Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

Burt and Annie moved together to the window, as if to make sure that their unwelcome guest had departed, then stood in silence, with their backs toward me. I wanted nothing more than to leave them in peace, but there were too many questions still to be answered.

I cleared my throat. “Annie,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and your sister, but I promised the vicar that I’d try to find out who stole the pamphlet from his library.”

“I didn’t take it,” Annie said.

“But your bronze medallion was found on the library steps,” I pointed out.

“The thong broke a couple of weeks ago. I showed it to Mrs. Bunting at the time. I expect the phalera fell off when I was sweeping out the library.” Annie turned to face me. “I never wanted Dr. Culver to stay. Francesca’s wrong about that.”

“Why have you been watching Scrag End field?” I asked. “Dr. Culver saw you—one of you—up here with binoculars.”

“I asked Burt to keep an eye on Francesca,” Annie told me. “My sister’s spending too much time at Scrag End. I’d never betray Papa, but Francesca might, if she fell in love with Dr. Culver.”

Francesca, too, had spoken of betrayal. She’d accused Annie of planning to sell Papa’s soul for forty pieces of silver. “I don’t understand,” I said. “How would Francesca betray your father by falling in love with Adrian?”

“You’ll have to ask Francesca.” Annie faced the window and peered up at the sky. “Wind’s rising,” she observed. “I’d say there’ll be rain before morning.”

“Please God.” Burt’s arm slipped around Annie’s waist. “One good soak’ll save the barley.”

It was as if a door had closed between us. They would answer no more questions. They wanted me to go. I left the farmhouse quietly, though my thoughts spun as restlessly as the wisps of hay twirled by the freshening breeze. Why were the two sisters so worried about Adrian Culver?

Adrian was sitting on the hood of the Mercedes, his feet braced on the bumper, his elbows on his knees. Francesca was nowhere to be seen.

“She’s back there, somewhere,” he said, motioning toward the farm buildings behind the house. “She told me not to follow her. She said she needed to be alone.” He rubbed his forehead worriedly. “Did you know about her father?”

“Some of it,” I said. “Not all.”

Adrian slid off of the hood. He took a few hesitant steps toward the outbuildings, then turned back to me. “Go to her, will you? Someone should be with her, and she won’t talk to me.”

I entered the complex of stone sheds, pens, and byres, softly calling Francesca’s name. A few windows were lit in the farmhouse, but the outbuildings were thronged in shadow. Dusk was moving in and the steady breeze brought a few spatterings of rain. I shuddered as cool droplets splashed my arms, and wondered what the farm would be like when winter winds came chasing up the hill to hurl themselves against the stone walls.

I somehow managed to wend my way outside the maze of buildings, to a spot overlooking the wide fields. I picked out the vague shape of Saint George’s tower, an oblong smudge against the darkening sky, and the blurry curve of trees where Scrag End lay. When the rain began in earnest, I darted back to shelter in the doorway of a dark and disused stable.

Since my search had proven fruitless, I put my head down and prepared to make a dash back to the car. Then I heard a soft growl. I froze midbreath, too terrified to flee, until I heard, more softly still, the words Hush, Caesar.

I slowly turned to peer inside the stable and from the corner of my eye saw a dim halo of light near the floor of the stall farthest from the door. I crept forward until I saw Francesca, outlined by the indeterminate glow of a shuttered lantern.

She knelt with one arm draped over Caesar’s massive back, gazing pensively into the stall. She and the dog were surrounded by debris—boards, flagstones, scraps of burlap sacking. Her hands were filthy; her hair spilled in auburn waves down her back and hung in tendrils over her damp forehead. Despite her red-rimmed eyes, she seemed composed.

Caesar’s ears twitched, but he didn’t reiterate his warning as I came closer. Francesca seemed wholly self-absorbed. I stepped over a loose board and around a tilted flagstone, leaned forward to peer into the stall, and felt my pulse quicken.

The light from the shuttered lantern danced across an elaborately carved stone slab. The slab’s rosette-filled border framed a bas relief of a mounted Roman soldier riding victoriously over a fallen barbarian. The high-stepping horse seemed to prance in the flickering light, the soldier’s lance to plunge nearer his enemy’s throat.

A panel beneath the bas relief contained a Latin inscription. I knew enough of the ancient tongue to attempt a rough translation. “Marcus Petronius,” I read aloud, “son of Lucius, of the Menenian tribe; from Vicenza; a soldier of the Fourteenth Legion; he lies here.” I looked at Francesca uncertainly.

“Papa found the gravestone many years ago, when he was fixing the drainage in here for old Mr. Hodge.” Francesca’s deep-throated murmur twined with the drum of the pouring rain. “Pietro was my father’s proper name, and Petronius is Pietro, in Latin. Papa’s village was in the Berici Mountains above Vicenza, where Petronius was born. And both men were soldiers far from home. When my father found Petronius’s grave, it was as if he’d found a brother.”

I sank to the floor and put my hand on Caesar’s warm neck. “Did he tell Mr. Hodge about it?”

“How could he?” Francesca asked. “Mr. Hodge would’ve told the world. Then the experts would’ve come round, poking and prying and digging up Petronius’s bones.”

“And your father wanted Petronius to rest in peace,” I said.

Francesca nodded slowly. “ That’s why Petronius let my father find him. Fools like your Mr. Gladwell looked high and low, but Petronius waited for someone like Papa, someone who would protect him, guard him, make sure no one disturbed his resting place.” Francesca lifted the lantern and held it closer to the bas relief, to illuminate a carved medallion on the soldier’s breastplate.

“Your phalera, ” I murmured. “It’s a copy of Petronius’s.”

“Papa gave me the bronze phalera when Burt and I became engaged.” Francesca placed the lantern on the floor. “I was supposed to marry Burt and become Petronius’s guardian.”

“But Burt fell in love with Annie,” I said, “and the job went to her.”

“I refused to give up my phalera, ” said Francesca, “so Papa made another—the one Rainey found at the vicarage.” She hesitated, then went on steadily. “I thought Annunzia might have stolen the pamphlet to keep Adrian nearby.”

The faint light of understanding began to shimmer. “You thought Annie would show the grave to Adrian, if the harvest failed. You thought she might make enough money from the find to carry the farm through to next year.”

“I don’t think it anymore.” Francesca brushed a tendril of hair back from her damp forehead. “Hearing Mrs. Kitchen made me see that I’ve been angry with Annunzia for far too long. It’s no good, holding grudges. It makes you blind and stupid.”

“Just like Mrs. Kitchen,” I put in.

Francesca managed a rueful smile. “After I came out here and had a think, I realized that Annunzia loved Papa as much as I did. She’d never betray his secret.”

“She’s worried that you might,” I said gently.

Francesca’s rueful smile faded. “Yes,” she said, her dark eyes clouding over. “It’s no good, keeping secrets from your husband.”