Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

So that it would match the cottage in the story, I mused silently, offering Emma another cookie and taking one for myself.

“But the rest was mine,” Emma continued, “and it was heaven. Derek was as happy as I was. He loved the challenge Dimity threw at him: rebuild the cottage, expand it, update it, but keep its soul intact. It was the biggest project he’d ever undertaken and it seemed to get bigger as he went along. Dimity would stop by once a month, each time with another suggestion to make. Derek began referring to the cottage as our own private Winchester House.

“But during that whole time, we never knew why Dimity was doing it. We thought at first she might move in permanently, but she just shook her head when we mentioned it. We doubted that she’d ever sell it, so what was the point? There it stood, like… like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her handsome…Lori? Are you okay?”

I finished choking on my cookie and took a swallow of tea. “Yes, of course. Please, go on.”

“Just before Dimity died, we ran into all sorts of problems with the project. Building materials weren’t delivered on time, the ones that arrived were substandard, and some of the workmen decided to disappear when the weather turned ugly. It drove Derek mad. Dimity was quite ill by then and he had his heart set on finishing the work before she died. Dimity called it the ultimate deadline.” Emma began to smile, then stopped and blushed self-consciously. “I’m sorry. That must seem heartless. But if you’d known Dimity…”

“I can imagine,” I said. “It’s a good line. I’ll bet she thought it was funny.”

“She had a wonderful sense of humor. And she never worried about whether the cottage would be finished in time or not. She arranged it so that Bill’s father would oversee the financing of the renovation after her death and she told Derek to do the best possible job and not to worry—if she didn’t see it then, she’d see it… later.”

“Little did you know….” I murmured.

Emma nodded. “Her attitude helped Derek cope with the fact that she died before the renovation was complete. But that’s not all that helped.” Emma rested her chin on her hand, a puzzled expression on her face. “We didn’t notice it at first, but gradually everything about the project began falling into place. Derek said he didn’t think he could hit his thumb with a hammer if he tried. And the garden!” Her voice was filled with wonder. “I’d drop a seed on the ground and I could almost watch it take root. But, as I said, we didn’t notice. We just went along from day to day, feeling very proud of our progress.

“Which may explain why the accident happened. Or rather—didn’t happen. Perhaps we had become overconfident and careless. Whatever the reason, Derek dropped his welding torch in a pile of paint-soaked rags. They should have gone up in smoke and taken the cottage with them, and Derek, too.” She tightened her hold on her teacup. “But nothing happened! Nothing. Derek ran out into the garden to find me and I went back inside with him to see. There wasn’t so much as a scorch mark anywhere.

“We were both shaken up, and as we sat there that afternoon, we began to remember all sorts of things that we had dismissed as they were happening, little things—warped boards that straightened overnight, tools that were always at hand when we needed them, boxes of nails that never seemed to run out—all sorts of things that we could explain in all sorts of ways, except when we added them up. When we did that, we had to admit that, as impossible as it seemed, something—or someone—was… helping us. I thought it sounded preposterous, until Derek reminded me of an even stranger experience we’d had in an old chapel in Cornwall. In the end, I was forced to agree that something extraordinary was taking place.”

It sounded so familiar; all the little, easily explained happenings that added up to something inexplicable. I realized that I was sitting there with my mouth hanging open, so I closed it, then said, “Well, at least she’s a friendly ghost.”

Emma laughed. “Yes, we were pretty sure we knew who was helping, but we didn’t know why.”

“Until Bill’s father called you.”

“Almost a year after Dimity died, the cottage was as complete as we could make it. Soon after that, Mr. Willis contacted us to ask us to get it ready.” Emma stood and rummaged through another shelf on the dresser until she found a tin tea caddy similar to the one at the cottage. Prying off the lid, she sat down again. “The day before you arrived, I went over to the cottage to stock the pantry. In the middle of the kitchen table I found this.” She pulled from the caddy a single piece of pale blue stationery. The note read: Thank you. By then I knew the handwriting as well as I knew my own.

“I can see now why you wanted to warn me,” I said.

Emma put the note back in the caddy and returned the caddy to the shelf, giving me a sidelong look. “Our motives weren’t entirely selfless. If all of that had happened to the bit players, we couldn’t wait to see what would happen to the star. I take it that there have been further developments?”

“You could say that.” I reached for the manila envelope.

* * *

Because of her previous experiences, Emma took the story of Reginald and the journal in stride. She was far more intrigued by my mother’s account of Dimity’s collapse.

“That’s a new one on me,” she said. “Dimity never breathed a word about it to us, and if anyone in Finch knew of it, I’m sure we would have heard by now. As for the location of the clearing… I think I may be able to help you there. I discovered orienteering when I moved to England. It’s taught me the value of recognizing landmarks.” She noticed my blank expression and explained, “It’s a kind of cross-country race, using a map and compass.”

“Is that what Derek meant when he said you were always off roaming the countryside?” I asked.

“I’m afraid my husband doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the sport,” she replied. “But Peter and Nell and I belong to a club in Bath. It frequently holds meets in this area.” She pointed to one of the distant hills in the photograph. “It’s hard to say for sure—places like this change so much over the years—but I think… I think that’s the ridge Peter fell from last summer. No damage done, but it took a while to get him back up to the top. We came in last that day. Let me get some of my maps and—”

“Will this do?” I offered her the topographic map.

“Oh, yes, that will do nicely,” said Emma. “Now, let me see….” Her eyes darted back and forth from the photo to the map, as her finger moved along the curving lines. “They have contests like this in the orienteering magazines,” she commented. “I must say that I never expected to…” Her finger stopped. “I think… yes, that has to be it. I should have recognized it right away. It’s much steeper and more heavily wooded than most of the hills around here. It’s called Pouter’s Hill.”

“It’s right behind the cottage?”

“It’s part of the estate,” Emma explained. “I’ve never been up there myself, but it’s the correct orientation to give you this view of those hills.”

“Is that a path?” I asked, touching a broken line that ran up the hill.

“Yes,” said Emma. “It starts on the other side of the brook out back.” She pointed. “Here. From the way it’s marked I’d say that it was pretty rough going. I wouldn’t try it today if I were you.”

“Just knowing where it is is enough for now.” I started as a cold nose nudged my hand. Ham had come to claim a reward for his good behavior and he’d certainly earned it, curled patiently on his blanket while the humans had chattered endlessly. “Hello, you sweet thing.” I scratched behind his ears and glanced at Emma for permission to give him a treat from the table.