Aunt Dimity Goes West

by Nancy Atherton

  Rose placed her glass on the tray, rested her elbows on the easy chair’s arms, and tented her fingers. “What useful purpose did it serve?”

  “If it scared children away from the site,” I said, “it probably saved a few lives.”

  “I see.” Rose frowned slightly. “Who told you about the curse?”

  “The usual suspects,” Toby interpolated, rolling his eyes, “but I plead guilty to giving Lori the gory details, after she badgered me for them.”

  “What details did you give her?” Rose inquired.

  Toby shrugged. “I told her what my grandfather told me. Kids used to get hurt playing on the old mining equipment. So many children were injured that people began to believe the site was jinxed.”

  “If only it were so simple….” Rose tapped the tips of her thumbs together, then stood. She crossed to a small secretaire in the corner and took a modern brass key from one of its drawers. She slipped the key into her skirt pocket before asking, “Are you up for a walk?”

  “You bet,” I said, getting to my feet. “Toby’s whipped me into shape.”

  “I’m always up for a walk,” Toby chimed in.

  “Good.” Rose turned toward the entrance hall and motioned for us to follow her. “If you want to hear the true story behind the Lord Stuart curse, come with me.”

  Twelve

  Toby and I retrieved our hats and sunglasses as we passed through the entrance hall, and Rose donned a straw hat that could have served as a small parasol, tying its rose-colored ribbons firmly beneath her chin before we went outside. There was no need for her to change into hiking boots. Her chunky, thick-soled shoes looked sturdy enough to handle all but the roughest terrain.

  Although she pulled the front door shut as we left the parsonage, she didn’t lock it.

  “Have you ever been burgled?” I asked, as Toby and I followed her down the stairs.

  “Not once in thirty-five years.” She pointed to the rows of houses that rose in terraced ranks along Bluebird’s steeply inclined streets. “Burglars don’t prosper in Bluebird. There are too many eyes watching from behind too many curtains. It’s one of the great advantages of having nosey neighbors.”

  “True,” I said, thinking nostalgically of Finch’s ceaselessly twitching curtains. “Nothing goes unnoticed in a small town.”

  “Not for long, at any rate,” Rose added wisely.

  She led us through Bluebird’s back lanes, pausing to greet everyone we met along the way, to St. Barbara’s Catholic Church, which stood at the top of Garnet Street, on the north side of the valley. Behind the church a dirt road climbed up the mountainside and disappeared into the forest. When Rose turned toward the dirt road, Toby stopped abruptly.

  “I know where we’re going,” he said, eyeing the road unhappily.

  “I knew you would,” said Rose, “but let’s keep it as a surprise for Lori.”

  “Some surprise,” Toby muttered, but he walked on.

  The road was wide enough for the three of us to walk comfortably side by side and shady enough for me to wish I’d brought my sweatshirt. It was properly maintained, as well, and cut at a gentle grade that made walking uphill a breeze. We’d climbed for no more than fifteen minutes when a ten-foot-wide iron gate came into view. Patches of rust showed through the gate’s flaking layers of white paint, and above it an archway of lacy ironwork contained the words: BLUEBIRD CEMETERY.

  “We’re going to a cemetery?” I exclaimed, clasping my hands to my breast. “I love cemeteries.”

  “You do?” Toby looked at me as though I’d slipped acog.

  “I always visit cemeteries when I travel,” I told him. “They’re quiet and serene and—”

  “Filled with dead bodies,” Toby inserted, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

  “They’re filled with the past as well,” I said, bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You can learn a lot about a place by visiting its graveyards. Isn’t that right, Rose?”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” she said. “Shall we proceed?”

  The gate was chained and padlocked, but Rose opened the lock with the key she’d taken from the secretaire, slid the chain around the gate post, and left it dangling. When she’d finished, Toby pushed the gate aside, and I stepped into a glade so lovely it took my breath away.

  It was like a small cathedral, with pillars of white-barked aspens and a roof of sun-drenched leaves that glowed as richly as stained glass. The dirt road served as the center aisle, with a web of sunken paths winding from it through a maze of headstones, crosses, markers, and monuments. Above us, choirs of birds twittered among the shivering aspen leaves, as if to emphasize the sylvan silence that descended when they stopped.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said softly.

  Rose nodded her agreement, but Toby was clearly unmoved by our surroundings.

  “For heaven’s sake, Lori,” he said impatiently. “You don’t have to whisper. You won’t disturb anyone.”

  “It’s a sacred place,” I retorted.

  “For worms, maybe,” he countered.

  “What kind of comment is that?” I said, frowning at him.

  “An honest one.” He frowned back at me, then hung his head and muttered angrily, “We buried my grandparents here last year. It’s not my favorite place to be, okay?”

  “Oh,” I said, brought up short. “I didn’t realize…I’m so sorry, Toby. Do you want to leave?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Rose placed a comforting hand on Toby’s shoulder. “Try to think of this place as your grandfather thought of it, Toby—as a repository of history. He used to spend a lot of time up here.”

  Toby’s head came up. “He did?”

  “He found it fascinating. You will, too, if you give it a chance.” Rose gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Are you staying?”

  “Yeah.” Toby took a deep breath and glanced at us apologetically. “I’m staying.”

  “Then come along,” Rose said briskly.

  Toby and I followed Rose along the dirt road and onto a sunken path that branched off from it, to our right. I suspected that she would have moved at a faster clip if I hadn’t expressed a keen interest in graveyards. As it was, she walked slowly enough for me to read the headstones whose inscriptions hadn’t been obliterated by the passage of time.

  It was like reading a roll call of nineteenth-century immigrants: Evgeny Krasikov, Padraig Doherty, Helmut Grauberger, Esteban Fernandez, Miroslav Simzisko, Leslinka Turek, and Alexis Laytonikis were just a few of the resoundingly ethnic names that caught my eye.

  “It’s like the United Nations up here,” I marveled.

  “It is,” Rose agreed. “People from all over the world came to the Rocky Mountains to seek their fortunes. Bluebird even had a small Chinese community as well as a handful of Sikhs from northern India. Imagine the journeys they made to get here.”

  “In England,” I said, as we continued down the path, “the old graveyards are near churches. Why is Bluebird’s so far away from town?”

  “Economics, for one thing,” Rose replied. “At the time the cemetery was created, town property was too expensive to waste on the dead, and much of the rest of the Vulgamore Valley was being mined. The ground here is relatively easy to dig, fairly level, and as far as we know, devoid of valuable gems or minerals.” She paused before a row of twelve simple stone markers, each bearing the name Shuttleworth. “People were also afraid of contagion. Epidemics were not unknown in mining communities.”

  “What kind of epidemics?” I asked.

  “Dysentery, cholera, measles, malaria, diphtheria, smallpox…” Rose kept her eyes trained on the headstones as she reeled off the long list of diseases. “The scourges that spring up wherever malnourished people live in overcrowded conditions with poor sanitation. Influenza killed the entire Shuttleworth family, from the infant son to the grandmother. Their church had to bury them.”

  “The good old days,” murmured Toby, gazing somberly at the Shuttleworths’ graves
.

  “It wasn’t Disney World,” Rose acknowledged. She bent to lay a hand on the smallest headstone, then walked on. “Miners’ lives were difficult and dangerous. Those who weren’t killed by disease died in mining accidents or froze to death or drowned. Some drank themselves to death, some committed suicide. Others were shot or stabbed in drunken brawls. A few were hanged.”

  “Frontier justice at work?” I said.

  “So-called frontier justice was swift and sure,” Rose said sardonically, “but I’m not sure how often it was just. And, of course, silicosis took many miners’ lives.” She noted my puzzled expression and explained, “Silicosis is a form of pneumonia caused by breathing air filled with silica dust. Respirators didn’t exist back then.”

  “Good grief,” I said, pressing my hands to my chest. Rose’s litany of woes seemed at odds with the earlier picture she’d painted of Bluebird. “How could they build an opera house in the midst of so much misery?”

  “They needed the opera house—and the debating societies and the baseball teams—to take them away from the misery,” said Rose. “Besides, their expectations were different from ours. They had no antibiotics, no advanced surgical techniques. To them, disease and death were an accepted part of life—dreadful, yes, but accepted.”

  “Not everyone died young, though.” Toby had crouched down to examine the inscription on an unusually elaborate marker: a white marble plinth surmounted by a kneeling, weeping angel with folded wings. “Hannah Lavery lived to be eighty-five.”

  “Dear Hannah.” Rose spoke with real animation for the first time since we’d passed through the entrance gate, as though she were speaking of a friend she’d known and loved. “Hannah Lavery was the daughter of a wealthy mine owner, an exceptional girl who became a truly remarkable woman. When Hannah saw suffering, she refused to look the other way. She spent her entire life working for the welfare of miners and their families. She died in Washington, D.C., still lobbying for humane labor laws, but she wished to be buried here, among the people whose struggles had first awakened her conscience.”

  “She never married,” I observed.

  “Victorian men of her class preferred passive women to rabble-rousers,” said Rose. “But I find that crusaders in every age have difficulty finding suitable mates. It isn’t easy to give one’s heart to a man as well as a cause.”

  I ran my fingers along the angel’s folded wings, then walked ahead of my companions, drawn by a monumental monument that stood silhouetted against a ponderosa pine at the end of the path. The gleaming white marble obelisk towered over the phalanx of rough-cut red-granite headstones that surrounded it, and its inscription had been beautifully chiseled.

  * * *

  Cyril Pennyfeather

  1859–1896

  A LIVING SACRIFICE, HOLY, ACCEPTABLE UNTO GOD

  Romans 12:1

  Erected to honor the memory

  of a devoted teacher by the grateful families

  of those whose lives he saved

  * * *

  “Who was Cyril Pennyfeather?” I asked when Toby and Rose had caught up with me.

  “He was a schoolmaster,” Rose replied. “He came to the United States from England in 1880 and made his way to Bluebird in 1884. He and the men who lie buried near him died in the Lord Stuart mining disaster of 1896.”

  I blinked at her, looked back at the obelisk, and began silently to count the red-granite markers surrounding it.

  “Twenty,” I said finally. “Twenty men died in one accident—twenty-one, counting Cyril.” I turned to Rose. “What happened?”

  “A catastrophic cave-in,” she answered. “No one knows what caused it. Some claimed that the mine manager had bought poor-quality wood to prop the shaft in which the cave-in occurred, but nothing was ever proved. The shaft was never excavated, and the mine closed shortly thereafter.”

  “What was a schoolteacher doing in a mine?” asked Toby.

  “Many of his pupils or former pupils worked there,” Rose told him. “When he heard about the cave-in, he went up to see if there was anything he could do to help. He led at least a dozen men to safety before he, too, was killed by falling rock.” She nodded toward the inscription. “As you can see, the families of those he rescued raised money to pay for his memorial. He was much loved even before his death. After it…” Rose looked from me to Toby and back to me again. “After it, rumors of a curse began to circulate.”

  “Ah,” I said as understanding dawned. “The Lord Stuart curse.”

  “Correct,” said Rose. “I’m convinced that the Lord Stuart Mine closed because there was no more gold to be had from it, but others believe differently. When my husband and I first came to Bluebird, Rufe and Lou Zimmer took us up to the old mine site and told us about the disaster. Afterward, they brought us here, to show us the graves of those who’d died. They explained to us that the cave-in was the culmination of a series of fatal accidents that had plagued the Lord Stuart Mine almost from its inception. They held that the mine would have closed in 1896, even if the mother lode hadn’t played out.”

  “Because of the curse?” I said.

  Rose nodded. “Miners are superstitious, as men in hazardous occupations frequently are. If they came to believe in the curse, they might have been reluctant to work in the Lord Stuart.”

  “You can’t run a mine without miners,” I commented.

  “I don’t think the curse had anything to do with the mine closing,” said Toby, shaking his head. “Don’t you see? It was a cover-up. The mine owner closed the Lord Stuart to keep people from finding out about the substandard wood. A scandal like that wouldn’t sit well with his investors.”

  “Maybe he invented the curse to keep inquisitive people away from the mine,” I suggested, “and the accidents your grandfather told you about—the ones that happened in later years—reinforced the original lie.”

  “But why do they still believe in the curse?” Toby demanded. “The mine closed over a century ago. There’s not a trace of it left aboveground. No one’s ever been injured at the Aerie, much less died, but people still think it’s risky to stay there.”

  “We still celebrate Gold Rush Days in Bluebird,” Rose reminded him. “For some people, the past is always present. Your predecessor, for example, was deeply interested in the history of the Lord Stuart Mine.”

  “James Blackwell?” I said, suddenly alert.

  “James came to the historical society toward the end of February,” Rose said. “He wanted information about the mine. He already had reference books—Mrs. Auerbach collects them, apparently—so he didn’t need to borrow ours, but I lent him newspaper clippings, photographs, town records, pamphlets, and other ephemera. He returned a few weeks later to ask for details about the 1896 disaster.”

  “Did you tell him about the curse?” I asked.

  “I didn’t have to,” said Rose. “He’d already heard about it in town—yes, Toby, from the usual suspects. James wanted to know if the legend was based in fact. I told him exactly what I’ve told you and left him to draw his own conclusions.”

  “Did he seem disturbed by the information you gave him?” I asked.

  “Not particularly.” Rose shrugged. “But I have to confess that I didn’t monitor his reactions very closely. I was busy at the time, developing the society’s summer event and exhibition schedule.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m sorry to say it, but I have to get back to the parsonage. Maggie Flaxton is dropping by at four o’clock to discuss my role in Gold Rush Days. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Toby, shuddering. “Rub Maggie the wrong way and you’ll find yourself cleaning up after the burros in the petting zoo. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” said Rose. “I think we have enough time to make one more stop before we leave. Toby, you can lead the way.”

  Toby’s grandparents had been buried beneath a large red-granite boulder, the kind the twins had clambered over on every one of our hikes. A square p
atch on one side of the boulder had been smoothed, polished, and etched with his grandparents’ names and dates, as well as a simple outline of the mountain range that contained Mount Shroeder’s distinctive profile.

  “We climbed Mount Shroeder when I was ten years old,” Toby recalled. “It was Granddad’s favorite one-day climb. He loved the view of the valley from the summit.”

  “He passed his love on to you,” I said. “It’s a wonderful inheritance.”

  Toby squatted down to brush dead leaves from the grave. “I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the disaster when I asked about the curse?”

  “Being a man of science, I expect he refused to connect the two,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Toby stretched out his hand to touch the boulder. “Because there is no connection, right, Granddad?”

  We made sure the gate was firmly chained and padlocked before we left, then started back down the dirt road toward town. After spending so much time in the cemetery’s cool shade, it was good to feel the sun’s warmth on my skin again.

  “Rose,” I said, “did Mrs. Auerbach ever ask you about the curse?”

  “I’ve never met Mrs. Auerbach,” said Rose. “She wasn’t a churchgoer and she didn’t spend much time in town. She kept herself very much to herself when she and the children were at the Aerie. I imagine Bluebird’s attractions pale in comparison to the Aerie’s. I’ve been given to understand that it’s a marvelous place.”

  “Given to understand?” I repeated, surprised. “Do you mean you’ve never been to the Aerie?”

  “Never.” She gave me a sidelong glance and a half-guilty smile. “To be honest, I’m hoping to wangle an invitation from you. I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like inside. Apart from that, I’d like to pick up the material James Blackwell borrowed from the society.”

  “He never returned the papers he borrowed?” I said.

  “He left so suddenly that it probably slipped his mind,” said Rose.