“That’s great,” I said, “because the master planner herself will be yours to command as of tomorrow.”
“Beauty!” Jack exclaimed. “But I think Emma will do most of the commanding. At least, I bloody well hope she will. Her diagrams are beyond me.”
“Who’ll manage the riding school while Emma’s here?” Bree asked.
I quickly recounted the Peter and Cassie story, leaving out all references to the wishing well allegedly overhearing my conversation with Emma, then moved on to Team Ivy’s assignment for the day.
“Bird tables and birdbaths,” I said. “Emma doesn’t trust us with pruning shears.”
“Fair enough,” said Jack. “The tables can be repaired, but the baths are beyond redemption.”
“The garden center in Upper Deeping has birdbaths,” said Bree.
“And Mr. Barlow will help us with the bird tables,” I said.
“No, he won’t,” said Bree, frowning. “I asked him this morning and he said he’d be up to elbows in a Frogeye Sprite all day.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said, certain I’d misheard her.
“He’ll be working on another car belonging to another one of Dabney Holdstrom’s flash friends,” Bree explained grumpily. “He let me borrow some tools, though.”
She gestured to the tarpaulin-covered patch of driveway, which had been transformed into an alfresco carpenter’s workshop. Saws, hammers, nails, planes, and other tools of the woodworking trade had been arranged neatly on three planks laid side by side across a pair of sawhorses. The broken-down bird tables lay in a heap beside the sawhorses.
Though I knew next to nothing about carpentry, the correct course of action was plain to me. It was more important for Bree and Jack to spend time together than it was for me to spend time alone with either one of them, so I feigned an expertise I did not possess.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have a stab at the tables while you two tackle the garden center.”
“You’ll repair the bird tables?” Bree said doubtfully.
“Of course I will,” I said, jumping to my feet and rubbing my palms together energetically. “How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words,” Bree said.
“Hello?” said a timid voice.
Theodore Bunting stood in the gateway between the towering hedges, gazing inquisitively at us. Jack and Bree rose from the doorstep and strode forward with me to greet him.
“G’day, Vicar,” said Jack. “What brings you to Ivy Cottage?”
“Dear me,” said the vicar, surveying the garden with something akin to horror in his mild gray eyes. “Rumors have been flying about for many days, but I placed little faith in their accuracy. I can see now that I was mistaken. The rumors were all too true.” He shook his head. “I blame myself. Poor Mr. Huggins. I should have tried harder to—”
“He wouldn’t have let you,” Jack said swiftly.
“And it’s not as bad as it seems,” said Bree, who was very fond of the vicar. “Emma believes he planted it this way on purpose.”
“On purpose?” The vicar stared at Bree in disbelief.
“Ask Emma,” Bree said. “She can explain it better than I can.”
“By the time we’ve finished pulling it back a bit,” said Jack, “it’ll be fit for the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“May the Lord bless all the work of your hand,” said the vicar. “By the looks of it, your hands will be fully occupied for some time.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve come on a fool’s errand.”
“I doubt it,” said Jack.
“I was hoping to prevail upon one of you to mow the cemetery,” the vicar confessed apologetically. “I’d do it myself, but my wife thinks it might kill me. I don’t know why. I’m in excellent health for a man of my age.”
I agreed wholeheartedly with Lilian. Theodore Bunting was tall, but as spare as a scarecrow and though he might be in good health for his age, he was too old to be pushing a lawn mower.
“Mr. Barlow’s the sexton,” said Bree, scowling. “It’s his job to mow the cemetery. He should have done it last Saturday.”
“I’m afraid he didn’t,” the vicar replied. “He’s been rather tied up with the magnificent motors people keep bringing to him. I couldn’t in good conscience divert him from a pursuit that gives him pleasure as well as a fine income, but there’s no denying that the cemetery is starting to look”—he cast a mournful glance at the overgrown greenery edging the brick path—“rather forlorn.”
“I’ll tell you what, Vicar,” said Jack. “I’m on my way to Upper Deeping just now, but I’ll mow the cemetery for you this afternoon.”
“Will you really?” said the vicar, sounding cautiously optimistic. “I don’t wish to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting anything that can’t be interrupted,” Jack assured him. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
“God bless you,” said the vicar, smiling beatifically as he wrung Jack’s hand. “Lilian will be delighted when I tell her—”