Aunt Dimity Goes West (18 page)

mounted by a kneeling, weeping angel with folded

wings. “Hannah Lavery lived to be eighty-five.”

“Dear Hannah.” Rose spoke with real animation

for the first time since we’d passed through the en-

trance gate, as though she were speaking of a friend

she’d known and loved. “Hannah Lavery was the

daughter of a wealthy mine owner, an exceptional

girl who became a truly remarkable woman. When

Hannah saw suffering, she refused to look the

other way. She spent her entire life working for the

welfare of miners and their families. She died in

Washington, D.C., still lobbying for humane labor

laws, but she wished to be buried here, among the

people whose struggles had first awakened her con-

science.”

“She never married,” I observed.

“Victorian men of her class preferred passive

women to rabble-rousers,” said Rose. “But I find that

crusaders in every age have difficulty finding suitable

mates. It isn’t easy to give one’s heart to a man as well as a cause.”

I ran my fingers along the angel’s folded wings,

then walked ahead of my companions, drawn by a

monumental monument that stood silhouetted against

a ponderosa pine at the end of the path. The gleaming

white marble obelisk towered over the phalanx of

rough-cut red-granite headstones that surrounded it,

and its inscription had been beautifully chiseled.

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147

C y r i l P e n n y f e a t h e r

1 8 5 9 – 1 8 9 6

a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto god

Romans 12:1

Erected to honor the memory

of a devoted teacher by the grateful families

of those whose lives he saved

“Who was Cyril Pennyfeather?” I asked when Toby

and Rose had caught up with me.

“He was a schoolmaster,” Rose replied. “He came

to the United States from England in 1880 and made

his way to Bluebird in 1884. He and the men who lie

buried near him died in the Lord Stuart mining disas-

ter of 1896.”

I blinked at her, looked back at the obelisk, and began

silently to count the red-granite markers surrounding it.

“Twenty,” I said finally. “Twenty men died in one

accident—twenty-one, counting Cyril.” I turned to

Rose. “What happened?”

“A catastrophic cave-in,” she answered. “No one

knows what caused it. Some claimed that the mine

manager had bought poor-quality wood to prop the

shaft in which the cave-in occurred, but nothing was

ever proved. The shaft was never excavated, and the

mine closed shortly thereafter.”

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Nancy Atherton

“What was a schoolteacher doing in a mine?” asked

Toby.

“Many of his pupils or former pupils worked there,”

Rose told him. “When he heard about the cave-in, he

went up to see if there was anything he could do to

help. He led at least a dozen men to safety before he,

too, was killed by falling rock.” She nodded toward the

inscription. “As you can see, the families of those he

rescued raised money to pay for his memorial. He was

much loved even before his death. After it . . .” Rose

looked from me to Toby and back to me again. “After

it, rumors of a curse began to circulate.”

“Ah,” I said as understanding dawned. “The Lord

Stuart curse.”

“Correct,” said Rose. “I’m convinced that the Lord

Stuart Mine closed because there was no more gold to

be had from it, but others believe differently. When

my husband and I first came to Bluebird, Rufe and Lou

Zimmer took us up to the old mine site and told us

about the disaster. Afterward, they brought us here,

to show us the graves of those who’d died. They ex-

plained to us that the cave-in was the culmination of

a series of fatal accidents that had plagued the Lord

Stuart Mine almost from its inception. They held that

the mine would have closed in 1896, even if the

mother lode hadn’t played out.”

“Because of the curse?” I said.

Rose nodded. “Miners are superstitious, as men in

hazardous occupations frequently are. If they came to

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149

believe in the curse, they might have been reluctant to

work in the Lord Stuart.”

“You can’t run a mine without miners,” I com-

mented.

“I don’t think the curse had anything to do with the

mine closing,” said Toby, shaking his head. “Don’t you

see? It was a cover-up. The mine owner closed the

Lord Stuart to keep people from finding out about the

substandard wood. A scandal like that wouldn’t sit

well with his investors.”

“Maybe he invented the curse to keep inquisitive

people away from the mine,” I suggested, “and the acci-

dents your grandfather told you about—the ones that

happened in later years—reinforced the original lie.”

“But why do they
still
believe in the curse?” Toby demanded. “The mine closed over a century ago.

There’s not a trace of it left aboveground. No one’s

ever been injured at the Aerie, much less died, but

people
still
think it’s risky to stay there.”

“We still celebrate Gold Rush Days in Bluebird,”

Rose reminded him. “For some people, the past is

always present. Your predecessor, for example, was

deeply interested in the history of the Lord Stuart

Mine.”

“James Blackwell?” I said, suddenly alert.

“James came to the historical society toward the end

of February,” Rose said. “He wanted information about

the mine. He already had reference books—Mrs. Auer-

bach collects them, apparently—so he didn’t need to

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Nancy Atherton

borrow ours, but I lent him newspaper clippings, pho-

tographs, town records, pamphlets, and other ephem-

era. He returned a few weeks later to ask for details

about the 1896 disaster.”

“Did you tell him about the curse?” I asked.

“I didn’t have to,” said Rose. “He’d already heard

about it in town—yes, Toby, from the usual suspects.

James wanted to know if the legend was based in fact.

I told him exactly what I’ve told you and left him to

draw his own conclusions.”

“Did he seem disturbed by the information you

gave him?” I asked.

“Not particularly.” Rose shrugged. “But I have to

confess that I didn’t monitor his reactions very closely.

I was busy at the time, developing the society’s sum-

mer event and exhibition schedule.” She glanced at her

wristwatch. “I’m sorry to say it, but I have to get back to the parsonage. Maggie Flaxton is dropping by at

four o’clock to discuss my role in Gold Rush Days. I

don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“No, you don’t,” said Toby, shuddering. “Rub Mag-

gie the wrong way and you’ll find yourself cleaning up

after the burros in the petting zoo. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” said Rose. “I think we have enough time to

make one more stop before we leave. Toby, you can

lead the way.”

Toby’s grandparents had been buried beneath a large

red-granite boulder, the kind the twins had clambered

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151

over on every one of our hikes. A square patch on one

side of the boulder had been smoothed, polished, and

etched with his grandparents’ names and dates, as

well as a simple outline of the mountain range that

contained Mount Shroeder’s distinctive profile.

“We climbed Mount Shroeder when I was ten

years old,” Toby recalled. “It was Granddad’s favorite

one-day climb. He loved the view of the valley from

the summit.”

“He passed his love on to you,” I said. “It’s a won-

derful inheritance.”

Toby squatted down to brush dead leaves from the

grave. “I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the dis-

aster when I asked about the curse?”

“Being a man of science, I expect he refused to

connect the two,” I said.

“Yeah.” Toby stretched out his hand to touch the

boulder. “Because there is no connection, right,

Granddad?”

We made sure the gate was firmly chained and

padlocked before we left, then started back down

the dirt road toward town. After spending so much

time in the cemetery’s cool shade, it was good to

feel the sun’s warmth on my skin again.

“Rose,” I said, “did Mrs. Auerbach ever ask you

about the curse?”

“I’ve never met Mrs. Auerbach,” said Rose. “She

wasn’t a churchgoer and she didn’t spend much time

in town. She kept herself very much to herself when

she and the children were at the Aerie. I imagine Blue-

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Nancy Atherton

bird’s attractions pale in comparison to the Aerie’s. I’ve been given to understand that it’s a marvelous place.”

“Given to understand?” I repeated, surprised. “Do

you mean you’ve never been to the Aerie?”

“Never.” She gave me a sidelong glance and a half-

guilty smile. “To be honest, I’m hoping to wangle an

invitation from you. I’ve always wanted to see what

it’s like inside. Apart from that, I’d like to pick up the material James Blackwell borrowed from the society.”

“He never returned the papers he borrowed?” I

said.

“He left so suddenly that it probably slipped his

mind,” said Rose.

“I’ll bet it’s in the library,” I told her. “I’ll look for it this evening. If I can’t find it, you can help me look for it tomorrow, when you come to lunch.Will one-thirty

work for you?”

“I can come earlier, if it’s more convenient,” Rose

offered. “Due to lack of funding, the society is closed

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays.”

“How about high noon, then?” I suggested.

“High noon will work perfectly,” said Rose, and she

walked with a bounce in her step all the way back to

the parsonage.

Thirteen

T oby and I collected our bags and packages

from the hall table and thanked Rose Bland-

ing sincerely for sharing her time as well as

her incredible wealth of knowledge with us. I had no

trouble believing her when she said that it had been

her pleasure. She was a born lecturer, and Toby and I

had given her a splendid opportunity to hold forth on

a subject that was close to her heart.

We left by the front stairs, but we didn’t take the

lake path back to town. Instead, we followed a rough

track through the stand of pines that shielded the

parsonage and the church from the two-lane highway

leading into town. Toby explained that, although the

alternate route was slightly longer and marginally less

scenic than the lake path, taking it would greatly in-

crease our chances of avoiding a run-in with Maggie

Flaxton. I backed his decision wholeheartedly, having

employed the same tactics frequently in Finch, to

avoid a rampaging Peggy Taxman.

Before we left the shelter of the trees, I asked Toby

to stop.

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t know that your grandparents

had died so recently. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been

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Nancy Atherton

so idiotically chirpy when we reached the cemetery.

I’m really sorry if spending time there upset you.”

“It’s okay,” said Toby. “It turned out to be pretty in-

teresting. I guess Grandma and Granddad are part of

the . . . the repository of history, now.”

“They are,” I said. “A hundred years from now people

will find their headstone as fascinating as we found Cyril Pennyfeather’s.”

“Only if they have a tour guide like Mrs. Blanding,”

said Toby.

I was ready to move on, but Toby stayed put, gaz-

ing down at me with a faintly troubled expression on

his face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“When we were in the cafe,” he said slowly, “you told

Carrie Vyne that James Blackwell was interested in local history. You knew it
before
Mrs. Blanding told us about his visits to the historical society. How did you find out?”

“Brett Whitcombe,” I replied. “He told me that

James used to pester him with questions about what

Bluebird was like in the olden days. He also told me

that James was investigating some ‘tomfool stories’—

Brett’s words, not mine. I think James went to Brett

Whitcombe as well as Rose Blanding, looking for in-

formation about the Lord Stuart curse.”

“Right.” Toby pushed his hat back on his head. “The

thing is, James left some stuff behind in his apart-

ment—the apartment I’m using now. I would have

shipped it to him, but I don’t know where to send it.”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

155

“No forwarding address,” I said, nodding. “Is it the

material he borrowed from the historical society?”

“No,” said Toby. “It’s not books or papers, and I’m

sure it belongs to him, not to the historical society—

he left the receipts behind, too. I thought he was using it for . . .” His voice trailed off and his gaze wandered to a point somewhere over my right shoulder. “But

after hearing Mrs. Blanding, I’m not so sure.”

“Not so sure about what?” I asked.

Toby’s eyes came back into focus. “I could be wrong.

I’ll show you when we get back. I’d like to know what