Aunt Dimity Goes West (17 page)

Rose and Toby returned, with Toby balancing a cut-

glass pitcher and three tall glasses on a rosewood tray.

He placed the tray on a round table next to Rose’s

easy chair, and resumed his seat while she filled glasses and passed them to us. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I

was until I took my first sip of iced tea, and Rose

appeared to enjoy hers thoroughly.

“Ah, that’s better,” she said, after she’d drained half

her glass.

“You know,” I mused aloud, “Danny Auerbach would

never have been allowed to tear down and recycle the

old mine buildings in England, where I live. There,

they’d be praised for their historic value and preserved by the National Trust.”

“The site of the Lord Stuart Mine was a hazardous

eyesore,” Rose stated firmly. “It’s also private pro-

perty, so Mr.Auerbach was well within his rights to do

with it as he pleased. The Auerbachs have owned land

up there since 1860, when they bought out the claims

of a few hardscrabble prospectors. Fortunately, they

invested the profits from the mine wisely, so even

when it closed, they prospered. Unlike their work-

ers,” she added, a note of disapproval entering her

voice, “most of whom lived a hand-to-mouth exis-

tence. But don’t get me started on working conditions

in the mines. I’d bore you to death.”

“You haven’t so far,” I told her earnestly. “You’ve

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opened my eyes to a whole new world. I’ve enjoyed

every minute.”

“Thank you,” said Rose. “I’m always glad to share

my knowledge of Bluebird’s past.”

“What about its folk legends?” I asked.

Toby heaved a despondent sigh, as if he knew where

my question would lead and wished I wouldn’t go

there. Ice clinked as Rose took another sip of iced tea

before answering.

“It’s said that on a still night church bells can be

heard beneath the waters of Lake Matula,” she said,

her eyes dancing. “There’s even talk of a ghost train

running along the tracks at the bottom of the lake.”

She chuckled indulgently and shook her head. “Long

winters make for tall tales.”

“Have you heard the church bells?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” Rose said good-humoredly, “and

those who think they have, have spent far too much

time in Altman’s Saloon.”

“So I suppose a sighting of the ghost train is out of

the question,” I said.

“You suppose correctly. Even if I believed in the

legend, the water isn’t clear enough for anyone to see

all the way to the bottom of the lake.” Rose’s gray eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think I can guess why you’re

interested in ghost trains and phantom church bells,

Lori.You’ve heard about the curse, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “I’d like to hear more.”

“Why?” Rose asked sharply. “Do you believe in

such things?”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

139

“No,” I said, “but I find them interesting.Why do so

many people in town still believe in the curse when it

no longer serves a useful purpose?”

Rose placed her glass on the tray, rested her el-

bows on the easy chair’s arms, and tented her fingers.

“What useful purpose did it serve?”

“If it scared children away from the site,” I said, “it

probably saved a few lives.”

“I see.” Rose frowned slightly. “Who told you about

the curse?”

“The usual suspects,” Toby interpolated, rolling his

eyes, “but I plead guilty to giving Lori the gory details, after she badgered me for them.”

“What details did you give her?” Rose inquired.

Toby shrugged. “I told her what my grandfather

told me. Kids used to get hurt playing on the old min-

ing equipment. So many children were injured that

people began to believe the site was jinxed.”

“If only it were so simple. . . .” Rose tapped the tips of her thumbs together, then stood. She crossed to a

small secretaire in the corner and took a modern brass

key from one of its drawers. She slipped the key into

her skirt pocket before asking, “Are you up for a walk?”

“You bet,” I said, getting to my feet. “Toby’s whip-

ped me into shape.”

“I’m always up for a walk,” Toby chimed in.

“Good.” Rose turned toward the entrance hall

and motioned for us to follow her. “If you want to hear

the true story behind the Lord Stuart curse, come

with me.”

Twelve

T oby and I retrieved our hats and sun-

glasses as we passed through the entrance

hall, and Rose donned a straw hat that

could have served as a small parasol, tying its rose-

colored ribbons firmly beneath her chin before we

went outside. There was no need for her to change

into hiking boots. Her chunky, thick-soled shoes

looked sturdy enough to handle all but the roughest

terrain.

Although she pulled the front door shut as we left

the parsonage, she didn’t lock it.

“Have you ever been burgled?” I asked, as Toby and

I followed her down the stairs.

“Not once in thirty-five years.” She pointed to the

rows of houses that rose in terraced ranks along

Bluebird’s steeply inclined streets. “Burglars don’t

prosper in Bluebird. There are too many eyes watch-

ing from behind too many curtains. It’s one of the

great advantages of having nosey neighbors.”

“True,” I said, thinking nostalgically of Finch’s cease-

lessly twitching curtains. “Nothing goes unnoticed in a

small town.”

“Not for long, at any rate,” Rose added wisely.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

141

She led us through Bluebird’s back lanes, pausing

to greet everyone we met along the way, to St. Barbara’s Catholic Church, which stood at the top of Garnet

Street, on the north side of the valley. Behind the church a dirt road climbed up the mountainside and disappeared into the forest. When Rose turned toward the

dirt road,Toby stopped abruptly.

“I know where we’re going,” he said, eyeing the

road unhappily.

“I knew you would,” said Rose, “but let’s keep it as

a surprise for Lori.”

“Some surprise,” Toby muttered, but he walked on.

The road was wide enough for the three of us to

walk comfortably side by side and shady enough for

me to wish I’d brought my sweatshirt. It was properly

maintained, as well, and cut at a gentle grade that

made walking uphill a breeze. We’d climbed for no

more than fifteen minutes when a ten-foot-wide iron

gate came into view. Patches of rust showed through

the gate’s flaking layers of white paint, and above it an archway of lacy ironwork contained the words: bluebird cemetery.

“We’re going to a cemetery?” I exclaimed, clasping

my hands to my breast. “I
love
cemeteries.”

“You do?” Toby looked at me as though I’d slipped

a cog.

“I
always
visit cemeteries when I travel,” I told him.

“They’re quiet and serene and—”

“Filled with dead bodies,” Toby inserted, wrinkling

his nose in distaste.

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Nancy Atherton

“They’re filled with the past as well,” I said, bub-

bling over with enthusiasm. “You can learn a lot about

a place by visiting its graveyards. Isn’t that right, Rose?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” she said.

“Shall we proceed?”

The gate was chained and padlocked, but Rose

opened the lock with the key she’d taken from the sec-

retaire, slid the chain around the gate post, and left it dangling. When she’d finished, Toby pushed the gate

aside, and I stepped into a glade so lovely it took my

breath away.

It was like a small cathedral, with pillars of white-

barked aspens and a roof of sun-drenched leaves that

glowed as richly as stained glass. The dirt road served

as the center aisle, with a web of sunken paths wind-

ing from it through a maze of headstones, crosses,

markers, and monuments. Above us, choirs of birds

twittered among the shivering aspen leaves, as if to

emphasize the sylvan silence that descended when

they stopped.

“It’s beautiful,” I said softly.

Rose nodded her agreement, but Toby was clearly

unmoved by our surroundings.

“For heaven’s sake, Lori,” he said impatiently. “You

don’t have to whisper. You won’t disturb anyone.”

“It’s a sacred place,” I retorted.

“For worms, maybe,” he countered.

“What kind of comment is
that
?” I said, frowning at him.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

143

“An honest one.” He frowned back at me, then

hung his head and muttered angrily, “We buried my

grandparents here last year. It’s not my favorite place

to be, okay?”

“Oh,” I said, brought up short. “I didn’t realize . . .

I’m so sorry,Toby. Do you want to leave?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Rose placed a comforting hand

on Toby’s shoulder. “Try to think of this place as your

grandfather thought of it, Toby—as a repository of

history. He used to spend a lot of time up here.”

Toby’s head came up. “He did?”

“He found it fascinating.You will, too, if you give it

a chance.” Rose gave his shoulder an encouraging

squeeze. “Are you staying?”

“Yeah.” Toby took a deep breath and glanced at us

apologetically. “I’m staying.”

“Then come along,” Rose said briskly.

Toby and I followed Rose along the dirt road and

onto a sunken path that branched off from it, to our

right. I suspected that she would have moved at a

faster clip if I hadn’t expressed a keen interest in

graveyards. As it was, she walked slowly enough for

me to read the headstones whose inscriptions hadn’t

been obliterated by the passage of time.

It was like reading a roll call of nineteenth-century

immigrants: Evgeny Krasikov, Padraig Doherty, Helmut

Grauberger, Esteban Fernandez, Miroslav Simzisko,

Leslinka Turek, and Alexis Laytonikis were just a few of the resoundingly ethnic names that caught my eye.

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Nancy Atherton

“It’s like the United Nations up here,” I marveled.

“It is,” Rose agreed. “People from all over the world

came to the Rocky Mountains to seek their fortunes.

Bluebird even had a small Chinese community as well

as a handful of Sikhs from northern India. Imagine the

journeys they made to get here.”

“In England,” I said, as we continued down the

path, “the old graveyards are near churches. Why is

Bluebird’s so far away from town?”

“Economics, for one thing,” Rose replied. “At the

time the cemetery was created, town property was

too expensive to waste on the dead, and much of the

rest of the Vulgamore Valley was being mined. The

ground here is relatively easy to dig, fairly level, and as far as we know, devoid of valuable gems or minerals.”

She paused before a row of twelve simple stone mark-

ers, each bearing the name Shuttleworth. “People were

also afraid of contagion. Epidemics were not unknown

in mining communities.”

“What kind of epidemics?” I asked.

“Dysentery, cholera, measles, malaria, diphtheria,

smallpox . . .” Rose kept her eyes trained on the head-

stones as she reeled off the long list of diseases. “The scourges that spring up wherever malnourished people

live in overcrowded conditions with poor sanitation.

Influenza killed the entire Shuttleworth family, from

the infant son to the grandmother.Their church had to

bury them.”

“The good old days,” murmured Toby, gazing

somberly at the Shuttleworths’ graves.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

145

“It wasn’t Disney World,” Rose acknowledged. She

bent to lay a hand on the smallest headstone, then

walked on. “Miners’ lives were difficult and dangerous.

Those who weren’t killed by disease died in mining

accidents or froze to death or drowned. Some drank

themselves to death, some committed suicide. Others

were shot or stabbed in drunken brawls. A few were

hanged.”

“Frontier justice at work?” I said.

“So-called frontier justice was swift and sure,” Rose

said sardonically, “but I’m not sure how often it was

just. And, of course, silicosis took many miners’ lives.”

She noted my puzzled expression and explained, “Sili-

cosis is a form of pneumonia caused by breathing air

filled with silica dust. Respirators didn’t exist back

then.”

“Good grief,” I said, pressing my hands to my

chest. Rose’s litany of woes seemed at odds with the

earlier picture she’d painted of Bluebird. “How could

they build an opera house in the midst of so much

misery?”

“They needed the opera house—and the debating

societies and the baseball teams—to take them away

from the misery,” said Rose. “Besides, their expecta-

tions were different from ours.They had no antibiotics,

no advanced surgical techniques.To them, disease and

death were an accepted part of life—dreadful, yes, but

accepted.”

“Not everyone died young, though.” Toby had

crouched down to examine the inscription on an un-

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usually elaborate marker: a white marble plinth sur-