Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (9 page)

“How could you forget about it?” I demanded. “It's
West Side Story
in the Cotswolds!”

“Avoiding Tillcote has become second nature to me,” Emma replied. “It's as automatic as breathing. You wouldn't expect me to explain breathing to you, would you?”

“I guess not,” I conceded.

“What about the rest of our neighbors?” Bill asked. “Why haven't they drilled it into us?”

“The villagers don't talk about Tillcote if they can help it,” Emma explained. “I suppose it's another way of demonstrating their superiority. Why waste your breath on a place that's beneath your notice?” She pointed at me. “If you hadn't forced the issue by bandying the Hargreaves name about, you'd still be living in blissful ignorance.”

“I'm all for blissful ignorance,” I said, “but not if it gets us into trouble. Is there anything else we should know about the feud?”

“Nothing springs to mind,” said Emma. “If something does, I'll give you a call.”

“Please do,” I said. “I'd rather be educated by you than by Peggy Taxman.”

“Who wouldn't?” Emma said. She got to her feet. “Now it really is time for me to go. Thanks for the tea and the trail review.”

“Thanks for returning the boys' book,” said Bill, “and for filling us in on the feud.”

“Better late than never, eh?” she said ruefully.

Bill, Stanley, and I walked Emma to the door, then split up. Stanley padded into the living room to colonize Bill's favorite armchair, and Bill and I went on toy patrol, our name for the daily round of hit-or-miss tidying that brought a semblance of order to the cottage.

Job done, we went upstairs, looked in on the children, and retreated to the sanctuary of the master bedroom. Though it wasn't yet nine o'clock, we were ready to call it a day and went straight to bed. I was halfway to dreamland when the baby monitor indicated that Bess was awake.

“I'll go,” Bill offered drowsily.

“Stay put,” I murmured. “She's hungry.”

Bill smiled sweetly. “It looks as though Bess isn't the only one who speaks baby fluently.”

“I wish I spoke Finch half as well,” I said and sleepwalked my way to the nursery.

B
ess had a natural aptitude for sleeping. She'd slept through the night ever since Bill and I had brought her home from the hospital. It had worried us at first, but after a few sleepless nights of our own we'd realized—with profound joy and gratitude—that we could stop tiptoeing into the nursery every five seconds to make sure that she hadn't stopped breathing.

Bess was still our Sleeping Beauty. If she requested a nighttime feed, it was almost always because she'd had a particularly stimulating day. Since our day at the Cotswold Farm Park had been nothing if not stimulating, I wasn't taken aback to find myself in the big rocking chair in the nursery, soothing Bess's jangled nerves, while the rest of my family slept.

It didn't take long for Sleeping Beauty to live up to her name, but by the time I resettled her in her crib, I'd regained something approximating full consciousness. I would have lain awake staring at the ceiling if I'd gone back to bed, so I went downstairs to the study instead.

The study was as dark as a tomb, brightened only by the baby monitor's dim glow. I lit the mantel lamps, said hello to Reginald, took the blue journal from its place on the bookshelves, and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth. I didn't bother to light a fire. I didn't think I'd be up long enough to need a fire's warmth or its companionship.

“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I'm pretty pooped, but I think I can stay upright long enough to fill you in on a few things.”

The familiar handwriting appeared at once, scrolling across the blank page in graceful loops and curves of royal-blue ink.

In that case, we'll do our very best to stick to the highlights, my dear. Did you ask Mr. Barlow about Rose Cottage?

“I did,” I said. “He says that Rose Cottage is as sound as a bell. Ditto for Ivy Cottage, but we already knew how much work Jack put into rehabbing his late uncle's place.”

And we know why Jack MacBride was so exacting in his refurbishment of Ivy Cottage.

“We do indeed,” I agreed. “He used the rehab as an excuse to stay in Finch while he was courting Bree.” I smiled reminiscently. “I caught him using a cotton swab to polish the bathroom tiles one day.”

He was—and is—very much in love. Happily, his persistence was rewarded. I believe Bree is as much in love with him as he is with her
.

Although I enjoyed discussing young love as much as the next woman, I was also aware that my second wind wouldn't last all night. Experience had taught me that fatigue was hovering in the wings, ready to pounce.

“Can we get back to Mr. Barlow for a minute?” I requested.

I'm sorry, Lori. I thought we'd finished with him
.

“Not yet,” I said. “Mr. Barlow is afraid that Peggy Taxman will buy the empty cottages and turn them into vacation rentals.”

Heaven forfend! Has Peggy expressed an interest in expanding her empire?

“I don't think so,” I said, “but I don't know for sure.” I sighed heavily. “You were right, Dimity. I am out of touch with the villagers.”

I have no doubt that you'll get back in touch with them the next time you're in Finch. You can't help being inquisitive, Lori. You'll soon find out whether Mr. Barlow's fears are baseless or well-founded.

“I'll give it my best shot,” I said. “I do know one thing for sure, though. The cottages aren't vacant because they're in bad shape. Deathwatch beetles aren't scaring away buyers, but Marigold Edwards might be.”

Who is Marigold Edwards?

“An estate agent,” I said. “She's handling the sales of Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. She also sold Pussywillows to Amelia Thistle and it looks as though she'll sell it to the next owner, if she ever finds one.”

Marigold Edwards doesn't, by any chance, work for the Edwards Estate Agency, does she?

“She married into the family firm,” I replied. “Why? Are you familiar with the Edwards agency?”

I was. It was an old and respectable firm in my day, but I had no idea that it was still in existence.

“It's alive and well and doing business in Upper Deeping,” I said. “Finch is on Marigold's turf, so to speak. She seems to be responsible for most of the property transactions that take place here. Mr. Barlow and Lilian Bunting didn't have a bad word to say about her.” I frowned. “If you ask me, they've gotten so used to Marigold's way of doing business that they've missed the obvious.”

What is “the obvious”?

“It's obvious, isn't it?” I said. “Marigold Edwards is either the world's most inept estate agent or she's up to no good.”

I imagine you think her inept because she hasn't yet sold a pair of cottages that are as sound as a bell.

“Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are just the tip of the iceberg,” I said. “Lilian told me, quite casually, that properties in Finch routinely sit empty for months and months before they're sold. The only exception she could cite was Peggy's lightning-fast purchase of the greengrocer's shop.”

I believe we've discussed Finch's limitations, Lori.

“I'm aware of Finch's limitations,” I said testily. “My question is: Why add to them? Why go out of your way to discourage people from moving here?”

Has Marigold Edwards gone out of her way to discourage people from moving to Finch?

“Seems like it to me,” I said. “Why else would she bring them to see the wall paintings in St. George's?”

The church's medieval wall paintings are of great historical value, Lori.

“They're creepy,” I said flatly. “They give me the heebie-jeebies. If Will and Rob weren't in love with all things ghoulish, St. George and his creepy dragon would give them nightmares. An estate agent with Finch's best interests at heart would steer her clients away from the wall paintings.” I looked up from the journal and spoke half to myself as a fresh thought occurred to me. “Maybe Marigold tells her clients about the feud as well. She could make it seem as though the village is a hotbed of seething hostility.”

I'm afraid you'll have to be a little less cryptic, my dear. Are you referring to the state of war that exists between Sally Cook and Peggy Taxman? If so, I can assure you that such rivalries are not unique to Finch. They exist in every community.

I looked down at the journal and smiled grimly.

“Wrong feud,” I said. “I'm referring to the state of war that exists between Finch and Tillcote.”

Good grief. I thought the Finch-Tillcote feud ended years ago.

I gaped at the journal.

“Y-you knew about it?” I stammered. “And you didn't tell me?”

Of course I knew about it. I grew up with it, though it started long before I was born.

“You might have mentioned it,” I said reproachfully.

I would have, had I known that the villagers were still engaged in it. I may have grown up in Finch, Lori, but I spent most of my adult life in London. After my mother and father died, I lost touch with my old neighbors. I retained ownership of my family's cottage, but I rarely visited it. When I did return, no one spoke of the feud to me. I assumed, quite naturally, that it had faded into obscurity.

Aunt Dimity's final comment reminded me of something Emma Harris had said to Bill and me beneath the apple tree:
“Why waste your breath on a place that's beneath your notice?”

“The villagers don't talk about it,” I said as understanding glimmered. “Not often, anyway.”

I rest my case. How does the jury find? Is the defendant guilty or not guilty?

“Not guilty,” I said penitently. “I'm sure you would have warned me about the feud if you'd thought I'd be dragged into it.”

Have you been dragged into it?

“To be honest, I sort of dragged myself into it,” I replied. “I came close to inciting a riot after church when I asked Peggy Taxman and the rest of the ladies if they knew Arthur Hargreaves. My innocent inquiry triggered a full-on tirade about Tillcote folk, who have, at various times, insulted Dick Peacock's homemade wine, made fun of Sally Cook's spreading waistline, looked down their noses at St. George's, and ridiculed the horrible lamp Opal Taylor takes home from the jumble sale every year because she can't persuade anyone to buy it.”

Everyone in Finch ridicules Opal's lamp.

“Not to her face,” I said pointedly.

Oh. I see.

“Finally,” I continued, “Peggy claimed that a Tillcote lad had stolen a bag of potato chips from the Emporium, and Sally topped her by declaring that Tillcote folk would steal the coins from a dead man's eyes. Oh, and Bill found out later that Teddy Bunting can't stand Tillcote's money-grubbing rector.” I shook my head. “What a kerfuffle! Honestly, Dimity, if I'd known about the feud, I wouldn't have asked the ladies about Arthur Hargreaves.”

Why did you ask the ladies about Arthur Hargreaves?

I stared blankly at Aunt Dimity's question, then raised a fist and thumped myself on the forehead.

“Stupid me,” I said. “I keep forgetting to tell you: Bess and I met Arthur yesterday.”

To save time, I attempted to distill the broken-pram saga into a few brief sentences, but I couldn't bring myself to leave out the marvelous kites or the fat-tired bicycle or the cart filled with pram parts or the Santiago-bound grandson or the paste in Harriet's hair or a host of other details that had made my first meeting with Arthur so memorable.

The mantel clock was chiming half past ten as I approached the end of my tale, and my hopes of returning to dreamland at a reasonable hour went down the drain. I had no regrets, though. I felt as if I'd done justice to Arthur. The portrait I'd drawn for Aunt Dimity was, to my mind, more complete and more accurate than the distorted image Grant and Charles had presented to me.

“He was as nice as nice can be,” I concluded. “To Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, Arthur Hargreaves is the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey, a wealthy recluse who collects art anonymously and manipulates powerful businessmen from the jealously guarded confines of his hilltop lair, but to me . . .” My voice trailed off as I envisioned Arthur as I'd first seen him, perched atop the tall stone wall, clad in his rumpled shirt and his grass-stained trousers, with the grapevine wreath encircling his head. “To me, he's the man who heard my baby cry and ran to help her.”

Aunt Dimity didn't respond at once. I couldn't blame her. I'd given her a lot to think about and I wasn't done yet.

“I wish I'd been able to get a word in edgewise this morning,” I said. “If I'd told Peggy and Sally and the others about my encounter with Arthur, I'm sure they would have changed their minds about the Hargreaves family.”

I doubt it.

“Why?” I asked.

They probably hold the Hargreaves family responsible for starting the Finch-Tillcote feud. My mother and father did.

“Did your parents know the Hargreaveses?” I asked.

Certainly not. They would have been shunned by their neighbors had they befriended a member of the Hargreaves family. My parents knew only what their parents had told them and they passed their knowledge on to me. I presume they did so to keep me from falling into the same quagmire you fell into this morning.

“What knowledge did they pass on to you?” I asked, fascinated.

Let me see . . . According to my mother, the original Hargreaveses weren't proper aristocrats. They were parvenus who'd made their money in trade. Hillfont Abbey

“Lilian Bunting claims that it isn't an abbey,” I put in swiftly.

She's quite right. Hillfont Abbey was built by Arthur's great-great-grandfather, Quentin Hargreaves, a Victorian manufacturer who wanted something to show for his hard work. Newly affluent Victorians saw it as the height of fashion to build whimsical country houses loosely based on historical models. I imagine Quentin Hargreaves equated his mythical abbey with stability and success, but the villagers referred to it as Quentin's Folly. They thought it was outlandish and they regarded him as nothing more than an uncouth tradesman, flaunting his wealth.

“Snobs,” I muttered.

England's class system was more rigid in those days. People at both ends of the social spectrum looked down on self-made men. If Quentin Hargreaves had built a less flamboyant home, the villagers might have warmed to him—eventually—but his faux abbey put him beyond the pale.

“Okay,” I said. “The villagers sneered at Hillfont Abbey. They probably made snippy comments about it, too, but I don't see how a fancy house could ignite a feud between Finch and Tillcote.”

Hillfont Abbey didn't ignite the feud. I'm simply setting the scene for what happened next.

“What happened next?” I asked reflexively.

Quentin sided with Tillcote in a dispute that arose between the two villages. My mother couldn't recall the exact nature of the dispute, but my father believed that it had something to do with three stolen pigs. Whatever the cause, it seems certain that a dispute took place.

“Did Quentin accuse someone in Finch of stealing the pigs?” I asked.

Not directly, but the implication was there for all to see. Quentin Hargreaves wasn't a popular figure in Finch before the dispute. Once he aligned himself with Tillcote's notorious pig thieves, Finch turned its back on him and his family. The cart track that ran between Finch and Hillfont Abbey was allowed to deteriorate and the Hargreaves name was dropped from polite conversation.

“Whoops,” I said, wincing.

You couldn't have known.

“What did you make of the feud when you first heard about it?” I asked. “Did you feel duty-bound to continue it?”