I couldn’t concentrate with Emma bouncing and giggling, so I whisked her into the living room, forced her to sit on the couch, and seated myself on the coffee table, facing her.
“Is Peter coming home to visit?” I probed. “Or is he coming home to stay?”
“To stay!” Emma crowed, bouncing up and down on the couch.
“Would you please sit still?” I said. “You’re frightening Stanley.”
It would have taken more than a bouncing Emma to drive Stanley from the comfort of Bill’s armchair, but my ploy worked. Emma contained her delirium for the cat’s sake.
“Now,” I said, “tell me everything.”
“Derek’s phone rang two minutes after I got back from Ivy Cottage,” she began. “It was Peter, calling to ask if he and Cassie could move in with us. They’ve had their fill of traveling and they want to start a family and they can’t think of a better place to raise children than Anscombe Manor.”
“I can’t think of one, either,” I said.
“It’s such a relief,” Emma went on. “Derek and I were afraid our first grandchild would be born in a stone hut in the Hebrides or in a cave halfway up Mount Snowdon or somewhere else equally rustic. But common sense prevailed in the end.”
“Funny how common sense prevails when one is contemplating childbirth,” I observed.
“Peter wanted us to take our time, thinking it over,” said Emma, “but we didn’t need to think it over. They’ll be here tomorrow!”
“Short notice,” I said. “Where will you put them?”
“In Peter’s old room, for the time being,” said Emma. “Derek is already drawing up plans for the self-contained apartment he’ll build for them in the south wing.” An enchanting smile wreathed her face. “It’ll have a nursery.”
The word nursery sparked memories of rocking my boys to sleep when they were small enough to hold in the crook of my arm. I could almost smell the talcum powder and the sweet, indefinable baby scent that has nothing to do with diapers. An unexpected twinge of envy assailed me when I thought of Emma and Derek singing lullabies to their grandchild-to-be.
“Have you told Nell and Kit?” I asked.
“Yes, and they’re as happy as we are,” said Emma. “Peter and Cassie have always been a bit of a mystery to Kit, and vice versa. They’ll finally have a chance to get to know one another, living and working together under one roof.”
“Working together?” I said. “Will they be working together?”
“It was Derek’s idea,” said Emma. “Peter told Derek that he and Cassie wouldn’t be comfortable living at the manor unless they could pay their own way, so Derek suggested they work for me. And they agreed!”
“Do they ride?” I asked.
“Like the wind,” said Emma, “but they’d rather ride for pleasure than give lessons. You won’t believe it, Lori, but they asked if they could run the office! It should be a good fit. They’re tactful and they’re well organized—you have to be when you live out of a duffel bag—and they’ve handled budgets and bills and schedules for their research projects. It’ll take me a couple of days to bring them up to speed, but once I do . . .” She caught her breath, then continued with a faraway look in her gray eyes, “I’ll never have to look at another piece of paperwork again. I’ll be able to—”
“Grow a prize-winning eggplant, knit a circus tent, and invent the cure for the common cold,” I broke in cheerily.
“I don’t know about curing the common cold,” said Emma, laughing, “but I will be able to spend as much time as I like in Mr. Huggins’s gardens!”
“Jack will be delighted,” I said. “I should warn you, though, that Mr. Huggins’s estate may not have sufficient funds to pay for your plan as written.”
“We’ll do what we can with what we have,” said Emma, undaunted. She glanced at her wristwatch, then jumped to her feet. “I’d better get moving. I have a to-do list as long as my arm, but I couldn’t do anything until I’d shared my wonderful news with you.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said, getting up to give her a hug. “It really is wonderful news.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She returned my hug, then broke free, saying, “Derek and I will throw a welcome-home party for Cassie and Peter at some point, but I’m not sure when. You and Bill will come, won’t you? And you’ll bring the twins? Peter’s dying to see Will and Rob.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assured her.
I walked Emma to the front door and waved her on her way, then made a mad dash for the study. My brain had begun to fizz again. I hoped Aunt Dimity would offer me a reasonable explanation for what had just happened because I couldn’t think of one myself.
I’d seen Emma beside the wishing well. I’d heard her wish for the perfect someone to appear on her doorstep and manage the riding school for her. By her own testimony, her wish had come true. On Thursday, Peter and Cassie would appear on her doorstep, and in two days, after she’d brought them up to speed, they would manage the riding school for her.
“Weird coincidence, my foot,” I muttered to Reginald when I entered the study. “Let’s see if Dimity can reason her way out of this one.”
I actually had my hand on the blue journal when the doorbell rang again. Urgently.
“Are you kidding me?” I groaned and Reginald’s pink ears seemed to droop with frustration.
I released the journal and returned to the front door in a testy mood. Had my visitor been a salesman, he would have regretted ringing my bell urgently. I must have looked out of sorts because when I flung the door wide, Elspeth Binney fell back a step.
“Have I come at a bad time?” she asked meekly.
“No, not at all. Please, come in,” I said, too surprised to remain irritated. To see Elspeth unaccompanied by her cronies was unusual. To see her alone on my doorstep in the middle of the day was unprecedented. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“No, no,” she said. “I can’t stay long—so much to do!—but I simply had to tell you my wonderful news!”
“More wonderful news,” I murmured weakly, wondering if another weird coincidence was about to land in my lap.
Elspeth followed me into the living room and sat in the same spot Emma had so recently occupied. Her posture was what one would expect from a retired schoolteacher and I found myself pulling my shoulders back as I lowered myself into my armchair.
“I wouldn’t trouble you, Lori,” Elspeth began, “if we didn’t have two very special things in common.”
“We have two things in common?” I said, baffled. “What would they be?”
“The wishing well,” she said, “and a deep appreciation of my niece’s artistic gifts. Do you remember my niece?”
“The niece who lives in Yorkshire?” I said. “The photographer?”
“That’s right,” said Elspeth. “Her name is Jemima, but we’ve always called her Jemma. Jemma Renshawe is her married name. You’ve never met Jemma, of course,” Elspeth went on, “but you admired her photographs when you came to my cottage last year.”
“They’re beautiful photographs,” I said, recalling the evocative black-and-white landscapes hanging on the walls in Elspeth’s sunny parlor. “Your niece is a gifted photographer.”
“Thank you,” said Elspeth. “Selena, Opal, and Millicent may take painting classes from Mr. Shuttleworth in Upper Deeping, but they lack the capacity to appreciate fine art. They think I’m proud of Jemma simply because she’s my niece. They’re incapable of recognizing her unique talent, but you aren’t.”
“Have you heard from your niece?” I asked, wishing she would get to the point.
“I have,” Elspeth said, her eyes shining. “She rang this morning to tell me that she’s been given a commission! A London firm is publishing a book about English villages and the book’s editor commissioned Jemma to photograph the people in a Cotswold village. Naturally, Jemma thought of Finch.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“She rang yesterday t
o tell me about the project,” said Elspeth, “and I invited her at once to stay with me. I’ll have to prepare the guest room and get in some extra groceries today because she’ll be here tomorrow!” Elspeth clasped her hands together in her lap. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“It is,” I said. “It’s completely marvelous, Elspeth, and I look forward to meeting your niece, but I’m a little confused. Why would the firm hire her to take pictures in the Cotswolds when she lives in Yorkshire?”
“Because I live in the Cotswolds,” Elspeth declared.
“Really?” I said uncomprehendingly. “I’m not quite sure I see the connection between—”
“Of course you don’t see the connection,” she interrupted. “I haven’t revealed it to you yet.” She looked demurely down at her clasped hands. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live with an artist.”
“Have you?” I said, leaning forward.
“Not in sin, mind you,” she said hastily. “It would be a platonic relationship based on a mutual passion for art.”
“Of course it would be,” I said, leaning back.
“I’m not creative myself,” Elspeth continued, “but I appreciate creativity in others, and I’ve often yearned for the opportunity to observe the intricacies of the creative process firsthand. Recently . . .” She hesitated before plunging on. “Recently I did more than yearn for it. I wished for it.”
“Did you?” I said, trying to sound surprised.
“You may remember seeing me at Ivy Cottage last week,” she said. “Selena, Opal, and I went there to welcome Jack MacBride to the village. Welcoming Jack was our primary goal, but I confess I had a secondary goal in mind.”
“Peggy Taxman told you I’d stopped the rain by making a wish in the wishing well,” I said, abandoning pretense, “so you thought you’d give it a try.”
“I did!” said Elspeth. “And it worked! Jemma received her commission only a few days after I spoke to the well. Ergo, the well must have granted my wish. There’s no other explanation!”
“There doesn’t seem to be,” I said, sighing.
“I hope you’ll keep my confession entre nous,” she said. “As a former schoolteacher, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I understand,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to be mistaken for Miranda Morrow.”
“Certainly not,” said Elspeth, sniffing derisively. “Miranda Morrow believes in witchcraft, a pseudoscience with no observable basis in fact.”
“Whereas you’ve drawn a logical conclusion based on the wishing well’s response to your wish,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Elspeth. She rose and smoothed her tweed skirt. “I must be on my way—so much to do! Thank you for listening, Lori. I’m sure you and Jemma will get along famously.”
I escorted Elspeth to the front door, down the flagstone path, and all the way to the end of the driveway, where she’d left her bicycle—an old black three-speed that must have outweighed Betsy by at least forty pounds.
She glided gracefully down the lane and I looked left and right like a hunted mouse, to see if anyone else was approaching the cottage.
Charles Bellingham was. His mauve Honda Civic was unmistakable and it was heading straight for me.
Fourteen
Charles Bellingham was tall, portly, balding, and excitable. Though he was a night owl by nature, he was wide-awake when he pulled into my driveway.
“Lori!” he called, hauling his large frame out of his compact vehicle. “I’m glad I caught you!”
He strode to the rear of the car, popped the trunk, and removed from it something that looked suspiciously like a small, framed painting wrapped in brown paper.
“Don’t tell me,” I said under my breath. “You have wonderful news.”
“I have the most wonderful news!” Charles announced, holding the parcel next to his smiling face.
“Come in,” I said dazedly, “and tell me all about it.”
I felt as if I were caught in a recurring dream as I led Charles into the living room and watched him sit in what was swiftly becoming the most sat upon spot on the couch.
“Tea?” I said automatically.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “No fiddling with the teapot. No cups, saucers, sugar bowls, or cream jugs. Sit! Listen!”
I sank onto my armchair to await yet another revelation. Charles placed his parcel on the coffee table, spread his hands upon his knees, and glanced furtively over his shoulder.
“Are we alone?” he asked.
“There’s Stanley,” I said, nodding at the cat, who betrayed not the slightest sign of interest in our guest. “But he’s not a big talker.”
Charles gazed benevolently at Stanley, then turned his attention to me.
“I believe I’ve told you about Grant’s disposables,” he began.
“You’ve told everyone in Finch about Grant’s disposables,” I said tiredly. “It’s your favorite prank. You fool people into thinking you’re talking about adult diapers and only then do you tell them what Grant’s disposables really are. I’m not sure Grant appreciates it. For a long time, old Mrs. Wyn was convinced that he was incontinent.”
Charles sniggered. “I must remember to speak more loudly to Mrs. Wyn. Her hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “When she asked me in hushed tones about Grant’s unfortunate condition, I explained to her that his disposables aren’t personal hygiene products. They’re the ugly paintings he stashes in your shed.”
Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock bought and sold artwork as a hobby, but they earned their daily bread by appraising, restoring, and repairing paintings for well-to-do clients. Charles carried out the appraisals and Grant was the repair and restoration expert.
“Disposables” were the cheap and dreadful paintings Grant purchased at charity shops, car boot sales, and flea markets. He used disposables to test new products, techniques, and tools before disposing of them in his recycling bin, where, he claimed, they brought more joy to humankind than they had ever brought before.
“Why do you do it?” I asked. “Why make a joke at Grant’s expense?”
“Why do I do it?” Charles echoed indignantly. “I’ll tell you why! Grant rummages through his disposables after he buys them to make sure there isn’t a gem hidden among them. He then tosses them into the shed higgledy-piggledy and waits for me to organize his mess for him. He does it on purpose, Lori, because he knows how intensely I detest chaos. He knows I’ll eventually grit my teeth and sort the horrors—”
“You sort them?” I broke in.
“Yes,” said Charles. “By size, shape, and medium.”
“Medium?” I queried.
“Oil, acrylic, watercolor, tempera, et cetera,” Charles clarified. “I’m certain I found a still life done in gravy once, but Grant insists it was a thick impasto. At any rate, I carry out the unenviable tasks of sorting Grant’s disposables and placing them in their assigned racks in his workroom, and what thanks do I get?”
“The satisfaction of a job well done?” I ventured.
“Lori,” Charles said gravely, “there is no satisfaction to be had from handling botched paintings of clowns, cheetahs, bananas, and sunsets.”
“Someone must have loved them once,” I pointed out.
“Once was more than they deserved,” he retorted. “Yes, I have my little joke at Grant’s expense, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough, to make up for the hours I spend knee-deep in dregs. I’ve often longed to exact a sweeter revenge, and yesterday afternoon the means to achieve the ultimate retaliation fell into my hands. At long last, I discovered a hidden gem Grant overlooked, a grain of wheat he failed to separate from the chaff, the swan in the flock of ugly ducklings—”
“You found an undiscovered masterpiece,” I interrupted, repeating the words Bree had used to describe Charles’s wildest dream, “a long-lost Rembrandt.”
“Not a Rembrandt,” he said, “but a masterpiece nonetheless.” He sm
iled smugly and took the wrapped parcel from the coffee table. He carefully removed the brown paper and set it aside, then held the masterpiece out for me to see.
It was an ink wash painting. Will and Rob had introduced me to ink wash painting as part of a classroom project on Japan. I doubted that I would ever forget the evening we’d spent at the kitchen table, practicing brushstrokes and learning how to remove ink stains from hands and faces.
The painting Charles held was framed in black bamboo. A vertical line of delicately scribed Japanese calligraphy seemed to float in the empty space to the right of the central image, followed by a tiny red box enclosing yet another Japanese character. The red stamp was, I recalled, the artist’s personal seal or chop, used in lieu of or in addition to a signature. Will and Rob had made their own, slightly less elegant, chops by carving their initials into raw potatoes.
I studied the main image in silence, then said tentatively, “Is it a koi?”
“Very good!” Charles replied, nodding his approval. “It’s a koi—a Japanese carp—pirouetting through fronds of swaying seaweed. Moreover, it’s an original Asazuki”—his finger traced the line of calligraphy leading to the tiny red box—“signed and stamped by the great Asazuki herself.” When I looked blank, he explained, “Chiaki Asazuki is a contemporary artist who creates miniature homages to the magnificent koi artists of the late Edo and the early Meiji periods. A piece like the one you see before you can fetch hundreds of pounds at the right auction and Grant missed it!”
“It’s pretty small,” I said reasonably.
“Its diminutive size was Grant’s downfall,” said Charles. “It was jammed between a paint-by-number landscape and a stupendously malformed nude. I can’t fault Grant for skipping over them, but he’ll tear his hair out when I show him what was hidden between them!”
“Haven’t you shown it to him already?” I asked, surprised.
Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well Page 11