Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (16 page)

“Why would he create a secret memoir about a woman he’d expunged?” I asked.

“To justify the part he played in her death?” the vicar speculated. “The truth is, we won’t know the answer until we find the rest of the memoir.”

“Dove Cottage,” Grant said suddenly.

“What?” I said, turning to him. I’d been so caught up in conversation that I’d forgotten about the two men on the love seat.

“Dove Cottage,” Grant repeated, waving the memoir’s second page in the air.

“Of course!” said the vicar, slapping his knee. “I should have seen it immediately.”

“What should you have seen?” I asked.

“Dove Cottage,” Grant repeated insistently. “A dove brought an olive branch to Noah as a sign that the great flood was receding. Ergo, Gamaliel’s olive branch could refer to Dove Cottage.”

“Dove Cottage is one door down from Plover Cottage, where the first page was hidden,” said the vicar. “They’re both near the church. Gamaliel would have found it as easy to conceal a piece of parchment in one as in the other.”

“Gentlemen,” Amelia said excitedly, “you are brilliant! I’m quite sure you’ve cracked the code. Who lives in Dove Cottage?”

“Elspeth Binney,” Charles informed her.

“Ah, yes,” said Amelia, nodding. “The retired schoolteacher
who enjoys bird watching and takes painting lessons from Mr. Shuttleworth in Upper Deeping.”

“Correct in every particular,” said Charles. “You’ve met her?”

“Mrs. Binney came to Pussywillows to lend a hand with the unpacking and we got to talking, the way one does with a new acquaintance,” Amelia said. “Such a kind woman. She’s bound to allow us to search her house. As a former schoolteacher, she’ll find it intellectually stimulating.”

As far as I knew, Elspeth Binney’s intellect was stimulated primarily by gossip, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

“Unfortunately, Elspeth is away from home at the moment,” said Grant. “She’s visiting her niece—”

“The niece who lives in London and plays the violin or the niece who’s married to the organic farmer with a smallholding in North Yorkshire?” Amelia asked.

“The London niece,” Grant replied, clearly delighted by Amelia’s display of local knowledge. “Elspeth’s due home on Saturday—around noon, she told us.”

“So be it,” said Amelia. “What’s a day’s delay after four hundred years?”

It took us less than ten minutes to devise a plan. Charles and Grant agreed to bring our request to Elspeth after her return from London on Saturday afternoon. If she was amenable, they would ring Amelia, Bree, Lilian, and me, and we would converge on Dove Cottage to conduct the search. The vicar alone had to cry off because of a diocesan meeting in Cheltenham.

“We should invite Mr. Willis to join us as well,” Amelia proposed. “He was instrumental in deciphering the first and second glyphs. He could be instrumental in finding the third page.”

“He shall be invited.” A calculating expression crossed Charles’s face as he turned to address me. “Lori? Will you please ask William to be prepared to meet us at Dove Cottage on Saturday?”

I smiled inwardly. Everyone in the room, apart from Amelia, knew of Elspeth Binney’s marital aspirations. It didn’t take a razor-sharp mind to figure out that Charles intended to use my father-in-law as bait to secure Elspeth’s cooperation.

“I’ll ask him, Charles, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll come.” I glanced furtively at Amelia as I added, “He usually spends Saturday afternoons in his greenhouse.”

“You must lure him away from his greenhouse and onto the great stage of history,” Charles said portentously. “I’m depending on you, Lori.”

Amelia gathered the afghan into her arms and stood.

“If I might have my hat, coat, and boots, Mrs. Bunting, I’ll be on my way,” she said. “I’ve trespassed on your time—and on your property—long enough.”

“Wait,” I said, springing to my feet. “I’ll make sure the coast is clear.”

“So will I,” said Bree.

“Dear me,” Amelia said, regarding us affectionately. “Are you my new bodyguards?”

“No,” Bree said gently. “We’re your new friends.”

Bree and I escorted Amelia to Pussywillows without incident, then went our separate ways. I went home to have a bite to eat, assemble a casserole for dinner, and make a few telephone calls, but I eventually ended up in the study, with my feet propped on the ottoman and the blue journal open in my lap.

Reginald was disturbed by the news of Myron Brocklehurst’s arrival in Finch, but Aunt Dimity had seen it coming.

Well, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? If Mr. Brocklehurst is half the fanatic I believe him to be, he would have compiled a comprehensive dossier of personal information about Amelia, derived from the rubbish he plucked from her dustbins. By studying discarded envelopes, letters, or bills, he could easily determine that Mae Bowen’s married name is Amelia Thistle. It would then be a trifling matter for him to trace her movements by contacting removals companies or estate agents.

“If you’re right,” I said, “why didn’t he go directly to Pussywillows? Why did he stop off at Crabtree Cottage?”

His information may have been incomplete or he may have misunderstood it. Whatever the case, we must assume he’ll try again and be prepared to meet him when he does. Grant, Charles, and Bree dealt with him admirably, but day-to-day improvisations won’t work in the long run.

“No, they won’t,” I agreed. “We have to figure out a way to rid ourselves of Myron Brocklehurst permanently.”

Any ideas?

“Loads,” I said glumly, “but most of them involve tar and feathers.”

Perhaps it would be best if you let me devise a scheme. I’ll give the Brocklehurst problem my full attention while you focus on Dove Cottage. I suspect you’ll be more successful there than you were in the churchyard.

“We eliminated the Tolliver headstones from our investigation,” I said, “but we didn’t accomplish much else today. Nor did Lilian. The only thing her research has shown so far is that Margaret Redfearn’s name is conspicuously absent from the church archives.”

Is her absence too conspicuous, I wonder?

“The vicar thinks Gamaliel censored the records in order to cleanse the church of the stain of witchcraft,” I said. “But it doesn’t make much sense, does it? Why would he go to all the trouble of removing Mistress Meg from the church records, then write a memoir about her in secret?”

It might make sense if Gamaliel were in love with Mistress Meg.

My jaw dropped.

It would be a case of forbidden love, of course, like Romeo and Juliet, only much darker. Gamaliel would have to conceal his feelings in public or risk losing his livelihood and quite possibly his life.

“But he gave vent to them in private,” I said as my imagination took flight. “He couldn’t keep his feelings bottled up, so he wrote about Mistress Meg in the dead of night, and he hid his writings because, though he couldn’t love her openly in his lifetime, he wanted someone, someday to know about the rector and the witch.” I heaved a wistful sigh. “If it isn’t true, it should be.”

I, too, would prefer a tragic love story to a horror story, but we shan’t know which one is true until we find the rest of the memoir. Wasn’t it clever of Grant to make the connection between the olive branch and the dove?

“I think the vicar wishes he’d made the connection,” I said. “After all, the Bible is his bailiwick.”

Theodore Bunting is too generous to begrudge Grant his moment of glory.

“He is,” I acknowledged. “It’s a pity he’ll have to miss the fun at Dove Cottage.” Visions of true love danced in my head as I added, “Amelia wants William to be there.”

Did she ask for him specifically? In front of everyone?

“Yep,” I replied.

The Handmaidens will hear of it before nightfall and they will NOT be pleased.

“Millicent Scroggins has already given Amelia the cold shoulder,” I said. “She must have seen William coming out of Pussywillows this morning.”

What was William doing at Pussywillows?

“Courting Amelia in his own, understated way.” I laughed. “He gave her a local trail guide, told her about his wild orchids, and invited her to explore his property.”

Good grief. The Handmaidens have been angling for personal invitations to Fairworth ever since William moved in. I hope Amelia keeps hers under her hat. If word of her good fortune reaches Elspeth Binney’s ears, Amelia may not be allowed to enter Dove Cottage, much less search it. Elspeth, as you know, has quite a few jealous bones in her body.

“Elspeth will roll out the welcome mat for us,” I said, recalling
the last telephone call I’d made before entering the study, “because William has volunteered to be a member of the Dove Cottage search team.”

Well done, Lori! Elspeth may feel free to snub Amelia, but she won’t turn William away.

“It was Charles’s idea,” I admitted.

Underhanded, but effective. As a matter of interest, has Amelia accepted William’s invitation?

“Not yet, but she will,” I said complacently. “She’s fond of orchids.”

Fourteen

A 
weak sun shone through the veil of high clouds covering the sky on Friday morning, but the temperature remained on the chilly side and the air felt as damp as a wrung sponge. Will and Rob were upstairs brushing their teeth and hunting for misplaced schoolbooks while Bill and I lingered over a second cup of tea at the kitchen table.

My husband seemed to be in a receptive mood and the boys were safely out of earshot, so I decided to voice an idea that had occurred to me in the night. Someone had to do something about Myron Brocklehurst, I told myself, and Aunt Dimity was in no position—literally—to stand up to him.

“Bill,” I said, “would you do me a favor?”

“If you want me to run a background check on Myron Brocklehurst,” he said, “I’ve already put the wheels in motion.”

I blinked at him in surprise, then shook my head wonderingly.

“You should trade in your law books and take up mind reading,” I told him. “How did you know I wanted you to check up on Myron?”

“I didn’t,” said Bill, feeding Stanley a leftover scrap of bacon. “It was my idea.”

“What prompted it?” I asked, intrigued.

“I saw Myron with Bree yesterday, in front of Crabtree Cottage,” he replied, “and I didn’t like what I saw.”

“How did you know it was Myron?” I asked.

“Pure logic.” Bill stroked Stanley’s back to signal the end of treat time, then rested his elbows on the table and went on matter-of-factly, “Mae Bowen moves to Finch and two days later a solitary
stranger appears, dressed like a latter-day flower child. Who else could it be but Mr. Bowenist himself, Myron Brocklehurst? I also found a photo of him on the Bowenist website,” he added with a sly grin.

“So much for pure logic,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What did you dislike about him?”

“His smile,” said Bill. “His smug, superior smile. But I suppose driving a shiny red Ferrari would put a smile on any man’s face.”

“He has a Ferrari?” I said.

“A brand spanking new Ferrari,” Bill clarified. “What kind of guru drives one of the world’s priciest sports cars?”

“We already know he’s rich,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” Bill said reflectively. “I wonder how he got that way? Don’t worry, Lori,” he went on. “I’ve made a few calls, sent a few e-mails. I’ll let you know what I dig up.”

“Thanks.” I stacked Bill’s breakfast plate on top of mine and gazed down at it for a moment before asking, “Has your father spoken to you about Amelia?”

“No,” he said. “Why? Is she throwing herself at him?”

“Guess again,” I said.

Bill stared at me in disbelief. “
He’s
throwing himself at
her
?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s throwing himself at her,” I said, “but he certainly appears to be leaning in her direction.”

“Does he know she’s Mae Bowen?” Bill asked.

“No, and we’re not going to tell him,” I stated flatly. “It’s Amelia’s secret, not ours.”

“You’re right,” said Bill, changing his tune without missing a beat. “It’s better this way. If he falls for Mae Bowen as Amelia Thistle, she’ll be certain it’s because of who she is, not what she does. How is she responding to his advances?”

“Early days yet,” I said.

“She’s keeping her distance, eh? Good for her.” Bill reached
across the table and put his hand on mine. “I realize that it won’t be easy for you, love, but try not to meddle. Allow events to unfold at their own pace, even if they don’t unfold at all.”

There was no point in pretending that I didn’t understand what Bill meant—he knew me too well—so I bit back a phony protest and nodded my assent.

“But keep me informed,” he added, “because Father won’t.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled as his gaze turned inward. “I hope it works out, Lori. He hasn’t looked at another woman since Mother died. She wouldn’t have wanted him to be alone for so long.”

I took Will and Rob to school, then whistled my way through a lengthy list of chores, knowing that the more housework I finished on Friday, the less guilt I’d feel for spending Saturday afternoon at Dove Cottage. Apart from that, Bill had brightened an otherwise dull day by responding so well to my news about Willis, Sr. A lesser man might have been troubled by it, but Bill’s heart was big enough to embrace his father’s return to the land of the loving.

I was folding a minor mountain range of clean laundry in the master bedroom when Amelia called.

“They’ve arrived,” she said tersely. “I can see them from my front room.”

“How many?” I asked. I didn’t need to ask who “they” were.

“Seven,” she replied. “Three men and four women. I recognize them. They’re the same yahoos who crashed Walter’s funeral.”

“Is Myron with them?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “but they must be following his orders. They’re going from door to door. I’m sure they’re looking for me.”

A tower of socks toppled onto a snoozing Stanley as I sank onto the bed, thinking hard. I wasn’t concerned about the Handmaidens because they wouldn’t be around to answer leading questions
posed by the Bowenists. Elspeth would still be in London, visiting her niece, while Millicent, Opal, and Selena would be in Upper Deeping, attending their Friday morning art class with Mr. Shuttleworth.