Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (10 page)

Of course it seems familiar! You see it every Sunday.

“Do I?” I said, bewildered. “Where?”

Since the rain has evidently rusted your brain, my dear, we’ll take it one step at a time. To which saint is the church in Finch dedicated, Lori?

“St. George,” I replied. “That’s why it’s called St. George’s.”

Aunt Dimity ignored my weak attempt at humor and continued,
What scene is depicted in the medieval wall painting above the church’s north aisle?

“St. George, slaying the dragon,” I said.

What is strapped to St. George’s left arm?

“A shield.” I closed my eyes briefly, then sat bolt upright and cried, “A shield with a red cross!”

I knew you’d get there in the end.

“The glyph must refer to the wall painting!” I said animatedly. “Uncle Gamaliel must have hidden the second page of his memoir in the church! It makes perfect sense, Dimity. He was the rector at St. George’s. He would have known every square inch of the church by heart. He’d know exactly where to stash a piece of parchment.” I thumped the arm of the chair with my fist. “Dimity, you are a genius!”

If a talent for pointing out the obvious makes me a genius, then I will accept the accolade. I’m sure you would have seen it for yourself once you’d put your mind to it.

“I should call Amelia,” I said, glancing at the telephone on the old oak desk. “We should go to the church right this minute and start looking for hiding places.”

No, you should not. Amelia has quite enough to do today, Lori. She’ll be better equipped to commence the search tomorrow.

“You’re right,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “I’ll call her after lunch. We can meet up tomorrow morning, after I do the school run.”

If I may make a suggestion? Speak with the vicar and his wife before you enter the church. Lilian loves to root around in the church archives and the vicar is as familiar with St. George’s as Gamaliel Gowland would have been. The Buntings may be able to save you and Amelia a great deal of time and effort.

“Very true,” I said, nodding. “I’ll give Lilian a buzz after lunch, too, and find out if she and the vicar will be at home tomorrow. If so, Amelia and I will stop at the vicarage before we tackle the church.”

Excellent. Haven’t you had lunch yet?

“No,” I said. “I wanted to speak with you first.”

No wonder your brain is functioning at half speed! Go. Eat. And try not to wear yourself out with too much speculation.

“I can’t promise not to speculate,” I said, “but I’ll try not to wear myself out.”

Good enough. Until tomorrow, my dear.

“Until tomorrow, Dimity.”

I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, twiddled Reginald’s ears, and made a beeline for the kitchen. I helped myself to some barley soup and a thick slice of buttered bread, but I could have been chewing old boots and I wouldn’t have noticed.

In my mind I was already in the church, gazing up at St. George’s shield.

Nine

I 
awoke from my speculative daze an hour later and telephoned Lilian Bunting, who assured me that she and the vicar would be at home to visitors the following morning and invited me to drop in at any time with Mrs. Thistle.

I called Amelia next. She promised to be up, dressed, and ready to go at nine o’clock the next morning. To avoid distracting her from the all-important job of unpacking, I said nothing about Aunt Dimity’s interpretation of the glyph. I told her only that I wished to introduce her to the vicar and his wife.

“What a good idea,” she said. “They may be able to provide us with useful information about Gamaliel. I’ll be on the doorstep at nine o’clock sharp. You’ll have to excuse me now, though, Lori. Mrs. Binney, Miss Buxton, and Miss Scroggins are engaged in a rather heated debate about how best to arrange my Staffordshire flatbacks. I must mediate.”

I would have thought long and hard before throwing myself into the middle of a Handmaiden brawl, but Amelia seemed unfazed by the challenge. I ascribed her courage to blissful ignorance and returned to the kitchen to prepare a beef stew for dinner.

While the stew simmered, I drove to Upper Deeping to pick up the boys. Predictably, Rob and Will made a point of jumping in every puddle between the school’s front door and the Rover, so I blotted them with towels and brought them home to hot chocolates and hot baths. I had dinner on the table when Bill arrived and spent the rest of the evening sharing with him everything I’d learned at Pussywillows and everything I hoped to learn at St. George’s.

I may have overdone it. Bill listened attentively for the first hour,
then withdrew to the twins’ bedroom, where he read aloud a record-breaking number of bedtime stories. Will and Rob were asleep long before he finished and I found him asleep in the master bedroom when I came upstairs. I gazed at him ruefully as I readied myself for bed, then removed Stanley from my pillow, crawled under the covers, and vowed to keep my mouth shut about the secret memoir until Bill specifically requested a progress report.

“I didn’t wear myself out with speculation, Dimity,” I murmured as I drifted into sleep. “I wore Bill out instead!”

The sun must have risen on Wednesday morning, but it was hard to tell. Though it wasn’t actively raining, the sky was a solid mass of grim, gray clouds. Even the colorful autumn leaves seemed mildly depressed and the Little Deeping’s ripples were devoid of sparkles.

Pussywillows, by contrast, shone like a new penny. There wasn’t a trace of packing material in sight when I stepped into the front room and Amelia looked as fresh as a daisy. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, her hair was pinned in a more or less tidy bun, and she’d swapped her moving-day attire for a pale blue blouse that floated softly over a pair of wide-legged black trousers. I’d elected to face the day in a fairly drab brown sweater and a faded pair of jeans, but Amelia defied the gloom by draping a lemon-yellow scarf around her neck and slinging a multicolored carpet bag over the shoulder of her voluminous beige trench coat.

“You look great,” I said as we left the house and strolled toward the vicarage.

“I feel great,” she responded ebulliently. “My new home is in apple-pie order and I couldn’t be happier. Everyone was so
helpful
, Lori. Henry hauled boxes as if he were a navvy, Sally shopped for groceries as if she were my personal assistant, and Mrs. Binney, Miss Buxton, Mrs. Taylor, and Miss Scroggins took it upon themselves
to do everything else. Other neighbors popped in to help, but the ladies wouldn’t hear of it.”

She glanced across the green, caught sight of Millicent and Selena standing in the Emporium’s doorway, and gave them a friendly wave. They smiled, nodded, and waved back, then put their heads close together and, murmuring, disappeared into the Emporium.

“I’ve lived under siege for too long,” Amelia continued. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to interact with pleasant people. It was wonderful, Lori. The four ladies were interested in every little thing.”

I was about to retort “I’ll bet they were!” but I swallowed the uncharitable remark before it could escape. Setting ulterior motives aside, the Handmaidens had put in a hard day’s work at Pussywillows. Even I had to admit that they’d earned Amelia’s plaudits.

As we walked along, I pointed out Crabtree Cottage, Briar Cottage, and the notice board outside the old schoolhouse, and described the many activities that took place inside the schoolhouse through out the year. I was about to issue a gentle word of warning to Amelia about getting involved in the nativity play—the competition for roles could be vicious—when she paused to gaze intently at the three semidetached cottages that stood across the lane from St. George’s Church.

“The cottage nearest us is Plover Cottage,” she observed. “Alfie used old maps to pinpoint its location. How I wish he could have seen it. I imagine it looks much as it did when John Jacob’s cobbler lived in it.”

“I imagine it looks much as it did in Gamaliel’s time,” I countered, and with Aunt Dimity’s comments still fresh in my mind I added, “Architecturally speaking, Finch hasn’t changed much since the seventeenth century.”

“It’s lucky for us that it hasn’t,” said Amelia. “Our chances of finding the rest of the memoir would be sadly diminished if we were faced with buildings that had been demolished or radically altered.”

“Let’s hear it for stability,” I said, and came to a halt. “Here we are, Amelia. The vicarage.”

The Buntings’
rambling, two-story house was set back from the lane and shaded by chestnut trees. A low stone wall separated it from the churchyard surrounding St. George’s and an unkempt front garden testified to the fact that neither the vicar nor his wife were blessed with green thumbs. A midnight-blue Jaguar parked on the grassy verge told me that my father-in-law was nearby.

Lilian Bunting answered the doorbell, greeted us warmly, and ushered us into the foyer. A respected scholar in her own right, Lilian was also an exemplary vicar’s wife—sympathetic, well-organized, and virtually unflappable. She routinely disarmed bickering browsers at our bring-and-buy sales, soothed disgruntled losers at our flower shows, and pacified irate parishioners with the calm efficiency of a trained diplomat. Since I possessed the finely honed diplomatic skills of a belligerent toddler, I admired her greatly.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thistle,” she said as she hung our coats on the Victorian coat tree in the foyer. “I feel as if I ought to apologize for the miserable weather, even though I don’t believe I’m responsible for it.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” said Amelia, clasping her carpet bag in her arms. “If not for rain, England’s green and pleasant land would be less green and therefore less pleasant.”

“Since I have no desire to live in a desert, I’m forced to agree with you,” said Lilian. “Come through to the study,” she added, leading the way up the corridor. “We’re very popular this morning. Teddy—my husband—is already in the study, entertaining another visitor.”

“We don’t wish to intrude,” said Amelia.

“Our guest won’t mind,” said Lilian. “It’s only William—William Willis, that is—Lori’s father-in-law. He’s come to return a book he borrowed from Teddy.”

As soon as Lilian mentioned Willis, Sr., I recalled the painting of spring crocuses he kept in his private sitting room at Fairworth House. There was no reason to suppose that the name “Willis”
would mean anything to Amelia after so many years, but I couldn’t help wondering if she would, eventually, remember the dying woman who’d commissioned the exquisite watercolor.

The men, being gentlemen, stood when we entered the study, a spacious room with a lofty ceiling, book-lined walls, and comfortably shabby furniture. Lilian stuck around long enough to introduce Amelia, then went to the kitchen to prepare tea.

With his wavy iron-gray hair, mournful gray eyes, and predominantly gray attire, Theodore Bunting could have blended in with the lowering sky, but his greeting was as warm as his wife’s had been and he insisted that Amelia and I sit in the faded chintz armchairs closest to the fire.

Willis, Sr., was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and an understated silk tie. He remained standing after the vicar had lowered himself into the worn leather armchair opposite Amelia.

“If you wish to speak privately with Mr. Bunting—” Willis, Sr., began.

“You needn’t leave on my account,” Amelia interrupted. “In fact, it might be better if you stayed. You and the vicar look like intelligent men and intelligence will be needed if my search is to succeed.”

“Your search?” Willis, Sr., inquired politely, taking the chair beside the vicar’s.

“Let’s wait for Mrs. Bunting, shall we?” Amelia proposed. “Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat myself and repetition is tiresome for the speaker as well as the audience. In the meantime, please allow me to say, Mr. Bunting, that you are fortunate indeed to tend such a warmhearted and generous flock….”

Willis, Sr.’s years of legal training enabled him to maintain a neutral expression while Amelia sang the Handmaidens’ praises, and the vicar hid his emotions admirably, but the two men couldn’t help exchanging a single, fleeting glance that hovered somewhere
between incredulity and pity. They, too, realized that Amelia’s impression of the Handmaidens would become considerably less rosy once the four women unsheathed their claws, and they were as reluctant as I was to disillusion her.

“They’re much better housekeepers than I am,” Amelia concluded. “I doubt that Pussywillows will ever again be as tidy as it is now.”

Mr. Bunting and Willis, Sr., responded with innocuous comments, then retreated to safer ground with remarks about the weather, a conversation that lasted until Lilian returned, bearing the black lacquer tea tray she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother. She was accompanied by Angel, the fluffy white vicarage cat, who peered at each of us in turn before leaping onto the vicar’s lap and draping herself languidly over his knees.

While Lilian served the tea and handed around a plate filled with her irresistible lemon bars, Mr. Bunting brought her up to speed.

“Mrs. Thistle is engaged in a search,” he informed her. “We don’t yet know the nature of her search because she wanted you to be present when she enlightened us.”

“How intriguing,” said Lilian, sitting cautiously on the wobbly settee that faced the hearth. “Please, carry on, Mrs. Thistle. You have my undivided attention.”

“I suppose you could say I’m on a quest,” Amelia began, “though it’s my late brother’s quest, really….”

I sipped my Earl Grey and savored a lemon bar while Amelia repeated the remarkable story she’d related to me at Pussywillows. She’d evidently decided not to advertise the name Bowen and the complications that went with it because she spoke of her brother only as Alfred or Alfie, with no last name. She finished her account by delving into the colorful carpet bag for Alfred’s spiral-bound notebook and the first page of Gamaliel’s memoir, both of which were examined closely by Lilian, the vicar, and my father-in-law.