Aunt Dimity and the Enchanted Cottage, page 1
Also by Nancy Atherton
Aunt Dimity’s Death
Aunt Dimity and the Duke
Aunt Dimity’s Good Deed
Aunt Dimity Digs In
Aunt Dimity’s Christmas
Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil
Aunt Dimity: Detective
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea
Aunt Dimity Goes West
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
Aunt Dimity Down Under
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree
Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch
Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince
Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well
Aunt Dimity and the Summer King
Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure
Aunt Dimity and the Widow’s Curse
Aunt Dimity and the King’s Ransom
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold
VIKING
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Copyright © 2022 by Nancy T. Atherton
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library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Atherton, Nancy, author.
Title: Aunt Dimity and the enchanted cottage / Nancy Atherton.
Description: [New York City] : Viking, [2022] | Series: Aunt Dimity ; 25 |
Identifiers: LCCN 2021029662 (print) | LCCN 2021029663 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593295779 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593295786 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Ghost stories.
Classification: LCC PS3551.T426 A932 2022 (print) |
LCC PS3551.T426 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021029662
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021029663
Cover illustration: Kiki Ljung
Designed by Nerylsa Dijol, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_139875639_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Nancy Atherton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Elspeth Binney’s Bakewell Tarts
About the Author
For Michael Atherton and Cindy Walter,
the enchanted couple
One
The Little Deeping River would never be mistaken for the mighty Mississippi or the Nile. A minor tributary of the Thames, its headwaters could be found in an unassuming meadow strewn with puddles fed by a bubbling spring. Swollen by snowmelt, rainfall, and a glittering web of narrow, nameless streams, the spring’s trickle became a torrent by the time it reached the Cotswolds, a pastoral haven described in countless guidebooks as one of England’s most picturesque regions.
Though no one had ever steered a paddle-wheeler down the Little Deeping, or constructed a pyramid beside it, the river had for centuries been a focal point for human activity. Romans had built villas near it, Saxons had littered its deep pools with votive offerings, and Vikings had explored it in their dragon-headed boats. In medieval times, a single-arch packhorse bridge had been built over a willow-draped stretch that flowed past the small Cotswolds village of Finch.
With its humpbacked bridge, its Norman church, and its golden-hued stone buildings, Finch was nothing if not picturesque. Its cottages and small business establishments faced one another across the village green, an elongated oval of tufted grass encircled by a cobbled lane. The pub, the greengrocer’s shop, and the general store stood silhouetted against a rising landscape of dark woods and patchwork fields, while the tearoom, the vicarage, and the old village school, which had for many years served as the village hall, turned their backs on the water meadows that descended in a gentle slope to the river’s edge.
Finch sat in a bend of the Little Deeping, as if cradled in the crook of a watery arm. Finch’s residents agreed that the river could be tiresome after a wet winter, when it had the discourteous habit of overflowing its banks. No one relished the prospect of bailing out flooded cellars or clearing flotsam from waterlogged gardens, and local farmers heaved aggrieved sighs as they watched the swirling waters inundate their well-tended crops.
In the main, however, the Little Deeping was regarded as an asset to the community. A catch-and-release policy prevented Finch’s anglers from dining on the trout they landed but did nothing to diminish their enthusiasm for the sport. Bird-watching was so popular that nearly every villager kept a pair of binoculars handy to observe the herons, egrets, coots, and mallards that nested near the Little Deeping as well as the feathered friends that were merely passing through. The river was too cold and its current too strong to entice casual swimmers, but a handful of hardy souls took the plunge on hot summer days.
As pleasant as it was to while away an idle hour near the river, the villagers never lost sight of the role the Little Deeping played in boosting the local economy. Though votive offerings had gone out of fashion and Roman villas had gone the way of Viking boats and packhorse trains, a boom in freshwater sports had brought a small but steady stream of kayakers, canoeists, and paddleboarders to the village. The influx of outdoor enthusiasts wasn’t overwhelming, but it was large enough to keep Finch’s tiny engine of commerce firing on both cylinders.
A significant number of damp and sunburned visitors popped into Peacock’s pub for a refreshing pint after a long day spent on the river. Others feasted on the delectable pastries in Sally Cook’s tearoom. With its mismatched tables, chairs, teapots, and crockery, the tearoom was as unfussy as it was charming.
Many visitors topped up their picnic lunches with fresh fruit from the greengrocer’s shop, and many more prowled the aisles of Taxman’s Emporium, Finch’s grandly named general store, searching for sunblock, insect repellent, energy bars, bungee cords, and whatever else they’d forgotten to bring with them. As the villagers were fond of saying, the river kept Finch’s businesses afloat.
The pub, the tearoom, and the Emporium also carried an extremely limited range of items produced by local entrepreneurs. Miranda Morrow, Finch’s resident witch and a notable homeopathic healer, specialized in a line of ointments infused with elixirs she distilled from the medicinal plants she cultivated in her greenhouse. Felicity Hobson, a retired schoolteacher, sold hand-labeled jars filled with the honey she collected from the hives in her back garden. Elspeth Binney, Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, and Selena Buxton, an industrious quartet of artistically inclined retirees, churned out miniature paintings of river scenes and notable village landmarks. The souvenirs didn’t bring in a fortune, but they were a welcome source of pocket money for those living on limited incomes.
Businesses near Finch saw an uptick in custom as well, thanks to the river’s allure. Leaflets advertising the local stables tempted diehard fresh-air fiends to follow a morning on the river with an afternoon in the saddle, exploring the bridle paths surrounding Anscombe Manor, where the stables were located. Emma Harris, who lived in the manor house with her husband, Derek, and their extended family, had grown accustomed to the sight of cars topped with dripping canoes, kayaks, or paddleboards cruising up the manor’s curving drive.
St. George’s Church wasn’t a business, exactly, nor could it be called an entrepreneurial enterprise, but it, too, benefited from the river’s popularity. A gratifying number of outdoor adventurers wandered into the church to admire its medieval wall paintings or simply to savor a moment of quiet reflection in the wake of an action-packed day. A few paused to give thanks for their safe deliverance after a day packed with a bit too much action. Hardly any of them left without dropping a pound or more in the donations box, either in payment for one of the guidebooks penned by Lilian
While the vast majority of Finch’s visitors behaved irreproachably, a few bad apples made fools of themselves after spending more time than was good for them in the pub. Finch was far too small a village to merit its own police constable, let alone a police station, but its residents had a pair of secret weapons upon whom they could rely to impose order on the unruly.
Their first line of defense was Peggy Taxman, a doughty woman known much less than half jokingly as the unofficial empress of Finch. Peggy Taxman reigned supreme over the Emporium, the greengrocer’s shop, the post office, and every committee meeting that had ever been convened in the old schoolhouse. Having been on the receiving end of Peggy’s tirades on numerous occasions, the villagers were confident that her imposing physique, imperious manner, and stentorian voice would frighten all but the most pugnacious pests into instant sobriety.
If Peggy’s gimlet gaze and thunderous scolding failed to achieve the desired effect, the sight of Tommy Prescott bearing down on them would bring even the rowdiest offenders to heel. Tommy was a thirty-year-old army veteran who’d recently moved to Finch to live with his uncle, the highly respected handyman, Mr. Barlow. Tommy was so tall he had to bend at the waist to avoid hitting his head on nearly every lintel in Finch, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his broad-shouldered, muscular frame. He’d lost the lower half of his left leg to a roadside bomb while serving in combat overseas, but an ingenious prosthetic allowed him to follow a fitness regimen that kept him in formidable shape.
Those who knew Tommy knew that he’d had his fill of violence. Those seeing him for the first time did their level best to avoid annoying him. When Tommy Prescott invited belligerent tipplers to share a pot of strong coffee with him in the tearoom, they suddenly became as pliant as lambs.
My family and I didn’t have to rely on Peggy Taxman or on Tommy Prescott to rout drunks from our doorstep because our doorstep was a safe distance away from the pub. We lived two miles outside of Finch, up a narrow, twisting lane lined with tall hedgerows. We didn’t have to worry about the Little Deeping invading our cellar, either, because several acres of farmland lay between the river and the honey-colored cottage we called home.
Although my husband, Bill, and I were Americans, as were our twin sons and our daughter, we’d lived in England for more than a decade. Bill ran the European branch of his family’s venerable Boston law firm from a high-tech office overlooking the village green; eleven-year-old Will and Rob attended Morningside School in the nearby market town of Upper Deeping; and I juggled the challenging roles of wife, mother, friend, neighbor, gossipmonger par excellence, and community volunteer.
Our daughter, Bess, was navigating the hazardous shoals of the terrible twos. Bill and I were delighted when she learned how to throw a ball, but not quite as pleased when she used her newly acquired skill to fling fistfuls of food across the table at mealtimes. If we left her alone with a box of crayons, the living room walls became her coloring book. Her inability to defeat the childproof locks we’d installed throughout the cottage provoked titanic tantrums that sent our sleek black cat, Stanley, running for cover.
When Bess wasn’t having a meltdown or wreaking havoc on her surroundings, she was a bundle of joy. Her smile could melt the heart of the grumpiest curmudgeon, her rapidly growing vocabulary filled us with pride, and her sense of wonder reawakened our own. Best of all—from a weary parent’s point of view, at any rate—she was a champion sleeper. As long as we didn’t disrupt her routine unduly, she was good for eleven hours of sleep at night and a two-hour nap during the day. In our estimation, this was a gift beyond price.
Though the Little Deeping wasn’t on our doorstep, we still thought of it as “our” river. Bess quacked energetically whenever a duck family paddled into view during our riverside rambles, and she gave a friendly wave to any human who floated by. Bill and I never allowed ourselves to be distracted when our daughter was near the river. Left to her own devices, our fearless girl would have tried to shoot the rapids without a kayak.
Our sons enjoyed roving the riverbank with us on foot, but they preferred to ride beside it on their gray ponies, Thunder and Storm. Finch’s visitors were so charmed by the sight of identical twins on matching ponies that Will and Rob had gotten used to being photographed. If the photographers were courteous, the boys would rein in their ponies near a particularly scenic stretch of river. If the photographers were intrusive, the boys would turn their backs—and their ponies’ backsides—on them.
Will and Rob were well loved in Finch, but the villagers doted on Bess, an understandable preference given the scarcity of toddlers in a village populated primarily by retirees and middle-aged working folk. Bess would have weighed more than her brothers if we’d let her eat all the cookies the villagers baked for her, and she could scarcely take two steps across the village green without being swept off her feet by an admirer. Her most devoted fan, however, was Bill’s father.
William Arthur Willis, Sr., was a courtly, old-fashioned gentleman who’d made our happiness complete when he’d retired from his position as the head of the family law firm and moved to England to fulfill his role as his grandchildren’s only surviving grandparent. Willis, Sr.’s patrician good looks, impeccable manners, and hefty bank account had made him the most eligible widower in Finch until he’d made his own happiness complete by marrying the well-known botanical artist Amelia Thistle.
Willis, Sr., and Amelia lived down the lane from us in Fairworth House, a graceful Georgian mansion surrounded by a modest ten-acre estate. The wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to their tree-lined drive stood a short distance away from Finch’s humpbacked bridge.
Amelia loved to walk beside the river, sketching the wildflowers that graced its banks. Willis, Sr., who loved to be wherever Amelia was, often served as her attendant, gallantly toting her camp chair, sketchbook, and paint box, as well as the picnic lunch they would share in the shade of their favorite willow.
The Little Deeping had always been a benevolent presence in my life and in the lives of everyone I knew. Even the sedentary could savor its beauty and find solace in its comforting murmur. An occasional flood seemed a small price to pay for the pleasure it gave to so many.
I had no idea that the river harbored a harrowing secret until a stranger in an enchanted cottage opened my eyes to a tragedy Finch had chosen to forget.
Two
It was a glorious Saturday morning in late May. The sun shone serenely in a pristine blue sky, primroses bobbed in a balmy breeze, and busy birds flitted to and fro among the hedgerows, providing sustenance for their clamorous young. The Little Deeping had lost its lacy carapace of ice, and after a gloomy winter blighted by illness and miserable weather, the good people of Finch were once again hale and hearty and ready to embrace the splendors of spring.
The villagers were especially grateful for the fine weather because a momentous event was about to unfold before their highly observant eyes. A blustery thunderstorm would have dampened their spirits, though it wouldn’t have kept them at home. No one who was anyone would dream of missing an occasion that would provide grist for the gossip mill for weeks, if not months, to come.
Bill and I called it the moving-van vigil and as far as we knew, it was unique to Finch. The rules of engagement were simple: Whenever someone moved to Finch, our neighbors would station themselves at carefully chosen vantage points in order to watch the parade of possessions that passed between the newcomer’s moving van and the front door of his new home.
To avoid appearing overly inquisitive, the villagers would behave clandestinely, using innocent pursuits to disguise their true intentions. Some walked dogs, others touched up the paint on their own front doors, and still others tended the flowers in their window boxes, or examined the fruit in the greengrocer’s bins, or threw themselves into their favorite outdoor hobbies. As soon as the moving van rumbled into view, however, every head would point in its direction.
My neighbors were, without doubt, among the nosiest people on the planet, but when they took part in the moving-van vigil, they weren’t simply snooping for snooping’s sake. Experience had taught them that, for better or for worse, a single individual could have an enormous impact on a small village. They reckoned quite reasonably that the more they knew in advance about a new neighbor, the better prepared they would be for the influence he would exert.
