“Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “I’ve met quite a few. Let’s see . . .” She drummed her fingers on the bench as she searched her memory. “I’ve spoken with a pair of young lawyers, an advertising executive and his wife, a surgeon, a banker, an Oxford don, a man who has something to do with economics, an architect . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I’m certain I’ve forgotten someone, but it’s difficult to remember them all when there have been so many.”
“If you’ve met Marigold as often as that,” I said reasonably, “you must have spoken with her.”
“I’ve answered her clients’ questions about the church and its history,” said Lilian, “but I’ve never had a meaningful conversation with Marigold. We exchange pleasantries and move on.”
“You’re good at reading people,” I persisted. “You may not be Marigold’s best friend, but you must have formed an opinion about her character. Do you think she’s honest, for example?”
“What an extraordinary question,” said Lilian. “Do you suspect Marigold Edwards of shady dealings?”
“I don’t suspect her of anything,” I replied less than honestly. “I’d just like to know what sort of person she is.”
“I would say that Marigold Edwards is as honest as an estate agent can be,” Lilian temporized. “They do tend to embroider the truth for the sake of a sale, but as far as I know, Marigold keeps her embroidery within acceptable bounds.” Lilian directed a searching look at me. “Why are you quizzing me about our local estate agent? Are you and Bill contemplating a change of address?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “You and the vicar are stuck with us, Lilian. We’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Lilian.
Bess’s gymnastic display had tired her, so I turned her onto her back, gobbled her tummy, and gave her a teething ring to gum. She promptly tossed the ring aside and chewed on her toes.
“I don’t know why I bring toys with me,” I said as I resumed my seat. “Bess would much rather play with her hands and feet.”
“She’s remarkably flexible,” Lilian observed. She watched Bess in fascinated silence for a moment, then returned to the subject at hand. “If you and Bill intend to remain in your cottage, what has piqued your interest in Marigold Edwards?”
“Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage,” I replied. “And pretty soon, Pussywillows.”
“I see,” said Lilian. “You’re concerned about the two vacant cottages and the cottage that will be vacant after Amelia’s wedding.”
“I’m very concerned about them,” I said. “It sounds as though plenty of prospective buyers have seen Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. If Marigold Edwards is doing her job properly, why are they still vacant? Doesn’t it make you question her competence or doubt her trustworthiness?”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Lilian. “The situation isn’t as dire as you seem to think it is, Lori, and it’s certainly not unusual. Cottages in Finch don’t come on the market often, but when they do, they tend to stay there for a while. The greengrocer’s shop went quickly because Peggy Taxman leapt on it, but Pussywillows was untenanted for six months before Amelia’s arrival.”
“Six months?” I said, frowning doubtfully. “Are you sure? It didn’t seem like six months to me.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Lilian. “Pussywillows’ previous owner—Miss Ponsonby? Was that her name?—was virtually invisible. She kept her drapes drawn at all times, she couldn’t be bothered to plant flowers in her window boxes, and she rebuffed every friendly advance.”
“Dervla Ponsonby,” I said, nodding slowly. “A memorable name for an unmemorable woman. The only thing I can recall about Dervla Ponsonby, apart from her name, is the stir she created when she rejected the casseroles.”
No one who’d lived in Finch at the time would ever forget the stir. Precisely three days after the elusive Miss Ponsonby had taken possession of Pussywillows, Millicent Scroggins, Opal Taylor, Elspeth Binney, and Selena Buxton had attempted to present her with a quartet of tasty, filling, and easily reheated casseroles, as a neighborly way of welcoming her to the village.
When Miss Ponsonby spurned their well-intentioned offerings, they’d acted as though she’d insulted their mothers, hurled rocks at their houses, and stabbed them through the lungs with a hot poker. The casserole incident had provided Finch with a solid month’s worth of outraged gossip.
“It was the first and last stir Miss Ponsonby created,” Lilian remarked. “Pussywillows appeared to be vacant even when she was living in it.”
“She didn’t make the slightest effort to get to know us,” I said wistfully.
“I’m sure she’s much happier in London,” said Lilian. “Village life didn’t suit her.”
“I’m beginning to think it doesn’t suit anyone who doesn’t live here already,” I expostulated. “I don’t get it, Lilian. Why is it so hard to sell a house in Finch?”
“I expect it’s because Finch lacks the amenities most people require nowadays,” she replied, unconsciously echoing Aunt Dimity’s sentiments.
“Like a school or a hospital,” I grumbled.
“Or a library or a cinema or a leisure center,” Lilian put in. “Or a petrol station.”