“I’m listening,” I said. “So is Bess.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint either one of you.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and began, “I didn’t buy Finch, Lori. I inherited it and all the responsibilities that came along with it.”
“Did your father buy the village?” I asked.
“My father, too, inherited the village, as did his father and his father’s father,” said Arthur. “The original purchase was made by my great-great-grandfather.”
“Quentin Hargreaves,” I said. “The man who built Hillfont Abbey.”
Arthur nodded.
“To understand my family’s relationship with Finch,” he said, “you must first understand Quentin.” He paused, then lifted his arm in a gesture that encompassed the entire library. “Look around you, Lori. Tell me what you see hanging on the walls.”
I gave the walls a cursory glance and said, “I see what I saw before, Arthur—maps, technical drawings, the family coat of arms. Why? Is it important?”
“What’s important is what’s missing,” he told me.
“You’re talking in riddles,” I said impatiently. “I’m not good at solving riddles.”
“You’ll solve this one,” he assured me. “Try again. Ask yourself what you would expect to find hanging on the walls of a library as old as this one.”
I sighed irritably, but when I turned my head to study the library’s walls, the answer came to me in a flash.
“Portraits,” I said, feeling absurdly pleased with myself. “I’d expect to find family portraits. Where are they? Did Quentin build a special gallery for them?”
“If you go through the whole of Hillfont Abbey, you won’t find a single family portrait,” said Arthur. “I’m not talking about family snaps. We have plenty of those. I’m talking about the grandiose portraits of powerful ancestors painted as props to support a family’s sense of self-importance. You won’t find any of those in the abbey.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“They foster laziness,” Arthur replied. “They allow one to rest on someone else’s laurels. Quentin was proud of his ancestors, most of whom were blacksmiths and armorers, but he refused to take credit for their accomplishments. He believed that each generation should set its own goals and achieve them through”—he pointed toward the coat of arms—“imagination, hard work, and persistence. Quentin inculcated his children with the belief that the only aristocracy worth preserving is the aristocracy of the mind.”
“Arthur,” I said, “you don’t have to convince me that you come from a long line of high-achieving smarty-pants. I already know that cleverness runs in your family. I kind of got that message when I met your astrophysicist grandson. Maybe my tiny brain is missing the point, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with Finch.”
“You will,” Arthur said. “As I told you the other day, Quentin was a manufacturer. He built factories, streamlined methods of mass production, employed hundreds of workers, and made millions of pounds. He believed in progress, in the future, but he also kept one foot planted firmly in the past.”
“He preserved the Roman fountain,” I said, nodding, “and he filled his home with handcrafted furnishings. Also,” I went on, like a student eager to show off, “he built a whimsical country house loosely based on a historical model.”
“Well done,” said Arthur. “Full marks.”
“Once a teacher, always a teacher,” I said with a reluctant smile. “You told me Quentin bought a large estate so he could pursue his dreams in peace. Was Finch part of the estate?”
“It was not,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch one cottage at a time. Within ten years he owned the entire village, with the obvious exceptions of the church, the vicarage, and the schoolhouse.”
“Which were owned by the diocese,” I put in.
“Correct,” said Arthur. “Quentin also purchased every parcel of land within a ten-mile radius of Finch.”
“A ten-mile radius?” I echoed. “That means he bought Anscombe Manor and the Pym sisters’ house and . . . and Fairworth House?”
“He did,” said Arthur. “We still own each of those properties.”
I gaped at him. “You’re William’s landlord?”
“I’m afraid so,” Arthur said apologetically. “But I can assure you that the terms of his lease are not onerous. We gave him our permission to renovate the house and we contributed to the cost of the renovation.”
“And he never knew it was you?” I said, astonished.
“I don’t believe so.” Arthur smiled mischievously. “I never received a thank-you note.”