Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (17 page)

“I'll have to feed Bess first,” I said.

“We'll avert our eyes,” Grant said, tutting impatiently. “Come in!”

C
harles, Grant, and I had lunch at the claw-footed oak table in their back garden, surrounded by old-fashioned flowers and fragrant clumps of thyme.

Well-fed, dry-diapered, and sheltered from the sun by the crabapple tree that had given the cottage its name, Bess dozed in the pram's bassinet, waking occasionally to chew on her toes or to watch Goya, Charles's golden Pomeranian, and Matisse, Grant's lively Maltese, prowl around our ankles. The dogs paid absolutely no attention to her. Their eyes were fixed adoringly on Charles, who fed them under the table when Grant wasn't looking.

Charles's titanic efforts in the kitchen had paid off handsomely. The dishes he'd prepared—twice—were light, flavorful, and, by Finch's standards, epicurean. Sally Cook's tearoom menu didn't include chilled cucumber soup with crème fraîche and a watercress garnish, bruschetta with tomato tapenade and a pesto drizzle, or a spectacular, eight-layer vegetable terrine, but if it had, I would have eaten lunch there every day.

“Charles has been reading cookbooks again,” Grant said, smiling wryly as we surveyed the feast Charles had placed before us.

“Lucky you,” I said.

“Thank you, Lori.” Charles gave Grant a frosty glance as he seated himself at the table. “It's nice to be appreciated.”

Charles was a temperamental chef at the best of times. When he was “reading cookbooks,” he could be as prickly as a porcupine.

“I wasn't criticizing you,” Grant protested.

“Of course he wasn't,” I said placatingly. “How could anyone criticize a man who produced such beautiful dishes?” I gazed at the food as adoringly as the dogs gazed at Charles. “You've outdone yourself, Charles. The great Escoffier himself would envy us.”

“Now you're being silly,” Charles said with a modest smile, but his mood improved perceptibly from then on.

The meal began, as did the inquisition I'd anticipated.

“Have you run into Arthur Hargreaves since we last saw you?” Grant asked with feigned nonchalance.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I replied. “Bess and I spent a few hours with him yesterday at Hillfont Abbey.”

Charles gasped and Grant choked on his cucumber soup.

“You penetrated the
inner sanctum
?” Charles said incredulously.

“He showed me around his library,” I said.

“Did you see the da Vinci sketch?” Grant asked wheezily, pressing a napkin to his lips.

“I may have,” I said. “There were lots of technical drawings hanging on the walls. One of them may have been done by Leonardo.”

“Why didn't you ask?” Grant demanded.

“We were talking about other things,” I replied. “But I promise to ask Arthur to point out the Leonardo the next time I'm in his library.”

“‘The next time I'm in his library,'” said Charles, mimicking my carefree tone. “Do you intend to make a habit of visiting Hillfont Abbey?”

“I don't know if I'll make a habit of it,” I said, “but I do intend to go back. I like it there. I like Arthur, too.” I looked from Charles to Grant and sighed deeply. “You've got him all wrong, you know.”

“Not all wrong, surely,” said Grant.

“You're right about him being rich and having exquisite taste,” I acknowledged, “but he's not a crazy, cave-dwelling spider-guy. He's a homebody, not a hermit, and he doesn't control the corporate world by twanging a thread in his web. He offers friendly advice to a few bigwigs who used to be his students.”

“Was he a teacher?” Charles asked interestedly.

“He gave scientific lectures all over the world,” I told him. I remembered the tired expression that had crossed Arthur's face as he'd gazed at his framed maps. “I think he got sick of the lecture circuit, sick of the attention as well as the traveling. If you ask me, the attention embarrassed him. He's super-smart, but he's not a showoff. If he doesn't give interviews, it's because he's too humble to toot his own horn.” I finished my soup and helped myself to a piece of bruschetta. “But don't take my word for it. Let me introduce you to Arthur. Honestly, guys, if you met him, you'd like him as much as I do.”

“We'd also risk losing friends in the village,” said Grant.

“If you lose them so easily,” I said, “they weren't real friends to begin with.”

“We still have to live with them,” Grant pointed out.

“Maybe you should set an example for them,” I said. “If I praise Arthur, I'm a lone voice in the wilderness. If the three of us praise him, we're a trio. A trio is louder than a lone voice. We might be able to persuade others to sing along with us.”

Charles gazed reflectively at a cluster of blowsy peonies.

“Arthur Hargreaves is a humble homebody who gives friendly advice to former pupils,” he mused aloud. “You've smashed our preconceptions to bits, Lori. I don't know whether to be glad or sad.”

“You should be glad,” I said sternly. “Blind prejudice doesn't suit you.”

Charles accepted the scolding with good grace, but neither he nor Grant offered to join me the next time I visited Hillfont Abbey. Peer pressure, it seemed, was more powerful than curiosity.

“We met William's sisters this morning,” Grant said. “I was deadheading the roses in the front garden when they happened by.”

“I was still in my dressing gown,” said Charles, the late riser, “but I threw on some clothes and ran out to greet them.”

“I hope it was worth the effort,” I said.

“Oh, it was,” Charles assured me. “They were tremendously entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” I said doubtfully. “In what way were Charlotte and Honoria entertaining?”

“They're like a pair of wicked schoolgirls,” Charles said happily. “All dolled up and simply
oozing
with nastiness.”

“I wasn't entertained by them,” said Grant. “I found them—” He broke off and regarded me apologetically. “Forgive me, Lori. I don't wish to criticize your relations, but—”

“They aren't my relations,” I broke in emphatically. “They're Bill's aunts and he can't stand them.”

“Amelia doesn't seem to be keen on them, either,” Grant observed. “They were expecting her to join them for brunch, but she scurried off to Oxford instead.”

“Coincidence?” said Charles, eyeing me waggishly. “I don't think so.”

“It's going to be a long three weeks for Amelia,” said Grant.

“It'll be a long three weeks for all of us,” I said. “Except William. He
is
fond of them. Heaven alone knows why.”

“They amuse him,” said Charles. “I could see it in his eyes. They're the king's jesters. Jesters can get away with anything.”

“Almost anything,” I corrected him. “If they take things too far with Amelia, King William will have their heads.”

“Let's hope they take things too far,” said Grant, raising his glass.

“You're both taking them far too seriously,” Charles said breezily. “I love a good pantomime villain. I hope William brings them to church on Sunday. I can't wait to hear what they have to say about the vicar's sermon.”

“I can't wait to hear what they have to say about you,” I said pointedly.

Charles opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and became absorbed in serving the terrine. Grant smothered a satisfied grin with his napkin and after chatting about Bree Pym's latest postcard, the vicar's car repairs, and the purple begonias in Opal Taylor's window box, I brought the conversation around to the subject that was uppermost in my mind.

Their faces lit up when I mentioned Marigold Edwards.

“If it hadn't been for Marigold, we would have bought a place in Upper Deeping,” said Grant, as if he were describing a fate worse than death. “Finch wasn't even on our radar until Marigold put it there. She insisted that we see Crabtree Cottage.”

“She wouldn't take no for an answer,” said Charles, chuckling, “and how right she was. Crabtree Cottage was perfect. The minute we saw it, we felt as if we'd come home.”

“No quirks?” I said swiftly.

“
Oodles
of quirks,” Charles said delightedly. “The floors aren't level, the walls bulge, the timbers creak, the windows rattle—but those are the things that give a place character. We weren't looking for a flawless, soulless box. We wanted a house that lived and breathed.”

“We had our doubts about Finch,” Grant allowed. “We thought it would be too quiet for us.”

“We thought we'd be bored to death,” Charles interjected.

“Then Marigold showed us around the village,” Grant went on, “and we fell in love with it.”

“The villagers treated us like movie stars,” Charles gushed. “They simply pelted us with questions. Better still, they were completely indiscreet about one other. Was Christine Peacock's new track suit really two sizes too small for her? Would Elspeth Binney's cat portrait win a ribbon at the art show? Would Opal Taylor ever manage to sell her hideous lamp?”

“We felt as if we'd stepped onstage in the middle of a play,” said Grant. “We couldn't wait to find out what happened next.”

“I sometimes think we moved to Finch for no other reason than to see Opal's lamp for ourselves,” said Charles.

“Sally Cook's jam doughnuts were sublime,” Grant said reminiscently, “and Dick Peacock's wines were so ridiculously dreadful that we couldn't resist tasting them all.”

“And Peggy's sign-up sheets!” Charles exclaimed, clasping his hands together in pure ecstasy. “Do you remember her volunteer sign-up sheets, Grant? She wouldn't allow us to leave the Emporium without them.”

“Peggy was a bit daunting,” Grant admitted, “but we could tell that she was devoted to Finch. She made us feel as though we could each play a valuable role in village life.” He looked at Charles. “We liked the notion of being needed.”

Charles nodded, then turned to me.

“Once we'd settled into Crabtree Cottage,” he said, “we went back to the Emporium with two of Peggy's sign-up sheets. I'd volunteered to run the cake stall at the church fête and Grant had volunteered to paint scenery for the Nativity play.”

“We've been volunteering ever since,” said Grant.

“And we owe it all to Marigold,” said Charles. “I shudder to think of how dull our lives would have been if she hadn't brought us to Finch.”

“Did Marigold warn you about the Finch-Tillcote feud?” I asked.

“She dropped a few hints about it,” said Charles. “We were enchanted by the notion of an absurd, eons-old feud dividing the two villages. It added just the right touch of melodrama to Finch.”

“We adore melodrama,” said Grant.

“It sounds as though you adore Marigold,” I said.

“We do,” said Charles. “We keep our distance while she's working, of course, but we're always pleased to see her when she calls on us.” He began to collect our empty plates. “Dessert, anyone?”

“Relax,” Grant told him. “You prepared the meal. I'll clear the table
and
serve dessert.”

After a short interlude, during which Grant took the dirty dishes into the kitchen, Charles took Bess for a stroll around the garden, and I took stock of the information I'd collected, we returned to the table to partake of Charles's masterful chocolate mousse.

I'd heard about my hosts' experiences with Marigold, but I still hadn't heard about their encounters with her clients. I allowed myself to savor one spoonful of mousse in blissful silence, then resumed my inquiry.

“It sounds as though Marigold has shown Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage to quite a few people,” I said. “Have you met any of them?”

“We missed the fat computer chap, the balding surgeon, and the London lawyers,” said Grant, “but we met the itchy banker, the aging ad exec, and the cuckolded Oxford don.”

“I thought you kept your distance from Marigold while she was working,” I said.

“We do,” said Grant, “but she always calls on us before she leaves. She can't ask her clients to wait in the car while she chats with us, can she?”

“Of course not,” I said. “As relative newcomers to Finch, you must identify with her clients.”

“We can almost read their thoughts,” Grant confirmed. “They're as worried as we were about living in such a small, out-of-the-way place.”

“They're afraid they'll be bored to death,” said Charles. “We tell them not to judge a book by its cover.”

“We assure them that, appearances notwithstanding,” Grant said, “Finch is an exciting place to live.”

“Because of the village-wide events?” I hazarded.

“We let Peggy Taxman fill them in on events,” Charles said dismissively. “We fill them in on the highlights Peggy doesn't cover.”

“What highlights?” I asked with a flutter of apprehension.

“Our burglary, of course,” said Grant, “and the fire at the tearoom.”

“We practically reenact the slanging match Peggy and Sally had last year on the village green,” said Charles.

“We also think it's important to mention that people aren't left on their own when the river floods,” said Grant. “We assure them that the entire village pitches in to clear away the mud whenever the Little Deeping spills over its banks.”

“If there's time,” said Charles, “we describe the day the village was trashed by the yahoos attending the Renaissance Festival.”

“Whether there's time or not,” said Grant, “we won't let them leave until they've heard our pièce de résistance.”

“What would that be?” I asked uneasily.

“We tell them about Crabtree Cottage's previous owner,” Grant replied.

“You don't tell them she
died
here, do you?” I said, appalled.