Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (11 page)

The Buntings didn’t go bananas, as I’d predicted, but they were
clearly thrilled by the discovery. Willis, Sr., as if conscious that their interest in the subject matter carried more weight than his own, allowed them to take the lead in the discussion that followed.

Lilian spent a considerable amount of time comparing the original Latin text to Alfred’s translation before passing them to Willis, Sr.

“Does the translation pass muster?” the vicar inquired.

“Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “It’s colloquial, but accurate.”

“I approve of Alfred’s use of common speech,” said the vicar. “It brings the Reverend Gowland to life. I can almost see him, lit by the light of a single candle, alert to the sound of approaching footsteps, moving his quill hurriedly from ink pot to parchment as he writes late into the night.”

“He seems real to me, too,” Amelia agreed. “It’s as if I were hearing one of my ancestors speak directly to me from the past.”

“And what a turbulent period of the past it was,” said Lilian. “England wasn’t a peaceful kingdom in those days. To the contrary, the country was racked with strife throughout much of the seventeenth century—civil war, sectarian violence, outbreaks of the plague, Cromwell’s thugs plundering churches, and the Witchfinder General committing appalling atrocities in the name of God.” She compressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, then added in clipped tones, “In England, women found guilty of witchcraft weren’t burned at the stake. They were hanged.”

“You’ve quite put me off my tea,” said Amelia, gazing sadly at her cup.

“I’m sorry,” said Lilian, “but it would be dishonest to sugarcoat the facts. Witch-hunting was a pernicious practice.”

“Religion was sadly abused in those days,” said the vicar. “People used it as an excuse to murder, maim, and torture those whose beliefs differed from their own. The ongoing conflict between the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England called everyone’s allegiance into question.”

“It was a dangerous time to be a clergyman,” Lilian confirmed, “yet the Reverend Gowland survived and prospered. The lowly rector of St. George’s Church eventually became the archdeacon of Exeter.”

“I know,” said Amelia. “Alfie devoted three pages in his notebook to Gamaliel’s rise through the ecclesiastical ranks. Did you read it there just now, Mrs. Bunting, or are you familiar with the careers of each of your husband’s predecessors?”

“My wife takes an interest in church history,” the vicar explained. “She wrote a splendid monograph on selected members of St. George’s clergy. It’s available in the church for a small donation. The roof fund…” His voice trailed off delicately.

“I shall purchase a copy today,” said Amelia.

“And I shall rewrite it,” Lilian declared, “because it doesn’t include what may be the most interesting chapter in the Reverend Gowland’s career.” She fastened her gaze on the plastic-covered piece of parchment in Willis, Sr.’s hand. “I pride myself on my intellectual rigor, Mrs. Thistle, but your late brother’s quest has inflamed my imagination as well.”

“The complete memoir could alter our understanding of the Reverend Gowland,” the vicar explained.

“It certainly could,” said Lilian, nodding. “What secrets did he have to tell? How could telling them endanger his flock? Who was Mistress Meg? If she was regarded as a witch, what happened to her? Did the Reverend Gowland bring about her torture and her death? Or did he sell his soul to her in a misguided attempt to gain preferment in the church?”

“Good heavens,” said Amelia, her eyes widening. “The notion of soul selling never occurred to me.”

“I’m sorry to say it,” said the vicar, “but an atmosphere rife with fear and superstition can infect the mind of the most devout cleric.”

“I can’t imagine such evils infecting your mind, Mr. Bunting,” said Amelia.

“I do my best to guard against them,” the vicar responded, “because I’m well aware of my own frailty.”

“How frail was the Reverend Gowland, I wonder?” Lilian asked. “I must confess that I shall find it difficult to concentrate on mundane matters until we find the rest of his memoir.” She eyed Amelia speculatively. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thistle. I may be assuming too much. Will you allow Teddy and me to help you with your search?”

“I’m counting on your help, and Lori’s,” Amelia exclaimed. “I haven’t been able to make heads or tails out of Gamaliel’s first clue.”

It was my cue to jump in with Aunt Dimity’s guess about the glyph. Since I didn’t know how to explain the inexplicable, I would have taken the credit for her contribution, but before I could open my mouth to speak, Willis, Sr., decided to break his long silence.

“Were you familiar with St. George’s, Mrs. Thistle,” he said, “you would have no trouble interpreting the Reverend Gowland’s clue.”

Amelia gazed at him attentively. “Do you claim to understand it, Mr. Willis?”

“I do,” he replied. “I believe, however, that a demonstration will be more efficient than an explanation.” He slipped the piece of parchment into his breast pocket and stood. “Shall we repair to the church, Mrs. Thistle?”

“By all means, Mr. Willis,” said Amelia, getting to her feet.

“We’ll come, too,” Lilian said quickly.

There was a flurry of activity as the vicar dislodged a dozing Angel from his knees, Amelia returned the notebook to the carpet bag, and Lilian retrieved an armload of raincoats from the foyer.

“It’s begun to drizzle,” she reported as we followed Willis, Sr., to the front door.

“No matter,” said Amelia. “It would take a flood of biblical proportions to keep me from finding out if Mr. Willis is as intelligent as he seems.”

Ten

T 
he Buntings allowed the soft rain to dampen their heads on the way to the church, but I pulled up the hood on my parka and Willis, Sr., sheltered Amelia beneath his black umbrella. While the vicar and his wife hurried forward, I hung back and listened with interest as my father-in-law struck up a conversation with his new acquaintance. Unsurprisingly, it was she who did most of the talking.

“Please allow me to offer my sincere condolences on your brother’s death,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Amelia. “Alfie was my only sibling and I miss him terribly. He was five years older than I, but he always treated me as an equal. He introduced me at a very young age to many of the things I still enjoy—Japanese films, Thai cuisine, Chinese poetry, Bhangra music. I owe a great deal to Alfie. He opened my eyes to the world.”

“What is Bhangra music?” Willis, Sr., asked.

“It’s Indian—from the Punjab originally—and very cheerful.” Amelia stopped beneath the lych-gate’s shingled roof and said quietly, “What a lovely church.”

My heart warmed to her. I, too, loved my church’s modest charms.

St. George’s was squat and sturdy and its only external decorations were the chevron patterns incised in the stone moldings above the doors and windows. The window embrasures were filled with leaded panes of wavy clear glass rather than stained or painted glass, and the embrasures themselves were relatively small. The church
boasted a square bell tower, but the bells hadn’t been heard since the 1970s, when they’d been replaced by an automated recording device that chimed the hours and half hours with unfailing, if inhuman, regularity.

St. George’s wasn’t spectacular or glamorous. It didn’t soar heavenward, stirring the soul with the intricacy of its design. It was a simple parish church, a humble friend whose door was always open, but no one who saw its golden walls rising from the graveyard’s lush green grass could deny its loveliness.

“Alfie adored old churches,” Amelia went on as we left the lych-gate and walked up the gravel path to the south porch. “When we were young, we’d cycle for miles to see an interesting font or a curiously worded memorial tablet. He would have loved St. George’s. It’s Norman, isn’t it? The rounded arches, the thick walls, the zigzag stonework over the doors…They’re hallmarks of Norman architecture, aren’t they?”

“Indeed they are,” said Willis, Sr. “St. George’s was built in the twelfth century by Sir Guillaume des Flèches, a Norman nobleman whose castle no longer exists. The stones from Sir Guillaume’s castle were used in the construction of many of the buildings in and around Finch.”

“Those who think recycling is a modern concept should spend more time studying history,” Amelia commented.

Willis, Sr., smiled and left his umbrella on the south porch to drip while Amelia and I preceded him through the iron-banded oak door to join the Buntings.

The church smelled of beeswax, furniture polish, and damp. The wooden pews had been buffed to a gleaming finish by the same rota of village women who arranged the flowers. Christine Peacock, who liked to experiment, was responsible for the asymmetrical bouquets of bare branches, shiny berries, and crab apples that graced the altar and the baptismal font. I found them attractive, but
I knew of at least four ladies who were itching to pitch them and who would, as soon as their turns came around, revert to traditional arrangements of mums, asters, and dahlias.

The Buntings stood in the north aisle, gazing up at the faint, rust-colored image of a larger-than-life St. George brandishing his shield while thrusting his lance into a writhing, wormy-looking dragon. Amelia crossed to join them, looking everywhere but up, with Willis, Sr., and I trailing in her wake.

“My compliments on your beautiful church,” she said to the vicar.

“Thank you,” he said. “Our sexton, Mr. Barlow, looks after the church building and the grounds. He’s Finch’s odd-job man as well. If you need anything done around the house, Mrs. Thistle, Mr. Barlow is the man to call.”

“Yes, I met Mr. Barlow yesterday,” said Amelia. “He came to Pussywillows to introduce himself and to—” She broke off as she caught sight of the faded image on the north wall. “A medieval wall painting,” she breathed rapturously. “What a fortunate survival! So many were plastered over or whitewashed in Victorian times.”

“Ours was whitewashed,” the vicar informed her. “It was uncovered a little over a decade ago by Derek Harris, a local man who specializes in restoration projects.”

“Derek Harris,” Amelia repeated thoughtfully. “Does he live at Anscombe Manor with his second wife, Emma—the American woman who runs the riding school—and his daughter, Nell, who married the stable master, Kit Smith, a man who’s twice her age?”

“Y-yes,” stammered the vicar, who looked as nonplussed as I felt. Newcomers to the village usually required more than twenty-four hours to learn the complex ins and outs of the Harris family.

“Miss Scroggins mentioned him to me,” Amelia said airily.

Lilian and I exchanged startled looks. I couldn’t be certain of her
thoughts, but I was wondering what the heck Millicent Scroggins had told Amelia about
me
.

“Mr. Harris must be good at his job,” Amelia continued, “and he should be proud of the work he’s done here. It’s a pity to think that such a striking image went unseen for so many years.”

“The image would, however, have been plainly visible to the Reverend Gowland,” Willis, Sr., reminded her. He took the first page of the memoir from his pocket and held it up for all to see. “I would ask you to compare the Reverend Gowland’s glyph to St. George’s shield,” he suggested, sounding for all the world like an attorney instructing a jury.

Amelia looked from the piece of parchment to the painting and emitted a fretful little huff.

“How very disappointing,” she said, frowning.

“In what way have I disappointed you?” Willis, Sr., inquired, lowering the parchment.

“It’s not you, Mr. Willis.” Amelia patted his arm absentmindedly while she continued to frown at the wall painting. “You were quite right. Had I been familiar with the church, I would have understood the glyph immediately. That’s the problem, you see. I expected something a bit more devious from Gamaliel, something cunning and labyrinthine.” She flung her arm out toward the painting. “I didn’t think his clue would lead us to a great huge billboard stuck up on a wall for everyone to see.”

“He may have led us to the painting,” Lilian allowed, “but I, for one, have no idea where to go from here.”

“My dear Mrs. Bunting,” said Amelia, “it’s as plain as the nose on your face. There must be a loose stone or a thin layer of plaster behind the shield. When we remove one or the other, we’ll find a recess containing the second page of the memoir. The solution to Gamaliel’s first clue is, I regret to say, painfully obvious.”

“It’s not obvious at all, Mrs. Thistle,” Lilian protested. “Derek
Harris tested the wall thoroughly while he was removing the whitewash, to make sure the surface was stable. I can promise you that there are no recesses behind the painting.”

“No cracks?” said Amelia. “No fissures?”

“There’s nothing behind the shield but a large block of solid limestone,” Lilian answered firmly.

A smile wreathed Amelia’s rosy face as she peered heavenward.

“Forgive me, Gamaliel,” she said. “I underestimated you.”

“Am I reading you correctly, Amelia?” I said, eyeing her bemusedly. “Do you
want
the search to be challenging?”

“Of course I do,” said Amelia. “If a secret’s worth hiding, it’s worth hiding well. Now, let’s see…” She began to pace back and forth before the wall painting, tilting her head and squinting at the shield from different angles. “Could the cross on the shield be our next clue? Could it, perhaps, direct us to a hiding place?”

“The cross points in four directions,” Willis, Sr., observed. “The salient reference points appear to be the rafters above, the floor below, the pulpit to the east, and the font to the west.”

“We’ll need one of Mr. Barlow’s ladders to check the rafters,” said the vicar.

“We can test the floor, though,” said Lilian. “If we extend the cross’s vertical bar downward…” She drew her finger through the air and pointed at a spot on the floor directly below the painting.

I walked to the place she indicated and stomped on it a few times, then crouched down and ran my palm over it.

“It doesn’t sound hollow to me,” I said, “and I can’t feel a crack in it or a patch where a hole might have been filled in.”