And meanwhile…
Antonia covered the few miles from the Collins’s in Horsley to the outskirts of Bringham in a short time. After pulling to the side of the lane to consult Dixie’s lists and maps, she drove through the village, turned right at the church, took the next left, and parked in front of a modern house. The vast Victorian rectory that had housed former vicars and their offspring and servants was now an old people’s home. The current incumbent had far more modest and vastly more comfortable surroundings.
A glance at the immaculate rose beds and lush hanging baskets showed someone in the house was a very eager gardener—or they hired one. Might be handy to get the name and add it to her list. They’d need help with the wilderness around Orchard House. The lawn cutting service didn’t extend to weeding or pruning.
Hoping someone would be in—it was the vicarage after all—Antonia rang the bell.
The genteel ding-dong-ding of the chiming doorbell was drowned out by what sounded like the baying of a wolfhound. The gray shape that appeared through the reeded glass in the front door pretty much confirmed it.
“Hush, Pansy! Hush!” a woman’s voice called, and as the dog quieted, the door was opened by a fresh-faced young woman. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I was hoping so, but is this an inconvenient time?”
“No worse than any other. I’m afraid Mum’s out if you wanted her.”
“If your mother’s the vicar’s wife, yes. I had hoped to speak to her. I just moved into the village. My name’s Antonia Stonewright.
“Oh! You bought Orchard House and are turning it into a B and B.” She gave the dog a yank back as it tried to sniff at Antonia. “Behave yourself, Pansy!” She looked back up and smiled, “Sorry. Excuse my manners.” She held out her free hand. “I’m Judy Abbott. Dad’s the vicar here, and I just got down from Uni. Come in.”
Antonia stepped over the threshold. Pansy decided she was persona definitely grata and started sniffling and licking her hands.
“Want a cup of tea?” Judy asked as she led the way back to a large kitchen filled with sunshine and overlooking a back garden every bit as immaculate as the front. “Oh, Pansy, leave her alone!” Judy gave the dog a gentle nudge, and then Antonia noticed that Pansy wasn’t merely large and fat, she was expecting. After Emily this morning, Bringham appeared to be a font of fecundity.
Pansy lumbered her bulk into a vast dog bed and, after turning around several times and scratching the pillow, settled, but kept her eyes on Antonia.
It was a darn good thing animals didn’t really react to vampires the way they did in some fanciful fiction. “She’s a beautiful dog,” Antonia said. “My father had several wolfhounds.”
“Several?” Judy looked around from filling the kettle. “I hope you had a bigger house than this one!”
It had been a hall: vast, draughty, dark, and large enough to sleep a hundred men. “It was.”
Judy plugged in the kettle and reached for the teapot. Antonia would have sighed if she still could. Another cup of tea! Better get used to swallowing them if she planned on knocking on doors. After all, at her age, she could ingest gallons of tea without ill effect. She hoped. “Mum should be back soon,” Judy said. “If you want to wait, that’s fine, or if I can help…” She walked over to the table and cleared away a heap of sewing and a workbasket. When the kettle boiled, she took two mugs from a row hanging beneath the countertop. “Tea bags alright?”
“Perfect.” The mugs caught Antonia’s eye—souvenirs of the London Dungeon and the All England Tennis and Croquet Club just didn’t seem to mesh exactly. But who knew how mortals viewed these things?
Judy filled each mug and swirled the tea bags around. “So you need help? About the Bed and Breakfast? If you need staff, Mum can spread the word, but an ad in the local paper might get better results.” She squeezed out the bags, added milk without asking, and handed Antonia the London Dungeon mug. “Sugar?” She put a small pottery bowl of sugar on the table.
“No, thanks.” The tea was hot, so it had better sit. Swallowing boiling liquid tended to get noticed. “Actually, it’s not a B and B. I’m opening a small art gallery and craft center. We plan to open in September and be in full swing for Christmas. What I was hoping was your mother might be able to help me find someone. I was given a name, but can’t find him in the phone book.”
“Maybe I can. If not, Mum or Dad might. Who is it?”
“A potter. A Michael Langton.”
“Oh! The reclusive potter!” Judy smiled and shook her head. “He’s hard to find, ex-directory and ex just about everything. Beats me how he runs a business, but he seems to sell all over the place. I’ve never met him. Dad has. When we had a silent auction to raise money for repairs to the church, Michael Langton donated a really beautiful soup tureen and plates. Told Dad he was happy to contribute as long as he didn’t have to come. Odd sort, but his stuff was beautiful.”
“You have any?”
Judy shook her head. “It all went and got a good price, too. Someone from Effingham bought it and thought they got it for a song. Seems he’s known all over the country. As for where he lives,” she paused, “let me call Sylvie, who edits the parish mag.”
Judy picked up the phone and speed dialed a number. After enquiries about Sylvie’s Dad’s health and how much he was looking forward to two weeks in Brittany, she wrote down what was either a long address or extremely complicated directions. “The address is Manor Farm cottages, but you can’t get there from Manor Farm Road.” She handed Antonia the paper. “Here are Sylvie’s directions verbatim. If you get lost, I’ve written her number at the bottom. Call her. She’s been there to deliver parish magazines.”
The paper was covered with large, loopy handwriting, but it was legible enough. Antonia tucked it into her pocket. “Thank you so much; you’ve been really helpful.”
“Glad I could be. The odds were I couldn’t have as I’m gone more than I’m here, but it so happened I remembered Mum and Dad talking about him.” She paused. “Want Mum to spread the word in the village you’re looking for people for craft sales? Or do you have particular requirements, nonamateur stuff and so forth?”
“I’ll be very selective.” Abel help her, she was going to have to be. “But I’ve nothing against amateur. It’s quality and originality that matter. I hope to use mostly local people. Do you know anyone else?”
“Only two old ladies, the Misses Black. A pair of sisters who live in the Council Houses up by the main road. They knit and have for years. Mum had them make a marvelous poncho for me for Christmas. Their work is really good. A whole lot better than the sort of stuff we get for church bazaars.”
“Someone else mentioned them. Do you have an address? Phone number?” Judy had both. Antonia downed a mouthful of tea. “Sorry to run, but I’d like to try to find the elusive potter before I go home.”
“And,” Judy went on, half-hesitating, “I do embroidery and collage. I sold a few cushions to an interior decorating shop in Oxford. Made myself some extra dosh to eke out my loans.”
Might be hideous but one never knew. “Do you have some work handy?” Antonia glanced at the heap of sewing Judy’d pushed aside earlier.
“That one’s still at the planning stage,” she replied, following Antonia’s gaze, “but I do have a couple I gave Mum and Dad for Christmas. Let me get them.”
While she nipped upstairs, Antonia took the opportunity to tip the contents of her mug down the drain to save her body the effort of absorption. She was sitting back down, empty mug in front of her, when Judy returned, clutching two large pillows.
Antonia had to stop