Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (26 page)

He was too old to be a flower child—in his late forties, at least—and though his thin, ascetic face was mildly attractive, his eyes were almost frightening in their intensity. Bree had called his laser-beam gaze creepy, but I found it predatory as well, as if he believed he exercised a form of mind control over his minions. For all I knew, he did.

The line of stablehands parted to allow Myron to approach the stairs. He placed a sandaled foot on the bottom step, but when his piercing blue eyes met Willis, Sr.’s, mild gaze, he stopped short. After a moment’s hesitation, he withdrew his foot.

“We have come at Mother Mae’s beckoning,” he said. “Do you mean to stand in our way?”

“Not at all,” Willis, Sr., said pleasantly. “I am the good lady’s humble servant. I am here merely to entertain the masses while you are given a private audience.”

“Naturally,” said Myron, with a cocksure smirk that made me want to smack him.

“I’m on,” Bill whispered. He motioned for Myron to ascend the stairs and precede him into the manor. Bill followed him inside, almost bumping into Bree, who was scurrying back to her folding table.

“William’s not really foisting Myron on Amelia, is he?” Lilian asked in a worried undertone. “She’ll go to pieces.”

“Don’t worry about Amelia,” Emma said confidently. “Nell’s more than a match for Myron.”

“So is Bill,” I murmured.

Willis, Sr., waited for Bill to close the door behind Myron, then lifted his head to address the gathering. He spoke in a calm, clear voice that penetrated, then silenced the murmurs that had risen in Myron’s absence.

“Let us speak of the beauties of nature,” he began.

“Right on,” said a rosy-cheeked woman in a bobble cap.

“Dig it,” said the brunette standing next to her.

“Let us speak of the beauties of nature,” Willis, Sr., repeated, “and your part in their destruction.”

It took a moment for his words to register with the Bowenists, but eventually they stirred. Some muttered and shook their heads.

“Not cool, man.”

“What’s he on about?”

“Man’s talking rubbish.”

“Who is this clown?”

Daffodil Deeproots came forward and the muttering died away.

“We love Mother Earth,” she proclaimed. “We would never harm her.”

“Not knowingly, perhaps,” said Willis, Sr. “How many of you have donated money to the Bowenist movement?”

“All of us,” said Daffodil, adding in a singsong voice, “There’s no better use of pounds and pence than to fill the world with enlightenments.”

“‘Enlightenments’?” Lilian murmured, rolling her eyes.

“You are not alone in your beliefs, Miss Deeproots,” said Willis, Sr. “Over the past ten years, the Bowenist website has raised more than ten million pounds through donations and through the sale of private papers extracted from Mae Bowen’s trash.”

“Ten…million…pounds?” Daffodil said faintly, her eyes widening.

“If you would like to know how your donations have been spent, I can tell you,” said Willis, Sr. “Are you familiar with mountaintop removal mining?”

“It’s a crime!” shouted a bearded man.

“A crime against nature!” shouted another.

“What’s mountaintop removal…thingy?” asked a third.

“Thank you for asking, sir. Please turn your attention to the screen.” Willis, Sr., swept his arm in a wide arc to indicate the bedsheet, onto which Bree had projected an aerial image of a heavily forested mountain peak. “Instead of boring into the side of a mountain to work a coal seam, the mining company decapitates the mountain.”

A second slide appeared, showing a barren moonscape where the forest had been.

“Trees, ferns, flowers, grasses, mosses—every living thing is scraped away,” said Willis, Sr., “along with the topsoil. The underlying rock layers are pulverized by explosives and the coal is removed.”

The third slide showed bulldozers pushing enormous piles of rubble over the edge of the flattened, deeply scarred mountaintop.

“What remains is dumped into streams,” said Willis, Sr. “The streams are poisoned and choked by debris. Fish die, birds die, insects and amphibians die. With so many streams obliterated, the few that are left tend to flood catastrophically. People die.”

The slides were coming without pause now, showing scene after scene of breathtaking devastation.

“They have to restore it, don’t they?” called a woman at the back of the group. “After they’re done, I mean. They have to restore it.”

“How does one restore a mountaintop?” asked Willis, Sr. “How does one replace the abundance of plant and animal life that once
flourished there? When the miners are finished with one mountain, they spray grass seed on sterile rock and move on to the next.”

A young blonde in a crocheted poncho cried, “Stop! Stop! I don’t want to see any more pictures!” Then she burst into tears.

Rumbles of rage, horror, grief, and disbelief rolled through the group as Willis, Sr., signaled to Bree to terminate the slide show.

“It’s a crime,” the bearded man repeated vehemently. “A crime against nature.”

“It is a crime that is being carried out with your help,” said Willis, Sr.

“You’re mad!” shouted Daffodil.

“I am angry, yes, Miss Deeproots, but I am not insane,” said Willis, Sr. “I have procured literature that confirms my claims. It takes a form you and your friends will find familiar.”

He gestured to the stablehands and the others in the half circle and they passed among the Bowenists, handing out the sky-blue leaflets.

“As you can see, the leaflets were produced by the Clear Sky Mining Corporation,” said Willis, Sr. “Clear Sky is the foremost practitioner of mountaintop removal mining. If you turn to the back of your leaflet, you will find a list of investors. The name at the top of the list is—”

“—Myron Brocklehurst!” Daffodil exclaimed.

“Myron Brocklehurst is Clear Sky’s principal investor,” said Willis, Sr. “He has used your pounds and pence, Miss Deeproots, to spread death and destruction, not enlightenment. I need hardly mention that the profits from his illegal investments have been deposited in his personal bank accounts.”

“No,” said Daffodil, almost pleadingly.” He gave our donations to conservation groups. I have it in writing!”

“You were misled,” said Willis, Sr. “I am sorry, Miss Deeproots. You put your faith in the wrong man.”

“It’s impossible,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“If you do not believe me,” said Willis, Sr., “please feel free to speak with a gentleman who has witnessed firsthand the desolation caused by mountaintop removal mining.” He indicated the long-haired man in the flannel shirt. “Lester Turek has worked tirelessly, though so far unsuccessfully, to close down Clear Sky’s mining operations. He flew in from America last night to answer your questions about the company’s practices as well as its corporate structure. If you please, Mr. Turek?”

As Lester Turek waded into the crowd, fielding questions, Lilian, Emma, and I clustered around Willis, Sr.

“Your demonstration was a bit brutal,” Lilian commented gently.

“It could have been more so,” said Willis, Sr. “I did not mention Mr. Brocklehurst’s investments in genetic engineering, arctic oil, the fur trade, and the deforestation of Borneo. It is unlikely to occur to any of his acolytes that he could not have acquired his wealth through coal mining alone. I therefore felt no need to distress them further.”

“Why did Myron embezzle money from the faithful?” I asked. “He was already rich when he invented Bowenism.”

“Not as rich as he is now,” said Willis, Sr. “He inherited his initial fortune and apparently decided to acquire additional funds with a similar lack of effort. He seems to have but a passing acquaintance with the work ethic, or with any honorable ethic at all.”

“You’re no stranger to hard work, though,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out what could keep you occupied for three straight days—and nights, if I know you—including a Sunday you were supposed to spend with your grandsons, but now I know what you were doing behind the locked door in your study. You were building a case against Myron.”

“I did not construct the case on my own,” said Willis, Sr. “Bill had already gathered a large amount of vital data and he was
instrumental in acquiring more. I could not have concluded my research in such a short period of time without my son’s invaluable assistance.”

“Did he find Lester Turek?” asked Lilian.

“Yes,” said Willis, Sr. “I invited Mr. Turek to join us because he is an honest man and an expert in his field. I was also favorably impressed by his appearance.”

“He looks pretty scruffy to me,” Emma said, craning her neck to survey Lester’s attire.

“I felt that Mr. Turek’s scruffiness, as you put it, would add credibility to my claims,” Willis, Sr., explained. “Those who dress informally are more apt to trust a man in a flannel shirt than a man in a bespoke suit.”

I had to laugh. My father-in-law had arranged his presentation as meticulously as he’d arranged his tie.

“What have you done with Myron?” I asked. “Bill didn’t really take him to see Amelia, did he?”

“I did not say that Mr. Brocklehurst would have a private audience with Mrs. Thistle,” Willis, Sr., pointed out. “I said only that he would have a private audience, which was a statement of fact. Bill had the pleasure of introducing him to a number of people who were eager to make his acquaintance. Ah!” A gleam of quiet satisfaction lit Willis, Sr.’s eyes as he spied a black sedan pulling out of the stable yard and onto the curving drive.

“Who’s leaving?” I asked, as the sedan disappeared among the azaleas.

“I don’t know,” said Emma. “I don’t recognize the car.”

“The automobile belongs to Scotland Yard’s fraud squad,” Willis, Sr., informed us. “They have taken an interest in Mr. Brocklehurst’s financial affairs, as have a number of other agencies. When I expressed concern over the possibility of Mr. Brocklehurst fleeing the country to escape prosecution, they were kind enough to send a car for him.”

“It was a two-pronged attack,” I marveled. “While you ripped Myron’s saintly image to shreds out here, Bill took him inside to be grilled by the fraud squad.” I gave a low whistle. “Talk about having a bad day.”

“Do I get to keep the Ferrari?” Emma asked brightly.

“I fear not,” said Willis, Sr., smiling. “The Ferrari will be impounded by the authorities this afternoon.”

“It wouldn’t have done me much good anyway,” said Emma. “No room for hay bales.” She frowned questioningly at Willis, Sr. “I don’t recall giving you my permission to use the manor for your…event.”

“I apologize most sincerely for the liberties I have taken with your property as well as your personnel,” Willis, Sr., said, regarding her contritely. “I would have used my own home, but I required help to distribute the leaflets and there are, alas, no stablehands at Fairworth.”

A commotion in the crowd interrupted our conversation. At first I thought the Bowenists were coming after Willis, Sr., but as they surged forward I realized that their faces were exultant rather than hostile and their collective gaze was focused on a point beyond my father-in-law. I wheeled around just in time to see Amelia march through the doorway and onto the terrace, with Bill at her side and Nell gliding serenely in their wake.

Cries of “Mother Mae!” rent the air, but Amelia silenced them with disparaging “Tut!”

“It’s lucky for you I’m not your mother,” she said, “because if I were, I’d box your ears. You gave your money to a slippery hypocrite who used it to defile God’s green earth. Shame on you!”

“It’s Myron’s fault!” shouted the rosy-cheeked woman.

“Don’t you dare blame Mr. Brocklehurst,” scolded Amelia. “If you abdicate responsibility for your lives, you have only yourselves to blame for the consequences. Mr. Brocklehurst couldn’t have
taken advantage of you if you hadn’t allowed him to lead you around by the nose.”

“We’re sorry, Moth—”

“I beg your pardon?”
Amelia interrupted ferociously.

“We’re sorry, Ms. Bowen.”

“That’s better,” Amelia snapped. “Now, stand up straight and listen with both ears. You don’t need a guru to tell you what to think. If you must find meaning in my work, find your own meaning. Better yet, stop seeing the world through my eyes and start using your own. While you’re at it, you might start using your brains as well. Heaven knows they’ve lain dormant long enough.”

“Can we volunteer to help Lester?” Daffodil asked.

“Why are you asking
me
?” Amelia thundered. “Haven’t I just told you to make your own decisions?”

“Oh, right,” said Daffodil, nodding.

“I’m not your mother or your best friend or your guide to spiritual awakening,” Amelia said severely. “I’m a painter and I need peace and quiet to get on with my work. I don’t want to hear you chanting at my exhibitions ever again, and if I catch you anywhere near my cottage, I
shall
box your ears. Have I made myself clear?”

She was answered by a ragged chorus of affirmatives.

“If you’re very good and do as you’re told,” Amelia continued, “I
may
allow you to attend a special sale of my work, for old time’s sake. The sale will be held at my London gallery in December and one hundred per cent of the proceeds will go to Lester Turek’s campaign to bring an end to mountaintop removal mining.”

A cheer went up and many hands reached out to pat a grinning Lester Turek on the back. Amelia flashed a brief smile, then raised her arms for silence.

“It’s time for you to leave,” she said, pointing to their vehicles. “Go forth and spread the good news: Bowenism—detestable word!—is dead!”

The ex-Bowenists still resembled a herd of damp cows as they shuffled obediently to their vehicles and drove away, but a handful, including Daffodil, accepted Lester’s invitation to discuss his campaign over drinks at the pub. I hoped Dick Peacock wouldn’t throw them out of his establishment. I wanted Daffodil to discover what it was like to be involved in a truly worthwhile cause.

Willis, Sr., thanked everyone who’d contributed to the production, and the stablehands returned to their chores. The bedsheet, ladders, folding table, camp chair, extension cords, laptop, and slide projector were collected and stowed in their respective owners’ vehicles. Mr. Barlow, Henry, and Bree congratulated Amelia and Willis, Sr., then headed for home. The two men left without further ado, but Bree cruised down the curving drive with her clenched fist thrust out of the window at arm’s length, honking her horn in triumph.