As a wedding present, Mr. Barlow had cleared out the catchall room at the back of his house and transformed it into a library for the fairly extensive collection of books his bride had brought with her from her home in Oxford. Some of the books were both old and valuable, but their monetary worth meant nothing to Tilly Barlow. Tilly collected books because she liked to read, not because she regarded them as a potential source of revenue, and she was always glad to lend them to her neighbors.
“What kind of book will Tilly select for Mr. Windle?” I asked my companions as Henry cleared our table after lunch. “Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Whatever she chooses, I hope it’s a lighthearted read,” said Amelia. “The last thing the poor man needs right now is a tragedy.”
“Sally should lend him one of her romance novels,” said Elspeth, who’d just returned from walking Homer. “They always have a happy ending.”
“I can’t quite envision Mr. Windle engrossed in a bodice ripper,” said Mrs. Craven, “but you never know—he could surprise us!”
“Here comes the afternoon shift,” said Lilian.
Since Tilly Barlow tended to dress like an old-fashioned librarian regardless of the circumstances, no one took the trouble to comment on the fact that she was wearing a plain white blouse, the brown skirt she’d worn to church on Sunday, and a sensible beige cardigan that would have blended into Mr. Windle’s couch. The calf-bound book she cradled in the crook of her arm as she crossed the green appeared to be on the elderly end of the scale, but it seemed commonplace compared with Elspeth’s outsized tome.
“Not a book of photographs, I’ll wager,” said Lilian.
“I doubt that Tilly owns a book of photographs,” said Elspeth. “She prefers words to pictures.”
At first it seemed as if Tilly were staging a reenactment of Elspeth’s first visit to Pussywillows. When her knock received no answer, she pressed her ear to the door, then straightened, frowning. Instead of slinking slyly to the dining room window, however, Tilly marched over to it as if she didn’t care who saw her and rapped her knuckles on the curtained pane.
“Bold move,” said Amelia.
“Since when is Tilly bold?” I asked.
“Since Mr. Windle refused to answer his door,” said Mrs. Craven.
Tilly’s atypically bold move worked. When she resumed her stance on the doorstep, Mr. Windle was there, waiting for her. She presented the book to him, conversed with him for several minutes, pointed at her house, and seemed to part company with him on amicable terms. I was so curious to find out what had passed between them that I would have considered tackling her had she turned toward home. Happily for all concerned, especially my knees, she entered the tearoom.
Tilly certainly didn’t seem to be herself. She sat at Elspeth’s table without waiting to be invited, scratched Homer absently behind the ears, and forgot to say “please” when she asked Henry to bring her a pot of tea and a chocolate eclair.
“Heaven knows I’ve earned a treat,” she said after he left.
“Did you have a hard time picking out a book for Mr. Windle?” I inquired, though I had a feeling that book selection was the least of her worries.
“Not at all,” she answered. “As Mr. Windle is new to the area, I thought he might enjoy A History of the Wool Trade in the Cotswolds.”
“Bestseller, is it?” Amelia teased.
“I’ll have you know,” Tilly retorted more loudly than was strictly necessary, “that Mr. Windle expressed a keen interest in it.”
I’d never heard her raise her voice before, and to judge by my friends’ expressions, neither had they.
“Bad day, my dear?” Lilian asked gently.
“A succession of bad days,” Tilly retorted, “with no end in sight.”
Henry, who’d overheard her outburst, as had everyone else in the tearoom, approached her as he would approach a ticking time bomb, placed her order on the table, and asked cautiously if there was anything else she needed.
“A holiday,” she snapped.
Henry backed away, and Elspeth reached down to reassure Homer, who’d awakened with a jerk. Rushing in where the rest of us mere mortals feared to tread, Lilian tried again. As a vicar’s wife, she was adept at defusing human bombs.
“How are things at home?” she asked.
“Excruciating,” said Tilly. “Tommy and Mr. Barlow have stopped speaking to each other, Tommy’s been stomping about the house like a bull elephant, and Mr. Barlow’s been sulking in his workshop. I’d knock their heads together if I could, but I can barely reach Tommy’s.”
I bit my lip to keep myself from laughing. I didn’t want Tilly to turn her ire on me.
“I wish there was something I could do to help,” Lilian said sympathetically. “Would you like me or Teddy to have a word with them?”
“Thank you,” said Tilly, “but I doubt that the good Lord Himself could talk any sense into those two at the moment.” After a sip of tea, she seemed to gather herself. “Forgive me, Lilian. I shouldn’t have spoken disrespectfully about our Lord.”
“He won’t mind,” Lilian assured her. “He can see that you’re under a great deal of stress.”
“I’m as fed up as I can possibly be,” Tilly agreed. “I don’t know what Mr. Barlow is doing in his workshop, but he’s hammering away at something. The noise is driving me mad. I suppose it’s why I behaved so impolitely at Pussywillows.” She blushed. “I shouldn’t have knocked on Mr. Windle’s window, but I simply couldn’t stop myself. The noises coming from his dining room set me off.”
“He must have been weaving,” said Mrs. Craven.
“Is Mr. Windle a weaver?” Tilly asked.
“We’ve convinced ourselves that he is,” said Lilian. “The beater, you know.”
“Oh, yes, the beater,” said Tilly, exhibiting the same breezy familiarity with looms as the rest of our group, apart from me. “The noise I heard could have been made by strong pulls on a heavy beater. If Mr. Windle is a weaver, I imagine he’ll find A History of the Wool Trade in the Cotswolds fascinating. It stands to reason that a weaver would have a natural affinity for wool.”
“So it does,” Amelia said earnestly, as if to make up for her earlier teasing.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Lilian, “how are Tommy and Mr. Barlow able to work together if they’re not speaking to each other?”
“Grunts and gestures,” said Tilly. “It’s like living with a pair of cavemen.” She pursed her lips. “I lay the vast majority of the blame on my husband. I realize that he was vexed with Bree for telling tales out of school, but he had no business speaking so harshly to her.” She took another sip of tea before continuing, “To be honest, I think he was as stunned as Tommy and I were when Bree reacted as she did. She’s such a plucky little thing. I’m sure Mr. Barlow believed that she was strong enough to take a scolding without going to pieces.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I could fulfill my promise to Aunt Dimity by telling Tilly why Bree wasn’t as plucky as she seemed. I could then leave it to her to convey the sad tale to her husband and to her step-nephew in a manner and at a time she deemed appropriate.
I decided on the spot to invite her to dinner. The twinge of guilt I felt for having an ulterior motive was offset by my certainty that she would welcome an evening away from her maddening menfolk.
“You need a break from the bickering,” I said to Tilly. “Come to my place for dinner tonight. Let the cavemen fend for themselves.”
“Do you know,” she said, brightening, “I believe I shall. Thank you, Lori. It will be a blessed relief to get away from the banging.” She sighed. “I wish I hadn’t interrupted Mr. Windle. He shouldn’t have to pay for Mr. Barlow’s pigheadedness.”
“The interruption didn’t seem to bother Mr. Windle,” said Amelia.
“He was extremely gracious,” Tilly acknowledged, “and he was sincerely grateful for A History of the Wool Trade in the Cotswolds. I showed him where I live, in case he’d like to borrow other books on the subject.”
“How many books on the subject do you own?” I asked.
“Eight,” Tilly replied promptly. “I acquired them quite by accident. They were in a box of books I bought at an estate sale in Stroud.”
“If you were going to find such books anywhere,” said Lilian, “it would be Stroud. Stroud was once a famous mill town.”
“Indeed, it was,” said Tilly. “Stroud’s woolen mills produced the scarlet fabric that became the hallmark of the British army. Hence the irreverent nickname ‘redcoats.’ ”
“I had no idea,” I said. “I may have to visit Stroud one of these days.”
“Very few of the mills are still in operation,” Tilly explained, “but some of the older ones have been preserved as museums.”
“We don’t have a proper museum in Finch,” said Mrs. Craven. “If we had, I would have mentioned it to Mr. Windle.” She turned to Tilly. “Did he ask you about local landmarks?”
“He asked me if I knew of any,” Tilly replied. “I didn’t wish to insult his intelligence by pointing to obvious landmarks like the church, the bridge, and the war memorial, so I told him about Fairworth House and Hillfont Abbey instead.”
“How did he react?” I asked.
“A bit oddly, now that I think of it,” said Tilly. “I’m not sure how to describe it, but it was as if I hadn’t given him the answer he wanted.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I should have pointed out the obvious.”
“Elspeth and I pointed it out to him already,” said Mrs. Craven. “He asked us about landmarks, too.”
“I think it’s commendable of him to take an interest in his new surroundings,” said Elspeth. “I just wish I knew what he was looking for.”
“I have what I’m looking for.” Tilly gazed down at her eclair and smiled for the first time since she’d entered the tearoom. “I do love Sally’s chocolate eclairs.”
“So do we all,” said Lilian. “But I’m afraid it’s too late for me to order one. Meals on Wheels beckons.”
“I should go as well,” I said. “If I’m to call on Mr. Windle tomorrow morning, I must cook for him tonight.”
“Will you make your leek, kale, and goat cheese casserole?” Amelia asked.
“Naturally,” I said. “It freezes well, so it won’t go moldy while he’s working his way through the other casseroles. And since we’re having a guest to dinner tonight,” I added with a nod to Tilly, “I must clear a path through the toys. Is six o’clock too early for you? We dine early because of the children.”
“Six o’clock will be perfect,” she replied. She patted the table. “In the meantime, until the tearoom closes, I shall be at my post, watching Pussywillows.”
“I’ll keep you company, Tilly,” said Amelia. “William received a new orchid by special delivery this morning. He won’t notice that I’m gone.”
“I’ll take Homer for walkies, then come right back,” said Elspeth.
“You’ll ring us if the vicar sees Mr. Windle near the river again, won’t you, Lilian?” said Amelia.
Lilian promised that she would, walked with me to the Rover, and went on her way to the vicarage. I climbed into the driver’s seat and bumped slowly around the green, searching my mind for a landmark the ladies hadn’t mentioned to Mr. Windle.
The only one I could come up with was the hill behind my house, and I couldn’t imagine why he’d be interested in it. It was a nice enough hill, as hills went, and it held a great deal of personal meaning for me, but there had to be much more impressive hills in the Peak District.
“Why else would they call it the Peak District?” I asked myself.
I crossed the humpbacked bridge and headed for home, still pondering Mr. Windle’s fixation on landmarks.