The letter sent by Monoceros Properties, Limited, to Marigold Edwards had been printed on stationery embossed with a simple line drawing of Hillfont Abbey. I traced the outline of the abbey’s square tower with a trembling fingertip, then let my gaze drop slowly, almost fearfully, to the letter’s closing.
“‘Sincerely yours,’” I whispered, “‘Arthur Hargreaves.’”
Twenty-one
I fixed my gaze on Bess and waited for my heart to stop pounding. Then I took a deep breath and read Arthur’s letter from start to finish. It was a brief, cordial acknowledgment of Marigold’s “most recent report” and a directive enjoining her to “continue to act in accordance with our agreement.”
“What report?” I muttered. “What agreement?”
I began to make my way through the file, scanning each piece of paper with a growing sense of perplexity.
Although there was no official title attached to Arthur’s name, it rapidly became apparent that he was Marigold Edwards’s principal contact at Monoceros Properties, Limited. Her job as the company’s managing agent required her to compile reports for him concerning the house hunters she brought to Finch.
Her reports did not, however, contain standard real estate agent notes. They said nothing about a client’s age, marital status, financial situation, employment record, or housing preferences.
Instead, Marigold had written detailed notes describing her clients’ personality traits, such as the young lawyers’ workaholism and the surgeon’s narcissism, and their private tribulations. Her descriptions of the advertising executive’s hives, the banker’s rash, the surgeon’s infected hair plugs, the computer engineer’s weight issues, and the Oxford don’s failed marriage were alarmingly familiar.
I skimmed her reports on other clients as well, clients the Handmaidens hadn’t mentioned to me—a financial consultant, an obstetrician, a radiologist, and the economist Lilian Bunting had encountered at St. George’s—and they all followed the same pattern: a personality assessment followed by a litany of ills.
Marigold concluded her reports with a description of each client’s reaction to the total-immersion tour of Finch. Though her wording varied—some clients were “annoyed and offended,” while others were merely “spooked”—the responses were uniformly negative.
The sound of approaching footsteps spooked me. I shoved the folder back in its drawer, threw myself into my chair, and had Bess in my arms within seconds, but by then the footsteps had retreated.
Bess, on the other hand, had advanced, making it abundantly clear that she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d kept my part of the bargain. I adjusted my top accordingly and while she dined, I telephoned Bill.
“Hello, love,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Do you rent Wysteria Lodge?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Who collects your rent?” I asked.
“No one,” he answered. “I pay it online.”
“The online account must have a name,” I pointed out.
“I pay my rent to Monoceros Properties, Limited,” Bill said with a soft chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Nothing, really,” he admitted. “I’m sure Monoceros is a perfectly respectable family name, but it’s also the name of a constellation. The constellation’s name is derived from a Greek word.”
“Greek may have been on your private-school syllabus,” I said impatiently, “but it wasn’t taught in my public school. Translation, please.”
“Monoceros,” said Bill, “is the Greek word for unicorn.” He chuckled again. “I like the idea of paying rent to a mythical creature.”
“Bianca,” I breathed, envisioning the gift Harriet had bestowed upon Bess.
“Sorry?” said Bill. “Did you say something, Lori?”
“Not really,” I said, feeling dazed. “Look, Bill, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to think.”
I dropped my cell phone into the diaper bag and gazed distractedly into thin air as I recalled the not-too-distant memory of standing beside Arthur in his splendid library while his dark-haired, impetuous granddaughter deciphered her family’s coat of arms. The bulldog stood for tenacity, she’d explained, the honeybee stood for hard work, and the unicorn . . .
“The unicorn,” I murmured, “represents the power of the imagination.”
Had it amused Arthur to name his company after a potent family symbol? I asked myself.
“Why did he choose the unicorn?” I asked Bess. “Why not the bulldog or the honeybee? What does the power of the imagination have to do with Finch?”
I glanced suspiciously at the file cabinets, wondering how many more files on Finch I would find if I went through them thoroughly. I had a strange feeling that Marigold had sent Arthur reports, not only on the house hunters, but on everyone who lived in or near the village.
“Arthur knew things about me he shouldn’t have known,” I said to Bess. “The first time we met him, when he came to fix your pram’s axle, he called me Lori because he knew that everyone calls me Lori. He knew that I was from Finch and he knew that I had two young sons.”