Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch by Nancy Atherton

photograph. “Alfie believed that Gamaliel hid all of the pages in and around Finch. He was convinced that they’re still in their hiding places, waiting to be found.”
    “It’d be a tall order to find them now,” I said. “You’d have to poke your arm up an awful lot of chimneys.”
    “Not necessarily.” Amelia tapped her finger on the spiralnotebook. “Gamaliel states explicitly that he left behind a series of clues that would lead a truth seeker to the rest of the memoir.” She held up the notebook and pointed to the curious symbol at the end of the text. “Alfie believed that the glyph, as you called it, was the first of Gamaliel’s clues. Unfortunately, he was unable to decipher it.”
    “Did your brother ever come to Finch?” I asked. “He might have understood the glyph better if he’d seen the village with his own eyes.”
    “Alfie was unable to visit Finch,” said Amelia. “My brother was severely handicapped, Lori. He used his computer and the Royal Mail to carry out his research because travel was all but impossible for him. It was the fondest dream of his heart to read Mistress Meg’s story, but illness prevented him from completing his life’s work.” She turned her head to gaze up at her brother’s smiling face. “I intend to complete it for him.”
    I sat in silence, touched by the bond that seemed still to exist between Amelia and Alfred, a bond that I, as an only child, had never known. I was humbled by her willingness to share her home with him, despite his disabilities, and I admired her determination to carry out what appeared to be a fairly daunting task. I was about to ask her where she planned to start when a knock sounded on the front door.
    “I’ll answer it,” I said promptly.
    I placed my jam jar on the silver tray and hastened to the door, wondering if the infamous Myron Brocklehurst had already solved the riddle of Amelia Thistle. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Sally Pyne and Henry Cook peering at me through the rain, holding an oversized wicker hamper between them.
    “Good morning, Lori,” Sally said brightly. “Henry was convinced he’d seen you here earlier. I told him he must have been mistaken, because you of all people would know better than tobother a new neighbor on her first day in the village, but I can see now that he was right.”
    It required very little effort on my part to translate Sally’s words into Finch-speak. If you can break a village tradition , she was saying, so can I . I suspected that a good many others would feel the same way.
    “Is Mrs. Thistle at home?” Sally asked.
    “Yes,” said Amelia, appearing at my elbow. “Won’t you come in?”
    Sally accepted the invitation with alacrity and let Henry make the introductions while her head swiveled this way and that, taking in every detail of the front room. Henry had to nudge her with his elbow to get her to stop gawking long enough to offer the hamper to Amelia.
    “Henry and I made up some sandwiches and a few other tidbits to tide you over until you’ve stocked your pantry,” she explained. “And Henry’s taken the rest of the day off.”
    “I’m under orders from my Sally to get you settled in.” Henry patted his broad chest. “If you need help with the heavy lifting, I’m your man.”
    “You’re on,” I said, clapping Henry on the shoulder.
    “Is he?” said Amelia.
    “Of course he is.” I turned to Sally and Henry. “Why don’t you bring the hamper through to the kitchen? Amelia and I will join you in a minute.”
    I expected Sally and Henry to leap at the chance to inspect Amelia’s kitchen and they didn’t disappoint me. They sped down the narrow passageway as if they were on rocket-propelled roller skates, leaving me and my hostess alone in the front room.
    “Amelia,” I said quietly. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re about to get an influx of visitors.”
    “N-not…,” she faltered.
    “No, not Bowenists,” I said hastily. “Just your