Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“And she would have told Dr. Culver’s students the same thing.” Lilian sighed. “You couldn’t allow that to happen, could you, Dr. Culver? If your students don’t take their work seriously, they won’t learn the valuable lessons you’re trying to teach them. Yes, I quite understand.”

I, too, understood, much as I hated to admit it. I leaned my head on my hand and sighed—I’d lost three prime suspects in one night.

Bill rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Why are you willing to trust us now, Adrian?” he asked. “I’m sure we’ll all try to keep our mouths shut, but you know how it is in a small village. News spreads by osmosis.”

“I don’t mind stirring up discussion in a host community,” Adrian said. “Discussion can be instructive, even when it’s conducted at the top of one’s lungs.” He paused. “When one of my students stands accused of committing a crime, however, it’s time to bring everything out into the open. I do hope you’ll keep my secret until my experiment is complete.”

“Of course we will.” The vicar got to his feet and placed his hand firmly on Adrian’s shoulder. “And I, for one, am convinced that Miss Graham had nothing whatsoever to do with the theft.”

Adrian let out a rushing sigh. “I’m sorry I misled you, Theodore.”

“Not at all,” said the vicar. “Come, I’ll walk you out.”

Adrian bid us good night and left the library with the vicar. Bill carried the petit-point chairs back into the dining room, and I poked up the fire while Lilian collected the used cups and brought them to the kitchen. I felt like a fool and a failure. I’d made a fool of myself in the meadow and failed to catch the burglar. To make matters worse, I’d spilled the beans about the theft in front of Sally Pyne.

It was quite clear to me that Sally hadn’t known about the burglary until I’d opened my big mouth. Her red nose had practically twitched with curiosity when she’d asked Now what’s all this about burglars and accomplices? The tearoom crisis had provided a temporary diversion, but questions about the theft would reoccur to her come morning, which meant that by afternoon all of Finch would know that someone had stolen something from the vicarage on Sunday night.

I felt Bill’s hand on my shoulder and returned the poker to its brass stand as our little group reassembled. The vicar stared absently past me at the flickering flames, and Lilian stood at his side, gazing up at him worriedly.

I stepped toward them. “I’m sorry, Vicar. I shouldn’t have said anything about the burglary. I know how badly you wanted to keep it secret and—” I broke off abruptly, startled by a sound I’d never heard before.

Theodore Bunting was laughing. He was leaning on the back of his worn armchair, whooping and gasping, with one hand pressed to his chest, and tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

“Teddy?” Lilian asked. “Are you quite well?”

The vicar wiped his eyes. “I’m marvelous, Lilian, simply marvelous. My friends,” he went on, looking from me to Bill, “you evidently haven’t realized what a good night’s work you’ve done.” The vicar took my hand between both of his. “Adrian is leaving in two weeks,” he said slowly. “I shall announce in church tomorrow that, in two short weeks, regardless of rumors to the contrary, the schoolhouse will be empty. ”

I finally caught his drift. “Peggy will call off her rally,” I said, dazed with relief. “I won’t have to dodge Sally’s rotten eggs. The festival will proceed as planned—”

“Mrs. Kitchen will be in her heaven,” the vicar crowed, “and all will be right with the world. Lori, my dear girl, I can’t thank you enough.”

“But what about the Gladwell pamphlet?” I said.

“Hang the Gladwell pamphlet,” said the vicar. “Whoever stole the pesky thing is welcome to it. Lilian, I think we might risk a glass of sherry to celebrate this very special occasion.”

Lilian fetched the bottle and I raised my glass with the others. But even as I toasted our collective deliverance, I couldn’t shake the notion that Brother Florin was still out there somewhere, with the Gladwell pamphlet securely in his possession, laughing at me.

23.

“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power.” The vicar looked down from his pulpit at the record-breaking crowd that filled Saint George’s pews and spilled through the open doors into the churchyard. “Those words may sound familiar to some of you. They were printed on a flyer advertising a rally scheduled to take place in our village today. They can also be found in the second epistle of Paul the Apostle to Timothy—chapter one, verse seven, to be precise.” He lifted a harvest-gold sheet of paper from the lectern and gazed at it sadly. “I regret to say that whoever used Saint Paul’s words on the flyer was far from precise.” He held the sheet of paper at arm’s length, then slowly and deliberately tore it in half.

A shocked murmur rumbled through the congregation, followed by a handful of isolated snickers as all heads turned toward the front row, where Peggy Kitchen sat, dwarfing Jasper Taxman, who huddled beside her. Peggy’s nostrils flared at the sound of tearing paper, and her posture became noticeably more erect, but her pointy glasses never swerved from the pulpit.

“ To understand Saint Paul’s words, we must read them as they are written.” The vicar placed the torn sheet on the lectern, raised a heavy Bible in one hand, and declaimed, with dramatic emphasis, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. ” He returned the heavy Bible to the lectern. “ The author of the flyer had distorted Saint Paul’s meaning by emphasizing power at the expense of love and wisdom.Yet we all know that power alone is an abomination. Power must be tempered by love, and by intelligent thought, if it is to be used in the service of God and of mankind.”

Peggy Kitchen didn’t flinch as an approving growl surged through the church, but Jasper Taxman’s shoulders drooped an inch or two. I glanced over to see Bill’s reaction, but he was gazing at the vicar speculatively, as though wondering where the sermon would go next.

“Precision is vital,” the vicar continued, “whether one is quoting sacred texts or speaking to one’s neighbor. A lack of precision can lead to grave misunderstandings, which can lead in turn to dissension and discord.”

“Ah,” Bill said under his breath. “Here it comes.”

“I stand before you today,” the vicar intoned, “hoping to clear up one such misunderstanding. . . .”

Not one sneeze, cough, or hesitantly cleared throat interrupted the vicar’s progress as he guided his flock through the confusion caused by Sally’s misreading of Katrina’s dummy grant proposal. He mentioned no names. He made no direct accusations. But he made it radiantly clear that, contrary to popular belief, Adrian Culver would be out of the schoolhouse in two weeks’ time.

“ There is not, nor has there ever been, a single valid reason to believe that our beloved festival might be canceled,” he concluded. “ The Harvest Festival, during which we will celebrate the glorious bounty our Lord had bestowed upon us, will proceed on schedule, as planned, without fail. I urge all of you to participate wisely and in the spirit of love. In the name of the Father . . .” Throughout the blessing, the vicar kept his gaze fixed on the wall painting of Saint George, as though communing with a fellow dragon-slayer.

Bill bent his head close to mine. “Let’s stick around to offer our support after the service.”

I nodded but suspected that the vicar would do just fine without us. I’d never seen him look so carefree, or so sure of himself. He conducted the rest of the service with an unaccustomed bounce in his step and beamed on his parishioners as they streamed out of the church in a chattering, boisterous swarm.