“A plant?” I suggested. “A stem with long, thin, oval leaves?”
“What are the three little circles at the bottom of the stem?” asked Lilian.
“Grapes?” Bree ventured.
“Grapevines don’t have long, skinny leaves,” I pointed out.
“Then what are the circles?” Bree retorted.
“Olives,” said Willis, Sr. “The new clue appears to me to be an olive branch. The olive tree has attenuated leaves and the olive branch is an ancient Christian symbol with which the Reverend Gowland would have been familiar.”
“I believe you’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Amelia, nodding. “You’re very good at this game, Mr. Willis.”
“Thank you,” said Willis, Sr., acknowledging the compliment with a courtly half bow.
“An olive branch,” the vicar said slowly.
“Are there any olive branches in the church?” I asked.
“None,” said Lilian.
Amelia turned to Bree. “Have you seen an olive branch in the bell tower?”
“No,” Bree replied.
Brows were wrinkled, lips were pursed, and a ruminative silence permeated the room until Lilian cleared her throat.
“While we ponder the new glyph’s meaning,” she said briskly, “why don’t we translate the text? Teddy reads Latin, as do I. Anyone else?”
Bree, Amelia, and I shook our heads, but Willis, Sr., raised his hand.
“I read both Latin and Greek,” he said diffidently. “If I may be of some assistance…”
“Take a pencil and a pad of paper,” said Lilian. “Let’s get to work.”
Amelia remained in the study to watch the scholars duke it out, but Bree and I repaired to the kitchen to make tea and sandwiches. Lunchtime had come and gone and if I was hungry, I was sure the others would be, too. While we plundered the Buntings’ pantry, I told Bree about the Reverend Gamaliel Gowland’s secret memoir. By the time I finished, the food and drink were ready for distribution.
“Any guesses on where the olive branch leads?” Bree asked as we carried two heavily laden trays to the study.
“Ask me again after I’ve eaten,” I replied. “I’ve been told that my brain doesn’t function well on an empty stomach.”
The vicar’s eyes lit up when he saw the sandwiches, but Lilian wouldn’t allow him or anyone else to eat until she’d slipped the scroll into a clear plastic bag to protect it from crumbs, drips, and sticky fingers. Once the bag was sealed, the trays and the teapot emptied rapidly.
The light meal seemed to stimulate our translation team. Bree and I returned from straightening the kitchen to find Lilian attempting to present Amelia with an English-language version of the memoir’s second page.
“No, no,” said Amelia, waving her off. “I wouldn’t dream of stealing your thunder, Mrs. Bunting. You and the gentlemen did the work. One of you must read it to the rest of us.”
“As I wrote it, I’d better read it,” said Lilian. “I can read my handwriting, but I’m not sure Teddy or William can.” She waited until we were all seated around the fire before explaining, “Teddy, William, and I followed Alfred’s example and translated the Latin text rather loosely.”
“It’s a personal recollection, not a scholarly treatise,” the vicar interjected. “We wanted it to sound…personal.”
“In the first two sentences,” Lilian continued, “the Reverend Gowland reiterates his hints about the trail of clues he left behind. He then goes on to say…” Lilian bent her head over the notepad and began to read aloud.
“Mistress Margaret Redfearn, spinster, known by all as Mistress Meg, dwelt in a wooden house she built with her own hands in a forest clearing. There she raised goats and her goats were to her like her children. Visitors often heard her speak to them, telling them to mind their manners, to come when called, to be less greedy, and many other things. She bartered goat’s milk and cheese for the things she needed, but she needed little, for she was wise in woodlore. Of root and bark, leaf and blossom she made potions, unguents, and tisanes, and those who went to her for help, she helped.”
Lilian turned to the next page and looked up. “What follows is a list of the people Mistress Meg cured and their illnesses. ‘Master Cobb’s stertorous breathing, Mistress Bell’s headaches, Farmer Hooper’s stomach pains, Young Jonah’s skin complaint’ and so on. It’s a rather extensive list. Shall I read it or skip ahead?”
“Skip ahead, please,” Amelia said promptly. “If I hear a long list of illnesses, I shall begin to feel ill myself.”
“Very well.” Lilian flipped past the next page and resumed her narration. “Mistress Meg tended women in their time of pain and brought many children safely into the world. All this she did for no payment or reward nor did she look for praise or thanks or seek fellowship with her neighbors. She came not to the village save to barter milk and cheese and to help those who could not come to her.” Lilian lowered the notepad. “There it ends.”
“Good,” I said. “If it went any further, I’d develop an inferiority complex.”
“So would I,” Amelia said, laughing. “No one could accuse Mistress Meg of frittering her time away in idle pursuits. She was a naturalist, a chemist, a doctor, a midwife, a carpenter, a goatherd, and heaven knows what else. Her range of knowledge was truly impressive.”
“Impressive,” Lilian acknowledged, “but also dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I said. “How?”
“An unmarried woman, living on her own, without a male relative’s protection, would have been the exception rather than the rule in those days,” said Lilian. “It’s not always a good thing to be exceptional.”
“In the seventeenth century both men and women believed that male sovereignty was ordained by God,” said the vicar. “They may have tolerated independent noblewomen, but they almost certainly would have frowned upon an independent peasant like Mistress Meg.”
“Until she cured their tummy-aches,” I observed tartly.
“They might have resented her all the more for curing them,” said the vicar. “A powerful man would have found it rather vexing to be at the mercy of a seemingly powerless woman.”
“Some believed,” said Lilian, “that women like Mistress Meg derived their healing powers from Satan. If a patient lived, it was because the healer was in league with the devil.”
“And if a patient died,” the vicar continued, “Mistress Meg would be accused of cursing rather than curing.”
“So Mistress Meg would be in trouble whether her cures worked or not?” I said. “Talk about a no-win situation.”
“She was an outsider as well,” Bree piped up. “Outsiders always arouse suspicion. Some of the looks I get from Peggy Taxman are positively poisonous.”
“We all get those looks from Peggy Taxman,” I assured her. “It has nothing to do with being an outsider.”
“Bree makes a good point, though,” said Lilian. “A woman who lived apart from the community could arouse suspicion, especially if she talked to goats. I’m sure you’ve all heard of a witch’s familiar—a satanic spirit disguised as an animal. If a superstitious person heard Mistress Meg speak to her goats, he might have suspected her of witchcraft.”
“Unfortunately,” said Willis, Sr., “Mistress Meg would have reinforced those suspicions by refusing to attend church services.”
“Gamaliel doesn’t say a word about her churchgoing habits,” I objected.
“‘She came not to the village save to barter milk and cheese and to help those who could not come to her,’” Willis, Sr., recited. “In other words, Mistress Meg came to Finch only to conduct business and to heal. She did not come to Finch to listen to the Reverend Gowland preach.”
I looked at the scroll, sitting safely in its plastic bag on the lamplit table. The story it told sounded innocent, even admirable, to modern ears, but a seventeenth-century reader might have regarded it as a damning indictment of a godless reprobate.
“It’s as though the rector is
building a case against her,” Lilian said, staring pensively into the fire.
“I realize that Mistress Meg has been dead for several centuries,” said Amelia, “but I fear for her nonetheless. She was an independent woman in a patriarchal world. She lived outside the prevailing social structure. She brewed potions, spoke with animals, and rejected conventional religion.” Amelia bit her lower lip and glanced worriedly at the scroll. “I have a terrible feeling that the memoir’s third page will contain a trumped-up charge of witchcraft.”
“We won’t know until we find it,” I said. “Has anyone had a blindingly brilliant insight about the olive branch?”
“I don’t know about blindingly brilliant,” said Bree, “but I may have had an insight.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her nose ring glinting in the firelight. “Gamaliel hid the first page near the church, in Plover Cottage, and the second page in the bell tower. He didn’t stray too far from home, did he? So my idea is to check out the churchyard. I think some of the older headstones have olive branches on them.”
“It’s true,” Lilian said, emerging from her pensive reverie. “They’re so weathered they seem like abstract shapes, but they could be olive branches.”
“We’re not talking about grave robbing, are we?” I said, eyeing her uncertainly.
“Of course not,” said Lilian. “The third page may be hidden inside a headstone, or the headstone may somehow direct us to another hiding place.”
Bree jumped to her feet. “Shall we take a look at them now?”
Five older heads, including mine, swiveled in unison toward the waves of rain sluicing the French doors.
“Tomorrow, I think,” said Amelia. “We’ll be able to see the headstones more clearly after the storm passes. I propose that we reconvene in the churchyard at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”
“Fair enough,” said Bree, “but wear your Wellies. The grass’ll be sopping.”
The Buntings and Willis, Sr., glanced toward the French doors again, then announced regretfully that, due to prior engagements, they would be unable to join Amelia, Bree, and me in the churchyard. I couldn’t blame them for excusing themselves from the excursion. The prospect of traipsing through a graveyard on a damp October morning didn’t fill me with delight, but my desire to find the memoir’s third page was too strong to resist. Mistress Meg wouldn’t have let a little wet grass dampen her spirits, I reasoned. I owed it to her to hang tough.
Lilian promised to search the parish archives for further information about Margaret Redfearn, then brought the meeting to a close. She and the vicar accompanied us to the foyer, where Willis, Sr., turned heads by offering to drive Amelia home in his Jaguar.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Willis, but I’d rather walk,” she said, throwing her yellow scarf around her shoulders and picking up her carpet bag. “It’s no distance at all and I could do with a breath of fresh air.”
I’d have accepted a lift to my car—my sneakers weren’t designed to repel rain—but Willis, Sr., didn’t offer one to me. He simply drove off by himself, leaving me to trudge through the tempest with Amelia, clamber squelchily into the Rover, and head for home. As I passed Fairworth’s wrought-iron gates, I found myself wondering what the Handmaidens would make of a woman who’d turned down a drive with their dream date.
“If Amelia isn’t careful,” I said to the rearview mirror, “she’ll have a whole new fan club.”
Twelve
I had no intention of boring Bill stupid with a blow-by-blow account of the day’s events, but when he asked about them after dinner, I could hardly refuse to answer. A generous impulse prompted me to provide him with the highlights and to save the extended version for Aunt Dimity. As a result, I had the satisfaction of keeping my husband up to date without putting him into a coma, and I sailed into the study feeling like an exemplary wife.
Aunt Dimity, unlike Bill, wanted me to describe the day in excruciating detail and I was happy to oblige. By the time I finished telling her about the helpful Handmaidens, the church search, the bell tower’s long-concealed secret, and the light it shed on Mistress Meg, my voice was hoarse.
“Well?” I croaked. “What do you think?”
I curled my legs beneath me as the familiar copperplate scrolled gracefully across the journal’s blank page.
I must confess that the Mistress Meg portrayed by Gamaliel is not the Mistress Meg I envisioned.
“If you mean to say that Mistress Meg wasn’t a horrible hag who maimed toddlers, I’m forced to agree with you,” I said dryly. “Mistress Meg was a healer, not a hacker, Dimity. It would take a lot of distortion to transform her into Mad Maggie.”
Perhaps Mistress Meg changed. The next page of the memoir may reveal her dark side. By the same token, it may reveal Gamaliel’s dark side. As the local clergyman, his testimony would carry a great deal of weight in a witch trial. If he was, as Lilian suggested, building a case against Mistress Meg, his words may have led to an innocent woman’s torture and execution.
“How could he be so cruel?” I asked, baffled. “How could he vilify a woman who delivered babies and helped sick people?”
Ignorance breeds fear and fear breeds cruelty. It’s as true today as it was in Gamaliel’s time. Open any newspaper and you’ll find appalling instances of people railing against things they don’t understand.
“Yet another reason to avoid newspapers. Newspapers,” I repeated thoughtfully as the word sparked a fresh idea. “Are there written records of witch trials?”
Of course. Witch trials were formal court proceedings. They were recorded in much the same manner as other court proceedings.
“Imagine a civil court docket listing witchcraft along with grand theft and homicide.” I snorted derisively. “The good old days, eh?”
For women like Mistress Meg they were more likely to be the grim old days.
“Maybe Lilian will find a record of Mistress Meg’s witch trial in the church archives,” I said. “I hope she does. I don’t like waiting around and wondering whether or not Gamaliel Gowland sent Mistress Meg to the gallows.”
If he did, you won’t find her grave in the churchyard. Witches weren’t buried in consecrated ground.
“Persecuted even after death,” I said bitterly. “What a cheerful thought.” I stretched my legs out on the ottoman and leaned back in my chair. “On a brighter note, I’m pleased to report that Amelia’s as fond of old churches as I am. When William was escorting her though the graveyard, she told him that she and Alfred used to cycle for miles when they were young, exploring country churches.”
If Alfred cycled for miles when he was young, he must have become disabled later in life.
“The poor guy,” I said, shaking my head. “Amelia makes him sound like an ideal big brother, Dimity. He introduced her to all sorts of cool stuff—Japanese films, Thai food, Indian music.”
He must have spent a lot of time with her. Didn’t he have any friends?
“He probably spent time with them, too,” I said. “I think it’s great that Alfred and Amelia got along so well. I can see why she was willing to turn her life upside down to complete his quest. If I’d had a brother like Alfred, I would have done the same thing.”
She must have been pleased to find the memoir’s second page so rapidly. I thought it would take weeks, perhaps months, to locate it.
“Teamwork,” I said, nodding decisively. “That’s the secret.”
There was a pause, as though Aunt Dimity were contemplating her next comment, and when the handwriting continued, it flowed in carefully measured loops and curls.
I’ve never thought of William as a team player.
“Nor have I,” I admitted. “He does like puzzles, though, and Gamaliel has provided him with a whole raftload of puzzles to solve.”
Even so, William’s willingness to join Amelia’s team, to shelter her beneath his umbrella, and to drive her the ludicrously short distance from the vicarage to Pussywillows suggest to me t
hat he may be under the spell of something other than the secret memoir.
“He’s not under Mae Bowen’s spell,” I asserted, “because he still doesn’t know that Amelia Thistle is Mae Bowen. I promised Bill I’d introduce them, but the right moment didn’t present itself.”
I strongly advise you to rescind your promise to Bill. I’m shocked that you made it in the first place. Amelia’s secret isn’t yours to share, Lori, nor is it Bill’s. She must be allowed to reveal herself as Mae Bowen in her own good time. I doubt that it will make any difference whatsoever to William. If he’s smitten by Amelia Thistle, he won’t be put off by her alter ego.
“Smitten?” I said doubtfully. “William seems to like Amelia well enough, but I wouldn’t describe him as smitten. He’s not a love-at-first-sight kind of guy, Dimity. He thinks things through and through before he acts on them.”
Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Page 11
