Aunt Dimity: Detective (6 page)

“. . . imposing on you further.” Louise fell silent, her bright eyes gleaming like polished river stones.

Nicholas took the hint. “I'm afraid that Lori and I must run or we'll be late for Aunt Lilian's lunch—which you've spoilt, dear ladies, in a most delightful way. Your marvelous éclairs have rendered me incapable of doing justice to my aunt's cooking.”

The Pyms' softly wrinkled cheeks grew pink with pleasure, and I gave Nicholas an admiring glance. He was as good with elderly spinsters as he was with nearly-two-year-old boys. After we said our good-byes to Ruth and Louise, I offered him a lift back to the vicarage.

“Or would you prefer to walk off those marvelous éclairs?” I added, opening the gate.

“I'd appreciate a lift, thank you,” he answered. “I believe I've had enough fresh air for one morning. My London lungs aren't quite sure what to do with it.”

A
ping
sounded on my internal radar, and I watched Nicholas closely as he loaded the boxes of gingerbread into the Range Rover's rear compartment. I recalled his sudden stillness when the subject of the murder had arisen and the single, telling question he had asked. Had he happened on the Pyms by accident? Or had he insinuated himself into their home with a clear intent in mind?

“Nicholas,” I said, closing the rear door, “was it really the fresh air that brought you here?”

“It might have been.” He leaned back against the Rover. “You must admit that it's a plausible excuse.”

I frowned. “An excuse for what?”

“I should've thought it was obvious.” The gold flecks in his eyes glittered as he inclined his head toward me. “Since you and I came here for precisely the same reason.”

Chapter 7

My internal radar started clanging, but I wasn't ready to show my hand just yet.

“What reason would that be?” I inquired politely.

Nicholas eyed me skeptically, then launched into a passable imitation of my American accent. “Why, Miss Pym, I can't tell you how shocked I was to hear about the murder. Isn't it strange, Miss Pym, that no one seems to know a thing about the murder?” He shook his head as if gravely disappointed. “If you were a barrister, you'd be admonished for leading the witnesses.”

The mimicry was carried out so good-naturedly that I couldn't take offense.

“Okay,” I admitted. “I came here to pick the Pyms' brains. I'm curious about Mrs. Hooper's death. Aren't you?”

“As I said, we both came here for the same reason.” Nicholas checked his watch. “We're not due at the vicarage for a half hour, and I think my lungs could stand another liter or two of untainted oxygen. Let's stretch our legs.”

A fitful breeze toyed with his long hair as we stepped away from the Rover. The hedgerows lining the narrow lane were heavy with morning dew, so we walked side by side down the middle of the road. There was no need to keep an eye out for traffic. The lane was so seldom used that we could have sun-bathed on the faded center line.

While we walked, Nicholas talked. He told me that the inquest had done little more than confirm what his aunt and uncle—and everyone else in Finch—already knew: Mrs. Hooper had been struck on the head with a blunt instrument by a person or persons unknown between the hours of five and nine in the morning on Thursday, March 22.

She'd evidently been killed where she'd been found, in the front parlor of Crabtree Cottage. The cottage's doors and windows had been unlocked, but the police had found no evidence of theft. Finally, and perhaps most predictably, no locals had been on hand to offer testimony, apart from Peggy Taxman, who'd described finding the body.

“Mrs. Taxman had come to collect the rent, apparently,” said Nicholas. “She and Mrs. Hooper knew each other, back in Birmingham, before Mrs. Taxman came to live in Finch.”

“She sounds like the kind of friend Peggy Taxman would have,” I commented dryly.

“Mrs. Taxman is an imposing woman,” Nicholas acknowledged.

“She's terrifying.” I held up a cautioning finger. “If she so much as mentions the church fête, run the other way or you'll find yourself in charge of the pony rides.”

“I see,” said Nicholas, grinning, “an organizer. There's one in every village. Thanks for the warning.”

“Don't mention it,” I said, glad that, for once, I'd made him smile instead of the other way around.

The inquest's impact on the vicar was, alas, no laughing matter. The proceeding's inconclusive conclusions had left Theodore Bunting so depressed that he'd spent the previous evening brooding in his library, and so distracted that he'd skipped over the third collect in the morning service.

“I'm concerned about my uncle,” Nicholas explained, “and somewhat underfoot at the vicarage, so I thought I'd lend the police a hand. Or at least a pair of ears. When Aunt Lilian mentioned the Pyms, it occurred to me that they might provide a starting point.”

“They usually know what's what,” I agreed. “And the police wouldn't have much luck questioning them.”

Nicholas smiled wryly. “It takes a practiced ear to understand the Pyms.”

We walked on in silence while I weighed the pros and cons of asking Nicholas to join forces with me. He'd already displayed a willingness to share information, and he knew how to listen. He was comfortable with all sorts of people, and as the vicar's nephew, he'd fit neatly into the constellation of relationships that formed the social fabric of the village. Moreover, I was comfortable with him. On the whole, I decided, he would make an admirable substitute for Emma.

“Nicholas,” I said, coming to a halt, “I'm as worried about my friend Kit as you are about your uncle, and I've lost faith in the police. I didn't come here today out of idle curiosity. I want to find out who killed Pruneface Hooper.” I bowed my head, let my shoulders slump, and emitted a melodramatic sigh. “The trouble is, my interrogation skills aren't what they used to be. I keep leading my witnesses.” I peeked up at Nicholas and saw his eyes curve into half-moons as yet another smile wreathed his face. “I could use your help.”

“As I could yours,” he said. “Four ears are far better than two.”

I wondered fleetingly what his ears looked like under those wavy curtains of hair, then turned to him and offered my hand. “Partners?”

“Partners,” he repeated firmly.

“And may our next interview be more successful than our last,” I added.

As we shook hands, I noticed the strength of his grip and the calloused ridge of skin that ran along the outside of his palm. If our inquiries roused any rabid dogs, I told myself, it would be comforting to have a self-defense expert in my corner.

With a scant ten minutes left before our lunch date at the vicarage, we made our way back to the Rover and took off for the village. We were nearly through the dangerous bend that curved around the Pyms' house when Nicholas spoke.

“I don't know that I agree with you about our first interview,” he said. “I found it extremely informative.”

“You did?” I said. “The Pyms didn't tell us anything new, unless you count the bit about the hermit's wake.”

“Funny . . .” Nicholas pursed his lips meditatively. “I was under the impression that they'd provided us with a list of suspects.”

I glanced at him so sharply that he had to catch hold of the steering wheel to keep me from swerving off the road.

“Did I miss something?” I asked, resuming control of the car. “When did they give us a list of suspects?”

“The gilded gingerbread.” Nicholas looked over his shoulder toward the rear compartment. “There are only six boxes for the entire village. A somewhat inadequate supply, don't you agree? And not one is addressed to the vicarage. A curious omission, at Eastertide.”

I nodded, but kept my eyes focused on the road. I'd already totaled one Range Rover in a fog-shrouded valley in Northumberland. Bill would never let me hear the end of it if I put so much as a dent in its replacement.

“Ruth and Louise gave us six boxes . . . and six names,” I said. “Our suspects?”

“If not of the murder, then of withholding information.” Nicholas faced forward. “The Pyms may not have held Mrs. Hooper in high esteem,” he understated, “but they want her killer caught. They want answers to those unanswered questions, and they're doing what they can to point us in the right direction.” He held up six scarred fingers. “Six directions, in fact: Billy Barlow, George Wetherhead, Miranda Morrow, Sally Pyne, Dick Peacock, and Peggy Taxman. Those are the names on the boxes.” He let his hands fall. “Do they suggest anything to you?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “They suggest that I'm going to have to get one friend in trouble in order to protect another. Ah, well,” I went on, taking a deep breath, “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”

“That's the spirit,” Nicholas said bracingly. “Shall we begin our deliveries after lunch?”

“Tallyho,” I said, and comforted myself with the knowledge of how pleased Aunt Dimity would be to hear that I'd finally marshaled a resource.

 

 

Finch's business district—such as it was—encircled an irregular oblong of lawn fringed by a ribbon of cobbles and adorned at one end by a Celtic cross, which served as a war memorial. As we bumped over the humpbacked bridge, I saw that the square was deserted. No one, it seemed, was in the mood to be out and about, enjoying the spring sunshine.

I cruised past the greengrocer's, the Emporium, and Peacock's pub, glanced over at Sally Pyne's tearoom and at Wysteria Lodge, which housed Bill's office, and slowed to a standstill when I came to Crabtree Cottage, next door to the pub, on the northwest corner of the square. Apart from a no-trespass notice posted on the front door, the cottage looked unchanged.

“The scene of the crime,” Nicholas noted in suitably sonorous tones.

“It's not exactly buzzing with activity,” I commented.

“I imagine the scene-of-crime team has picked it clean by now,” said Nicholas.

Whatever the state of the investigation, someone was looking after the geraniums. The bloodred blossoms looked as stunning as they had in late December and swayed gently in their hanging pots, as if they'd just been watered. I craned my neck to see if I could spy a face beyond the multipaned window but saw no one.

A quick left turn took us into Saint George's Lane. I pointed out the old schoolhouse, which served as the village hall, and Mr. Wetherhead's home, which had once housed the schoolmaster. Each place held memories for me. I wondered how the memories would be altered if it turned out that one of those quaint buildings sheltered a killer.

The vicarage held the dearest memories of all. Bill and I had held our wedding reception in the rambling, two-story house, surrounded by friends, family, and hundreds of blue irises. I smiled reminiscently as I parked the Rover in the graveled parking space and followed Nicholas through the front door.

Lilian Bunting had evidently decided that luncheon would be a formal affair. The dining room, its wide windows overlooking the front garden and Saint George's Lane, was attired as resplendently as a bride. The table was draped with white linen, decked with old silver, and set with the Buntings' second-best china. A cut-glass vase bristling with bright yellow tulips served as a centerpiece.

Lilian's grim visage detracted slightly from the tulips' radiance.

“Teddy refuses to join us for lunch,” she announced as she entered the dining room. “He claims to have no appetite, though he scarcely ate a crust of bread at breakfast.”

“Let me speak with him,” Nicholas offered, and left us alone in the dining room.

“And let me speak with you,” I said to Lilian, and told her of our plan to collect information on Mrs. Hooper's murder. “We may come up empty,” I warned, “but anything's better than sitting back and doing nothing.”

“You can't do worse than the authorities have done,” Lilian said. “And Nicky does have a way with people.”

“I've noticed.” I surveyed the sparkling table and decided to tell a minor lie in hopes of cheering Lilian further. “I'm really looking forward to this meal. I missed a lot of things while I was in the States, but your cooking was right at the top of the list.”

“Don't be silly,” said Lillian, but I could tell by the way she lifted her chin that I'd achieved my goal.

Lilian and I were filling the water glasses when Nicholas returned to the dining room, his uncle trailing dolorously in his wake.

The Reverend Theodore Bunting wasn't a little ray of sunshine at the best of times—his long face, dignified beak of a nose, and mournful gray eyes were better suited to funerals than to weddings—but I'd never seen him so utterly downcast. His shoulders sagged, his clerical collar was askew, and the faint lines in his forehead had deepened to ravines. He looked as though he'd aged ten years over the past three months.

“Nicholas tells me that you and he are trying to clear up this dreadful business,” he said, shaking my hand. “My prayers will be with you. God knows the villagers won't speak honestly with their pastor.”

“That's their loss,” I said stoutly. “I don't want you driving yourself into the ground because they're too stupid to know what's good for them.”

“Listen to Lori.” Nicholas took his uncle by the elbow and guided him to the head of the table. “It's your duty to stay fit. Your flock will need you more than ever when the truth of the matter comes out.”

“If it does,” the vicar murmured.

“ ‘Act as if ye have faith and faith shall be given unto you.' Oops.” Nicholas gave the vicar a wily, unapologetic glance. “Sorry, Uncle Teddy, that's your line.”