Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

I was still at sea. “Do you want me to tell Dr. Culver about the pamphlet?”

Lilian shook her head. “We’ve tried that.”

“He didn’t believe us,” the vicar said. “He’d had a run-in with Mrs. Kitchen, you see, and thought we’d invented the story to appease her. ‘I understand, Padre’ were his precise words. Then he winked at me.” The vicar wrung his hands. “Padre and winks, that’s what it’s come to.”

“ Then what, exactly, do you want me to do?” I looked expectantly from the vicar to his wife.

Lilian refilled my cup. “Do you remember telling us about the fascinating work you used to do for Dr. Finderman?”

I nodded. Dr. Stanford J. Finderman was the curator of the rare book collection at my alma mater back in Boston. I’d scouted books for him in England for a couple of years before the boys were born.

“We wondered if, perhaps, with your connections—and your expertise—you might be able to locate another copy of Mr. Gladwell’s pamphlet,” said Lilian. “Once Dr. Culver has read the pamphlet, I’m certain he’ll . . .” Lilian’s words trailed off as she caught sight of the expression on my face.

I opened and closed my mouth once or twice before managing, in as level a voice as I could muster: “You want me to find one of nine privately printed copies of an obscure piece of Victorian archaeological ephemera?”

“That’s right,” said Lilian.

I gave a weak laugh. “It’s a tall order.”

“All things are possible,” the vicar reminded me.

“Oh, I agree with you, Vicar. Amoebas can turn into apes, given a few million years. But we have less than six weeks.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’ll do what I can, but—”

“Splendid,” said Lilian. “I’ve jotted down everything Teddy and I can remember about the pamphlet to aid you in your search.” She went to the desk, withdrew a red spiral-bound notebook from the center drawer, and held it out to me. “If we think of anything else, we’ll ring you immediately.”

“Okay,” I said, crossing to take possession of the notebook. “But try not to expect instant results. This kind of search can take . . .” I looked into the vicar’s woebegone eyes and finished less than accurately, “a bit longer than six weeks.”

“It mustn’t,” the vicar urged. “Civil war will have broken out by then. And I shall be held responsible.”

Lilian rolled her eyes heavenward and took me by the arm. “I’m sure we’ve kept you from your sons long enough,” she said. “Shall we go out the back way?”

Our exit through the French doors was as unexpected as it was inconvenient. Lilian and I had to descend the short flight of weed-grown stairs in an awkward half crouch to avoid losing an eye to the encroaching rhododendrons. The lawn at the bottom of the stairs was equally treacherous. A dense matting of brambles plucked at my socks and concealed ankle-threatening humps and rabbit holes.

Once we escaped the overgrown shrubbery, though, the view was exceptionally serene. Cloud shadows raced across the open meadow, and the waist-high wild grasses rippled sinuously in the passing breeze.

“How lovely,” I murmured.

“How damp,” Lilian corrected. “Even in the midst of a drought like the one we’re having now, the mist rises like an army of wraiths at night, and the river floods the meadow every spring.” She shook her head at nature’s improvidence, then turned to face me. “About Mr. Gladwell’s pamphlet . . . I wouldn’t dream of calling in the police against Teddy’s wishes, but I’d very much like to learn the identity of our uninvited guest. Would you . . . ?”

I sighed. “Just tell me one thing. Were the French doors open when you were discussing the Gladwell pamphlet?”

Lilian nodded guiltily. “It was such a warm day. It was just before the morning service, as well. Anyone pausing in the lane on their way to church might have overheard us.”

My laughter held a touch of hysteria. “So anyone could have known about the pamphlet, and anyone could have stolen it, since you never lock the French doors.”

Lilian frowned pensively. “I suppose that leaves you with a rather broad field of suspects.”

I pointed toward the river. “Broader than the meadow.” “Well,” she said briskly, “if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Fine,” I said, “but in the meantime . . .” I turned to face the library steps and drew a hand through the air. “Have someone take a machete to this mess. Think of it as camouflage—and get rid of it.”

Lilian pursed her lips. “Point taken.”

As we picked our way carefully toward the front of the vicarage, Lilian reverted to her scholarly persona. “You know,” she said, “Finch isn’t quite as boring as Teddy makes out. The village has its share of interesting quirks. The war memorial, for example, is unique.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“It honors not only the dead,” she replied, “but all those who served, man or woman, in any capacity during either or both of the great world wars. And that . . .” Lilian drew my attention to the house next door, a humble, one-story dwelling built of golden stone and set well back from the lane. “That was the schoolmaster’s house, when Finch had a schoolmaster. The last man to occupy the post was a bit of a lad. If the church records are to be trusted, he fathered half the pupils in his classroom. He was, unfortunately, a bachelor.”

“Wow,” I said. “The PTA meetings must’ve been—” I broke off and stared in the direction of the square. “What’s that noise? It sounds like . . .”

Lilian Bunting’s eyes met mine as we chorused: “Peggy Kitchen.”

“You stay here,” I said. “I’ll go and see what’s happening.”

“Are you certain you want to get involved?” Lilian asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” I told her, with a wry smile. “I’m an impartial observer.”

Peggy Kitchen’s ceaseless roar guided me toward the schoolhouse, where I paused to reconnoiter before advancing. Peering cautiously around the corner, I saw Peggy standing, arms akimbo, behind the paneled van, haranguing the two young people I’d seen earlier.

I studied the young couple closely. They appeared to be no more than twenty. The girl was on the chunky side, with a spiky crop of sun-blond hair and wide-set blue eyes. The boy was taller, leaner, and brown-eyed, with light-brown tresses caught in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. They stood with folded arms, observing Peggy with expressions that hovered dangerously between incredulity and mirth.

“. . . I’ll have the law on you!” Peggy thundered. “You’re ruining my trade, you are! Your infernal racket is frightening my customers!”

“Mrs. Kitchen!” I shouted, abandoning my secure position. “I’ve got important information for you! It’s about that matter we discussed this morning!”

Like a maddened bull distracted by a fly, Peggy stopped her forward charge and looked in all directions before finally focusing in on me. “Well?” she snapped.

I threw caution to the wind and took her by the elbow. “I’ve figured out a way to handle the situation. Come with me.” I shot a meaningful glance over my shoulder as I guided Peggy toward her shop, and the two young people retreated meekly into the schoolhouse.

Peggy was still breathing hard, but the red glow in her eyes had diminished by the time we stopped to talk. “What’s the plan?” she demanded, coming to a halt in the middle of the balding green.

“I can’t discuss the details yet,” I told her, improvising like mad. “I have to consult my husband first.”

“Aha,” said Peggy, brightening. “A legal solution. When can we expect results?”