Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

Adrian stared down as the vicar’s outstretched hand, looking thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, Theodore, but I don’t quite follow.”

“I do.” Sally Pyne got up from the couch. “And you can stop acting innocent, Dr. Culver, because I know all about your plans to build a museum here in Finch.”

Adrian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Pyne,” he said, in the rigidly controlled voice of a man rapidly running out of patience, “I can assure you that I have no plans whatsoever to build a museum in Finch or anywhere else. I’m sorry if my idle chatter led you to believe—”

“What kind of a fool do you take me for?” Sally snapped. “Do you think I’d refit my entire business because of idle chatter?” Frowning ferociously, she began to back the dumbfounded archaeologist toward the fireplace. “I’ve seen the letters, Dr. Culver. I’ve read all about your fund-raising efforts. I know for a fact that the Culver Institute is a good deal more than idle—”

“Katrina?” Lilian’s soft voice interrupted Sally’s diatribe. “Are you ill, child?”

I swung around to see Katrina crumple forward and bury her face in her hands. Lilian crossed to the couch and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders, but Katrina’s only response was a heartfelt moan. Adrian stopped just short of singeing the seat of his pants and dodged past Sally to attend to his assistant.

“What is it, Miss Graham?” he said, bending over her.

“Oh, Dr. Culver,” Katrina groaned, still doubled over. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she’d seen the letters.”

Adrian straightened. He looked uneasily at Sally Pyne’s triumphant face, then returned to his chair. He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then said, very gently, “Perhaps, Miss Graham, you’d care to explain yourself ?”

Katrina pushed herself slowly into an upright position. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then sat very still, as though gathering her thoughts. A log fell on the fire, and the hall clock chimed the half hour, but no one looked away from the mute and motionless figure on the couch.

“First of all,” she began, looking from Lilian to the vicar, “I don’t know anything about a burglary. This is the first time I’ve set foot in the vicarage, so if something went missing on Sunday night, it’s nothing to do with me. Or with Mrs. Pyne,” she added, “because we were together the whole time.”

“Thank you, Miss Graham,” the vicar said gravely. “Your testimony is of the utmost value. Please continue.”

Katrina glanced at Adrian, then looked down at her hands. “As for the letters . . . Honestly, Dr. Culver, we were only trying to be helpful.”

“ Who was trying to be helpful?” Adrian asked.

“The twelve of us, the students you chose to work with you at Scrag End field.” Katrina slid her tongue across her lips, as though her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “You’ve always said that fund-raising is the most difficult part of archaeology, so we decided to prepare a grant proposal ahead of time. That way, if Scrag End turned out to be a valuable site, a site worthy of a museum, we’d be able to hit the ground running. We’d have all of the necessary forms and letters ready for your signature. We thought you’d be proud of us for getting a head start on the paperwork.”

“But what about that pile of letters next to your computer?” Sally demanded.

“I’m getting to that.” Katrina continued speaking earnestly to Adrian. “We’ve been E-mailing drafts of dummy proposals back and forth to one another for the past few months, critiquing and rewriting them, just the way you said to do in your lectures. Ask Simon. He’ll back me up. And we named the museum after you as a . . . a tribute to you, Dr. Culver.” Katrina shot a reproachful look in Sally’s direction. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Sally gasped. “Do you mean to tell me that you never intended to build a museum in Finch?”

Katrina gazed hopefully up at Adrian, but he shook his head decisively.

“I’m impressed by your efforts, Miss Graham,” he said, “and I look forward to reading your grant proposal, but we won’t be using it for this particular site. There’s not the remotest possibility of filling a museum with the items we’ve discovered at Scrag End field.”

“But what about my tearoom? ” Sally squawked. She stared blindly at Katrina, then turned to gaze into the fire, looking bereft. “I’ll be a laughingstock. Peggy will never stop crowing. All of the trouble and expense . . . my poor tearoom . . .”

No one had the heart to point out that she’d brought the catastrophe on herself by snooping through Katrina’s papers on the sly. The mere idea of being the target of Peggy Kitchen’s ridicule made my toes curl and brought out Adrian’s most chivalrous impulses. He assured Sally that he would do everything in his power to make sure her tearoom prospered.

“I’ll recommend it to all of my friends and colleagues in Oxford,” he promised. “I’ll mention it whenever I lecture on Scrag End.” He looked pointedly at Katrina. “My students won’t let you down.”

The barrage of goodwill revived Sally’s spirits a bit and lit an entrepreneurial gleam in her eyes. “Students always have good appetites,” she murmured. “And archaeology students’ll like my new decor. . . .”

Lilian glanced at her wristwatch and stood. “Well,” she said briskly, “I believe that concludes our business for the evening.You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, Mrs. Pyne, so we won’t keep you any longer.”

Adrian sent Katrina off with Sally Pyne, advising them to follow Saint George’s Lane rather than the riverbank, but he asked the rest of us to remain in the library. Bill and I exchanged interrogative glances with the Buntings, but it was clear that no one knew what Adrian might add to the night’s revelations.

When Adrian returned to his chair, he spoke first to the vicar. “I’m afraid Miss Graham isn’t the only one who hasn’t been telling the whole truth, Theodore. I’d planned to clear the air when the Scrag End experiment was complete, but it seems better to do so now.”

“The, er, Scrag End experiment?” the vicar inquired politely.

“I’m using Scrag End as an outdoor laboratory,” Adrian informed him. “It’s vitally important for young archaeologists to learn how to spot the difference between an authentic find and an inexpertly contrived hoax.”

“A hoax!” exclaimed the vicar. “Are you saying that you knew about Cornelius Gladwell’s prank from the start?”

Adrian shook his head. “I’d never heard of Cornelius Gladwell until you mentioned him to me, but I knew that Scrag End was a hoax the moment I laid eyes on it. I’ve run into this sort of thing before—in Yorkshire, Cumber land, Sussex . . . caches of Roman artifacts buried in all sorts of places for all sorts of harebrained reasons. Scrag End fit the profile perfectly. It was a perfect teaching tool.”

I closed my eyes and saw him in the shade of the blue tarpaulin, poking holes in Katrina’s arguments, challenging her on every point, forcing her to defend her theories or come up with new ways to explain Scrag End’s anomalies.

“You brought your students to Scrag End,” I said slowly, “hoping they’d discover the hoax for themselves?”

“ That’s right,” said Adrian.

“Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” the vicar asked.

Adrian cocked his head to one side. “Would you have been able to hold your tongue when Mrs. Kitchen came to complain about me?”

“I suppose not.” The vicar smiled ruefully. “I’d have been sorely tempted to tell Mrs. Kitchen not to take your project seriously.”