Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thistle,” she said as she hung our coats on the Victorian coat tree in the foyer. “I feel as if I ought to apologize for the miserable weather, even though I don’t believe I’m responsible for it.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” said Amelia, clasping her carpet bag in her arms. “If not for rain, England’s green and pleasant land would be less green and therefore less pleasant.”

  “Since I have no desire to live in a desert, I’m forced to agree with you,” said Lilian. “Come through to the study,” she added, leading the way up the corridor. “We’re very popular this morning. Teddy—my husband—is already in the study, entertaining another visitor.”

  “We don’t wish to intrude,” said Amelia.

  “Our guest won’t mind,” said Lilian. “It’s only William—William Willis, that is—Lori’s father-in-law. He’s come to return a book he borrowed from Teddy.”

  As soon as Lilian mentioned Willis, Sr., I recalled the painting of spring crocuses he kept in his private sitting room at Fairworth House. There was no reason to suppose that the name “Willis” would mean anything to Amelia after so many years, but I couldn’t help wondering if she would, eventually, remember the dying woman who’d commissioned the exquisite watercolor.

  The men, being gentlemen, stood when we entered the study, a spacious room with a lofty ceiling, book-lined walls, and comfortably shabby furniture. Lilian stuck around long enough to introduce Amelia, then went to the kitchen to prepare tea.

  With his wavy iron-gray hair, mournful gray eyes, and predominantly gray attire, Theodore Bunting could have blended in with the lowering sky, but his greeting was as warm as his wife’s had been and he insisted that Amelia and I sit in the faded chintz armchairs closest to the fire.

  Willis, Sr., was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and an understated silk tie. He remained standing after the vicar had lowered himself into the worn leather armchair opposite Amelia.

  “If you wish to speak privately with Mr. Bunting—” Willis, Sr., began.

  “You needn’t leave on my account,” Amelia interrupted. “In fact, it might be better if you stayed. You and the vicar look like intelligent men and intelligence will be needed if my search is to succeed.”

  “Your search?” Willis, Sr., inquired politely, taking the chair beside the vicar’s.

  “Let’s wait for Mrs. Bunting, shall we?” Amelia proposed. “Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat myself and repetition is tiresome for the speaker as well as the audience. In the meantime, please allow me to say, Mr. Bunting, that you are fortunate indeed to tend such a warmhearted and generous flock….”

  Willis, Sr.’s years of legal training enabled him to maintain a neutral expression while Amelia sang the Handmaidens’ praises, and the vicar hid his emotions admirably, but the two men couldn’t help exchanging a single, fleeting glance that hovered somewhere between incredulity and pity. They, too, realized that Amelia’s impression of the Handmaidens would become considerably less rosy once the four women unsheathed their claws, and they were as reluctant as I was to disillusion her.

  “They’re much better housekeepers than I am,” Amelia concluded. “I doubt that Pussywillows will ever again be as tidy as it is now.”

  Mr. Bunting and Willis, Sr., responded with innocuous comments, then retreated to safer ground with remarks about the weather, a conversation that lasted until Lilian returned, bearing the black lacquer tea tray she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother. She was accompanied by Angel, the fluffy white vicarage cat, who peered at each of us in turn before leaping onto the vicar’s lap and draping herself languidly over his knees.

  While Lilian served the tea and handed around a plate filled with her irresistible lemon bars, Mr. Bunting brought her up to speed.

  “Mrs. Thistle is engaged in a search,” he informed her. “We don’t yet know the nature of her search because she wanted you to be present when she enlightened us.”

  “How intriguing,” said Lilian, sitting cautiously on the wobbly settee that faced the hearth. “Please, carry on, Mrs. Thistle. You have my undivided attention.”

  “I suppose you could say I’m on a quest,” Amelia began, “though it’s my late brother’s quest, really….”

  I sipped my Earl Grey and savored a lemon bar while Amelia repeated the remarkable story she’d related to me at Pussywillows. She’d evidently decided not to advertise the name Bowen and the complications that went with it because she spoke of her brother only as Alfred or Alfie, with no last name. She finished her account by delving into the colorful carpet bag for Alfred’s spiral-bound notebook and the first page of Gamaliel’s memoir, both of which were examined closely by Lilian, the vicar, and my father-in-law.

  The Buntings didn’t go bananas, as I’d predicted, but they were clearly thrilled by the discovery. Willis, Sr., as if conscious that their interest in the subject matter carried more weight than his own, allowed them to take the lead in the discussion that followed.

  Lilian spent a considerable amount of time comparing the original Latin text to Alfred’s translation before passing them to Willis, Sr.

  “Does the translation pass muster?” the vicar inquired.

  “Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “It’s colloquial, but accurate.”

  “I approve of Alfred’s use of common speech,” said the vicar. “It brings the Reverend Gowland to life. I can almost see him, lit by the light of a single candle, alert to the sound of approaching footsteps, moving his quill hurriedly from ink pot to parchment as he writes late into the night.”

  “He seems real to me, too,” Amelia agreed. “It’s as if I were hearing one of my ancestors speak directly to me from the past.”

  “And what a turbulent period of the past it was,” said Lilian. “England wasn’t a peaceful kingdom in those days. To the contrary, the country was racked with strife throughout much of the seventeenth century—civil war, sectarian violence, outbreaks of the plague, Cromwell’s thugs plundering churches, and the Witchfinder General committing appalling atrocities in the name of God.” She compressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, then added in clipped tones, “In England, women found guilty of witchcraft weren’t burned at the stake. They were hanged.”

  “You’ve quite put me off my tea,” said Amelia, gazing sadly at her cup.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lilian, “but it would be dishonest to sugarcoat the facts. Witch-hunting was a pernicious practice.”

  “Religion was sadly abused in those days,” said the vicar. “People used it as an excuse to murder, maim, and torture those whose beliefs differed from their own. The ongoing conflict between the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England called everyone’s allegiance into question.”

  “It was a dangerous time to be a clergyman,” Lilian confirmed, “yet the Reverend Gowland survived and prospered. The lowly rector of St. George’s Church eventually became the archdeacon of Exeter.”

  “I know,” said Amelia. “Alfie devoted three pages in his notebook to Gamaliel’s rise through the ecclesiastical ranks. Did you read it there just now, Mrs. Bunting, or are you familiar with the careers of each of your husband’s predecessors?”

  “My wife takes an interest in church history,” the vicar explained. “She wrote a splendid monograph on selected members of St. George’s clergy. It’s available in the church for a small donation. The roof fund…” His voice trailed off delicately.

  “I shall purchase a copy today,” said Amelia.

  “And I shall rewrite it,” Lilian declared, “because it doesn’t include what may be the most interesting chapter in the Reverend Gowland’s career.” She fastened her gaze on the plastic-covered piece of parchment in Willis, Sr.’s hand. “I pride myself on my intellectual rigor, Mrs. Thistle, but your late brother’s quest has inflamed my imagination as well.”

  “The complete memoir could alter our understanding of the Reverend Gowland,” the vicar expl
ained.

  “It certainly could,” said Lilian, nodding. “What secrets did he have to tell? How could telling them endanger his flock? Who was Mistress Meg? If she was regarded as a witch, what happened to her? Did the Reverend Gowland bring about her torture and her death? Or did he sell his soul to her in a misguided attempt to gain preferment in the church?”

  “Good heavens,” said Amelia, her eyes widening. “The notion of soul selling never occurred to me.”

  “I’m sorry to say it,” said the vicar, “but an atmosphere rife with fear and superstition can infect the mind of the most devout cleric.”

  “I can’t imagine such evils infecting your mind, Mr. Bunting,” said Amelia.

  “I do my best to guard against them,” the vicar responded, “because I’m well aware of my own frailty.”

  “How frail was the Reverend Gowland, I wonder?” Lilian asked. “I must confess that I shall find it difficult to concentrate on mundane matters until we find the rest of his memoir.” She eyed Amelia speculatively. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thistle. I may be assuming too much. Will you allow Teddy and me to help you with your search?”

  “I’m counting on your help, and Lori’s,” Amelia exclaimed. “I haven’t been able to make heads or tails out of Gamaliel’s first clue.”

  It was my cue to jump in with Aunt Dimity’s guess about the glyph. Since I didn’t know how to explain the inexplicable, I would have taken the credit for her contribution, but before I could open my mouth to speak, Willis, Sr., decided to break his long silence.

  “Were you familiar with St. George’s, Mrs. Thistle,” he said, “you would have no trouble interpreting the Reverend Gowland’s clue.”

  Amelia gazed at him attentively. “Do you claim to understand it, Mr. Willis?”

  “I do,” he replied. “I believe, however, that a demonstration will be more efficient than an explanation.” He slipped the piece of parchment into his breast pocket and stood. “Shall we repair to the church, Mrs. Thistle?”

  “By all means, Mr. Willis,” said Amelia, getting to her feet.

  “We’ll come, too,” Lilian said quickly.

  There was a flurry of activity as the vicar dislodged a dozing Angel from his knees, Amelia returned the notebook to the carpet bag, and Lilian retrieved an armload of raincoats from the foyer.

  “It’s begun to drizzle,” she reported as we followed Willis, Sr., to the front door.

  “No matter,” said Amelia. “It would take a flood of biblical proportions to keep me from finding out if Mr. Willis is as intelligent as he seems.”

  Ten

  The Buntings allowed the soft rain to dampen their heads on the way to the church, but I pulled up the hood on my parka and Willis, Sr., sheltered Amelia beneath his black umbrella. While the vicar and his wife hurried forward, I hung back and listened with interest as my father-in-law struck up a conversation with his new acquaintance. Unsurprisingly, it was she who did most of the talking.

  “Please allow me to offer my sincere condolences on your brother’s death,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Amelia. “Alfie was my only sibling and I miss him terribly. He was five years older than I, but he always treated me as an equal. He introduced me at a very young age to many of the things I still enjoy—Japanese films, Thai cuisine, Chinese poetry, Bhangra music. I owe a great deal to Alfie. He opened my eyes to the world.”

  “What is Bhangra music?” Willis, Sr., asked.

  “It’s Indian—from the Punjab originally—and very cheerful.” Amelia stopped beneath the lych-gate’s shingled roof and said quietly, “What a lovely church.”

  My heart warmed to her. I, too, loved my church’s modest charms.

  St. George’s was squat and sturdy and its only external decorations were the chevron patterns incised in the stone moldings above the doors and windows. The window embrasures were filled with leaded panes of wavy clear glass rather than stained or painted glass, and the embrasures themselves were relatively small. The church boasted a square bell tower, but the bells hadn’t been heard since the 1970s, when they’d been replaced by an automated recording device that chimed the hours and half hours with unfailing, if inhuman, regularity.

  St. George’s wasn’t spectacular or glamorous. It didn’t soar heavenward, stirring the soul with the intricacy of its design. It was a simple parish church, a humble friend whose door was always open, but no one who saw its golden walls rising from the graveyard’s lush green grass could deny its loveliness.

  “Alfie adored old churches,” Amelia went on as we left the lych-gate and walked up the gravel path to the south porch. “When we were young, we’d cycle for miles to see an interesting font or a curiously worded memorial tablet. He would have loved St. George’s. It’s Norman, isn’t it? The rounded arches, the thick walls, the zigzag stonework over the doors…They’re hallmarks of Norman architecture, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed they are,” said Willis, Sr. “St. George’s was built in the twelfth century by Sir Guillaume des Flèches, a Norman nobleman whose castle no longer exists. The stones from Sir Guillaume’s castle were used in the construction of many of the buildings in and around Finch.”

  “Those who think recycling is a modern concept should spend more time studying history,” Amelia commented.

  Willis, Sr., smiled and left his umbrella on the south porch to drip while Amelia and I preceded him through the iron-banded oak door to join the Buntings.

  The church smelled of beeswax, furniture polish, and damp. The wooden pews had been buffed to a gleaming finish by the same rota of village women who arranged the flowers. Christine Peacock, who liked to experiment, was responsible for the asymmetrical bouquets of bare branches, shiny berries, and crab apples that graced the altar and the baptismal font. I found them attractive, but I knew of at least four ladies who were itching to pitch them and who would, as soon as their turns came around, revert to traditional arrangements of mums, asters, and dahlias.

  The Buntings stood in the north aisle, gazing up at the faint, rust-colored image of a larger-than-life St. George brandishing his shield while thrusting his lance into a writhing, wormy-looking dragon. Amelia crossed to join them, looking everywhere but up, with Willis, Sr., and I trailing in her wake.

  “My compliments on your beautiful church,” she said to the vicar.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Our sexton, Mr. Barlow, looks after the church building and the grounds. He’s Finch’s odd-job man as well. If you need anything done around the house, Mrs. Thistle, Mr. Barlow is the man to call.”

  “Yes, I met Mr. Barlow yesterday,” said Amelia. “He came to Pussywillows to introduce himself and to—” She broke off as she caught sight of the faded image on the north wall. “A medieval wall painting,” she breathed rapturously. “What a fortunate survival! So many were plastered over or whitewashed in Victorian times.”

  “Ours was whitewashed,” the vicar informed her. “It was uncovered a little over a decade ago by Derek Harris, a local man who specializes in restoration projects.”

  “Derek Harris,” Amelia repeated thoughtfully. “Does he live at Anscombe Manor with his second wife, Emma—the American woman who runs the riding school—and his daughter, Nell, who married the stable master, Kit Smith, a man who’s twice her age?”

  “Y-yes,” stammered the vicar, who looked as nonplussed as I felt. Newcomers to the village usually required more than twenty-four hours to learn the complex ins and outs of the Harris family.

  “Miss Scroggins mentioned him to me,” Amelia said airily.

  Lilian and I exchanged startled looks. I couldn’t be certain of her thoughts, but I was wondering what the heck Millicent Scroggins had told Amelia about me.

  “Mr. Harris must be good at his job,” Amelia continued, “and he should be proud of the work he’s done here. It’s a pity to think that such a striking image went unseen for so many years.”

  “The image would, however, have been plainly visible to the Reverend Gowland,” Willis, S
r., reminded her. He took the first page of the memoir from his pocket and held it up for all to see. “I would ask you to compare the Reverend Gowland’s glyph to St. George’s shield,” he suggested, sounding for all the world like an attorney instructing a jury.

  Amelia looked from the piece of parchment to the painting and emitted a fretful little huff.

  “How very disappointing,” she said, frowning.

  “In what way have I disappointed you?” Willis, Sr., inquired, lowering the parchment.

  “It’s not you, Mr. Willis.” Amelia patted his arm absentmindedly while she continued to frown at the wall painting. “You were quite right. Had I been familiar with the church, I would have understood the glyph immediately. That’s the problem, you see. I expected something a bit more devious from Gamaliel, something cunning and labyrinthine.” She flung her arm out toward the painting. “I didn’t think his clue would lead us to a great huge billboard stuck up on a wall for everyone to see.”