Aunt Dimity Digs In ad-4

by Nancy Atherton

  Adrian stared down as the vicar’s outstretched hand, looking thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, Theodore, but I don’t quite follow.”

  “I do.” Sally Pyne got up from the couch. “And you can stop acting innocent, Dr. Culver, because I know all about your plans to build a museum here in Finch.”

  Adrian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Pyne,” he said, in the rigidly controlled voice of a man rapidly running out of patience, “I can assure you that I have no plans whatsoever to build a museum in Finch or anywhere else. I’m sorry if my idle chatter led you to believe—”

  “What kind of a fool do you take me for?” Sally snapped. “Do you think I’d refit my entire business because of idle chatter?” Frowning ferociously, she began to back the dumbfounded archaeologist toward the fireplace. “I’ve seen the letters, Dr. Culver. I’ve read all about your fund-raising efforts. I know for a fact that the Culver Institute is a good deal more than idle—”

  “Katrina?” Lilian’s soft voice interrupted Sally’s diatribe. “Are you ill, child?”

  I swung around to see Katrina crumple forward and bury her face in her hands. Lilian crossed to the couch and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders, but Katrina’s only response was a heartfelt moan. Adrian stopped just short of singeing the seat of his pants and dodged past Sally to attend to his assistant.

  “What is it, Miss Graham?” he said, bending over her.

  “Oh, Dr. Culver,” Katrina groaned, still doubled over. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she’d seen the letters.”

  Adrian straightened. He looked uneasily at Sally Pyne’s triumphant face, then returned to his chair. He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then said, very gently, “Perhaps, Miss Graham, you’d care to explain yourself ?”

  Katrina pushed herself slowly into an upright position. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then sat very still, as though gathering her thoughts. A log fell on the fire, and the hall clock chimed the half hour, but no one looked away from the mute and motionless figure on the couch.

  “First of all,” she began, looking from Lilian to the vicar, “I don’t know anything about a burglary. This is the first time I’ve set foot in the vicarage, so if something went missing on Sunday night, it’s nothing to do with me. Or with Mrs. Pyne,” she added, “because we were together the whole time.”

  “Thank you, Miss Graham,” the vicar said gravely. “Your testimony is of the utmost value. Please continue.”

  Katrina glanced at Adrian, then looked down at her hands. “As for the letters . . . Honestly, Dr. Culver, we were only trying to be helpful.”

  “Who was trying to be helpful?” Adrian asked.

  “The twelve of us, the students you chose to work with you at Scrag End field.” Katrina slid her tongue across her lips, as though her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “You’ve always said that fund-raising is the most difficult part of archaeology, so we decided to prepare a grant proposal ahead of time. That way, if Scrag End turned out to be a valuable site, a site worthy of a museum, we’d be able to hit the ground running. We’d have all of the necessary forms and letters ready for your signature. We thought you’d be proud of us for getting a head start on the paperwork.”

  “But what about that pile of letters next to your computer?” Sally demanded.

  “I’m getting to that.” Katrina continued speaking earnestly to Adrian. “We’ve been E-mailing drafts of dummy proposals back and forth to one another for the past few months, critiquing and rewriting them, just the way you said to do in your lectures. Ask Simon. He’ll back me up. And we named the museum after you as a . . . a tribute to you, Dr. Culver.” Katrina shot a reproachful look in Sally’s direction. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  Sally gasped. “Do you mean to tell me that you never intended to build a museum in Finch?”

  Katrina gazed hopefully up at Adrian, but he shook his head decisively.

  “I’m impressed by your efforts, Miss Graham,” he said, “and I look forward to reading your grant proposal, but we won’t be using it for this particular site. There’s not the remotest possibility of filling a museum with the items we’ve discovered at Scrag End field.”

  “But what about my tearoom?” Sally squawked. She stared blindly at Katrina, then turned to gaze into the fire, looking bereft. “I’ll be a laughingstock. Peggy will never stop crowing. All of the trouble and expense . . . my poor tearoom . . .”

  No one had the heart to point out that she’d brought the catastrophe on herself by snooping through Katrina’s papers on the sly. The mere idea of being the target of Peggy Kitchen’s ridicule made my toes curl and brought out Adrian’s most chivalrous impulses. He assured Sally that he would do everything in his power to make sure her tearoom prospered.

  “I’ll recommend it to all of my friends and colleagues in Oxford,” he promised. “I’ll mention it whenever I lecture on Scrag End.” He looked pointedly at Katrina. “My students won’t let you down.”

  The barrage of goodwill revived Sally’s spirits a bit and lit an entrepreneurial gleam in her eyes. “Students always have good appetites,” she murmured. “And archaeology students’ll like my new decor. . . .”

  Lilian glanced at her wristwatch and stood. “Well,” she said briskly, “I believe that concludes our business for the evening.You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, Mrs. Pyne, so we won’t keep you any longer.”

  Adrian sent Katrina off with Sally Pyne, advising them to follow Saint George’s Lane rather than the riverbank, but he asked the rest of us to remain in the library. Bill and I exchanged interrogative glances with the Buntings, but it was clear that no one knew what Adrian might add to the night’s revelations.

  When Adrian returned to his chair, he spoke first to the vicar. “I’m afraid Miss Graham isn’t the only one who hasn’t been telling the whole truth, Theodore. I’d planned to clear the air when the Scrag End experiment was complete, but it seems better to do so now.”

  “The, er, Scrag End experiment?” the vicar inquired politely.

  “I’m using Scrag End as an outdoor laboratory,” Adrian informed him. “It’s vitally important for young archaeologists to learn how to spot the difference between an authentic find and an inexpertly contrived hoax.”

  “A hoax!” exclaimed the vicar. “Are you saying that you knew about Cornelius Gladwell’s prank from the start?”

  Adrian shook his head. “I’d never heard of Cornelius Gladwell until you mentioned him to me, but I knew that Scrag End was a hoax the moment I laid eyes on it. I’ve run into this sort of thing before—in Yorkshire, Cumber land, Sussex . . . caches of Roman artifacts buried in all sorts of places for all sorts of harebrained reasons. Scrag End fit the profile perfectly. It was a perfect teaching tool.”

  I closed my eyes and saw him in the shade of the blue tarpaulin, poking holes in Katrina’s arguments, challenging her on every point, forcing her to defend her theories or come up with new ways to explain Scrag End’s anomalies.

  “You brought your students to Scrag End,” I said slowly, “hoping they’d discover the hoax for themselves?”

  “ That’s right,” said Adrian.

  “Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” the vicar asked.

  Adrian cocked his head to one side. “Would you have been able to hold your tongue when Mrs. Kitchen came to complain about me?”

  “I suppose not.” The vicar smiled ruefully. “I’d have been sorely tempted to tell Mrs. Kitchen not to take your project seriously.”

  “And she would have told Dr. Culver’s students the same thing.” Lilian sighed. “You couldn’t allow that to happen, could you, Dr. Culver? If your students don’t take their work seriously, they won’t learn the valuable lessons you’re trying to teach them. Yes, I quite understand.”

  I, too, understood, much as I hated to admit it. I leaned my head on my hand and sighed—I’d lost three prime suspects in one night.

  Bill rubbed his chin thoughtfully. �
��Why are you willing to trust us now, Adrian?” he asked. “I’m sure we’ll all try to keep our mouths shut, but you know how it is in a small village. News spreads by osmosis.”

  “I don’t mind stirring up discussion in a host community,” Adrian said. “Discussion can be instructive, even when it’s conducted at the top of one’s lungs.” He paused. “When one of my students stands accused of committing a crime, however, it’s time to bring everything out into the open. I do hope you’ll keep my secret until my experiment is complete.”

  “Of course we will.” The vicar got to his feet and placed his hand firmly on Adrian’s shoulder. “And I, for one, am convinced that Miss Graham had nothing whatsoever to do with the theft.”

  Adrian let out a rushing sigh. “I’m sorry I misled you, Theodore.”

  “Not at all,” said the vicar. “Come, I’ll walk you out.”

  Adrian bid us good night and left the library with the vicar. Bill carried the petit-point chairs back into the dining room, and I poked up the fire while Lilian collected the used cups and brought them to the kitchen. I felt like a fool and a failure. I’d made a fool of myself in the meadow and failed to catch the burglar. To make matters worse, I’d spilled the beans about the theft in front of Sally Pyne.

  It was quite clear to me that Sally hadn’t known about the burglary until I’d opened my big mouth. Her red nose had practically twitched with curiosity when she’d asked Now what’s all this about burglars and accomplices? The tearoom crisis had provided a temporary diversion, but questions about the theft would reoccur to her come morning, which meant that by afternoon all of Finch would know that someone had stolen something from the vicarage on Sunday night.

  I felt Bill’s hand on my shoulder and returned the poker to its brass stand as our little group reassembled. The vicar stared absently past me at the flickering flames, and Lilian stood at his side, gazing up at him worriedly.

  I stepped toward them. “I’m sorry, Vicar. I shouldn’t have said anything about the burglary. I know how badly you wanted to keep it secret and—” I broke off abruptly, startled by a sound I’d never heard before.

  Theodore Bunting was laughing. He was leaning on the back of his worn armchair, whooping and gasping, with one hand pressed to his chest, and tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

  “Teddy?” Lilian asked. “Are you quite well?”

  The vicar wiped his eyes. “I’m marvelous, Lilian, simply marvelous. My friends,” he went on, looking from me to Bill, “you evidently haven’t realized what a good night’s work you’ve done.” The vicar took my hand between both of his. “Adrian is leaving in two weeks,” he said slowly. “I shall announce in church tomorrow that, in two short weeks, regardless of rumors to the contrary, the schoolhouse will be empty.”

  I finally caught his drift. “Peggy will call off her rally,” I said, dazed with relief. “I won’t have to dodge Sally’s rotten eggs. The festival will proceed as planned—”

  “Mrs. Kitchen will be in her heaven,” the vicar crowed, “and all will be right with the world. Lori, my dear girl, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “But what about the Gladwell pamphlet?” I said.

  “Hang the Gladwell pamphlet,” said the vicar. “Whoever stole the pesky thing is welcome to it. Lilian, I think we might risk a glass of sherry to celebrate this very special occasion.”

  Lilian fetched the bottle and I raised my glass with the others. But even as I toasted our collective deliverance, I couldn’t shake the notion that Brother Florin was still out there somewhere, with the Gladwell pamphlet securely in his possession, laughing at me.

  23.

  “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power.” The vicar looked down from his pulpit at the record-breaking crowd that filled Saint George’s pews and spilled through the open doors into the churchyard. “Those words may sound familiar to some of you. They were printed on a flyer advertising a rally scheduled to take place in our village today. They can also be found in the second epistle of Paul the Apostle to Timothy—chapter one, verse seven, to be precise.” He lifted a harvest-gold sheet of paper from the lectern and gazed at it sadly. “I regret to say that whoever used Saint Paul’s words on the flyer was far from precise.” He held the sheet of paper at arm’s length, then slowly and deliberately tore it in half.

  A shocked murmur rumbled through the congregation, followed by a handful of isolated snickers as all heads turned toward the front row, where Peggy Kitchen sat, dwarfing Jasper Taxman, who huddled beside her. Peggy’s nostrils flared at the sound of tearing paper, and her posture became noticeably more erect, but her pointy glasses never swerved from the pulpit.

  “ To understand Saint Paul’s words, we must read them as they are written.” The vicar placed the torn sheet on the lectern, raised a heavy Bible in one hand, and declaimed, with dramatic emphasis, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” He returned the heavy Bible to the lectern. “ The author of the flyer had distorted Saint Paul’s meaning by emphasizing power at the expense of love and wisdom.Yet we all know that power alone is an abomination. Power must be tempered by love, and by intelligent thought, if it is to be used in the service of God and of mankind.”

  Peggy Kitchen didn’t flinch as an approving growl surged through the church, but Jasper Taxman’s shoulders drooped an inch or two. I glanced over to see Bill’s reaction, but he was gazing at the vicar speculatively, as though wondering where the sermon would go next.

  “Precision is vital,” the vicar continued, “whether one is quoting sacred texts or speaking to one’s neighbor. A lack of precision can lead to grave misunderstandings, which can lead in turn to dissension and discord.”

  “Ah,” Bill said under his breath. “Here it comes.”

  “I stand before you today,” the vicar intoned, “hoping to clear up one such misunderstanding. . . .”

  Not one sneeze, cough, or hesitantly cleared throat interrupted the vicar’s progress as he guided his flock through the confusion caused by Sally’s misreading of Katrina’s dummy grant proposal. He mentioned no names. He made no direct accusations. But he made it radiantly clear that, contrary to popular belief, Adrian Culver would be out of the schoolhouse in two weeks’ time.

  “ There is not, nor has there ever been, a single valid reason to believe that our beloved festival might be canceled,” he concluded. “ The Harvest Festival, during which we will celebrate the glorious bounty our Lord had bestowed upon us, will proceed on schedule, as planned, without fail. I urge all of you to participate wisely and in the spirit of love. In the name of the Father . . .” Throughout the blessing, the vicar kept his gaze fixed on the wall painting of Saint George, as though communing with a fellow dragon-slayer.

  Bill bent his head close to mine. “Let’s stick around to offer our support after the service.”

  I nodded but suspected that the vicar would do just fine without us. I’d never seen him look so carefree, or so sure of himself. He conducted the rest of the service with an unaccustomed bounce in his step and beamed on his parishioners as they streamed out of the church in a chattering, boisterous swarm.

  Peggy Kitchen and Jasper Taxman were the last to leave. A handful of villagers lingered in the churchyard, but the prudent majority had hastened down the lane. Bill and I pushed the strollers within earshot of the west porch and awaited the empress’s reaction to the vicar’s reprimand.

  “God bless you, Mrs. Kitchen,” said the vicar before she had a chance to speak. “Thank you so much for coming to this morning’s service.”

  Peggy clasped her hands across her stomach and threw her shoulders back. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, yes, I assure you, Mrs. Kitchen,” said the vicar, with a merry laugh, “it’s quite irrefutable. I’m sure you’re as pleased as I am to learn the truth behind the scurrilous gossip that’s been plaguing our community.”

  “Yes.” Peggy nodde
d. “Very pleased indeed.” Her eyes narrowed knowingly behind her pointy glasses as she leaned toward the vicar. “But what’s all this about a burglary at the vicarage? More scurrilous gossip?”

  “Ah.” The vicar’s smile wavered as he strained to formulate an honest, noninflammatory answer.

  Lilian came swiftly to his rescue. “Something is missing from the vicarage,” she stated firmly, “but we can’t say positively that it was stolen. It’s entirely within the realm of possibility that the item was misplaced. Teddy’s so dreadfully absentminded.”

  The vicar winced at his wife’s unorthodox interpretation of the truth and quickly changed the subject. “Will we see you at Rainey’s birthday party?”

  Peggy drew herself up. “You will,” she said. “And it had better be something special, or Sally Pyne’ll have her work cut out explaining why she missed church on a Sunday. You leave it to me, Vicar. I’ll straighten her out. Come along, Jasper.”

  As Peggy sailed toward the lane, with Jasper trailing meekly in her wake, Bill and I pushed the strollers to the church’s doorstep. Lilian bent to greet the twins, but the vicar gazed mournfully skyward.

  “Dear Lord,” he murmured, “I beseech Thee to keep Mrs. Kitchen’s temper in check until little Rainey’s birthday party is over and the grand reopening of Mrs. Pyne’s tea shop is complete.”

  A handful of villagers, peeping out from behind tombs, chorused, “Amen.”

  Before heading to the cottage, Bill and I paused at Briar Cottage, to have a word with Miranda Morrow, and at the pub, to speak with the Peacocks. Miranda roared with laughter when she heard what Sally and Katrina had been up to in the meadow, but she could add nothing more to her description of the mysterious hooded figure she’d dubbed Brother Florin.

  “I can only tell you that he hasn’t been back,” she said. “Mr. Wetherhead would have been over here like a shot if he’d spotted the ghost a second time.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she added, “Am I to assume that Brother Florin moonlights as a burglar?”