Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (3 page)

“Are you telling me that we have another impostor on our hands?” I asked wearily.

“Amelia Thistle isn’t just another impostor,” Charles expostulated. “She’s Mae Bowen, England’s greatest botanical artist!”

“She paints plants and flowers,” Grant put in.

“I know what a botanical artist does,” I said irritably.

“She’s insanely gifted,” Charles gloated. “A child prodigy. I believe she first put brush to paper when she was ten years old. Entirely self-taught, as a naturalist as well as a painter. Everything she knows, she knows from firsthand observation.”

“Her face is weathered because she works
en plein air
, painting directly from nature,” Grant explained. “Yet her paintings aren’t merely photographic. They’re… they’re…” He squinted toward the ceiling as he searched for the right word, then shrugged helplessly. “You’ll think I’m waxing lyrical, Lori, but Bowen’s paintings are simply… magical.”

“Prints don’t do them justice,” Charles said emphatically. “One must stand before an original Bowen to fully comprehend her brilliance.”

“She’s not terribly prolific,” said Grant, “but each work of art she produces is a masterpiece.”

“Do you own any?” I asked.

“Only in our dreams,” Grant replied ruefully. “Her paintings sell for thousands of pounds, Lori. Connoisseurs the world over compete to collect them.”

“Why haven’t I heard of her?” I asked, frowning.

“Artists like Mae Bowen seldom make headlines,” said Grant. “
Art critics spend most of their time fawning over self-promoting poseurs. They tend to ignore self-effacing geniuses like Bowen, who contribute something of lasting value to the world.”

“Fair dues,” Charles protested. “Far be it from me to defend the critics, but it must be said that Bowen doesn’t go out of her way to make herself accessible to the press.” He gave me a sidelong, knowing look. “Truth be told, she’s a bit of a recluse.”

“Then why did she move to Finch under an assumed name?” I asked, perplexed. “If she’s already a recluse, and if the press doesn’t pester her, why would she feel the need to change her address
and
her name?”

“Why, indeed?” said Charles. “It’s more peculiar than you can possibly imagine, Lori, because Mae Bowen—” He broke off, interrupted by the doorbell, which triggered another round of frantic barking as the dogs raced each other into the foyer.

“We’re not expecting a client, are we?” Grant asked quietly.

“No,” Charles replied. “And we
do not
want visitors. See who it is, will you, Lori?”

I tiptoed over to peer cautiously through the bay window and saw Millicent Scroggins standing on the doorstep. The skinny spinster lived next door to Crabtree Cottage, but I’d last seen her in Sally Pyne’s tearoom, conversing volubly with the rest of the Handmaidens.

“It’s Millicent,” I whispered over my shoulder.

“What’s she doing here?” whispered Grant, looking annoyed.

“Go and find out,” Charles whispered to him. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell her about Mae Bowen.”

Grant shushed him and went to answer the door. Charles and I moved closer to the hallway, the better to eavesdrop.

After greeting Grant and praising “the dear little puppies,” Millicent got down to business.

“I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” she said in an overly solicitous tone of voice.
“I wanted to make sure that you and Lori and Charles were all right.”

“She’s snooping,” Charles murmured, his eyes narrowing.

“Naturally,” I murmured back.

“I couldn’t help but notice your rather abrupt exit from the tearoom,” Millicent continued. “I was afraid that one of you might have been taken ill.”

“No, no,” Grant assured her airily. “We’re quite well, thank you.”

“I
am
pleased,” said Millicent, but she wasn’t about to let Grant off the hook so easily. “You gave us quite a scare, you know, running away as you did. Selena said you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.” Millicent’s tinkling laugh set the dogs off again, but she simply talked over them. “Selena has quite a vivid imagination.”

“You can tell Selena that we didn’t see a ghost,” said Grant. “We saw something far more disturbing.”

“Did you?” Millicent prompted eagerly.

“Oh, yes,” Grant said gravely. “We saw ourselves sitting there, staring at Mrs. Thistle as if she were a monkey in a zoo. And suddenly, we felt ashamed.”

Charles emitted a snort of suppressed laughter and I smiled wryly. Grant had apparently decided to have a little fun with his inquisitive neighbor.

“Ashamed?” Millicent echoed, sounding bewildered. “Of what?”

“Of ourselves,” Grant answered solemnly. “What is the world coming to, we asked ourselves, when a respectable woman can’t move into a respectable house without being gawped at by a crowd of strangers? We were sickened, I tell you,
sickened
by our own despicable behavior, so we came away, before we could lose any more of our self-respect.”

“I
see
.” Millicent hesitated, then said, “I hope you don’t think
I
was there to…to
gawp
at Mrs. Thistle.”

“The possibility never occurred to me,” Grant told her.

“Because I can assure you that I had no such intention,” Millicent stated militantly. “I went there, as I often do, to have a cup of tea and to visit with my friends. I can’t speak to
their
intentions, of course. They may have gone to the tearoom to gawp, but I most certainly did not.”

“Of course not,” said Grant.

“Dear me,” Millicent said fretfully. “I seem to have left my gloves behind. If you’ll excuse me, Grant, I’ll pop back to the tearoom to fetch them. Please give my best to Charles and Lori, won’t you?”

“I will,” said Grant.

I heard the sound of footsteps scurrying down the front walk, then the click of the latch as Grant closed the front door. Charles and I gave him a brief round of applause when he stepped into the office.

“An inspired performance,” I said.

“Grant has a gift for improvisation,” Charles said proudly.

“So does Millicent,” I said. “If she came here to inquire after our health, I’ll eat my sneakers. She was fishing for scraps of gossip to bring back to her cronies.”

“And you sent her away with a flea in her ear,” said Charles, beaming at his partner. “Shall we celebrate your victory with a tot of brandy?”

Grant nodded, but I declined. I wasn’t a teetotaler, but the thought of sipping brandy in the middle of the day made me feel slightly queasy. While Charles and Goya bustled off to the kitchen, Grant resumed the chair he’d occupied earlier. I took a seat in the chair next to his and bent to scratch Matisse behind the ears.

“You parried Millicent’s thrusts beautifully,” I commented.

“I put her on the defensive by taking the moral high ground,” Grant allowed, “but I’m not sure she believed me. I’ve lived in Finch for too long to have scruples about minding other people’s business.”

I sat up and turned to face him. “Why didn’t you come straight out and tell Millicent about Mae Bowen?”

“Because the longer we keep Mae Bowen’s secret, the better off we’ll be,” Grant replied. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lori. It’s an honor to have such a distinguished artist in our midst, but it’s an honor that could cost us dearly.”

He was about to elaborate when Charles returned with two oversized snifters containing generous tots of brandy. He handed one to Grant, then seated himself behind the desk and drank from his own.

“Thank you, Charles,” said Grant, after taking a restorative sip. “Shall we carry on where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“Certainly,” said Charles. “I was about to explain to Lori why Mae Bowen’s behavior seems so particularly peculiar.” He cupped his hands around his snifter and leaned back in his chair. “You see, Lori, Mae Bowen has become something of a cult figure. Her acolytes have developed a philosophy of life based on her art.”

“They call themselves Bowenists,” Grant elaborated, “and their philosophy is based on the direct perception of the universe. They regard Bowen as a sort of guru whose paintings demonstrate the correct way to view nature.”

“They’re a great nuisance,” said Charles, with a disparaging sniff. “They show up at every exhibition and stand for hours before each painting, meditating. One has to elbow them aside in order to view the painting oneself.”

“Bowen has never done anything to encourage them,” said Grant, “but in a strange way, her lack of encouragement has strengthened their faith in her. They see her reticence as a form of integrity.”

“The filthy hypocrites,” Charles said disgustedly. “They
say
that they respect her need for privacy, yet they follow her everywhere, pelting her with questions and requests. She has to have a security escort whenever she makes a public appearance.”

“Do her acolytes follow her home?” I asked.

“I’m afraid they do,” said Grant. “Before she moved here, she evaded them by living on a gated estate similar to your father-in-law’s.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Mae Bowen gave up a gated estate for
Pussywillows
? I mean, it’s a sweet little cottage, but it’s no Fairworth House. Why would she make such a radical change?”

“Peculiar, eh?” Charles clucked his tongue sadly. “Pussywillows offers her no protection whatsoever from her worshipers. She’s made herself a sitting duck.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. I was proud of my village, but I was also aware of its limitations. “Finch isn’t exactly the center of the art world. Finch isn’t the center of any world, except ours. She may feel safer here than she did on her estate.”

“If so, she’s deluding herself,” said Grant. “Finch may be a backwater, but it doesn’t have a moat. Once word gets out that Mae Bowen is here, the Bowenists will flock to Finch.”

“They’re not dangerous, are they?” I asked.

“No,” Charles said. “They may be nutters, but they’re law-abiding nutters.”

“They wouldn’t harm her physically,” Grant agreed. “But emotionally? Psychologically? Spiritually? They could destroy her. And they could do a great deal of harm to Finch.”

“How could they harm Finch?” I asked, suddenly alert.

“By changing it out of all recognition,” Grant replied. “Finch could become a center for New Age pilgrims.”

“Hippies camping on the green?” I suggested tentatively. “Rainbow-colored RVs parked along the lanes?”

“Worse than that,” Grant said grimly. “The Bowenists aren’t all penniless vagabonds, Lori. Some of them are wealthy enough to buy property. A millionaire chap named Myron Brocklehurst bought a small farm across the road from Bowen’s estate and turned it into a Mother Earth–worshiping Bowenist commune.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Are you telling me that Mae Bowen’s followers might move to Finch
permanently
, just to be near her?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Grant. “She’s removed the walls that used to stand in their way. They’ll want to take advantage of her accessibility.”

“If the Bowenists drive up housing prices,” said Charles, “they could drive out the locals.”

“And the village we know and love,” Grant concluded, “would cease to exist.”

We lapsed into a prolonged and heavy silence. The men sipped their drinks, the dogs rested from their exertions, and I stared into the middle distance, contemplating a future without Finch.

“You’re overreacting,” I said at last.

“Perhaps,” Grant acknowledged. “But what if we’re not? What if the scenario plays out exactly as we’ve described it?”

“I don’t see what we can do to stop it,” said Charles. “It’s a free country. We can’t prevent loonies like Myron Brocklehurst from coming here.”

“They won’t come if they don’t know she’s here,” I said slowly. I thought for a moment, then sat forward in my chair. “I’ll bet you just about anything that we’re the only people in Finch who know who Amelia Thistle is. If we keep our mouths shut, no one else will find out about Mae Bowen.”

“This is Finch,” Grant reminded me, “the Olympic training center for the sport of nosey parkering. The truth is bound to come out sooner or later. Bowen herself will slip up or a piece of forwarded mail will arrive, with her real name on it. Something will give her away.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said decisively. “In the meantime, we button our lips, for her sake as much as our own. We don’t refer to her as Mae Bowen, even among ourselves. We don’t hang out near Pussywillows, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and we don’t grin like Cheshire cats every time we see her.”

“We’re not Bowenists, Lori,” Grant said loftily. “Charles and I know how to maintain our composure in the presence of greatness.”

“We’ve been given the opportunity to protect a national treasure,” Charles declared. “I, for one, will not shirk my responsibility.”

“I’ll have to tell Bill,” I said.

“Understood.” Grant inclined his head graciously. “There should be no secrets between husband and wife. Apart from that, Bill’s legal expertise may prove useful.”

“Very useful indeed,” Charles concurred. “If there
are
laws to prevent rampaging hordes of Bowenists from trampling Finch into the dust, Bill will know how to enforce them.”

“I suggest you consult with him immediately, Lori,” Grant advised. “It’s best to be prepared.”

“I’ll go straight from here to Bill’s office,” I promised. I pointed to the brochures on the desk. “May I borrow these? They’ll help me to explain the situation to him.”

“Be my guest,” said Charles.

I slipped the brochures into my jacket pocket, bent to give Matisse and Goya farewell pats, then straightened and looked puzzledly from Charles to Grant.

“One more thing before I go,” I said. “Why did you let me catch up with you? Why didn’t you slam the door in my face and keep Mae—er, I mean,
Mrs. Thistle’s
secret all to yourselves?”

The two men exchanged amused glances.

“If we’d slammed the door in your face,” said Grant, “you would have knocked it off its hinges. Our other neighbors may be pests when it comes to gossip gathering, but you, my friend, are a veritable pit bull.”