Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity Digs In

“He’s only gone and given over the schoolhouse to that specky chap. Don’t know what he was thinking, handing it over without asking me first. How am I to run the Harvest Festival without the schoolhouse?”

“Well . . .” I fell silent as Peggy leapt to her feet and began listing what I assumed to be contest categories.

“There’s the Shepherd’s Crooks, the Local Vegetables, the Best Floral Arrangement in a Gravy Boat!” she fretted. “There’s the Photography, the Hand-Spun Fleece, the Wines and Beer! Not to mention the Sponge Fruit Flans and Lemon Bars! Where are we to put ’em all, if we don’t have the schoolhouse?”

“Tables in the school yard?” I ventured meekly.

“No room!” Peggy exclaimed. She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, in a strangled murmur, “Not with the poultry, rabbits, goats, sheep, and ponies. And don’t bother mentioning the square because the Merry Morrismen and the Finch Minstrels’ll be there.” She flung her hands into the air and sagged onto the bench.

“I see your point,” I said, and I meant it. I’d envisioned the Harvest Festival as a sort of al fresco picnic on the square, but Peggy’s plans were more complex than that. The vicar had to have been in a fugue state when he’d snatched the schoolhouse from her—if, in fact, he had. Peggy had a habit of overdramatizing events, but if she’d truly lost the schoolhouse, she had a right to be miffed. Apart from the church it was the largest building in Finch, and the only one suited to the kind of pageant Peggy had in mind.

“Can the vicar give the schoolhouse away, just like that?” I asked.

“It belongs to the church,” Peggy informed me. “Most village schools do. It hasn’t been a proper school for donkey’s years, but it’s still church property. But it’s not whether he can, ” she huffed indignantly, “it’s whether he should. He’s no right to fill my schoolhouse with Scrag End rubbish less than two months before the Harvest Festival. Especially since—” She broke off and gave me a sidelong look. “I’ll tell you something, Lori, and it’s not something I’ve told very many people. As soon as the Harvest Festival is over, I’m leaving Finch. For good.”

I gaped at her in disbelief. “You’re leaving Finch?”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” said Peggy. “My old friend Mr. Taxman tried that already, and I’ll tell you what I told him: I’ve done what I set out to do in Finch. I’ve livened the place up a bit, set a good example for the villagers, and now it’s time for me to move on.”

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“ There’s a village up in Yorkshire called Little Stubbing. Mr. Taxman and I passed through it on a driving holiday last year. It reminded me of the way Finch was before I took it in hand. Little Stubbing needs me, Lori.” She clutched her hands together in her lap. “But I won’t be driven from Finch by that man. He must go!”

I shook my head doubtfully. “I think you’ll have a hard time getting rid of the vic—”

“Not the vicar!” Peggy cried. “ That man! The specky chap! Says he’s from Oxford, but I don’t care if he’s from Windsor. He’s not going to interfere with my festival.” She turned her glittering eyes on me. “And you’re going to see to it that he doesn’t.”

I gulped.

“You’re going to persuade the vicar to turn him out,” Peggy continued, with terrifying composure.

“I don’t suppose you’ve talked things over with the vicar,” I said, with wan hope.

Peggy sniffed. “The Reverend Theodore Bunting and I are not, at present, on speaking terms. And if he thinks I’m going to special-order his finicking tinned prawns after he’s ridden roughshod over a time-honored tradition like the Harvest Festival”—she paused for a breath—“he’s very much mistaken.”

I began backpedaling for dear life. “I’m honored by your faith in me, Peggy, but honestly, I don’t know the first thing about the Harvest Festival. I’ve been kind of busy lately, what with the boys and all, and—”

“That’s exactly what I said to Bill,” Peggy broke in. “ ‘Bill,’ I said, ‘Lori’s the only person in the village who isn’t involved in the festival.’ ”

“You’ve been talking with Bill?” I asked, catching a faint whiff of rat in the air.

“I have, and he pointed out that you’re just the person I’ve been looking for. What did he call you?” Peggy peered upward, squinting slightly through her pointy glasses. “An independent witness. An unbiased observer. An impartial third party.”

“Bill said all that, did he?” I pursed my lips and contemplated life as a single parent.

“I had my doubts,” Peggy assured me, “but Bill laid them to rest. You’ve been on the sidelines, he said, you’ve got no ax to grind. The vicar’s bound to listen to you.” She got to her feet and looked down at me, her mad gaze pinning me to the tree. “So you just trot over to the vicarage and tell Mr. Bunting that unless he wants to special-order his own tinned prawns for the rest of his natural life, he’d best give that specky chap the boot. And I’d thank you not to tell anyone that I intend to leave Finch. I plan to announce my departure at the end of the Harvest Festival.” Peggy nodded affably and left the garden by the side path, puffing like a granny on a rampage.

“That rat,” I muttered between gritted teeth. “That low-down, conniving, flea-bitten—” I spotted two pairs of bright eyes peering at me from the solarium and ceased murmuring sweet nothings about my lord and master.

“You can come out,” I said, beckoning to the Pyms. “She’s gone.”

Ruth emerged first, carrying a cup of tea. “It seemed such an urgent interview . . .”

“. . . we didn’t like to intrude.” Louise came to stand beside her sister. “But we thought you might need a little pick-me-up . . .”

“. . . after your visit with Peggy.” Ruth eyed me sympathetically. “One usually does.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the proffered cup. “If I weren’t breast-feeding the boys, I’d ask for something stronger. Like strychnine.”

Ruth tittered. “Now, Lori, I’m sure it will all . . .”

“. . . work out for the best,” Louise finished.

“Ha.” I slumped against the tree. “Didn’t you hear? I’m an impartial observer. That’s another way of saying ‘inno cent bystander,’ and we all know what happens to them.”

Ruth laid a gloved hand on my shoulder. “I have no doubt that you’ll rise to the occasion. I’m afraid, however, that we must . . .”

“. . . leave you to it,” said Louise. “Do feel free to call on us . . .”

“. . . should you need our help. We wouldn’t want to keep Mrs. Kitchen from her new life in Little Stubbing.” Ruth turned to go.

“Wait!” I cried, nearly spilling my tea. “Do you know anything about this specky—” I was interrupted by the sound of a telephone ringing inside the cottage. A moment later Francesca came out to hand the cordless phone to me.

“It’s the vicar,” she said.

“Oh, Lord . . .” I groaned.

Francesca went back into the cottage, and the Pyms gave me a synchronized finger-flutter before tiptoeing stealthily out of the garden.

“Hullo?” a voice piped in my ear. “Lori Shepherd? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Vicar.” I paused to listen to the familiar cough of the Pyms’ ancient automobile as it putt-putted out of my driveway. Cowards, I thought bitterly. “What’s up?”

“I hardly know how to answer that question.” The vicar sounded a bit dazed. “Would it be at all possible for you to come round to the vicarage? Something’s happened, you see, of a confidential nature. I’d feel much more comfortable in my mind if you were on hand, as it were, to view the scene of the . . . ahem . . .”