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
“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
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