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.