“At least they’re not moving into the empty cottages,” I said. “I imagine Marigold Edwards’s clients are more polite than William’s sisters.”
“Oh, they’re splendid,” Opal said effusively, her eyes glowing. “The young lawyers we met are from Tunbridge Wells originally, but they’ve been living in a London flat for the past year, poor things. They’ll keep the flat, of course—so handy for their work—but they’d like a quiet place in the country for weekends.”
“Marigold’s Mr. Partridge is a martyr to hives,” said Millicent. “He’s on medication, but I told him an oatmeal bath is what he needs. His wife wants him to find a less stressful job, but I don’t see it happening. He’s spent the whole of his working life in advertising. At his age—he’ll be fifty-five next April—he won’t find it easy to start over.”
“He’s better off than the banker,” said Elspeth. “He has a rash all over his . . . private area. I recommended lashings of calamine lotion.”
“They’re both better off than Mr. Fortnam,” Opal declared, adding for my benefit, “Mr. Fortnam is an Oxford don. His life has been in tatters ever since his wife left him for one of his students, but why it took him by surprise, I’ll never know. The girl was half his age! A mature woman would make him a better wife, and so I told him.”
“There was the surgeon as well,” said Selena. “Hands like velvet and clothes to die for—all of them tailor-made, right down to his shoes. He’s had trouble with his hair plugs—they keep getting infected—but I told him he doesn’t need hair plugs. Bald men are very attractive, especially when they work out as often as he does.” She tossed her head. “Not like that pudgy computer hardware engineer . . .”
“He can’t help gaining weight,” Millicent objected. “It runs in his family. His mother and father were simply enormous. . . .”
The Handmaidens went on and on, sharing a wealth of personal information they could have obtained only by subjecting Marigold’s clients to the kind of interrogations usually reserved for hardcore criminals. I’d long since grown accustomed to their impertinence, but someone facing them for the first time would, I was certain, feel as if he’d been stripped naked by a flock of budgies.
Bess was eyeing my chest beadily by the time the Handmaidens trotted off to refresh themselves at the tearoom. I was about to wheel her back to the Rover when Grant Tavistock called to me from behind Crabtree Cottage’s white picket gate.
“Charles is preparing lunch,” he said when I was within chatting distance. “It was supposed to be brunch, but his culinary reach exceeded his grasp and he had to start over. Join us?” Grant opened the gate and crooned enticingly, “He’s making his chocolate mousse.”
I suspected that the proposed meal would include a heaping helping of questions about Arthur Hargreaves, but I didn’t mind. I had a few questions of my own to ask Grant and Charles, so I accepted the invitation with one caveat.
“I’ll have to feed Bess first,” I said.
“We’ll avert our eyes,” Grant said, tutting impatiently. “Come in!”
Eighteen
Charles, Grant, and I had lunch at the claw-footed oak table in their back garden, surrounded by old-fashioned flowers and fragrant clumps of thyme.
Well-fed, dry-diapered, and sheltered from the sun by the crabapple tree that had given the cottage its name, Bess dozed in the pram’s bassinet, waking occasionally to chew on her toes or to watch Goya, Charles’s golden Pomeranian, and Matisse, Grant’s lively Maltese, prowl around our ankles. The dogs paid absolutely no attention to her. Their eyes were fixed adoringly on Charles, who fed them under the table when Grant wasn’t looking.
Charles’s titanic efforts in the kitchen had paid off handsomely. The dishes he’d prepared—twice—were light, flavorful, and, by Finch’s standards, epicurean. Sally Cook’s tearoom menu didn’t include chilled cucumber soup with crème fra?che and a watercress garnish, bruschetta with tomato tapenade and a pesto drizzle, or a spectacular, eight-layer vegetable terrine, but if it had, I would have eaten lunch there every day.
“Charles has been reading cookbooks again,” Grant said, smiling wryly as we surveyed the feast Charles had placed before us.
“Lucky you,” I said.
“Thank you, Lori.” Charles gave Grant a frosty glance as he seated himself at the table. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”
Charles was a temperamental chef at the best of times. When he was “reading cookbooks,” he could be as prickly as a porcupine.
“I wasn’t criticizing you,” Grant protested.
“Of course he wasn’t,” I said placatingly. “How could anyone criticize a man who produced such beautiful dishes?” I gazed at the food as adoringly as the dogs gazed at Charles. “You’ve outdone yourself, Charles. The great Escoffier himself would envy us.”
“Now you’re being silly,” Charles said with a modest smile, but his mood improved perceptibly from then on.