“Morning,” Bree said with a brief nod.
“G’day,” said Jack, adding almost as an afterthought, “Garage door’s open. Mr. Barlow’s crowbar did the trick. Bung your bike in there or she’ll end up buried in ivy.”
“Okay,” I said equably and wheeled Betsy toward the rickety shed, wondering if Bree had found a way to argue with Jack about ladders.
As Emma had predicted, Hector Huggins had stored his gardening implements in the garage. It was well organized and much cleaner than I’d expected it to be, and it had room to spare for my bicycle.
“Well?” I said, returning to Jack and Bree. “What are we waiting for?”
“Jack doesn’t trust the ladders,” said Bree, sounding exasperated. “He’s afraid they’ll collapse under us.”
“Whose are they?” I asked.
“One was Uncle Hector’s,” Jack replied, “and the other two belong to Mr. Barlow.” He prodded the ladder closest to him with his toe. “Mr. B. said they were pukka, but I reckon they belong in a museum.”
“If Mr. Barlow gave them his stamp of approval,” I said, “you have nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t let us use them if they weren’t, uh, pukka.”
“Satisfied?” Bree demanded.
“Not very.” Jack raised his head to look at her. “You’re doing me a favor. How do you think I’d feel if you broke your neck doing me a favor?”
Jack was clearly more focused on Bree’s neck than on mine, but I didn’t mind. His concern for Bree’s welfare would, I knew, please Aunt Dimity, though it had quite the opposite effect on Bree.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered impatiently and without further ado, she picked up a ladder, leaned it against the cottage, extended it to roof height, and scrambled up it as nimbly as a gymnast.
“See?” she shouted down to us. “Solid as a rock. Stop fussing, Jack, and get up here!”
“If she does fall,” I murmured, hoping to allay Jack’s fears, “she’ll land on a three-foot cushion of weeds.”
“If she misses the bricks,” said Jack, peering anxiously at Bree.
“She’ll miss the bricks,” I elaborated, “because she’ll slow her fall by grabbing onto the ivy. That’ll give her enough time to aim for the weeds.”
“The vines are like a backup ladder.” Jack’s sunny smile returned. “She’ll be right.”
“Bring secateurs with you,” Bree hollered, brandishing her own pair. “The ivy’s sneaking under the slates. It must be pruned with a firm hand!”
Jack laughed. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“She’s a pistol,” I agreed.
The words had scarcely left my lips when a sound louder than a hundred pistol shots rent the air. I jumped in alarm and Jack sprang toward the cottage with his arms outstretched, as if he expected Bree to plummet from on high. She kept her balance, but descended the ladder rapidly, looking rattled.
“What on earth . . . ?” I said.
“It’s coming from the village,” said Bree. “It sounds like a plane crash-landed on the green.”
“Let’s find out,” said Jack.
With my husband in apparent danger, I didn’t need Jack’s advice to race toward the village green. I outsprinted him and Bree to the top of the humpbacked bridge, where a singular sight met my eyes.
The green lay before me, a long, oval island of tussocky grass encircled by a cobbled lane. The lane was lined with venerable buildings—businesses as well as residences—made of the same golden stone as my cottage and Ivy Cottage. The mellow melding of green and gold gave the village a timeless air of unruffled tranquility.
On that glorious May morning, however, Finch looked distinctly ruffled. Villagers leaned out of open windows or spilled through doorways or stood like statues on the green, their hands pressed to their ears as they glared at the source of the appalling din.
The sound wasn’t coming from a doomed airliner, but from a red two-seater sports car. The deafening roar it emitted was out of all proportion to its size. Three village dogs slipped their leashes and tore after it, barking like mad, as it crawled past the vicarage, the schoolmaster’s house, and the old schoolhouse before coming to rest directly in front of my husband’s place of work, Wysteria Lodge, whereupon the roar ceased, though the dogs kept barking.
Bill strode forth from Wysteria Lodge, caught the overexcited pups by their collars, and returned them to their grateful owners. Only then did the hapless driver get out of the car, doff his suede driving cap, and engage my helpful husband in conversation.
The driver was a short, stout man with a bald head and a very pink face. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles, leather driving gloves, and a loden-green tweed suit, and he made small, fussy gestures as he spoke, as if he were picking lint from the air.
I arrived on the scene in time to hear him utter the last word of the first question I would have asked, had I been in his situation.
“. . . mechanic?”