“But my cottage is mine, isn’t it?” I asked, too preoccupied to react to Arthur’s mild attempt at humor. “Marigold called me a freeholder.”
“There’s nothing preventing my family from selling all the properties Quentin acquired,” said Arthur, “but it has, in fact, happened only once, when Dimity Westwood purchased her property. A great deal of money was involved in the transaction—land prices had risen sharply since Quentin’s time—but Miss Westwood wished to leave the cottage to you without encumbrances.”
“Wow,” I said, stunned.
A squawk from Bess gave my reeling mind time to focus again. Once I’d freed her to practice push-ups on a blanket I’d spread across the rug in front of the sofa, I sat beside her and peered curiously at Arthur.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Quentin was proud of being a self-made man. He didn’t want to be a lazy aristocrat, living off the achievements of his forefathers. Why would he suddenly decide to become the lord of the manor?”
“That’s exactly what he didn’t do,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch and its environs on the sly, to use your colorful phrase, by utilizing various intermediaries. He created a company—Monoceros Properties, Limited—to shield his identity. He made it virtually impossible to trace the transactions directly back to him.”
“He bought Finch anonymously,” I said, feeling utterly at sea. “Why would he buy a village if he didn’t want to lord it over the villagers?”
“Quentin had no wish to lord it over anyone,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch because the villagers despised him. They thought he was an upstart, a parvenu, a grubby tradesman who didn’t deserve their respect. They called his house Quentin’s Folly and made rude remarks about him whenever he ventured into the village.”
I eyed Arthur doubtfully.
“I don’t mean to pry,” I said, “but did Quentin have a taste for . . . abuse?”
“Not at all,” said Arthur, laughing, “but he did have a great liking for honesty. He found their attitude refreshing and wholly admirable. The people in Tillcote treated him with undue deference. They tugged their forelocks when he passed by and came crawling to him, cap in hand, asking for jobs and favors.”
“They treated him as if he were an aristocrat,” I said, with a glimmer of comprehension, “which is the one thing he didn’t wish to be.”
“Precisely,” said Arthur. “He was accustomed to the rough-and-tumble world of industry. He preferred Finch’s bluntness to Tillcote’s toadying. He mistrusted kid gloves.”
“He liked boxing gloves better?” I said.
“They’re more direct,” said Arthur. “Quentin wished to do something for Finch, but he didn’t want the villagers to feel indebted to him.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“To make them grateful would be to encourage subservience,” Arthur explained. “He also agreed with the Greek philosopher Seneca, who wrote: Let him who has done a good deed be silent.”
“Quentin wanted to do a good deed for Finch,” I said, “but he wanted to do it anonymously.”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “When a dispute over stolen pigs arose between Finch and Tillcote, therefore, he sided with Tillcote.”
“He offended Finch on purpose,” I marveled, “so he could help the villagers without hurting their pride.”
“It seems back to front,” Arthur acknowledged, “but Quentin had to distance himself from the village in order to protect it.”
“Protect it?” I said. “Protect it from what?”
“From housing estates, industrial parks, motorways, and suburban sprawl,” said Arthur. “The countryside was already under threat in Quentin’s time. He realized that the only way to protect Finch was to create a buffer zone around it.”
I turned Bess over and let her play grab-and-chew with my fingers.
“A buffer zone would explain why Quentin bought the surrounding land,” I said to Arthur, “but it doesn’t explain why he bought the village.”
“Quentin foresaw the day when country cottages would become a rare and valuable commodity,” Arthur informed me. “He was bitterly opposed to the gentrification of small villages. He loathed the idea of the wealthy driving out those of lesser means.”
“So he bought the cottages in order to control housing costs,” I said, as understanding finally dawned. “He transformed Finch into a . . . a rent-controlled village where ordinary, everyday people could afford to live.”
“It’s been that way ever since,” said Arthur. “We see to it.”
“How do you keep Finch from being overrun by bargain-hunters?” I asked.
“The buffer zone helps,” said Arthur. “No one can build a leisure center or a cinema or a minimall within ten miles of Finch. Their absence gives the village a highly desirable air of dullness.”
“Finch has its limitations,” I said wryly.