I hope she does. Her sales pitch would be quite revealing.
“I’ll coax one out of her,” I promised. “Marigold may be able to bamboozle her clients, but she won’t bamboozle me.”
I should think not. You’re a Finch-trained snoop!
“I shall do my utmost to live up to my training,” I said, inclining my head graciously toward the journal. “In the meantime, however, I have to get dinner ready and throw another load of diapers into the wash. I’ll let you know what happens with Marigold.”
Thank you, my dear. Good luck!
Twenty
As Aunt Dimity had predicted, I took a great deal of pleasure in resuming my disrupted routine. I wasn’t an obsessive homemaker, but I liked to bring a certain degree of order to the chaos of living with two little boys and a baby. I plunged into my chores with a gusto I hadn’t felt in ages.
I took over the school run as well because Bill had been thrust into his pre-Bess routine by Didier Pinot, who’d decided to tear up his old will and create a new one from scratch. Oddly enough—or, perhaps, not oddly at all—Bill didn’t mind. His inadvertent return to the office had allowed him to get back in touch with a profession he loved. Though he intended to keep his vow to spend more time at home with his family, he was not averse to becoming reacquainted with his clients.
“It’s all about balance,” I reminded Bess wisely, as I carried a teetering tower of sneakers up to the boys’ room on Wednesday.
I telephoned Amelia after Thursday’s school run for an update on the situation at Fairworth House.
“I believe William is taking his sisters to Stratford today,” she informed me.
“You believe?” I said, puzzled. “Aren’t you going with them?”
“Sadly, I can’t,” she replied. “I’m needed in Oxford.”
“Ah, yes,” I said as the penny dropped. “Your exhibition. I imagine you’ll be extremely busy over the next couple of weeks.”
“I will,” she declared unequivocally. “I’m afraid I won’t have much time to get to know William’s sisters better during their visit.”
“Oh, I think you know them well enough already,” I said dryly.
“You and Bill are still coming to dinner on Saturday, aren’t you?” she asked with a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“We’ll be there,” I assured her, “but I don’t think we’ll eat much. Have fun in Oxford.”
“It’s work, Lori,” she said.
“Of course it is,” I said. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”
I then telephoned Deirdre Donovan.
“William and the two tartars are on their way to Stratford,” she confirmed. “Declan’s driving them. I feel sorry for him, but I won’t mind having Fairworth to myself for a while.”
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“My jaw’s a bit sore from gnashing my teeth,” she said, “but other than that, I’m fine. Will we see you and Bill on Saturday?”
“You will,” I said. “You’ll see Bess, too. We’re leaving Rob and Will at Anscombe Manor with Emma Harris, but we’re bringing Bess with us.”
“Good,” said Deirdre. “You and I can take turns hiding in the nursery.”
“That’s the plan,” I said, grinning, and returned cheerfully to my housework. The thought of waiting hand and foot on Bill’s aunts for three solid weeks made my own chores seem positively delightful.
• • •
By Friday, the cottage was looking much better than it had on Wednesday and I was feeling recharged and ready to do battle with Marigold Edwards. Instead of driving home after the school run, I brought Bess into the school to meet her big brothers’ classmates and teachers. While the teachers took turns cuddling Bess, Will and Rob showed me their latest project. I kept one eye on the clock and the other on their fully operational papier-mâché volcano until it was time for Bess and me to go.
The Edwards Estate Agency was located on a quiet street near Upper Deeping’s bustling main square. I parked the Rover directly in front of the building, put Bess in the pram, and paused on the sidewalk to scrutinize the small advertisements displayed in neat rows on the agency’s plate glass windows. The ads featured photographs of properties for sale in a number of nearby towns and villages, but I failed to spot Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage among them.
“Big surprise,” I muttered sarcastically to Bess. “If your aim is to discourage buyers, it doesn’t pay to advertise.”
The agency’s glass door opened suddenly and a slender woman with graying hair and a soft voice greeted me tentatively. When I acknowledged that I was, indeed, Lori Shepherd, the woman introduced herself as Mrs. Dinsdale and ushered us into the outer office. There was nothing luxurious about Mrs. Dinsdale’s desk or the bank of metal filing cabinets behind it, but the chair she offered me was comfortable and her manner was professionally polite.
She pressed a button on her telephone and, at exactly ten o’clock, Marigold Edwards emerged from an inner office. I recognized her immediately as the petite blonde who’d shown Pussywillows to Amelia.
When I looked past my adversary’s carefully applied makeup, I saw a bright-eyed, energetic woman in her early fifties. She was dressed in a pale pink fitted blazer, a matching pencil skirt, and black pumps, and her nails were as meticulously manicured as Charlotte’s and Honoria’s. I wanted to dislike her on sight, but I couldn’t automatically dislike anyone who beamed so warmly at Bess.
“What an adorable little—” She broke off and looked at me questioningly.
“Girl,” I filled in for her. “Her name is Bess.”
Marigold put her pencil skirt to the test by squatting down to look Bess in the eye.
“How do you do, Bess?” she said. “My name is Marigold.”
Bess giggled.
“It’s a funny name, isn’t it?” Marigold said, wrinkling her nose good-naturedly at Bess. “But I hope your mummy will use it instead of calling me Mrs. Edwards.”
“I will, if you’ll call me Lori,” I said. “Do you have children?”
“A son and a daughter,” Marigold replied, straightening. “They’re grown and flown now, but my son, at least, will be back to work for us after he finishes his degree. How lucky you are to have a little one. I miss having a baby around the house.” She tilted her head toward the door to the inner office. “Please, come through.”
Marigold’s office was nicely appointed, but it struck me as businesslike rather than posh. Her teak desk wasn’t antiseptically tidy and a row of bulging three-ring binders sat atop her teak filing cabinets. If she was receiving kickback money from a developer, I thought, she wasn’t spending it on fancy fittings for the agency.
I parked Bess next to the chair facing the desk, checked her diaper, wiped her dribbly chin, and handed her the shark rattle before seating myself. Marigold, who’d remained standing, asked if she could get anything for me.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a glass of water,” I said, adding ruefully, “Nursing makes me thirsty.”
“Say no more,” she said with an understanding smile. “I nursed both of mine.”
She left the office and returned a moment later with a liter bottle of water and a tall glass. She insisted on filling the glass for me before she took her place behind her desk. Try as I might, I couldn’t fault her attentiveness nor could I deny her charm. On the face of it, she seemed to be a thoroughly pleasant woman. I had no trouble understanding why my neighbors thought so highly of her.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you, Lori,” she began. “I met your husband, of course, when he was looking for office space in Finch. I hope Wysteria Lodge is serving him well?”
I stared at her in stunned silence, feeling like the world’s biggest dunce.
“Are you all right, Lori?” she asked, eyeing me with concern.
“Y-yes,” I
stammered, still shaken by my own stupidity. “You caught me off guard, is all. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten that Bill worked with an estate agent when we first moved to Finch.”
“Baby brain,” Marigold said sympathetically. “It happens to us all. When my two were Bess’s age, I could scarcely remember my own name, let alone something that happened over a decade ago.” She leaned forward and folded her hands on her desk. “I believe you inherited your property.”
“I did,” I said.
“Are you thinking of selling it?” she inquired.
“No,” I said, much too loudly. I took a long drink of water to steady myself, then said calmly, “I have no desire whatsoever to sell my home.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “It’s such a pretty cottage. Are you, perhaps, interested in acquiring another property?”
“I’m interested in Rose Cottage,” I said, relieved to find my place in the script.
“I see.” Marigold’s brow furrowed. She lowered her eyes briefly, then leaned farther forward, looking as solemnly compassionate as an undertaker. “Will your husband remain in your cottage?”
“What?” I said blankly.
“After the divorce,” she clarified in the same gentle tones. “Will your husband remain in your cottage while you move into Rose Cottage? Or will it be the other way around?”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Bill and I aren’t getting a divorce.”
“Wonderful,” Marigold said, her face brightening. “I’m a little confused, though. Why would you wish to purchase Rose Cottage if neither you nor your husband intend to live there?”
“We’re . . . we’re planning to use it as a rental property,” I improvised.
“What a pity,” she said with a sigh. “I hate to disappoint you, Lori, but Rose Cottage isn’t available as a rental property.”
“Ivy Cottage, then,” I said quickly.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to rent Ivy Cottage to a third party, either,” Marigold informed me regretfully. “As is the case with Rose Cottage, subletting would violate the terms of the lease.”
“The terms of what lease?” I asked.
“Jack MacBride and the Blandings lease their respective properties from the freeholder,” she replied.
“You’ll have to be patient with me, Marigold,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know what a freeholder is.”
“You’re a freeholder,” said Marigold, smiling. “In simple terms, a freeholder is a property owner. A freeholder may choose to live in his property or he may choose to lease it to a tenant.”
I frowned at her, perplexed. “Are you telling me that Jack MacBride and the Blandings don’t own their own cottages?”
“I am,” she said “They’re tenants. They lease their property from the freeholder.”
“Who is the freeholder?” I asked.
“It’s a what rather than a who,” Marigold explained. “Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage are owned by a private company.”
“A company?” I said. “What company?”
“I’m surprised you have to ask,” said Marigold. “The same company holds the lease on your husband’s place of business, Wysteria Lodge.”
I blinked as another wave of confusion swept over me.
“I thought my husband owned Wysteria Lodge,” I said.
“I’m afraid not,” said Marigold. “He leases it from the company that owns the freehold.”
“How many properties in Finch does this company own?” I asked.
“All of them,” Marigold replied, “apart from the church, the vicarage, and the schoolhouse, which are, obviously, owned by the Church of England.”
“Obviously,” I said faintly. I cleared my throat, took another drink of water, and resumed, “Just to be clear: You’re saying that Peggy Taxman doesn’t own the Emporium or the greengrocer’s shop. She leases them from a private company.”
“Correct,” said Marigold.
“What about Mr. Barlow’s house?”
“Leased.”
“Sally’s tearoom?”
“Leased.”
“Dove Cottage? Wren Cottage? Plover Cottage? Larch Cottage?” I said, picturing the Handmaidens’ modest abodes.
“Leased, leased, leased, and leased,” Marigold replied. “As I said before, every building in Finch, apart from those owned by the church, is leased from the same company.”
“How can one company own an entire village?” I asked, thunderstruck.
“It’s not an unheard-of arrangement,” Marigold said imperturbably. “I work as a managing agent for a number of entities that own large tracts of housing.”
“Forgive me for saying so,” I said, “but you don’t seem to be managing Finch’s housing very well. Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage have been vacant for months, yet I don’t see their photographs in your window.”
“I’d like to put them there,” Marigold said, “but I’m compelled to follow the company’s instructions.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would a company refuse to advertise its properties?”
“Every company has its own way of doing business,” she said with a small shrug.
I paused to collect my thoughts, then said, “It seems as though your clients meet a lot of people when they come to Finch to see a house because you make a point of introducing them to just about everyone in the village. Do you follow the same procedure in every village or have you been instructed to treat Finch differently?”
“I’ve been instructed to immerse my clients in Finch,” said Marigold. “I’d prefer to take things a little more gradually, but orders are orders.”
I paused again. I was willing to believe that Marigold Edwards was an innocent dupe, but I was unwilling to exonerate the company that had given her such bizarre and unprofitable instructions. Nothing she’d said had dispelled my belief that a developer meant to have his way with Finch. His private company might find it difficult to dislodge sitting tenants, I reasoned, but it could make sure that no one replaced those who chose to leave. Eventually, there would be nothing but empty cottages in the village. Then the company could move ahead with its plan to convert them into high-priced holiday homes.
“Who gives you your instructions?” I asked. “May I have a name?”
“Again, I hate to disappoint you,” said Marigold, “but I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. The company prefers to use me, the managing agent, as an intermediary. I can, of course, forward any questions or comments you might have to the appropriate department.”
Here, at last, was the evasiveness I’d expected from Marigold Edwards. She was clearly determined to conceal the name of the company that had slyly and secretly taken control of Finch, but I was equally determined to pry the name out of her. I folded my arms and fixed her with a level gaze, but before I could demolish her defenses with my finely honed snooping skills, her telephone buzzed.
She picked up the receiver, listened intently, said, “Thank you, Mrs. Dinsdale,” and returned the receiver to its cradle.
“I’m sorry, Lori,” she said, “but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m showing a house in Tillcote in”—she glanced at her watch—“thirty minutes. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late and I don’t like to keep my clients waiting.”
Bess made a noise she’d never made before, a pathetic mewl I didn’t associate with any of her usual needs. I bent over her, but I could discover nothing wrong. She wasn’t clamoring for a feed or complaining about anything in particular. Her diaper was dry, her clothes weren’t bunched up, the pram’s safety harness was fastened correctly, and there were no red marks to indicate that she’d whacked herself in the head with the rattle.
I was about to pick her up for an all-purpose cuddle when Marigold spoke.
“Poor thing,” Marigold cooed. “Is she hungry?”
/> I gazed into Bess’s deep, dark eyes and thought fast.
“Yes,” I lied. “She’s used to having a meal about now.” I sat up and grimaced apologetically at Marigold. “Would you mind if we . . .” I let my voice trail off in an unspoken appeal.
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “We mums must stick together.” She took a file from a desk drawer, placed it in a briefcase she’d retrieved from beneath the desk, and stood. “It was a pleasure to meet you and your daughter, Lori. If you ever decide to sell your home or to purchase another, I hope you’ll think of me.” She beamed at us and strode to the door, saying, “Take all the time you need. I’ll make sure Mrs. Dinsdale doesn’t disturb you.”
“Thank you,” I said, lifting Bess from the pram.
“Not at all,” said Marigold.
She left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. I waited until the tap-tap-tap of her heels had faded into the distance, then kissed Bess all over her face, returned her to the pram, and darted behind the desk.
“Who’s the clever baby?” I said while I scanned the file cabinets. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that your timing was perfect.” I looked over my shoulder at Bess, who was once again chewing contentedly on her shark, and laughed at my own silliness. As a mother of three, I knew for a fact that infants had terrible timing.
Happily, the file cabinets were arranged in alphabetical order. I opened the drawer containing the F files and began to rifle through the folders.
“I knew something fishy was going on,” I said to Bess. “What kind of company refuses to advertise? What kind of company throws its clients off the deep end in Finch? Aha!” I crowed as my fingers touched a folder labeled FINCH.
I yanked the folder from the drawer, opened it on Marigold’s desk, and froze.
There, lying atop a thick sheaf of papers, was a dog-eared photocopy of a map I’d seen recently—a faded, yellowing, hand-drawn map of Finch.
I told myself it meant nothing. I told myself that the map could have been photocopied long before it had come into Arthur’s possession. I told myself that there could be no possible connection between the beneficent Summer King and a vile developer. I pushed the dog-eared photocopy aside to examine the sheet of paper that lay beneath it.
Aunt Dimity and the Summer King Page 18
