Aunt Dimity Digs In (16 page)

“I can’t be absolutely certain,” Miranda began. “It’s a long way off and the mist was very dense.” Miranda rested her hands on the windowsill. “I always come up here when there’s a full moon, to say my prayers and meditate.” She pointed to the line of trees that marked the river’s course on the far side of the meadow. “She rose just there on Sunday night. She was exquisite, once she got above the mist, perfectly pure and silvery white, so bright that she cast shadows. I closed my eyes, to commune with her, and when I opened them again, there was a flash of light, as though someone had turned a torch toward my cottage. That’s when I saw the two women.” Miranda tapped a finger on the sill. “At least, I
assume
they were women.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they were worshiping the moon,” Miranda replied, as though it were self-evident. “Men don’t go in for moon worship, as a rule. They can’t seem to get the hang of cycles.”

“What . . . form did the worship take?” I inquired awkwardly. My experience with witches had, until now, been limited to items printed in the gutter press, and I was anxious not to give offense.

Miranda sniffed. “The usual amateur nonsense. Not my style at all. They jumped up and down, bowed to each other, raised their arms in supplication—they were probably chanting, as well, but I couldn’t hear them from here.”

I tried to picture Sally Pyne and Christine Peacock hopping up and down in the vicarage meadow at midnight. Had they been jumping for joy because they’d gotten hold of the Gladwell pamphlet?

I turned to Miranda. “Did either of them approach the vicarage before the, um, ceremony?”

Miranda sighed. “One did, the one Mr. Wetherhead mistook for Brother Florin. It was the ringleader showing off, I expect—thumbing her nose at Christianity. Childish, of course, but try convincing a woman in a hood that she should seek harmony, not conflict. At any rate, she circled the vicarage twice, then . . .” Miranda paused.

“ Then what?” I coaxed.

“I’m not quite sure what happened next,” she replied. “As I said, there was an awful lot of mist about. The ringleader probably heard a noise and scarpered off to join her chum in the meadow.” A tolerant smile took the sting out of her words. “I didn’t want to give them away. That’s why I invented Brother Florin.”

The black cat bumped my elbow with his head, and I let him curl up in my lap. I stroked his gleaming fur and gazed out at the meadow, wondering if the hooded witches had, like the hooded Brother Florin, sprung from Miranda Morrow’s fertile imagination.

“If you’re so concerned about protecting those two women,” I said slowly, “why are you telling me about them?”

A strange light seemed to flicker in the depths of Miranda’s vivid green eyes. “I read auras,” she said simply. “Yours tells me that you didn’t come here to uncover a coven.” Her green eyes narrowed. “You’ve got quite a different agenda altogether.”

 

“Witches in Finch?” Bill exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down,” I urged. “Francesca might hear.”

I leaned back against the pile of pillows at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom, facing Bill, who reclined against his own pillows piled against the headboard. Will was curled up on Bill’s chest, and Rob was snoozing soundly next to me. I’d spent so much of the day away from my boys that I couldn’t bear to part with them at bedtime.

“Witches in Finch,” Bill repeated.

“And a ghost who looks like Paddington Bear,” I reminded him. “Let’s not forget about Brother Florin.”

Bill nodded absently.

“ That was supposed to be a joke,” I pointed out. “We know that Miranda Morrow invented Brother Florin. I’m willing to bet a bucket of lemon bars that our local coven doesn’t exist, either. Although
someone
was in that meadow. . . .”

“Hmmm?” said Bill.

“The meadow takes a sudden dip as it rolls down to the river,” I explained, using a pillow to illustrate my words. “When you’re standing at the bottom of it, you can barely see the vicarage. The dry grass was crushed and snapped in a circle at the bottom of the dip. I checked on it after I’d finished speaking with Miranda. Someone was there, all right, and I think I know who.”

“Hmmm . . .” Bill stared into the middle distance and gave a vague nod.

“Look . . .” I finger-walked both hands along the bottom of the ridge I’d made in the pillow. “Sally Pyne and Christine Peacock walk along the river until they come to the dip in the meadow. Then one of them tiptoes over to the vicarage to reconnoiter.” My right hand fingertip-toed to the top of the dip. “She circled the vicarage twice, to check for signs of life; then she snuck in through the French doors, snatched the pamphlet, and scooted back to the dip.” My finger-figures hopped about in triumph. “Chris and Sally stole the Gladwell pamphlet to make sure that the pub and the tearoom would profit from Adrian’s museum. I’m sure of it.”

“Hmmm,” Bill said.

I folded my hands, having become aware of a curious one-sidedness to our conversation. “Hard day at the office?” I inquired politely.

“No . . .” Bill frowned in concentration. “I’m trying to remember something Chris Peacock told me, the night I was poisoning myself with Dick’s mead. It had something to do with the meadow. I wouldn’t have thought of it if you hadn’t put the two together just now.”

My heart leapt. “What did she say? Did she tell you she was there on Sunday night?”

Bill stroked the mustache space above his upper lip, a habit he’d established in his hirsute youth. “Chris didn’t want Peggy Kitchen to hear,” he said slowly, “so she took me aside and . . .” He shook his head, discouraged. “I’m sorry. It’s gone. All I can remember is that she was agitated about something that happened in the meadow. The mead seems to have erased her actual words.”

“Did she mention Sally Pyne?” I suggested.

“I don’t know.” Bill gently rubbed Will’s back. “Miranda Morrow may be right about the coven, though. Christine Peacock’s a bit of a nutcase when it comes to the supernatural. It’s not hard to imagine her taking up the broomstick. Why don’t you stop by the pub tomorrow and talk to her?”

“I intend to. I still have half a batch of lemon bars left and”—I smiled slyly—“Dick Peacock just happens to be judging the pastry competition at the Harvest Festival.”

15.

“Shepherd! Rise and shine! Got news for you!”

I squinted at the bedside clock. It was midnight back in Boston—two hours past Stan’s usual bedtime and a half hour before the twins’ first feeding. “Stan? Wh-what are you doing up so late?”

“Provost’s dinner. Gave me gas. The provost, I mean. The food was pretty tasty. You want my news or don’t you?”

Bill moaned and buried his head in the pillows, so I carried the phone into the walk-in closet, flicked on the light, and shut the door.

“Yes, Stan, I want your news,” I said, too groggy to be properly enthusiastic.

“I can get you Gladwell pamphlets on transubstantiation, the virgin birth, and the efficacy of faith without good works,” Stan boomed. “Zilch on archaeology.”

I should have shouted “Way to go!” because no one but my old boss could have dug up
any
Gladwell pamphlet on such short notice. Instead, I slumped onto the hamper and mumbled dejectedly, “Nothing at all about the hoax?”

“Nada,” Stan replied, overlooking my ingratitude. “I found a guy in Labrador who’s nuts for Gladwell pamphlets, but he’s never heard of
Disappointments in Delving.
Offered me a bundle if I found a copy. Might take him up on it. I’ve always wanted to drive a Lamborghini.”

“Is the guy in Labrador your only lead?” I asked.

“Yeah, but he’s solid,” Stan answered, with astonishing forbearance. “He’s overnighting a pamphlet from his collection. I’ll overnight it to you as soon as it gets here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“So you’ll know what you’re looking for!” he bellowed. “What’s the matter with you, Shepherd? The twins suck your brains dry?”

“But if the pamphlets aren’t the same—” I began.

Stan cut me off. “Some Victorian pamphleteers stuck to patterns,” he lectured. “If they didn’t own two dozen fonts or a paper mill, they couldn’t change their style at the drop of a hat. They used and reused the same fonts, the same type of paper, and usually the same page layout.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling almost as thickheaded as Stan wanted me to feel. “So
Disappointments in Delving
may look like the pamphlet we’ll be getting from our man in Labrador.”

“The kraken wakes,” Stan quipped. He paused for a prolonged belch. “Gotta go. I need another bicarbonate.”

“ Thanks, Stan,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “I mean it. You’ve done a great job.”

“I’m not done yet,” he said. “And, Shepherd, you should get more shut-eye. You’re gonna set a bad example for the nippers.”

I glared blearily at the telephone as Stan rang off, then roused myself to get ready for my visit to the pub. If I was quick about it, I could bake a fresh batch of lemon bars before Bill came down for breakfast.

Grog, the Peacocks’ basset hound, gazed dolefully at the ladder upon which Dick Peacock stood, as though anticipating its imminent collapse. Our local publican was not a small-boned man. He weighed three hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, and the sight of him preparing to hang a brand-new sign from the wrought-iron gibbet over the pub’s entryway was enough to draw a crowd of nervous onlookers.

The sign itself excited speculation. Demurely veiled in burlap, it leaned beneath the pub’s sparkling windows, still smelling of fresh paint. I stood among a knot of mur murers that included Mr. Barlow, Buster, Mr. Farnham, and Mr. Taxman.

At the outer edge, forming a subknot of their own, stood Miranda Morrow and George Wetherhead. The dark circles under Mr. Wetherhead’s eyes suggested that he was keeping up his fruitless midnight vigils, but he seemed otherwise cheerful, leaning on his cane and acknowledging my nod with a shy smile. I nodded to Miranda, then looked back at Dick, hoping that his ladder had been designed for heavy-duty use.

Despite his excess poundage, Dick Peacock cut a dashing figure in Finch. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache, wore a Greek fisherman’s cap tilted at a jaunty angle, and favored richly colored shirts. Today’s was a deep shade of raspberry.

A poorly suppressed gasp went through the assembled throng as Dick began his descent, followed by an even less tactful whoosh of relief when he made it safely back to earth. He bent to pat Grog’s head, then turned to address his audience.

“Not yet,” he announced. “I need another S hook for the chains.”

“Oh, come on, Dick,” prodded Mr. Barlow. “Let’s have a peep.”

“It’s as much as my life’s worth,” Dick confided, “to let my own mother have a peep before Chris gives me the go-ahead.” He picked up the sign. “You’ll just have to come back later.”

“Don’t know why he needs a sign anyway,” grumbled Mr. Farnham, taking hold of Mr. Taxman’s proferred arm. “Never needed a sign before. It’s always been Peacock’s pub and it’ll always be Peacock’s pub. Don’t know what’s got into Dick. It’s that wife of his, I reckon. She’s soft in the head, they say. . . .”

I watched as Mr. Taxman guided the fragile greengrocer over the uneven cobbles. Peggy Kitchen’s suitor might be a bit tight-lipped, but I couldn’t help liking him. I recalled the gentle way he’d spoken of Rainey after she’d tumbled from the counter at Kitchen’s Emporium, and noted a similar kindliness in his handling of Mr. Farnham.

Rainey Dawson hailed me from the tearoom’s front doorstep, then pelted across the square and flung her arms around me, as though we’d been separated for two years instead of two days.

I returned her hug one-handed, so as not to drop my pretty tin of lemon bars. “ That’s a great hat you’ve got on. Where’d you get it?”

Rainey pranced back a few steps and spun in a circle to display her new attire. I recognized one of Nell Harris’s old gardening smocks—now daubed indelibly with yellowish mud—and the pair of work gloves I’d seen the day before, but the straw sun hat was new.

“Mrs. Kitchen found it in her back room,” Rainey told me. “Emma said I needed a hat to keep the sun from broiling my brains. Emma’s teaching me how to pull weeds, and plant seeds, and water
everything
because it’s been a
dreadfully
dry summer and if we don’t get rain soon Emma’s cabbages will curl up and die and
so will she!
”

“I don’t think she’ll die, Rainey,” I said, laughing. “Emma’s made of pretty tough stuff.” I glanced at the sheet-shrouded tearoom and wondered how much longer it would be before the renovations were complete. Sally Pyne would owe Emma a month of free meals for keeping Rainey occupied while the all-new Empire tearoom took shape. “How’s your grandmother doing?”

“Gran’s back hurts,” Rainey reported, “and her knees hurt and her shoulders hurt and her neck hurts because—” Rainey froze self-consciously and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “I promised Gran I wouldn’t tell.”