Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

Bill rubbed his chin. “It’s the right costume for this weather,” he allowed.

I reached for the door handle. “Come on. Let’s wish Rainey a happy birthday. If we can catch her.”

No one had a better time at Rainey’s birthday party than Rainey. When she was finally persuaded to give the goat a rest, she flew from table to table, introducing all and sundry to her tired-looking parents and her placid, brand-new baby brother, Jack. She urged the Pym sisters to tuck into her gran’s Hadrian cakes and recommended the Pompeii puffs to the Peacocks, but she slyly snatched all of the Constantine creams for herself. Sticky-fingered and chattering gleefully, she “accidentally” tore the paper from her tiger before the candles on her stunning, two-tiered birthday cake had been lit.

If I had any lingering doubts about the possibility of love at first sight, they were laid to rest by the look on Rainey’s face when the tiger emerged from his wrappings. Her chattering stopped midstream, and she sank slowly to the ground, as though her knees had gone too weak to support her. A hush fell over the square as people gathered to see what had tamed the tornado.

Rainey stared down at the tiger for what seemed the longest time. Then she looked up, smiling brilliantly, and gazed directly at me.

“Edmund Terrance,” she said, as though answering a question. “His name is Edmund Terrance.”

After that, the afternoon became a blur of birthday games, which Rainey won; birthday cake, which Rainey gorged on; and birthday presents, none of which, I noted complacently, held a candle to Edmund Terrance. The party was beginning to wind down when Peggy Kitchen brought it back to life by mounting Jasper Taxman’s platform and calling for everyone to gather round. I left Bill with the boys, at Rainey’s table, and sidled over to Lilian Bunting, who surveyed Peggy’s performance anxiously.

“My friends,” Peggy boomed, when the crowd had quieted, “it has come to my attention that a valuable historic brochure sort of thing, belonging to the vicar, was stolen from the vicarage last Sunday night.”

Lilian closed her eyes. “Drat Sally Pyne,” she muttered. “I’d like to point out,” Peggy thundered, “that it was the theft, and not my flyer, that caused the trouble that’s been plaguing our village all week.”

Lilian’s mouth fell open. “What can she mean?”

“She doesn’t want to take the blame for stirring everyone up,” I murmured, “so she’s found a conveniently anonymous scapegoat.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to bring the miscreant to justice,” Peggy proclaimed. “If anyone has useful information, you can leave it with me or Mr. Taxman at the Emporium. Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of a scuffle in the vicinity of Rainey’s table. I turned just in time to see the birthday girl pin young Paolo Sciaparelli, one of Francesca’s numerous nephews, to the ground.

“You give it back,” she cried. “It’s meant for Dr. Culver.”

“You’re a liar!” Paolo roared. “You stole it from my aunt!”

Rainey shook the boy until his teeth rattled, then pounced on a small object that dropped from his splayed fist. She sprang to her feet and ran over to stand, panting, before Adrian and Francesca.

“I didn’t steal it,” the little girl insisted. “I found it when I was helping Emma, and I was going to give it to you, Dr. Culver, to put in your museum, only I wanted to keep it for luck in the chariot races.”

“Show me what you’ve found, Rainey,” said Adrian.

Rainey held her hand out flat and I saw that she was holding a bronze medallion identical to the one hanging from the thong around Francesca’s neck.

Francesca snatched the phalera from Rainey’s hand. “Where did you find this?”

Rainey backed away, cowed by Francesca’s grim expression. “On the vicar’s back steps,” she said, “when I was helping Emma carry flowerpots.”

Francesca stared down at the phalera, then whispered, loudly enough for me to overhear, “Annunzia.” She looked up at Adrian. “I must go to Hodge Farm.”

I leaned toward Lilian. “Who’s Annunzia?”

“Annie Hodge, our daily,” Lilian replied. “Her maiden name was Annunziazione Sciaparelli. She’s Francesca’s youngest sister. Annunzia is short for—”

I gripped her arm. “Your cleaning lady is Francesca’s sister? ”

Lilian nodded. “ They’ve been at daggers drawn ever since Burt married Annie.”

I felt the world tilt slightly on its axis. “Francesca’s sister married Burt Hodge?”

“I thought you knew,” said Lilian.

“How could I know? No one ever tells me anything.” I scrambled after Francesca, who was already climbing into the Mercedes. “Wait! You’re not going to Hodge Farm without me! Bill,” I called, as I dashed past Rainey’s table, “look after the boys!”

24.

Hodge Farm sprawled across its hilltop as though washed ashore by the sea of waving grain. Slate-roofed stone barns and graineries mingled with fiberglass machine sheds and rusting outbuildings fabricated from corrugated iron. Hodge Farm, like Finch, was not an artist’s dream of rural beauty. It was a working farm, concerned with substance rather than appearance.

The long drive to the main house was wide and straight, to accommodate the spreading wings of combine harvesters, and broad wagons piled high with baled hay. It ascended the hill, hemmed in by rustling walls of sun-parched barley and ended at a dusty yard littered with farm implements. The farmhouse might have been another barn—no effort had been made to prettify it.

“Why have we come here, Francesca?” Adrian asked, as we pulled into the farmyard. He’d clambered into the Mercedes after me and wedged himself between the boys’ car seats in the back. Francesca hadn’t challenged his right to come along, and I’d been glad of his company. I found her fierce silence unnerving.

Francesca glanced at the phalera in her hand. “My sister may know something about the theft at the vicarage.” She shut off the ignition and turned to me. “Now tell me all about this stolen pamphlet. Be quick about it.”

I had to raise my voice to be heard above the savage barking of a gigantic crossbred dog whose job, apparently, was to hunt down and kill uninvited guests. His huge paws thumped against my window and his howls rang in my ear as I rattled off all I knew about the Gladwell pamphlet. When I’d finished, Francesca nodded grimly, then got out of the car to confront the hound from hell.

“Hush, Caesar,” she muttered.

Caesar hushed.

“Lie down,” she said.

Caesar dropped to the ground.

“Good boy,” she added, striding toward the farmhouse.

Caesar wagged his stubby tail as Adrian and I edged gingerly past him to join our fearless leader on the doorstep.

A man stood in the doorway. He was short and stocky, with curly brown hair, leathery skin, and mild, blue-gray eyes. He wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt and, despite the close weather, a pair of heavy corduroy trousers and work boots. He greeted Francesca warily.

“Afternoon, Francesca.” His blue-gray eyes scanned my face. “Who’re your friends?”

“I’ve not come to see you, Burt,” Francesca said. “My business is with Annunzia.”

“Annie’s resting,” said Burt. “Can’t you come back another time?”

“My business won’t wait.” Francesca brushed the sturdy farmer aside and crossed the threshold. “You tell her to show herself in five minutes, or I’m going after her.”

Burt rubbed the back of his head, then motioned for Adrian and me to follow him into a simply furnished front room. A framed print of the Sacred Heart was the only decoration, and the mantelpiece held nothing but a carriage clock. A pair of Windsor chairs sat on either side of the sagging horsehair sofa that faced the hearth, and a time-darkened table of English oak rested beneath the deep-set window. Francesca looked as out of place in the stark setting as a bird of paradise in a monastic cell.