Raindrops glistened on the bushy bay tree that concealed the entrance to the old farm track. I assumed the track had flooded overnight and felt a rush of gratitude to Willis, Sr., for suggesting a safer route to Hillfont Abbey.
I slowed to a crawl when we reached the humpbacked bridge, in part because the bridge was dauntingly steep and narrow, but mainly because the view from its tallest arch was so pretty. Finch lay before me, basking in the midday sun. Its honey-hued stone buildings, with their crooked chimneys and lichen-dappled roofs, faced one another across the cobbled lane encircling the village green, like a cluster of gossips leaning in for the latest news.
Peacock’s pub, Taxman’s Emporium, and the greengrocer’s shop sat with their backs to a rising landscape of shadowy woods and sheep-dotted pastures, while Sally Cook’s tearoom, the vicarage, and the old village school edged the water meadows that dropped down to the willow-draped banks of the Little Deeping. Homely cottages rubbed shoulders with the small business establishments. The geraniums, petunias, pansies, and impatiens in their carefully tended window boxes added splashes of vibrant color to the mellow scene.
Mr. Barlow lived at the foot of the bridge. He was in front of his house, working on the vicar’s black sedan, when I entered the village. I waved to him and he raised an oily wrench in response, then motioned for me to pull over. I stopped the Rover beside the vicar’s car, rolled down my window, and prepared myself for the first friendly chat of the day.
“Met William’s sisters this morning,” he informed me, resting his arms on the window’s sill. “He brought ’em in after breakfast to show ’em the village. Snooty pair of cats, aren’t they?”
Mr. Barlow was as bad as I was at mincing words.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“Don’t think I want to,” he declared.
“Was Amelia with them?” I asked.
“No,” said Mr. Barlow. “She had to leave bright and early for Oxford. Something to do with setting up a new exhibit of her paintings.”
Since Amelia had said nothing to me about a new exhibit, I suspected that it was a fabrication invented for the sake of self-preservation. She might lack my flair for duplicity, I told myself, but she wasn’t a masochist.
“Been meaning to tell you,” Mr. Barlow went on, “I was wrong about Peggy buying Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. She wanted to, right enough, but Jasper put his foot down.”
“I’ll bet he put it down softly,” I said.
“His soft ways work with Peggy,” Mr. Barlow reminded me. “They had enough on their plate, he told her, with the Emporium and the greengrocer’s. No need to go looking for more.”
“Thanks for letting me know about Peggy,” I said. “Has anyone looked at the empty cottages today?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Marigold Edwards for a couple of weeks.”
“She must be having a hard time lining up prospective buyers,” I said. “Have you met any of her clients?”
“I’ve met all of ’em,” he replied. “Marigold always tracks me down when she’s showing a cottage. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Who else can tell her clients about the cottages’ quirks?”
“Quirks?” I said alertly. “You told me that Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are as sound as a bell.”
“They are, but every house has its quirks,” Mr. Barlow said easily. “It’s best to know about them beforehand. Take Rose Cottage, for example. The pipes knock when you run the hot water, the back door sticks in damp weather, and the chimney flue will need replacing in a year or two.”
“And Ivy Cottage?” I asked.
“Whoever takes it on will have to take on the garden as well,” Mr. Barlow replied. “If they don’t, the whole village will have something to say about it. It’ll be a lot of work, I tell ’em, but it’s the kind of work that gives a real gardener pleasure.” He straightened. “Better get back to my own work. Mrs. Bunting’ll need the car this afternoon for meals-on-wheels. Nice talking with you, Lori.”
“Nice talking with you, Mr. Barlow,” I said and I meant it. It was clear to me that Marigold Edwards used Mr. Barlow’s expert knowledge to underscore the empty cottages’ shortcomings. As I restarted the engine, I murmured, “Strike one.”
I parked the Rover in front of the Emporium, took Bess from her car seat, and carried her inside.
“ ’Morning, Lori!” Peggy Taxman boomed from behind the shop’s long wooden counter. “ ’Morning, Bess!”
I always expected Bess to flinch at the sound of Peggy’s voice, but she seemed to find it hilarious.
“Got a postcard for you from Jack and Bree,” Peggy went on. She let herself into the post office cage at the counter’s far end and handed the postcard to me through the cage’s little window. “They’re in Wellington—that’s in New Zealand—and the weather’s atrocious. Gale force winds, Bree says, blowing straight up from the Antarctic.”
Postmistress Peggy considered it her sworn duty to read each and every postcard that passed through her hands.
“It’s winter in New Zealand,” I pointed out.