Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (8 page)

“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.

“Bread rolls,” said Will.

“Without butter,” Rob amplified.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

“But we're done with juggling,” said Will.

“We're going to the Cotswold Farm Park!” Rob exclaimed.

“Are we?” I asked, looking at Bill.

“The vote was unanimous,” he informed me solemnly.

“Mrs. Cook packed us a picnic lunch,” said Will. “It's
huge
.”

“It's already in the Rover,” said Rob.

“Boys?” said Bill. “Please walk—
do not run
—to the car and wait for us there. Mummy, Bess, and I will be along in a moment.”

“Righty-ho, Daddy!” they chorused.

Watching Will and Rob trying to walk was like watching a pair of colts trying not to kick up their heels. Their self-control filled me with pride.

“Righty-ho?” I said wonderingly, when the boys were safely out of earshot. “Where did that come from?”

“Don't ask me,” said Bill as he placed Bess in her carry cot. “They must have picked it up at the stables. Is the Cotswold Farm Park all right?”

“Children, animals, and a
huge
picnic lunch?” I said, grabbing the diaper bag. “Sounds like a winning formula to me.”

Bill took the diaper bag from me and slung it over his own shoulder, then picked up the carry cot.

“I've been collecting information,” he said mysteriously.

Bill wouldn't demean himself by gossiping, but he saw nothing wrong with “collecting information.” If there was a difference between the two, I couldn't see it.

“Have I got a story to tell you,” he added.

“Could you save it for later?” I asked. “I need some Mummy time with Will and Rob.”

“Righty-ho!” he said.

I laughed, and while he did the heavy lifting, I thrust Marigold Edwards and Arthur Hargreaves out of my thoughts to make room for my boys.

D
espite a skinned knee, a broken shoelace, and a close encounter with an irate goose, our outing was a resounding success. Will and Rob introduced Bess to polka-dotted pigs, long-horned oxen, and stately shire horses; fed park-approved treats to the little white goats that had the run of the main enclosure; and went with Bill to watch the sheep-shearing demonstration while Bess and I took our afternoon naps in the Rover.

Sally Cook's picnic lunch was so huge that soup and sandwiches sufficed for dinner. Story time followed bath time and by half past seven, Bess and the boys were in bed and asleep. I'd just finished loading the dishwasher when Emma Harris dropped by to return a book Will had left at the stables. I invited her to join Bill and me under the apple tree in the back garden and the three of us headed outdoors to enjoy the lingering warmth of the long summer's day. Stanley followed us out, waited patiently for Bill to take a seat, then jumped into Bill's lap and began to purr.

Bill placed the baby monitor on the teak table between his lawn chair and mine, and Emma sat in a third lawn chair, facing ours. Slightly built, with blue-gray eyes and graying, dishwater blond hair, Emma Harris was the sort of person who found it irksome to sit still. She preferred to be engaged in one activity or another, whether it was knitting, gardening, trying new recipes, writing computer programs, training horses, caring for horses, or teaching students of all ages to ride. She couldn't even take an evening stroll without bringing a compass along with her to practice her map-reading skills.

As someone who cherished every moment I spent sitting still, I welcomed the sight of her lying back in her chair, with a glass of chilled rose hip tea at her elbow, doing nothing that could possibly be construed as productive.

“Emma,” I said, “did you and Derek work with Marigold Edwards when you bought Anscombe Manor?”

“No,” she said. “We dealt directly with the previous owner's solicitor. Why do you ask?”

“I don't understand why she hasn't found buyers for Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage,” I said. “I'd like to know more about her.”

“I've heard nothing but good things about her from the villagers,” said Emma.

“Same here,” I said. “Thanks, by the way, for returning the book. And thanks in advance for letting the boys stay with you over the weekend.”

“Will and Rob can stay with me anytime they like,” said Emma. “They're as horse-crazy as I am. As for the book . . .” She sat up to sip her tea, then leaned back in her chair, cradling the glistening glass in her hands. “To be perfectly honest, I had an ulterior motive for coming over here tonight.”

“Out with it,” I commanded, though I was too relaxed to put much oomph into my words.

“I heard that you tackled the disused farm track I found on the old ordnance survey map,” she said.

I hadn't yet told Emma about my adventure, but I wasn't shocked to learn that someone had. News drifted through our small community like wisps of gossamer, though with considerably more speed.

“I might hike it myself next weekend,” she continued. “I'd like to hear your take on it.”

I looked down at my drink. Though I'd told Bess that I might allow Emma to visit our secret place, I felt a sudden, childish impulse to keep it to myself for the time being. Almost without thinking, I decided to downplay the track's undeniable beauty by emphasizing its less attractive aspects.

“The verges are pretty,” I said indifferently, “but the track itself is a disaster—nothing but roots, rocks, and ruts.”

“And potholes,” Bill put in.

“And potholes,” I repeated with an emphatic nod. “Lots and lots of deep, dark, nasty potholes.”

“I could explore it on horseback,” Emma proposed. “Peg's good at negotiating rough trails.”

“You'd be knocked out of the saddle,” I told her. “I had to duck under branches and I wasn't riding a fifteen-hand chestnut mare like your Pegasus. And let's not forget the track's least endearing feature: According to Lilian Bunting, a drop of rain turns it into a torrent. You might want to annotate your map to that effect, to keep future ramblers from drowning in flash floods.”

“That must be why the track was abandoned,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Farmers aren't stupid. They won't go to the trouble and the expense of maintaining a cart track that washes out every time it rains.” She sighed. “Maybe I'll give it a miss.”

“I would if I were you,” I said. “You wouldn't want Peg to break a leg.”

“I wouldn't want to break my own leg, either,” Emma said.

I should have been thoroughly ashamed of myself for misleading my friend, but I felt only a half-ashamed sense of relief. The old track would remain my secret place, I thought, until I was ready to share its secrets with others.

Bill was clearly ready to change the subject.

“Emma,” he said, “what do you know about the Finch-Tillcote feud?”

Emma and I exchanged bewildered looks, then stared at Bill questioningly.

“What brought the Finch-Tillcote feud to mind?” I inquired.

“The information I collected at the tearoom this morning,” he replied. “You don't think I spent all of my time there watching Will and Rob throw bread rolls at each other, do you?” Turning to Emma, he explained, “Lori put the cat among the pigeons after church by uttering the name of a family associated with Tillcote.”

“The Hargreaves family,” Emma said, nodding. “I heard.” She wagged a finger at me. “It was a silly thing to do, Lori.”

“Why?” I asked, roused from my lethargy. “Do you know the Hargreaveses?”

“No,” said Emma, “but if I did, I wouldn't admit it to anyone in Finch, not unless I wanted to get the stink-eye every time I walked into the Emporium, the pub, and the tearoom.”

“Why would the villagers give you the stink-eye?” I asked.

“Because the Hargreaves family is on the wrong side of the great divide that separates the decent people of Finch from Tillcote mafia,” said Emma.

“The Tillcote
mafia
?” I said with a snort of laughter. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Derek's word, not mine,” said Emma, referring to her eminently sensible husband. “He thinks the feud is ridiculous and he jokes about it when we're alone, but he steers clear of Tillcote nevertheless. He doesn't want to be accused of consorting with the enemy.”

“Good grief,” I said. “You make it sound like
West Side Story.
”

“If a Tillcote girl dated a Finch boy, or the other way around,” said Emma, “it would be exactly like
West Side Story
. Except for the singing. And the dancing. And, I would hope, the murders.”

“You would hope?” I echoed, gaping at her. “How serious is this feud?”

“It's serious.” Emma set her glass aside and sat upright, folding her legs beneath her like a Girl Scout perched beside a campfire. “Derek and I found out about it a couple of weeks after we moved into Anscombe Manor. We'd spent a day driving around, as you do when you're new to an area—”

“Bill and I did our share of aimless driving when we first moved to Finch,” I broke in, “but we never made it to Tillcote.” I glanced at Bill. “I'm not sure why.”

“There's no direct route between the two villages,” Emma reminded me. “You have to make an effort to reach Tillcote, or stumble across it by accident, which is what happened to Derek and me.”

“Is it anything like Finch?” I asked.

“It's bigger than Finch,” said Emma, “thanks to the council housing built there in the fifties. It's hemmed in by two major roadways as well. Derek and I didn't think much of it.”

“Emma,” said Bill, “what happened on the day you and Derek spent driving around?”

“Oh, right,” said Emma. “Back to the story.” She paused for a moment, then picked up where she'd left off. “On the way home from our drive, we stopped at the Emporium to buy a few groceries.”

“Did Peggy Taxman offer you a warm welcome to Finch?” Bill asked. “She must have been pleased to meet two new local customers.”

“Peggy Taxman was Peggy Kitchen then,” said Emma, “and she was nice enough to us until we made the mistake of telling her that we'd visited All Saints Church in Tillcote.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“She gave us the stink-eye,” said Emma. “If we hadn't been newcomers, I think she would have shown us the door. Thankfully, she made allowances for our ignorance and did her best to educate us. She explained that, if Derek and I wished to be on friendly terms with our neighbors in Finch, we wouldn't have anything to do with Tillcote.”

“Scary,” I said. “Her voice alone must have rattled you. I've seen it rattle the windows in the Emporium.”

Emma laughed.

“Did you ask Peggy why Tillcote was off-limits?” Bill inquired.

“Derek did,” said Emma. “She gave him a list of reasons as long as her arm. Tillcote folk, as she called them, were arrogant, deceitful, dishonest, lazy, greedy, ill-mannered . . .” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture, as if words had failed her. “Basically, she told us that they were the spawn of Satan and that we would be tarred by the same brush if we spent too much time with them.”

“If I know Derek,” Bill said shrewdly, “he ignored Peggy's advice.”

“He went straight back to Tillcote the next day,” Emma confirmed. “And he was treated to an encore performance by the woman who ran their general store, only in reverse. Her speech about Finch folk was almost exactly the same as Peggy's speech about Tillcote folk. In the end, we decided to give Tillcote a wide berth.” She shrugged. “Derek and I didn't wish to be at odds with our new neighbors.”

I squinted at her incredulously.

“Your decision wasn't based solely on the ravings of a pair of competing shopkeepers, was it?” I asked.

“Of course it wasn't,” said Emma. “Derek threw out feelers to every villager he came across and the response was always the same. It still is.”

“It certainly is,” said Bill. “The tearoom was buzzing with resentful chatter this morning. Christine Peacock told me—”

He broke off and Stanley raised his gleaming black head as the baby monitor lit up.

“It's okay,” I said, recognizing the sounds emerging from the small speaker. “She's talking to herself.”

Stanley went back to sleep.

“Is Bess talking already?” Emma asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” said Bill, without cracking a smile. “She's scheduled to deliver a lecture on semantics at the Bodleian Library on Friday morning.”

“He's teasing you,” I said to Emma. My friend sometimes misunderstood my husband's puckish sense of humor. “The only language Bess speaks at the moment is baby.”

“True,” said Bill, “but she speaks it fluently.”

“Go on about the tearoom,” I said to him. “Sally Cook told me that Tillcote folk would steal the coins off a dead man's eyes. What did Christine Peacock say about them?”

“She told me that Teddy Bunting can't stand Tillcote's rector,” said Bill.

My eyebrows rose. “I thought the vicar liked everyone.”

“He does,” said Bill, “with one exception. He feels that Mr. Gunninger is more concerned with showmanship than he is with pastoral care. Or, as Christine put it . . .” Bill launched into a passable imitation of Christine Peacock's West Midlands accent. “‘Mr. Gunninger is one of those hellfire and damnation types, the sort of preacher who likes the sound of his own voice and the rustle of pound notes in the collection plate.'”

“Ouch,” I said, wincing. “Not a glowing review.”

“It gets worse,” said Bill. “Mr. Gunninger charges a small fee to open his church for anyone, including his own parishioners, between services.”

My jaw dropped. Theodore Bunting allowed his parishioners to slip in and out of St. George's whenever they pleased. In Finch, the church was regarded as a place for worship and contemplation, not as a profit-making venture.

“I'm with Teddy Bunting,” I said stoutly. “Mr. Gunninger sounds like a very disagreeable man.”

“Oddly enough,” said Bill, “Mr. Gunninger is the only Tillcote resident Christine or anyone else in the tearoom could name. They grumbled about ‘this bloke' or ‘those ladies' or ‘that lad' from Tillcote, but the offenders were otherwise anonymous. Our neighbors seem to regard Tillcote folk as generic demons rather than real human beings.”

“The ladies in the churchyard recognized Arthur Hargreaves's name,” I pointed out, “though they didn't seem to know much about him.”

“They don't seem to know much about
anyone
in Tillcote,” said Bill, “but they think the worst of them all the same.”

“Derek sees it as a case of small-town rivalry run amok,” said Emma. “No one remembers how the feud started, but everyone feels compelled to keep it going. It's the same old story, isn't it? An us-versus-them mentality. Some people need to have an enemy in order to feel good about themselves.”

“Arthur Hargreaves isn't my enemy,” I said stubbornly. “And I don't care who knows it.”

“You will,” said Emma, “once you start getting the stink-eye.” She straightened her legs and stretched luxuriously. “Time for me to go, I think. If I leave now, I should be able to finish my evening chores before it gets too dark to see the water troughs.”

“One more question?” Bill asked.

“Go ahead,” said Emma.

“Lori and I have lived here for ten years, but we didn't find out about the feud until today,” he said. “Why hasn't anyone educated us?”

“More to the point,” I chimed in, “why didn't
you
educate us?”

Emma ducked her head sheepishly.

“To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten about the feud,” she said.