Elspeth followed me into the living room and sat in the same spot Emma had so recently occupied. Her posture was what one would expect from a retired schoolteacher and I found myself pulling my shoulders back as I lowered myself into my armchair.
“I wouldn’t trouble you, Lori,” Elspeth began, “if we didn’t have two very special things in common.”
“We have two things in common?” I said, baffled. “What would they be?”
“The wishing well,” she said, “and a deep appreciation of my niece’s artistic gifts. Do you remember my niece?”
“The niece who lives in Yorkshire?” I said. “The photographer?”
“That’s right,” said Elspeth. “Her name is Jemima, but we’ve always called her Jemma. Jemma Renshawe is her married name. You’ve never met Jemma, of course,” Elspeth went on, “but you admired her photographs when you came to my cottage last year.”
“They’re beautiful photographs,” I said, recalling the evocative black-and-white landscapes hanging on the walls in Elspeth’s sunny parlor. “Your niece is a gifted photographer.”
“Thank you,” said Elspeth. “Selena, Opal, and Millicent may take painting classes from Mr. Shuttleworth in Upper Deeping, but they lack the capacity to appreciate fine art. They think I’m proud of Jemma simply because she’s my niece. They’re incapable of recognizing her unique talent, but you aren’t.”
“Have you heard from your niece?” I asked, wishing she would get to the point.
“I have,” Elspeth said, her eyes shining. “She rang this morning to tell me that she’s been given a commission! A London firm is publishing a book about English villages and the book’s editor commissioned Jemma to photograph the people in a Cotswold village. Naturally, Jemma thought of Finch.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“She rang yesterday to tell me about the project,” said Elspeth, “and I invited her at once to stay with me. I’ll have to prepare the guest room and get in some extra groceries today because she’ll be here tomorrow!” Elspeth clasped her hands together in her lap. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“It is,” I said. “It’s completely marvelous, Elspeth, and I look forward to meeting your niece, but I’m a little confused. Why would the firm hire her to take pictures in the Cotswolds when she lives in Yorkshire?”
“Because I live in the Cotswolds,” Elspeth declared.
“Really?” I said uncomprehendingly. “I’m not quite sure I see the connection between—”
“Of course you don’t see the connection,” she interrupted. “I haven’t revealed it to you yet.” She looked demurely down at her clasped hands. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live with an artist.”
“Have you?” I said, leaning forward.
“Not in sin, mind you,” she said hastily. “It would be a platonic relationship based on a mutual passion for art.”
“Of course it would be,” I said, leaning back.
“I’m not creative myself,” Elspeth continued, “but I appreciate creativity in others, and I’ve often yearned for the opportunity to observe the intricacies of the creative process firsthand. Recently . . .” She hesitated before plunging on. “Recently I did more than yearn for it. I wished for it.”
“Did you?” I said, trying to sound surprised.
“You may remember seeing me at Ivy Cottage last week,” she said. “Selena, Opal, and I went there to welcome Jack MacBride to the village. Welcoming Jack was our primary goal, but I confess I had a secondary goal in mind.”
“Peggy Taxman told you I’d stopped the rain by making a wish in the wishing well,” I said, abandoning pretense, “so you thought you’d give it a try.”
“I did!” said Elspeth. “And it worked! Jemma received her commission only a few days after I spoke to the well. Ergo, the well must have granted my wish. There’s no other explanation!”
“There doesn’t seem to be,” I said, sighing.
“I hope you’ll keep my confession entre nous,” she said. “As a former schoolteacher, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I understand,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to be mistaken for Miranda Morrow.”
“Certainly not,” said Elspeth, sniffing derisively. “Miranda Morrow believes in witchcraft, a pseudoscience with no observable basis in fact.”
“Whereas you’ve drawn a logical conclusion based on the wishing well’s response to your wish,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Elspeth. She rose and smoothed her tweed skirt. “I must be on my way—so much to do! Thank you for listening, Lori. I’m sure you and Jemma will get along famously.”
I escorted Elspeth to the front door, down the flagstone path, and all the way to the end of the driveway, where she’d left her bicycle—an old black three-speed that must have outweighed Betsy by at least forty pounds.
She glided gracefully down the lane and I looked left and right like a hunted mouse, to see if anyone else was approaching the cottage.
Charles Bellingham was. His mauve Honda Civic was unmistakable and it was heading straight for me.
Fourteen