Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“No one?” I said.

Bill raised Will to his shoulder and gently patted his back. “When Sally Pyne came by to fetch Rainey, we got to talking, and she told me that there aren’t any children in Finch. A few kids out on the farms, yes, but none in the village.” He rubbed his cheek against Will’s fuzzy head. “It’s going to be a long summer for that little girl.”

“Poor kid,” I said. “We’ll have to come up with an extraspecial birthday present for her.”

Bill’s nose wrinkled suddenly and he leaned closer to Rob. “Right now I think our boy has a present for us. Here, you take Will and I’ll change Rob while you start in on dinner.”

I stretched out my arms for Will and smiled as I recalled the stockpot simmering on the stove. “Have I got news for you. . . .”

Francesca not only prepared our dinner, she served it to us in the dining room, on real plates, and cleaned up the mess afterward. It was a revelation to me, to relax and enjoy a meal with my husband after four months of snatching mouthfuls on the run.

“She did the laundry, put the linen closet in order, and got dinner ready while I was in town,” I told Bill as we lingered over the raspberries and cream. “And she never gets her apron dirty.”

“She’s beginning to sound vaguely supernatural,” Bill commented.

“Now that you mention it . . .” I lowered my voice, feeling for the first time like a chatelaine with servants to consider. “When she arrived, the cottage was filled with the scent of lilacs.”

Bill’s eyes widened. “No chill in the air? No smoke?” He was referring to tricks Dimity had once used to rid the cottage of an unwelcome visitor.

“Just lilacs,” I replied.

Bill sat back and rubbed his jaw. “I guess Ruth and Louise picked the right nanny.” He pushed himself away from the table. “It’s still light out. How about a walk? If I’m not careful, Francesca’s cooking will ruin my girlish figure.”

We put Will and Rob in their all-terrain strollers, advised Francesca of our plans, and set off down the path through the oak grove that separated the Harrises’ property from mine.

The grove was a tranquil oasis. Leaf-filtered sunlight patterned the path with quivering shadows, squirrels chit tered in the branches overhead, and sparrows flitted from bower to bough. For a moment, walking at my husband’s side and watching my sons absorb a world of wonder, I felt so lighthearted that if I’d let go of Rob’s stroller, I’d have floated.

Then Bill asked how my day had gone.

I told him. In great detail. With many gestures. I think I may have frightened the squirrels.

“Now Peggy’s petitioning the bishop. God knows what she’ll do next. And unless you want your sons to grow up fatherless,” I concluded testily, “you’ll wipe that smirk off of your face this instant!”

“I’m sorry.” Bill wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head—a diversionary tactic, I was certain. “I was only trying to get you out of the house. If I’d known the Gladwell pamphlet would do the trick, I wouldn’t have sent Hurricane Peggy in your direction.”

“Well . . .” I allowed grudgingly, “you sent Francesca in my direction, too, so I guess we can call it a wash.”

Bill reached for Will’s stroller and we resumed our walk. “Do you think we’ll have to catch the thief,” he asked, “or will it be enough if we can persuade Adrian Culver to leave the schoolhouse?”

“They’re not separate issues,” I replied. “We have to find the thief in order to find the stolen pamphlet. And we have to find the stolen pamphlet in order to prove to Adrian Culver that his big find is a bad joke. That’s the only way we’ll get him to vacate the schoolhouse in time for the Harvest Festival. And that’s the only way we’ll get Peggy Kitchen out of the vicar’s hair and into Little Stubbing’s.”

“Wait.” Bill stopped in his tracks. “Haven’t you skipped a step? What about asking Stan to find another copy of the Gladwell pamphlet?”

“I’ll ask him,” I said, “but, frankly, his chances of tracking down another copy are as remote as . . . as the chances of Peggy Kitchen making a huge donation to Saint George’s this coming Sunday.”

“No hope?” said Bill.

I held my thumb and forefinger a hairsbreadth apart. “About this much. There’s a reason documents like the Gladwell pamphlet are called ephemera. Brochures, broadsheets, posters—they’re not made to last. If they do survive, they’re usually buried in the bowels of a poorly indexed collection. It could be years before Stan gets lucky.”

“Then we’ll simply have to keep our eyes and ears open,” said Bill, stepping off briskly. “Someone must have seen something, and they’re bound to talk. You’ll be surprised at how quickly news spreads in a place like Finch.” The twins chirped with delight as we steered the strollers around a dip in the path. “ The village grapevine is the most effective means of communication known to man. It makes the Internet look like a pair of Dixie cups on a string.”

“So all I’ll have to do is make myself available? Bill,” I added, pausing to catch my breath, “could we slow down? I’m getting winded and you’re going to bounce Will right out of his stroller.”

“Sorry.” Bill adjusted his stride and tried, halfheartedly, to suppress a self-satisfied grin. “Shall we call it a day?”

I squirmed at the thought of Bill taking pity on me—Bill! The man who’d scarcely been able to climb Pou ter’s Hill without collapsing!—but I nodded. Four months of diaper-changing were no match for four months of bicycle-riding.

“Peggy’s petition won’t help me find the burglar,” I said as we turned the strollers around. “Everyone in the village will sign it, including the thief. No one in his right mind is going to defy Peggy Kitchen openly.”

Bill stooped to rescue a tiny sock that was in danger of escaping from Will’s flailing foot. “You know how I hate to contradict you, my love, especially in front of the children, but Sally Pyne’s defied Peggy already.”

“To her face?” I said, astonished.

“More or less,” said Bill. “Sally offered room and board to the two young people Dr. Culver brought with him.”

“Simon and Katrina,” I said. “Did they accept?”

“ They moved in Sunday afternoon.” Bill straightened. “Sally Pyne is clearly a Culverite.”

I picked a long blade of grass from the edge of the path and twirled it slowly between my fingers. “An archaeological site might pull in tourists,” I reasoned, “and tourists would boost business at Sally’s tearoom. I suppose Sally might’ve burgled the vicarage.”

“Fat Sally?” Bill lifted an eyebrow. “It’s hard to imagine a woman of Sally’s proportions managing stealthy footsteps, but it’s possible.”

“Too much is possible,” I grumbled. “The only villagers I can scratch off the list of suspects are the Buntings and Peggy Kitchen.”

“And Jasper Taxman,” Bill put in. “According to Sally Pyne, Mr. Taxman is courting Peggy Kitchen.”

I whistled softly between my teeth. “Brave man.”

“He’s a retired accountant,” Bill explained. “Perhaps he craves excitement in his golden years.”

“Perhaps,” I said doubtfully. I crossed Jasper Taxman’s name off of my mental list, then frowned. “What if all of the villagers decide to keep their mouths shut?”

Bill patted my hand. “It’ll never happen. Gossip is a competitive sport in Finch. As you said before, all you have to do is make yourself available.”

“I’ll have tea tomorrow, at Sally Pyne’s,” I said, warming to the idea, “and you’ll eat lunch and dinner at the pub for the next few days.”