I felt as though I’d struck gold. The dear ladies of Finch might not know much about Arthur Hargreaves beyond his connection with the uppity folk in Tillcote, but Grant and Charles evidently did.
“Are you serious, Lori?” said Grant. “Have you really met Arthur Hargreaves?”
“By which we mean to say: Did you, in actual fact, have an up-close, face-to-face encounter with him?” Charles amplified.
I looked past Grant and observed that Bill and the twins had finished roughhousing on the village green and begun strolling up the lane toward St. George’s. Bill stopped at the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard, saw that I was engaged in gossip-gathering, and signaled that he would take Rob and Will to the tearoom. I gave him a thumbs-up in return. Our sons were big fans of Sally Cook’s lemon poppy-seed cake.
“Well?” Charles said impatiently, reclaiming my attention.
“I did, in actual fact, have an up-close, face-to-face encounter with Arthur Hargreaves,” I said with mock solemnity, amused by the awestruck glances the pair exchanged.
“When?” Grant asked eagerly. “Where?”
“How?” Charles added.
“Bess and I met Arthur yesterday,” I explained. “We were walking near Hillfont Abbey when a wheel on Bess’s pram came off. Arthur was kind enough to fix it for us.”
“Arthur?” Charles goggled at me. “You’re on a first-name basis with Arthur Hargreaves?”
“I guess so,” I said. “He certainly didn’t introduce himself as the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey.”
“Hermits don’t usually introduce themselves,” Charles said brusquely. “Anonymity is a hallmark of hermithood.”
“What were you doing near Hillfont Abbey?” Grant asked, waving his partner to silence.
“I told you,” I said. “I was taking Bess for a walk.”
“And Arthur Hargreaves just happened to come along and fix Bess’s broken pram,” said Grant, as if he had to hear the story twice over before he could bring himself to believe it.
“That’s right,” I said. “He heard Bess crying and offered to help us. He’s a very nice man.”
“A very nice man,” Grant repeated incredulously.
“He was our knight in shining armor,” I stated emphatically. “As a matter of fact, he called himself the Summer King.”
“Why?” Charles demanded, gazing avidly at me.
“It’s a family tradition, apparently,” I said. “The title’s been passed down from father to son for as long as there have been Hargreaveses at Hillfont Abbey.” I smiled as I recalled Arthur’s lighthearted description of a Summer King’s duties. “Arthur didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. He gave me the impression that it’s a kind of game his family plays to celebrate summer.”
“Did you meet his family as well?” Grant asked faintly.
“Only his grandson Marcus,” I replied, “the teenaged astrophysicist.”
Grant gaped at me, then sat abruptly on the late Joseph Cringle’s table tomb, as if his legs had given way.
“Are you all right?” I asked, eyeing him with concern.
“He’s bowled over,” said Charles.
“Completely bowled over,” Grant confirmed, putting a hand to his forehead.
Charles rested Bess’s carry cot on the tomb, but the secure grip he maintained on the handle met with my approval.
“I must confess that I’m bowled over as well,” Charles said. “We know of Arthur Hargreaves, of course, but we’ve never had the privilege of meeting him or his grandson. We didn’t even know he had a grandson, let alone a teenaged astrophysicist grandson. You’ve joined an extremely exclusive club, Lori.”
I took a step closer to the tomb and the three of us automatically tilted our heads forward and lowered our voices, as one did when sharing confidential information in Finch.
“I’ve told you mine,” I said. “Now you tell me yours. Come on, boys, spill it. What do you know about Arthur Hargreaves?”
“We know that the villagers don’t think much of him,” said Charles. “It has something to do with an ancient feud between Finch and Tillcote. Peggy Taxman had a fit when we mentioned his name. We’ve avoided the subject ever since.”
“You don’t have to avoid it with me,” I said. “I’m all ears.”
“We don’t know anything,” Grant said, but when I looked daggers at him, he hastened to add, “We’ve heard a few tidbits, though.”
“Rumor has it,” said Charles, “that he’s madly wealthy and—some say—ever so slightly mad.”
“According to a reliable source,” said Grant, “he has a history of making anonymous bids at high-end art auctions.”
“Bids that are invariably successful,” Charles put in.
“Who is this reliable source?” I asked.