Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“Moved here?” I said. “I thought she was born here.”

The vicar grunted. “She’s no more Finch-born than we are.”

“ You aren’t from Finch, either?” I said, taken aback.

The vicar and his wife looked at each other and smiled. “We are now,” said Lilian, “but we’ve been here less than a decade. We came to Finch from London. Teddy’s previous parish had become a bit too . . . urban . . . for his nerves, and when a friend offered him this living, he snapped it up.”

“Out of the frying pan . . .” muttered the vicar.

“Now, Teddy,” chided Lilian, “you can’t accuse Finch of being too lively.”

“Dull as ditchwater,” said the vicar, sighing. “Or it was, until Mrs. Kitchen arrived from Birmingham. She bought up old Harmer’s shop and turned it into Kitchen’s Emporium. Then she got herself appointed postmistress. Then she started in on her village-tradition scheme.”

“Garden fetes, morris dancing, sheepdog trials,” said Lilian. “She’s even revived the Women’s Institute. Tea, Lori? There’s chamomile for you and a stronger brew for Teddy. Please, help yourself to a little something while I pour. I’ve made my lemon bars.”

I wasn’t hungry—Francesca had managed to whip up an omelette for me in the midst of the boys’ feeding frenzy—but Lilian’s lemon bars were legendary. While she coaxed her distraught husband into choking down a cheese-and-tomato sandwich, I sampled one of the sweet, tangy treats, and wondered if they would have any competition at the Harvest Festival—assuming the festival took place.

“The thing is,” the vicar said, gazing gloomily into his teacup, “I’ve never been entirely convinced that Finch needs a Harvest Festival.”

“It’s the blessing of the beasts,” Lilian put in. “Teddy isn’t sure who’ll clean the church afterward.”

“I suppose that’s why I forgot about the festival,” the vicar went on. “Wishful thinking. Besides, Adrian swore that he’d be here no longer than three weeks. Yet, not an hour ago, I learned from an Oxford colleague of mine that Adrian is applying for funds to extend the project. If he gets them, he may be here forever!”

At that moment I was glad I hadn’t mentioned Peggy’s plans to move to Little Stubbing. The vicar would resign his post if he knew he was responsible for prolonging Mrs. Kitchen’s reign of terror in Finch.

“You could ask him to leave,” I suggested.

“Out of the question,” said the vicar. “Adrian came here in good faith. I can’t evict a man of his stature because of my own abysmal stupidity.”

“Stupidity?” Lilian clucked her tongue. “You can’t be blamed for wanting to bring something of lasting value to the village.”

“Vanity,” the vicar murmured. “All is vanity.”

“Sit up and drink your tea, Teddy. You’ll feel much better.” Lilian took a sip from her own cup before continuing. “ Teddy thought that Dr. Culver’s excavation might put Finch on the map. It seemed to be the most exciting thing to happen here since 1642.”

“That’s when the Royalists rode through on their way to Warwick Castle,” the vicar intoned. “Nothing’s happened here since.”

“Unfortunately, Teddy forgot to mention Dr. Culver’s plans to me,” Lilian went on.

“November’s such a hectic month,” the vicar murmured.

“It completely slipped Teddy’s mind,” said Lilian. “Most unfortunate, since I so easily could have spared us all a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“How?” I asked, reaching for another lemon bar.

The vicar got up and walked behind his desk to toy with the handles on the French doors. “Lilian’s been writing a history of Saint George’s parish,” he said over his shoulder. “She was going through the old books here in the library last year when she came upon a curiously pertinent pamphlet.”

“It was written by the Reverend Cornelius Gladwell, one of Teddy’s Victorian predecessors,” Lilian explained. “Mr. Gladwell was an amateur—a frustrated amateur, I fear. But he dreamt of becoming a famous archaeologist. He spent years combing the hills around Finch but was poorly rewarded for his troubles.”

“Meanwhile,” said the vicar, “his friends in other parts of the country were uprooting Roman gewgaws right and left. They’d post a piece to him now and then, as a sort of consolation prize.”

“He regarded the gifts as gestures of contempt,” Lilian stated firmly. “In a fit of pique, he buried them, along with pieces he’d purchased, in Scrag End field, hoping to impose his own frustration on some future archaeologist.”

“Cornelius did not possess a charitable nature,” the vicar observed.

“But he did possess a printing press,” said Lilian. “Another of his hobbies. He wrote an account of his prank, printed ten numbered pamphlets, and sent nine of them . . .” She looked toward her husband. “Well, we’re not sure where he sent them, are we, Teddy? Or even if he sent them.”

“Might have burnt them, for all we know,” said the vicar.

“We do know that he kept the tenth copy for himself,” said Lilian, “because I read it last year, while I was doing research for my little history. When Dr. Culver and his team arrived in Finch yesterday morning, I showed the pamphlet to Teddy.”

“It seemed unkind to dash the man’s dreams on a Sunday,” said the vicar, “but I intended to bring the pamphlet round to the schoolhouse first thing this morning.” He turned to point accusingly at his blotter. “I left it there, in the center of my desk, so I wouldn’t forget to bring it with me.”

“I saw him put it there,” Lilian added.

“But when I came in after breakfast, the pamphlet had vanished. Lilian hadn’t touched it, nor had I. Annie, our charlady, stopped by for her wages on Sunday, but she wasn’t here above five minutes. We can only assume, therefore . . .” The vicar rattled the door handles again. “ They must’ve got in through here. We never lock these doors. Leave ’em open most days when the weather’s fine. Never thought twice about it. It’s never been necessary.”

I was staring at the vicar’s back in amazement. “Do you mean to tell me that you had proof that Dr. Culver’s big find is a hoax?”

“Printed proof,” Lilian confirmed. “The pity of it is that if Dr. Culver knew that he was the victim of a practical joke, I think he would just pack up and go home.”

“And you think someone stole Cornelius Gladwell’s pamphlet?” I said.

“There’s no other explanation,” the vicar replied. “Though I can’t comprehend why anyone would be willing to risk his immortal soul by thieving on the Lord’s Day.”

I drained my cup and wished for the second time in as many hours for something more bracing than herbal tea. “Incredible,” I said. “A burglary at the vicarage and an archaeological swindle, right here in Finch. Do you want me to find out who took the pamphlet?”

The vicar staggered as though someone had shoved him. “Good heavens, no!” he cried. “Anything but that!”

5.

Was it my imagination, or had Adrian Culver unearthed an ancient virus that was making everyone in Finch hysterical? I looked uncertainly at Lilian, who’d led her husband back to his armchair and was fanning him with a sheaf of Harvest Festival flyers.

“Don’t you want to know who robbed you?” I asked.

“I don’t want it known that we’ve been robbed!” the vicar exclaimed.

Lilian placed the flyers on the mantelshelf. “ The village is already divided into warring factions because of the schoolhouse. One camp is foursquare behind the excavation, the other is rooting for the festival. It’s Dr. Culver versus Mrs. Kitchen, I’m sad to say, and Teddy doesn’t wish to intensify the acrimony by sowing seeds of suspicion.”