“We also rely on word of mouth rather than advertising to attract new residents,” said Arthur. “When a property becomes available, we list it with one small estate agency in Upper Deeping and we give them strict instructions to wait for interested parties to come to them.”
“The Edwards Estate Agency,” I said. “Your family’s current intermediary.”
“They’ve served us well for nearly a hundred years,” said Arthur.
“I suppose the total-immersion tour is another way of reducing demand,” I said.
“So you found out about the tour as well,” Arthur said admiringly. “You have done your homework. I must admit that your name for it is catchier than ours.”
“What do you call it?” I asked.
“An introduction to Finch,” Arthur replied. “One moves into a community as well as a cottage.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said, hearing the echo of Aunt Dimity’s words in Arthur’s.
“The introduction,” Arthur continued, “allows people to test the waters before they make a commitment. It’s not an infallible system. People sometimes overestimate their tolerance for Finch’s uniquely potent form of neighborliness.”
“Not everyone enjoys living under a microscope,” I said.
“No, indeed,” said Arthur. “For example, the woman who leased Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle—”
“Dervla Ponsonby,” I inserted.
“Miss Ponsonby,” Arthur went on, “believed she could shut her door on the village. She failed to realize that the villagers would never stop knocking on it. The constant attention drove her mad. Eventually, it drove her out of the village. Mrs. Thistle, by contrast, welcomed the knocks.”
“So did Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock,” I said. “They loved the tour. When they moved to Finch, they were eager to get in on the gossip. They wanted to know as much about the villagers as the villagers wanted to know about them.”
“If one is to live happily in Finch,” said Arthur, “it helps to take an interest in one’s neighbors.”
“And yet,” I said, “you’re not allowed to take an interest in yours.”
“Oh, I do take an interest,” said Arthur, “from a distance.”
“Still doing good deeds in silence, eh?” I said.
“Obviously not,” said Arthur. “I believe you and Bess have heard every word I’ve said.”
“Why is that?” I asked. “Why have you broken the code of secrecy? Why are you spilling the beans to me?”
Arthur stood and crossed to gaze through the French doors at the fountain court.
“We knew you’d come along one day,” he said. “Not you in particular, but someone like you.”
“Someone who noticed odd things going on in the village and dug around until she found an explanation?” I said with a touch of pride.
“No,” he said. “Someone who tripped the wire.”
“The . . . what?” I said, thrown off base.
“The wire,” Arthur repeated, turning to face me. “Of course, it’s not a wire anymore. It’s an infrared sensor, but it serves the same function.” He pointed at the ceiling. “It makes the flag on the tower fall to half mast.”
“Are we back to riddles?” I asked, mystified.
“Forgive me,” said Arthur. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start again.” He returned to his seat and leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “We placed an infrared device in the corner of our boundary wall. It shines a beam across the old cart track. When the beam is broken, an alarm sounds in the abbey and our flag falls to half mast. I saw the flag drop and knew that someone had come up the path.”
“I thought you heard Bess crying,” I said reproachfully.
“I couldn’t have heard her through the racket the children were making,” said Arthur. “Though, of course, I did hear her when I approached the wall. She has a fine pair of lungs.”
“Never mind about her lungs,” I said indignantly. “Do you climb over the wall for every rambler who breaks the beam? Your alarms must be going off all the time.”
“Ramblers rarely use the track,” said Arthur. “They’re worried about flash floods. They’ve triggered the alarm only three times in the past seven years. They weren’t the reason it was installed.” He nodded at me. “You were.”
“You’re creeping me out, Arthur,” I said. “You may be a visionary, but you couldn’t have foreseen me.”
“Sorry,” he said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I misspoke. I wasn’t referring to you specifically, but to you as an adult resident of Finch. You, Lori, were the first adult resident of Finch to use the track since the villagers abandoned it nearly a hundred years ago.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“The breech between Finch and Hillfont Abbey was absolute,” he said. “It traveled down through the generations. In the meantime, the track deteriorated and became flood prone. Even if a villager had been willing to ignore the taboo, he would have thought twice about using such a dangerous route to approach the abbey.”