Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (15 page)

“Can you manage it?” I asked Amelia.

Her eyes flashed as she said through gritted teeth, “I’d climb the Great Wall of China to escape Mr. Brocklehurst.”

Thirteen

B 
ree’s plan worked like a charm. She accosted Myron Brocklehurst when he emerged from Crabtree Cottage and kept him talking, with his back to St. George’s, while Amelia and I fled the churchyard. Amelia had no trouble negotiating the low stone wall, but her trousers were soaked and her nerves were standing on end by the time we entered the vicar’s study.

“Less than a week!” she cried, wringing her hands. “It took him less than a week to track me down!”

Privately, I agreed with her assessment of the situation. I was convinced that Myron Brocklehurst had discovered her general whereabouts and gone to our local art experts to learn the exact location of her new home, but it seemed inadvisable to tell her so while she was storming around the room and roaring like a caged lion.

“He hasn’t tracked you down,” I pointed out.

“He’s
here
!” she exploded.

“He’s in Finch,” I acknowledged, “but he’s at Crabtree Cottage, not Pussywillows. For all we know, he could be a client. He could have gone to Grant and Charles to have a piece of art restored or appraised. They’re highly regarded in their professions.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the founder of Bowenism—hateful word!—followed me to Finch
by sheer coincidence
?” Amelia demanded.

“Coincidences happen,” I replied.

Amelia gave me a scathing look, then pressed a finger to her lips for silence.

Someone had opened the front door.

“Lori? Amelia?” Bree called from the foyer. “Guess who’s back from visiting the sick!”

Amelia groaned, sank into a chintz armchair, and buried her face in her hands. A moment later, Bree strode into the study, followed closely by the Buntings.

I stared blankly at the newcomers, trying in vain to think of a way to explain Amelia’s panic attack without mentioning Mae Bowen.

“Bree tells us that you and Mrs. Thistle sought sanctuary in the vicarage,” said the vicar, eyeing Amelia solicitously. “Is Mrs. Thistle unwell?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could put my foot in it, Lilian took charge.

“Lori, build a fire. Teddy, take Mrs. Thistle’s coat and hat. Bree, help her to remove her boots, then tuck an afghan around her lap. I’ll be back in a moment with tea.” She raised an eyebrow and we jumped to obey.

“Are you feeling better, Mrs. Thistle?” the vicar asked.

A fire crackled in the grate. Amelia was bootless, hatless, coatless, and swathed in a red and black afghan Lilian had crocheted. Everyone except Amelia was staring at Amelia, who was staring at her cup of Earl Grey tea.

“Oh, yes, much better, thank you, Mr. Bunting,” Amelia replied. “I must apologize for tracking mud all over your nice clean floor. I was in a bit of a tizzy when I came into the study.”

“Why?” asked the vicar.

“Therein lies a tale.” Amelia sighed dismally and went on, “The thing is, you see, I may have been a
teensy
bit dishonest with you about my true identity. I’m not an escaped convict, you understand,” she added hastily. “I am who I say I am. I simply haven’t said who I am as fully as I might have done.”

“A sin of omission,” the vicar said gently.

“Precisely,” said Amelia. “It’s my own fault, of course. If I’d reinvented myself properly, I might have avoided…” She sighed again and tilted her head to one side. “But it’s too late to repaint the canvas, I’m afraid. If the cat must come out of the bag, I may as well release it.”

She placed her cup and saucer on a small table, spread her hands on the afghan, and proceeded to tell her rapt audience everything she’d told me at Pussywillows. She admitted to being the world-renowned botanical artist, Mae Bowen, described the Bowenist movement, and recounted how the Bowenists, led by Myron Brocklehurst, had encroached on her privacy, driven her into hiding, and made it virtually impossible for her to appear in public.

“I came to Finch to find the rest of Gamaliel Gowland’s memoir,” she concluded, “but I also hoped to rediscover what it is to live in peace. Hence, my rather feeble disguise. I was afraid to tell you the truth because—”

“You had good reason to be afraid,” Bree interrupted. “Myron is creepy.”

“Creepy?” I said.

“He talks in a soft little voice, but his eyes are like laser beams,” Bree explained. “Cuckoo eyes we used to call them at school, the kind of eyes that scream: Fanatic!”

“Anything else?” I asked, thankful that Bree was such an observant young woman.

“His clothes aren’t right,” she replied promptly. “He dresses like a hippie—leather hat and sandals, fringed wool poncho, embroidered bellbottoms—but everything fits him too well and he’s too neat, too clean. He has a pony tail and a mustache, yes, but they’re trimmed and tidy when they should be shaggy and tousled. It’s like he’s posing for pictures at a sixties museum.”

“A fanatic in designer rags,” I murmured.

“Did he mention me?” Amelia asked.

“He did,” Bree replied. “I told him the only Mae I knew lived in Christchurch, then talked his hind leg off about New Zealand. He tried to shut me up with his laser-beam eyes, but his looks bounced right off me. He finally gave up and climbed into his car, but before he scarpered he gave me a beginner’s guide to Bowenism, written by none other than himself. Listen to this…” Bree pulled a bright yellow pamphlet from the back pocket of her jeans and read aloud:

Center yourself like the daisy’s eye

Petals raised to the blue, blue sky

Live each and every hour in a blissful Bowen bower

And your heart and soul will flower, flow, and fly!

Bree finished her recitation with a hearty guffaw, but Amelia grimaced.

“The man should be locked up for crimes against poetry,” Lilian declared vehemently.

“He should certainly be locked up for harassment,” the vicar said more seriously.

“The problem is,” said Amelia, “neither he nor his minions cross the line into outright harassment. They simply appear in vast numbers, gaze at me like a herd of damp cows, and ask endless questions about the universe, the search for truth, and whether vegetables should be eaten raw or cooked.”

“Have you tried telling them to go away?” Lilian asked.

“I have,” Amelia replied bitterly, “but I’d have better luck talking to cows. If you say ‘shoo!’ to a cow, it generally obeys. A Bowenist, on the other hand—” She gasped in alarm as the doorbell rang. “If it’s him…”

“I’ll see who it is,” Lilian said calmly. “You have nothing to fear from unwanted callers, Mrs. Thistle.”

“I almost feel sorry for Mr. Brocklehurst,” the vicar commented idly as Lilian threw back her shoulders and marched out of the room. “My wife doesn’t suffer fools gladly, Mrs. Thistle. If he turns his laser eyes on her, she’ll be sorely tempted to blacken them.”

“A sight I’d pay to see,” said Amelia.

The suspense was killing me, so I tiptoed to the doorway and put my head into the hall. When I saw two familiar figures step into the foyer, I swung around and gave Amelia a reassuring thumbs-up.

“No worries,” I said. “It’s Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham.”

“Your knowledgeable friends?” she inquired. “The connoisseurs who live in Crabtree Cottage?” When I nodded, she leaned back in her chair, murmuring, “Well, this should be interesting.”

I’d just regained my own chair when Grant and Charles rushed into the study, spotted Bree, and crossed to stand before her. Lilian followed them into the room at a more leisurely pace, looking bemused.

“We’d like a word,” Grant said to Bree.

“It’s about the man you met coming out of our cottage,” said Charles.

“Myron Brocklehurst,” said Bree, nodding. “What about him?”

“What about him?” Charles exclaimed. “My dear girl, he’s an intolerable tick!”

“We thought we’d gotten rid of him,” said Grant. “Imagine our dismay when we saw you nattering away with him on our doorstep.”

“You must never speak with him again,” Charles said sternly. “For reasons we’re not at liberty to divulge, we must insist that you—”

“It’s all right, chaps,” Amelia interrupted. “You can stand down. All has been revealed.”

The two men wheeled around to face Amelia. Grant gaped at her in utter astonishment, but Charles stepped forward.

“Mrs. Thistle,” he said, bowing low over her proffered hand.
“Charles Bellingham, at your service. May I say what an honor it is to make your acquaintance?”

“You may,” said Amelia, “but only once.”

Charles chuckled immoderately and introduced Amelia to his partner, who seemed too overawed to speak for himself.

“Have you a bottle of sherry, Mr. Bunting?” Amelia asked. “I believe Mr. Tavistock could use a pick-me-up.”

“A brilliant suggestion,” said Charles, bowing again to Amelia. “And so very considerate.”

Grant was soon safely ensconced on the love seat with a small glass of dry sherry in his hand. Charles, however, continued to loom over us.

“Is it true?” he asked the room at large. “Has all been revealed?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Including a vital piece of information you and Grant missed: Amelia Thistle is Mae Bowen’s married name.”

“Her married name!” Charles exclaimed, clapping a hand to his high forehead. “I should have guessed.”

“I hope no one else does,” Amelia muttered.

“And the Bowenist menace?” Charles asked. “Has it been explained?”

“It has,” said Lilian.

“Then let me assure you, Mrs. Thistle,” Charles said earnestly, “that Myron Brocklehurst learned nothing from us. We laughed at his suggestion that Mae Bowen might have settled in Finch, told him he was a gullible fool for believing such an absurd rumor, and sent him on his way.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said gravely.

“And what about the rest of us?” Charles said, using a tone of voice usually reserved for kindergartners. “Have we taken a vow of silence? Have we promised to protect and defend our new neighbor”—he bowed yet again to Amelia—“from Myron Brocklehurst and his ilk?”

“Charles,” I said testily, “if you don’t stop bobbing up and down like a teeter-totter, we’ll be forced to protect Amelia from
you
.”

Grant let out a snort of laughter and Charles, blushing, retreated to the love seat.

“It goes without saying that we’ll do what we can to maintain your anonymity, Mrs. Thistle,” said Lilian.

“Does it?” Amelia said hopefully.

“Naturally,” said the vicar. “Your secret is safe with us.”

“Myron will run for his life if he sees me coming,” said Bree, with an evil grin. “I have lots more to tell him about New Zealand.”

“You’re too kind,” said Amelia, her face glowing. “First, you promise to help me with the memoir, then you offer to—”

“The memoir?” Grant said interestedly. “Are you writing a memoir, Mrs. Thistle?”

It took a while to tell Grant and Charles about the search for Gamaliel Gowland’s secret memoir. Fortunately, Amelia had brought the first two pages with her, which sped the process up a bit.

“We did some major renovation work after we moved into our cottage,” said Grant, examining the page we’d found in the bell tower, “but we didn’t find a sheet of parchment hidden in our chimney.”

“If we had,” said Charles, “we would have framed it.”

“What about the glyph?” I asked. “Does it mean anything to you? William thinks it’s an olive branch.”

While Grant and Charles studied the small drawing, Lilian turned to Amelia.

“How did you fare in the churchyard?” she asked. “Did you find another clue?”

“I’m afraid not,” Amelia replied. “The carvings that might have been olive branches turned out to be feathers.” She pulled the stone
rubbings from her bag and passed them to Lilian, saying, “See for yourself.”

Lilian unrolled the first sheet, surveyed the image, and nodded.

“The Tolliver family,” she said. “I never thought to make rubbings of their headstones, but their burials are recorded in the church archives. They lived south of Finch, on a small farmstead that no longer exists. They were the only members of St. George’s parish to die of the plague.”

“The good old days,” I said under my breath.

“May I keep the rubbings?” Lilian requested. “They’d make a splendid exhibition in the church. Visitors often ask who’s buried beneath those sad and mysterious gravestones.”

“Consider them donated,” said Amelia.

“Has Mistress Meg surfaced in the archives?” Bree asked.

“Not yet,” Lilian answered, sliding the roll of rubbings under her chair for safekeeping. “I’ve traced three Margarets living in Finch during the mid-sixteen hundreds, but none of them remained single. They lie buried beside their husbands in St. George’s churchyard.”

“Margaret Hazlitt, Margaret Green, and Margaret Waters,” Bree recited. In response to a flurry of raised eyebrows, she explained, “I visit the aunties at least twice a week. I’ve gotten to know their neighbors.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Lilian continued, “but so far I’ve been unable to verify Margaret Redfearn’s birth, baptism, death, or burial. I wouldn’t read too much into it, though. Some of Teddy’s predecessors were better archivists than others, so our records aren’t entirely reliable. Then again, Margaret Redfearn may have been born and buried in another parish.”

“Have you found any reference to a witch trial?” I asked.

“No,” Lilian replied, “but I wouldn’t necessarily expect to find any. Witchcraft cases were prosecuted in borough courts
and assizes as well as church courts, so she could have been tried somewhere other than Finch.”

“There might be another explanation for Margaret Redfearn’s absence from the archives,” said the vicar. “If she was convicted of witchcraft, hanged, and buried in unsanctified ground, the Reverend Gowland might have chosen to purify his church by expunging her name from the records.”