Aunt Dimity Digs In (22 page)

Katrina’s resistance crumbled. “I’m not an expert,” she said, allowing herself to be tugged along, “but I’ll be happy to explain my theories, if you’re really interested. . . .”

By the time we reached the tarpaulin, Adrian had deposited Rainey’s silver coin in a small cardboard box labeled RAINEY DAWSON’S DENARIUS. It seemed to me to be an oddly imprecise annotation—no date, no provenance—and when Katrina saw it, she looked sharply at Adrian. He responded with a sly wink, and Katrina relaxed, grinning sheepishly.

Adrian, it seemed, had taken a page from Cornelius Gladwell’s pamphlet. He’d planted the coin in the bucket of dirt he’d given Katrina, in hopes that Rainey would find it. I gazed at him with grudging admiration. He couldn’t have thought of a better way to introduce Rainey to the joys of his profession. Archaeology, I suspected, would give gardening a run for its money when it came time for the little blunderbuss to choose her life’s work.

While I pulled Rob’s socks up and Will’s T-shirt down, Katrina opened a second bottle of springwater. She filled glasses for herself and Rainey, refilled the rest of the glasses, and perched on the edge of a table. I gulped my water greedily, then returned to my chair.

“Lori’s asked me to explain my theories,” said Katrina.

“Excellent.” Adrian sat down, stretched his long legs out before him, and folded his hands over his flat stomach. “Proceed, Miss Graham.”

Katrina pulled off her headband and swiped a hand across her spiky blond crop. She looked very young but curiously invulnerable—a confident doctoral candidate, ready to ace her orals.

“I’d like to start by saying that my theories are based almost wholly on Dr. Culver’s lectures,” she began. “He spoke once of the effects of erosion on soil, of the way artifacts can be washed from one place to another by rain, melting snow, or floods. That might explain why we’re finding things in odd places.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Katrina’s first theory wasn’t without merit. Francesca had said that Scrag End field was prone to flood.

“Or,” Katrina continued, “we might have stumbled on a tip.”

“A what?” I asked.

Katrina cocked her head to one side. “A garbage dump,” she said. “I believe that’s what it’s called in the States. If Scrag End had been used as a tip, we’d expect to find artifacts from different periods all jumbled up together.”

“You’re diggin’ up rubbish?” Francesca asked incredulously.

“What’s wrong with that?” Katrina demanded. “You’ve no idea how much information can be gleaned from a civilization’s rubbish. Some of our most valuable—”

“Miss Graham,” Adrian broke in gently, “you’ve made your point and you’d do well to moderate your tone. You’re speaking to guests, not colleagues.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Culver.” Katrina’s biceps bulged as she twisted her hands together in her lap. She took a sip of water, then resumed more calmly. “A third possibility is that the site’s been disrupted by cultivation. Farmers may have plowed through the soil, dislodging and rearranging—”

“No,” Francesca said abruptly. “Scratch that one. No one’s ever farmed Scrag End field.”

Katrina’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “How can you possibly know what was going on here five hundred years ago?”

“Because I’ve lived here all my life and know Finch’s history.” Francesca pointed to a tree standing a few yards away from the tarpaulin. “That’s the only thing the Romans planted this side of the river.”

“A tree?” Katrina scoffed.

“It’s a sweet chestnut,” Francesca informed her. “The Romans planted them so they could make flour out of the chestnuts. A tasty thing, chestnut flour.”

Katrina looked for help from Adrian, but he was staring at Francesca. I, too, had turned toward my nanny. I was on the verge of asking how she’d come by her in-depth knowledge of ancient arboriculture when Dimity’s words came floating back to me:
Piero worked as a farm laborer for old Mr. Hodge until VE Day. . . .

Francesca’s father had worked at Hodge Farm. If old Mr. Hodge had befriended Piero Sciaparelli, he would have given Piero’s children the run of his land. Mr. Hodge might have taken Francesca to see the floods in Scrag End field, and filled her head with stories about the sweet-chestnut trees. It seemed strange that Francesca hadn’t mentioned the connection when Hodge Farm had first come into view.

Rainey’s voice interrupted my musings. “It must be a very
old
tree,” she observed gravely. “Katrina told me that the Romans lived here years and years ago.”

Francesca’s face softened. “It’s not the same sweet chestnut as the Romans used,” she explained patiently. “It’s the many-times-great-grandchild of the ones they planted.”

“A fascinating sidelight, Miss Sciaparelli,” said Adrian.

I thought Katrina would twist her fingers right off. She wasn’t having the best of days. Our arrival had delayed the testing of her precious soil samples, Rainey had upstaged her by “discovering” the denarius, and Francesca had interrupted her lecture.

“Yes, Miss Sciaparelli,” she said, with as much grace as she could be expected to muster. “Fascinating.”

“As are your contributions, Miss Graham,” said Adrian, bowing to Katrina. “They reveal a creative imagination—an essential tool in any scientist’s kit, but particularly useful when one is attempting to reconstruct the past. My compliments.”

Katrina smiled radiantly.

“Unfortunately,” Adrian continued, “your theories don’t overturn my main objection to Scrag End field.” He rose from his chair and paced deliberately as he spoke. “If Scrag End was used as a tip, where did the rubbish come from? Similarly, where did the artifacts reside before floods or rain or melting snow carried them to Scrag End field? For either of these theories to work, we must posit the existence of a villa close at hand.” He held his hands wide. “I find it difficult to conceive of any self-respecting Romano-British citizen building a home in such an un-propitious location.”

Katrina held her head high, undaunted by the assault. “I believe I can account for that anomaly, as well,” she said.

Katrina pushed herself off the table and strode across the lane to stand at the river’s edge. Adrian went with her, with Rainey trotting at his side and Francesca walking a step or two behind him, pushing Rob’s stroller. Will and I took up the rear.

Katrina waited until we’d gathered around, then raised a hand to shade her eyes as she peered out over the sea of grain. “If I were a Romano-British citizen,” she said, pointing, “I’d build my villa on the top of that hill.”

“Very good,” murmured Adrian, looking up at the farm buildings. “Please continue.”

“If a Roman villa occupied that location,” Katrina went on, “the artifacts could have been washed down the hill to Scrag End field, or placed there by the villa’s inhabitants. Furthermore—” She broke off suddenly, then turned to Adrian, muttering, “He’s back again.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Our watcher,” Adrian replied.

I followed his gaze and saw a motionless figure standing among the stone buildings at the top of the hill.

“He’s been observing us all week with a pair of binoculars,” Katrina murmured. “I caught the light glinting off the lens just now.”

“I expect it’s Burt Hodge,” said Adrian, “or his wife, Annie. The vicar tells me they own the farm. They’re probably wondering what we’re doing down here. I must remember to stop by and invite them to tour the site.”

“Annie Hodge,” I said, searching my memory. “She’s the vicar’s housekeeper, isn’t she?”

Adrian nodded. “I believe so.”

“In that case, there’s no use inviting her for a tour,” I told him. “I spoke with her the other day. She said that she and her husband were too busy to waste—” I felt Katrina’s gaze on me and quickly revised my statement. “ To
spend
time in Scrag End field.”

“I should let them know they’re welcome nonetheless.” Adrian grabbed Rainey, who was testing the stability of an alarmingly wobbly rock that jutted into the flowing stream. “Perhaps, Miss Graham, you’d like to show Miss Dawson some of the artifacts you’ve discovered. While you’re doing so, you can describe your latest theory more fully to the rest of us.”

Adrian, Katrina, Francesca, Rob, and Rainey returned to the tarpaulin’s shade, but Will and I stayed at the water’s edge, watching the watcher, until the distant figure had retreated to the shelter of a stone barn.

 

“I don’t like it,” I said to Francesca after we’d dropped Rainey off at the tearoom. “Feelings are running high in the village. I don’t like the thought of someone spying on Adrian with binoculars.”

“Burt Hodge means no harm,” Francesca declared, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Why do you think he’s watching Adrian?” I asked.

“If I know Burt,” said Francesca, sounding as though she did, “it’s because he thinks it a waste of petrol to drive over and find out what’s going on in Scrag End.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” I commented.

“Burt and I grew up together,” Francesca told me. “My father worked for his father when he first came to this country.”

“Did he?” I was growing adept at negotiating Francesca’s oblique conversations. “I wondered how you knew so much about Scrag End field.”

“Old Mr. Hodge was a good man,” said Francesca. “He let me and my brothers and sisters roam all over his land. Some folk didn’t like him for it, but he never paid them any mind.”

“Why would anyone object to an old man being kind to a bunch of children?” I knew I was treading on thin ice, but I wanted to hear Piero’s story from Francesca’s point of view.

“We weren’t just any children.” Francesca’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but her foot remained steady on the gas pedal. “Hasn’t Mrs. Kitchen told you about my father?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “Mrs. Kitchen hasn’t told me a thing about your father. What about him?”

Francesca touched the medallion at her throat. “My father didn’t come to England voluntarily,” she said. “He was shipped here, as a prisoner of war. He was held in a detention camp in Yorkshire for six months before they sent him off to work for Mr. Hodge. So many farmers had joined up that they had to use what labor came to hand.” She paused. “Was your father a soldier?”

“Yes,” I said. “He landed at Normandy on D Day and fought his way to the Rhine, but he wasn’t even wounded. He was lucky. Like your father.”

“You think my father was lucky?” Francesca asked, as though the idea was new to her.

“He survived the war,” I pointed out. “He lived long enough to raise a family. I’d call that lucky, wouldn’t you?”

Francesca didn’t reply directly. “It wasn’t easy for him,” she said. “Nor for his family. Most folks were decent enough, but some were . . .” Her lips tightened. “They needed someone to blame, and Papa was right in front of them, with his accent and his funny-sounding name.”

I marveled, not for the first time, at how the cruelty of a few could diminish the kindness of many. “Seems like Mr. Hodge was one of the decent ones,” I commented.

“He was a good man,” Francesca repeated. She slowed as we approached the Pym sisters’ curve. “Which is more than can be said for his son.” She sped up again as we came out of the curve. “What did you think of Dr. Culver making out that Scrag End was no good? You think he’s given up on the museum?”

The abrupt change of subject signaled an end to Francesca’s brief spate of self-revelation. I let it go but made a mental note to ask Dimity about old Mr. Hodge’s son once I’d figured out what was going on in Scrag End field—which might not be any time soon.

“Francesca,” I confessed, “I don’t know what to think about the museum. At the moment, Adrian Culver has me flummoxed.”

21.

The cottage was blissfully silent. The boys were asleep in the nursery, Francesca had retired to her room, and Bill’s regular breathing indicated that he’d joined his sons in dreamland. As I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a single sleepless night since Francesca had arrived. A week ago, I’d risen once an hour to make sure the boys were still breathing. Tonight I tossed and turned because of Adrian Culver.

I didn’t know what to make of the man. Emma’s printouts of his E-mail proved that he was raising money to build the Culver Institute right here in Finch. Why, then, was he going out of his way to prove that Scrag End field was a bust? If it hadn’t been for Katrina’s brainstorm about a Roman villa standing where Hodge Farm now stood, he might have called it quits that afternoon.

I sat up and ran a hand through my disheveled curls. If Adrian was willing to judge Scrag End on its lack of merits, why would he bother to steal the Gladwell pamphlet? Had he changed his mind about the museum? Had Peggy Kitchen’s determined resistance frightened him off? Or had he decided that Scrag End was simply too anomalous to serve his purpose?

The only thing I could be sure of was his devotion to Francesca. He’d stopped by after dinner, ostensibly to bring the boys a colorful picture book about Pompeii. I’d tried to take him aside, to ask him again about the museum, but by then the phone had started ringing.

Emma had called to report that her schoolhouse tour had been a waste of time. She’d found nothing that pointed to the museum or the burglary. When she proposed breaking into Katrina’s lodgings, I suggested that she consult a therapist before her obsession with break-ins got her into trouble.

A call from Stan had completed my day. The pamphlet from our man in Labrador would arrive on Monday morning. I should have been excited, but I wasn’t. I didn’t see how the pamphlet Stan had obtained would help me find
the
pamphlet. I wasn’t even sure if
the
pamphlet mattered anymore. Adrian seemed perfectly willing to let the hoax reveal itself, with or without the vicar’s printed proof.

I looked at the clock on the dresser as it chimed the hour. Eleven o’clock, and all was extremely perturbed. If I didn’t settle down soon, I’d be fidgeting until dawn. I listened to Bill’s steady breathing, then slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to put the kettle on. A pot of tea and a chat with Dimity might still my spinning head.