Free Aunt Dimity and the Summer King by Nancy Atherton

other. And I’m done with the diaper. We’re both perfectly decent, I promise you.”
    Mr. Barlow slowly raised his head to peek at us.
    â€œPlease don’t go,” I said. I returned Bess to her carry cot and tucked a blanket around her to ward off lurking drafts. “If you can spare a minute, I’d like to have a word with you.”
    Mr. Barlow leaned the ladder against the wall, placed the toolbox on the floor, and crossed to sit in the pew in front of ours, half-turned, with his arm draped over the back. He looked down at Bess and chuckled ruefully.
    â€œYou must think I’m as old-fashioned as a butter churn,” he said.
    â€œSo what if you are?” I retorted. “I’d rather you were old-fashioned and polite than modern and rude.”
    â€œHow’s the little one coming along?” he asked. “I didn’t have a chance to look in on her after church, what with the ladies crowding round you like a flock of old biddies.”
    â€œBess is healthy, happy, and as sweet as honey,” I replied. “I’m a lucky mum.”
    â€œThat you are,” he said, gazing tenderly at Bess.
    â€œWould you like to hold her?” I asked.
    â€œNo, thanks,” he said, recoiling in alarm. “I’m better with shovels than babies, Lori. I’d only make Bess cry. Or drop her. Or worse.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” I said. “If you can mend a light fixture, you can hold a baby.”
    â€œThat’s as may be,” said Mr. Barlow. “But I’d rather not risk it.” He cleared his throat and got down to business. “What can I do for you, Lori? Will and Rob break another window?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said with a wry smile, “but it’s only a matter of time. No, Mr. Barlow, there’s nothing wrong with
my
cottage. I want to know if there’s something wrong with Rose Cottage.”
    â€œLike what?” he asked, frowning slightly.
    I remembered the litany of ills Aunt Dimity had cited the previous evening and used it in my reply.
    â€œA problem that isn’t easy to see from the outside,” I explained, “like a cracked foundation or rising damp or an infestation of deathwatch beetles.”
    â€œRose Cottage is as sound as a bell,” Mr. Barlow stated firmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanding took good care of it before they moved up north to be near their son. I had to replace a few slates on the roof, patch a flagstone in the hearth, and rehang a sash window in the back bedroom for them, but those are routine maintenance jobs, not major overhauls.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? What have you heard? If Peggy Taxman has been spreading nasty rumors about—”
    â€œShe hasn’t,” I broke in. “Not within my hearing, anyway. I’m simply trying to figure out why Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage have been sitting around, unsold, for the past five months.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with their condition,” Mr. Barlow said stoutly. “Jack MacBride spent a small fortune updating Ivy Cottage before he and Bree took off on their trip. He left the place in tip-top shape.” Mr. Barlow glanced at me. “Have you heard from them lately, Jack and Bree?”
    â€œPostcard on Saturday,” I said. “They’re still in Australia and having a mostly wonderful time.”
    â€œHope they come back,” Mr. Barlow said with a worried frown.
    â€œI’m sure they will,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Bree’s attached to her great-grandaunts’ house and Jack’s attached to Bree, so I can’t imagine them living anywhere else after they’re married.”
    â€œAre they to be wed?” Mr. Barlow leaned toward me attentively, demonstrating that no one in Finch, not even our down-to-earth handyman, was immune to the gossip bug.
    â€œThey haven’t picked a date yet,” I told him,