Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse

by Nancy Atherton

  “What had fallen?” Bree asked.

  “His ill-gotten gains,” Mrs. Craven replied, looking down at her folded hands. “On his way home from the pub, he robbed the church. He stole the processional candlesticks from St. Leonard’s, the tall ones they use during the Easter Vigil. It’s a miracle no one saw him with them. He intended to hide them under our bed, but he dropped them when he reached the landing. There were two of them, each of them four feet tall and gold plated. They made a dreadful racket tumbling down the stairs.”

  “Minnie described it as a sort of bump-thud-rumbling noise,” I said.

  “I’d say it was more of a clang than a rumble,” Mrs. Craven said judiciously, “but it would have sounded different to Minnie, hearing it through the wall.”

  “What happened next?” Bree asked, riveted.

  “I was a faithful churchgoer,” said Mrs. Craven. “The vicar trusted me to repair his vestments. I couldn’t allow my husband to desecrate St. Leonard’s, but I couldn’t turn him in to the police, either.”

  “Tough choice,” Bree commented. “How did you get around it?”

  “I told Zach to leave town and never to come back,” Mrs. Craven answered, with a slight tremble in her voice. “I’d forgiven his trespasses time and time again, but there are some trespasses God alone can forgive. After he left, I rolled the candlesticks in a rug to muffle the sound and hid them in the trench I’d dug for my rosebushes.”

  “Minnie saw you hide them,” I told her.

  “I know,” said Mrs. Craven. “Her misinterpretation of events was an unexpected complication, but not an insuperable one. The constable who questioned me didn’t care for Minnie. She’d spread a dreadful rumor about his auntie a few years earlier, so I had no trouble convincing him that I was a wronged woman—wronged by my nosy neighbor as well as by my runaway husband. He poked around the rosebushes for appearances’ sake, but he didn’t order me to dig them up.”

  “Are the candlesticks still there?” I asked.

  “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Craven, looking shocked. “They belonged to the church.”

  Bree eyed her with amused disbelief. “You didn’t return them, did you?”

  “Of course I did,” Mrs. Craven replied. “A month or so later, after the to-do surrounding the theft had died down, I dug them up and smuggled them back into St. Leonard’s, wrapped in a chasuble I’d hemmed for the vicar. I hung the chasuble in the vestry and hid the candlesticks in a dark corner near the entrance to the crypt. When they were discovered a few days later, it was assumed they’d been mislaid. The investigation ceased and I breathed a sigh of relief. I also said many prayers of contrition for my dishonesty and for my failure as a wife.”

  “Your failure as a wife?” Bree exploded. “I would have given Zach the boot a lot sooner than you did.”

  “Edwin said much the same thing,” said Mrs. Craven, smiling. “He would have liked you, Bree. He admired strong women.”

  “I wish I’d known him,” said Bree.

  My young friend shared a moment of quiet reflection with my elderly friend, but I was still miffed.

  “Okay,” I said a little too loudly. “You’ve told us the true story behind Zach’s departure, and for that I thank you. But why in God’s name did you try to con me into believing that you killed him?”

  Mrs. Craven ran a finger around the rim of her teacup, then said, half to herself, “I never expected to live this long.”

  “Sorry?” I said uncomprehendingly.

  “I’ve used up nearly all of the fabric I brought with me when I moved to Finch,” she went on. “The bins in my attic are empty. But even if I had an endless supply of fabric, I would still have to face the fact that I will soon have no place to store it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bree asked.

  “I’ve run out of money, my dear,” said Mrs. Craven. “When I visited my bank manager last week, he alerted me to the sorry state of my finances.”

  “How can your finances be in a sorry state?” Bree demanded. “Edwin was rich, wasn’t he? And Penny must have paid you a packet for Craven Manor.”

  “He was and she did,” Mrs. Craven acknowledged, “but I spent a great deal on the care Edwin received during his final illness. The experimental drugs and the various therapies drained our resources. I thought that, by selling the manor and living more simply in a much smaller house, I would have sufficient funds to see me through to the end of my days.” She smiled ruefully. “Unfortunately, my days have gone on rather longer than I anticipated.” She looked earnestly from me to Bree. “It can happen to anyone, my dears, so I urge you to plan ahead. It’s a terrible mistake to outlive one’s bank balance.”

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid my financial motorcar is running on fumes,” she replied. “I shall soon have to give up Bluebell Cottage and become a ward of the state. The best I can hope for is a bed in a state-run rest home for the elderly.”

  Bree and I began to protest, but she held up a hand to silence us.

  “I contemplated a variety of alternatives,” she said. “Living under a bridge in London, for example, or taking to the road with a small pack on my back. Both ideas seemed feasible until I remembered the vagaries of English weather. It would be one thing to sleep rough on a fine summer night. It would be something else entirely during a cold snap in late January.”

  Bree and I exchanged appalled glances, then looked at Mrs. Craven again.

  “I turned my mind to alternatives that included room and board,” she went on, “but it seemed unlikely that the army would allow me to enlist or that I could find work as a live-in servant. As you know, live-in servants are all but unheard of these days. Nothing practicable occurred to me until the day of the quilting bee.” Her eyes began to dance. “The bee was to be my farewell gift to Finch. I couldn’t have known that it would present me with an eminently sensible solution to my problem.”

  I gazed at her raptly as she paused to sip her tea.

  “I don’t know if you’ll recollect it,” she said, “but at some point during the bee the conversation turned to the topics of prisons and prisoners. All at once, it struck me that I might use my dubious past to make my future more bearable. After that, it was a case of one thing leading to another. You and I were alone at the quilt frame, Lori. I was aware of your trusting nature, just as I was aware of your husband’s profession.”

  “You knew I’d buy into your story,” I guessed, “and you hoped I’d tell Bill.”

  “If all had gone according to plan,” said Mrs. Craven, “Bill would have been obliged to notify the authorities, and I would have been placed under arrest for murder.” She heaved a regretful sigh. “I grossly underestimated your thirst for the truth.”

  “Why would you want to be arrested for a crime you didn’t commit?” I asked, mystified.

  “Because I’d rather spend the rest of my life in prison than in a rest home for the elderly,” Mrs. Craven replied.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” said Bree.

  “I’m not,” said Mrs. Craven. “State-run homes do their best, but the government is constantly cutting their funding.” There wasn’t the faintest hint of self-pity in her voice as she continued matter-of-factly, “Old people don’t count for much in this country. We aren’t productive citizens. To the contrary, we’re a burden on society. It would be better for all concerned if we died quickly and quietly, but some of us are doomed to go on living well past our sell-by date.”

  “We wouldn’t allow you to live in a place that didn’t look after you properly,” I said, recalling the minimal care Minnie’s friends received at Newhaven.

  “I wouldn’t want to live in a well-run home, either,” said Mrs. Craven. “Edwin’s nursing home was positively luxurious but even if I could afford it, I wouldn’t want to live there.”

  “Why not?” Bree as
ked.

  “I spent my youth surrounded by death,” said Mrs. Craven. “I lost Ted, Jim, and William Walker after the war, but I lost many more friends during it. I don’t want to be surrounded by death in my old age as well—and nothing is more certain in a rest home than death. Apart from that, there’s the tedium. It would be desperately dull to be confined to a place filled with people my own age, a place where every waking hour is regulated by a rigid schedule. I wouldn’t be able to exchange everyday pleasantries with your lovely young man, Bree. I wouldn’t see Will and Rob play cricket on the green, and I’d be deprived of the pleasure of watching them teach Bess how to bowl. I wouldn’t hear Mr. Barlow argue with Mr. Peacock over fripperies, and I’d never again hear Mrs. Taxman lay down the law at a committee meeting. A woman as forthright as Mrs. Taxman would undoubtedly be sedated.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Bree murmured.

  “Finch may appear to be a quiet village,” Mrs. Craven went on, “but it’s bursting with life in all its wonderful variety. It’s anything but tedious.”

  “I agree with you,” I said, “and I understand why you’d hate to leave Finch. But I still don’t understand why you’d prefer prison to a rest home.”

  “I think I do,” said Bree. “Shall I have a go at explaining it, Mrs. Craven?”

  “Give it your best shot, my dear,” said Mrs. Craven.

  Bree leaned back in her chair and favored Mrs. Craven with a speculative gaze before saying thoughtfully, “In prison, you’d be housed, fed, and clothed, but above all, you wouldn’t be bored. You’d meet all sorts of people from all walks of life, and each one of them would have a different story to tell. The schedule would still be pretty rigid, but there’d be no lack of spontaneity. There’d be fistfights and food fights and salty language and secret romances and tons of gossip. Life in prison might be dangerous, but it wouldn’t be dull.” She cocked her head toward our hostess. “How am I doing?”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Mrs. Craven replied, “though I would reiterate that it would be a constant source of heartache to make new friends only to watch them pass away, an inevitable occurrence in a rest home for the elderly. In prison, I might lose friends to parole or to the odd stabbing in a shower stall, but I imagine most of them would be around for a good long while. They might even visit me after they were released!” She clasped her hands together, as if nothing could possibly please her more than prison visits from ex-cons. “I’d also add that my age would probably preclude my incarceration with violent offenders. Then, too, there’s the prospect of occupational therapy. State-run homes rarely have the budget for it, but I’m told it’s all the rage in prison. I doubt that I’d be allowed to carry on with my quilting—scissors and needles might be a cause for concern among the guards—but I could learn a new skill. Pottery, perhaps. Wet clay is harmless, isn’t it? I could learn to make little pots.”

  I stared at her, torn between exasperation and a powerful desire to giggle.

  “Annabelle,” I said, “prison isn’t like summer camp. If you were convicted of murder, you’d be treated very severely.”

  “At least I’d be treated with respect,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t be subjected to the baby talk reserved for the elderly.” Her voice became cloyingly patronizing. “‘Have we taken our medication today?’ ‘Would we like a pat of butter on our toast?’ ‘Do we need to visit the loo?’” She snorted. “I’m old! I’m not addled!”

  “You tell ’em, Mrs. Craven,” Bree declared, slapping the table.

  “No one who knows you thinks you’re addled, Annabelle,” I said. “And no one—absolutely no one—thinks of you as a burden. Penny would jump for joy if you moved in with her at Craven Manor.”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Craven said, shaking her head. “I can’t go back to Craven Manor. I wouldn’t mind it so much if Edwin’s ghost roamed the corridors. It’s his absence I can’t stand. Every time I passed the great staircase, I would see his broken body and remember the blood.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry, Lori, but I couldn’t possibly return to Craven Manor. I’d be going back to a time I can’t bear to revisit.”

  “Good,” said Bree. “I’d just as soon you stay in Bluebell Cottage.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more, Bree,” said Mrs. Craven. “But I can’t afford it, and I won’t accept charity, regardless of—”

  “Who said anything about charity?” Bree interrupted. “I’ll see to it that you pay your own way.”

  “We both will,” I said promptly, though I couldn’t fathom what scheme Bree had up her sleeve.

  “How?” asked Mrs. Craven.

  “Leave it to us,” said Bree. “We’ll have you back on your feet again before you can say Pentonville.”

  “You’re one of us, Annabelle,” I said staunchly. “And in Finch, we look after our own.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Craven, looking dazed, doubtful, and hopeful all at once. “I suppose it would be self-serving of me to wish you luck, but . . .” A radiant smile highlighted every crease in her gloriously wrinkled face. “Good luck!”

  Twenty-four

  The old schoolhouse was packed with people. The villagers were there, of course, as were our local farming families, but seven seats in the front row were occupied by first-time visitors to Finch. Penny Moorecroft, Susan Jessop, Gladys Miller, Debbie Lacey, Lorna Small, Alice Johnson, and Hayley Calthorp had no idea how utterly bizarre it was to see Bree Pym and Peggy Taxman sitting side by side behind the table on the dais.

  The only villager absent from the proceedings was Annabelle Craven. Bill, Bess, and the boys had spirited her away to see the drifts of daffodils at Hidcote Manor. Bill was under strict orders to keep Mrs. Craven at a safe distance from Finch until I telephoned to let him know that the coast was clear.

  Two days had passed since Mrs. Craven had revealed her dilemma to Bree and me. I’d spoken with her landlord, who’d readily agreed to reduce her rent to a token sum, but Bree had devised a rescue plan of such scope and magnificence that it took my breath away. The next hour would determine its success or ensure its failure.

  Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who were conversing animatedly with Penny Moorecroft, resumed their seats when Peggy Taxman banged the gavel. A hush fell over the room, but it was instantly shattered by Peggy’s voice.

  “I hereby call an extraordinary meeting of the village affairs committee to order,” she boomed. “I gladly yield the floor to Bree Pym.”

  Since Peggy rarely yielded the floor to anyone, gladly or otherwise, the silence in the room deepened. The air seemed to vibrate with suspense as Bree rose to her feet and walked to the front of the dais to gaze wordlessly from one upturned face to the next. When every pair of eyes was focused on her, she spoke.

  “Mrs. Craven’s in trouble,” she said. “She’s in trouble because her husband got sick and she didn’t. When her husband got sick, she spent a lot of money to make him better, but all the money in the world couldn’t buy a cure for Alzheimer’s.”

  The older villagers shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as if the mere mention of the disease filled them with dread.

  “After her husband died,” Bree continued, “Mrs. Craven went on living. She had to make a few changes because she couldn’t afford to live the way she used to, but she didn’t mind. Bluebell Cottage became her new home. You became her new family.” Bree began to pace slowly back and forth across the dais, her gaze lingering first on one person, then on another. “She gave you cups of sugar when you needed them. She watered your plants and fed your pets when you were away. She listened to your stories and she laughed at your jokes. She always had a smile ready when she ran into you on the village green or in church or at the Emporium or during a deadly dull committee meeting.”

  Peggy’s gimlet gaze fixed beadily on Bree, and some of the braver villagers chuckled, but the rest nodded affectionately as they recalled their everyday en
counters with Mrs. Craven.

  “As Mrs. Craven went on living, she made quilts,” said Bree. “She sold them at the fete to raise money for St. George’s. Mr. Barlow will tell you what a difference the new drainage system has made in the churchyard. The vicar will tell you how much more pleasant it is to greet us in the south porch, now that the roof doesn’t leak. And I don’t think any of us miss the lytch-gate’s rusty old hinges.”

  “I don’t,” Sally Cook declared. “I could hardly open the gate before the new hinges were installed.”

  A round of vigorous nods supported her claim.

  “We owe Mrs. Craven more debts of gratitude than I can count,” said Bree. “But even if we didn’t owe her a thing, we’d owe it to ourselves to help her out. As a wise friend of mine said just the other day: Mrs. Craven is one of us, and in Finch, we look after our own.”

  Having felt profoundly unwise for the past several days, I ducked my head, embarrassed by Bree’s praise. Meanwhile, Peggy eyed the room belligerently, as if daring anyone to contradict her chosen speaker.

  “What’s the problem, Bree?” Mr. Barlow called.

  “The problem,” Bree replied, “is that Mrs. Craven isn’t dead.”

  Her blunt description of Mrs. Craven’s predicament provoked a confused murmur and in some cases dark looks of disapproval, but Bree merely waited for the clamor to die down before she went on.

  “We all believe a long life is a good thing,” she said. “We raise our glasses to it in the pub. We wish it for our children. We pray for it in church. Mrs. Craven’s been blessed with the long life we all hope for. The problem is, she’s outlived her savings. If we don’t do something, and do it right away, she’ll be carted off to live in the kind of place we don’t even want to visit.”

  Several people began to speak at once, but Bree held up both her hands for silence.