Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“Bill—” I quavered, but he waved me to silence.

“I’ll simply say that if you ever do something like this again . . .” He bent forward, until I was forced to look into his reproachful eyes. “It won’t surprise me in the least. Your mother said you were bullheaded, and she was right.”

I leaned into his arms. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” said Bill, “when I describe your daring exploits to Derek and Emma.” He turned toward the vicarage. “What was that again? ‘Freeze? We’ve got you covered?’ ”

22.

The library was gloriously warm and bright. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, all of the lamps were lit, and extra seating had been provided to accommodate the damp and chilly congregation. The vicar sat in his shabby armchair, facing the culprits on the green velvet couch, while Bill and I surveyed the guilty duo from a pair of petit-point chairs we’d brought in from the dining room.

Sally and Katrina stared back at us defiantly. Sally had folded her hood into the collar of her royal-blue tracksuit and wiped the condensation from her silver-rimmed glasses before planting her running shoes firmly on the carpet. Now she sat glowering, red-faced and round-bodied, like a furious fireplug. Katrina, clad in silky black jogging shorts and a hooded gray sweatshirt, had disdainfully refused the cocoa Lilian had offered, requesting a glass of water in its stead.

The vicar had forbidden conversation until he’d finished his first cup of cocoa, so I had time to contemplate a second pair of petit-point chairs, as yet unoccupied. One was obviously for Lilian, who’d returned to the kitchen to warm another saucepan of milk, but the presence of an extra chair, carefully arranged yet conspicuously empty, puzzled me.

The puzzle was solved a short time later, when Lilian flew down the hall to answer the doorbell and returned to the library, escorting a grim-faced, disheveled Adrian Culver. When Katrina caught sight of him, her belligerence faded.

“D-Dr. Culver,” she faltered. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question,” said Adrian. He smoothed his uncombed hair back from his forehead and turned to Lilian. “ Thank you for ringing me, Mrs. Bunting. If my assistant has inconve nienced you—”

Lilian nodded toward the empty chair. “Please, Dr. Culver, have a seat near the fire. Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

Adrian hesitated, as though he hadn’t expected such a civil reception. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Lilian. She looked at her husband. “Don’t start without me, Teddy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.” The vicar slouched comfortably in his armchair and said nothing more until Lilian had finished serving the fresh batch of cocoa and seated herself between her husband and Adrian Culver.

“Now,” she said brightly, “who would like to go first?” She pointed to Katrina. “Miss Graham, I think. Please, dear, tell us what you’ve been doing in that nasty damp meadow so late at night.”

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said Katrina miserably. “We were exercising, that’s all.”

“Exercising!” exclaimed Adrian.

“It was my idea,” Sally put in hastily. “Simon refused to work out with Katrina, so I offered to join her. I thought a spot of PT might help me lose a few pounds.”

“Commendable of you.” The vicar set aside his cocoa and tented his long fingers. “But surely you could have found a more hospitable place than the bottom of my meadow. And why work out, as you say, in the dark? I’d have loaned you a torch if you’d asked.”

Katrina looked at Sally Pyne. “People have been terribly unkind about Mrs. Pyne’s efforts to lose weight.”

Sally flushed scarlet. “ They’ve been beastly,” she declared. “I didn’t want Mr. Barlow joking about Fat Sally’s chances at the Olympics, or Mr. Farnham going on about the battle of the bulge, so we slipped out after dark to the meadow, where no one would see us.”

Sally’s words had a pathetic ring of truth to them. No middle-aged woman in her right mind would want her neighbors looking on while she did jumping jacks. The potential for ridicule would be enough to discourage all but the hardiest of fitness addicts, and Sally Pyne was a rank beginner. Her moans, groans, and aching joints were proof of that.

“We did carry torches, the first night,” Katrina was saying, “while we mapped out our route. But then—”

“Then Christine Peacock came along,” Sally interrupted, indignantly, “walking that leaky hound of hers. Gave me the fright of my life. After that, we left the torches at home.”

I glanced at the bemused smile hovering on Bill’s lips and saw a lifetime of false-arrest jokes stretching out before me. It was mortifying to think that I’d nabbed a pair of innocent joggers, but Sally and Katrina had provided explanations for almost everything my eyewitnesses had seen.

Miranda Morrow had observed a ritual taking place, but the worshipers’ arms had been raised to the gods of fitness, not to the moon. Christine Peacock’s alien engines had been nothing more than Sally’s wheezing, Katrina’s huffing, and the glare of hastily extinguished flashlights. The circle of broken glass had been produced by two pairs of industriously pounding track shoes.

All I had going for me was Brother Florin. Two separate witnesses—Mr. Wetherhead and Miranda Morrow—had seen a hooded figure circumambulate the vicarage on Sunday night. Sally and Katrina had, by their own admission, been in the vicinity, and both wore hooded sweat-shirts. I wondered if a direct attack would catch them off guard.

I leaned forward. “Which one of you approached the vicarage?”

“We didn’t go anywhere near the vicarage,” Sally protested.

“Why would we?” Katrina chimed in. “We were trying to keep a low profile.”

Bill tried another tack. “Did you see anyone else while you were out?”

“Only Christine Peacock,” Sally replied. “No one else is daft enough to go walking by the river after dark. That’s why we were there.” She focused in on the vicar. “Now, what’s all this about burglars and accomplices? Did someone steal something from the vic—”

Adrian stood abruptly, as though he could no longer contain himself. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed down sternly at Katrina. “Miss Graham,” he said, “it is highly unprofessional to skulk about a host community without advising your supervisor of your intentions.” He motioned toward Sally Pyne. “Do you see what kinds of rumors arise from such behavior? Mrs. Kitchen has been difficult enough. She’ll leap at the chance to accuse you of being a burglar.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Culver,” said Katrina, hanging her head.

Adrian wasn’t finished. “Apart from that,” he went on, relentlessly, “you need your rest. You’ve been putting in long hours of hard physical labor at Scrag End. I can assure you that your health will suffer no serious deterioration if you suspend your fitness program for three short weeks.”

“ Three weeks?” said the vicar, sitting erect. “Did I hear you correctly, Adrian? Do you intend to vacate the schoolhouse in three weeks?”

Adrian turned to him. “I’ve used up one week,” he said, “so I’ll be gone in two more. That was our original agreement, wasn’t it, Theodore? Three weeks and out?”

“Yes, but I’d heard that you applied for funds to extend your . . .” The vicar’s words trailed off. He stared at Adrian for a moment, then bowed his head and gave a mournful sigh. “Gossip. That’s what I heard. Groundless rumors from a colleague in Oxford. May God forgive me for believing them.” He extended his hand to Adrian. “My dear chap, I do beg your pardon most sincerely.”