Since I had no desire to crash a Handmaidens’ reunion, I declined the invitation. The ladies bid me good morning and went off together to call on Opal. I ran across the green to the old schoolmaster’s house, looking neither left nor right for fear of being waylaid yet again.
I made it to the front step unmolested, raised my hand to knock on the door, and let it fall to my side as George Wetherhead swung the door open. The little man was wearing a light jacket and cradling a cardboard box to his narrow chest, and his comb-over was plastered to his mostly bald head. He started when he found himself standing face-to-face with me, but he quickly recovered himself.
“Hello, Lori,” he said. “How are you feeling? Bill tells me—”
“I’m fine,” I said, wondering if Bill had gone door to door with his thumb alert or if he’d climbed to the top of the war memorial and shouted it through a megaphone. “Are you going somewhere, George?”
“There’s a model train show in Chipping Norton,” he informed me. He gazed lovingly at the cardboard box. “I’m bringing my new locomotive.”
“The antique, brass locomotive you bought for a bargain price through an ad in a newsletter?” I inquired.
“That’s the one,” George said proudly. “She’s a real beauty.”
“Did you wish for her?” I asked. “At the wishing well?”
George’s face reddened.
“I, um, y-yes,” he stammered. “As a matter of fact, I did. Everyone else was doing it, so I thought I might as well have a go.” His eyes widened behind the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses. “It was quite remarkable, Lori. Two days after I visited the well, the newsletter arrived with an insert advertising the kind of locomotive I’d always dreamt of owning but could never afford. Luckily, I was the first to respond.”
“Which newsletter was it?” I asked.
“The Coneyham Express,” he replied. “A fellow enthusiast, a chap named Tim Coneyham, publishes it out of his home near Upper Deeping. I’ve subscribed to it for years.”
It wasn’t the answer I’d anticipated. I’d expected George’s newsletter to be as phony as Peggy Taxman’s real estate flyer. Instead, The Coneyham Express was as familiar to him as the daily newspaper. Moreover, it came from someone George knew.
“Does Tim Coneyham usually include inserts in his newsletter?” I asked, clutching at straws.
“Not usually,” George answered. “It’s something he does from time to time, when he needs to make room for a new acquisition. His own collection is enormous, Lori,” George went on, his voice tinged with awe. “It takes up seven rooms in his house. When he buys a new piece, he sometimes sells an old one because he’s a true enthusiast. He’d rather have his trains out in the open, where he can see them, than stored in boxes in his cellar.”
“So you bought the locomotive from Mr. Coneyham,” I said, nodding. “Why do you suppose he sold it for so little?”
“Tim’s quite well-off,” George informed me. “He can afford to be generous to collectors like me, who have to scrimp and save to add even a modest piece to our collections. I must say, though, that he’s never before sold such a valuable locomotive for such a low price. The wishing well definitely came through for me.” He shifted the cardboard box to one arm and pulled his car key out of his jacket pocket. “Forgive me, Lori, but I really must be going. The show starts at ten.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hold you up. Have a great time, George. I’m sure your locomotive will knock everyone’s socks off.”
George ducked his head and smiled bashfully. I left his front doorstep, wandered aimlessly onto the green, and came to a standstill with names tumbling through my head—the Troy real estate agency, the Selwyn art gallery, Gilbert Hartley and Market Town Books, Tim Coneyham and The Coneyham Express. How did they fit together? I asked myself. How were they related to Dabney Holdstrom?
I couldn’t answer my own questions. My brain felt sluggish, as if it had absorbed too much information too quickly, and my thumb was insisting that it was not fine. Since a painkiller would help one and a chat with Aunt Dimity would help the other, I decided to go home.
I turned toward Bill’s car, but stopped short when I noticed Henry Cook sitting all by himself on the wooden bench near the war memorial. Plump, mustachioed, wavy-haired Henry was an outgoing, gregarious man. It worried me to see him alone.
“Henry?” I called. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied with a melancholy smile.
My thumb and I knew better than to believe him.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he replied, moving over to make room for me on the bench.
I sat beside him in silence, surveying the tranquil scene. When he, too, remained silent, I ventured tentatively, “Nice day.”
“No, Lori,” he said, shaking his head. “It is not a nice day. It’s a bloody awful day. I don’t want to leave Finch and I don’t want to live in a caravan and I don’t want to marry my Sal in a registry office, but no one cares about what I want.”