“My uncle was a senior partner in an accounting firm,” Jack informed me.
“The accounting firm in Upper Deeping,” I said as comprehension dawned, “whose clients lived or had lived in or in the vicinity of Upper Deeping.”
“That’s right.” Jack returned to his spot on the floor and sat with his back to the wall. “Uncle Hector’s clients trusted him, relied on him, were grateful to him. Dabney Holdstrom, Gilbert Hartley, Tim Coneyham, Arty Barnes, and Beverley St. John were more than happy to repay him for his years of faithful service, especially after they learned that he was dying.”
I put a hand to my forehead as Jack reeled off the by now familiar names, then motioned for him to go on.
“When someone made a wish,” he said, “I’d contact the appropriate client and he’d follow the instructions Uncle Hector had left for him.”
Dabney Holdstrom had taken time off from his job at Cozy Cookery magazine, loosened the exhaust pipe on his Jaguar E-Type, and driven to Finch, where he’d “discovered” Mr. Barlow, Sally Pyne, and Opal Taylor. As president and owner of Market Town Books, Gilbert Hartley had hired Jemma Renshawe to photograph the villagers for a forthcoming book. Tim Coneyham had slipped the insert into The Coneyham Express, Arty Barnes had offered Henry Cook a one-night stand at the comedy club, and Beverley St. John, who’d kept Hector Huggins apprised of Peter and Cassie’s employment situation, had written to Peter to inform him of Emma’s plight.
“When Dabney Holdstrom came here,” I said suddenly, “he didn’t come to make a wish in the wishing well. He came to meet you.”
“He shouldn’t have,” said Jack. “But I’m glad he did. It was a pleasure to meet one of Uncle Hector’s friends. Bree and I met Tim Coneyham, too, when we were looking for birdbaths in Upper Deeping. Uncle Hector paid him what the antique locomotive was worth, of course, so Tim could offer it to George Wetherhead at a knockdown price. As for Gilbert Hartley . . .”
Hector Huggins had paid Gilbert Hartley in advance to publish his memoir and to illustrate it with the photos Mr. Huggins had taken of Finch’s environs as well as the photos Jemma Renshawe would take of the villagers.
“My uncle wasn’t happy with the snaps he’d taken of his neighbors,” Jack explained. “He could photograph the churchyard, the river, or the bridge at his leisure, but he had to grab his portraits on the fly. He hoped a professional photographer would do a better job.”
“Have you seen Jemma’s photographs?” I asked doubtfully.
“No, but Gilbert Hartley has,” said Jack. “Apparently, Elspeth Binney rang him this afternoon to ask if her niece had understood the assignment correctly. Gilbert had a little chat with Jemma and she agreed to provide him with a set of portraits that were less, um, experimental.”
“Thank heavens,” I said. “Elspeth would have had to leave Finch if Jemma’s original shots had been published.” I paused to review what Jack had told me so far and realized that he still had some explaining to do. “What about the Asazuki? I assume you put it in Charles and Grant’s shed after Charles made the wish your uncle predicted he would make, but where did the painting come from?”
“It was one of Uncle Hector’s most prized possessions,” said Jack. “He bought it from a gallery in Upper Deeping years ago. The owner was one of his clients.”
“Old Mr. Selwyn,” I said, “of Selwyn’s gallery on Summer Street.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose.
“Charles gets the credit, not me,” I said quickly. “He tracked the painting to Selwyn’s gallery. He’s an art dealer. It’s what he does.”
“Uncle Hector knew Charles and Grant would appreciate the Asazuki,” said Jack. “It used to hang above the fireplace downstairs. Uncle Hector said it captured the spirit of the carp.”
“A painting only a fisherman could love,” I murmured. I’d missed the connection between Mr. Huggins’s avocation and his taste in art, but Aunt Dimity hadn’t. “What about Peggy’s wish? Did you make the fake real estate flyer?”
“Uncle Hector made the flyer,” said Jack, “but I made sure it reached Peggy.”
“Did your uncle invent the Troy real estate agency, too?” I asked.
“It was his little joke,” said Jack. “Hector, the warrior prince in Greek mythology, was from Troy.”
“Koi, Troy,” I said under my breath. Aunt Dimity hadn’t only connected the fisherman to the fish painting, she’d linked Mr. Huggins to the birthplace of his Trojan namesake as well. I suddenly felt dumber than a doorstop, which may explain why I spoke sharply to Jack. “It was a rotten trick to play on Peggy. Your uncle pretended to grant her wish when he knew all along it wouldn’t come true.”
“My uncle wasn’t attempting to grant Peggy’s wish,” said Jack. “He wanted to grant Jasper’s.”