I followed him across the corridor and into the room that resembled a library. He strode to the far end of the room and lit a lamp on a wooden desk. Apart from the lamp, the desk held a mug filled with pens and pencils, a laptop computer, the black box I’d last seen in the trunk of Jack’s rental car, and a stack of typing paper covered with neat, precise handwriting.
“Uncle Hector’s memoir,” said Jack, placing a hand on the stack of paper. “I’m transcribing it. Market Town Books no longer accepts handwritten manuscripts.”
“Market Town Books?” I said faintly.
“Uncle Hector based his memoir on forty years’ worth of notes,” said Jack. He pulled one of the black-leather-bound books from a shelf, and riffled through it to show me page after page filled with the same precise handwriting.
I looked from the volume in Jack’s hand to the rows of books lining the walls.
“How could one man have so much to say about fishing?” I asked.
“The memoir isn’t about fishing,” said Jack. “It’s about Finch.” He returned the book to the shelf and half sat on the edge of the desk. “My uncle loved this village. He spent forty years watching, listening, and learning about everyone who lived here. And he wrote everything down.” Jack nodded at the bookshelves. “In there you’ll find the winners of every competition held in Finch over the past four decades. Uncle Hector recorded the runners-up and the losers as well, but he also described each person’s reaction to triumph or failure and how those reactions rippled through the community and influenced relationships for months, sometimes years, on end.”
“Good grief,” I said, letting my gaze travel over the gold numbers stamped on each black-leather spine.
“He wrote about his neighbors’ habits, their passions, their pet peeves,” Jack went on. “He wrote miles of dialogue to capture their speech patterns. He studied the buildings, too, and he found out what he could about their histories.”
“You told us he wrote about nature,” I said reproachfully.
“He did,” said Jack. “Almost every page contains an observation about Finch’s ecosystem. You’re never in doubt about the season because he wove his knowledge of nature into the ongoing narrative. He took photographs as well. You’ve seen a small portion of them in the other room.”
“When did your uncle take the photographs?” I asked. “I don’t recall ever seeing him with a camera.”
Jack folded his arms and asked quietly, “How often did you see him at all?”
I dropped my gaze.
“Not often,” I admitted. “Not even when he was right in front of me. Your uncle didn’t stand out in a crowd, Jack. He didn’t even stand out on his own.” I thought of Bill’s description of Mr. Huggins as a wallpaper man, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud.
“You don’t have to be the life of the party to have a good time,” said Jack. “My uncle was too reserved to jump onto the dance floor, but he admired those who were brave enough to throw themselves into the dance.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“Uncle Hector was afraid that Finch would one day change beyond all recognition,” said Jack. “He saw it happening all over England—real communities becoming pseudo-villages for holiday makers or, worse, disappearing into the maw of bloody awful housing estates. He wanted to capture a world he loved before it vanished. He was almost relieved when he found out that the village would outlive him.”
“Was he . . . ill?” I asked softly.
“A year ago, Uncle Hector was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor,” Jack replied. “No one could tell him how long he had to live, so he got going straightaway on two new projects.” Jack tapped the manuscript. “He distilled his life’s work into one volume and he began to create a very special going-away gift for his neighbors. He asked me to complete both projects if he died before they were done. I promised him I would.” He stood. “Let’s go back to the other room, Lori.”
We returned to the room with the cork-lined walls and I sat once again on the office chair, turning it to follow Jack as he crossed to the window to look down on the back garden.
“The well sparked his big idea,” he said. “It had always been there, but Uncle Hector made the plaque that turned an ordinary well into a wishing well.”
“Speak and your wish will be granted,” I said, then listened intently while Jack described the rest of his uncle’s preparations.
Mr. Huggins had used his in-depth knowledge of the villagers to make highly educated guesses about the wishes they would make, but he’d installed the listening device as a backup, in case one or two of his neighbors surprised him. He’d also installed a video camera in the well’s shingled roof.
“Uncle Hector added the camera for my benefit,” said Jack. “I might not recognize voices, especially if people spoke in whispers, but he was fairly sure I’d be able to put names to faces.” He nodded toward the wall of photos.
“I understand the mechanics,” I said, “but I don’t understand how your uncle made so many wishes come true.”
“He turned to his clients,” said Jack, “and he asked them for a few favors.”
“What clients?” I asked.