Free Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch by Nancy Atherton

oar?”
    I nodded. “After many tumultuous years at sea, Odysseus wandered inland, carrying an oar, until he found a place where no one knew what an oar was. He took it as a sign that his seafaring days were over and settled down to the peaceful life of a gentleman farmer.”
    “An excellent summary,” said Amelia. “I visited Finch several months ago in much the same spirit. I spent time in the pub, the tearoom, the Emporium, and the greengrocer’s, and I didn’t hear anyone mention the word art , apart from four women who were taking painting lessons from a Mr. Shuttleworth in Upper Deeping, and they were far more concerned with the local art show than they were with the London art scene.” She grimaced ruefully. “Your knowledgeable friends must have been out of town.”
    “Grant and Charles are rather fond of the London art scene,” I told her.
    “I couldn’t have known,” Amelia said resignedly. “I came awayfrom Finch with the impression that, to the villagers, the professional art world was as distant as the moon. Better still, not once did I hear anyone mention a television program, a film, a pop song, or a so-called celebrity. Instead, I heard about Mr. Barlow’s broken furnace, the new curtains Mrs. Peacock had made for the pub, which, I might add, most people thought were rather garish—”
    “They are,” I put in.
    “—and the joke Henry Cook had told about the chicken, the juggler, and the man in the top hat,” she went on. “It was as if the world beyond Finch didn’t exist, not because the villagers were backward or isolated, but because they were so caught up in real life that they had no time to spare for fantasies concocted by the media. I found it immensely refreshing to be among such well-grounded, sensible people.”
    A snort of laughter escaped me when I heard Amelia’s generous—and generally erroneous—description of my neighbors, but I turned it into a cough. I didn’t want to be the one to disillusion her.
    “I thought I’d be safe here,” she reiterated, “which was a great relief, because I had to come here, regardless of my safety.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    Amelia’s gaze drifted toward her brother’s photograph. “I have to complete a task Alfie was unable to complete.”
    “What task?” I asked, sitting forward and listening closely.
    Still gazing at her brother’s smiling, bearded face, she answered: “I need to find a witch.”
    My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Do you mean Miranda Morrow? For pity’s sake, Amelia, you didn’t have to buy a cottage in Finch to meet Miranda. Her phone number’s in the book. She’ll be in Spain for the next two weeks—the vicar’s wife is cat sitting for her and taking care of her indoor plants—but I’ll be happy to introduce you to her when she gets back. She lives two doors down from Grant and Charles, in Briar Cottage. It’s a five-second stroll from here.”
    “Who,” Amelia asked, “is Miranda Morrow?”
    “She’s a witch,” I replied, as if the answer were obvious, “though you wouldn’t know it to look at her. I mean, who expects a freckle-faced strawberry blonde to be a witch?” Before Amelia could respond, I continued, “Miranda does most of her work over the telephone and on the computer—horoscopes, psychic readings, spell castings, that sort of thing—but she won’t mind meeting with you in person.”
    “I don’t wish to meet with her,” Amelia protested, “not unless she knows something about Gamaliel Gowland.”
    “Gamaliel…who?” I said, brought up short.
    “Gamaliel Gowland,” she repeated. “He’s the man who wrote the secret memoir.”
    “What secret memoir?” I asked. I was beginning to feel a familiar spinning sensation in my head.
    “The secret memoir that tells the story of Mistress Meg,” said Amelia.
    “And Mistress Meg is…?” I said.
    “She’s Gamaliel’s witch, of course,” said Amelia, sounding mildly exasperated. “Mistress Meg was also known as