“Is it?” I said weakly. The burst of energy that had brought me downstairs was beginning to dissipate and the painkiller was wearing off. The mere thought of taking any kind of action made my thumb throb. “What did you have in mind?”
I suggest you start with a bit of investigative work. Look into Dabney Holdstrom’s background. Is he distantly related to someone in Finch? Was a family member evacuated to Finch during the war? Could he feel a debt of gratitude to a villager for a long-forgotten favor? Find out about his connections. Does he know the editor who gave Jemma Renshawe her commission? Does he publish the newsletter through which George Wetherhead found his rare locomotive? Is he familiar with the estate agent who listed the tearoom’s sale? Could he somehow be responsible for sending Peter and Cassie Harris back to Anscombe Manor? Is Arty Barnes really impressed by Henry’s talent or is he acting at the behest of his old friend, Dabney Holdstrom? Get out there, Lori! Ask questions! Collect facts!
“Okay,” I said meekly. “But may I have a cup of tea first?”
I don’t expect you to start until you feel up to it, my dear. Pain can be quite exhausting.
“In that case, I’ll have a cup of tea and a nap,” I said.
An excellent notion. Sleep is the best medicine. May your nap be undisturbed by tidal waves.
“Thanks, Dimity,” I said, smiling.
The curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page and I laid my head against the pillows, but before I could close my eyes, the doorbell rang.
“The casserole parade begins,” I murmured.
I stashed the blue journal behind my pillows, tucked Reginald beneath the quilt, and thought about standing until a searing pain in my thumb changed my mind.
Fortunately, Bill was as lax as a villager when it came to locking up.
“It’s open!” I called. “Come in!”
Nineteen
I sat up and peered over the back of the couch, expecting to see Sally Pyne or Peggy Taxman or one of the Handmaidens kick off the casserole parade. Instead, Mr. Barlow shuffled into the room, holding one of the cellophane-wrapped boxes of chocolates Peggy sold at the Emporium.
To my relief, Mr. Barlow had exchanged his grubby coveralls for a short-sleeved cotton shirt and twill trousers, neither of which reeked of motor oil. His hands and his face were spotless and it looked as though he’d run a wet comb through his short, grizzled hair.
“’Morning, Lori,” he said, coming around the couch to offer the box to me. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better than I felt yesterday,” I said. “I always feel better when a gentleman brings me chocolates. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He remained on his feet, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his head bowed. “Bill came by my place on his way to the office and told me how you busted up your thumb.”
I frowned. “Bill shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, he should,” Mr. Barlow interrupted. “Nothing wrong with a man speaking up for his wife. Nothing wrong with a man speaking the truth to a friend, either, and Bill brought a few truths home to me this morning.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed heavily. “I reckon I owe you a whole barrow full of apologies, Lori. I’m sorry I didn’t fix the bird tables. I’m sorry you got hurt using one of my hammers. And I’m sorry I stood there like a half-wit yesterday and told you to see a doctor when you wouldn’t have had to see a doctor if I’d kept my promise to Jack.”
“Apologies accepted,” I said gently. I flapped my good hand at him peremptorily. “Now, sit down and make yourself comfortable or I’ll have a stiff neck to go along with my stiff thumb.”
Mr. Barlow glanced at the sleeping Stanley, then took a seat in my armchair. He leaned toward me, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.
“You’re not the only one I’ve wronged,” he said. “The vicar had to ask Jack MacBride to do the work I should’ve done in the churchyard last Saturday. The grass was halfway up Hezekiah Tansy’s marble angel by the time Jack got there. He had to go over it with the string trimmer and the rake before he could do the mowing. Took him the best part of the afternoon to finish.” He shook his head. “I felt about two inches tall when Bill told me. The vicar asking a stranger to do my job . . .” He peered earnestly at me. “I’ll apologize to Jack and the vicar after I’m done here. I wanted to say sorry to you first, because you paid the biggest price for my malingering.”
“You weren’t malingering,” I protested. “You were working.”
“I was having the time of my life,” he countered. “Never thought I’d get to touch a Jag E-Type or ’65 Lotus, not if I lived to be a hundred, and there I was, tinkering with them, driving them, putting them through their paces. It was a dream come true right enough, but dreaming don’t mend bird tables or mow lawns.”
I shifted my aching hand to a less agonizing position and decided to make the most of Mr. Barlow’s visit by asking him about Dabney Holdstrom. The thought of commencing my investigation without leaving the couch appealed to me greatly.