Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold

by Nancy Atherton

  Had I been in her shoes, I would have fainted. It’s a remarkable discovery, Lori! What’s it like inside?

  “It’s larger than I thought it would be,” I said. “Whoever carved it out of the stone blocks behind the panels did a fine job, but it would still be a horrible place to hide. I pity the poor priests who had to stay in it for days on end while the priest hunters searched the manor. The cold and the dark would have driven me batty.”

  One can endure many hardships when one’s life is at stake. Has Emma decided what to do with the chapel? Even if she doesn’t wish to open it to the public, she might consider opening it to scholars. Architects as well as historians would stand in line to examine the priest hole.

  “I doubt that she’s thought that far ahead,” I said. “She has something else on her mind at the moment.” I took a deep breath. “The thing is, Dimity, the priest hole wasn’t empty.”

  Oh, dear. You didn’t find human remains in it, did you?

  “We found something a whole lot stranger than human remains,” I said. “We found a Hindu altar, complete with a bronze statue of Parvati.” I could almost see the altar caught in my flashlight’s quivering beam as I recounted the moment my wandering gaze fell upon the vibrant silk cloth, the scattered handfuls of rubies and emeralds, the dried garlands, the statue, the incense burner, the oil lamp, and the extraordinary elephant.

  “Tilly thinks the elephant represents Ganesha,” I said. I was about to explain who Ganesha was, but Aunt Dimity beat me to the punch.

  It would make sense for Parvati to be accompanied by her son.

  “I didn’t realize that you were an expert on Hindu gods and goddesses.” I said, taken aback.

  I’m not an expert, Lori, but when I lived in London, I had many Indian friends, some of whom were kind enough to answer my questions about their religious beliefs.

  “You’ve always had a hungry mind, Dimity,” I observed.

  An attribute we share.

  “My hungry mind is stuffed to the gills at the moment,” I said. “I haven’t even told you about the most stunning artifact we found in the priest hole. Every object on the altar is beautiful, but the pièce de résistance has to be the golden heart that was lying beneath the elephant’s trunk.”

  Is it like the one Bill gave you?

  I put a hand to the heart-shaped locket that hung from a chain around my neck, and replied, “The gold heart we found on the altar is about a hundred times bigger than my locket, Dimity. It’s not a box, and if it’s a paperweight, it’s the world’s most expensive paperweight.”

  Perhaps it’s an objet d’art—a beautiful object that serves no practical purpose.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding, “it’s a sculpture in precious metal. It’s made of solid gold covered in the most exquisitely intricate gold filigree, and it’s easily as big as my fist. Can you imagine?”

  I believe I can, thanks to your vivid description.

  “There’s more,” I said. “Tilly believes the heart was made in India, but when we took it to the kitchen to examine it more closely, she noticed two Roman letters woven into the filigree: a C and an M. The letters reminded Emma of a recipe she found in an old handwritten cookbook a cook left behind at the manor. It’s a recipe for an Indian sweet called besan ladoo, and a note at the bottom of the page explains that it was given to the cook in April 1865 by a Miss Cecilia. Emma thinks that the C and the M on the heart are Miss Cecilia’s initials.”

  Does Emma also believe that Miss Cecilia M. concealed the Hindu altar in the priest hole?

  “It’s one possibility,” I said. “The other is that the altar was created by Albert Anscombe, a Victorian soldier who was stationed in India, and who may have, to use Tilly’s words, nursed a secret—perhaps a forbidden—passion for Cecilia.”

  The theory being that, upon his return from India, Albert Anscombe made the secret altar to commemorate—or possibly to celebrate—his secret love for Cecilia. Since he couldn’t declare his love for Cecilia openly, I would assume that he married someone else.

  “You would assume correctly,” I confirmed. “Albert Anscombe married Miss Georgiana Weldstone of Weldstone Hall in Warwickshire.”

  When I was a child, I heard stories about a sickly major at the manor. I seem to recall Ruth and Louise Pym reminiscing about a handsome young officer whose health was ruined in a foreign land.

  “They must have been speaking of Albert,” I said. “He became so ill in India that he had to leave the army.”

  As I recall, the frail major was something of a braggart.

  “Sounds like Albert,” I said. “According to Kit, Albert Anscombe had a bad habit of embellishing the truth about his military service. I don’t suppose the Pyms mentioned Cecilia while they were reminiscing.”

  I’m afraid they didn’t. The handwriting paused again, then continued at a slower pace, as if Aunt Dimity was turning a notion over in her mind. Did you say that the golden heart was positioned beneath the elephant’s trunk?

  “It was behind the trunk and in front of the forelegs,” I said. “Why? Does its position mean something to you?”

  Perhaps. Ganesha is known as the remover of obstacles. The heart could have been offered to Ganesha by someone asking him to remove an obstacle.

  “I can think of a hundred obstacles to true love,” I said.

  So can I, but parental disapproval was a common one in Victorian times. Albert’s parents may have objected to his alliance with Cecilia, or vice versa.

  “Either way, the offering to Ganesha didn’t work,” I said. “If the remover of obstacles had removed the obstacle, Albert would have married Cecilia. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we, Dimity? We still don’t know who made the altar, or why.”

  Surely you intend to find out.

  “Emma won’t rest until we do,” I said. “I don’t know what’s come over her, Dimity. She practically snarled at me when I pointed out a few flaws in her logic.”

  You were more logical than Emma?

  “Believe it or not, I was,” I said. “What’s more, she was jumping to conclusions all over the place. I felt as if I were arguing with myself.”

  She’s been under a great deal of pressure lately. She prepared the Christmas dinner and presided over the party, but instead of retiring to her comfortable bed at the end of the evening, she was compelled by the ice storm to play hostess to a houseful of overnight guests, one of whom will be staying with her for an indefinite period of time. She may simply be overtired.

  “I get crabby when I’m overtired,” I said. “Emma doesn’t.”

  The altar is in Emma’s home, Lori. She may feel personally responsible for solving the mysteries surrounding it.

  “Yet another source of pressure,” I said, nodding. “I guess I’ll have to be the rational friend this time.” I sighed. “It’s a tall order.”

  I have faith in you, my dear. Has Emma devised a plan of attack?

  “She and Tilly will trawl through the Anscombe family archives to see if they can come up with a lead on Cecilia,” I said. “Lilian Bunting will do the same thing with the church records at St. George’s, and we’ll meet up tomorrow morning to compare notes.”

  What will you do?

  “I’ll be the rational friend,” I said.

  Of course you will. Honestly, Lori, I would have been satisfied with the discovery of the priest hole. To add a hidden Hindu altar and a forbidden love affair is going above and beyond the call of duty. I look forward to hearing the results of your investigation.

  “It’s Emma’s investigation,” I said, “but I’ll do what I can to support her.”

  In the meantime, you’d better get some rest. Emma will need you to be clearheaded tomorrow. Good night, my dear.

  “Good night, Dimity.” I waited until the graceful handwriting faded from the page, closed the journal, and e
yed Reginald doubtfully. “Me? Rational? I guess we’ll just have to hope for a Christmas miracle!”

  Thirteen

  The fog was back on Monday morning, but my indefatigable children rose with the invisible sun. Having hit the sack early, Bill bounced out of bed, singing Christmas carols. Having chatted with Aunt Dimity until midnight, I was a bit less perky.

  Bess’s gummy grin revived me, as did the faint but alluring fragrance of maple syrup. By the time she and I joined Bill and the boys in the kitchen, a pancake breakfast was under way. While Bill filled our plates, I filled him in on everything that had happened at Anscombe Manor the previous day. Since Will and Rob had excellent hearing, I left out the parts about hunting, torturing, and killing human beings and described the priest hole as a place where priests could pray privately. I also made it clear to them that the chapel was strictly off limits for the time being.

  “I’m sure Emma will show you the priest hole one day,” I said, “but until she does, you’re not to set foot in the chapel. Understood?”

  “Sounds dead boring to me,” said Rob. “I’d rather be riding than sitting in a cold old hole.”

  “I’d rather be at the stables than anywhere else in the world,” Will added blithely.

  “So would I,” Rob agreed.

  “Okay, then,” said Bill. “How’s this for a plan? Your mother will take you to the stables, and I’ll take your sister for a ride on the steam train in Winchcombe.”

  “The steam train!” the twins chorused, looking chagrined.

  “We didn’t know about the train,” said Will, sounding as if he regretted his comment about the stables.

  “Santa will be there,” Rob said mournfully, “with presents.”

  “And the train will be all lit up,” Will said, toying listlessly with his pancakes.

  Bill allowed them to grieve while he buttered the stack of pancakes on his plate, then said diffidently, “I don’t suppose you’d like to ride the train with Bess and me, would you?”

  “We would!” the boys answered instantly.

  “We can go to the stables tomorrow,” said Rob.

  “Kit won’t mind looking after Thunder and Storm for just one day,” said Will.

  “It’s settled,” said Bill, pouring a staggering amount of syrup on his pancakes. “We’ll take a train ride and your mother will go to Anscombe Manor.”

  I felt a bit downcast myself. Had Bill informed me of his plans, I would have given Emma a rain check. A ride on the steam train was not a thing to miss at Christmastime.

  “I have four tickets,” Bill said tantalizingly, “and the train doesn’t leave until half past noon.”

  “I’ll be home by twelve,” I said. I reached across the table and squeezed his sticky hand. “You truly are the best of husbands.”

  “I’m not half bad,” he conceded.

  * * *

  —

  THOUGH THE ICE HAD MELTED, the fog was thicker than ever. I left the cottage early because I knew it would take longer than usual to drive to Anscombe Manor. I could just barely make out the tall hedgerows that lined the narrow, twisting lane, and I didn’t see Mr. Barlow’s car until I reached the end of the curving drive. He’d parked it on the graveled apron, but Lilian Bunting’s black BMW wasn’t parked beside it. Unless she’d given Emma a fog check or hitched a ride with Mr. Barlow, I’d beaten her to the manor.

  I crossed paths with Tilly Trout’s suitor in the cobbled courtyard.

  “Morning, Lori,” he said. “I was just leaving. Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said doubtfully as fingers of fog caressed my face. “How’s Bree doing?”

  “She banged her knuckles when she was loosening a bolt on Miss Trout’s car,” he said. “I had to tell her off for cursing, but she behaved herself after that.”

  “What I meant was—” I began, but he cut me short.

  “I know what you meant,” he said, “and she’s doing fine in that department, too. Got a good head on her shoulders, does Bree. It’ll take more than a broken engagement to break her.”

  “Has she talked about Jack?” I asked.

  Mr. Barlow’s eyebrows rose. “Why would she talk about him? Nice lad, but he wasn’t the right lad for her. She needs a chap who’ll stick around, not one who’s flying off to God knows where every five minutes.”

  “Distance doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder,” I observed.

  Mr. Barlow cleared his throat and looked away, then said with exaggerated nonchalance, “Don’t think I’ve told you, Lori, but my sister’s boy is spending Christmas with me this year.”

  “Is he?” I said as my gossip’s antennae began to quiver.

  “Driving in from Birmingham later today,” said Mr. Barlow. “Shouldn’t call him a boy, I suppose. He’ll turn thirty in April.”

  “They grow up so fast,” I said, recalling that Bree would turn twenty-three in March. “Will he bring his wife?”

  “Doesn’t have one,” said Mr. Barlow. “He’s good with cars, though. I’ve a mind to ask him to work on Miss Trout’s.”

  “It’s a big job,” I said, wondering if Mr. Barlow’s nephew was the kind of chap who stuck around. “An extra pair of hands would be useful.”

  “Can’t ever have too much help,” he said, nodding.

  “What’s your nephew’s name?” I asked.

  “Prescott,” Mr. Barlow replied. “Thomas Prescott, but we call him Tommy.”

  “I look forward to meeting Tommy,” I said.

  “Stop by the workshop,” he suggested. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “I will,” I promised, turning the names “Bree Prescott” and “Bree Pym Prescott” over in my mind.

  “Better get back,” said Mr. Barlow. “Good to see you, Lori.”

  “And you, Mr. Barlow,” I said.

  He strode away, whistling a jaunty tune, and I turned toward the kitchen. Before I lifted the latch, however, I gave myself a stern lecture about conclusion jumping. I couldn’t claim to be Emma’s rational friend if I was marrying Bree off to a guy she’d never met, so I reeled in my imagination and refrained from squealing when Mr. Barlow was safely out of earshot. Banishing all thoughts of engagement rings, wedding dresses, and christening gowns from my mind, I lifted the latch and let myself into the kitchen.

  I was immediately confronted by what appeared to be a second role reversal. Emma sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, and Tilly sat beside her, murmuring words of encouragement. A pair of faded gray archival boxes lay before them, unopened and looking the worse for wear.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Emma groaned, and Tilly gave me a significant look. I had no idea what it signified, but I suspected it had something to do with the sad state of the archival boxes. I hung my jacket and shoulder bag on a hook near the door, took a clean mug from the dishwasher, slid into a chair opposite Emma, and poured myself a cup of tea from the portly brown pot on the table.

  “I know I’m early,” I said, “but I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get here.”

  “The fog is dangerously dense,” Tilly remarked.

  “It’s a pea-souper,” I agreed. Sensing her reluctance to discuss the elephant in the room, I continued, “I ran into Mr. Barlow in the courtyard.”

  “He came by to inform me that he was able to order the parts for my car from an automobile supply shop in Upper Deeping,” said Tilly. “He intends to pick them up as soon as the fog lifts.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I said.

  “Indeed,” said Tilly. “I’d never forgive myself if my accident was the indirect cause of another.”

  Since Emma seemed incapable of speech, I decided to go to bat for Mr. Barlow.

  “Mr. Barlow is the most sensible man I know,” I said. “He wouldn’t put his life on the line unless he had to, t
o save someone else’s.”

  “He didn’t hesitate to come to my aid,” she acknowledged.

  “He’s always helping someone,” I told her. “He looks after the whole village. When he’s not replacing broken windows or oiling creaking hinges, he’s mowing the lawn in the churchyard or checking the church roof for leaks. I think of him as Finch’s guardian angel.”

  “He offered to show your church to me,” said Tilly.

  “I’ll bet he didn’t tell you that he’s our sexton,” I said.

  “No,” said Tilly, “he didn’t.”

  “He’s an usher as well,” I said, hoping I wasn’t laying it on too thick. “What he doesn’t know about St. George’s would fit in a thimble. If I were you, I’d take him up on his offer.”

  “I have,” Tilly admitted, blushing prettily. “He’ll come to fetch me at noon.”

  “Be sure to ask him to point out the wall paintings in St. George’s,” I advised. “They’re world famous. Emma’s husband discovered them hidden beneath a layer of plaster applied by a misguided Vic—”

  “Victorian,” Emma broke in despondently.

  “A misguided Victorian vicar,” I said, finishing my sentence. I looked uncertainly from Emma to Tilly. “Have I touched a nerve?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Tilly said gravely.

  “It’s a disaster, Lori,” said Emma, raising her head from her hands. “A complete disaster.”

  “I’ll need a few more details,” I said, “because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about water damage,” she said.

  She opened one of the archival boxes and pushed it across the table. I peered into it and saw a thick, misshapen wad of ink-stained pulp.

  “Oh, no,” I murmured.

  “Oh, yes,” Emma retorted miserably. “It must have happened before we replaced the roof. Derek found some water damage in the library, but I had no idea that it had wiped out the entire Victorian period.”

  A joke about Queen Victoria’s fondness for sea bathing flitted through my mind, but I suppressed it.