Aunt Dimity: Detective

by Nancy Atherton

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kit led the stallion around the side of the cottage to the shed, where he’d find everything he’d need to make Zephyrus comfortable.

  I watched him go, then sloshed into the cottage, where my adoring sons greeted me with gales of merry laughter. A grimy, wet, and limping mummy was, evidently, the sort of sight gag two toddlers could really sink their baby teeth into.

  Annelise took one look at me and ran to fetch an armload of towels.

  It was growing dark by the time Kit and I sat down to eat. The boys were in bed, and Annelise had gone to spend the evening with her mother, so Kit and I had the kitchen to ourselves. Kit had exchanged his wet clothes for a flannel shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants that had last graced my husband’s much brawnier frame. I’d changed into jeans, a sweater, and my thickest pair of wool socks.

  After tossing Kit’s riding gear into the washer, I’d given Bill a quick call to fill him in on my overly eventful day. He’d been suitably shocked to hear about the murder, relieved to know that my encounter with Zephyrus had injured nothing but my dignity, and as puzzled as I was by Kit’s carelessness. He wasn’t one bit surprised by my determination to find out what was troubling Kit.

  “You’re his good angel,” he’d reminded me. “God knows he needs one.”

  I wasn’t feeling remotely angelic as I filled two bowls with homemade barley soup. I was stiff and sore and convinced that certain parts of my anatomy would be black-and-blue by morning.

  “I left a message for the Harrises at their hotel in Devon.” It was the first time Kit had spoken since we’d entered the kitchen. “To let them know where I was. In case they call home.”

  Emma and Derek Harris, Kit’s employers, owned Anscombe Manor. They lived there with Derek’s teenaged children, Peter and Nell.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I wouldn’t want them to worry.” I set the ladle aside and covered the stockpot. “Not that there’s anything to worry about.”

  “Lori—”

  “Eat your soup,” I ordered. I placed the brimming bowls on the table and pushed a plate of sandwiches toward him. “I’m not allowed to badger a hungry man. It’s a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

  It was a violation of my own conscience as well. No matter how fit Kit seemed, I could never completely forget the sick and starving stranger who’d collapsed in my driveway just over a year ago. Even now there was something fragile about him, an air of vulnerability that brought out the latent lioness in me. However annoyed I was with him at the moment, I’d never let him go hungry again, and I’d cheerfully dismember anyone foolish enough to hurt him.

  Kit ate mechanically, dutifully, as if he were more concerned with pleasing me than appeasing his appetite. I let him finish his meal in peace, but when the empty dishes were in the sink, I returned to the subject that was foremost in my mind.

  “Bill’s in London,” I said, gazing intently at Kit across the kitchen table, “and Annelise is at her mother’s. It’s just you and me, old friend, so spill the beans. Tell me why you were riding hell-bent for leather up on Pouter’s Hill.”

  Kit sat with his forearms on the table, his graceful, long-fingered hands lying one atop the other. “I don’t think you can help this time, Lori. I don’t think anyone can.”

  “I can try,” I offered.

  He was silent for what seemed a long time. Suddenly, his eyes flashed and his hands tightened into fists.

  “It’s that Hooper woman,” he muttered. “If I’d known what damage she’d cause, I’d have killed her myself.”

  Chapter 3

  My heart caromed off my ribcage. “Y-you didn’t, did you?” I stammered. “Kill her, I mean.”

  “No, more’s the pity.” Kit thumped the table with a fist. “But if they ever catch the man who did, I’ll be the first in line to shake his hand.”

  I’d never seen Kit angry before. I’d never imagined he could be angry, but there was no mistaking the expression on his face. He was livid. For a fleeting moment I felt strangely in awe of Mrs. Hooper. It would take a preternaturally offensive woman to ignite such fury in someone as gentle as Kit.

  “Kit,” I said cautiously. “Did Mrs. Hooper do something to upset you?”

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh, then looked me straight in the eye. “Because of Mrs. Hooper, Nell Harris has declared her love for me.”

  A snort of involuntary laughter escaped before I could suppress it. “Nell thinks she’s in love with you? What’s so bad about that?”

  “Everything,” Kit said grimly. “When a fifteen-year-old girl pursues a thirty-year-old man, it’s generally assumed that he’s done something to encourage her. Every time I go into the village I’m met with a barrage of sly winks or reproachful scowls. It’s been hell.”

  His words sobered me. For a man who valued privacy as highly as Kit did, such scrutiny would be intolerable, but even I could see why his way of life invited speculation.

  Kit was a loner who lived apart from the village and whose job required little supervision. He was an exceptionally good-looking single man, yet he had no fiancée or steady girlfriend. And everyone knew that he spent a lot of time alone with Nell, whose love of horses rivaled his own. My friend was, in short, a scandalmonger’s dream.

  “How do you know Mrs. Hooper’s responsible?” I asked.

  “Nell told me,” Kit replied. “She said she hadn’t intended to declare her love until her sixteenth birthday, God help me, but that Mrs. Hooper had urged her to speak sooner. I’ve since learned that Mrs. Hooper mentioned Nell’s intentions to several of her chattiest neighbors—purely out of concern for Nell’s well-being, you understand.”

  With a sickening jolt I suddenly understood what Annelise had meant by “wicked” rumors. A few well-placed, evil whispers would be enough to brand Kit as a predator in the minds of people who’d never even met him.

  “Nell’s had a crush on me ever since I started working for the Harrises,” Kit went on, “but I was oblivious. I thought she liked working with horses.”

  “Nell loves horses,” I reminded him.

  “And me, apparently,” Kit muttered.

  I rested my chin on my hand and frowned in puzzlement. “Why would Nell listen to Mrs. Hooper?”

  “Mrs. Hooper could be charming,” Kit told me. “She could be very charming and very persuasive when it suited her purpose.”

  “She seems to have charmed the vicar and his wife,” I acknowledged. “But the Buntings are a power couple in Finch. They have position and influence. Why would she go after Nell?”

  “To get back at me.” Kit ran his hand through his short hair. “I wouldn’t let her grandson ride Zephyrus. She brought him to the stables one day, a spoilt brat as wide as he is tall, and demanded that he be allowed to canter about on my horse.”

  “Was she nuts?” I exclaimed. “Zeph would have tossed the kid on his head.”

  “That’s what I told Mrs. Hooper, and she seemed to understand. She was all smiles and good wishes when she left—all charm. A week later—on Christmas Eve, in fact—Nell came to me with her ridiculous declaration. I can only assume that it was Mrs. Hooper’s idea of revenge.” Kit cast his eyes heavenward and groaned. “It’s ludicrous, Lori. Even if I were interested in pursuing a relationship—which I am not—I wouldn’t do so with a child.”

  “A child,” I echoed thoughtfully. It wasn’t a word I’d have chosen to describe Emma’s stepdaughter.

  Lady Eleanor Harris wasn’t your average gawky teenager. She was tall, willowy, and as ethereally beautiful as frost upon a windowpane. Her eyes were the color of a midnight sky, and her golden curls seemed to catch sunlight even on the cloudiest of days. She was graceful, engaging, formidably intelligent, and secure enough to hold her own with any adult. Nell had a fey quality that might make her seem childlike to the untrained eye, but those of us who knew her best had long since learned—sometimes to our cost—that she was wise beyond her years.

  “She’s still in school,
for pity’s sake,” Kit was saying. “I’d never—”

  “I know you wouldn’t,” I soothed.

  Kit’s face grew pensive. “She sends love poems to me. Passionate ones. In scented envelopes. Peggy Taxman looks daggers at me every time I set foot in the Emporium.”

  “Poor Kit,” I said, trying hard not to smile.

  “It’s not funny,” Kit scolded, reading my expression.

  “I know it’s not, honestly I do.” I patted his hand. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to grin and bear it. Nell will grow out of it, I promise you.”

  “And in the meantime?” Kit’s delicately curved mouth was set in a thin line. “I thought the situation had finally sorted itself out, but only this week I’ve gotten three abusive phone calls. Some wag rang this morning to ask if he could help me break in fillies.”

  “So that’s what set you off,” I said. “That’s why you were up on Pouter’s Hill.”

  “I was . . . angry. I don’t like being angry.” Kit lowered his long lashes and took a tremulous breath. “Lori,” he said, “I’ve been offered a job at a racing stable in Norfolk. I’m seriously considering—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “Absolutely not.”

  “But Lori—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Kit,” I said sternly. “You love Anscombe Manor, you love your job, and you have friends here who love you. You’re not going to give all of that up because of a spiteful woman and a moonstruck schoolgirl.”

  Kit lifted his hands helplessly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You can stand up for yourself,” I snapped. “Do you think you’re the first person to trip over the village grapevine? Gossip’s as common as clover in Finch.”

  “But a man in my position—”

  “Do Emma and Derek believe that you’ve been flirting with their daughter?” I asked.

  “Would I still be employed by them if they did?” Kit returned.

  “That settles it,” I declared. “I trust you, Bill trusts you, and Nell’s parents trust you. The only people who don’t trust you are the ones who don’t know you, and they can each and every one of them take a flying leap into the river.” I smacked the table with my palm. “Including and most especially Peggy Taxman!”

  Kit’s violet eyes flickered, and a sweet smile slowly crept across his face. “She’d make quite a splash.”

  I hesitated, caught off guard by his smile, then grinned back at him ruefully. “She’d drain the river.”

  “That would be a sight worth seeing,” he observed.

  “You bet it would.” I took a breath. “So don’t even think about going to Norfolk, okay?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Kit glanced up as a flurry of wind-driven rain lashed the window above the sink.

  “It’s supposed to blow itself out by morning,” I said, following his gaze. “Stay here for the night.”

  “I can’t.” Kit sighed wearily. “With Emma and Derek in Devon, there’ll be no one to look after the horses in the morning.”

  “I’ll call Annelise’s brother. Lucca’s helped out before. He knows the ropes.” I put my hand over Kit’s. “Stay. I’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa.”

  “Alright. I will. I wasn’t looking forward to the ride home. My anger kept me warm before, but for some reason I don’t feel quite so furious anymore.” He twined his long fingers with mine. “I’ve missed you, Lori. I’ve missed your magnificent roar.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Leave the anger to me, Kit. I’m much better at it than you are.”

  “I’ll look in on Zephyrus, then have an early night.” Kit sank back in his chair and raised his hand to massage the nape of his neck. “I haven’t slept properly since Christmas.”

  I noted the dark shadows beneath his wide-set eyes and felt the lioness surge within me. Kit was kind and good and utterly defenseless. He’d done nothing but protect Mrs. Hooper’s grandson from harm, and she’d repaid him with a sneaky-mean attack on his reputation.

  If she’d walked into my kitchen at that moment, I’d’ve been sorely tempted to reach for the nearest blunt instrument.

  Chapter 4

  The storm raged throughout the night, but its fury was spent by daybreak. The sun rose on a glistening world of puddles and rain-stippled hedgerows. The air was sweet, the sky a shimmering blue, with only a smattering of ragged clouds to remind us of the gale that had blown the day before. April in the Cotswolds was nothing if not changeable.

  Kit was fast asleep when Annelise and I brought the twins downstairs for breakfast. Will and Rob adored the stable master and threatened to lay siege to the sofa, but I distracted them with cinnamon toast and a trip to the shed to feed Zephyrus, then kept them occupied in the kitchen baking bread. I didn’t want them to disturb Kit’s first sound sleep since Christmas.

  He was still dead to the world when the doorbell rang at half past eleven, heralding the arrival of Lilian Bunting and her nephew. I trotted up the hallway, hoping that little Nicky would be moderately well behaved. I didn’t want him disturbing Kit’s rest, either. I paused to peep in at Kit’s slumbering form, then opened the front door.

  A man stood on the flagstone path, clad in a black trench coat. He was in his mid-thirties, about six inches taller than me and slightly built. His hair, an innocuous shade of brown enlivened by vagrant strands of gold, fell in tight waves from a severe center part nearly to his shoulders, as if he were ashamed to show his ears or had never quite outgrown his hippie youth. He had a craggy, unhandsome face, with a pronounced jawline and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, but his eyes were wonderful, a glimmering shade of sea-green flecked with blue and gold. They smiled before his mouth did.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Nicholas Fox. I believe you’re expecting me.”

  “Nicky?” I blinked in confusion.

  “Nicholas, please,” he said. “I left Nicky behind when I left prep school.”

  “But . . . you’re not a child,” I faltered.

  “I was once,” he said brightly. “And I’ve been accused of behaving childishly on occasion. Shall I demonstrate?”

  I laughed and invited him in.

  “Sorry about the misunderstanding,” I said, closing the door behind him. “From the way Lilian talked about you, I thought you were a little boy.”

  “Dear Aunt Lilian,” he said. “I’ll always be Nicky to her. You, I presume, are Lori Willis.”

  “Lori Shepherd,” I corrected. “Willis is my husband’s last name, not mine, but we can simplify the whole thing by sticking with Lori.”

  “Lori it is, then. My aunt misinformed me as to your last name. Distress is scattering her wits, I fear. She did, however, tell me that you have two little boys of your own.” His gaze flickered downward. “I can see for myself that it’s true. Bakers, are they?”

  I looked down and saw that my blue jeans were liberally sprinkled with small, floury handprints. I laughed again and offered to take Nicholas’s trench coat. He’d dressed casually and for warmth, layering a heathery brown tweed blazer and deep blue V-neck sweater over a pale blue button-down shirt. I glanced with trepidation at his dark brown trousers and reminded myself to wash the boys’ hands before they made his acquaintance.

  “We’ve been baking bread,” I informed him, “but I was about to start working on lunch. I hope you’ve brought an appetite with you.”

  “I’m sure I have one here somewhere,” said Nicholas, patting his pockets.

  I was in the middle of my third laugh when Kit emerged from the living room, tousled and barefoot and wearing a pair of Bill’s striped pajamas.

  When Nicholas extended his hand to shake Kit’s, I noticed that his knuckles were scarred and misshapen, as if he’d beaten his fists against a brick wall.

  “Nicholas Fox,” he said. “Lilian Bunting’s nephew. You must be Bill.”

  “No, he’s not,” I said, tearing my gaze from those battered hands. “
My husband’s in London. This is my friend Kit.”

  “Ah.” Nicholas gently cleared his throat.

  Kit broke the pregnant silence by clasping Nicholas’s awkwardly hovering hand. “I’m Kit Smith,” he said. “I run the stable yard at Anscombe Manor. Lori was kind enough to put my horse and me up for the night when we were caught out in the storm.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Nicholas.

  I directed Kit to the master bedroom, where I’d laid out his dry clothes, advised him that lunch would be ready in ten minutes, and brought Lilian’s nephew with me to the kitchen.

  Nicholas Fox was impressively well prepared to spend an afternoon with toddlers. His pockets were stuffed with tiny cars, plastic farm animals, and a host of windup toys guaranteed to win my sons’ affection. He, in turn, seemed delighted by Will and Rob.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye as I threw together a salad-soup-and-sandwich meal. He clearly enjoyed roughhousing with the twins, and ate his lunch with equal relish, complimenting me on the fresh-baked bread as well as the blackberry crumble I’d whipped up for dessert. I couldn’t understand why Lilian found her nephew so difficult to entertain. He didn’t seem to be all that hard to please.

  Kit left for Anscombe Manor as soon as the table was cleared, and Annelise took the twins outside to play. Nicholas offered to accompany them, but I shook my head and invited him to sit with me in the living room instead.

  “Pace yourself,” I advised, “or you’ll be dropping in your tracks by the time you leave.”

  He bowed his head. “I defer to the expert, but they are charming children. And you have a lovely home.”

  “Thanks.” Nicholas had so far praised my sons, my cooking, and my cottage. If he was trying to endear himself to me, he was succeeding. I gestured for him to take a seat in Bill’s armchair and knelt to light the fire. “Do you have a family of your own?”

  “Apart from the one I was born into, no,” he replied. “No wife, no fiancée, and no prospects in the offing. I’m singularly single. I don’t even own a cat.”