’t know whether to be glad or sad.”

  “You should be glad,” I said sternly. “Blind prejudice doesn’t suit you.”

  Charles accepted the scolding with good grace, but neither he nor Grant offered to join me the next time I visited Hillfont Abbey. Peer pressure, it seemed, was more powerful than curiosity.

  “We met William’s sisters this morning,” Grant said. “I was deadheading the roses in the front garden when they happened by.”

  “I was still in my dressing gown,” said Charles, the late riser, “but I threw on some clothes and ran out to greet them.”

  “I hope it was worth the effort,” I said.

  “Oh, it was,” Charles assured me. “They were tremendously entertaining.”

  “Entertaining?” I said doubtfully. “In what way were Charlotte and Honoria entertaining?”

  “They’re like a pair of wicked schoolgirls,” Charles said happily. “All dolled up and simply oozing with nastiness.”

  “I wasn’t entertained by them,” said Grant. “I found them—” He broke off and regarded me apologetically. “Forgive me, Lori. I don’t wish to criticize your relations, but—”

  “They aren’t my relations,” I broke in emphatically. “They’re Bill’s aunts and he can’t stand them.”

  “Amelia doesn’t seem to be keen on them, either,” Grant observed. “They were expecting her to join them for brunch, but she scurried off to Oxford instead.”

  “Coincidence?” said Charles, eyeing me waggishly. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s going to be a long three weeks for Amelia,” said Grant.

  “It’ll be a long three weeks for all of us,” I said. “Except William. He is fond of them. Heaven alone knows why.”

  “They amuse him,” said Charles. “I could see it in his eyes. They’re the king’s jesters. Jesters can get away with anything.”

  “Almost anything,” I corrected him. “If they take things too far with Amelia, King William will have their heads.”

  “Let’s hope they take things too far,” said Grant, raising his glass.

  “You’re both taking them far too seriously,” Charles said breezily. “I love a good pantomime villain. I hope William brings them to church on Sunday. I can’t wait to hear what they have to say about the vicar’s sermon.”

  “I can’t wait to hear what they have to say about you,” I said pointedly.

  Charles opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and became absorbed in serving the terrine. Grant smothered a satisfied grin with his napkin and after chatting about Bree Pym’s latest postcard, the vicar’s car repairs, and the purple begonias in Opal Taylor’s window box, I brought the conversation around to the subject that was uppermost in my mind.

  Their faces lit up when I mentioned Marigold Edwards.

  “If it hadn’t been for Marigold, we would have bought
a place in Upper Deeping,” said Grant, as if he were describing a fate worse than death. “Finch wasn’t even on our radar until Marigold put it there. She insisted that we see Crabtree Cottage.”

  “She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” said Charles, chuckling, “and how right she was. Crabtree Cottage was perfect. The minute we saw it, we felt as if we’d come home.”

  “No quirks?” I said swiftly.

  “Oodles of quirks,” Charles said delightedly. “The floors aren’t level, the walls bulge, the timbers creak, the windows rattle—but those are the things that give a place character. We weren’t looking for a flawless, soulless box. We wanted a house that lived and breathed.”

  “We had our doubts about Finch,” Grant allowed. “We thought it would be too quiet for us.”

  “We thought we’d be bored to death,” Charles interjected.

  “Then Marigold showed us around the village,” Grant went on, “and we fell in love with it.”

  “The villagers treated us like movie stars,” Charles gushed. “They simply pelted us with questions. Better still, they were completely indiscreet about one other. Was Christine Peacock’s new track suit really two sizes too small for her? Would Elspeth Binney’s cat portrait win a ribbon at the art show? Would Opal Taylor ever manage to sell her hideous lamp?”

  “We felt as if we’d stepped onstage in the middle of a play,” said Grant. “We couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.”

  “I sometimes think we moved to Finch for no other reason than to see Opal’s lamp for ourselves,” said Charles.

  “Sally Cook’s jam doughnuts were sublime,” Grant said reminiscently, “and Dick Peacock’s wines were so ridiculously dreadful that we couldn’t resist tasting them all.”

  “And Peggy’s sign-up sheets!” Charles exclaimed, clasping his hands together in pure ecstasy. “Do you remember her volunteer sign-up sheets, Grant? She wouldn’t allow us to leave the Emporium without them.”