“You’ve heard about the burglary?” I said, surprised.
“I’ll wager the entire county’s heard by now,” she said. “The woman who runs the tearoom was delivering the news door-to-door this morning—as a public service, to alert us to the danger in our midst.” She touched my arm. “Don’t worry, darling, I didn’t breathe a word about our ghost, but I’ll ring you if he shows up again.”
The Peacocks, too, had heard about the burglary but not about Sally’s antics in the meadow. Though I broke it to them gently, it still came as a blow.
“Torches and track shoes?” Christine repeated dully. “No aliens at all?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Anyone could have made the same mistake, with the fog and the noise of the river confusing things.”
“In many ways,” Bill said consolingly, “I find it easier to believe your story than to imagine Sally Pyne running in place.”
Dick put a beefy hand on Christine’s shoulder. “It’s better to find out now, Chris. What a pair of chumps we’d’ve looked if we’d found out after we’d put up the new sign.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Christine gazed wistfully from Rob’s face to Will’s, then turned and went back into the pub.
“Never mind,” said Dick, stepping away from the door. “Once Chris remembers Martin’s promise to come home for the Harvest Festival, she’ll perk right up.” He glanced cautiously over his shoulder before adding, “I don’t mind telling you that I’ll be glad to chop that new sign into kindling. Never did like the dratted thing.”
A banging noise coming from the tearoom reminded me of Jasper Taxman’s platform and my near escape from dodging rotten eggs. The platform was still standing, though denuded of its bunting and its purpose. The tearoom, by contrast, was a beehive of activity. Its windows remained shrouded in obscurity, but shouts issuing from the open doorway indicated that preparations for the day’s festivities were under way.
“ Two hours to go,” said Bill. “Home?”
“Home,” I replied.
We headed back to the cottage to have a light lunch, wrap the tiger in striped paper, and change from our Sunday best into lighter clothing. The weather was muggier than ever. Rain, as Adrian had predicted, was in the offing. I hoped it would stay dry until after the party.
While we dressed the boys in their birthday finery, I told Francesca about the mythical Culver Institute. She received the news with outward calm but betrayed her inner turmoil by putting Will’s socks on inside out.
“So there’s to be no museum in Finch,” she murmured.
“There never was,” I said. “Adrian was telling the truth all along.”
“And he’ll be gone in two weeks?” she said, fumbling with the snaps on Rob’s romper suit.
“Lock, stock, and barrel,” I confirmed. “Just as he promised from the beginning.”
When we were ready to go, I took charge of loading the boys into their car seats and left the less breakable baggage to Francesca. She sat in the back, between the twins, staring abstractedly out of the window, but when we pulled into the square she snapped to attention.
“Holy mother of God,” she murmured faintly.
“Good grief,” muttered Bill, killing the engine.
I, for once, was speechless. In the past two hours the square had been transformed into a cross between a circus and the Colosseum. Sally’s familiar collection of wobbly tables and mismatched chairs had been marbelized, gilded, and placed among a half-dozen balloon-covered pillars intended, I surmised, to represent the Forum. Katrina, Simon, and assorted other guests crowned with papier-mâché Roman helmets brandished cardboard-and-foil swords beneath a fluttering flock of pennants strung from the balloon pillars to the war memorial.
A pair of cylindrical concrete pillars, painted blue and garlanded with plastic-looking greenery, flanked the tearoom’s doorstep and supported a freshly painted sign.
“The Empire Tearoom SPQF,” I read aloud. “SPQ . . . F?” I looked at Bill. “For the Senate and People of . . . Finch?”
Francesca began to quake with suppressed laughter. “Mama bloody mia,” she managed, gasping, “if only Papa had lived long enough to see this . . .”
She’d scarcely finished speaking when Rainey passed us, bouncing precariously across the cobbles in a gilded, goat-drawn chariot. The birthday girl was dressed in a snow-white toga, with a wreath of laurel leaves upon her head, a pair of gold-colored armlets clasped about her upper arms, and, incongruously, her usual grubby sneakers on her feet.
Sally had started her fitness program too late to alter the way she filled her toga, but she didn’t seem a bit self-conscious as she carried a tray of pastries from guest to guest. Like Rainey, she was adorned with laurel wreath and armlets, but instead of sneakers she wore a pair of thin-soled gold sandals with crisscrossed straps that climbed almost to her knees.
Bill rubbed his chin. “It’s the right costume for this weather,” he allowed.
I reached for the door handle. “Come on. Let’s wish Rainey a happy birthday. If we can catch her.”
No one had a better time at Rainey’s birthday party than Rainey. When she was finally persuaded to give the goat a rest, she flew from table to table, introducing all and sundry to her tired-looking parents and her placid, brand-new baby brother, Jack. She urged the Pym sisters to tuck into her gran’s Hadrian cakes and recommended the Pompeii puffs to the Peacocks, but she slyly snatched all of the Constantine creams for herself. Sticky-fingered and chattering gleefully, she “accidentally” tore the paper from her tiger before the candles on her stunning, two-tiered birthday cake had been lit.
If I had any lingering doubts about the possibility of love at first sight, they were laid to rest by the look on Rainey’s face when the tiger emerged from his wrappings. Her chattering stopped midstream, and she sank slowly to the ground, as though her knees had gone too weak to support her. A hush fell over the square as people gathered to see what had tamed the tornado.
Rainey stared down at the tiger for what seemed the longest time. Then she looked up, smiling brilliantly, and gazed directly at me.
“Edmund Terrance,” she said, as though answering a question. “His name is Edmund Terrance.”
After that, the afternoon became a blur of birthday games, which Rainey won; birthday cake, which Rainey gorged on; and birthday presents, none of which, I noted complacently, held a candle to Edmund Terrance. The party was beginning to wind down when Peggy Kitchen brought it back to life by mounting Jasper Taxman’s platform and calling for everyone to gather round. I left Bill with the boys, at Rainey’s table, and sidled over to Lilian Bunting, who surveyed Peggy’s performance anxiously.
“My friends,” Peggy boomed, when the crowd had quieted, “it has come to my attention that a valuable historic brochure sort of thing, belonging to the vicar, was stolen from the vicarage last Sunday night.”
Lilian closed her eyes. “Drat Sally Pyne,” she muttered. “I’d like to point out,” Peggy thundered, “that it was the theft, and not my flyer, that caused the trouble that’s been plaguing our village all week.”
Lilian’s mouth fell open. “What can she mean?”
“She doesn’t want to take the blame for stirring everyone up,” I murmured, “so she’s found a conveniently anonymous scapegoat.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to bring the miscreant to justice,” Peggy proclaimed. “If anyone has useful information, you can leave it with me or Mr. Taxman at the Emporium. Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of a scuffle in the vicinity of Rainey’s table. I turned just in time to see the birthday girl pin young Paolo Sciaparelli, one of Francesca’s numerous nephews, to the ground.
“You give it back,” she cried. “It’s meant for Dr. Culver.”
“You’re a liar!” Paolo roared. “You stole it from my aunt!”
Rainey shook the boy until his teeth rattled, then pounced on a small object that dropped from his splayed fist
. She sprang to her feet and ran over to stand, panting, before Adrian and Francesca.
“I didn’t steal it,” the little girl insisted. “I found it when I was helping Emma, and I was going to give it to you, Dr. Culver, to put in your museum, only I wanted to keep it for luck in the chariot races.”
“Show me what you’ve found, Rainey,” said Adrian.
Rainey held her hand out flat and I saw that she was holding a bronze medallion identical to the one hanging from the thong around Francesca’s neck.
Francesca snatched the phalera from Rainey’s hand. “Where did you find this?”
Rainey backed away, cowed by Francesca’s grim expression. “On the vicar’s back steps,” she said, “when I was helping Emma carry flowerpots.”
Francesca stared down at the phalera, then whispered, loudly enough for me to overhear, “Annunzia.” She looked up at Adrian. “I must go to Hodge Farm.”
I leaned toward Lilian. “Who’s Annunzia?”
“Annie Hodge, our daily,” Lilian replied. “Her maiden name was Annunziazione Sciaparelli. She’s Francesca’s youngest sister. Annunzia is short for—”
I gripped her arm. “Your cleaning lady is Francesca’s sister?”
Lilian nodded. “ They’ve been at daggers drawn ever since Burt married Annie.”
I felt the world tilt slightly on its axis. “Francesca’s sister married Burt Hodge?”
“I thought you knew,” said Lilian.
“How could I know? No one ever tells me anything.” I scrambled after Francesca, who was already climbing into the Mercedes. “Wait! You’re not going to Hodge Farm without me! Bill,” I called, as I dashed past Rainey’s table, “look after the boys!”
24.
Hodge Farm sprawled across its hilltop as though washed ashore by the sea of waving grain. Slate-roofed stone barns and graineries mingled with fiberglass machine sheds and rusting outbuildings fabricated from corrugated iron. Hodge Farm, like Finch, was not an artist’s dream of rural beauty. It was a working farm, concerned with substance rather than appearance.
The long drive to the main house was wide and straight, to accommodate the spreading wings of combine harvesters, and broad wagons piled high with baled hay. It ascended the hill, hemmed in by rustling walls of sun-parched barley and ended at a dusty yard littered with farm implements. The farmhouse might have been another barn—no effort had been made to prettify it.
“Why have we come here, Francesca?” Adrian asked, as we pulled into the farmyard. He’d clambered into the Mercedes after me and wedged himself between the boys’ car seats in the back. Francesca hadn’t challenged his right to come along, and I’d been glad of his company. I found her fierce silence unnerving.
Francesca glanced at the phalera in her hand. “My sister may know something about the theft at the vicarage.” She shut off the ignition and turned to me. “Now tell me all about this stolen pamphlet. Be quick about it.”
I had to raise my voice to be heard above the savage barking of a gigantic crossbred dog whose job, apparently, was to hunt down and kill uninvited guests. His huge paws thumped against my window and his howls rang in my ear as I rattled off all I knew about the Gladwell pamphlet. When I’d finished, Francesca nodded grimly, then got out of the car to confront the hound from hell.
“Hush, Caesar,” she muttered.
Caesar hushed.
“Lie down,” she said.
Caesar dropped to the ground.
“Good boy,” she added, striding toward the farmhouse.
Caesar wagged his stubby tail as Adrian and I edged gingerly past him to join our fearless leader on the doorstep.
A man stood in the doorway. He was short and stocky, with curly brown hair, leathery skin, and mild, blue-gray eyes. He wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt and, despite the close weather, a pair of heavy corduroy trousers and work boots. He greeted Francesca warily.
“Afternoon, Francesca.” His blue-gray eyes scanned my face. “Who’re your friends?”
“I’ve not come to see you, Burt,” Francesca said. “My business is with Annunzia.”
“Annie’s resting,” said Burt. “Can’t you come back another time?”
“My business won’t wait.” Francesca brushed the sturdy farmer aside and crossed the threshold. “You tell her to show herself in five minutes, or I’m going after her.”
Burt rubbed the back of his head, then motioned for Adrian and me to follow him into a simply furnished front room. A framed print of the Sacred Heart was the only decoration, and the mantelpiece held nothing but a carriage clock. A pair of Windsor chairs sat on either side of the sagging horsehair sofa that faced the hearth, and a time-darkened table of English oak rested beneath the deep-set window. Francesca looked as out of place in the stark setting as a bird of paradise in a monastic cell.
She stood at the oak table, facing the window, as though rejecting the opportunity to survey her sister’s home. I closed the front door quietly and stayed beside it, pretending to be invisible, but Adrian went to Francesca’s side and gestured toward the horsehair sofa.
“I’ll stand,” she said.
I got the distinct impression that she’d have stood barefoot on broken glass before she’d sit in her sister’s house.
A moment later, Burt returned with his wife. My vision blurred as Annie Hodge merged with Annunzia Sciaparelli. The woman I’d met at the vicarage had been a cleaning lady—an anonymous archetype clad in head scarf, rubber gloves, and loose-fitting duster. The woman who followed Burt into the sparely furnished front room was unmistakably Francesca’s sister.
She had the same auburn hair, full lips, and olive skin, but she was built along more delicate, less voluptuous lines. She was also pregnant. She stood with both hands braced against the small of her back and gazed at Francesca tiredly.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Francesca spoke without turning to look at her sister. “You were at the vicarage last Sunday.”
“What of it?” said Annie. “I always go there on Sunday, to pick up my pay packet.”
“You overheard the vicar and his wife talking about the Gladwell pamphlet,” Francesca continued.
“I might have heard something,” Annie allowed. “What business is it of yours?”
Francesca turned slowly and fixed her sister with a piercing stare. “You know the Buntings’ habits. You know what time they go to bed and what doors they’re likely to leave unlocked.”
“What if I do?” Annie demanded.
“Look here—” Burt began, but he fell silent when Francesca turned toward him.
“Farm in trouble, Burt?” she asked. “Drought drying up your crops? Must be worrying, with a new baby on the way.”
“We’ll manage,” Annie said.
“You always manage, don’t you, Annunzia?” Francesca’s lip curled. “You managed to marry my fiancé. You managed to change your name so no one would remember who’s daughter you are. I know how you’ll manage to pay the bills if there’s a bad harvest.” Francesca stepped forward. “You stole the vicar’s pamphlet. You wanted Dr. Culver to stay. You thought you could make money off him. You were planning to sell Papa’s soul for forty pieces of silver.”
Annie shook her head in denial. “I never—”
“You’re lying. I know you were there, on the library steps. You left something behind.” Francesca thrust her fist toward her sister and slowly uncurled her fingers. The phalera glinted dully in the palm of her hand.
Annie opened her mouth to speak, but stopped short as the sound of car tires skidding on gravel mingled with Caesar’s sudden, raucous barking.
I yelped and skittered sideways as a weighty fist pounded on the door. Burt reached for the latch, but before he touched it, Peggy Kitchen burst into the room, followed by a remonstrating Jasper Taxman.
“You mustn’t,” he said, tugging ineffectually at Peggy’s arm while keeping a fearful eye on Caesar’s slavering jaws.
Peggy tossed Mr. Taxman aside
with a flick of her elbow, slammed the door in Caesar’s face, and gazed triumphantly from Annie to Francesca.
“You!” she thundered. “You’re the ones who robbed the vicarage. I should’ve seen it coming. Everyone knows you’re no better than your father.”
Annie looked quickly at Francesca. “Get out of my house,” she said to Peggy, the words more a warning than a command. “Leave here—now.”
“I will not,” Peggy roared. “I’ll say my piece and then I’ll have the law on you. They never should’ve let your father stay here, not after all the suffering he caused. They should’ve locked him up or sent him back or—”
“Let him stay?” Francesca’s voice was low and as cold as steel. “Let him?”
“No, Francesca,” pleaded Annie. “Don’t—” Annie stiffened as Francesca turned her head, and Peggy fell back a step.
“I know what Papa taught us, Annunzia.” Francesca’s voice trembled with suppressed rage. “Forget the past, live now and for the future. But the past isn’t easy to forget when it’s held to your throat like a knife.”
“It was your father held the knife,” Peggy retorted. “He was a bloody murderer.”
“He was a soldier,” Francesca snapped. “He was a foolish boy.”
“A boy?” Peggy repeated, outraged. “Piero Sciaparelli was—”
“—older than the oldest man in Finch long before you got round to tormenting him.” Francesca tossed her head contemptuously. “That’s what war does to boys, Mrs. Kitchen. It turns them into old men before their time. If you’d ever bothered to ask I’d’ve told you that my father was fifteen when he ran off to join the army. He was eighteen when he came to work for Mr. Hodge. When Italy surrendered, he was twenty. I can prove it to you now, if you like. Do you want to see his papers, Mrs. Kitchen?”
“Eighteen?” said Peggy faintly. “Your father was eighteen?”
“Annunzia,” Francesca ordered, “fetch Papa’s papers!”
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