Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“I have a . . .” Mr. Wetherhead quailed as all eyes focused on him, but he gripped his cane tightly and went on. “. . . a train collection. Lori thought it might be nice to let folks have a look at it during the Harvest Festival, but I’d be glad of your opinion, Mrs. Kitchen.”

“If you’re in need of a fortune-teller,” Miranda piped up, “look no further.”

The vicar added his voice to the chorus. “I’m so looking forward to the beast blessing,” he said, with more charity than honesty. “I can think of nothing more inspira tional than to welcome Buster, Grog, and Caesar to Saint George’s.”

It took Peggy a full minute to find her voice, but when she did, it had a familiar ring. “Don’t be stupid, Vicar. Caesar’s an RC, just like the Hodges.” She brushed the back of her hand impatiently across her eyes and put her glasses on. “But perhaps Annie and Burt would be kind enough to enter Caesar in the dog show. I’ll invite them personally. Come along, Jasper. There’s so much to do.” She held a hand out to Mr. Taxman. “And only a bloody fool would think that I could do it without you.”

Mr. Taxman’s sunken chest expanded until his buttons nearly burst. He drew himself up to his full, though average, height, then sank to one knee and pressed his lips to Peggy’s proffered hand. Until that moment, I hadn’t truly believed him capable of a crime passionnel, but his gallant gesture chased all doubts away. Jasper Taxman might be an unlikely hero, a nondescript knight in dull brown armor, but I’d learned long ago that handsome princes came in all shapes and sizes.

Peggy rose to her feet. Her mad eyes sparkled with a new and lovely light as she turned sideways to maneuver down the aisle. “I’ll be by first thing tomorrow morning to have a look at these trains of yours, Mr. Wetherhead. And you know about fortune-telling, do you, Mrs. Morrow? It’ll cost a packet to buy a gypsy tent, but it might be worth it. What do you think, Jasper? Can we raise enough money by August to pay for a tent and goat-cart races? I’m sure Sally won’t mind donating the food.”

Sally’s squawk of protest shook the gray metal shelves, but Peggy forged ahead. I had no doubt that she’d whip her volunteers into shape, and by August they’d be almost glad she had.

I sipped my tea and settled the blue journal on my lap. Bill was reading stories to Rob and Will in the living room, and Francesca was at the schoolhouse, helping Adrian prepare a lecture on the many uses of sweet-chestnut flour. The rain continued to fall steadily, spattering the windowpanes and drumming on the roof. The study was comfortably warm and dry, but I’d lit a fire in the hearth, for the pure pleasure of watching the flames dance.

“It’s funny, Dimity. I wasn’t all that crazy about Finch in its natural state, but I think I’m going to miss the old wreck, now that Peggy’s decided to fix it up.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t have told her about the man in Labrador.

“It just slipped out. When Lilian said that there were more than a hundred Gladwell pamphlets in the wooden box, I couldn’t help remembering Stan’s joke about the Lamborghini. Lilian mentioned it to Jasper Taxman, and one thing led to another. . . .”

Peggy had asked me to stick around while she placed her long-distance call to Labrador, but she hadn’t needed my help to negotiate the sale of the pamphlets. She could have given Stan a few tips on playing hardball. When I’d left the shop, she and Mr. Taxman had been laying out plans to resod the village green, relay the cobbles on the square, and steam-clean the limestone facades on all of the buildings.

“By the time she’s done spending money on Finch,” I said, “she’ll be lucky to have enough left over to pay for a marriage license.”

How is Jasper holding up?

“Splendidly,” I said. “He called her Peggy the other day, and asked her politely never to mention Little Stubbing again. He’s getting to be a regular tyrant.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a knight fighting battles for a dragon.

“Peggy’s a handful,” I agreed. “But maybe you need someone like Peggy to move the rest of us along.”

You seem to have made that clear to Sally Pyne and the others.

“I suppose I did,” I said ruefully, “but I had no right to lecture them. I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to get involved in my community.”

You’ve been awfully busy with the twins.

“Yes, and what have I been teaching them?” I asked. “How to stay at home and ignore your neighbors? It’s not good enough, Dimity.”

It’s easy to live in a place. It takes hard work to belong. I assume you’re ready for some hard work?

“Not just me,” I told her. “Finch is a family affair. Bill’s putting on his dancing shoes if I have to hold a gun to his head.”

You’re more like Peggy Kitchen every day.

I laughed.

And what will you be doing while Bill dances?

I counted on my fingers. “Selling off my parenting magazines to raise money for the church roof fund, helping Mr. Barlow with the chariot races, entering the twins in the Cutest Baby contest, judging the Floral Arrangements Around a Stuffed Animal competition, and baking a blue-ribbon batch of lemon bars.” I looked down at the journal. “Well? Do I sound like a true villager?”

A true villager wouldn’t go within ten yards of a Cutest Baby contest. I’ve known riots to break out after the judging.

“But I’m absolutely positive the boys will win,” I insisted.

Now you sound like a true villager. There was a pause, and a soft, sighing breeze made the flames sway and flicker. How I wish I could be there with you.

“You know what, Dimity?” I took another drink of tea and stared reflectively at the fire. “I think that can be arranged.”

Epilogue

Finch glowed like old gold on green velvet. The late-summer sun flowed like honey across the freshly scrubbed stonework and glinted from each blade of grass on the lush, emerald lawn. I sat at my Union Jack-bedecked table in front of Bill’s office, with my bundles of parenting magazines and my small tin of coins, and marveled at the changes Peggy had wrought. The empress had made a small fortune from the sale of the Gladwell pamphlets, and she’d invested every penny of it in Finch. Thanks to her, the green was finally living up to its name and the cobbles fringing the square were so smooth and straight that even Mr. Farnham could totter across them unaided.

Emma sat beside me, in a wicker armchair I’d brought from my back garden, and watched while I laboriously totted up my accounts. The sales figures were pathetic—there simply wasn’t much demand for parenting magazines in a village full of retirees.

Annie Hodge had purchased three bundles, and Rainey’s mother four more, but they’d done so at the behest of Peggy Kitchen, who’d made it her business to see that every facet of the festival had its share of success, however modest. I was grateful for the pity purchases, but they wouldn’t do much to swell the church roof fund. My takings would scarcely cover the cost of a cupful of slate nails, unless Derek got them wholesale.

Emma looked closely at the columns of numbers I’d penciled in my ledger, then reached over to shake the tin. “I hope no one does an audit,” she commented, “because if I didn’t know you were scrupulously honest, I’d swear you were cooking your books.”

“This is one book I have no intention of cooking.” I lifted the ledger from the table and gave Emma a glimpse of the smooth blue-leather binding. “Like the disguise?”

Emma nearly fell off of her chair. “Is that . . . ?”