“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.”
Theodore Bunting’s mouth twitched with a suggestion of a smile, and Lilian beamed as happily as if her husband had burst into song. As I watched the vicar tuck into his green salad, I felt a surge of confidence in my newly launched joint venture.
Nicholas truly did have a way with people.
Chapter 8
The luncheon was more enjoyable than anyone could have anti
cipated. Lilian made sure that our conversation centered on my recent visit to the States—anything to divert her husband’s attention from local events—while Nicholas and I attempted to polish off the roast beef, new potatoes, fresh asparagus, and assorted side dishes that Lilian had so lovingly prepared. We were attacking the dessert—a dreamy crème brûlée speckled with freshly ground vanilla beans—when I sat up abruptly and stared out of the window.
“You could charm the whiskers off a cat,” I said to Nicholas. “How are you with dragons?”
“Undaunted,” he owned.
“Then polish up your armor,” I told him, “because we’re about to do battle.”
Nicholas followed my gaze in time to see Peggy Taxman walk determinedly past the vicarage. She was dressed in black from head to toe and gripped a cellophane-wrapped floral bouquet in both hands.
“She’s going to the churchyard,” said Lilian. “She goes there every day. She must be spending a small fortune on flowers.”
“Worldly wealth is of little consequence when one has lost a friend,” the vicar observed.
“Be that as it may,” Lilian said tartly, “I’ve never known worldly wealth to be of little consequence to Mrs. Taxman.”
While his aunt and uncle debated the point, Nicholas calmly finished his crème brûlée and put down his spoon.
“I’ve been meaning to pay my respects to the dead,” he murmured. His sea-green eyes twinkled as he gave me a sidelong look. “Care to join me?”
“I’ll bring the gilded gingerbread,” I said. “You bring the graveside manner.”
Saint George’s Church stood at the top of Saint George’s Lane in the midst of a manicured churchyard bounded by a low stone wall and entered by means of a shingle-roofed lych-gate. It was a tranquil place, crisscrossed with graveled paths, dotted with weathered tombs, and shaded in summer by two towering cedars of Lebanon.
Aunt Dimity’s mortal remains were buried there, beneath a tangle of vines that would soon be awash in a froth of fragrant pink roses. I was irrationally pleased when I saw that her final resting place was nowhere near Mrs. Hooper’s. I doubted there would ever be two less kindred spirits.
Saint George’s newest grave had been dug at the front of the churchyard, in the tussocky southwest corner. We spotted Peggy Taxman standing over it as we came up the lane. She stood facing us but gazing downward, her eyes closed and hands folded, as if in prayer. By the time we’d passed through the lych-gate, she’d finished her devotions and stooped to tweak her most recent floral offering into a more pleasing position.
I crept toward her, bracing myself for the first blast of her voice. Peggy Taxman was neither tall nor unusually wide, and her attire was exactly what one would expect of a middle-aged woman in mourning, but the sheer force of her personality more than made up for her modest appearance. When she spoke, Finch trembled.
“Good afternoon, Peggy,” I said, crossing to the far side of the grave. “Forgive me for intruding, but I wanted to let you know how sorry I was to hear about your friend.”
“Thank you,” she said in unnaturally subdued tones. She favored Nicholas with a measuring look as he came up beside me. “You’re Lilian Bunting’s nephew. Nicholas, isn’t it? You’ve been calling on the Pyms, I hear.”
If Nicholas was surprised by Peggy’s artless demonstration of the grapevine’s efficiency, he didn’t show it.
“The kind sisters took pity on a footsore rambler,” he said politely.
“Did they take pity on you, too, Lori?” Peggy’s eyes narrowed shrewdly behind her rhinestone-studded glasses. “I heard that you dropped in on them on your way to the vicarage.”
“Ruth and Louise asked me to deliver their gilded gingerbread,” I answered half-truthfully. I looked down at the grave to avoid Peggy’s penetrating stare. The upright headstone, with its crisply carved inscription, stood in sharp contrast to its lichen-clad and crazily tilting neighbors. “Their motor, er, car isn’t working.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Peggy snapped. “I suppose they’re waiting for Mr. Barlow to repair it. Did they say when he’d be back?”
“No,” I replied. “The only thing they told us was that he’d gone up north to visit relatives.”
“No one seems to know when he’ll be back,” Peggy grumbled. “It’s suspicious, if you ask me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Don’t you know?” Peggy barked. “Billy Barlow left town the same day Prunella died. At the crack of dawn, so I’ve heard. And no one’s had a word from him since.”
“No one would expect to hear from him,” I reminded her. “Mr. Barlow never keeps in touch with anyone in Finch when he’s away.”
“That’s as may be,” Peggy growled irritably. “But what was he doing out there on the square so early in the morning? That’s what I’d like to know. The police would, too, I’ve no doubt.”
I quaked in my boots at the resurgence of Peggy’s familiar, unsubdued personality but ventured gamely, “He was probably taking Buster for a walk before the drive up north.”
Peggy scowled but admitted that I might be right. It was common knowledge that Mr. Barlow was mad about his terrier.
“Far be it from me to cast aspersions,” Peggy intoned, “but no one can deny that Mr. Barlow didn’t get on with Prunella.”
“He must be hard to please,” Nicholas observed. “My aunt and uncle told me that Mrs. Hooper was an admirable woman.”
Peggy looked at him closely, as if suspecting sarcasm, but Nicholas’s face betrayed nothing more than sincere sympathy.
“She was an admirable woman,” Peggy insisted. “She may not have been everyone’s cup of tea, but she was a good friend to me.”
“No one can be everyone’s cup of tea,” Nicholas reasoned.
“She took an interest in people,” Peggy went on. “There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“No harm at all,” Nicholas soothed.
Peggy’s gaze slewed toward me. “Seems she had good cause to take an interest in Nell Harris’s welfare.”
A red mist seemed to float before my eyes, and my grip tightened on the box of gingerbread. If Nicholas’s elbow hadn’t pressed lightly against mine, I would have made a heart-felt effort to knock Peggy Taxman’s block off.
“I’m sure that Mrs. Hooper took an interest in everyone’s welfare,” he said. “I know that she was enormously helpful to my uncle. He thought the world of her floral arrangements.”
“She wanted to be of service to the church,” Peggy said earnestly, successfully diverted from making further snide remarks about Nell’s so-called welfare. “If the vicar chose her to dress the font for Easter, it was because he knew she’d do it well. And if his decision put a certain person’s nose out of joint, it wasn’t Prunella’s fault. Though to hear a certain person talk, you’d think Prunella had plotted and connived to get the job.”
“Which she would never do,” Nicholas interjected, “because there was no need.”
“No need at all.” Peggy clasped her hands at her waist and sniffed haughtily. “Still, resentment can lead to anger, and anger to retaliation. I’m not saying that it did, mind you, but everyone knows that that it can. Particularly,” she added, with a significant nod, “when a certain person is as short-tempered as a troll.” She bent to give the cellophane-wrapped bouquet a final tweak, then straightened. “You must come by the Emporium, Nicholas. I’d like to introduce you to my husband.”
“It would be an honor,” said Nicholas. He pried my hands from the box of gingerbread and presented it to Peggy. “Please accept this gift from the Pyms with their best wishes for a joyous Easter—as joyous as it can be, under the circumstances.”
“Thank you,” Peggy said, accepting the tribute with regal dignity. “And welcome home, Lori. It’ll be good to see you back in church on Sunday—you and your husband. He’s back from London Saturday, isn’t he? I’m sure you’ll be glad to see him.” Without deigning to wait for a reply, she marched out of the churchyard a
nd down Saint George’s Lane, toward the square.
When she’d disappeared from view, Nicholas took me by the shoulders and subjected my face to a minute inspection. As his eyes darted from my forehead to my chin, I couldn’t help thinking that his craggy features weren’t so much homely as interesting, full of character, kindness, and a certain elemental strength.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Checking for scorch marks.” He released his hold and stood back. “I think she may have singed your eyebrows with that last crack about your husband, but otherwise you seem to be unscathed. How about me?”
“I think Peggy wants to adopt you,” I said, laughing. I sobered then and added quietly, “Thanks for steering her away from Kit. If you hadn’t been here—”
“Anger would have led to retaliation,” he finished sententiously, “as it so often does.” He walked over to sit on the low stone wall. “What a remarkable performance. What was it the Pym sisters said? ‘Mrs. Hooper stung her victims, and now they sting each other’? Mrs. Taxman is bubbling over with venom.”
I kicked a clod of mud into a clump of grass. “It’s amazing how many people she didn’t cast aspersions on.”
“Let’s see,” said Nicholas. “There’s Mr. Barlow, who didn’t get on with Mrs. Hooper and whose whereabouts are conspicuously unknown. There’s Kit, the convenient scapegoat. And there’s the certain person who resented Mrs. Hooper’s church activities.”
“The certain troll-tempered person?” I squashed another mud ball beneath my heel before walking over to sit beside Nicholas. “It’s got to be Sally Pyne. She owns the tearoom, and she’s always been in charge of decorating the baptismal font at Easter. I’ll bet she was ready to spit tacks when the vicar gave the job to Pruneface.”
“But was she ready to inflict bodily harm on the usurper?” Nicholas brushed his hair back from his face and let his gaze travel slowly around the churchyard.
Aunt Dimity: Detective Page 5
