Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch

by Nancy Atherton

  When the heart is engaged, the brain is frequently disengaged.

  “Amelia hasn’t given him the slightest encouragement,” I pointed out. “She sort of patted him on the head when he deciphered the glyphs, but she paid more attention to Bree than she did to him.”

  William is accustomed to being hunted. He may prefer being the hunter.

  A slow smile spread across my face and I gave a satisfied nod.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said smugly, “the same thought had occurred to me. I kept it to myself because I was afraid you’d accuse me of jumping to conclusions.”

  I’ve drawn no conclusions, Lori. I simply feel that the situation merits monitoring.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, laughing. “Experience tells me that the entire village will monitor this particular situation.” I glanced up as the mantel clock chimed eleven. “Time for me to hit the sack, Dimity. I want to be wide-awake among the headstones tomorrow.”

  An unusual aspiration, but an appropriate one, given the circumstances. Sleep well, my dear. Good luck finding the olive branch!

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll need it.”

  As the curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page, I gazed contentedly into the fire. Distressed though I was by distant thoughts of Gamaliel’s treachery and Mistress Meg’s gruesome demise, I simply could not keep myself from jumping to a few gleeful conclusions about Amelia and my father-in-law.

  Amelia emerged from Pussywillows the following morning dressed for the great outdoors—a chunky blue turtleneck beneath a much-used rain parka, a pair of brown corduroy trousers tucked into mud-stained Wellington boots, and a tweed fishing hat into which she had tucked her flyaway hair.

  “It’s my tramping gear,” she explained, noting my admiring glance. She looked over her shoulders, as if she were checking for eavesdroppers—a wise precaution in Finch—then said quietly, “A botanical artist can’t do fieldwork wearing stilettos and a frock. Not that I ever wear stilettos—ridiculous things, designed by sadists for masochists—but I’m sure you take my meaning.”

  She hoisted her carpet bag onto her shoulder and we set out for the churchyard. Our attire was almost identical—hence, my admiring glance—except that I carried my necessities in a small day pack instead of a carpet bag and wore a hand-knitted woolen cap instead of a tweed hat.

  The sky was gray, the air crisp, the cobbled lane plastered with rain-soaked leaves. The only villager in sight was Millicent Scroggins, who was making her way to Taxman’s Emporium, a wicker shopping basket hooked over one arm. When Amelia called a friendly greeting to her, she responded with a glacial nod and entered the Emporium without a backward glance. Millicent’s aloofness puzzled me until Amelia dropped her first bombshell of the morning.

  “If you’d come to Pussywillows ten minutes ago, you would have bumped into your father-in-law,” she said. “Mr. Willis knocked on my door before I’d finished breakfast.”

  The matchmaker in me snapped to attention.

  “Did he?” I asked, trying very hard to sound nonchalant.

  “Yes,” she replied. “He was on his way to deliver a lecture in Oxford—something to do with Anglo-Saxon law, I believe—but he dropped by to present me with a guide to local walking trails. He thought I might find it useful.”

  “He’s a thoughtful man,” I said.

  “He is,” she agreed. “He invited me to explore his property as well. He was especially keen to show me a rare orchid he discovered on his estate.” She came to a halt and gave me a searching look. “You haven’t told him about Mae Bowen, have you?”

  “Not a word,” I said, relieved that I hadn’t kept my promise to Bill.

  “I just wondered…” She gazed at me a moment longer, then walked on. “He seemed to be aware of my passion for nature, you see, so I thought, perhaps, you might have let the cat out of the bag.”

  “I didn’t,” I stated firmly. “I had nothing to do with William’s gift or his invitation. He thought them up all on his own.” I glanced at Amelia’s mud-stained boots and continued craftily, “A trail guide might seem like an odd gift, but William adores long walks through the countryside, so he assumes everyone does. And he’s batty about orchids—his greenhouse is filled with them—so it would be natural for him to tell you about the ones he found in the woods at Fairworth.”

  “A greenhouse filled with orchids…” Amelia murmured. She lapsed into a short but dreamy silence, then heaved a sigh and peered at me contritely. “Forgive me, Lori. I’ve been betrayed so often that I’ve learned to mistrust people, but I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

  “Why not?” I said. “You hardly know me. A little caution never hurt anyone, Amelia. But you don’t need to be cautious with William,” I added, spurred on by my inner matchmaker. “He’s a retired attorney, you know. He used to be the head of his family’s law firm. He’s an expert secret keeper.”

  “Even so,” said Amelia, “I can’t afford to take Will—Mr. Willis— into my confidence. The fewer people who know my secret, the greater my chances are for a quiet life. And I crave a quiet life.”

  We arrived at the churchyard to find Bree Pym placing two identical bunches of bronze chrysanthemums on her great-grandaunts’ graves. She was once again draped in her camouflage poncho, her spiky hair exposed to the elements.

  “Aunties,” she said as we approached, “here’s the woman I was telling you about, the one who bought Pussywillows. Amelia? Allow me to introduce you to Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise. They died the day after I met them, but they made a big impression. You would have liked them.”

  “I’m sure I would have.” Amelia inclined her head toward the Pym sisters’ headstone. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise. Your niece is a perfect treasure.”

  “Great-grandniece,” Bree corrected her, “but who’s counting? And thank you for the kind words.”

  “It’s nothing but the truth.” Amelia smiled back at Bree, then turned to survey our surroundings. “I wonder if Mistress Meg is buried here?”

  “I’m pretty familiar with the churchyard,” I said, “and I can’t recall seeing Margaret Redfearn’s name in it. Of course, if she was hanged as a witch,” I continued, recalling Aunt Dimity’s gloomy comments, “she wouldn’t have been buried here. It was against the rules to bury witches in consecrated ground.”

  “Let’s say she died of old age,” Bree proposed.

  “I prefer your version,” I murmured.

  “If Mistress Meg died of natural causes,” Bree went on, “she might still be buried here. The inscriptions on seven headstones are too weathered to read. They’re the ones Mrs. Bunting and I remembered, the ones that might be decorated with olive branches. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I’ve taken another look at them and they’re pretty far gone.”

  “We may be able to bring them back,” said Amelia. She reached into her carpet bag and pulled out several large sheets of white paper and a handful of fat black crayons. “Have either of you ever done any brass rubbing?”

  “I’ve read about it,” said Bree. “It’s a way of copying brass plaques onto paper, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” said Amelia. “Engraved plaques were sometimes used as memorials or tomb markers. They were usually inlaid in a church’s floor. Some are life-size and many are quite elaborate—engraved images of knights in armor, for instance, or ladies in wimples.”

  “Bill and I took the boys to a brass-rubbing center once,” I put in, “but we didn’t rub much brass. Will and Rob enjoyed it for about ten minutes, then started drawing great big pictures of their ponies.”

  “A true artist sticks to what he loves,” Bree said, laughing.

  Amelia flushed slightly and avoided Bree’s eyes as she continued, “We can use the same technique to bring out the faded images on the grave markers. Take me to them and I’ll demonstrate.”

  Bree led the way to a row of stumpy, lichen-dappled stone slabs that retained barely a trace of their origi
nal carvings. Amelia placed a sheet of paper flat against the face of the first slab, then rubbed a crayon gently across the paper in short, swift strokes. In seconds, an image began to appear.

  “It’s a cherub!” Bree exclaimed, as the little angel’s chubby face came into view. “And the olive branch isn’t an olive branch.”

  “It’s an angel’s wing,” I said with a sigh. “Ah, well. One down, six to go.”

  “Don’t stop,” Bree urged Amelia, who’d paused to take stock of her work. “I want to know if the cherub is hovering over Mistress Meg’s name.”

  “As do I,” said Amelia. “You and Lori can get to work on the other headstones while I finish this one.”

  In just over an hour, we had created legible images of everything carved on the weather-beaten grave markers of the Tolliver family—Hannah Tolliver, Josiah Tolliver, and their five children—all of whom had departed this earth in the year of our Lord 1653. Each child’s headstone bore a winged cherub. The adults’ featured winged skulls.

  “Lots of feathers,” I said, “but no olive branches.”

  “And no Mistress Meg,” said Bree.

  “Death’s heads,” said Amelia, pointing from one skull to the other. “Reminders of our mortality.”

  “Or reminders of human stupidity,” I said. “If you hang the local doctor because you believe she’s in league with the devil, sick people are a lot more likely to die.”

  “A whole family wiped out in one year,” Bree said soberly. “It’s a high price to pay for superstition.”

  Amelia rolled up our stone rubbings and deposited them carefully in her capacious carpet bag.

  “We may not have found Gamaliel’s olive branch,” she said, closing her bag, “but I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Bunting will be pleased to know about the Tollivers.”

  “Lilian may want to display our rubbings in the chu—” I broke off, startled, as Amelia gave a high-pitched yelp and flung herself to the ground.

  “Amelia?” said Bree.

  “Don’t say my name,” Amelia whispered. “And don’t look at me.”

  “Okay,” said Bree, turning her face to the sky.

  Amelia crawled frantically to a wool merchant’s rectangular tomb and huddled behind it, clutching her carpet bag to her chest and trying to make herself as small as possible.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, fastening my gaze on the lych-gate.

  “No,” Amelia replied acidly. “I like flopping in wet grass. Of course something’s wrong!”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, reddening. “Can you be more specific?”

  “It’s him,” she said in an urgent undertone. “He’s here! I just saw him!”

  “Who’s here?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Myron Brocklehurst,” Amelia answered venomously.

  The morning’s second bombshell burst on my brain like a thunderclap. I stiffened in alarm and scanned the churchyard alertly.

  “I don’t see him,” I said.

  “He’s not here,” she said impatiently.

  “But you just said—” I began, but Amelia cut me off.

  “He’s in Finch,” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s at Crabtree Cottage. The men who live there know who I am.”

  Crabtree Cottage stood a little ways away from St. George’s, on the opposite side of the green from the schoolhouse, but I could see its front door plainly from the churchyard.

  “The men who live there won’t give you away,” I said quickly. “Grant and Charles can’t stand the guy. They’ll flick him off like a piece of lint.”

  “He fancies himself a spiritual leader,” Amelia reminded me. “What if he visits the church?”

  “You’ll be gone by then,” Bree said brightly. The girl couldn’t possibly know who Myron Brocklehurst was or why Amelia Thistle wished to hide from him, but she could always be relied upon in a pinch. “I’ll distract Mr. What’s-It. You two hop the churchyard wall, sneak around to the back of the vicarage, and go through the French doors into the vicar’s study. The doors are never locked.”

  “Can you manage it?” I asked Amelia.

  Her eyes flashed as she said through gritted teeth, “I’d climb the Great Wall of China to escape Mr. Brocklehurst.”

  Thirteen

  Bree’s plan worked like a charm. She accosted Myron Brocklehurst when he emerged from Crabtree Cottage and kept him talking, with his back to St. George’s, while Amelia and I fled the churchyard. Amelia had no trouble negotiating the low stone wall, but her trousers were soaked and her nerves were standing on end by the time we entered the vicar’s study.

  “Less than a week!” she cried, wringing her hands. “It took him less than a week to track me down!”

  Privately, I agreed with her assessment of the situation. I was convinced that Myron Brocklehurst had discovered her general whereabouts and gone to our local art experts to learn the exact location of her new home, but it seemed inadvisable to tell her so while she was storming around the room and roaring like a caged lion.

  “He hasn’t tracked you down,” I pointed out.

  “He’s here!” she exploded.

  “He’s in Finch,” I acknowledged, “but he’s at Crabtree Cottage, not Pussywillows. For all we know, he could be a client. He could have gone to Grant and Charles to have a piece of art restored or appraised. They’re highly regarded in their professions.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that the founder of Bowenism—hateful word!—followed me to Finch by sheer coincidence?” Amelia demanded.

  “Coincidences happen,” I replied.

  Amelia gave me a scathing look, then pressed a finger to her lips for silence.

  Someone had opened the front door.

  “Lori? Amelia?” Bree called from the foyer. “Guess who’s back from visiting the sick!”

  Amelia groaned, sank into a chintz armchair, and buried her face in her hands. A moment later, Bree strode into the study, followed closely by the Buntings.

  I stared blankly at the newcomers, trying in vain to think of a way to explain Amelia’s panic attack without mentioning Mae Bowen.

  “Bree tells us that you and Mrs. Thistle sought sanctuary in the vicarage,” said the vicar, eyeing Amelia solicitously. “Is Mrs. Thistle unwell?”

  I opened my mouth, but before I could put my foot in it, Lilian took charge.

  “Lori, build a fire. Teddy, take Mrs. Thistle’s coat and hat. Bree, help her to remove her boots, then tuck an afghan around her lap. I’ll be back in a moment with tea.” She raised an eyebrow and we jumped to obey.

  “Are you feeling better, Mrs. Thistle?” the vicar asked.

  A fire crackled in the grate. Amelia was bootless, hatless, coatless, and swathed in a red and black afghan Lilian had crocheted. Everyone except Amelia was staring at Amelia, who was staring at her cup of Earl Grey tea.

  “Oh, yes, much better, thank you, Mr. Bunting,” Amelia replied. “I must apologize for tracking mud all over your nice clean floor. I was in a bit of a tizzy when I came into the study.”

  “Why?” asked the vicar.

  “Therein lies a tale.” Amelia sighed dismally and went on, “The thing is, you see, I may have been a teensy bit dishonest with you about my true identity. I’m not an escaped convict, you understand,” she added hastily. “I am who I say I am. I simply haven’t said who I am as fully as I might have done.”

  “A sin of omission,” the vicar said gently.

  “Precisely,” said Amelia. “It’s my own fault, of course. If I’d reinvented myself properly, I might have avoided…” She sighed again and tilted her head to one side. “But it’s too late to repaint the canvas, I’m afraid. If the cat must come out of the bag, I may as well release it.”

  She placed her cup and saucer on a small table, spread her hands on the afghan, and proceeded to tell her rapt audience everything she’d told me at Pussywillows. She admitted to being the world-renowned botanical artist, Mae Bowen, described the Bowenist movement, and recounted how the Bowenists, led by Myron B
rocklehurst, had encroached on her privacy, driven her into hiding, and made it virtually impossible for her to appear in public.

  “I came to Finch to find the rest of Gamaliel Gowland’s memoir,” she concluded, “but I also hoped to rediscover what it is to live in peace. Hence, my rather feeble disguise. I was afraid to tell you the truth because—”

  “You had good reason to be afraid,” Bree interrupted. “Myron is creepy.”

  “Creepy?” I said.

  “He talks in a soft little voice, but his eyes are like laser beams,” Bree explained. “Cuckoo eyes we used to call them at school, the kind of eyes that scream: Fanatic!”