Aunt Dimity Digs In ad-4

by Nancy Atherton

  “From the sky,” I echoed solemnly.

  “That’s when I saw ’em,” Christine continued, “just for a minute, mind. They were lit up from behind, then they were gone—poof—lights and all. I think they found out I was watching and hoped to lure me closer, so they could suck me up into their ship and perform experiments on me.”

  I decided that a knowing nod would be my best response. Dick stared at his hands and said nothing. As his wife had become more animated, he’d become more subdued. He hadn’t once looked over at the new sign.

  “Did you hear anything?” I asked.

  Christine frowned. “I thought I heard a sort of chuffing noise just before the sky lit up, but it was hard to tell, with the river so near and all.”

  “You must have gotten close enough to see their faces,” I said.

  “I did not,” Christine declared. “I got out of there as fast as Grog could trot. Came straight back to the pub and locked the door behind me. Aliens can be dangerous, you know. I’ve read all about ’em.”

  “But if you didn’t see their faces,” I said, looking past her at the sign, “how do you know what they looked like?”

  “Everyone knows what aliens look like,” she replied. “The papers are full of ’em.”

  The papers were full of something, I thought, and it wasn’t aliens.

  “It all happened just before midnight,” Christine continued.

  “Before midnight?” I repeated.

  “About fifteen minutes before,” Christine said. “I know, ’cause I looked at the clock when I came in. I tried to rouse Dick, but he was dead to the world.”

  “Chris told me about it next morning,” Dick said quietly, “and took me over to have a look at the vicarage meadow.”

  “And there it was,” Christine crowed. “A circle of bent grass, where the alien ship had landed.”

  “It must’ve been an awfully small alien ship,” Dick put in, “because the circle wasn’t more than ten feet across.”

  “Size doesn’t matter,” Christine insisted. “ They’ve got powers.” She folded her arms obstinately. “I know what I saw, Richard Peacock. What’s more, I know that we’re going to make a packet out of the little green buggers when word gets out that they’ve been to Finch. Our Martin’ll have a good job waiting for him here. He’ll want to come home.”

  Grog whimpered urgently and Christine got to her feet. “Time for walkies,” she said. “You won’t tell anyone but Bill about this, will you, Lori? I want it to come as a surprise. I can’t wait to see Sally Pyne’s face when she sees she’s missed the boat.”

  Pity flooded through me as I watched Christine fetch Grog’s leash from under the bar and lead him out into the square, whistling a jaunty tune. I gazed sadly at the dreadful sign and waited for Dick to break the silence his wife had left behind.

  Wordlessly, he opened the tin of lemon bars and offered me first choice. He took one for himself but left it lying untasted on the table while he stared down, nudging crumbs this way and that with a fingertip.

  He spoke almost apologetically. “She wants him to come home so badly, you see.”

  “I can understand that,” I said.

  “Can you?” Dick folded his hands across his waistcoat and pursed his lips. “I wonder. You and Bill are just starting out.You’ve got your boys at home and you can’t imagine it ever being any different. But the day’ll come when they’ll be off, when they’ll be too busy to call or write or visit.” He nodded patiently. “It’s the way of things. Children’re supposed to grow up and have their own lives. They’re supposed to stop needing you.” He lifted his gaze to the framed photograph. “But you never stop needing them. And that’s a fact.”

  I looked away, unable to bear the hunger in Dick’s eyes. It doesn’t have to be that way, I told myself. No one is too busy to pick up a telephone, not even a big-shot army officer.

  “Doesn’t Martin ever come to see you?” I asked.

  “He’s been home ten times in twenty years,” Dick answered. “It’s not his fault,” he added quickly. “The army’s sent him all over the world—Singapore, India, South America. He’s in England, now, though. We’d hoped to lure him home with the Harvest Festival, until Dr. Culver showed up. From what we’ve heard, the festival don’t stand a chance against the likes of him. That’s why Chris . . .” He glanced at the sign and fell silent.

  I gazed at him steadily. “Do you believe that Christine saw aliens in the vicarage meadow on Sunday night?”

  “Chris saw what she wanted to see.” Dick lifted the lemon bar to his lips and took a surprisingly dainty nibble. “She’s right about one thing, though,” he added, brushing crumbs from his goatee. “Once word gets out that the little buggers’ve visited Finch, the crowds’ll come all right. Nutters ’n’ fruitbats, every one. Our Martin won’t come within fifty miles of ’em. Or a pub named after ’em. He’s got his rank and reputation to consider.” Dick’s second bite was larger than his first. Three-quarters of the lemon bar disappeared in one chomp.

  “What if the Harvest Festival were to go on as planned?” I asked. “Would Martin visit you then?”

  “He promised his mother he would,” said Dick. “But there’s not much chance of that, is there? Not with Dr. Culver parked in the schoolhouse.” He polished off what remained of his lemon bar and reached into the tin for another. “It’s a pity,” he added, “because you know a thing or two about baking. I’m not saying you’d win a blue ribbon, Lori, but you’d give Lilian Bunting a run for her money. And that’s a fact.”

  The sound of hammering smote my ears as I emerged from Peacock’s pub. Mr. Taxman was nailing a scalloped swath of red-white-and-blue bunting to the edge of a wooden platform that had risen from the cobbles in front of Kitchen’s Emporium. A handful of spectators, full of bantering advice, were silenced by the discordant jangle of sleigh bells as the Emporium’s front door swung open and Peggy Kitchen strode forth.

  Peggy’s encounter with the bishop had done nothing to quench the fire in her eyes. She paused to survey Mr. Taxman’s handiwork, tweaked the bunting to straighten a few wrinkles, then began distributing sheets of familiar harvest-gold paper from a stack cradled in one arm, exhorting each recipient to “Stand and be counted!” The flock bleated submissively, then scattered. Within minutes the square was deserted, save for Peggy, Mr. Taxman, and me.

  Peggy waved me over, but I was already on my way. I hadn’t forgotten her attempt to blacken Francesca’s reputation.

  “Grand, isn’t it?” Peggy boomed, thrusting a flyer in front of my face. “Jasper’s done a fine job. Knows how to put words to paper, that man does. Listen:

  HEAR YE! HEAR YE!

  CITIZENS OF FINCH!

  Ye are herebye called to attend

  A RALLY!

  Defend your village from the Onslaughts of Outsiders!

  Show your support for Time-Honored Traditions!

  DON’T LET THE BISHOP DICTATE VILLAGE POLICY!

  Raise your voices in a righteous cause!

  Sunday Noon on the Square

  For God hath not given us the spirit of fear,

  but of power.

  —II Timothy 1:7

  “Rousing, that’s what I call it,” said Peggy, her mad eyes glinting behind her pointy glasses. “Just the ticket to grab folks by the guts, don’t you think?”

  The new flyer closely resembled the one announcing Peggy’s petition, but it evoked in me a quite different set of emotions. Four days ago, I’d been afraid of Peggy Kitchen. Now I found myself, perversely, cheering her on. Peggy was a brawler and a bully, and her manners made me want to kick her shins, but I couldn’t fault her tenacity, or her willingness to work for what she wanted. It would take a bigger man than the bishop to knock Peggy Kitchen down for the count.

  “It’s very nice,” I acknowledged stiffly. “However—”

  “I know Bill’s working hard on the legal end of things,” she said, “and I know you’ve ordered that nanny of yours to whittle
away at Dr. Culver’s willpower, but we need to get the villagers worked up, as well.”

  “Peggy,” I said sternly, “you have no right to talk about Fran—”

  “I’ll admit,” she conceded, “that I misunderstood your plan, at first, but Derek Harris set me straight. It’s dead clever, Lori, throwing that woman at Dr. Culver’s head to distract him while we cut the ground out from under him.”

  I shook my head in vigorous denial. “ That’s not—” “Credit where credit is due.” Peggy swept an arm through the air to encompass the entire square. “We’ll march down here directly after church on Sunday. Jasper’ll do the introductions, I’ll say a word to get the troops wound up, then you’ll speak your piece and touch their hearts.”

  “Me?” I wheezed.

  “Picture it,” said Peggy, framing the platform with an outstretched hand. “ The little mother, clutching her babes to her meager breast, pleading for a chance to show her young ones the ways of her ancestors.”

  “But I’m not even English!” I exclaimed. “And my breasts aren’t—”

  “Your husband’s got English relations,” Peggy countered, “and that’s close enough. You’ll see. It’ll go down a treat on Sunday. If we can’t force the bishop to change his mind, we’ll shame him into it. Must run.” She patted the stack of flyers, pivoted in place, and strode purposefully toward Saint George’s Lane.

  For a moment the square was as still as a battlefield in the wake of an artillery barrage. I sensed a dozen fearful eyes peering from shop windows while a dozen lungs began to breathe again. Gradually, the tide of life resurged. Birds recommenced their interrupted chirping, Mr. Taxman resumed his hammering, Mr. Barlow tossed another rubber ball, and Buster gladly chased it. On the whole, I thought, as Christine and Grog crept furtively from behind the war memorial, the citizens of Finch would probably prefer an alien invasion to a run-in with Peggy Kitchen on the square.

  “What’s going on, Jasper?”

  I snapped to attention and nearly licked my chops because the question had been uttered by none other than my prime suspect. Sally Pyne was walking gingerly toward Kitchen’s Emporium, as though to minimize each necessary knee bend.

  Despite constant dieting, Sally Pyne remained steadfastly grandmother-shaped. Her body was close to the ground and amply cushioned, custom designed to scoop grandkids off their feet and envelop them in suffocating hugs. She had a round, determined chin and wore her silver hair in a short but stylish chop. She’d dressed for the day in a queen-sized royal-blue tracksuit and thick-soled purple running shoes, an ensemble selected, I suspected, to coddle joints stiffened by a damp and damning night’s work, burgling the vicarage.

  “Sally,” I said, with a show of heartiness. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  “In a minute, Lori.” Sally hobbled past me to address a second question to Mr. Taxman. “Now, Jasper, what’s all this about a rally on Sunday?”

  “See for yourself.” Mr. Taxman picked up a flyer from a small stack Peggy had left on the platform and handed it to the frowning Mrs. Pyne.

  Sally mumbled her way through the text, growing paler with each exclamation point. Then she crumpled the flyer into a ball and tossed it expertly into the center of the platform. “It’s off,” she snapped.

  “Pardon?” said Mr. Taxman.

  Sally Pyne gave a good impression of an armored tank as she squared off in front of Peggy Kitchen’s suitor.

  “You tell Mrs. Kitchen that if she dares create a disturbance on the square this coming Sunday, I will personally see to it that she’s covered, head to toe, with rotten eggs.”

  Mr. Taxman smoothed his brown tie. “But why?” he inquired.

  Sally glared at him ferociously. “Because, you nitwit, Sunday’s my granddaughter’s birthday! And the grand opening of the Empire tearoom!”

  17.

  Bill and I sought sanctuary in the study. I sat huddled on the ottoman, with Bill behind me in the tall leather armchair nearest the door. Francesca, Will, and Rob were taking a turn in the back garden, working up an appetite for lunch.

  “If I had to guess,” Bill murmured, kneading my shoulders, “I’d say that you didn’t speak with Sally about her whereabouts on Sunday night.”

  “I panicked and ran,” I confessed miserably. “All I could think about was standing next to Peggy on that platform, covered in rotten eggs. What am I going to do, Bill? If I don’t go to the rally, Peggy’ll kill me, and if I do go, Sally’ll turn me into an extremely runny omelette.”

  “Deep breaths,” said Bill. “Deep breaths. Your morning wasn’t wasted, you know.You’ve eliminated Christine Peacock from our list of suspects, for a start. She may have seen the burglars, but she wasn’t one of them.”

  My spirits lifted half an inch. “True.”

  “You learned something else, as well,” Bill went on, in his most soothing voice. “Brother Florin, Miranda’s witches, and Christine’s aliens all wore hoods. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out if Sally owns a hooded raincoat or jacket.”

  “Everyone in Finch owns a hooded jacket,” I grumbled. “This is England, the land of the green and the home of the rain.”

  “You’ve narrowed down the time frame, too,” Bill pointed out, undeterred. “Christine saw her aliens about a half hour before Mr. Wetherhead saw his ghost. Maybe someone saw a pair of hooded figures sneaking in or out of the tearoom between, say, eleven-thirty and half past twelve.”

  I rubbed my tired eyes and tried to focus on something other than raw eggs. “I doubt if anyone stays up that late in Finch.”

  Bill’s magic fingers went to work on a knot in my right shoulder. “And let’s not forget about Rainey’s secret,” he continued. “Did Rainey overhear her grandmother moaning indiscreetly about what brought on her aches and pains?”

  “Rainey’s out of bounds,” I said bluntly.

  Bill switched to my left shoulder. “ Then what about Simon or Katrina? They’re staying with Sal—”

  “Katrina!” I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “Of course. How could I forget about our little hero-worshiper?”

  “Because she’s scarcely showed her face in the village since Tuesday,” said Bill. “She seems to spend every waking hour at Scrag End.” He chuckled suddenly. “Derek calls her the little blond weight lifter.”

  “She’s in great shape,” I agreed. “You should’ve seen her unloading boxes from the van. She made Simon look like a wimp. She could hop the vicarage wall without working up a sweat. I’ll bet Sally told her about the pamphlet, just to get up Peggy’s nose. . . .” I leaned back against Bill, revitalized, and pieced together what must have happened.

  “Adrian Culver arrives in Finch on Sunday morning, right? And Sally Pyne sees a golden opportunity to infuriate Peggy Kitchen. So while Peggy rants at the vicar, Sally visits the schoolhouse and offers to house Simon and Katrina.

  “She shows Simon and Katrina to their rooms. She discovers Katrina’s cache of fund-raising letters and begins to dream her own imperial dreams: The Empire tearoom is born. Are you with me?”

  “Lead on,” said Bill.

  “Later that same day, the village grapevine begins to crackle.” If I closed my eyes I could almost hear the distant thrum of wagging tongues as the gossip drifted through the leafy lanes:

  They say that specky chap’s not goin’ to stay. . . .

  Word is, Vicar’s got somethin’ up his sleeve. . . .

  I heard it were on his desk. . . .

  Bill seemed to hear the same voices, because he followed through on my speculations without missing a beat. “Sally, unlike Peggy Kitchen, knows how to keep her mouth shut and listen. She listens hard all afternoon, and by dinnertime she’s winnowed out the truth: The Gladwell pamphlet, a document guaranteed to send Adrian Culver packing, is lying on the vicar’s desk, not five feet from a pair of well-concealed and unsecured French doors.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded eagerly. “She knows she has to act quickly. She’s not built to clambe
r over walls, so she enlists the help of a younger, fitter, but equally enthusiastic accomplice. She and Katrina wait until Simon’s asleep, then don hooded jackets and slip out of the tearoom, carrying flashlights.” I shivered as Bill’s lips brushed my ear.

  “ They creep along the riverbank,” he whispered, “and climb to the top of the dip in the vicarage meadow. Someone slips on the slick grass and drops a flashlight—the sudden glare catches Christine’s attention. The thieves regroup, switch off the flashlights, and hug the ground, hoping the mist will swallow their fumble.”

  “Stop whispering,” I said. “You’re giving me the creeps.” Bill laughed, then spoke in his normal voice. “While Christine and Grog skedaddle for the pub, Katrina moves toward the vicarage. Sally waits in the dip while Katrina—Brother Florin—circles the vicarage, checking for lights.”

  “And when she’s sure the Buntings are safely tucked in bed,” I continued, “she darts into the library, snatches the Gladwell pamphlet from the vicar’s desk, and returns, trophy in hand, to the dip. She and Sally do a victory dance—Miranda’s moon-worship ritual—and crush the grass beneath their feet. Voilà—the landing site of the alien invaders.”

  I rested for a moment, stunned by the elegance of our recital, then turned to Bill. “Well?”

  “One thing,” he said. “Wouldn’t Katrina object to continuing a dig that might land her boss in hot water? It won’t help Adrian’s reputation to be accused of perpetrating a fraud.”

  I thought for a moment. “Katrina might not know about the fraud,” I said. “Sally could have told her that the pamphlet was a hoax, something cooked up by Peggy and Mr. Taxman—like those flyers—to fool the Buntings, Adrian, everyone.”