Aunt Dimity Digs In ad-4

by Nancy Atherton

  Francesca had returned from Scrag End field so preoccupied that she’d put Rob’s T-shirt on him backward and dropped Will’s socks in the toilet bowl.

  “As I fished them out,” I said, passing Bill the new potatoes, “I heard her say to her reflection in the mirror, ‘Adrian means well.’ At which point I steered her to her room and closed the door.”

  “Did she find Reginald?” Bill asked, spooning potatoes onto his plate.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “But not before she’d accused Adrian of theft, dishonesty, and a wanton disregard for the feelings of a pair of helpless infants. Imagine her chagrin when Simon spotted Reginald in the backseat of the Mercedes.”

  “Ow,” said Bill, grimacing.

  “Adrian was very good about it,” I said. “He stopped by with a bouquet of wildflowers, to make sure Francesca knew there were no hard feelings.” I put my fork down, assailed by a sudden loss of appetite. “I can’t take Francesca with me to Scrag End field tomorrow. Adrian’s already charmed her into thinking he means well. God knows how much further he’ll get, now that her guard is down.”

  Bill reached over to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry, love. I know how it pains you to see handsome princes tumble off their chargers. You’re an incurable romantic, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  A few moments and several mouthfuls later, he said thoughtfully, “I suppose Reginald got into the Merc the same way he got into Father’s briefcase last summer. Dimity seems to be going out of her way to throw our two ill-matched lovebirds together.”

  “She can’t be right all of the time,” I said, “but when she is, she’s spot on. Wait until you see Rainey’s birthday present.”

  “Extraspecial?” said Bill.

  “Way beyond extra,” I replied. “Reginald has a new cousin. A tiger. He’ll be the hit of the party.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bill, “the party. The birthday party that’s scheduled to coincide with Peggy’s rally.” He paused to savor another bite of juicy, aromatic chicken before asking, “Did I hear you correctly? Are you really going to get up on that platform and make a speech?”

  “I am.” Something of the tiger’s spirit had entered into me in the attic. I was no longer afraid of what would happen on Sunday. In truth, I was rather looking forward to placing myself between Sally Pyne and Peggy Kitchen. It would be a dangerous job, but someone had to do it.

  “Do I get a sneak preview?” Bill coaxed.

  “Of my speech?” I shook my head. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait till Sunday, just like everybody else.”

  “I’ll alert the media.” Bill let the subject drop and concentrated fully on his food. When he’d finished, he pushed himself back from the table and groaned contentedly. “I am replete,” he announced, patting his stomach. “You know, Lori, Francesca’s a good cook, but she’s no match for you.”

  I had a sudden vision of the glop Bill had been eating for the past ten months or more, of the meals put through strainers, sieves, and food mills. With a guilty twinge I realized exactly how much he’d missed my cooking, and I blessed him for not mentioning it sooner. I watched him take his plate into the kitchen and felt my heart swell even as my throat constricted. Some handsome princes, I thought, knew how to stay in the saddle.

  19.

  My conscience was no match for Francesca’s. Once she’d laid eyes on the wildflower bouquet, there was no stopping her from accompanying me to Scrag End field.

  “I let my temper run away with me yesterday,” she said stolidly, as we loaded the boys’ strollers into the trunk of the Mercedes. “I said some things I shouldn’t’ve. I should be apologizing to Dr. Culver, not the other way round.”

  I studied her covertly as we went back into the cottage. The disease had progressed more rapidly than I’d realized. Four days ago she’d have bitten her tongue in two rather than say a kind word to Adrian.

  “Have you changed your mind about the Culver Institute?” I inquired, curious to see just how far gone she was.

  She gazed down at the diaper bag for a moment, then gave a minute head-shake. “No. It’d be wrong to build a museum in Finch. It’d change the village too much, and the village doesn’t need changing.”

  I put a few squeaky toys, a patchwork platypus, and a plush brontosaurus into the toy bag but left Reginald in the playpen—he’d caused enough trouble already.

  We finished loading the trunk, then went back to fetch Rob and Will. As she passed the hall mirror, Francesca paused to smooth her hair and straighten the collar on her shirtdress. She needn’t have bothered. Adrian would find her enchanting if she showed up in a bandana and bib overalls. She was an ideal diversion.

  Derek and Emma were supposed to meet Simon at the schoolhouse at one o’clock for their tour. As Francesca steered the Mercedes over the humpbacked bridge and into the square I spotted Derek greeting Simon, who’d just emerged from the paneled van. Emma stood near Kitchen’s Emporium, discreetly flagging us down, while Rainey hopped up and down on Jasper Taxman’s platform, waving wildly and calling out, “Over here, Lori!”

  Francesca parked in front of Bill’s office, and I hastened over to confer with Emma. We met in the middle of the square.

  “I’ve got another passenger for you,” she said, looking slightly frazzled. Emma lowered her voice as Rainey ran circles around us. “I don’t want her to break anything in the schoolhouse.”

  “She does better in outdoor settings,” I agreed.

  “May I go to Scrag End with you, Lori?” Rainey pleaded. She’d divested herself of the gardening smock and work gloves but retained the sun hat. Its broad brim was, like Emma, beginning to fray around the edges. “I’ll be good, I promise, and I’ve always wanted to see Scrag End and Emma says you’ve brought WillanRob and—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “You may come along.” I jutted my chin toward the Mercedes. “Ask Francesca to buckle you into the front seat.”

  Rainey dashed off, jubilant.

  Emma let loose a sigh of relief. “ That child may be a joy in the garden, but she’s a handful everywhere else.”

  “I don’t know why I’m bothering to go to Scrag End,” I said, with a wry smile. “Francesca and Rainey make a perfect SWAT team. They’ll keep Adrian and Katrina pinned at the dig for hours. All set for your tour?”

  Emma nodded. “Derek has his instructions. He’ll look high, I’ll look low.” Since Emma was a foot shorter than her husband, it seemed an eminently sensible division of labor.

  Francesca drove up Saint George’s Lane, past the vicarage, the church, and the belt of trees that lay beyond the churchyard. At the far edge of the forested land, she turned right, onto a narrow, unpaved track.

  The rough track followed the course of the river and appeared to mark the boundary between forest and farm-land. To our left, across the river, a vast field of ripening grain rose gradually to a hilltop where a cluster of farm buildings huddled among a handful of sheltering trees. Hodge Farm, I thought, remembering the vicar’s words.

  To our right lay airy woodland fringed with a tangle of wildflowers, some of which had no doubt found their way into Adrian’s bouquet. About fifty yards in from the main road, the forest opened up into a clearing.

  “Is this it?” I asked.

  Francesca nodded.

  “ The vicar told me it was useless for cultivation,” I said. “I think I see what he means.”

  “It’s useless for much of anything,” said Francesca, parking the Mercedes. “ The lower part floods and the upper part’s nothing but rocks.”

  I could well believe it. Scrag End field was a singularly charmless piece of real estate—a sloping, lumpy meadow tufted with spiky grass and pathetic, tumbleweed-like bushes. I’d expected more from a place that had my village up in arms—an air of mystery, a brooding atmosphere, an intangible something to suggest that this was a field worth fighting over. But even Miranda Morrow would be hard-pressed to detect mystery in Scrag End’s aura. It exuded about as much drama as a munic
ipal parking lot.

  There were, however, signs of habitation. At the field’s eastern edge, near the lane and partially sheltered by the trees, a blue tarpaulin on poles shaded a motley collection of folding tables and canvas chairs. The upper half of the field had been marked out with a gridwork of staked ropes and pennants on thin rods. Between the tarpaulin and the grid lay a trail of buckets, brushes, sieves, and trowels—the tools of the archaeologist’s trade.

  Katrina Graham, dressed in a blazing orange tank top, a red sweatband, and a pair of baggy shorts, was emptying a bucket of dirt into a wheelbarrow at the center of the grid. She paused to look up as our car rumbled into view. Adrian, clad in his dusty work clothes and disreputable hat, sat in a folding chair beneath the blue tarpaulin, with a large sketch pad propped on the table before him. The moment he spied the Mercedes, he jumped to his feet and hurried toward the lane.

  Rainey was as good as gold. She didn’t budge until Francesca had removed the key from the ignition, released her seat belt, and unlocked the doors. Then she exploded from the car and tore across the field like an escaping convict.

  “Whoa,” said Adrian, scooping her up as she came within reach. He set her on her feet and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll have to be more careful, Rainey. We don’t want you tripping over those ropes.” He lifted his head and shouted, “Miss Graham!”

  Katrina dropped the bucket into the wheelbarrow and trotted down the sloping field to Adrian’s side. Her skin glistened with sweat and her headband was soaked through, but she didn’t seem in the least fatigued. “Yes, Dr. Culver?”

  Adrian bent to retrieve the hat that had tumbled from Rainey’s head. “We have a new recruit,” he said, placing the hat back where it belonged. “Please see to it that Miss Dawson is issued with sunscreen, then show her how to utilize the waste dump.”

  Katrina gave a husky laugh. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Come along, Miss Dawson.” She took Rainey’s hand and led her to the work area beneath the tarpaulin.

  Adrian strode over to the Mercedes. “Welcome to Scrag End, Lori. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  I eyed him doubtfully as I extricated Will from his car seat. “ The waste dump?”

  “It’s where we put the soil we’ve removed from the trial trench,” Adrian explained. “It seems the best way to deploy Rainey’s talents.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m new at archaeology.”

  “You’ll be an old hand by the time you leave here today. Please, Miss Sciaparelli, allow me.” Adrian hurried over to help Francesca lift the strollers from the trunk.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” Francesca murmured, concentrating on unfolding Rob’s stroller. “It was kind of you to bring them.”

  Adrian wobbled slightly, as though staggered by Francesca’s passionate words. “I’m . . . you’re . . . it’s . . .” He might have gone on all day if I hadn’t intervened.

  “Adrian,” I said, “would you please hold Will while I get Rob?”

  Adrian stopped stuttering. “Me?” he said, retreating a step or two.

  “Just for a second,” I coaxed. “My son won’t bite. He can’t. His teeth haven’t come in yet.”

  Adrian took a deep breath and wiped his palms on his shirt. He stood stiffly at attention as I placed Will in his arms, but my son was adept at dealing with inexperienced adults. Will wriggled and squirmed until Adrian loosened up, then snuggled his head into the crook of Adrian’s neck.

  The look of abject terror faded from Adrian’s eyes. “Such soft skin,” he murmured. “ The sun won’t do it any good at all, old chap. We must get you into the shade.”

  I turned to inform him that Will’s stroller had a perfectly adequate awning, but he was already striding toward the tarpaulin, with my son cuddled close to his chest.

  Francesca seemed taken aback by his desertion. As she clicked the sturdy awning into place, she muttered, “You’d think the man had never held a babe before.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t,” I said.

  “A man his age?” Francesca protested.

  “Bill never held a baby until he had his own. Does Adrian have any children?” I asked, putting Rob in the stroller.

  “No,” said Francesca, “nor a wife, neither.” She flushed suddenly and bent low over Rob’s straps. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  Katrina was still annointing Rainey with sunscreen when Francesca, Rob, and I arrived at the tarpaulin. Adrian had returned to the folding chair near the propped sketch pad and appeared to be entirely absorbed in watching Will grasp his index finger. While I piled an empty table with the miscellaneous baby-bags, he peered curiously from one twin to the other.

  “How do you tell them apart?” he asked.

  Rainey piped up unexpectedly: “You look in their eyes.”

  All heads turned in her direction, but Francesca was the first to speak.

  “What d’you mean, Rainey?” she asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” said Rainey, unnerved by the attention her remark had drawn. “It’s just that . . . when I look at Will, Will looks back at me. And when I look at Rob, Rob looks back at me.”

  Francesca’s full lips curved into a slow, sweet smile as she bent down to lift Rainey’s chin. “It’s their souls you’re seeing,” she told the little girl. “You can’t mistake one soul for another, any more than you can mistake a cat for a cabbage. D’you see?”

  Rainey nodded eagerly. “Rob’s is silvery blue and Will’s is sort of golden. Is that what you mean?”

  Francesca gave an astonished laugh. “I believe you see ’em more clearly than I do,” she said. “Those are the lights of their souls, sure enough.”

  I looked from Rainey to my boys. I’d always been able to tell Will and Rob apart, but I’d never known how to explain it to the nurses or Dr. Hawking or anyone else who asked—leave it to an eight-year-old to do it for me.

  “Your soul is a soft, dark brown,” Rainey added, gazing into Francesca’s eyes, “like Mummy’s brown velvet hat. Isn’t that right, Dr. Culver?”

  Adrian fielded the question gamely. “I’ve, er, never seen your mummy’s hat,” he replied.

  “I’ll ask her to wear it to my party,” Rainey assured him. “Mummy can stand next to Francesca and you can stare into Francesca’s eyes, the way you always do, and—”

  “Dr. Culver,” Katrina interrupted. “Do you think we’ll be much longer? We have to get those soil samples back to the lab for analysis.”

  Adrian had all but buried his face in Will’s T-shirt. Now he got up, with my son cradled in his arm, and bustled over to one corner of the work area to retrieve a dirt-filled bucket.

  “The soil samples can wait until our guests have departed,” he said, carefully avoiding Francesca’s eyes. “I believe you were about to show Rainey the waste dump. While you’re there”—he handed the bucket to Katrina—“don’t forget to discard this detritus, as well.”

  It was a gentle reproof, but a reproof all the same, and Katrina didn’t take it well. She shot a hostile glance at Francesca before trudging across the field to the wheelbarrow, with Rainey trotting happily in her wake.

  “Miss Graham is apt to take her science a bit too seriously,” Adrian observed when Katrina was out of earshot.

  “She’s sweet on you,” Francesca commented, eyeing the muscular little blonde dispassionately.

  Adrian looked alarmed. “Surely not,” he protested.

  “Plain as the nose on your face,” Francesca told him, taking Will from his arms. “And why shouldn’t she be? You’re the famous professor, the man with all the answers.”

  “I can assure you that I have far more questions than answers,” Adrian said, with a self-deprecating wave of his hand. “But I am being remiss in my duties. Won’t you have a seat? May I offer you a glass of cold water?” Adrian tossed his hat aside, opened an ice chest, and took from it a bottle of the springwater Katrina had ordered from Mr. Taxman at Kitchen’s Emporium. He filled a pair of plastic cups.

  “Sc
rag End has me baffled,” he said, handing us our drinks. “Miss Graham has advanced several theories to explain what’s going on here, but I find them less than convincing.”

  Francesca and I exchanged puzzled glances. It was a queer remark, coming from a man who planned to finance a museum on the strength of his finds at Scrag End field.

  “Is there something wrong with Scrag End?” I asked.

  “Everything’s wrong,” Adrian replied. “We’re finding the wrong artifacts from the wrong periods in the wrong places.” He reached for the sketch pad, flipped to a blank page, and pulled a chair over, so he could sit between Francesca and me.

  “Archaeological sites have their own logic,” he began, resting the oversized pad on his lap. “To put it simply, if you find a lot of broken pottery, it’s reasonable to assume that you’ve happened upon a potter’s shop. And if you find nothing but fifth-century pottery, it’s reasonable to assume that the potter lived in the fifth century. Furthermore . . .” He pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket and drew five horizontal lines on the sketch pad. “Layers of soil are like layers of time. As a general rule, the deeper you dig, the older the artifacts.”

  As he bent once more over his sketch pad, my heart began to race. I’d read enough picture captions in National Geographic to follow Adrian’s argument. Archaeologists expected to find artifacts from different periods clustered in different layers of soil. A fifth-century spearhead lying beside a first-century statue of Minerva would set off all sorts of alarms. If Cornelius Gladwell had been stupid enough to dig a hole and simply dump his Roman gewgaws into it, then his hoax was doomed to failure. Not even an Oxford-trained archaeologist like Adrian could fake enough documentation to cover such a colossal blunder.

  Adrian finished adding a series of dots to the horizontal lines. He pointed to the dots nearest the top of the page. “ These represent my initial discoveries. They range in date from the second to the fifth century. Do you see my problem?”

  I tried to sound nonchalant. “Too many artifacts from too many centuries in the same place.”