Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “Did you happen to notice the black box in the boot of Jack MacBride’s motor?” Lilian asked.

  “I might have caught a glimpse of it,” I allowed. “Bill thinks it’s filled with legal papers.”

  “There may be legal papers in it,” Lilian conceded, “but it contains something else as well. Apparently, Mr. Huggins wrote a memoir. In his will he asked his nephew Jack to prepare the manuscript for publication.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Hector Huggins?” I said, flabbergasted. “A memoir? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, Lilian, but who on earth would want to read a memoir written by the world’s most innocuous man?”

  “I know,” she said, smiling delightedly. “I couldn’t believe it, either.”

  “And what does a kid like Jack know about preparing manuscripts for publication?” I went on. “I can imagine him hiking in the Outback or surfing in Samoa, but . . . editing a manuscript?” I shook my head. “Nope. Can’t picture it.”

  “He must have hidden talents,” said Lilian.

  “One thing’s for sure,” I said. “Jack won’t stay in Finch for more than a day or two.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lilian asked.

  “Because Mr. Huggins’s memoir must be the shortest one on record,” I said. “‘I worked. I fished. The end.’”

  Lilian’s snort of laughter would have won a disapproving sniff from Peggy Taxman, but, luckily, Peggy wasn’t there to hear it.

  “We really shouldn’t make fun of the poor soul,” Lilian said, with a contrite glance at the mound of freshly dug earth on Mr. Huggins’s grave.

  “I’d feel guilty if I weren’t so stunned.” I stared incredulously at the grave, then looked at Lilian as a bright idea occurred to me. “Maybe Mr. Huggins made the whole thing up. Maybe he wrote a fake memoir filled with wine, women, and song to compensate for a life filled with water, fish, and silence.”

  “I hope he did,” Lilian said. “He always struck me as a rather lonely man, but a man with a vivid imagination is never lonely.”

  “I’ll find out what I can from Jack,” I said. “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. Which reminds me . . .” I caught Bree’s attention with a wave of my hand. She strode over to join us, rain streaming from her camouflage rain poncho and splashing onto her bumblebee-striped Wellington boots, her nose ring glinting dully in the diluted daylight.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “You two look like you’re conspiring. Are vicars’ wives allowed to conspire, Mrs. Bunting?”

  “It’s the first thing they teach us at vicars’ wives’ school,” Lilian replied.

  “I suspected as much,” said Bree, nodding wisely.

  “What’s up,” I said, “is an invitation to lunch at Ivy Cottage on Monday. Jack MacBride would like to thank you for a number of things, including his uncle’s grave and your Anzac biscuits.”

  “Did he eat the biscuits?” Bree asked, her dark-brown eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Or did he sneer at them?”

  “Why would he sneer at your biscuits?” asked Lilian.

  “Because he’s on the wrong side of the great Anzac biscuit debate,” Bree replied. “They were invented in New Zealand, of course, but Aussies claim them for Oz. The Aussies are delusional, but they’ll never admit it, not to a Kiwi, at any rate.”

  “Jack made no such claim,” I assured her. “He loved the biscuits and he’d love to meet you. Will you come?”

  “Sure,” said Bree. “It’ll be a novel experience, hearing an Aussie thank a Kiwi. What time?”

  “If it’s raining, I’ll pick you up at noon in the Range Rover,” I said. “If not, I’ll still be at your place at noon, but I’ll be on my bicycle. I’d offer you a seat on my handlebars, but you’d probably be safer jogging alongside.”

  “No fear,” said Bree. “I’ll be ready and waiting for you on my bike. We can race to Ivy Cottage.” She thrust a fist into the air. “The first stage in the Tour de Finch!”

  Since Bree was a good deal younger, ten times more energetic, and in much better shape than I, I excused myself and went back into the church. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to pray for a little more rain.

  Five

  My prayers were answered. The first stage of the Tour de Finch was canceled, due to inclement weather.

  Though the rain slackened during the night, it returned in full force at the dawn’s early light. I smiled as I sent Bill off to work, sang as I drove the boys to school, and skipped merrily from room to room while I completed my morning chores. The pangs of guilt I felt when I thought of the rising river were assuaged by the knowledge that my journey to Ivy Cottage wouldn’t leave me with strained hamstrings and a badly bruised ego.

  Bree was waiting for me when I pulled up to her house in my canary-yellow Range Rover. She splashed down her front walk, clambered into the passenger’s seat, gathered her billowing poncho into a manageable bundle, and gave me a commiserating look.

  “Too bad about the weather,” she said.

  “A real shame,” I agreed, shaking my head regretfully.

  I waited until she’d fastened her seat belt, then drove slowly and carefully through the small streams flowing across the lane. I’d once slid into a ditch while negotiating the tricky curve near Bree’s house and I did not intend to give Bill a reason to remind me of my mishap.

  “I was looking forward to seeing your new toy,” Bree continued.

  “She’s a beauty,” I said.

  “She?” said Bree, raising an eyebrow.

  “Definitely,” I said. “She’s what used to be called a girl’s bike, but the man at the cycling shop informed me that they’re now referred to as ‘low-entry’ bikes.”

  Bree snorted, but I ignored her.

  “Her name is Betsy,” I went on, “and she’s the most gorgeous shade of blue. Twenty-one speeds, a rattan basket, a two-tone brass bell, a generously padded seat, and tires that will handle everything from dirt to gravel.”

  “Do you and Betsy plan to do much mountain biking?” Bree asked skeptically.

  “We plan to stay on paved roads,” I replied, “but you never know. An emergency might crop up. I might be forced to ride cross-country to save a life. Best to be prepared.”

  “I hope it’s not my life you’re saving,” Bree muttered. Before I could muster a stinging retort, she continued brightly, “It was great to see William at church yesterday. He looks as fit as a fiddle.”

  “We can thank his housekeeper and his sweetheart for his recovery,” I said. “Deirdre and Amelia have taken excellent care of him.”

  “Which is a polite way of saying they’ve locked him in his bedroom for the past month,” said Bree.

  “Needs must,” I said. “They’ll let him resume his normal routine as soon as the weather settles down. I know he misses his country walks.”

  “He’d catch pneumonia if he stepped outside today,” said Bree, squinting at the cloud-covered sky. “Our Aussie’s teeth must be chattering,” she went on. “I’m sure his lips were turning blue on Saturday. Serves him right for wearing shorts and sandals.”

  “Be nice,” I scolded. “The poor guy’s plane was late and he was in such a tearing hurry to get to the funeral that he didn’t have time to change into sensible clothing.”

  “Aussies aren’t known for being sensible,” said Bree. “What’s he doing here, anyway? The funeral’s over and done with. Why is he sticking around?”

  “According to Lilian, who heard it from Mr. Huggins’s solicitor, Jack MacBride came to Finch to complete a project mentioned in his uncle’s will.” I glanced at Bree to catch her reaction. “Jack’s preparing his uncle’s memoir for publication.”

  Predictably, Bree burst out laughing.

  “Priceless,” she said when she finished guffawing. “What’s it called? Adventures in Accounting? Thrills and Gills? The Spoken Word: How to Get Along Without It?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “But please try not to laugh if Jack mentions the m
emoir to us. It must be a labor of love for him. He can’t imagine it’ll be a best seller.”

  “A labor of love?” Bree scoffed. “If you ask me, it has more to do with money than with love.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’ll bet Mr. Huggins left Jack an inheritance,” said Bree. “But Jack gets it only if he agrees to tidy up the memoir.”

  I recalled Jack’s beat-up backpack, his shabby clothing, and his last-minute decision to attend his uncle’s funeral, and nodded thoughtfully.

  “You may be right,” I said. “He doesn’t dress like someone who can afford to splash out money on impromptu flights to England.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Bree agreed. “The bequest must have included travel expenses. I’ll bet Jack wouldn’t have come if his uncle hadn’t paid his way and tucked in a little bonus cash to make the journey worth his while.”

  “I’d hate to think that Jack’s motives are purely mercenary,” I said, “but I guess I’d understand it if they were. You couldn’t pay me enough to read Hector Huggins’s memoir, but Jack’s pockets may not be as plump as mine. Can’t blame a boy for trying to make a buck.”

  “I suppose not,” said Bree. “Still, it’s a bit despicable. Jack may not have been rich enough to visit his uncle, but if he cared for him at all, he could have written to him.”

  “How do you know he didn’t?” I asked.

  Bree snorted. “When was the last time our beloved postmistress kept her mouth shut about a piece of foreign correspondence? Peggy Taxman would have crowed like a rooster if she’d seen letters from Australia addressed to Mr. Huggins.”

  “True.” I sighed. “You’re painting a grubby picture of our visitor. Which makes me a little sad, because I thought he was a nice guy.”

  “He may be a nice guy,” said Bree, “but he may be a money-grubbing ocker. I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “What’s an ocker?”

  “A boor,” said Bree. “A big-mouthed, pushy jerk. In other words, a typical Aussie.”

  I glanced at her in surprise. “What have you got against Australians? Is there a blood feud between your countries or is it a personal quarrel?”

  Bree’s lips compressed into a thin line.

  “Here’s a little joke Jack told at the funeral luncheon,” she said. “Why are so few crimes solved in New Zealand?”

  “I give up,” I said. “Why are so few crimes solved in New Zealand?”

  “Because everyone has the same DNA,” she said grimly.

  The punch line took a couple of seconds to sink in. When it did, I had to bite my lip to keep myself from smiling. If Bree was determined to be offended by a fairly harmless quip, there was nothing much I could do about it. But I tried.

  “I’m sure he meant it in good fun,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Bree. “He was telling jokes meant in good fun at his uncle’s funeral.” She tossed her head. “Typical Aussie.”

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “you and Peggy Taxman have something in common. She doesn’t like Aussies, either. She thinks they’re loud and vulgar.”

  “Peggy hasn’t spent enough time around Australians to form a valid opinion of them,” said Bree. “I have.”

  “Well, I’ve spent some time around Jack,” I said, “and I don’t think he’s vulgar. Boisterous, perhaps, but not vulgar. He very kindly offered to rein in his language for the boys’ sake, and he’s holding today’s feast in your honor.”

  “I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Bree promised again, unconvincingly. “Who knows? Jack may surprise me.”

  I sincerely hoped he would. Bree had a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. If Jack displeased her, our luncheon at Ivy Cottage could prove to be more challenging than the Tour de Finch.

  • • •

  The untrimmed hedgerow had overwhelmed the verge in front of Ivy Cottage, so I parked the Range Rover on the manicured grass on Willis Sr.’s side of the road. Bree and I piled out of the Rover and crossed the lane, scarcely bothering to look for oncoming cars. Traffic was not an issue in Finch.

  While a few of my neighbors locked their doors against intruders, Hector Huggins had locked his tall, wooden gate. When I’d dropped by to check on him, I’d had to ring the intercom he’d installed on one of the gateposts to summon him, and even when he’d answered it, he’d never opened the gate far enough for me to see past it.

  The gate was still locked when Bree and I reached it, but I addressed the intercom with a greater sense of anticipation than I ever had before. After years of frustration, I was confident that I would be admitted at last to the land beyond the hedgerow.

  “Jack?” I said. “It’s Lori Shepherd and Bree Pym. May we come in?”

  “No worries.” Jack’s voice crackled through the speaker and a click signaled the lock’s release.

  Smiling broadly, I opened the gate, strode boldly into the front garden, and came to a stumbling halt. Bree moved forward cautiously to stand beside me.

  “I think we’ve found Sleeping Beauty’s cottage,” she murmured. “And her garage.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. Ivy Cottage wasn’t a ruin. It was a pretty place, two stories tall, with a pair of bay windows on the ground floor and a pair of dormer windows protruding from its wavy slate roof. Tall chimneys bracketed the roof, faded green-and-white checked curtains hung in the windows, and a shallow porch sheltered a front door made of weathered oak. Ivy Cottage would have been worthy of a picture postcard had it not been left to languish in the most unkempt front garden I’d ever seen.

  Nature had run riot in Mr. Huggins’s realm. The shed that served as a garage seemed to be drowning in a congested mass of shrubs, vines, weeds, and flowers. Slender brick paths leading from the gate and the garage to the front door were barely discernible beneath the overgrowth, and a thick mat of ivy had colonized the cottage’s stone walls. The ivy had been pruned around the windows and the porch, presumably to allow for light and access, but it had otherwise been allowed to do exactly as it pleased.

  Jack had chosen to park his rental car in the weed-infested gravel driveway instead of in the decrepit-looking garage. Smoke rising from both chimneys suggested that he’d heeded my advice to warm himself before a roaring fire. I suspected he’d needed the warmth rather desperately after he’d fought his way barelegged through the sodden jungle to enter his home away from home.

  “We should have worn waders,” Bree commented, as we walked in single file along a brick path obscured by dripping greenery. “And brought a machete.”

  “Not everyone’s a gardener,” I allowed.

  “Anyone can use a machete,” said Bree.

  “G’day, ladies!” Jack called to us from the doorstep. “Come in, come in!”

  I was happy to accept his invitation and happier still when he closed the door behind us. My jeans were soaked through from the tops of my rain boots to the bottom of my rain jacket and Bree’s were similarly saturated, but the cottage was deliciously warm and dry. It was, in those as in many other respects, the exact opposite of the front garden.

  I’m not the best housekeeper in the world, nor am I the worst. I’d like to think that, on an average day, the tidiness level in my home rests somewhere between Untouched by Human Hands and This Property is Condemned. Mr. Huggins had evidently favored the sterile end of the bell curve. The rectangular room in which we stood had been created by removing the wall between the front and back parlors. It was simply furnished, excruciatingly clean, and absolutely devoid of clutter.

  Jack’s brown rain jacket hung from a row of hooks mounted on the wall beside the door. Below the hooks lay a utilitarian rubber mat, presumably a resting place for damp or dirty footwear. A sagging armchair upholstered in a drab brown fabric sat before the hearth and its twin faced a large, multipaned picture window overlooking the back garden, which was, if anything, even more of a wilderness than the front.

  A pole lamp and a small table sat beside each armc
hair, a small bookcase with glass doors rested against one wall, and a sisal rug covered most of the parquet floor. There were no pictures on the plastered walls, however, no framed family snaps on the bookcase, no knickknacks on the windowsills, nothing that might reflect the personality of the man who’d lived there.

  Except that the room was probably a perfect reflection of Hector Huggins’s personality, I told myself sadly. A blank room for a blank man.

  Jack was wearing his rumpled blue pullover and his sandals, but he’d covered his bare feet with a pair of thick woolen socks and swapped his cargo shorts for khaki trousers. He beamed at us as if we were old friends.

  “Good to see you, Lori,” he said. “Good to meet you, Bree. Nice nose ring.”

  “Nice tan,” said Bree. “Did you come by it honestly or is it sprayed on?”

  My heart sank, but Jack didn’t bat an eye.

  “It won’t rub off,” he replied good-naturedly. “I spent the summer doing conservation work at Uluru. Not much shade out there and the sun’s hot enough to scorch rocks.” He shrugged. “Sunblock can only do so much.”

  “Oh,” said Bree, and I was pleased to see that she was disconcerted.

  Our meal was waiting for us on a round oak table in the center of the room. A straight-backed wooden chair at the table was flanked by two folding chairs that seemed very familiar.

  “I had to borrow the folding chairs from the schoolhouse,” Jack said, following my gaze. “As I explained to Mr. Barlow when he opened the schoolhouse for me, Uncle Hector didn’t do much entertaining, so my seating options were limited. Nice bloke, Mr. Barlow.”

  The oak table looked like a rainbow in the midst of a dull brown desert. Though its three place settings were composed of plain white china, the spaces in between were filled with the covered casserole dishes Jack had received from the villagers. I’d seen the dishes at so many village events that I could identify their owners as well as their contents by their colors alone.