Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil (Aunt Dimity Mystery) (13 page)

“They’re Bart’s brothers,” he informed me. “Bert and Brett will appreciate a kind word from you.”

As soon as the bashful James had cleared the table, we walked over to speak with Bart’s brothers. The men hardly looked up from their cards. Indeed, Bert and Brett Little
seemed to hunch lower in their chairs, as if embarrassed by my attentions.

“I just wanted to, uh, thank you for helping Mr. Hatch,” I faltered. I was unaccustomed to addressing the tops of people’s heads. “It was, um, really kind of you.”

The Littles mumbled something incoherent and continued with their game.

“The lads’re at your service, Ms. Shepherd,” Bart called from behind the bar. “If you or Mrs. Hollander need a hand with anything else, ring me and I’ll send ’em up to you.”

“Will do,” I called back. “Thanks for the lunch.”

“Come by any time,” said Bart. “Your money’s no good here, either.”

“Free lunch by association,” I mused aloud, as we exited the pub. “I should hang out with soldiers more often.”

“Bart’s offer has nothing to do with me,” Guy countered. “It’s your pluck he admires.”

“Plucky me,” I muttered. I waited until we were halfway to the car before grasping Guy’s elbow and stepping in front of him. “Okay, Captain, are you going to tell me what that song and dance was about or do I have to guess?”

“What song and dance?” said Guy.

I eyed him skeptically, then spoke in a stage whisper. “Everyone in the pub could hear us.” I lifted my hands, palms upward. “You might as well have printed our conversation on a billboard. Did you want to be overheard? And do you honestly believe that someone was trying to kill me?”

Guy peered at the clearing sky, clasped his hands behind his back, and squared his shoulders. “It’s stopped raining,” he
observed. “Shall we take a stroll, Lori? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

T
he streets of Blackhope were deserted, but our passage did not go unnoticed. Curtains twitched as Guy led me up a rain-slicked lane, and pale, furtive faces peered out from ivy-clad windows. I was acutely conscious of the covert scrutiny, and it crossed my mind to wonder if there was any real point to our walk, or if Guy was merely parading me before the villagers, letting them get a good look at “the lady who had the accident.”

We didn’t stop until we reached the church. It stood above and slightly apart from the village, separated from the pele tower by a soggy churchyard. The view from the churchyard gate would have been spectacular if clouds hadn’t obscured the horizon.

I paused at the church gate to catch my breath before following Guy to the edge of a small, hedge-bordered field that lay just beyond the church. The field was piled high with brush, bits of old furniture, broken fruit crates—a familiar assortment of inflammable odds and ends.

“Blackhope’s getting ready for Guy Fawkes Day,” I observed.

Guy looked mildly surprised. “You know about Guy Fawkes, do you?”

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” I chanted. “The fifth of November, 1605, to be precise when Catholic conspirators tried, and failed, to blow up Parliament with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder”—I took a breath—“an event which is commemorated unto this day by bonfires and general carousing.”

“I am impressed,” said Guy.

“My husband singed his eyebrows lightning the bonfire in
our village last year.” I turned to look out over the valley. “This is a great location. If the weather clears, Blackhope’s bonfire’ll be seen from one end of the valley to the other.”

“It will also be seen from Wyrdhurst Hall.” Guy pointed to a dark blur of trees a mile or so up the valley.

If I squinted, I could just make out the tops of the hall’s twin towers. “Are Blackhope’s women sending Jared a message?” I quipped. “I’ll bet they’d like to light a fire under him.”

Guy didn’t crack a smile. “I presume Mrs. Hollander informed you of her husband’s dissatisfaction with the local charwomen.”

I nodded. “I imagine they were pretty ticked off.”

“They were. But the selection of this place for the bonfire has a more complicated history.” Guy drew a hand through the air, outlining a rectangle within the small field. “A schoolhouse once stood here. It burned to the ground in October 1917. The schoolmaster burned to death in it.” He jutted his chin toward the church. “There’s a tablet on the south wall, commemorating his death. It was paid for by the people of Blackhope. He was greatly loved, you see.”

“Poor soul,” I said.

Guy kicked at a chair leg that had fallen free from the tangle of brush. “The villagers blamed Josiah Byrd for the schoolmaster’s death. Several had seen Josiah leaving the schoolhouse shortly before the fire started. Nothing was ever proved, but the villagers believed that Josiah had gotten away with murder.”

I looked from the rain-soaked kindling to Wyrdhurst’s gray stone towers and felt a chill seep through me. Had Edward been the schoolteacher, Claire his besotted pupil? Would Josiah kill a man to prevent an unsuitable match?

“What was the schoolmaster’s name?” I inquired.

“Clive,” said Guy. “Clive Eccles Aynsworth.”

I tore my gaze from the twin towers and relaxed. In hindsight, my scenario seemed faintly ridiculous. As a privileged young woman, Claire would have been educated at home by governesses. She would have had little, if any, contact with the schoolmaster.

“Why would Josiah want to murder a schoolteacher?” I asked.

“No one knows,” Guy replied. “Josiah had a foul temper and a tyrannical nature. The villagers may have simply wanted him to be guilty of the crime.”

I smiled ruefully. I felt exactly the same way about Jared.

Guy carried on with his story. “The villagers couldn’t bring Josiah to justice—he was far too rich and powerful—so they found another way to punish him. They built the Guy Fawkes bonfire on the burnt-out remains of the schoolhouse, where it could be seen from Wyrdhurst Hall.”

“Did Josiah get the message?” I asked.

“He closed the hall the following spring,” Guy replied. “He returned to Newcastle and was never again seen at Wyrdhurst.”

“Until he was buried there.” I looked again toward the gray towers and asked, “Was Josiah’s daughter interred at Wyrdhurst?”

“I don’t know,” said Guy. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why a guy who could afford to be buried anywhere would choose to be buried where everyone hated his guts.” I shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to be near his daughter. He must have loved her.”

“I’m sure he did.” Guy pulled his collar up against the stiffening breeze.

I turned to him. “How do you know so much about Clive Aynsworth’s alleged murder?”

“The story resurfaced when the hall was restored,” Guy informed me. “Someone revived the tradition of building the bonfire where the schoolhouse once stood. Someone placed flowers before Mr. Aynsworth’s tablet. Someone resurrected the tale of Josiah’s guilty ghost.” He gazed at me intently. “Someone resents Wyrdhurst and all who dwell there.”

“Including
me?
” I said, after a beat. “Do you think a
villager
caused my accident?”

“Not directly. Not intentionally.” Guy glanced skyward. “Let’s return to the car, shall we? The wind’s becoming a bit brisk.”

“I don’t care if it snows!” I cried. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything…yet.” Guy looked down at the graveled lane. “The theory linking Jared Hollander to the
Wyrdhurst ghost is worth exploring. But Mr. Hollander isn’t the only one who might want to impersonate the late and unlamented Josiah Byrd.”

I stared hard at his chiseled profile. “Go on.”

“Jared Hollander has installed a more-than-adequate security system in Wyrdhurst,” Guy said, “but Mrs. Hollander seldom remembers to use it. If someone wished to enter the hall covertly, he would be wise to do so while Mr. Hollander was absent.”

“That would explain why weird things happened when Nicole’s alone.” I nodded thoughtfully. “I’m with you so far.”

“Your accident occurred on a military road that cuts across the Byrd estate,” Guy continued. “At its closest point, it comes within a quarter-mile of Wyrdhurst Hall. If someone wished to enter Wyrdhurst through the back door, so to speak, he might take the road you inadvertently took.”

“And leave the gate open in the process,” I said.

“Precisely.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” I paused to marshal my thoughts before summarizing: “You think a villager has been using a military road to sneak into Wyrdhurst Hall in order to frighten Josiah’s great-granddaughter as a sort of delayed retribution for the murder of Clive Aynsworth.” I felt slightly winded by the time I concluded, “That’s why the gate was left open. And that’s why I nearly died.”

“It may have nothing to do with Mr. Aynsworth’s murder,” Guy allowed. “All of it—the bonfire, the flowers, the so-called haunting—may be part of an elaborate prank, meant to encourage Mrs. Hollander to vacate her ancestral home.”

“Why would anyone want Nicole to—” I broke off as the
answer came to me. “Because if Nicole leaves, Jared’ll go with her, and it’d kill Jared to leave Wyrdhurst.”

“A fitting punishment,” Guy commented. “Mr. Hollander should have thought twice before insulting the local charwomen.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Do you think the villager will give up, now that the road’s washed out?”

“Only one access point is washed out,” Guy corrected. “Several others are still in good order.”

I gave Guy a sidelong glance. “Do you have a suspect in mind?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“That’s what the song and dance was for, right?” I jerked a thumb in the direction of the pub. “You’re using Bart Little as a public-address system. You want him to let the villagers know that you’re keeping an eye on them.”

“That’s the general idea,” Guy conceded.

I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and gazed speculatively at Her Majesty’s rooftop. “Bart was awfully quick to mention the ghost, wasn’t he? He seemed to get a kick out of trying to spook me.” I bumped the captain with my elbow. “Maybe
he’s
haunting Wyrdhurst.”

“He’s no more likely then the next man,” said Guy.

“I’ll bet the whole family’s in on it,” I said, warming to my theory. “That’s why James wouldn’t look at me, why Bart offered me free meals.” I snapped my fingers. “That’s why Brett and Bert were so uncomfortable when I thanked them. They’re feeling
guilty
for causing my crash.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Guy cautioned. “It’s merely an alternative hypothesis.”

“Crumbs,” I said, crestfallen. “I was all set to sink my teeth into Jared.”

“There’s no reason to rule him out,” said Guy. “I intend to follow every lead.”

I scuffed my heel in the gravel. “Does that include Adam? Is that why you ran a background check on him?”

Guy gave a long-suffering groan. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t spend my days vetting civilians. I did not run a background check on Mr. Chase.”

“Who called his editor?” I asked.

“Not a glimmer.” Guy contemplated the clearing sky. “When the editor refused—very wisely—to give information over the telephone, the caller rang off. Most interesting…” He turned to me. “But nothing for you to concern yourself with. To answer your question, I haven’t investigated Mr. Chase, because I’ve no reason to suspect him of anything.”

“I knew it,” I crowed.

“That being said,” Guy continued, “I would still caution you against confiding in him.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I suspect that Mr. Chase knows more about the Wyrdhurst ghost than he’s willing to let on,” Guy answered. “He’s a writer, he’s trained to observe, and he seems to enjoy chatting up the villagers. If there’s a plot afoot in Blackhope, I’ll wager that Mr. Chase knows all about it.”

I though instantly of Mr. Garnett, the talkative mechanic who’d told Adam about Josiah’s ghost, but just as quickly brushed the thought aside. I refuse. d to believe that Adam would conceal information about my accident. Adam cared
about me. If he knew who’d left the gate open, he’d step forward.

“May I tell Nicole about Bart Little?” I asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Guy. “Not until I’ve had a chance to eliminate her husband from my inquiries.”

A novel idea popped into my head. “Maybe they’re all at it—Jared, Bart, James, Brett, and Bert. What a joke.”

“There’s nothing remotely humorous about harassing a vulnerable young woman.” Guy surveyed the village as fiercely as a hawk scouting for prey. “I fully intend to put a stop to it.” He turned to me. “And I need your help.”

Plucky women long for action. I was, alas, consigned to observation. On the way back to Wyrdhurst Hall, Guy gave me my instructions.

I was to keep an eye on Nicole. Period. I was forbidden to search Wyrdhurst for signs of illicit activity or to ask the villagers leading questions. I was absolutely forbidden to approach, apprehend, or otherwise confront anyone. If I saw anything suspicious I was to ring Guy at once. He offered me a spare cell phone, but I told him that Bill had already replaced the one lost in the crash.