Free Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree by Nancy Atherton Page B

way to Finch. They didn’t reach Fairworth until the wee hours.”
    Eyes that had been drowsy brightened noticeably as the villagers digested my first news flash.
    “Housekeeper? Gardener?” Peggy thundered. “What are they called? And why weren’t they in church?”
    “Deirdre and Declan Donovan,” I told her. “And I don’t know.”
    “Donovan, eh?” Peggy pursed her lips. “Sounds Irish to me. I’ll wager they’re at St. Margaret’s in Upper Deeping.”
    “Possibly,” I said, aware that it would be futile to point out to Peggy that not everyone named Donovan was a Roman Catholic.
    “William must be pleased to have them,” said Christine Peacock.
    “He is,” I assured her. “Now he can enjoy his leisure time and leave the management of the household to the Donovans.”
    “They’ll be doing the hiring, will they?” inquired Mr. Barlow. The handyman was always on the lookout for odd jobs.
    “That’s right,” I said, thanking him silently for leading the way to my second bit of news. “William has put them in charge of all matters concerning his staff. If the Donovans decide that they need extra help, they’ll do the hiring.”
    “They’ll need extra help,” Opal Taylor opined. “One solitary woman can’t keep up with the dusting at Fairworth House.”
    “Or polish the silver,” said Selena Buxton.
    “Or mop the floors,” said Elspeth Binney.
    “Or beat the rugs,” said Millicent Scroggins.
    “We’ll see,” I said.
    “Bree Pym missed church again,” Peggy Taxman bellowed. She jutted her chin toward the headstone over which Bill and Willis, Sr., were standing. “Ruth and Louise would turn in their graves if they knew how often their great-grandniece sleeps in on Sunday mornings.”
    “I’m quite sure that the Pym sisters know everything there is to know about their great-grandniece,” said Lilian Bunting, who’d left her husband’s side to join the throng. “I sense that Ruth and Louise are gazing down upon us from heaven even as we speak. I can almost hear them reciting one of their favorite verses: Judge not, lest ye be judged.”
    The villagers tittered, knowing full well that Lilian’s minisermon had been aimed directly at Peggy.
    “’Morning, all,” Bree Pym said cheerfully, striding up to stand next to me. She was clad in a skimpy slip-dress, striped leggings, and black flip-flops—an unusual ensemble in Finch, where modest dresses were the norm on Sundays. She ran a hand through her short spiky hair and beamed at the world in general. “It’s such a beautiful day that the vicar let me climb up into the belfry to listen to the service.” She gave Peggy a sly, sidelong look. “I could hear every word .”
    The villagers eyed Bree with respect. They were used to the vicar’s wife crossing swords with Peggy Taxman, but it took courage for a relative newcomer to take a swipe at her.
    Bree glanced over her shoulder at Bill and Willis, Sr. “Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise have company, I see. Think I’ll pop over for a chat. My aunties like to know who’s saying what in Finch.”
    Since Ruth and Louise Pym had threatened posthumously, via a letter read aloud at their funeral, to smite anyone who was unkind to their great-grandniece, Bree’s words had a sinister tinge to them. While she sauntered off to sit cross-legged before her great-grandaunts’ grave, the villagers glanced skyward and backed surreptitiously away from Peggy, as if they expected a bolt from the blue to strike her at any minute.
    A lesser woman would have reeled from the verbal blows Lilian and Bree had landed on Peggy, but the uncrowned empress of Finch merely sniffed disdainfully and cast a scathing glance at Bree’s tattoos and her nose ring. No one else in the village made a fashion statement quite like Bree’s, and though many of us found it refreshing, Peggy did not approve.
    “Sally wasn’t in church, either,” Peggy roared, moving on to an absent and therefore easier target.