Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” said Charles, “preferably after one has established one’s facts. I spent yesterday evening telephoning collectors and double-checking the attribution online. I would have sprung the painting on him after breakfast, but he ran off to an estate sale in Cheltenham before I’d finished my toast. I’ve been dying to show my Asazuki to someone, but to whom could I show it? Who would recognize its beauty? Who?”

  “I give up,” I said.

  “Bill would, but I couldn’t interrupt him at work,” Charles continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Lilian Bunting was a possibility, but she’s busy with meals-on-wheels, and William and Amelia are off on one of their nature walks. The disposable artists”—his unkind but apt name for the Handmaidens—“were out of the question. They may take painting lessons, but the lessons they take haven’t taken. Finally, I thought of you! You, Lori, are neither a Philistine nor a pretender. You have a natural affinity for the finer things in life. And, of course, you were at home.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Charles would have been horrified if I’d told him that I thought his precious Asazuki koi was a bug-eyed, flabby-lipped, overfed, and decidedly unattractive specimen, so I kept my opinion to myself. “And congratulations. Lady Luck has dealt you a winning hand.”

  “To be perfectly honest,” said Charles, smiling coyly, “it wasn’t all luck.”

  “Wasn’t it?” I said and the old wishing well rose before my mind’s eye like a genie emerging from a magic lantern.

  “Lori,” Charles said, hunching forward and fixing me with a beady stare, “if you repeat a single syllable of what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny saying it. What’s said between us, stays between us.”

  “Understood,” I said. “But I’ll have to tell Bill. It’s a spousal requirement.”

  “Allowed,” he said. He placed the painting on the table and hunched over even further, assuming a posture I associated with confidential disclosures. “You may think me foolish, but I spoke to the wishing well last week.”

  “Did you speak to it at night?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Charles replied, frowning slightly. “How did you know?”

  “Jack heard noises in the back garden,” I explained. “Did you bump into anyone else while you were there?”

  “I did not,” said Charles. “I went at night for the express purpose of avoiding other people and I succeeded. The well alone heard my wish. And the well made it come true. It gave me exactly what I needed to punish Grant for leaving all the dirty work to me.”

  “You honestly believe that an old well made a valuable painting appear out of nowhere,” I said.

  “What else can I believe?” said Charles. “I’ve been sorting Grant’s disposables for years, but it wasn’t until after the well heard my wish that I struck gold.” He drew back from me and said incredulously, “Don’t tell me you’re a skeptic. How can you doubt the well after it granted your wish for sunshine?”

  “I, uh, there’s this, um, dome of high pressure,” I faltered.

  “Pshaw!” Charles waved a hand at me dismissively. “Did a dome of high pressure grant Sally’s wish? Or Opal’s? Or Mr. Barlow’s, despite his repeated assertions that he made no wish? It’s the well, Lori. It has to be. I feel as if I should drop a gold coin in it, but the engraving says nothing about tangible tributes. Words of praise may be enough.”

  “If you praise it at night,” I said, “try not to wake Jack up again.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Charles, “but it’s not easy to reach the well. Jack’s garden is a botanical obstacle course.”

  “We’re working on it,” I told him.

  “In that case, I’ll wait until after you’re done to praise the well,” said Charles. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I really should be getting back. It’s been a pleasure to share my Asazuki with you, Lori. I wish you could be there to see Grant’s face at the unveiling, but I’ll have a camera handy, to catch his expression. It should be priceless.”

  Charles lifted the framed painting from the table and paused to admire it before rewrapping it in the brown paper and getting to his feet. I walked him to his car, waved him off, and lurked in the driveway for a little while, watching and waiting for Henry Cook or Peggy Taxman or God alone knew who else to bring wonderful news to me. When the coast remained clear, I went back inside and strode purposefully into the study.

  “Reginald,” I said, “something strange is going on in Finch.”

  My pink bunny chose to remain silent, so I took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth. I felt an urgent need to immerse myself in cool reasoning and flawless logic and, fortunately, I knew where to find both.

  Fifteen

  “Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “Have I got news for you!”

  The familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page as soon as I finished speaking.

  I presume you haven’t turned the wishing well’s water into wine.

  “If I’d walked on the wishing well’s water, it still wouldn’t be the day’s banner headline,” I told her. “Something strange is going on in Finch.”

  Something stranger than usual?

  “You be the judge,” I replied.

  I leaned back in my chair and recounted the series of extraordinary conversations that had prevented me from doing the laundry. I described Emma Harris’s longing for the perfect office manager, Elspeth Binney’s curiosity about the creative life, and Charles Bellingham’s thirst for revenge. I tried to sound matter-of-fact as I discussed Peter and Cassie’s unexpected return to Anscombe Manor, Jemma Renshawe’s out-of-the-blue commission to photograph a Cotswold village, and Chiaki Asazuki’s rediscovered masterpiece, but I didn’t succeed.

  “For pity’s sake, Dimity,” I said, “Peter and Cassie are coming home to run the office for Emma! Elspeth’s photographer niece arrives in Finch tomorrow! The odds of Charles finding an original Asazuki in a pile of junk must be astronomical!” I thumped the arm of the chair emphatically. “It can’t be a flurry of coincidences, Dimity. The things that are happening in Emma’s and Elspeth’s and Charles’s lives are way too specific to be written off as mere serendipity. Each of them made a wish in or near the wishing well and—voila!—their wishes came true! It makes me think twice about explaining away everyone else’s wishes. I hope you can offer me a rational explanation because superstitious nonsense is beginning to look pretty plausible to me.”

  Could someone—a human being, that is, not a leprechaun or a pixie or the fairy at the bottom of Jack’s garden—have overheard any of the wishes?

  I mulled over the question, calling to mind everything I’d seen and heard at Ivy Cottage since Jack, Bree, and I had uncovered the well.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Sally Pyne had the back garden to herself. So did Millicent Scroggins. Elspeth, Opal, and Selena were out there together, but they each made a wish when the others’ backs were turned.”

  I doubt if those three ladies would grant one another’s wishes even if they had overheard them.

  “Sad, but true,” I agreed and went on. “I was the only one to hear Mr. Barlow and Emma express their wishes and Jack was too far away to see who was sneaking up to the well in the middle of the night or to hear what they said to it. It doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

  What doesn’t matter?

  “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that someone did overhear the wishes,” I said. “How in heaven’s name could he or she make them come true? How could I, for instance, arrange for a publisher to give Jemma Renshawe an assignment that would lead her straight to her aunt’s guest room? How could I arrange for Dabney Holdstrom to drive into Finch with a disconnected exhaust pipe? How could I bring Peter and Cassie Harris back to Anscombe Manor? The answer is: I couldn’t.”

  You underrate your scheming skills, Lori, but I take your point. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a rational explanatio
n, my dear, but I remain convinced that a rational explanation exists. You simply haven’t discovered it yet. I’m not even certain it’s worth discovering. Not now, at any rate.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  At the moment, everyone seems to be happy. The time to look for an explanation will come when the moment of happiness passes.

  “Why should it pass?” I asked.

  Wishes can backfire, Lori. They sometimes backfire spectacularly. A child may wish with all her heart to eat a whole chocolate cake without pausing to consider how sick she would be afterward. A greedy man may wish for a pile of gold, but if the gold came from your pocket, you might object. One person’s dream-come-true can be another person’s worst nightmare.

  “I see what you mean,” I said, nodding thoughtfully. “I wanted it to stop raining, but if the rain stops for too long, crops die.”

  When the drought begins, you’ll have to find a rational explanation for the strange things that are happening in Finch. Otherwise, you won’t be able to stop it. And it will be essential to stop it. If you don’t, crops will die. I speak metaphorically, of course. You and I both know that you aren’t responsible for the weather.

  “What should I do in the meantime?” I asked.

  In the meantime, let your neighbors enjoy their apparent good fortune. It would be cruel to intercede too soon. It would also be useless. Most people refuse to accept reality until it jumps up and hits them on the nose.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said slowly. “It’s my job to figure out what’s really going on in Finch, but not until some sort of crisis occurs?”

  An admirable summation. I suspect you won’t have long to wait. As I said before, Lori, wishes can backfire.

  • • •

  I spent the rest of the day racing from one neglected chore to another. I cobbled together a beef stew for dinner and made a (small) chocolate cake for dessert in between catching up with the laundry, the vacuuming, the dusting, the scrubbing, and the straightening. I paused at odd intervals to scan the driveway from the window seat in the living room or to glance expectantly at the telephone in the kitchen, but to my relief, neither the doorbell nor the telephone rang.

  I’d had all the good news I could stand.

  Will and Rob provided a welcome distraction from the weird goings-on in Finch. I picked the boys up from school and played cricket with them in our back meadow until I ran out of breath and traded chasing down balls for cheering from the sidelines. I called them in to wash their hands and to set the table shortly before Bill came home from work.

  I was putting the finishing touches on a green salad when my husband strode into the kitchen, with Stanley padding faithfully at his heels.

  “What smells so good?” Bill asked.

  “I’d like to think I do,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him, “but it’s probably the beef stew.”

  Bill gave me an absentminded kiss on the cheek, then lifted the lid from the dutch oven and inhaled deeply.

  “Will it be ready soon?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Dinner will be served in two shakes of a kitten’s tail,” I assured him, giving the salad a final toss. “Why are you so hungry, anyway? Hard day at the office?”

  “It was a hard day at the office,” he acknowledged, “but I’m hungry because I didn’t have my three o’clock doughnut to sustain me. Sally closed the tearoom all day to get ready for the photo shoot tomorrow.”

  “She closed the tearoom?” I said, astonished. “Sally never closes the tearoom during regular working hours. She can’t afford to shut it down.”

  “She shut it down today,” said Bill, moving to the kitchen counter to examine the chocolate cake. “The Handmaidens had a fit because they missed their daily tea-and-backstabbing session. Lilian Bunting ran out of bread and had to settle for the plastic-wrapped stuff Peggy sells at the Emporium. And Henry . . .” Bill sighed. “Poor Henry was banished to the pub.”

  “Why?” I exclaimed.

  “Sally didn’t want him to distract her with his jokes and his funny stories,” said Bill. “She’s taking the whole thing very seriously.”

  “I suppose it’s understandable,” I said. “I doubt she’ll have another chance to appear on the cover of a national magazine.”

  “Good God, I hope not,” Bill said vehemently as he went off to round up the boys. “I need my three o’clock doughnut.”

  A small ripple of apprehension fluttered through me as I ladled the stew into a tureen. Bill was whining and Bill never whined. The Handmaidens were fuming, Lilian Bunting was spreading butter on inferior bread, and Henry Cook was wondering why his fiancée no longer cared for his sense of humor. Sally’s wish for fame appeared to be having unintended and rather unpleasant consequences.

  “Wishes can backfire,” I murmured. “I wonder if Sally’s wish will explode in her face?”

  The phone rang and I nearly dropped the ladle. I managed to lower it into the dutch oven without splashing stew all over the stove, but I was still a bit jumpy when I picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” I said uneasily.

  “Lori?”

  I heard Emma’s voice and relaxed. She couldn’t have more wonderful news to pass along, I told myself. Nothing could be more wonderful than Peter’s return.

  “I know it’s dinnertime,” she said, “so I’ll keep it short. Would you please let Jack know that I’ll be volunteering my services at Ivy Cottage on Friday?”

  “Friday?” I said, surprised. “You said you’d need a few days to bring Peter and Cassie up to speed.”

  “I know,” said Emma, “but I didn’t take into account how bright and eager Peter and Cassie are. They won’t need more than a day to learn the ropes.”

  “Great,” I said. “What do you suggest Jack and Bree and I do tomorrow? We don’t want to spoil your big plans.”

  “You can make a start on fixing or replacing the bird tables and the birdbaths,” Emma replied decisively. “I’d rather you didn’t touch the greenery until I’m on hand to supervise.”

  “We won’t pluck a blade of grass without you,” I said, smiling.

  “Did you hear about the tearoom?” she asked.

  “Bill told me,” I replied. “What a kerfuffle.”

  “Derek was bitterly disappointed,” said Emma. “He’d counted on having a custard tart after lunch. He nearly wept when I told him the tearoom would be closed again tomorrow, for the photo shoot.”

  “Bill’s displaying withdrawal symptoms, too,” I said.

  “Do not come between a man and his pastries,” Emma intoned and we both chuckled. “Did Bill tell you about George Wetherhead?”

  “No,” I said, my smile fading. “What about George Wetherhead?”

  “Christmas came early for him,” Emma said. “Derek ran into him during his failed quest for custard tarts and heard the whole story firsthand. You know how passionate George is about his train collection.”

  “It’s the only thing he talks about voluntarily,” I said. George Wetherhead was the most bashful man in Finch, but he was a rabid model railway enthusiast.

  “Well,” said Emma, “George spotted an ad for a rare antique brass locomotive in one of his newsletters last week. The seller had placed a ridiculously low price on it and George snapped it up. It arrived in the mail today and George swears it’s worth ten times what he paid for it. Derek said he looked as if he were walking on air.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” I said in a hollow voice. “Does Derek happen to know whether or not George visited Ivy Cottage recently?”

  “Derek doesn’t,” Emma replied, “but I do. I saw George there last Thursday evening, when I dropped in to take more photographs. He was chatting with Jack about a long-distance passenger train in Australia called the Ghan. I thought it was very bold of George to strike up a conversation with a total stranger.”

  “Did George look around the back garden?” I asked.

  “He and Jack were in the back garden,” said Emma. “
That’s where I found them.”

  “Of course you did,” I said faintly. “Listen, Emma, I have to go.”

  “I know and I’m sorry,” said Emma. “I didn’t mean to keep you so long. Go. Feed your family. I’ll see you on Friday!”

  “See you then,” I said.

  I hung up the phone and wobbled unsteadily to the kitchen table, where I sank onto the nearest chair and stared anxiously into the middle distance.

  “Pixies and leprechauns and fairies aren’t real,” I said to the thin air. “But I’m not so sure about wishing wells.”

  Sixteen

  I spent most of the night tossing and turning and asking myself what would happen next. Would Finch crumble beneath the weight of its good fortune, as Aunt Dimity had predicted? A trickle of discontent was already seeping through the village and I didn’t have the faintest notion of how to stop it. What little sleep I did get was disrupted by dreams of Finch being pulverized by a gargantuan tidal wave. I woke feeling seasick, but a cup of strong, sweet tea and yet another sun-filled morning restored my faith in my village’s ability to survive whatever maelstrom Fate had in store for it.

  I made breakfast for Bill and the boys, drove Will and Rob to school, and rode Betsy to Ivy Cottage, allowing the gentle downhill slope to do most of the work for me. Bree and Jack were sitting on the front doorstep when I rolled Betsy into the driveway. I tried not to smile when Jack slid closer to Bree to make room for me.

  “Good news,” he announced. “Aldous Winterbottom has given Emma’s master plan his blessing.”

  “That’s great,” I said, “because the master planner herself will be yours to command as of tomorrow.”

  “Beauty!” Jack exclaimed. “But I think Emma will do most of the commanding. At least, I bloody well hope she will. Her diagrams are beyond me.”

  “Who’ll manage the riding school while Emma’s here?” Bree asked.

  I quickly recounted the Peter and Cassie story, leaving out all references to the wishing well allegedly overhearing my conversation with Emma, then moved on to Team Ivy’s assignment for the day.