Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch

by Nancy Atherton

  Bree shouted “Bravo!” and began to applaud, but I wasn’t finished yet. For my grand finale, I opened the book bag and removed from it seven scrolls I’d made by rolling up pieces of notepaper. I kept one dummy scroll for myself and handed one to each member of the search team.

  “Put yourselves in Gamaliel’s cassock,” I advised them. “You enter a room with a scroll of parchment and you leave without it. Ask yourself where you would—and could—hide it.”

  “I say, Lori,” said Charles, examining his scroll appreciatively. “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “I seriously doubt it,” I said with a modest smile, “but we won’t know what I’ve forgotten until we need it, so let’s get started. Good luck, everyone.”

  Bree snapped to attention, saluted, and ran upstairs, laughing uproariously, but the others wished me good luck in turn before moving to their designated search areas.

  Elspeth and I were about to follow Bree up the steep, narrow staircase when the doorbell rang. Elspeth bustled over to answer it and found Opal Taylor standing on her doorstep.

  “Good morning, Elspeth,” said Opal. “Amelia told me last night that she’d be here today to hunt for the rector’s memoir, so I thought I’d come along and volunteer my services.”

  “Thank you, Opal,” Elspeth said sweetly, “but your services aren’t required. Lori has everything under control.”

  “Another pair of eyes won’t hurt, surely,” Opal protested. “As you know, the first page came from my cottage. It could be said that I have a personal interest in finding the rest of the pages.”

  “It could also be said that too many cooks spoil the broth,” countered Elspeth, folding her arms. “We have all the volunteers we need, thank you, Opal.”

  “But Elspeth…”

  I sensed that Opal’s attempt to horn in on the search would be quashed by Elspeth, who had no intention of sharing the spotlight Willis, Sr., had shone on her. Experience had taught me that Opal wouldn’t give up easily, however, so I left the two ladies to fight it out on the doorstep and went upstairs.

  Since Bree had already claimed the larger of the two bedrooms, I settled for the one that had lost nearly a third of its floor space to the latter-day lavatory. It was a snug little guest room, simply furnished with an iron bedstead, a small chest of drawers, a tidy bookcase filled with books about the Cotswolds, and a modern but unobtrusive wardrobe that had in all likelihood been assembled after traveling up the staircase in a flat pack.

  The room was full of character. Chunky rafters crossed the low ceiling, a chimney breast protruded from the wall opposite the door, and the oval rag rug glowed in a splash of sunlight coming through the gap between the checked curtains hanging in the dormer window.

  I placed my tool kit on the floor and opened the curtains all the way, then faced the room and held my fake scroll at arm’s length. I gazed at it unblinkingly, hoping for inspiration, but my attempt to concentrate was foiled by a new set of noises coming from the ground floor.

  I heard the front door close and the sound of Elspeth’s step upon the stairs, but before she’d reached the halfway point, the doorbell rang again. Elspeth gave an irritable sigh and a moment later Millicent Scroggins’s voice drifted up to me.

  “Good morning, Elspeth. Amelia told me all about the goings-on here today. May I be of assistance?”

  “Thank you, Millicent,” Elspeth replied in exasperated tones, “but—”

  “Elspeth!” Selena Buxton sounded out of breath, as if she’d rushed to catch up with Millicent. “Have you started without us? No matter. I’m sure you’ll find something for us to do.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Elspeth said forcefully, “there’s nothing for you to do. I appreciate your willingness to help, but—”

  “’Morning, Elspeth.” Dick Peacock’s voice was unmistakable. “We heard you might need a hand today.”

  “Always happy to chip in,” said Henry Cook.

  “Have you found anything yet?” asked George Wetherhead.

  “Have I found anything?” Elspeth expostulated. “I haven’t been given the chance to look! If you’d please go about your business…”

  I suspected that Elspeth would spend the rest of the morning fending off a host of helpful friends and neighbors, so I closed the guest room door and resumed my meditations.

  I had no idea how the guest room would have been furnished in Gamaliel’s time, but if Lilian was right, it would have been occupied by someone in dire need of prayer—a feverish child, a fading grandparent, a mother worn out from giving birth too often. I wondered if Mistress Meg had administered her potions near the spot where I stood, and whether the man of God had given her his blessing or cursed her as an unholy hag.

  Though the visiting rector might have been left alone in the parlor or the dining room, it seemed to me that a sickroom wouldn’t have afforded him much privacy. A sleeping child, grandparent, or mother might wake at any moment, so Gamaliel would have been compelled to use a hiding place he could reach quickly. It would have to be a place that wouldn’t be dusted or used for storage or altered easily, I reasoned, a place that wouldn’t be discovered until long after Gamaliel’s death.

  My gaze traveled up to the rafters. Though I was relatively short, I could lay my palm against them. A man of average height could have curled his hand over them to feel for spaces that might exist between the ancient beams and the plastered ceiling. I peered upward for some moments, lost in thought, then took two thick volumes from the bookcase, stacked them one atop the other on the floor, and, after conscientiously removing my shoes, stood on them to examine the rafter nearest the chimney breast.

  The wood was as hard as iron and beautifully textured, with the grain running in frozen wavelets along the length of the beam. I saw no holes or cracks large enough to conceal my faux scroll, but when I looked several feet to my left, a slight bend in the otherwise straight timber caught my attention. Since it was beyond my reach, I stepped down from the books, glanced guiltily over my shoulder, and stood on the bed.

  I slid my hand into the space created by the rafter’s curve, felt along the top of the beam, and gasped as my questing fingers encountered a hollow no deeper than a shallow bowl. The carpenter who’d constructed the cottage’s framework had concealed the minor flaw by turning it upward and away from discerning eyes, but the rector seeking the perfect hiding place had spotted it.

  My fingers trembled as they touched parchment that had not been touched for more than three hundred years.

  Nineteen

  “I’ve found it,” I whispered. I stuffed the faux scroll carelessly in my pocket and lifted the real one from the bowl-shaped hollow as if it were made of glass. Like the scroll we’d found in the bell tower, it was tied with a black ribbon, but it was thicker and more tightly rolled, as if the third part of Gamaliel’s story were longer and more involved than the previous parts. For a moment I could do nothing but stare at the scroll in awed silence. Then I threw back my head and hollered, “I’ve found it! I’ve found the third page!”

  Bree burst into the room as I hopped down from the bed.

  “Where was it?” she asked.

  “In the rafter,” I said, pointing to the ceiling.

  Before I could conceal the liberties I’d taken with Elspeth’s guest room, Elspeth herself appeared in the doorway. She looked from my stockinged feet to the stacked books to the rumpled bedclothes and appeared to draw the obvious conclusions, but instead of scolding me for behaving like a hooligan, she smiled.

  “Thank you for removing your shoes, Lori,” she said graciously. “Did your gymnastics produce the desired result?”

  “Yes,” I said and handed the scroll to her. “You should be the one to present it to Amelia. Without you, I never would have found it.”

  “Lori?” Grant called up the stairs. “Did I hear you correctly? Have you found the third page?”

  “Yes,” I called back. “Wait for me in the parlor. I’ll be down in two ticks.”


  I smoothed the bedclothes, returned the books to the bookcase, stepped into my shoes, picked up my completely pointless tool kit, and followed Bree and Elspeth down the stairs.

  Charles, Grant, Lilian, and Amelia had assembled in the parlor, but they weren’t the only ones awaiting developments. The rejected volunteers—Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, Selena Buxton, Dick Peacock, Henry Cook, and George Wetherhead—were standing just outside the large front window, looking in.

  Elspeth scowled when she caught sight of the onlookers, as if she resented the hoi polloi witnessing an event she’d hoped to savor with a select few.

  “Well, really…,” she said through tightened lips. “Of all the nerve…”

  “It’s their village’s history, too,” Amelia said gently. “It’s only natural that they should take an interest.”

  “Half the fun of making a discovery is sharing it with others,” said Lilian.

  “They’ll hear about it anyway,” Charles muttered.

  “Why don’t we give Lilian a chance to translate the scroll,” I proposed, “then read it aloud to anyone who cares to hear it?”

  “It would be a generous, inclusive gesture,” Grant observed.

  “Educational, too,” Bree put in craftily.

  The word “educational” must have resonated with Elspeth, because she took a deep breath and swallowed her disappointment.

  “My parlor is too small to accommodate such a large number of people,” she said. “The schoolhouse would be a better venue. We won’t even have to set up the chairs. Mr. Barlow neglected to put them away after the Guy Fawkes Day committee meeting.”

  “Mr. Barlow is the church sexton,” Lilian reminded her. “He is not responsible for stacking chairs after committee meetings.”

  “Be that as it may,” Amelia interceded smoothly, “the schoolhouse seems an ideal place for our purposes. Shall we reconvene there in an hour? Two hours?” She looked inquiringly at Lilian.

  “Give me an hour,” said Lilian. “I’ve been boning up on my Latin.”

  “Elspeth?” I said. “If you would do the honors?”

  Elspeth lifted her chin, held the tightly rolled sheet of parchment out for everyone to see, and took three stately steps toward Amelia. I’d never suspected Elspeth of having a theatrical streak, but she was certainly putting on a show for her uninvited audience.

  “William guessed that the glyph was an olive branch,” she said in a voice that had once paralyzed wrongdoers in the far corners of crowded classrooms, “Charles linked the olive branch to Dove Cottage, and Lori discovered the scroll in my guest room. It is my privilege, Mrs. Thistle, to present the third page of the Reverend Gamaliel Gowland’s secret memoir to you.”

  Amelia, as if sensing Elspeth’s need to milk the moment for all it was worth, took the proffered scroll, kissed Elspeth on both cheeks, and thanked her formally on Alfred’s behalf as well as her own. She then presented the scroll to Lilian.

  “Good luck with the translation,” she said. “We’ll meet you at the schoolhouse in one hour.”

  Bree and I spent the hour with Grant and Charles, who’d invited us to lunch at Crabtree Cottage. While Charles whipped up a cheese soufflé and Grant showed Bree the proper way to clean an oil painting, I telephoned Willis, Sr.

  I wanted to tell my father-in-law that I’d found the third page and ask him what he’d said when he’d telephoned Elspeth Binney in London, but he’d given Deirdre strict orders to hold his calls.

  “He really means it this time,” she told me. “He’s been locked in his study since four o’clock this morning. I’m allowed to bring him meals on trays, but other than that, he refuses to see or to speak with anyone.”

  “Has he eaten the meals you’ve brought him?” I asked apprehensively.

  “I think he’s licked the plates,” she replied. “There’s nothing wrong with William’s appetite, Lori. He’s just very, very focused on his work.”

  “Good,” I said, relieved. “Work will take his mind off…other things. Keep an eye on him, Deirdre.”

  “I will,” she said. “I, too, am very focused on my work.”

  After a pleasant meal, my lunch mates and I strolled across the green to the schoolhouse. We arrived ten minutes early, but the joint was already jumping. The rejected volunteers had evidently forgiven Elspeth for spurning them because she sat among them, chatting animatedly about the weather, the rising cost of petrol, and the impact a seventeenth-century memoir might have on Finch.

  Bree, with her customary foresight, had posted herself in the doorway to act as a lookout, in case Daffodil Deeproots or others of her ilk reappeared in the village. Charles and Grant chose seats in the back row, but I sat up front with Amelia in the chair she’d saved for me. As the automated bells in the church tower struck half past twelve, Lilian entered the schoolhouse, carrying the scroll I’d found in Dove Cottage and a notepad similar to the one she’d used to record the second page’s translation.

  The villagers quieted as she made her way to the dais at the front of the schoolroom. She placed the scroll and the notebook on the long table that had last seen action during the Guy Fawkes Day committee meeting, then faced the assembly and gave a succinct summary of the memoir’s origins as well as the contents of its first and second pages.

  “Sounds as if the rector admired Mistress Meg,” Dick Peacock opined when Lilian had finished her introduction. “Says she cured folk without asking for payment. What’s fearsome about that? Wish I could find a doctor today who put his patients before his bank account.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Lilian waited for it to pass, then picked up the scroll.

  “The third page of the Reverend Gowland’s memoir is considerably longer than the first two,” she said. “I have translated it from Latin into English to the best of my ability in the short space of time I requested.” She exchanged the scroll for the notepad. “I will now read my translation to you. Please hold your comments until I’ve finished.”

  I could tell by Lilian’s somber expression that something was troubling her, but she read the translation in a deliberately neutral tone of voice, as if she were reading the minutes of a duller-than-average committee meeting.

  “The summer of 1652 was fraught with misfortune,” she began. “The rains failed, crops withered, livestock struggled, and my people knew hardship and hunger. To console my flock, I read to them from the Book of Job and preached that God in His wisdom sends trials to test and to strengthen our faith in Him. I reminded them of Christ’s suffering and bade them endure their afflictions as He did, humbly and with their minds turned always to the kingdom of heaven.”

  Lilian flipped to the next page and continued, “But Jenna Penner twice stood up in church to contradict me. In the first instance, she testified that God had sent the drought to punish us for harboring a pagan. She railed against the woman in the woods who came not to church to sing God’s praises, but sang to her goats on the Sabbath, in mockery of God’s law. She said the woman who used black magic to heal would one day use it to do great harm. She warned that God would turn his face from us until we cast the wicked woman into darkness.”

  Lilian flipped to the third page in her notebook.

  “In the second instance, Jenna Penner stood in church to accuse the woman in the woods of killing her pig. Jenna said: ‘I saw the witch behind my house, bathed in the full moon’s light, calling upon the Adversary to help her to take revenge on the one who spoke against her. She chanted strange words and made queer signs in the air with a forked branch. When she pointed the branch at my pig, it fell down dead.’”

  Lilian’s rapt listeners shuffled their feet and shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. She forestalled any mutterings with a sharp look, then bent her head over her notepad and resumed reading.

  “A visiting cleric heard Jenna Penner’s testimony and brought word of Mistress Meg’s offenses to the witch finder in Cheltenham. The witch finder and his men came to subject Mistre
ss Meg to the required ordeals. When they came, I led the faithful to the house in the woods, for I wanted them to see justice done.”

  Lilian looked up from her notepad. “So ends the text. It’s followed by another small drawing, or glyph. I’ve made an enlarged sketch of the glyph. If it means something to you, please speak up.”

  She handed a sheet of white paper to Amelia, who held it out for me to see. On it, Lilian had drawn three arrows bound in the middle like a bunch of flowers. I studied it briefly, then shook my head.

  “Doesn’t ring the faintest bell,” I said.

  Amelia passed the sketch to Elspeth and it quickly made the rounds, drawing blank looks from everyone who examined it.

  “Questions?” Lilian asked.

  “Yes,” said Henry Cook. “What does the rector mean when he talks about Mistress Meg’s ordeals? Does he mean they tortured her?”