Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch by Nancy Atherton

Church.
    “The cottage nearest us is Plover Cottage,” she observed. “Alfie used old maps to pinpoint its location. How I wish he could have seen it. I imagine it looks much as it did when John Jacob’s cobbler lived in it.”
    “I imagine it looks much as it did in Gamaliel’s time,” I countered, and with Aunt Dimity’s comments still fresh in my mind I added, “Architecturally speaking, Finch hasn’t changed much since the seventeenth century.”
    “It’s lucky for us that it hasn’t,” said Amelia. “Our chances of finding the rest of the memoir would be sadly diminished if we were faced with buildings that had been demolished or radically altered.”
    “Let’s hear it for stability,” I said, and came to a halt. “Here we are, Amelia. The vicarage.”
    The Buntings’rambling, two-story house was set back from the lane and shaded by chestnut trees. A low stone wall separated it from the churchyard surrounding St. George’s and an unkempt front garden testified to the fact that neither the vicar nor his wife were blessed with green thumbs. A midnight-blue Jaguar parked on the grassy verge told me that my father-in-law was nearby.
    Lilian Bunting answered the doorbell, greeted us warmly, and ushered us into the foyer. A respected scholar in her own right, Lilian was also an exemplary vicar’s wife—sympathetic, well-organized, and virtually unflappable. She routinely disarmed bickering browsers at our bring-and-buy sales, soothed disgruntled losers at our flower shows, and pacified irate parishioners with the calm efficiency of a trained diplomat. Since I possessed the finely honed diplomatic skills of a belligerent toddler, I admired her greatly.
    “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thistle,” she said as she hung our coats on the Victorian coat tree in the foyer. “I feel as if I ought to apologize for the miserable weather, even though I don’t believe I’m responsible for it.”
    “There’s no need to apologize,” said Amelia, clasping her carpet bag in her arms. “If not for rain, England’s green and pleasant land would be less green and therefore less pleasant.”
    “Since I have no desire to live in a desert, I’m forced to agree with you,” said Lilian. “Come through to the study,” she added, leading the way up the corridor. “We’re very popular this morning. Teddy—my husband—is already in the study, entertaining another visitor.”
    “We don’t wish to intrude,” said Amelia.
    “Our guest won’t mind,” said Lilian. “It’s only William—William Willis, that is—Lori’s father-in-law. He’s come to return a book he borrowed from Teddy.”
    As soon as Lilian mentioned Willis, Sr., I recalled the painting of spring crocuses he kept in his private sitting room at Fairworth House. There was no reason to suppose that the name “Willis”would mean anything to Amelia after so many years, but I couldn’t help wondering if she would, eventually, remember the dying woman who’d commissioned the exquisite watercolor.
    The men, being gentlemen, stood when we entered the study, a spacious room with a lofty ceiling, book-lined walls, and comfortably shabby furniture. Lilian stuck around long enough to introduce Amelia, then went to the kitchen to prepare tea.
    With his wavy iron-gray hair, mournful gray eyes, and predominantly gray attire, Theodore Bunting could have blended in with the lowering sky, but his greeting was as warm as his wife’s had been and he insisted that Amelia and I sit in the faded chintz armchairs closest to the fire.
    Willis, Sr., was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and an understated silk tie. He remained standing after the vicar had lowered himself into the worn leather armchair opposite Amelia.
    “If you wish to speak privately with Mr. Bunting—” Willis, Sr., began.
    “You needn’t leave on my account,” Amelia interrupted. “In fact, it might be better if you stayed. You and the