Aunt Dimity and the Summer King Read online

  Eight

  The vicar’s slender, gray-haired wife was dressed in the crisp, cream-colored linen blazer and skirt she wore on warm summer Sundays. The look suited her, but it wouldn’t have worked for me. After five minutes in close proximity to Bess, crisp, cream-colored linen would no longer have been crisp or cream-colored.

  Lilian nodded pleasantly to me as I drew near.

  “I promised Jack MacBride that I’d put fresh flowers on his uncle’s grave while he and Bree were traveling,” she explained, gesturing to the headstone. “A needless promise, as it happens, because there are always fresh flowers on Mr. Huggins’s grave. The dear man may be gone, but he’s certainly not forgotten, not by the villagers, at any rate.”

  “Before I forget,” I said, “William and Amelia send their apologies for missing church today. They’re getting Fairworth House ready for a family visit.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Lilian. “Millicent Scroggins imparted the news to me before church this morning. She also described the food, the drink, and the table setting William and Amelia have chosen for next Saturday’s grand dinner.”

  “How thorough of her,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Though I spoke flippantly, it stung a bit to learn that Millicent Scroggins, who worked twice a week as a charwoman at Fairworth House, knew more about Saturday’s dinner than I did. Aunt Dimity had warned me that I might not be as up-to-date with village news as I had been before Bess’s arrival, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be behindhand with family news as well.

  “Millicent spends more time listening at keyholes than cleaning them,” I went on. “She’s an expert eavesdropper.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Lilian laughed. “Please tell William and Amelia that their apologies are accepted, but unnecessary. Teddy and I are well aware of how disruptive visitors can be. We spent a fortnight readying the vicarage for the bishop’s visit, and he spent only two days with us. I shudder to think of the preparation required for a three-week visit. The meal planning alone would shatter me.” She tilted her head slightly to peer over my shoulder. “Are Bill and the twins still in the church? Or were you on your way to meet them elsewhere?”

  “Bill and the twins are stuffing their faces at the tearoom,” I replied. “I was on my way there, but I’d rather stay here with you than watch my sugared-up sons bounce off the tearoom’s walls. When they want me, they know where to find me.”

  “Good.” Lilian gestured toward a stone bench beneath a cedar of Lebanon that shaded the churchyard. “Shall we sit?”

  “We shall,” I said, “but I think Bess would prefer to sprawl.”

  I spread a blanket on the soft bed of needle-like leaves the tree had shed over many years and freed Bess from the carry cot. It took her a few seconds to get used to the springiness of the leaf layer beneath the blanket, but she soon began her daily round of push-ups.

  “Will she be safe, lying on her stomach?” Lilian asked as I took my place beside her on the bench.

  “Et tu, Lilian?” I said, rounding on her. “I thought you’d turned down a membership in the we-know-better-than-you club.”

  “Sorry,” she said meekly.

  “I forgive you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it’s good for Bess to spend time on her belly. She’s strengthening the muscles she’ll need to sit up, crawl, stand, walk, wind surf, boogie, and climb Mount Everest.” I patted Lilian’s knee reassuringly. “And she’ll do so safely, because you and I are here to keep an eye on her.”

  “What a splendid child she is,” Lilian said, as if to make amends for her faux pas. “Teddy still talks about how cheerful she was at her christening. He’s more accustomed to infants who find the experience either terrifying or annoying.” Lilian folded her hands in her lap and turned to face me. “I’m glad I caught you, Lori. I meant to speak with you earlier, but I lost track of you after church.” She paused to survey me from head to toe. “You’re looking very trim, I must say, and Bess, of course, looks as though she could conquer the world.”

  Lilian Bunting evidently expected me to chatter happily about my daughter and my fitness program, but I had other fish to fry.

  “Bess and I are flourishing, thank you, which is more than I can say for Finch,” I said. “Mr. Barlow tells me that Marigold Edwards handles property sales in the village. How well do you know her?”

  “How well do I know Marigold Edwards?” Lilian repeated, sounding surprised and faintly puzzled. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. Teddy and I don’t use estate agents because our housing is provided by the church. The vicarage and St. George’s are a package deal, you see. One comes with the other and both are owned by the diocese.”

  “Have you met Marigold?” I asked.

  “I’ve run into her occasionally,” said Lilian. “She likes to bring her clients to St. George’s to see our wall paintings.”

  The church’s medieval wall paintings—the largest of which depicted a blotchy St. George battling a snaky-looking dragon—were Lilian’s pride and joy. One of her husband’s Victorian predecessors had “modernized” St. George’s by concealing the primitive images beneath layers of whitewash, but Lilian had been instrumental in rediscovering and uncovering them.

  I didn’t care for the paintings. Had I been an estate agent, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to show them to prospective home buyers, but I didn’t dare say so to Lilian. In her mind—and in the minds of quite a few medieval scholars—they were inestimable treasures.

  “I didn’t realize that Marigold had shown the cottages to any clients,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “I’ve met quite a few. Let’s see . . .” She drummed her fingers on the bench as she searched her memory. “I’ve spoken with a pair of young lawyers, an advertising executive and his wife, a surgeon, a banker, an Oxford don, a man who has something to do with economics, an architect . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I’m certain I’ve forgotten someone, but it’s difficult to remember them all when there have been so many.”

  “If you’ve met Marigold as often as that,” I said reasonably, “you must have spoken with her.”

  “I’ve answered her clients’ questions about the church and its history,” said Lilian, “but I’ve never had a meaningful conversation with Marigold. We exchange pleasantries and move on.”

  “You’re good at reading people,” I persisted. “You may not be Marigold’s best friend, but you must have formed an opinion about her character. Do you think she’s honest, for example?”

  “What an extraordinary question,” said Lilian. “Do you suspect Marigold Edwards of shady dealings?”

  “I don’t suspect her of anything,” I replied less than honestly. “I’d just like to know what sort of person she is.”

  “I would say that Marigold Edwards is as honest as an estate agent can be,” Lilian temporized. “They do tend to embroider the truth for the sake of a sale, but as far as I know, Marigold keeps her embroidery within acceptable bounds.” Lilian directed a searching look at me. “Why are you quizzing me about our local estate agent? Are you and Bill contemplating a change of address?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “You and the vicar are stuck with us, Lilian. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” said Lilian.

  Bess’s gymnastic display had tired her, so I turned her onto her back, gobbled her tummy, and gave her a teething ring to gum. She promptly tossed the ring aside and chewed on her toes.

  “I don’t know why I bring toys with me,” I said as I resumed my seat. “Bess would much rather play with her hands and feet.”

  “She’s remarkably flexible,” Lilian observed. She watched Bess in fascinated silence for a moment, then returned to the subject at hand. “If you and Bill intend to remain in your cottage, what has piqued your interest in Marigold Edwards?”

  “Rose Cott
age and Ivy Cottage,” I replied. “And pretty soon, Pussywillows.”

  “I see,” said Lilian. “You’re concerned about the two vacant cottages and the cottage that will be vacant after Amelia’s wedding.”

  “I’m very concerned about them,” I said. “It sounds as though plenty of prospective buyers have seen Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. If Marigold Edwards is doing her job properly, why are they still vacant? Doesn’t it make you question her competence or doubt her trustworthiness?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Lilian. “The situation isn’t as dire as you seem to think it is, Lori, and it’s certainly not unusual. Cottages in Finch don’t come on the market often, but when they do, they tend to stay there for a while. The greengrocer’s shop went quickly because Peggy Taxman leapt on it, but Pussywillows was untenanted for six months before Amelia’s arrival.”

  “Six months?” I said, frowning doubtfully. “Are you sure? It didn’t seem like six months to me.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Lilian. “Pussywillows’ previous owner—Miss Ponsonby? Was that her name?—was virtually invisible. She kept her drapes drawn at all times, she couldn’t be bothered to plant flowers in her window boxes, and she rebuffed every friendly advance.”

  “Dervla Ponsonby,” I said, nodding slowly. “A memorable name for an unmemorable woman. The only thing I can recall about Dervla Ponsonby, apart from her name, is the stir she created when she rejected the casseroles.”

  No one who’d lived in Finch at the time would ever forget the stir. Precisely three days after the elusive Miss Ponsonby had taken possession of Pussywillows, Millicent Scroggins, Opal Taylor, Elspeth Binney, and Selena Buxton had attempted to present her with a quartet of tasty, filling, and easily reheated casseroles, as a neighborly way of welcoming her to the village.

  When Miss Ponsonby spurned their well-intentioned offerings, they’d acted as though she’d insulted their mothers, hurled rocks at their houses, and stabbed them through the lungs with a hot poker. The casserole incident had provided Finch with a solid month’s worth of outraged gossip.

  “It was the first and last stir Miss Ponsonby created,” Lilian remarked. “Pussywillows appeared to be vacant even when she was living in it.”

  “She didn’t make the slightest effort to get to know us,” I said wistfully.

  “I’m sure she’s much happier in London,” said Lilian. “Village life didn’t suit her.”

  “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t suit anyone who doesn’t live here already,” I expostulated. “I don’t get it, Lilian. Why is it so hard to sell a house in Finch?”

  “I expect it’s because Finch lacks the amenities most people require nowadays,” she replied, unconsciously echoing Aunt Dimity’s sentiments.

  “Like a school or a hospital,” I grumbled.

  “Or a library or a cinema or a leisure center,” Lilian put in. “Or a petrol station.”

  “We have lots of other things,” I protested. “Like peace and quiet and . . . and . . . nature.”

  “Of course we do,” said Lilian. “But not everyone values peace and quiet and nature as much as you and I do.”

  Bess emitted a tiny squawk and began to drool spectacularly.

  “Snack time,” I announced. “In the nick of time, too. I was about to treat you to a lengthy diatribe about numbskulls who prefer petrol stations to bluebell glades, but nursing Bess always calms me down.”

  “Bless you, Bess,” said Lilian, pretending to mop her brow. “I feel as if I’ve had a lucky escape.”

  Once Bess was nestled against me, my crankiness dissolved. Lilian seemed content to listen to the birds and to watch butterflies flutter among the headstones while I recovered my good humor.

  “Why were you looking for me earlier?” I asked, after my temper had cooled. “Was it just to say hello or did you have something in particular to say to me?”

  “The latter,” she said, as if she were grateful for the reminder. “I’m not as proficient at eavesdropping as Millicent Scroggins, but I couldn’t help overhearing the first part of your conversation with Grant and Charles. I believe I heard Charles mention the name Arthur Hargreaves.”

  “Mention it?” I said, laughing. “He practically shouted it at me. Jack and Bree could have heard him, and they’re in Australia.”

  “Why did Charles shout Arthur Hargreaves’s name at you?” Lilian asked.

  “I surprised him,” I said, “when I told him that I’d met Arthur Hargreaves.”

  Lilian leaned toward me, her face alive with interest.

  “Were you pulling Charles’s leg?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I was telling him the truth. Bess and I met Arthur yesterday.”

  Lilian took a deep breath and expelled it in one explosive puff. I had the distinct impression that she was restraining an impulse to shout.

  “Remarkable,” she said. “And brave.”

  “Brave?” I said.

  “The villagers aren’t fond of Arthur Hargreaves,” said Lilian. “I don’t know why, but they seem to harbor a grudge against him.”

  “Would I be right to assume you haven’t met him?” I asked.

  “You would,” said Lilian. “I don’t know if he’s a churchgoer, but if he is, he’ll attend services at All Saints Church in Tillcote rather than St. George’s.” She shifted her position to face me directly. “What’s he like?”

  Bess had fallen into a milky trance, so I moved her to my diaper-draped shoulder and made myself presentable while I turned Lilian’s question over in my mind. I’d told Grant and Charles that Arthur Hargreaves was a knight in shining armor, but Lilian deserved a less clichéd response.

  “Arthur Hargreaves,” I said finally, “didn’t offer me one word of child-rearing advice. Not one. He said Bess was enchanting. Period.” I smiled broadly. “I can’t tell you how refreshing it was.”

  “He must be a real gentleman,” Lilian said approvingly. “How did you come to meet him?”

  “Are you familiar with the old, disused farm track that runs along the northern boundary of William’s estate?” I asked.

  “I’m aware of it,” Lilian replied, “but it floods so easily that I’ve never had the courage to explore it.”

  “It floods?” I said, aghast. The rivulets Bess and I had crossed came to mind, along with the appalling image of me clawing my way up the flower-strewn banks with Bess cradled in one arm and the rising waters lapping at my heels.

  “It turns into a raging stream every time it rains,” Lilian confirmed.

  “That would explain the ruts,” I said, making a vivid mental note to avoid the farm track in wet weather. “Be that as it may . . .”

  As I recounted my tale of the old farm track, the gnarly pothole, and the defective pram axle, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude to the man who’d spared me the humiliation of being rescued—again—by Bill. Lilian, however, was clearly more impressed by Arthur’s eccentricity than by his gallantry.

  “He called himself the Summer King?” she said. “And he wore a crown?”

  “It’s a family thing,” I said, dismissing her amazed reaction with a flick of my hand. “A bit of fun. He didn’t wave a sword around or order me to curtsy. He’s not bonkers, Lilian. He’s just . . . nice. He invited me to drop in on him the next time I’m near Hillfont Abbey.”

  “Oh, do take him up on it,” Lilian pleaded with unexpected fervor. “I’d give a great deal to hear an eyewitness description of Hillfont Abbey. It would be one of the most notable landmarks in the county if its gates weren’t shut to visitors.”

  “What’s notable about it?” I asked.

  “In the first place,” said Lilian, “it isn’t an abbey.”

  She was about to expand on her intriguing prologue when a double-throated shout smote our ears.

  “Mummy!” bellowed Will and Rob.


  My sons raced through the lych-gate and ran toward us, dodging headstones and leaping over graves like a pair of exuberant lambs.

  “Don’t run in the churchyard!” Bill hollered as he entered the sanctified grounds at a more seemly pace.

  Will and Rob skidded to a side-by-side halt, spraying the blanket’s Bess-shaped indentation with a shower of dirt and dried leaves, then sprinted forward to rub their sister’s back vigorously and to give me two powerful hugs.

  “Hi, Mummy. Hi, Bessy,” they chorused breathlessly. “Hello, Mrs. Bunting.”

  “Good morning, boys,” said Lilian. She rose to greet Bill, then excused herself, saying, “I must remind Teddy that lunchtime is approaching. If I don’t, he’ll forget to eat.”

  “Good to see you, Lilian, however briefly,” said Bill.

  “And you, Bill,” she responded.

  Lilian ruffled the twins’ windblown hair affectionately and headed for the vicarage. I passed Bess to Bill and repacked the diaper bag, then sat on the stone bench to take stock of our sons. Their boisterousness filled me with trepidation.

  “How many slices of lemon poppy-seed cake have you had?” I asked them, giving Bill a dark, sidelong glance.

  “One apiece,” Rob replied.

  “And a glass of milk each,” Will added.

  Bill confirmed the veracity of their statements as well as the unfairness of my unspoken accusation with a haughty nod.

  “You must have eaten very slowly,” I said to the boys. “You’ve been at the tearoom for ages.”

  “We weren’t eating the whole time,” Will said, tossing his head scornfully.

  “Mr. Cook was teaching us to juggle,” Rob explained, his eyes shining.

  Henry Cook, a former cruise ship entertainer, possessed a wealth of talents guaranteed to dazzle a pair of nine-year-old boys. Although I appreciated his willingness to introduce Will and Rob to the performing arts, I couldn’t help thinking that a tearoom was not an ideal venue for juggling lessons.

  “What did you juggle?” I asked, picturing Sally Cook’s floor strewn with smashed cups and saucers.