Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

Adrian, Katrina, Francesca, Rob, and Rainey returned to the tarpaulin’s shade, but Will and I stayed at the water’s edge, watching the watcher, until the distant figure had retreated to the shelter of a stone barn.

“I don’t like it,” I said to Francesca after we’d dropped Rainey off at the tearoom. “Feelings are running high in the village. I don’t like the thought of someone spying on Adrian with binoculars.”

“Burt Hodge means no harm,” Francesca declared, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Why do you think he’s watching Adrian?” I asked.

“If I know Burt,” said Francesca, sounding as though she did, “it’s because he thinks it a waste of petrol to drive over and find out what’s going on in Scrag End.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” I commented.

“Burt and I grew up together,” Francesca told me. “My father worked for his father when he first came to this country.”

“Did he?” I was growing adept at negotiating Francesca’s oblique conversations. “I wondered how you knew so much about Scrag End field.”

“Old Mr. Hodge was a good man,” said Francesca. “He let me and my brothers and sisters roam all over his land. Some folk didn’t like him for it, but he never paid them any mind.”

“Why would anyone object to an old man being kind to a bunch of children?” I knew I was treading on thin ice, but I wanted to hear Piero’s story from Francesca’s point of view.

“We weren’t just any children.” Francesca’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but her foot remained steady on the gas pedal. “Hasn’t Mrs. Kitchen told you about my father?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “Mrs. Kitchen hasn’t told me a thing about your father. What about him?”

Francesca touched the medallion at her throat. “My father didn’t come to England voluntarily,” she said. “He was shipped here, as a prisoner of war. He was held in a detention camp in Yorkshire for six months before they sent him off to work for Mr. Hodge. So many farmers had joined up that they had to use what labor came to hand.” She paused. “Was your father a soldier?”

“Yes,” I said. “He landed at Normandy on D Day and fought his way to the Rhine, but he wasn’t even wounded. He was lucky. Like your father.”

“You think my father was lucky?” Francesca asked, as though the idea was new to her.

“He survived the war,” I pointed out. “He lived long enough to raise a family. I’d call that lucky, wouldn’t you?”

Francesca didn’t reply directly. “It wasn’t easy for him,” she said. “Nor for his family. Most folks were decent enough, but some were . . .” Her lips tightened. “They needed someone to blame, and Papa was right in front of them, with his accent and his funny-sounding name.”

I marveled, not for the first time, at how the cruelty of a few could diminish the kindness of many. “Seems like Mr. Hodge was one of the decent ones,” I commented.

“He was a good man,” Francesca repeated. She slowed as we approached the Pym sisters’ curve. “Which is more than can be said for his son.” She sped up again as we came out of the curve. “What did you think of Dr. Culver making out that Scrag End was no good? You think he’s given up on the museum?”

The abrupt change of subject signaled an end to Francesca’s brief spate of self-revelation. I let it go but made a mental note to ask Dimity about old Mr. Hodge’s son once I’d figured out what was going on in Scrag End field—which might not be any time soon.

“Francesca,” I confessed, “I don’t know what to think about the museum. At the moment, Adrian Culver has me flummoxed.”

21.

The cottage was blissfully silent. The boys were asleep in the nursery, Francesca had retired to her room, and Bill’s regular breathing indicated that he’d joined his sons in dreamland. As I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a single sleepless night since Francesca had arrived. A week ago, I’d risen once an hour to make sure the boys were still breathing. Tonight I tossed and turned because of Adrian Culver.

I didn’t know what to make of the man. Emma’s printouts of his E-mail proved that he was raising money to build the Culver Institute right here in Finch. Why, then, was he going out of his way to prove that Scrag End field was a bust? If it hadn’t been for Katrina’s brainstorm about a Roman villa standing where Hodge Farm now stood, he might have called it quits that afternoon.

I sat up and ran a hand through my disheveled curls. If Adrian was willing to judge Scrag End on its lack of merits, why would he bother to steal the Gladwell pamphlet? Had he changed his mind about the museum? Had Peggy Kitchen’s determined resistance frightened him off? Or had he decided that Scrag End was simply too anomalous to serve his purpose?

The only thing I could be sure of was his devotion to Francesca. He’d stopped by after dinner, ostensibly to bring the boys a colorful picture book about Pompeii. I’d tried to take him aside, to ask him again about the museum, but by then the phone had started ringing.

Emma had called to report that her schoolhouse tour had been a waste of time. She’d found nothing that pointed to the museum or the burglary. When she proposed breaking into Katrina’s lodgings, I suggested that she consult a therapist before her obsession with break-ins got her into trouble.

A call from Stan had completed my day. The pamphlet from our man in Labrador would arrive on Monday morning. I should have been excited, but I wasn’t. I didn’t see how the pamphlet Stan had obtained would help me find the pamphlet. I wasn’t even sure if the pamphlet mattered anymore. Adrian seemed perfectly willing to let the hoax reveal itself, with or without the vicar’s printed proof.

I looked at the clock on the dresser as it chimed the hour. Eleven o’clock, and all was extremely perturbed. If I didn’t settle down soon, I’d be fidgeting until dawn. I listened to Bill’s steady breathing, then slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to put the kettle on. A pot of tea and a chat with Dimity might still my spinning head.

Are the boys still breathing?

I smiled ruefully as Dimity’s handwriting appeared on the blank page. “Yes, Dimity. The boys are fine. As if you didn’t know.” I curled my legs under me in the tall leather armchair, my teacup within reach on the table at my elbow. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for the tiger in the trunk. Rainey’ll love him. I just hope she doesn’t love him to pieces.”

If Reginald could survive your childhood, my dear, the tiger can survive Rainey’s.You were never the daintiest of creatures, you know. I seem to recall repeated attempts to send Reginald to the moon. . . .

“Did Mom write to you about that?” I said, amused by the memory. “Poor Reg. The liftoffs weren’t so bad, but the splashdowns nearly did him in.” I poured a cup of tea from the pot on the tray. “Reginald’s been a busy bunny lately, hopping from the playpen to the Mercedes with no visible means of transport.”

He’s done well, hasn’t he? Francesca was being terribly stiff-necked about Adrian. It’s nearly impossible, I’ve found, to be stiff-necked when one is eating crow.

“He embarrassed Francesca,” I said sternly.

Dimity was unrepentant. Francesca needed a push in the right direction, and Reginald provided her with one. A moment’s embarrassment is a small price to pay for a lifetime of happiness.

“A lifetime of happiness?” I exclaimed. “How can you be so sure about Adrian? Didn’t you hear what Emma said about those computer printouts?”

Computer printouts are open to interpretation. Adrian’s feelings for Francesca—and hers for him—are not.