“Scrag End field?” I said.
The vicar nodded. “It lies alongside Hodge Farm,” he explained, “just beyond the copse of woods at the north end of the village. Scrag End is glebe land, though it’s never brought a groat into the church’s coffers. It’s useless for cultivation. Hence its unflattering name.”
“Right,” I said. “So Adrian Culver’s niece had just stopped in Scrag End field to have a picnic lunch, when . . . ?”
“She found herself sitting on the business end of a fifth-century Roman spearhead!” the vicar exclaimed.
“Golly,” I said. “ That must have come as a surprise.”
“Indeed,” said the vicar. “Naturally, she reported her discovery to her uncle, who lost no time in returning to Scrag End. While there, he turned up a number of pot sherds, coins, and a small head of Minerva, all Roman, ranging in date from the second to the fifth century.”
“Sounds like quite a find,” I said.
“Adrian was beside himself,” the vicar confirmed. “Scrag End was, he told me, exactly what he’d been looking for. He hoped to conduct a preliminary survey of it this summer. Adrian’s a very persuasive fellow, and when he asked if he might use the schoolhouse as a temporary storeroom and laboratory, I’m afraid I . . .” The vicar leaned back in his chair and moaned.
“How could you possibly forget about the Harvest Festival?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Peggy’s worked on it for years and—”
“No, she hasn’t.” Lilian Bunting had reentered the library, carrying a round tray with two teapots, and a selection of pastries and sandwiches. “Finch hasn’t held a Harvest Festival since September 1913. The Great War put an end to that tradition, as it put an end to so much else.”
“Peggy Kitchen said—” I began, but Lilian shook her head authoritatively.
“Mrs. Kitchen is painfully enthusiastic about reestablishing village traditions.” Lilian placed the tea tray on the table at my knees and sat beside me on the couch. “She has been, ever since she moved here.”
“Moved here?” I said. “I thought she was born here.”
The vicar grunted. “She’s no more Finch-born than we are.”
“
You
aren’t from Finch, either?” I said, taken aback.
The vicar and his wife looked at each other and smiled. “We are now,” said Lilian, “but we’ve been here less than a decade. We came to Finch from London. Teddy’s previous parish had become a bit too . . . urban . . . for his nerves, and when a friend offered him this living, he snapped it up.”
“Out of the frying pan . . .” muttered the vicar.
“Now, Teddy,” chided Lilian, “you can’t accuse Finch of being too lively.”
“Dull as ditchwater,” said the vicar, sighing. “Or it was, until Mrs. Kitchen arrived from Birmingham. She bought up old Harmer’s shop and turned it into Kitchen’s Emporium. Then she got herself appointed postmistress. Then she started in on her village-tradition scheme.”
“Garden fetes, morris dancing, sheepdog trials,” said Lilian. “She’s even revived the Women’s Institute. Tea, Lori? There’s chamomile for you and a stronger brew for Teddy. Please, help yourself to a little something while I pour. I’ve made my lemon bars.”
I wasn’t hungry—Francesca had managed to whip up an omelette for me in the midst of the boys’ feeding frenzy—but Lilian’s lemon bars were legendary. While she coaxed her distraught husband into choking down a cheese-and-tomato sandwich, I sampled one of the sweet, tangy treats, and wondered if they would have any competition at the Harvest Festival—assuming the festival took place.
“The thing is,” the vicar said, gazing gloomily into his teacup, “I’ve never been entirely convinced that Finch
needs
a Harvest Festival.”
“It’s the blessing of the beasts,” Lilian put in. “Teddy isn’t sure who’ll clean the church afterward.”
“I suppose that’s why I forgot about the festival,” the vicar went on. “Wishful thinking. Besides, Adrian swore that he’d be here no longer than three weeks. Yet, not an hour ago, I learned from an Oxford colleague of mine that Adrian is applying for funds to extend the project. If he gets them, he may be here forever!”
At that moment I was glad I hadn’t mentioned Peggy’s plans to move to Little Stubbing. The vicar would resign his post if he knew he was responsible for prolonging Mrs. Kitchen’s reign of terror in Finch.
“You could ask him to leave,” I suggested.
“Out of the question,” said the vicar. “Adrian came here in good faith. I can’t evict a man of his stature because of my own abysmal stupidity.”
“Stupidity?” Lilian clucked her tongue. “You can’t be blamed for wanting to bring something of lasting value to the village.”
“Vanity,” the vicar murmured. “All is vanity.”
“Sit up and drink your tea, Teddy. You’ll feel much better.” Lilian took a sip from her own cup before continuing. “ Teddy thought that Dr. Culver’s excavation might put Finch on the map. It seemed to be the most exciting thing to happen here since 1642.”
“That’s when the Royalists rode through on their way to Warwick Castle,” the vicar intoned. “Nothing’s happened here since.”
“Unfortunately, Teddy forgot to mention Dr. Culver’s plans to me,” Lilian went on.
“November’s such a hectic month,” the vicar murmured.
“It completely slipped Teddy’s mind,” said Lilian. “Most unfortunate, since I so easily could have spared us all a great deal of unpleasantness.”
“How?” I asked, reaching for another lemon bar.
The vicar got up and walked behind his desk to toy with the handles on the French doors. “Lilian’s been writing a history of Saint George’s parish,” he said over his shoulder. “She was going through the old books here in the library last year when she came upon a curiously pertinent pamphlet.”
“It was written by the Reverend Cornelius Gladwell, one of Teddy’s Victorian predecessors,” Lilian explained. “Mr. Gladwell was an amateur—a frustrated amateur, I fear. But he dreamt of becoming a famous archaeologist. He spent years combing the hills around Finch but was poorly rewarded for his troubles.”
“Meanwhile,” said the vicar, “his friends in other parts of the country were uprooting Roman gewgaws right and left. They’d post a piece to him now and then, as a sort of consolation prize.”
“He regarded the gifts as gestures of contempt,” Lilian stated firmly. “In a fit of pique, he buried them, along with pieces he’d purchased, in Scrag End field, hoping to impose his own frustration on some future archaeologist.”
“Cornelius did not possess a charitable nature,” the vicar observed.
“But he did possess a printing press,” said Lilian. “Another of his hobbies. He wrote an account of his prank, printed ten numbered pamphlets, and sent nine of them . . .” She looked toward her husband. “Well, we’re not sure where he sent them, are we, Teddy? Or even
if
he sent them.”
“Might have burnt them, for all we know,” said the vicar.
“We do know that he kept the tenth copy for himself,” said Lilian, “because I read it last year, while I was doing research for my little history. When Dr. Culver and his team arrived in Finch yesterday morning, I showed the pamphlet to Teddy.”
“It seemed unkind to dash the man’s dreams on a Sunday,” said the vicar, “but I intended to bring the pamphlet round to the schoolhouse first thing this morning.” He turned to point accusingly at his blotter. “I left it there, in the center of my desk, so I wouldn’t forget to bring it with me.”
“I saw him put it there,” Lilian added.
“But when I came in after breakfast, the pamphlet had vanished. Lilian hadn’t touched it, nor had I. Annie, our charlady, stopped by for her wages on Sunday, but she wasn’t here above five minutes. We can only assume, therefore . . .” The vicar rattled the door handles again. “ They must’ve got in through here. We never lock these doors. Leave ’em open most days when the weather’s fine. Never thought twice about it. It’s never been necessary.”
I was staring at the vicar’s back in amazement. “Do you mean to tell me that you had proof that Dr. Culver’s big find is a hoax?”
“Printed proof,” Lilian confirmed. “The pity of it is that if Dr. Culver knew that he was the victim of a practical joke, I think he would just pack up and go home.”
“And you think someone stole Cornelius Gladwell’s pamphlet?” I said.
“There’s no other explanation,” the vicar replied. “Though I can’t comprehend why anyone would be willing to risk his immortal soul by thieving on the Lord’s Day.”
I drained my cup and wished for the second time in as many hours for something more bracing than herbal tea. “Incredible,” I said. “A burglary at the vicarage
and
an archaeological swindle, right here in Finch. Do you want me to find out who took the pamphlet?”
The vicar staggered as though someone had shoved him. “Good heavens, no!” he cried. “Anything but that!”
5.
Was it my imagination, or had Adrian Culver unearthed an ancient virus that was making everyone in Finch hysterical? I looked uncertainly at Lilian, who’d led her husband back to his armchair and was fanning him with a sheaf of Harvest Festival flyers.
“Don’t you want to know who robbed you?” I asked.
“I don’t want it known that we’ve
been
robbed!” the vicar exclaimed.
Lilian placed the flyers on the mantelshelf. “ The village is already divided into warring factions because of the schoolhouse. One camp is foursquare behind the excavation, the other is rooting for the festival. It’s Dr. Culver versus Mrs. Kitchen, I’m sad to say, and Teddy doesn’t wish to intensify the acrimony by sowing seeds of suspicion.”
I was still at sea. “Do you want me to tell Dr. Culver about the pamphlet?”
Lilian shook her head. “We’ve tried that.”
“He didn’t believe us,” the vicar said. “He’d had a run-in with Mrs. Kitchen, you see, and thought we’d invented the story to appease her. ‘I understand, Padre’ were his precise words. Then he winked at me.” The vicar wrung his hands. “Padre and winks, that’s what it’s come to.”
“ Then what, exactly, do you want me to do?” I looked expectantly from the vicar to his wife.
Lilian refilled my cup. “Do you remember telling us about the fascinating work you used to do for Dr. Finderman?”
I nodded. Dr. Stanford J. Finderman was the curator of the rare book collection at my alma mater back in Boston. I’d scouted books for him in England for a couple of years before the boys were born.
“We wondered if, perhaps, with your connections—and your expertise—you might be able to locate another copy of Mr. Gladwell’s pamphlet,” said Lilian. “Once Dr. Culver has read the pamphlet, I’m certain he’ll . . .” Lilian’s words trailed off as she caught sight of the expression on my face.
I opened and closed my mouth once or twice before managing, in as level a voice as I could muster: “You want me to find one of nine privately printed copies of an obscure piece of Victorian archaeological ephemera?”
“That’s right,” said Lilian.
I gave a weak laugh. “It’s a tall order.”
“All things are possible,” the vicar reminded me.
“Oh, I agree with you, Vicar. Amoebas can turn into apes, given a few million years. But we have less than six weeks.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’ll do what I can, but—”
“Splendid,” said Lilian. “I’ve jotted down everything Teddy and I can remember about the pamphlet to aid you in your search.” She went to the desk, withdrew a red spiral-bound notebook from the center drawer, and held it out to me. “If we think of anything else, we’ll ring you immediately.”
“Okay,” I said, crossing to take possession of the notebook. “But try not to expect instant results. This kind of search can take . . .” I looked into the vicar’s woebegone eyes and finished less than accurately, “a bit longer than six weeks.”
“It mustn’t,” the vicar urged. “Civil war will have broken out by then. And I shall be held responsible.”
Lilian rolled her eyes heavenward and took me by the arm. “I’m sure we’ve kept you from your sons long enough,” she said. “Shall we go out the back way?”
Our exit through the French doors was as unexpected as it was inconvenient. Lilian and I had to descend the short flight of weed-grown stairs in an awkward half crouch to avoid losing an eye to the encroaching rhododendrons. The lawn at the bottom of the stairs was equally treacherous. A dense matting of brambles plucked at my socks and concealed ankle-threatening humps and rabbit holes.
Once we escaped the overgrown shrubbery, though, the view was exceptionally serene. Cloud shadows raced across the open meadow, and the waist-high wild grasses rippled sinuously in the passing breeze.
“How lovely,” I murmured.
“How damp,” Lilian corrected. “Even in the midst of a drought like the one we’re having now, the mist rises like an army of wraiths at night, and the river floods the meadow every spring.” She shook her head at nature’s improvidence, then turned to face me. “About Mr. Gladwell’s pamphlet . . . I wouldn’t dream of calling in the police against Teddy’s wishes, but I’d very much like to learn the identity of our uninvited guest. Would you . . . ?”
I sighed. “Just tell me one thing. Were the French doors open when you were discussing the Gladwell pamphlet?”
Lilian nodded guiltily. “It was such a warm day. It was just before the morning service, as well. Anyone pausing in the lane on their way to church might have overheard us.”
My laughter held a touch of hysteria. “So anyone could have known about the pamphlet, and anyone could have stolen it, since you never lock the French doors.”
Lilian frowned pensively. “I suppose that leaves you with a rather broad field of suspects.”
I pointed toward the river. “Broader than the meadow.” “Well,” she said briskly, “if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Fine,” I said, “but in the meantime . . .” I turned to face the library steps and drew a hand through the air. “Have someone take a machete to this mess. Think of it as camouflage—and get rid of it.”