“I’m sure they will,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Bree’s attached to her great-grandaunts’ house and Jack’s attached to Bree, so I can’t imagine them living anywhere else after they’re married.”
“Are they to be wed?” Mr. Barlow leaned toward me attentively, demonstrating that no one in Finch, not even our down-to-earth handyman, was immune to the gossip bug.
“They haven’t picked a date yet,” I told him, “but I’ll be utterly amazed if they don’t pick one as soon as they get back.” I paused to munch on a foot Bess had kicked free from her blanket, then covered her up again and continued, “Why would Peggy Taxman spread nasty rumors about Rose Cottage?”
“Because she’s greedy,” he replied. “Enough is never enough for Peggy. She always wants more. She’s already got the Emporium and the greengrocer’s shop, and she tried to snatch the tearoom from Sally Cook last year. She must be licking her chops over Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. I reckon she’d rent them out as holiday homes for part-timers. You know, weekenders and such, like that woman who had Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle.” He clucked his tongue in disgust. “Glad to see the back of that woman. Slept here, that’s all she did. Didn’t even come to the church fête.”
“If Peggy wants to buy the cottages,” I said, bypassing the conversational detour, “why hasn’t she gone ahead and bought them? Why would she waste time inventing rumors about them?”
“To drive the price down, of course,” said Mr. Barlow, as if it were the most obvious conclusion one could draw. “If she makes the places look bad, she’ll scare away the competition and Marigold Edwards will have to lower the prices.”
Bess was absorbed in a second attempt to free her foot, so I switched three-quarters of my attention to Mr. Barlow. I had a feeling that I was about to strike gold again.
“Who is Marigold Edwards?” I asked.
“She’s an estate agent,” said Mr. Barlow. “The estate agent, really. Marigold married into the business, but her husband’s agency, the Edwards Estate Agency, has handled property in Finch for as long as I can remember. Old man Edwards—Marigold’s father-in-law—he’s retired now, but he found my house for me, just like Marigold found Pussywillows for Amelia Thistle.”
Since I’d inherited the cottage from Aunt Dimity, and since the inheritance had been handled by a law firm well versed in English property law, I hadn’t had to deal with a real estate agent when I’d moved to Finch, but I had a vague recollection of seeing one show Pussywillows to Amelia.
“Petite woman?” I said tentatively. “Blond? Well dressed? Not quite as young as she’d like to be?”
“That’s Marigold,” said Mr. Barlow, nodding.
“You wouldn’t happen to have her phone number with you, would you?” I asked.
“Have it right here,” said Mr. Barlow, tapping the side of his head, “but I’ll write it down for you, if you like.”
“Please,” I said.
Mr. Barlow took a small notebook and a carpenter’s pencil from his shirt pocket, wrote the phone number on one of the notebook’s pages, tore the page out, and handed it to me.
“Her office is in Upper Deeping,” he said. He looked down at his roughened hands, then raised his eyes to look straight into mine as he asked, “You and Bill aren’t thinking of selling your cottage, are you?”
“Definitely not,” I replied, as I tucked the scrap of paper into the diaper bag. “I asked for Marigold’s number so I can have it on hand if I run into someone who’s in the market for a country cottage.” I hesitated, then said, “I don’t mean to pry, Mr. Barlow, but . . . why do you know Marigold’s phone number by heart?”
“I work for the Edwards agency,” he said. “Marigold pays me good money to look after Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage. I look in on Bree’s house, too, but I don’t have to be paid to do that.”
I peered at him curiously. “When you say you ‘look after’ the cottages, what do you mean, exactly?”
“I air them, check the roofs and the windows for leaks, keep the gardens from running wild, make sure the plumbing’s in good working order, that sort of thing,” Mr. Barlow replied. “I expect I’ll do the same for Pussywillows, once Amelia Thistle becomes Mrs. Willis and moves into Fairworth House.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Houses like to be lived in, Lori. They go to rack and ruin if they’re left on their own for too long.”
“I suppose they do,” I said. “It sounds as though Marigold Edwards knows her business.”