Aunt Dimity Digs In (29 page)

Mr. Taxman fetched a folding chair for Mr. Wetherhead, then took up a position between Peggy and the Albion. The rest of us gathered in a half circle around him. As we shuffled into our impromptu formation, I heard the faint click of a door latch and the telltale tapping of Buster’s claws on the floorboards. We would soon have company, I thought.

“Yes, Ms. Shepherd,” Jasper Taxman began, in answer to my question, “Mr. Harmer’s father purchased the Albion from the estate of the Reverend Cornelius Gladwell. He used it to print advertisements for his auctions. Mr. Harmer showed me how to use it when I first came to Finch.”

“You were always in the shop,” Peggy said faintly.

Mr. Taxman looked down at her upturned face. “I wanted to be where you were,” he said. “Since you and your mother were billeted with Mr. Harmer, I volunteered to work at his shop.”

“Billeted?” inquired the vicar.

“Finch provided sanctuary for a number of evacuees during the war,” Mr. Taxman explained. “Mrs. Kitchen and her mother came from Birmingham, Mr. Barlow and I came from Bristol, and—”

“And I was sent all the way up here from Plymouth.” Sally Pyne emerged from the shadowy aisle, with Mr. Barlow and Buster at her heels. “We were evacuated during the blitz, Vicar.”

Mr. Taxman didn’t flinch at the intrusion. He simply motioned for the newcomers to join the circle. He must have known that it was pointless to exclude them. Whether Mr. Taxman liked it or not, what was said in the back room would soon be broadcast to the farthest reaches of Finch.

Mr. Barlow spoke up. “You used to be back here all the time, Jasper, poking around Mr. Harmer’s shelves. I used to think you were wheedling extra rations.”

Sally snorted. “I could’ve told you he was sweet on Peggy. Trotted after her like a lapdog—like Buster follows you.”

The acerbic comment didn’t fluster Mr. Taxman. “I spent most of my waking hours back here,” he agreed smoothly. “It wasn’t as well stocked then as it is now.”

“ There was a war on,” Mr. Barlow reminded him.

Mr. Taxman nodded. “As you say, Bill, it was wartime and most of the shelves were bare. Had it been otherwise, I might have overlooked the box of papers Mr. Harmer’s father acquired when he purchased the Albion.”

We watched with an air of expectancy, like children at a magic show, as Mr. Taxman opened the doors of a cupboard beneath the workbench and withdrew from it a wooden box the size of a picnic hamper. He placed the box atop the workbench and lifted the hinged lid. When he turned to face us, he was holding a slim pamphlet bound in buff-colored wrappers.

“Mr. Gladwell’s pamphlets,” he said, “helped pass the time on winter days when few customers came to the shop.” He handed the pamphlet to Lilian. “I found this one particularly intriguing.”

“Disappointments in Delving.”
Lilian read the title aloud, then turned, almost reluctantly, to the colophon. “The first of ten numbered copies.” She looked sadly at Mr. Taxman. “You took this from my husband’s desk the day Dr. Culver arrived in Finch.”

Mr. Taxman lowered his eyes but said nothing.

“How did you know where to find it?” I asked.

“Annie Hodge came into the shop last Sunday, on her way home from the vicarage. She’d just picked up her pay packet.” Mr. Taxman turned to Peggy Kitchen. “Mrs. Hodge came to me, because she knew you wouldn’t let her cash a check.”

“Always had it in for Piero’s family,” Sally muttered.

Mr. Taxman ignored the interruption and continued speaking directly to Peggy. “Mrs. Hodge heard you on the square, berating Dr. Culver and his assistants. She said you were wasting your breath because the vicar would soon have Dr. Culver out of the schoolhouse. When I asked what she meant, she said that Mr. Bunting had on his desk a booklet that would force Dr. Culver to abandon his proposed excavation of Scrag End field.”

The vicar emitted a forlorn sigh. “You knew, of course, the contents of the booklet.”

“I had nine copies of
Delving
in my possession,” said Mr. Taxman, gesturing toward the wooden box. “It was reasonable to assume that the tenth had been left in the vicarage. I determined, therefore . . .”

The high point of Mr. Taxman’s account of the burglary was his close encounter with Christine Peacock, who’d nearly run him down in her mad flight back to the pub with Grog. He hadn’t noticed Sally or Katrina in the meadow. As he described the difficulties of reconnoi tering the overgrown garden in the dark, Mr. Wetherhead clucked his tongue in self-disgust.

“ That’s why you were bobbing and weaving?” he said. “Because of the weeds?”

“ There were holes, as well,” Mr. Taxman pointed out, “and some extremely vicious thistles. After I’d circled the vicarage twice,” he continued, “to assure myself that the Buntings had retired, I ducked into the concealing shrubbery and entered the library through the French doors.”

“I thought you’d disappeared,” Mr. Wetherhead said glumly.

“There, there,” said Miranda, patting his shoulder. “It was a very misty night.”

Mr. Taxman resumed. “I took the pamphlet from your desk, Vicar, and brought it to my cottage. The following day, I placed it in the box with the others.” He smoothed his tie, then looked around the half circle of expectant faces, like a schoolteacher awaiting questions.

“Why, Jasper?” Peggy Kitchen’s voice trembled not with indignation but with bafflement. “Why did you want me to think the festival was ruined?”

“I had to prove to you that Finch still needs you,” said Mr. Taxman. “I hoped your battle with Dr. Culver would reawaken your fighting spirit.”

Sally Pyne gave a loud guffaw. “Reawaken her fighting spirit?” she scoffed. “Peggy’s fighting spirit hasn’t had a rest since the day she threw stones at poor Piero.”

Mr. Taxman turned a cold eye on Sally. “You may have seen her anger on that day, but you never saw her tears. No one saw her hide back here and weep for her dead father. No one but me.” Mr. Taxman flicked a dismissive finger at Sally Pyne and Mr. Barlow. “You thought young Peggy Kitchen had no heart, but I knew better.”

Peggy peered up at him, wide-eyed. “I never knew you were watching over me, Jasper.”

“I wanted always to watch over you,” said Mr. Taxman. “When the war ended and your mother took you away, I thought I’d never see you again. Then Mrs. Farnham wrote to tell me that you’d bought Mr. Harmer’s shop, and I knew I’d been given a second chance.” He smoothed his brown tie with a trembling hand. “And just when everything seemed to be falling into place, you told me you’d be leaving town as soon as you completed the festival. I thought, if all else failed, I might at least postpone the festival by keeping Dr. Culver here. And the longer it was postponed, the longer I’d have you here with me. I’m too old to uproot my life again. I don’t want to move to Little Stubbing. And, as I said, Finch needs you, Mrs. Kitchen. I stole the vicar’s pamphlet to prove to you that your work here isn’t finished. If you leave, Finch will be incapable of defending itself from outsiders like Dr. Culver.”

Peggy bowed her head. “But I’m an outsider, Jasper. Annie and Burt Hodge told me so.”

“Hodges got their own back on you, did they?” asked Sally.

“All they did was tell me the truth.” Peggy’s shoulders slumped. “ They made me think of the way I treated Piero, all those many years ago, and the way I’ve treated his children ever since. I’m none too proud of myself, Jasper. I never knew how much Piero and me had in common. I was too busy being angry to find out.”

“You and Piero Sciaparelli?” Sally shook her head in disbelief. “What on earth could a hellion like you have in common with that good, kind man?”

“We both came to Finch to find . . .What did you call it, Jasper? Sanctuary?” Peggy removed her pointy glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Sanctuary. Finch gave us shelter from the storm.” The glasses dangled limply from her fingers as she stared into thin air. “I’ve tried my best to repay my debt to Finch. I’ve tried to give the village a bit of life and bring back the old traditions, but all I’ve really done is interfere. Annie and Burt spoke true, Jasper. Finch doesn’t need me.”

“You’re wrong, Peggy.” The words sprang to my lips so unexpectedly that for a moment I thought someone else had spoken. It was strange indeed to feel pity for Peggy Kitchen, stranger still to realize, in a blazing flash of intuition, that Finch needed its hellion far more than it needed anyone else assembled in the back room, including me.

“You’re not the only outsider in Finch,” I declared. “I came here seeking sanctuary, too. I wanted a peaceful place to raise my sons.”

“We, too, sought peace here,” said the vicar, putting an arm around his wife, “when I could no longer cope with the demands of my London parish.”

“Finch is the perfect spot to write a book,” Miranda put in. “Absolutely
no
distractions.”

“And we’re absolutely useless to the village.” I stared from face to face defiantly. “Left to our own devices, we’d enjoy the peace and quiet, but we’d give nothing in exchange. We’d huddle in our houses, hardly speaking to each other, and let the village take care of itself.”

“Lori’s right,” said Lilian. “It’s tempting to bury myself in my research.”

“Not half so tempting as it is to sink into my armchair,” admitted the vicar.

“Peggy won’t let
any
of us sink into our armchairs,” I snapped angrily. “She’s the one who started the garden fetes and sheepdog trials and morris dancing, and she hounded us until we all joined in. Peggy’s trying to turn Finch back into a true village.” I crossed to Peggy’s side and swung around to face the others. “Do any of you think you could take her place? I know I couldn’t.”

There was a long silence as the others shuffled, shamefaced, avoiding one another’s eyes.

Sally was the first to step forward. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Peggy, if I could help with the refreshments during the festival. My new line of low-calorie pastries went down very well at Rainey’s birthday party.”

Mr. Barlow nodded thoughtfully. “I could rig out a few more of those chariots,” he said. “We could have races for the kiddies.”

“I have a . . .” Mr. Wetherhead quailed as all eyes focused on him, but he gripped his cane tightly and went on. “. . . a train collection. Lori thought it might be nice to let folks have a look at it during the Harvest Festival, but I’d be glad of your opinion, Mrs. Kitchen.”

“If you’re in need of a fortune-teller,” Miranda piped up, “look no further.”

The vicar added his voice to the chorus. “I’m so looking forward to the beast blessing,” he said, with more charity than honesty. “I can think of nothing more inspira tional than to welcome Buster, Grog, and Caesar to Saint George’s.”

It took Peggy a full minute to find her voice, but when she did, it had a familiar ring. “Don’t be stupid, Vicar. Caesar’s an RC, just like the Hodges.” She brushed the back of her hand impatiently across her eyes and put her glasses on. “But perhaps Annie and Burt would be kind enough to enter Caesar in the dog show. I’ll invite them personally. Come along, Jasper. There’s so much to do.” She held a hand out to Mr. Taxman. “And only a bloody fool would think that I could do it without you.”

Mr. Taxman’s sunken chest expanded until his buttons nearly burst. He drew himself up to his full, though average, height, then sank to one knee and pressed his lips to Peggy’s proffered hand. Until that moment, I hadn’t truly believed him capable of a
crime passionnel,
but his gallant gesture chased all doubts away. Jasper Taxman might be an unlikely hero, a nondescript knight in dull brown armor, but I’d learned long ago that handsome princes came in all shapes and sizes.

Peggy rose to her feet. Her mad eyes sparkled with a new and lovely light as she turned sideways to maneuver down the aisle. “I’ll be by first thing tomorrow morning to have a look at these trains of yours, Mr. Wetherhead. And you know about fortune-telling, do you, Mrs. Morrow? It’ll cost a packet to buy a gypsy tent, but it might be worth it. What do you think, Jasper? Can we raise enough money by August to pay for a tent
and
goat-cart races? I’m sure Sally won’t mind donating the food.”

Sally’s squawk of protest shook the gray metal shelves, but Peggy forged ahead. I had no doubt that she’d whip her volunteers into shape, and by August they’d be almost glad she had.

 

I sipped my tea and settled the blue journal on my lap. Bill was reading stories to Rob and Will in the living room, and Francesca was at the schoolhouse, helping Adrian prepare a lecture on the many uses of sweet-chestnut flour. The rain continued to fall steadily, spattering the windowpanes and drumming on the roof. The study was comfortably warm and dry, but I’d lit a fire in the hearth, for the pure pleasure of watching the flames dance.

“It’s funny, Dimity. I wasn’t all that crazy about Finch in its natural state, but I think I’m going to miss the old wreck, now that Peggy’s decided to fix it up.”

“It just slipped out. When Lilian said that there were more than a hundred Gladwell pamphlets in the wooden box, I couldn’t help remembering Stan’s joke about the Lamborghini. Lilian mentioned it to Jasper Taxman, and one thing led to another. . . .”

Peggy had asked me to stick around while she placed her long-distance call to Labrador, but she hadn’t needed my help to negotiate the sale of the pamphlets. She could have given Stan a few tips on playing hardball. When I’d left the shop, she and Mr. Taxman had been laying out plans to resod the village green, relay the cobbles on the square, and steam-clean the limestone facades on all of the buildings.

“By the time she’s done spending money on Finch,” I said, “she’ll be lucky to have enough left over to pay for a marriage license.”

“Splendidly,” I said. “He called her Peggy the other day, and asked her politely never to mention Little Stubbing again. He’s getting to be a regular tyrant.”