Read Aunt Dimity Goes West Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
mounted by a kneeling, weeping angel with folded
wings. “Hannah Lavery lived to be eighty-five.”
“Dear Hannah.” Rose spoke with real animation
for the first time since we’d passed through the en-
trance gate, as though she were speaking of a friend
she’d known and loved. “Hannah Lavery was the
daughter of a wealthy mine owner, an exceptional
girl who became a truly remarkable woman. When
Hannah saw suffering, she refused to look the
other way. She spent her entire life working for the
welfare of miners and their families. She died in
Washington, D.C., still lobbying for humane labor
laws, but she wished to be buried here, among the
people whose struggles had first awakened her con-
science.”
“She never married,” I observed.
“Victorian men of her class preferred passive
women to rabble-rousers,” said Rose. “But I find that
crusaders in every age have difficulty finding suitable
mates. It isn’t easy to give one’s heart to a man as well as a cause.”
I ran my fingers along the angel’s folded wings,
then walked ahead of my companions, drawn by a
monumental monument that stood silhouetted against
a ponderosa pine at the end of the path. The gleaming
white marble obelisk towered over the phalanx of
rough-cut red-granite headstones that surrounded it,
and its inscription had been beautifully chiseled.
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C y r i l P e n n y f e a t h e r
1 8 5 9 – 1 8 9 6
a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto god
Romans 12:1
Erected to honor the memory
of a devoted teacher by the grateful families
of those whose lives he saved
“Who was Cyril Pennyfeather?” I asked when Toby
and Rose had caught up with me.
“He was a schoolmaster,” Rose replied. “He came
to the United States from England in 1880 and made
his way to Bluebird in 1884. He and the men who lie
buried near him died in the Lord Stuart mining disas-
ter of 1896.”
I blinked at her, looked back at the obelisk, and began
silently to count the red-granite markers surrounding it.
“Twenty,” I said finally. “Twenty men died in one
accident—twenty-one, counting Cyril.” I turned to
Rose. “What happened?”
“A catastrophic cave-in,” she answered. “No one
knows what caused it. Some claimed that the mine
manager had bought poor-quality wood to prop the
shaft in which the cave-in occurred, but nothing was
ever proved. The shaft was never excavated, and the
mine closed shortly thereafter.”
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“What was a schoolteacher doing in a mine?” asked
Toby.
“Many of his pupils or former pupils worked there,”
Rose told him. “When he heard about the cave-in, he
went up to see if there was anything he could do to
help. He led at least a dozen men to safety before he,
too, was killed by falling rock.” She nodded toward the
inscription. “As you can see, the families of those he
rescued raised money to pay for his memorial. He was
much loved even before his death. After it . . .” Rose
looked from me to Toby and back to me again. “After
it, rumors of a curse began to circulate.”
“Ah,” I said as understanding dawned. “The Lord
Stuart curse.”
“Correct,” said Rose. “I’m convinced that the Lord
Stuart Mine closed because there was no more gold to
be had from it, but others believe differently. When
my husband and I first came to Bluebird, Rufe and Lou
Zimmer took us up to the old mine site and told us
about the disaster. Afterward, they brought us here,
to show us the graves of those who’d died. They ex-
plained to us that the cave-in was the culmination of
a series of fatal accidents that had plagued the Lord
Stuart Mine almost from its inception. They held that
the mine would have closed in 1896, even if the
mother lode hadn’t played out.”
“Because of the curse?” I said.
Rose nodded. “Miners are superstitious, as men in
hazardous occupations frequently are. If they came to
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believe in the curse, they might have been reluctant to
work in the Lord Stuart.”
“You can’t run a mine without miners,” I com-
mented.
“I don’t think the curse had anything to do with the
mine closing,” said Toby, shaking his head. “Don’t you
see? It was a cover-up. The mine owner closed the
Lord Stuart to keep people from finding out about the
substandard wood. A scandal like that wouldn’t sit
well with his investors.”
“Maybe he invented the curse to keep inquisitive
people away from the mine,” I suggested, “and the acci-
dents your grandfather told you about—the ones that
happened in later years—reinforced the original lie.”
“But why do they
still
believe in the curse?” Toby demanded. “The mine closed over a century ago.
There’s not a trace of it left aboveground. No one’s
ever been injured at the Aerie, much less died, but
people
still
think it’s risky to stay there.”
“We still celebrate Gold Rush Days in Bluebird,”
Rose reminded him. “For some people, the past is
always present. Your predecessor, for example, was
deeply interested in the history of the Lord Stuart
Mine.”
“James Blackwell?” I said, suddenly alert.
“James came to the historical society toward the end
of February,” Rose said. “He wanted information about
the mine. He already had reference books—Mrs. Auer-
bach collects them, apparently—so he didn’t need to
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borrow ours, but I lent him newspaper clippings, pho-
tographs, town records, pamphlets, and other ephem-
era. He returned a few weeks later to ask for details
about the 1896 disaster.”
“Did you tell him about the curse?” I asked.
“I didn’t have to,” said Rose. “He’d already heard
about it in town—yes, Toby, from the usual suspects.
James wanted to know if the legend was based in fact.
I told him exactly what I’ve told you and left him to
draw his own conclusions.”
“Did he seem disturbed by the information you
gave him?” I asked.
“Not particularly.” Rose shrugged. “But I have to
confess that I didn’t monitor his reactions very closely.
I was busy at the time, developing the society’s sum-
mer event and exhibition schedule.” She glanced at her
wristwatch. “I’m sorry to say it, but I have to get back to the parsonage. Maggie Flaxton is dropping by at
four o’clock to discuss my role in Gold Rush Days. I
don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“No, you don’t,” said Toby, shuddering. “Rub Mag-
gie the wrong way and you’ll find yourself cleaning up
after the burros in the petting zoo. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” said Rose. “I think we have enough time to
make one more stop before we leave. Toby, you can
lead the way.”
Toby’s grandparents had been buried beneath a large
red-granite boulder, the kind the twins had clambered
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151
over on every one of our hikes. A square patch on one
side of the boulder had been smoothed, polished, and
etched with his grandparents’ names and dates, as
well as a simple outline of the mountain range that
contained Mount Shroeder’s distinctive profile.
“We climbed Mount Shroeder when I was ten
years old,” Toby recalled. “It was Granddad’s favorite
one-day climb. He loved the view of the valley from
the summit.”
“He passed his love on to you,” I said. “It’s a won-
derful inheritance.”
Toby squatted down to brush dead leaves from the
grave. “I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the dis-
aster when I asked about the curse?”
“Being a man of science, I expect he refused to
connect the two,” I said.
“Yeah.” Toby stretched out his hand to touch the
boulder. “Because there is no connection, right,
Granddad?”
We made sure the gate was firmly chained and
padlocked before we left, then started back down
the dirt road toward town. After spending so much
time in the cemetery’s cool shade, it was good to
feel the sun’s warmth on my skin again.
“Rose,” I said, “did Mrs. Auerbach ever ask you
about the curse?”
“I’ve never met Mrs. Auerbach,” said Rose. “She
wasn’t a churchgoer and she didn’t spend much time
in town. She kept herself very much to herself when
she and the children were at the Aerie. I imagine Blue-
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bird’s attractions pale in comparison to the Aerie’s. I’ve been given to understand that it’s a marvelous place.”
“Given to understand?” I repeated, surprised. “Do
you mean you’ve never been to the Aerie?”
“Never.” She gave me a sidelong glance and a half-
guilty smile. “To be honest, I’m hoping to wangle an
invitation from you. I’ve always wanted to see what
it’s like inside. Apart from that, I’d like to pick up the material James Blackwell borrowed from the society.”
“He never returned the papers he borrowed?” I
said.
“He left so suddenly that it probably slipped his
mind,” said Rose.
“I’ll bet it’s in the library,” I told her. “I’ll look for it this evening. If I can’t find it, you can help me look for it tomorrow, when you come to lunch.Will one-thirty
work for you?”
“I can come earlier, if it’s more convenient,” Rose
offered. “Due to lack of funding, the society is closed
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays.”
“How about high noon, then?” I suggested.
“High noon will work perfectly,” said Rose, and she
walked with a bounce in her step all the way back to
the parsonage.
Thirteen
T oby and I collected our bags and packages
from the hall table and thanked Rose Bland-
ing sincerely for sharing her time as well as
her incredible wealth of knowledge with us. I had no
trouble believing her when she said that it had been
her pleasure. She was a born lecturer, and Toby and I
had given her a splendid opportunity to hold forth on
a subject that was close to her heart.
We left by the front stairs, but we didn’t take the
lake path back to town. Instead, we followed a rough
track through the stand of pines that shielded the
parsonage and the church from the two-lane highway
leading into town. Toby explained that, although the
alternate route was slightly longer and marginally less
scenic than the lake path, taking it would greatly in-
crease our chances of avoiding a run-in with Maggie
Flaxton. I backed his decision wholeheartedly, having
employed the same tactics frequently in Finch, to
avoid a rampaging Peggy Taxman.
Before we left the shelter of the trees, I asked Toby
to stop.
“Look,” I said, “I didn’t know that your grandparents
had died so recently. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been
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so idiotically chirpy when we reached the cemetery.
I’m really sorry if spending time there upset you.”
“It’s okay,” said Toby. “It turned out to be pretty in-
teresting. I guess Grandma and Granddad are part of
the . . . the repository of history, now.”
“They are,” I said. “A hundred years from now people
will find their headstone as fascinating as we found Cyril Pennyfeather’s.”
“Only if they have a tour guide like Mrs. Blanding,”
said Toby.
I was ready to move on, but Toby stayed put, gaz-
ing down at me with a faintly troubled expression on
his face.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“When we were in the cafe,” he said slowly, “you told
Carrie Vyne that James Blackwell was interested in local history. You knew it
before
Mrs. Blanding told us about his visits to the historical society. How did you find out?”
“Brett Whitcombe,” I replied. “He told me that
James used to pester him with questions about what
Bluebird was like in the olden days. He also told me
that James was investigating some ‘tomfool stories’—
Brett’s words, not mine. I think James went to Brett
Whitcombe as well as Rose Blanding, looking for in-
formation about the Lord Stuart curse.”
“Right.” Toby pushed his hat back on his head. “The
thing is, James left some stuff behind in his apart-
ment—the apartment I’m using now. I would have
shipped it to him, but I don’t know where to send it.”
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“No forwarding address,” I said, nodding. “Is it the
material he borrowed from the historical society?”
“No,” said Toby. “It’s not books or papers, and I’m
sure it belongs to him, not to the historical society—
he left the receipts behind, too. I thought he was using it for . . .” His voice trailed off and his gaze wandered to a point somewhere over my right shoulder. “But
after hearing Mrs. Blanding, I’m not so sure.”
“Not so sure about what?” I asked.
Toby’s eyes came back into focus. “I could be wrong.
I’ll show you when we get back. I’d like to know what