“Charles Bellingham,” Bree replied. “He’s always talking about what a great eye he has. He’d love to find an undiscovered masterpiece, but he wouldn’t want to be seen wishing for one. He’d want everyone—Grant especially—to think he could spot a long-lost Rembrandt without the well’s assistance.”
Bree’s comments were cruel, but accurate. She’d lived in Finch long enough to know her neighbors’ foibles better than she knew her own. I had no trouble picturing Peggy or Henry or Charles sneaking into the back garden to commune with the wishing well privately. Pride would motivate them to conceal their activities and girth—they were not the daintiest of creatures—would prevent them from sneaking stealthily. They could very well be responsible for the noises that had disturbed Jack’s sleep.
“Too bad you have no proof,” I said, dismounting for a breather at Bree’s house. “I’d give my eyeteeth to have a photograph of Peggy sticking her head down the well.”
“So would I,” said Bree. “Too late, though. If I’m right—which I am—she’s already been and gone.”
“I’d better be gone, too,” I said. “I’ve been a bit lax with the laundry lately. It’s time to catch up.”
“You really know how to enjoy a day off,” Bree said with a wry smile. “Hug the boys for me.”
“Will do,” I said. “See you tomorrow!”
I had something more enjoyable than laundry to contemplate as I pedaled toward home. I intended to share Bree’s educated guesswork with Aunt Dimity. She would, I knew, be as tickled as I was by the thought of Peggy Taxman, Charles Bellingham, and Henry Cook whispering sweet nothings to the well in the dead of night.
I turned into our graveled driveway, stowed Betsy in the garage, and threw a greeting to Stanley as I sailed through the front door and up the hallway to the study. I was in the midst of giving Reginald’s pink flannel ears a fond twiddle when the doorbell rang, not once, but five times in a row.
“I’m coming!” I called, shooting a querying glance at my bunny.
Neither Reginald nor I could have known it at the time, but the five rings heralded a small avalanche of weird coincidences.
Thirteen
I found Emma waiting for me on the doorstep, her finger poised to ring the bell a sixth time. She brushed past me when I opened the door and whirled around to face me when I closed it, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, clasped her hands under her chin, and let loose a gurgle of laughter.
“Emma?” I said gently. “Have you been drinking?”
“Not yet,” she replied, “but Derek and I may break open a bottle of bubbly later. Oh, Lori, we’ve had the most wonderful news! Wonderful! You’ll never guess what it is.”
“Tell me, then,” I demanded as dozens of guesses darted through my mind. “Is it Nell? Is she preg—”
“It’s not Nell!” Emma exclaimed. “It’s Peter!”
“Peter’s pregnant?” I said doubtfully.
Emma giggled like a five-year-old, cleared her throat, and announced exultantly, “Peter’s coming home!”
My jaw dropped. Peter Harris was Derek’s son, Emma’s stepson, and Nell’s only sibling. Though the Harrises were a close-knit family, Peter wasn’t a homebody. He and his wife, Cassandra, had spent the past five years monitoring wildlife in remote outposts all over the United Kingdom. They’d made a brief appearance at Nell’s wedding and taken off again almost immediately for another assignment. It was the last time any of us had seen them at Anscombe Manor.
I couldn’t concentrate with Emma bouncing and giggling, so I whisked her into the living room, forced her to sit on the couch, and seated myself on the coffee table, facing her.
“Is Peter coming home to visit?” I probed. “Or is he coming home to stay?”
“To stay!” Emma crowed, bouncing up and down on the couch.
“Would you please sit still?” I said. “You’re frightening Stanley.”
It would have taken more than a bouncing Emma to drive Stanley from the comfort of Bill’s armchair, but my ploy worked. Emma contained her delirium for the cat’s sake.
“Now,” I said, “tell me everything.”
“Derek’s phone rang two minutes after I got back from Ivy Cottage,” she began. “It was Peter, calling to ask if he and Cassie could move in with us. They’ve had their fill of traveling and they want to start a family and they can’t think of a better place to raise children than Anscombe Manor.”
“I can’t think of one, either,” I said.
“It’s such a relief,” Emma went on. “Derek and I were afraid our first grandchild would be born in a stone hut in the Hebrides or in a cave halfway up Mount Snowdon or somewhere else equally rustic. But common sense prevailed in the end.”
“Funny how common sense prevails when one is contemplating childbirth,” I observed.
“Peter wanted us to take our time, thinking it over,” said Emma, “but we didn’t need to think it over. They’ll be here tomorrow!”