Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch

by Nancy Atherton

  I repeat, somewhat impatiently: AND?

  “And, yes, Amelia Thistle is Mae Bowen,” I said. “Or, to put it another way, Mae Bowen is Amelia Thistle.”

  Ah-ha! She’s using her maiden name.

  “Bingo,” I said, nodding.

  It’s not what I would call an impenetrable disguise.

  “She claims she’s not very clever,” I said, “but I think she’s underselling herself. I don’t know how, but she knew I’d been through hard times, Dimity. She looked into my eyes and stated flat out that I knew what it was to be hungry.”

  She may be sensitive rather than clever. They’re two very different traits, and I know which one I prefer. Do you still believe she poses a threat to Finch?

  “I’m more concerned with protecting her than the village,” I admitted. “I like her, Dimity, and I think she could do with some serious TLC.”

  Why?

  “She’s had a lot on her plate lately,” I said. “Not just selling her old house and buying a new one, but dealing with her brother Alfred’s death. He lived with her and her late husband, Walter Thistle, at Highburn, the estate they bought to keep the Bowenists at bay. Amelia and Alfred were very close and he died less than a year ago. To lose him so soon after losing her husband must have knocked the wind out of her sails. If you ask me, she simply didn’t have the energy to create a completely false identity.”

  The poor woman. Did she leave Highburn because it was filled with so many painful memories?

  “Not exactly,” I said. “It sounds to me as though she still loves the place. She called it her safe haven.”

  Why did she trade her safe haven for Pussywillows?

  “You told me last night that some things are more important than safety,” I said. “Amelia came to Finch to do one of those things….” I settled back in the armchair, stretched my chilled toes toward the fire, and recounted everything Amelia had told me about John Jacob’s purchase, Alfred’s research, Gamaliel Gowland’s forbidden memoir, and the as-yet unfinished story of Mistress Meg. “Alfred’s disabilities kept him from following the clue Gamaliel drew on the memoir’s first page,” I concluded, “so Amelia intends to follow it for him, once she figures it out.”

  A treasure hunt! How wonderful! What a pity Alfred couldn’t participate in it. Did Amelia describe the nature of his handicap?

  “No,” I said, “but he was housebound, so he must have had mobility issues.” I shook my head. “Thank heavens his mind was unaffected. If his notebook is anything to go by, he was a first-rate scholar.”

  He was certainly devoted to his subject. I find it very interesting that the memoir’s first page was found in Plover Cottage. I need hardly point out that the house next door belongs to Finch’s current witch-in-residence, Miranda Morrow.

  “It’s quite a coincidence,” I agreed. “Miranda picked the wrong time to go to Spain. She’ll kick herself when she finds out that we’ve been hunting for Mistress Meg without her. And if one of Gamaliel’s clues points to Briar Cottage, I’ll be in there like a shot, whether she’s home or not.”

  Your treasure hunt may still be in progress when Miranda returns. I suspect it will be rather challenging to find documents that have remained hidden for centuries.

  “Did any of your neighbors discover an odd bit of parchment stuffed up a chimney when you were, um, around?” I asked awkwardly. Aunt Dimity was so vibrantly present that it seemed impolite to speak of her in the past tense, but she responded without hesitation.

  Not to my knowledge. It’s possible that someone found a page and kept mum about it, but I think it highly unlikely. As you know, secrets don’t last long in Finch. If a neighbor had made such a discovery, I’m sure I would have heard about it.

  “I’m sure you would have, too,” I said confidently. “Since you didn’t, I think it’s safe to assume that the rest of the memoir’s pages are still in their original hiding places. Are all of the buildings in Finch as old as Plover Cottage?”

  There are a few exceptions—the schoolhouse, for example, is Victorian and Fairworth House is Georgian—but generally speaking, Finch’s building boom ended in the first decade of the seventeenth century.

  “Well, you’ve reduced the search area a tiny bit,” I allowed. “If a building wasn’t here in Gamaliel’s day, he couldn’t have hidden anything in it, so we can eliminate the schoolhouse and Fairworth from our inquiries. What about Mistress Meg? Do you know anything about her?”

  In an odd way, I may. When I was a small child, I lived in dread of a loathsome creature called Mad Maggie. I envisioned her quite clearly as a snaggletoothed, warty old hag who prowled the shadows in my bedroom with a bloodstained axe.

  “Good grief,” I said, wincing. “And you accuse me of having a wild imagination.”

  I was a child, Lori. You are an adult. There is a difference.

  “So I’ve been told.” I hunkered down more comfortably in the chair, glad that I’d lit the fire. It seemed to me that a story starring an axe-wielding hag deserved to be told by firelight. “Tell me more about Mad Maggie.”

  Mad Maggie was a bogeyman—a bogeywoman, to be more precise—conjured by adults trying to frighten unruly children into good behavior. If, for example, one failed to wash one’s hands before tea, one was told that Mad Maggie would chop them off.

  “How quaint,” I said weakly.

  Parents were more demanding in those days, Lori, and children were tougher. If we were naughty, we expected to be spanked, to have our ears boxed, or to be sent to bed without our suppers. If all else failed, we knew we would be threatened with Mad Maggie. Most of us were bright enough to realize by the age of six that Mad Maggie was nothing more than a make-believe monster used by tired grown-ups to keep peace in the home. I can assure you that no one in Finch ever amputated a child’s soiled hands.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” I said, casting an appalled grimace at Reginald.

  What interests me is that Mad Maggie belonged exclusively to Finch. I never heard her mentioned beyond the bounds of St. George’s parish, not even in Upper Deeping. Since Mistress Meg once lived in Finch, and since she was regarded as a witch, it seems reasonable to ask: Was Mad Maggie a latter-day version of Mistress Meg?

  “The names are related,” I said. “Both Maggie and Meg come from Margaret, and Mistress Meg was also known as Margaret Redfearn.”

  My thoughts exactly. Furthermore, myths often have a basis in reality. If the villagers in Gamaliel’s time feared their local witch, they’d invent horror stories about her. The stories could have traveled down through the ages until they reached my tender ears.

  “Gamaliel describes Mistress Meg as fearsome and you point out a possible link between her and the horrible hag of your childhood.” I gazed into the fire reflectively. “Do you know what, Dimity? I’m beginning to think that Mistress Meg must have been a wicked witch. Gamaliel wrote his memoir at night, in his private study, because he was afraid of what she’d do to him if she found out about it.” I shrugged and looked down at the journal. “Who wants to be turned into a toad?”

  It would be a disconcerting experience, I’ll grant you, but I’m not yet convinced that Gamaliel was afraid of Mistress Meg or that Mistress Meg was wicked. We don’t know enough about their relationship to describe it accurately. If we’re to do so, we must first read the rest of the memoir. Thankfully, the second page will be relatively easy to locate.

  “Will it?” I said dubiously.

  Of course it will. The first glyph isn’t very subtle. You must have deciphered it by now.

  “I haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted. I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured the glyph. “A cross in a shield-shaped lozenge…Now that you mention it, it does seem vaguely familiar.” I opened my eyes in time to see the next line of fine copperplate zip speedily across the page.

  Of course it seems familiar! You see it every Sunday.

  “Do I?” I said, bewildered. “Where?”

  Since the rain has evid
ently rusted your brain, my dear, we’ll take it one step at a time. To which saint is the church in Finch dedicated, Lori?

  “St. George,” I replied. “That’s why it’s called St. George’s.”

  Aunt Dimity ignored my weak attempt at humor and continued, What scene is depicted in the medieval wall painting above the church’s north aisle?

  “St. George, slaying the dragon,” I said.

  What is strapped to St. George’s left arm?

  “A shield.” I closed my eyes briefly, then sat bolt upright and cried, “A shield with a red cross!”

  I knew you’d get there in the end.

  “The glyph must refer to the wall painting!” I said animatedly. “Uncle Gamaliel must have hidden the second page of his memoir in the church! It makes perfect sense, Dimity. He was the rector at St. George’s. He would have known every square inch of the church by heart. He’d know exactly where to stash a piece of parchment.” I thumped the arm of the chair with my fist. “Dimity, you are a genius!”

  If a talent for pointing out the obvious makes me a genius, then I will accept the accolade. I’m sure you would have seen it for yourself once you’d put your mind to it.

  “I should call Amelia,” I said, glancing at the telephone on the old oak desk. “We should go to the church right this minute and start looking for hiding places.”

  No, you should not. Amelia has quite enough to do today, Lori. She’ll be better equipped to commence the search tomorrow.

  “You’re right,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “I’ll call her after lunch. We can meet up tomorrow morning, after I do the school run.”

  If I may make a suggestion? Speak with the vicar and his wife before you enter the church. Lilian loves to root around in the church archives and the vicar is as familiar with St. George’s as Gamaliel Gowland would have been. The Buntings may be able to save you and Amelia a great deal of time and effort.

  “Very true,” I said, nodding. “I’ll give Lilian a buzz after lunch, too, and find out if she and the vicar will be at home tomorrow. If so, Amelia and I will stop at the vicarage before we tackle the church.”

  Excellent. Haven’t you had lunch yet?

  “No,” I said. “I wanted to speak with you first.”

  No wonder your brain is functioning at half speed! Go. Eat. And try not to wear yourself out with too much speculation.

  “I can’t promise not to speculate,” I said, “but I’ll try not to wear myself out.”

  Good enough. Until tomorrow, my dear.

  “Until tomorrow, Dimity.”

  I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, twiddled Reginald’s ears, and made a beeline for the kitchen. I helped myself to some barley soup and a thick slice of buttered bread, but I could have been chewing old boots and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  In my mind I was already in the church, gazing up at St. George’s shield.

  Nine

  I awoke from my speculative daze an hour later and telephoned Lilian Bunting, who assured me that she and the vicar would be at home to visitors the following morning and invited me to drop in at any time with Mrs. Thistle.

  I called Amelia next. She promised to be up, dressed, and ready to go at nine o’clock the next morning. To avoid distracting her from the all-important job of unpacking, I said nothing about Aunt Dimity’s interpretation of the glyph. I told her only that I wished to introduce her to the vicar and his wife.

  “What a good idea,” she said. “They may be able to provide us with useful information about Gamaliel. I’ll be on the doorstep at nine o’clock sharp. You’ll have to excuse me now, though, Lori. Mrs. Binney, Miss Buxton, and Miss Scroggins are engaged in a rather heated debate about how best to arrange my Staffordshire flatbacks. I must mediate.”

  I would have thought long and hard before throwing myself into the middle of a Handmaiden brawl, but Amelia seemed unfazed by the challenge. I ascribed her courage to blissful ignorance and returned to the kitchen to prepare a beef stew for dinner.

  While the stew simmered, I drove to Upper Deeping to pick up the boys. Predictably, Rob and Will made a point of jumping in every puddle between the school’s front door and the Rover, so I blotted them with towels and brought them home to hot chocolates and hot baths. I had dinner on the table when Bill arrived and spent the rest of the evening sharing with him everything I’d learned at Pussywillows and everything I hoped to learn at St. George’s.

  I may have overdone it. Bill listened attentively for the first hour, then withdrew to the twins’ bedroom, where he read aloud a record-breaking number of bedtime stories. Will and Rob were asleep long before he finished and I found him asleep in the master bedroom when I came upstairs. I gazed at him ruefully as I readied myself for bed, then removed Stanley from my pillow, crawled under the covers, and vowed to keep my mouth shut about the secret memoir until Bill specifically requested a progress report.

  “I didn’t wear myself out with speculation, Dimity,” I murmured as I drifted into sleep. “I wore Bill out instead!”

  The sun must have risen on Wednesday morning, but it was hard to tell. Though it wasn’t actively raining, the sky was a solid mass of grim, gray clouds. Even the colorful autumn leaves seemed mildly depressed and the Little Deeping’s ripples were devoid of sparkles.

  Pussywillows, by contrast, shone like a new penny. There wasn’t a trace of packing material in sight when I stepped into the front room and Amelia looked as fresh as a daisy. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, her hair was pinned in a more or less tidy bun, and she’d swapped her moving-day attire for a pale blue blouse that floated softly over a pair of wide-legged black trousers. I’d elected to face the day in a fairly drab brown sweater and a faded pair of jeans, but Amelia defied the gloom by draping a lemon-yellow scarf around her neck and slinging a multicolored carpet bag over the shoulder of her voluminous beige trench coat.

  “You look great,” I said as we left the house and strolled toward the vicarage.

  “I feel great,” she responded ebulliently. “My new home is in apple-pie order and I couldn’t be happier. Everyone was so helpful, Lori. Henry hauled boxes as if he were a navvy, Sally shopped for groceries as if she were my personal assistant, and Mrs. Binney, Miss Buxton, Mrs. Taylor, and Miss Scroggins took it upon themselves to do everything else. Other neighbors popped in to help, but the ladies wouldn’t hear of it.”

  She glanced across the green, caught sight of Millicent and Selena standing in the Emporium’s doorway, and gave them a friendly wave. They smiled, nodded, and waved back, then put their heads close together and, murmuring, disappeared into the Emporium.

  “I’ve lived under siege for too long,” Amelia continued. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to interact with pleasant people. It was wonderful, Lori. The four ladies were interested in every little thing.”

  I was about to retort “I’ll bet they were!” but I swallowed the uncharitable remark before it could escape. Setting ulterior motives aside, the Handmaidens had put in a hard day’s work at Pussywillows. Even I had to admit that they’d earned Amelia’s plaudits.

  As we walked along, I pointed out Crabtree Cottage, Briar Cottage, and the notice board outside the old schoolhouse, and described the many activities that took place inside the schoolhouse through out the year. I was about to issue a gentle word of warning to Amelia about getting involved in the nativity play—the competition for roles could be vicious—when she paused to gaze intently at the three semidetached cottages that stood across the lane from St. George’s Church.

  “The cottage nearest us is Plover Cottage,” she observed. “Alfie used old maps to pinpoint its location. How I wish he could have seen it. I imagine it looks much as it did when John Jacob’s cobbler lived in it.”

  “I imagine it looks much as it did in Gamaliel’s time,” I countered, and with Aunt Dimity’s comments still fresh in my mind I added, “Architecturally speaking, Finch
hasn’t changed much since the seventeenth century.”

  “It’s lucky for us that it hasn’t,” said Amelia. “Our chances of finding the rest of the memoir would be sadly diminished if we were faced with buildings that had been demolished or radically altered.”

  “Let’s hear it for stability,” I said, and came to a halt. “Here we are, Amelia. The vicarage.”

  The Buntings’ rambling, two-story house was set back from the lane and shaded by chestnut trees. A low stone wall separated it from the churchyard surrounding St. George’s and an unkempt front garden testified to the fact that neither the vicar nor his wife were blessed with green thumbs. A midnight-blue Jaguar parked on the grassy verge told me that my father-in-law was nearby.

  Lilian Bunting answered the doorbell, greeted us warmly, and ushered us into the foyer. A respected scholar in her own right, Lilian was also an exemplary vicar’s wife—sympathetic, well-organized, and virtually unflappable. She routinely disarmed bickering browsers at our bring-and-buy sales, soothed disgruntled losers at our flower shows, and pacified irate parishioners with the calm efficiency of a trained diplomat. Since I possessed the finely honed diplomatic skills of a belligerent toddler, I admired her greatly.