Aunt Dimity: Detective

by Nancy Atherton

  The air was sweet and still and filled with birdsong. A pair of robins scouted the cowslips for worms, a chaffinch flickered from one tomb to another, and a flock of twittering cousins filled the cedars’ wide-spread branches.

  I settled myself more comfortably on the wall and mused aloud: “It doesn’t seem right to mention violence in such a peaceful place.”

  Nicholas folded his arms. “I’m sure the dead don’t mind.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I quipped, and promptly wished the words unspoken.

  It was too late, however. Nicholas was already giving me an inquisitive sidelong look.

  “I’d be extremely surprised to learn that the dead mind anything,” he said. “Wouldn’t you?”

  I fixed my gaze on Pruneface Hooper’s grave and replied cautiously, “I’ve had some unusual experiences in England. It may sound crazy to you, but those experiences have led me to believe that a person’s spirit can be quite active even after his body has turned to dust.”

  “Interesting.” Nicholas pursed his lips, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Let’s hope Mrs. Hooper’s spirit isn’t one that remains active. She caused more than enough trouble in the flesh.”

  I felt a surge of relief and gratitude, as if Nicholas had helped me leap a treacherous hurdle. Still, I was appalled by my indiscretion. I never breathed a word about my experiences with Aunt Dimity to any but the closest friends and family, yet here I was, discussing my views on the afterlife with a man I’d known for less than forty-eight hours.

  “Nicholas,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re easy to talk to? Peggy doesn’t usually confide in strangers, but she couldn’t stop yammering at you. As for me, if I’m not careful, I’ll wind up giving you my secret recipe for oatmeal cookies.”

  “I’d refuse to listen.” Nicholas wrapped his arms around his stomach and groaned. “I’m far too full to even think about food.”

  “In that case, we’d better wait until tomorrow to do the tearoom,” I said. “Because Sally Pyne will insist on feeding us, and everything she makes is rich and gooey.”

  Nicholas shuddered and readily agreed to meet me at the tearoom at ten the following morning. As we made our way back to the vicarage, I doubted that anyone’s secrets would be safe for long from my secret weapon. Finch didn’t stand a chance against the easygoing, charming Mr. Fox.

  Chapter 9

  I reported in to Aunt Dimity as soon as Annelise and I had put the twins to bed.

  “We have liftoff,” I announced upon opening the blue journal. “The investigation into the untimely death of Pruneface Hooper is under way.”

  Hoorah. Aunt Dimity’s elegant copperplate curled and looped across the page without betraying undue signs of great excitement. Have you garnered any useful tidbits?

  “Maybe.” I leaned back in the leather armchair and put my feet up on the ottoman. “It seems that Mr. Barlow was on the square the morning Mrs. Hooper was killed and that he disappeared shortly thereafter. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  Worth noting when one considers the instinctive animosity he felt toward the deceased. I imagine the police are busily tracing his whereabouts. We’ll leave Mr. Barlow to them for the moment. Anything else?

  “Mrs. Hooper somehow got the vicar to let her take over Sally Pyne’s job of dressing the baptismal font for Easter,” I said. “Peggy Taxman thinks Sally’s seething resentment might have led her to clout Pruneface in the head. Do you?”

  I should think she’d murder the vicar rather than Mrs. Hooper, but I’m quibbling. Murders, my dear, are committed for all sorts of petty reasons. We mustn’t discount Mrs. Taxman’s opinions simply because she expresses them so frankly. Have you spoken with Mrs. Pyne?

  “Not yet. Nicholas and I are going to meet up at the tearoom tomorrow morning and—” I stopped short as a query appeared on the page.

  Nicholas?

  “Nicholas Fox,” I said. “Lilian Bunting’s nephew, remember? He and I have decided to work together.”

  I asked you to enlist Emma Harris’s help in making your inquiries.

  “I know,” I said, “but Emma’s afraid that Kit will come unglued if she leaves him alone at the manor, so she’s staying there to keep an eye on him.”

  Who will keep an eye on you?

  I flushed.

  Is Mr. Fox by any chance good-looking?

  “Not in a classic way.” It didn’t seem worth mentioning that a man didn’t have to be classically handsome to be considered good-looking.

  I see.

  “He’s a godsend,” I stated firmly, and told Dimity about the Pyms’ gingerbread. “I missed the point completely, but Nicholas caught on right away, and he had Peggy Taxman eating out of his hand at the grave site. He sees through people, Dimity, or he gets them to reveal themselves.”

  Am I to take it, then, that you feel no unseemly attraction to him?

  “Not yet,” I admitted, painfully aware of why Dimity thought it necessary to quiz me about Nicholas Fox. She knew me well enough to know that my track record was less than spotless when it came to remembering my wedding vows. I’d yet to do anything absolutely reprehensible, but there was no getting around the fact that I had what Aunt Dimity called “a wandering eye.”

  I’m glad to hear it. I trust Ruth and Louise’s judgment, so I’d like you to continue making use of Mr. Fox—without making eyes at him.

  I sank lower in the leather armchair, wishing I could resent her insinuations but knowing that I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  “Bill will be home on Saturday,” I reminded her.

  Even better. The handwriting ceased briefly before continuing. You mentioned a grave site. I presume you mean Mrs. Hooper’s.

  “Yes.” I sat up, happy to move on to another subject. “She was buried at Saint George’s. That’s where Nicholas and I spoke with Peggy Taxman.”

  Why was Mrs. Hooper buried in Finch? She has close relatives elsewhere, doesn’t she?

  “There’s a son and a grandson,” I said.

  It seems odd that they would bury Mrs. Hooper in a place where she has no family. If I might suggest another line of inquiry . . . ?

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised, and felt nothing but relief when Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page.

  I wasn’t prepared to answer any more questions about Nicholas Fox because I wasn’t sure how I felt about him. He was smart and funny and genuinely kind, but he was also a bit intimidating. He was almost too good with people, too charming, and when he went into Zen listening mode, he was almost too observant. I didn’t mind his seeing through other people, but I was slightly worried about what he’d see when he saw through me.

  Sally Pyne had once aspired to transform her modest tearoom into a hokey themed oasis that would draw the tourist trade. Those aspirations had, to everyone’s relief, faded over time, and the tearoom was again its humble self. Finch’s tea-drinkers weren’t fashionable or concerned with setting trends. They asked only for rich pastries, fresh scones, tasty sandwiches, and tea subtly infused with local gossip, in a setting that was homely and familiar.

  Some of the tearoom’s furnishings must have seemed overly familiar to its customers, since its Early Flea Market decor reflected Sally’s passion for local auctions, car boot sales, and charity shops. A dozen mismatched tables were covered with tablecloths of widely varying patterns and set with an ever-changing display of crockery and utensils. The pictures on the walls ranged from sad clowns on velvet to a handful of splendid oils, and the sunburst clock above the cash register had once hung in the palatial dining room of a baronial hall. I loved the cozy, crazy chaos of the place and hoped that Sally would never again be tempted to mute it.

  I pulled up in front of the tearoom just as Nicholas strode into the square from Saint George’s Lane. He’d dressed in the dark brown trousers he’d worn the day we’d met, with a pale yellow cotton shirt beneath his brown tweed blazer. He carried his black trench coat over one arm in rec
ognition of the threat posed by the gray clouds that were building overhead.

  I waited for him at the slate sandwich board that stood outside the tearoom’s front door. Sally jotted the day’s special offerings on the slate, which was frequently washed clean by rain before her customers had a chance to read it.

  “The first wave has departed,” I told Nicholas as he approached. “We should have Sally mostly to ourselves for the next hour.”

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s hope she’s in a chatty mood.”

  “If she’s not, I’m sure you’ll put her in one,” I commented.

  “I can but try.” Nicholas opened the door and stood aside to let me enter first.

  Sally Pyne was short and round and highly energetic. She’d already cleared the tables and reset them for the lunch crowd and was sitting at the table nearest the cash register, sampling one of her own excellent jam doughnuts, when we arrived. I motioned for her to stay seated while we joined her at the table, but she insisted on fetching a plateful of jam doughnuts and a pot of tea for two from the kitchen.

  “Sally Pyne,” I began when she’d resumed her seat, “may I introduce—”

  “Nicholas Fox,” she broke in, “the vicar’s nephew. You two are thick as thieves these days. Bill out of town again?”

  Aunt Dimity would, I thought, be delighted to hear how closely my neighbors were monitoring my behavior during my husband’s absence. If I were ever foolish enough to have an affair, I decided, it would have to take place a long, long way from Finch.

  While Sally demolished the jam doughnut, I presented her with the Pyms’ gingerbread. It was a coals-to-Newcastle sort of gift for someone with Sally’s baking skills, but she was impressed by the sisters’ handiwork. They’d cut the cookies in four basic shapes—a cross, a paschal lamb, a palm frond, and a lily—and adorned them with intricate patterns of edible gold leaf.

  After Sally had tucked the box of gingerbread behind the cash register, I carefully explained that my husband would be home on Saturday and that Lilian Bunting had asked me to entertain her nephew during his visit because the vicar wasn’t feeling well.

  Sally huffed triumphantly when she heard about the vicar. “He’s probably worried sick about who’s going to do the font for Easter. He knows better than to ask me.”

  “What a pity.” Nicholas sounded truly disappointed. “I was so looking forward to seeing your arrangement, Mrs. Pyne. My aunt tells me that you’re magical with moss.”

  “Vicar should’ve remembered that when he sacked me,” Sally retorted.

  “Indeed, he should have.” Nicholas nodded gravely. “I believe he meant well when he reassigned the task to Mrs. Hooper. He was trying to make a new parishioner feel welcome.”

  “A new parishioner.” Sally snorted derisively. “A blood-sucking piranha, more like. Vicar was bamboozled by Pruneface’s smarmy flattery. She was sweet as honey when she saw something she wanted, and what she wanted was to snub me.”

  Nicholas leaned forward. “Why on earth would she want to snub you?”

  “Because I tossed her beastly grandson out of my tearoom.” Sally pointed to a spot on the wall above the cash register, crying indignantly, “He broke my clock!”

  I looked up and noticed for the first time that the glorious sunburst clock had been replaced by a cat-shaped plastic timepiece with hideous ticktocking eyes, a dial in its belly, and a swinging pendulum tail.

  “Came in here with a football, the little beast, and threw it when I told him not to. Knocked my beautiful clock right off the wall,” Sally went on. “I could’ve wrung his fat neck, but I just told him to get out. Next thing I know, Vicar’s given the font to Pruneface.” She paused to catch her breath. “Now, you may think I’m adding two plus two and getting five, but—”

  “I don’t,” I interrupted. “Kit Smith had a run-in with Mrs. Hooper, involving her grandson, and she made him regret it.”

  Sally was all ears as I told her about the incident at the Anscombe Manor stables and the rumor Mrs. Hooper had spread to punish Kit for refusing to let her grandson ride Zephyrus.

  Nicholas, on the other hand, was all eyes. I glanced at him a few times while recounting my tale and was mildly disconcerted by his sheer intensity. He’d gone into Zen listening mode, sitting absolutely motionless and watching Sally’s face with an expression that was neither kindly nor good-humored. It was cold and hard and penetrating, as if he were recording Sally’s minutest reactions for later in-depth analysis.

  “I never did believe the folderol about Kit and Nell,” Sally declared. “And even if it were true, where’s the harm? Nell’s older than her years, old enough to know her mind, and the man hasn’t been born who could seduce her without her full cooperation. Besides, everyone knows that Kit’s a saint. Nell could do a lot worse than fall in love with him.” She pushed the plate of jam doughnuts toward us and urged us to partake. “It’s Peggy Taxman who kept that rumor going about Kit seducing Nell, but I never did believe it. Parroting her chum, she was.”

  “Did you happen to mention the broken clock to the police?” Nicholas inquired.

  “Why should I?” Sally demanded. “It had nothing to do with Pruneface’s death. There’s no need to tell the police every little thing that happens. It only clutters their minds.”

  Nicholas cocked his head to one side. “Mrs. Hooper seems to have been slightly neurotic about her grandson.”

  “She preferred her grandson to her son,” Sally told him eagerly. “She treated that son of hers like dirt. Never heard her say a kind word to him without a razor buried in it, like ground glass folded into whipping cream, but that grandson of hers could do no wrong.”

  “Is that why she was buried in Finch,” I asked, “instead of closer to her son?”

  “’Course it is,” said Sally. “You could see it in the poor chap’s eyes when he spoke at the wake. He was glad to see the back of her and didn’t plan to haunt the graveyard like that deluded fleabrain Peggy Taxman.”

  “Mrs. Taxman seems to be the only person mourning Mrs. Hooper’s death,” Nicholas observed. “She’s angry about it, too.”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “Peggy Taxman’s been pointing fingers left and right ever since Pruneface was thumped. She thinks I did it because of the font, she thinks Kit did it to avoid more scandal, and I don’t know why she thinks Billy Barlow did it but—”

  “He was on the square that morning,” Nicholas put in swiftly.

  “He wasn’t the only one,” Sally pointed out, in full flow. “Dick Peacock was there, too, like he is every Thursday morning, keeping an eye out for—” She broke off abruptly, colored to the roots of her stylishly cropped white hair, and averted her gaze. “Good heavens, look at the time,” she said, getting to her feet. “Have to get the kettles boiling before the lunch crowd tumbles in. Eat up, you two. I’ll be back to top up your pot.”

  I lifted a jam doughnut from the plate. It wasn’t like a doughnut in the States. Sally’s jam doughnuts were made of heavy, chewy dough. They were shaped like submarines, rolled in grainy sugar, split in two, and filled with thick, buttery whipped cream, with a scant dab of jam smeared down the middle. The mere sight of one made me weak with desire.

  “I wonder,” I said quietly, “if the scorned son stood to inherit anything from mommy dearest.”

  “That’s the sort of thing the police will wonder, too, and they’re better equipped than we are to look into it.” Nicholas reached for a doughnut. “I’m more interested in finding out why Mr. Peacock’s on the square every Thursday morning.”

  I felt a quiver of excitement. “Tomorrow’s Thursday,” I pointed out. “Do you want to mount a stakeout?”

  “Why don’t we try speaking with him first?” Nicholas’s eyes widened as he bit into his doughnut. “My God,” he mumbled reverently through a mouthful of heavy cream, “this is incredible.”

  “Don’t eat more than one,” I cautioned, glancing at the cat clock, “because in exactly twenty minutes we’ll be sitting
down to lunch at Peacock’s pub.”

  Chapter 10

  The heavens opened as soon as we left Sally’s tearoom, so I decided to leave the Peacocks’ gingerbread in the Rover for the time being. I pulled up the hood on my oiled-cotton jacket, Nicholas held his trench coat over his head like a cape, and we sprinted across the soggy green toward the pub.

  Dick Peacock saw us coming and opened the door for us and a pair of field hands who’d dashed over from the Emporium. The experienced publican’s ready greeting covered all four of us.

  “Good weather for the crops,” he remarked cheerfully as we shook the rain from our assorted coats, “but a dirty day to be on foot.”

  Dick Peacock was a large man, so big around that he’d been forced to widen the hatch in the bar to accommodate his girth. He was also finicky about his appearance. His mustache and goatee were works of art, and he had a closet full of brightly colored shirts. He’d chosen one in aquamarine today, perhaps in tribute to the “dirty” weather.

  Dick’s majestic proportions could be attributed directly to his wife’s culinary skills. If Sally Pyne reigned supreme over all things rich and sweet, Christine Peacock was the rightful queen of grease. Christine’s famous homemade sausages and chips came from the kitchen dripping, her fried bread and fried tomatoes glistened with globules of fat, and the crusts of her meat pies were laden with lard.

  Christine was, as a result, nearly as big around as her husband, but she carried her weight gracefully and dressed to suit herself. As we hung our wet coats on the wall rack, she emerged from the pub’s kitchen wearing a long-sleeved striped pullover and a pair of outsized jeans.

  “Lori,” she called. “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “It’s good to be back.”

  While Dick served the field hands at the bar, Christine guided Nicholas and me to a table at the front window, talking nonstop.

  “How was your visit to the States, Lori? And your father-in-law? He’s well, I hope? And how are the boys? They must’ve grown a foot since I last saw them.”