Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (2 page)

Though none of us would admit it, most of us believed that moving day would provide useful clues to Mrs. Thistle’s character. A close inspection of her personal belongings as they were transferred from moving truck to cottage was bound to reveal a great deal about her, and the obvious place from which to conduct such an inspection was Sally Pyne’s strategically located tearoom.

As luck would have it, I happened to be in Finch on the big day. After purchasing a few staples at Taxman’s Emporium—Finch’s well-stocked general store—and stowing them in my Range Rover, I nipped smartly across the green and darted into the tearoom, narrowly avoiding a collision with Henry Cook, who’d just turned up for work. I waved off Henry’s gallant apologies, staked my claim to a table near the front windows, and ordered a stack of Sally’s delectable apple fritters to go along with a large pot of Lapsang souchong tea. The fritters hadn’t cooled before every available table had been taken.

I shared mine with Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock, a pair of middle-aged men who ran an art appraisal and restoration business from the cozy confines of their home, Crabtree Cottage. The Handmaidens, more commonly known as Millicent Scroggins, Opal Taylor, Elspeth Binney, and Selena Buxton, hogged four separate tables, but Mrs. Sciaparelli and Annie Hodge, a mother and daughter who lived on outlying farms, shared one, as did Mr. Barlow, a retired mechanic, and George Wetherhead, the most bashful man in the village. Christine Peacock had left her husband Dick to run their pub single-handedly in order to snag the last remaining table. She sat with a self-satisfied smirk on her face, savoring her triumph as well as her tea.

Those denied a prime vantage point inside Sally’s tearoom stationed themselves before crates of freshly harvested apples, plums, and pears at the greengrocer’s shop or surveyed the Emporium’s window displays or paused to chat with whomever they met while strolling sedately on the green.

It was a good day to be out and about. Autumn leaves swirled in a crisp breeze and curls of blue smoke rose from garden bonfires, reminding all and sundry that October had arrived, but the sun shone brightly and the blue sky held no threat of rain. It seemed unlikely that a sudden downpour would dampen Mrs. Thistle’s spirits or her belongings.

In the tearoom, the occasional clink of cup on saucer could scarcely be heard above the lively flow of conversation. Since no one knew for certain when the newcomer would arrive, it was imperative to make each pot of tea last as long as possible.

Grant Tavistock smiled to himself as he surveyed his neighbors over the rim of his willow-patterned teacup. He was a well-dressed, good-looking man, short and lean, with a full head of neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair.

“Tell me, Lori,” he said. “Did Charles and I attract the same amount of attention when we moved to Finch?”

“Of course,” I said. “But, in your case, the green was less crowded. Almost everyone was driven indoors by the nasty weather.”

“It was atrocious,” Charles Bellingham agreed. Tall, bald, and portly, Charles could usually be found in bed at ten o’clock in the morning, but he’d abandoned the habits of a lifetime in order to witness Mrs. Thistle’s arrival. “Wind, rain, sleet—I’ve never been more miserable in my life.”

“The movers took the brunt of it,” Grant reminded him. “As I recall, you spent most of the day in the kitchen, huddled over the Aga.”

As the Aga cooker was a cast-iron range that emitted a constant supply of radiant heat, Charles’s stratagem seemed perfectly reasonable to me, though I might have thought differently had I wanted his help to unload a moving truck.

“It was a beast of a day for all concerned,” Charles declared. He gazed enviously at the clear sky. “It looks as though Mrs. Thistle will be more fortunate.”

“And her furniture less wet,” said Grant.

“I have a confession to make,” Charles said suddenly. “The Thistle woman could stand three feet away from me and I wouldn’t know who she was. It pains me to say it, Lori, but Grant and I have been in London every time she’s come to Finch. We’ve never set eyes on her.”

“I have,” I said smugly. I patted the table with my hand. “I was sitting right here when she and the decorators came to spruce up the cottage last week.”

“Description, please,” said Charles, brightening.

“She drives a silver-gray Fiat sedan,” I said.

“Dull,” murmured Grant.

“I don’t care about her car,” Charles protested. “I want to know what the woman looks like.”

“I’d place her in her late fifties, maybe her early sixties,” I said. “She’s short—about my height—and plump. Not fat, not skinny, just nicely rounded. Gray hair, blue eyes, no makeup. She’d bundled her hair into a loose knot on the back of her head, the kind that leaks wisps and tendrils and comes undone three times a day. Her complexion was a little ruddy. I think she must be outdoorsy.”

“Ruddy, wispy, and outdoorsy,” said Grant, with a faint shudder. “A rambler, I’ll wager. She probably owns a backpack, a walking staff, and a pair of stonking great hiking boots.”

“Attire?” Charles said primly, ignoring his partner.

“Casual,” I replied, “but not cheap. An oversized shirt in a pretty Liberty print, worn open over a pale blue silk T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting khaki trousers. She was directing the decorators,” I reminded them, “so she wouldn’t be wearing her Sunday best.”

“Shoes?” said Charles.

“Tasseled loafers,” I said. “Conventional, but pricey. And the double strand of pearls she was wearing didn’t come from a cereal box.”

“Ergo,” Charles murmured reflectively, “Mrs. Thistle is monied, but not showy.” He smiled. “I like her already.”

“I’ll reserve judgment,” said Grant.

The buzz of conversation ceased as the front door opened and Bree Pym strode into the tearoom. Nineteen-year-old Bree was from New Zealand, but she’d inherited a lovely old house as well as a pot of money from her great-grandaunts, the late and much lamented Ruth and Louise Pym, who’d lived on the outskirts of Finch. Though Bree had made their house her own, she hadn’t yet been embraced by everyone in the village.

The most narrow-minded among us objected to her tattoos, her pierced nose, and her skimpy attire, but almost everyone was wary
of her sly wit. Bree could throw verbal darts with great accuracy, a skill she displayed shortly after she closed the door behind her.

“’Morning, Henry,” she called to Henry Cook, who’d emerged from the kitchen bearing four plates piled high with buttery crumpets.

“’Morning, Bree,” he called back, smiling delightedly.

Bree appealed to Henry’s sense of mischief. He loved to hear her say aloud what most of us said only to ourselves.

“Full house today,” Bree commented cheerfully, gazing around the room. “No surprise there. Best spot in town to spy on the new woman. I’m glad her gear hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t wait to see if she’s filthy rich or just rich enough to look down her nose at the rest of us.”

Henry’s face split into a broad grin as he served the crumpets to the Handmaidens, but the ladies were not amused.

“Spy?”
Elspeth Binney hissed indignantly.

“The very
idea
,” huffed Opal Taylor.

“Of all the
nerve
,” grumbled Millicent Scroggins.

“So
rude
,” muttered Selena Buxton.

“So true,” Grant said under his breath.

Charles and I nodded our agreement. The Handmaidens could protest until they were blue in the face, but they knew as well as we did why half of Finch’s population had chosen that particular morning to visit Sally’s tearoom or to take the air on the village green.

“I’ll keep a lookout, shall I?” Bree asked the room at large. She glanced in the direction of the church and smiled brightly. “And none too soon. Here they come, ladies and gentlemen. Let the show begin!”

A moment later, a silver-gray Fiat sedan passed the tearoom, followed by a medium-sized moving truck. The short, nicely rounded, ruddy-faced woman driving the Fiat parked it in the narrow shed beside Pussywillows, then walked to the rear of the truck to have a word with the movers.

“There she is,” I murmured. “Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”

She was dressed for the brisk weather in a knee-length brown cardigan, brown tweed trousers, and a vermillion silk blouse with a round collar. I was about to comment on the absence of her pearls when I heard Charles gasp.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, startled.

“It can’t be,” Charles whispered. He bent forward to stare hard at Mrs. Thistle.

“It can’t be what?” I asked.

“It
is
,” he said, clapping a hand to his mouth.

“It is
what
?” I demanded.

Grant, too, was gaping at Mrs. Thistle as if she were stark naked and dancing a jig. The two men exchanged meaningful looks and rose abruptly.

“Please excuse us, Lori,” said Grant, throwing a handful of coins on the table. “We left the kettle on the hob. Must dash.”

I stared after my departing friends, mystified. Grant and Charles had lain in wait for Mrs. Thistle for well over an hour. Why, I asked myself, would they run off as soon as she appeared? Did they know something about her they wished to keep under wraps—something shocking, sensational, scandalous?

The scent of intrigue was in the air and I responded to it like a wolf scenting raw steak. Although it would be a pity to miss the unveiling of Mrs. Thistle’s worldly goods, it would be downright galling to let a juicy morsel of gossip slip from my grasp. After the briefest of hesitations, I jumped to my feet, grabbed my jacket, added a few coins to Grant’s, and ran out of the tearoom, calling, “Wait for me!”

Bree Pym, Mrs. Sciaparelli, Annie Hodge, Mr. Barlow, George Wetherhead, Christine Peacock, Sally Pyne, Henry Cook, and the Handmaidens watched intently as I followed Grant and Charles across the green, racing to keep up with their longer strides while
they made their way hotfoot to Crabtree Cottage. By the time we darted into the foyer I was too winded to speak, but Charles’s voice had lost none of its power as he slammed the door shut and wheeled around to face me.

“That woman,” he thundered, “is
not
Amelia Thistle!”

Two

T 
he sound of high-pitched barking assaulted our ears as Goya and Matisse scampered into the foyer to find out who’d slammed the front door. While I leaned against the wall to catch my breath, Charles scooped his golden Pomeranian into his arms and Grant bent low to give his overexcited Maltese a reassuring cuddle. Charles and Grant might own Crabtree Cottage, but their friendly little dogs ruled it.

“What are you talking about, Charles?” I asked, when the canine chorus had subsided. “I spoke with the estate agent myself. She told me that the woman who bought Pussywillows is Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”

“The estate agent was bamboozled,” Charles stated flatly. “And I can prove it.”

He placed Goya gently on the floor and led the way into the front parlor, a sunny, simply furnished room that served as his office. Goya and Matisse bounced around us happily, pausing only to sniff our shoes, while Grant sank dazedly into one of the upright wooden chairs provided for clients. I stood with my back to the bay window, thanking my lucky stars that instinct had prompted me to chase after the two men. I had a feeling that I was about to learn something extremely interesting about our newest neighbor.

Charles took a fat folder from a wooden file cabinet, placed it on his desk, and began to riffle through its contents.

“As you know, Lori,” he began, “Grant restores works of art and I appraise them. We may not be artists, but art is our life.”

“We eat, drink, and breathe it,” Grant put in, nodding.

“We read about it, of course,” Charles went on, “but we also attend gallery openings, exhibitions, auctions, sales, private viewings—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “The two of you are always haring off to London to see the latest works by the newest geniuses.”

“Grant and I attend shows by established artists as well,” Charles countered, “and we never throw anything away.” He pulled three colorful brochures from the folder and spread them across the desk. “We collected these publicity pieces from three solo exhibitions mounted by a
very
well established artist.” He laid the folder aside and extended his arm toward me with a dramatic flourish. “I invite you to examine the evidence.”

I crossed to the desk, peered down at the brochures, and read the exhibition titles aloud. “‘Mae Bowen: Nature’s Servant,’ ‘Mae Bowen: Nicotiana by Moonlight,’ ‘Mae Bowen: The Lost Glade.’” I looked inquiringly at Charles. “I don’t get it. What does Mae Bowen have to do with Amelia Thistle?”

He flipped each brochure over and smiled triumphantly. I looked down again and saw three identical black-and-white portrait photographs of a woman who was the spitting image of the woman I’d seen speaking with the movers in front of Pussywillows.

“I present to you,” Charles announced, “incontrovertible proof that the woman calling herself Amelia Thistle is, in fact, the well- known and highly respected English painter, Mae Bowen.”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” I acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t call your proof incontrovertible.” I folded my arms. “I’ve heard it said that everyone has a double. Amelia Thistle could be Mae Bowen’s double. Or they could be identical twins. I can hardly tell my own sons apart in dim light and Ruth and Louise Pym were carbon copies of each other.”

Grant left his chair to stand beside me at the desk, taking care to avoid tripping over Goya and Matisse as they frisked at his heels.

“We’re not dealing with twins or doubles,” he said. “Charles and I have seen Mae Bowen in person on three separate occasions, Lori. The gestures, the stance, the walk, the tilt of the chin—they’re
unmistakable.” He gazed from one photograph to the next and shook his head. “I’m willing to swear that Amelia Thistle and Mae Bowen are one and the same person.”

I groaned softly as I recalled the chaos that had ensued when Sally Pyne had temporarily assumed a false identity.