Christine’s rapid-fire questions reached a climax with an inquiry that had by now become as predictable as spring rain.
“Bill stayed on in London, did he?” Christine’s blue eyes darted to Nicholas’s face. “No trouble there, I hope.”
“He’s catching up on paperwork with his cousin Gerald,” I explained patiently, “and he’ll be home on Saturday. In the meantime, Lilian Bunting asked me to—”
“—show her nephew Nicholas round Finch.” Christine turned to my companion. “I’m pleased to meet you, Nicholas. Dick saw you running by the river this morning. Gives a man an appetite, does running. Will you be having lunch?”
Christine’s cholesterol-crammed cuisine may have been a cardiologist’s nightmare, and it wasn’t something I indulged in every day, but when I did, I invariably cleaned my plate. I ordered a classic fry-up, Nicholas followed my example, and Christine retreated to the kitchen.
“I didn’t know you ran,” I said to Nicholas.
“Penance for my gustatory sins,” he confessed, “which have been mounting at an alarming rate ever since I arrived in Finch.” He looked over at Dick Peacock and lowered his voice. “I suspect I’ll have to run to Kathmandu and back to work off today’s lunch.”
I was still chuckling when Dick came to take our drinks order.
“I think the rain has scared away your regulars,” I commented, eyeing the empty tables.
“It’s a busy time of year for farming folk,” Dick said.
“They’ll be in this evening, though, whatever the weather. Did I tell you how good it is to have you back, Lori? We missed you.” He surveyed my smiling face, then extended his hand to Nicholas. “And you’re the Buntings’ nephew. Pleased to meet you, Nicholas. Lori seems to be having great fun with you. I haven’t heard anyone laugh like that in ages.”
“My aunt tells me that Finch hasn’t had much to laugh about lately,” Nicholas ventured. “Nasty business, a neighbor being murdered.”
“Well, Nicholas, it depends on how you look at it.” Dick stroked his goatee philosophically and gazed out of the window.
“I take your point.” Nicholas nodded sagely, as if the publican had made a profound observation. “I suppose, for example, it could depend on how neighborly the neighbor was.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” Dick said. “And I’m sorry to say it, but Mrs. Hooper wasn’t the neighborliest of neighbors.”
“Is that right?” Nicholas looked puzzled. “Peggy Taxman told us that she took an interest in people. Surely that’s an admirable quality.”
“Well, Nicholas, it depends on how you look at it,” Dick repeated. He folded his arms and settled back on his heels. “There’s taking an interest, and there’s poking your damned nose in places where it has no business being, and I’m sorry to say it, but old Pruneface had a snoot on her like a pachyderm.” He smiled down at us beneficently. “Now, what will you be drinking?”
I ordered a half-pint of shandy, and Nicholas requested a pint of stout. When Dick had gone back to the bar, I raised both eyebrows.
“I’ve never heard Dick Peacock swear before,” I murmured.
Nicholas leaned forward, whispering, “Pruneface the pachyderm strikes again.”
An elephantine snort of laughter escaped me, and I turned my face to the window to hide my merriment. I didn’t want to give Dick the impression that I was having too much fun with Nicholas.
“It’s stopped raining,” Nicholas observed, and sure enough, the cloudburst had ended, and the square had come to life. Little knots of people spilled out of the Emporium, the tearoom, and the greengrocer’s and scattered in all directions. Most took advantage of the opportunity to make a dry escape and went directly to their cars.
“Huh,” I said, catching sight of a lone figure walking from the tearoom toward Saint George’s Lane. “There’s George Wetherhead. We have a box of gingerbread for him.” I watched the retired railwayman idly for a moment, then more attentively. There was something different about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
“Here you are.” Dick Peacock had returned with our drinks. “Enjoy.”
Nicholas took a long pull on his stout and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. “A fine brew, Mr. Peacock.”
“We aim to please,” Dick said. His smile faltered slightly. “Not that you can please everyone. If that Hooper woman didn’t like living next to a pub, she shouldn’t have rented Crabtree Cottage.”
“Indeed not,” Nicholas agreed.
“There goes old George.” Dick’s smile returned as he noted the direction of my gaze. “He’s looking awfully chipper these days, don’t you think?”
“Where’s his cane?” I asked suddenly. A hip injury suffered in a fall from a freight car had forced Mr. Wetherhead’s early retirement from the railway. I’d never seen him walking without the aid of a three-pronged cane.
“Leaves it at home these days.” Dick peered over his shoulder at the kitchen door, as if to make sure that his wife was safely out of earshot. When he turned back to us, he was smirking. “There’s a spring in his step, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s wonderful,” I marveled. “What happened? Did he see another specialist?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Dick. “What I’ve heard about old George is—”
He fell into a guilty silence as his wife loomed at his elbow, carrying a serving tray. Grog, the Peacock’s basset hound, trailed hopefully at her heels, his attention riveted on the artery-clogging, aromatic feast she placed before us.
Christine glared at her husband. “Did I hear you talking about Mr. Wetherhead?”
Dick raised a placating hand. “Now, dear, I was only trying to fill Lori in on the latest news.”
“The latest nonsense, I’d call it.” Christine planted one hand firmly on one broad hip. “It’s nothing but rumors, Dick, and I won’t have such talk repeated in my pub.”
“Just because they’re rumors doesn’t mean they aren’t true,” Dick said. “Where there’s smoke—”
“—there’s usually a large pile of rubbish,” Christine broke in. “You’ll do well to remember it, Richard Peacock. What folks get up to in their own home in the wee hours or at any other time is their business, so let that be an end to it.”
Dick hastened to the bar in chastened silence, but the moment the kitchen door had swung shut behind his wife, he returned to our table, ostensibly to check the levels of our drinks.
I couldn’t contain myself. “In the wee hours?” I prompted.
Dick’s bearded face took on the avid expression of a devoted gossip. “Round about dawn, so I’ve heard.”
“We’ve heard you’re up at that hour,” Nicholas murmured.
Dick’s face froze for a fleeting second; then he laughed. “Me? Up at dawn? You ask Chris if I ever get up that early. She’s lucky to roll me out of bed by opening time. But George, now, that’s a different matter.” He lowered his voice. “There’s some who say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. But there’s some tricks that’ll put a spring in any old dog’s step. Good for him, I say.” His eyes narrowed. “But not so good for Mrs. Hooper. She should’ve stayed out of old George’s business.” He pressed a finger to the side of his nose, then scurried back to the safety of the bar.
I caught a last glimpse of George Wetherhead as he entered Saint George’s Lane. He wasn’t striding like an athlete, but he was moving steadily and without the support of his cane. It was an incredible sight, though not half as incredible as Dick Peacock’s sly insinuations.
I turned to Nicholas. “I can’t believe—”
“Not now,” he broke in quietly. “Mrs. Peacock’s antennae are extended.” He fed Grog a sliver of black pudding, and the basset hound gazed up at him worshipfully. “We’ll take in the war memorial when we’ve finished lunch. Tell me then.”
It was a case of hiding in plain sight. The war memorial stood at the north end of the green, in full view of the building
s on the square but far enough away from them to allow for confidential conversation.
As soon as Nicholas and I had cleared our greasy plates, we said good-bye to Chris and Dick and left the pub. We crossed the cobbled lane encircling the green and stood for a moment in the wet and spongy grass, as if debating what to do next. Nicholas motioned toward the imposing Celtic cross, and we strolled casually in its direction.
“We’ve established that Mrs. Hooper was vindictive,” Nicholas began. “She held grudges on her grandson’s behalf against both Mrs. Pyne and Kit, and she acted on those grudges in ways that infuriated each of them.” He put a hand in the small of my back to guide me around a muddy puddle. “Now we’re being told that she was intrusive as well.”
“According to Dick, she poked her nose into George Wetherhead’s business.” I stepped around the wet patch, and Nicholas withdrew his guiding hand.
“To judge by Mr. Peacock’s leer,” he continued, “Mr. Wetherhead’s business involves something naughty, something that’s given him the strength to throw aside his cane and walk with a spring in his step.” He stopped short. “Would it be fair to assume that Mrs. Hooper discovered what Mr. Wetherhead was doing and threatened to expose him?”
“It’s fair,” I said grimly. “I wouldn’t put anything past Pruneface. On the other hand, I can’t imagine George Wetherhead involved in something naughty. As far as I know, the only thing he gets up to in the wee hours is playing with his toy trains.”
“Perhaps he’s found a new hobby.” Nicholas’s suggestive smirk recalled Dick Peacock’s.
I blinked in disbelief. “Like . . . an affair?”
“Sexual energy can work wonders on the anatomy.” Nicholas gazed reflectively toward Saint George’s Lane as we moved on. “I don’t know if it can make the blind see, but it might make the lame walk.”
The difficulties of conducting an illicit love affair in Finch had crossed my mind so recently that I didn’t have to search for an objection.
“Mr. Wetherhead would have to be clinically insane to think he could keep an affair secret,” I stated flatly. “Have you noticed how people keep shoving the word husband down my throat? You and I are already raising eyebrows, and we’re only hanging out together.”
Nicholas gave me a brief, diffident glance, then looked away. “Do you mind?”
“Being talked about?” The question took me off guard. I looked down at the rain-dappled grass and smiled shyly. “It’s flattering, in a way. At least they haven’t written me off as just another boring housewife.”
“You will never be a boring housewife,” Nicholas murmured. “No matter how hard you try.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. “My point is,” he resumed briskly, “that people engaged in passionate love affairs aren’t necessarily thinking clearly. If Mr. Wetherhead’s engaged in one, he might not pause to consider the consequences.”
We’d reached the holly hedge Emma Harris had planted around the war memorial. Nicholas gazed up at the weathered cross, then stepped closer to it and bent low to read the names carved into its base.
My gaze wandered wonderingly to Saint George’s Lane. It wasn’t easy to envision short, balding, reserved Mr. Wetherhead in the throes of a passionate affair. He was so bashful that he rarely met my gaze in conversation and so modest that I could scarcely imagine him holding a woman’s hand.
But perhaps my imagination was too limited. After all, George Wetherhead was human. Like the rest of us, he had needs, desires, dreams. If he’d found love, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, who was I to quibble? And who was Pruneface Hooper to go poking and prying into something that had nothing whatsoever to do with her?
“Okay.” I leaned back against the cross and folded my arms. “Maybe Mr. Wetherhead is playing with something other than trains in the wee hours, and maybe Mrs. Hooper found out about it. I still can’t believe that he killed her. He’s the most inoffensive guy you’d ever want to meet.”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s always the quiet ones who go spare.” Nicholas ran his battered hand across the memorial’s rough surface. “You have to face it, Lori. If Mrs. Hooper confronted Mr. Wetherhead with something he’s deeply ashamed of, there’s no telling how he might react.”
“He’s got strong arms, from using his cane,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “I suppose he could have hit her hard enough to kill her.”
“Irrelevant.” Nicholas stood. “It wouldn’t take a great deal of strength to inflict the kind of head wound that killed Mrs. Hooper.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“It came out at the inquest,” Nicholas replied. “Mrs. Hooper was struck here”—he touched his fingertips lightly to the side of my head, froze, and jerked his hand away—“where the skull is particularly thin and vulnerable.”
His touch sent a shiver through me, but I remained adamant. “If I stretch my imagination as far as it will go, I can almost conceive of him seeing some woman on the sly. But I can’t stretch it any further. I can’t see him as a murderer. I’m sure Dick Peacock’s got the wrong end of the stick. Or . . .” I gave the pub a penetrating glance. “Or he’s trying to direct suspicion away from himself. Sally Pyne says he’s up early on Thursday mornings, but Dick claims to sleep in. Who’s lying?”
“There’s one way to find out,” said Nicholas.
I straightened with alacrity. “Time for a stakeout?” I asked.
Nicholas’s face softened as he looked down at me. “I do think it’s time for a stakeout,” he said, “but I don’t think you should participate.” He held up a hand to cut short my protest. “As you’ve pointed out, we’re already raising eyebrows in the village. If we’re seen sneaking about together at dawn, I’m afraid we’ll start an avalanche of gossip.”
“But—”
“Apart from that,” Nicholas interrupted, “your Range Rover is far too conspicuous to use in a covert operation.”
Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t argue with his logic. My canary-yellow Range Rover stood out like a neon sign everywhere it went, and the rumor mill would kick into high gear if I were seen lurking at dawn with a man who was most definitely not my husband.
As he circumambulated the stone cross, I racked my brain to come up with a way to join the stakeout without jeopardizing it—or our reputations. The solution came to me so quickly that I nearly danced for joy.
“Bill’s office,” I said, scrambling after Nicholas. “It’s right across from the pub. I go there all the time to fetch papers he’s forgotten. I can go there just before dawn and sneak in through the back door. I’ll be able to see everything that happens on the square.”
“And everyone on the square will be able to see your Rover,” Nicholas pointed out.
“I’ll ride my bicycle!” I exclaimed, proud of my cleverness. “Everyone knows that Bill gave me a bike for Christmas and that I haven’t had a chance to try it out yet. I’ll take the road to the bridge, and from there I’ll use the river path . . .” I began to outline my intended route with gestures, but Nicholas caught hold of my arm.
“Don’t point,” he scolded. “No need to give our plans away.”
“Our plans?” I peered up at him anxiously. “You mean it?”
His smile brought light to the sunless day. “Four eyes, like four ears, are better than two.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, and we began to walk back to the Rover. “While you watch the pub from your husband’s office, I’ll watch Mr. Wetherhead’s house from the vicarage. We’ll meet up later at your cottage to compare—” He broke off.
I felt him stiffen—his biceps bulged even through the triple layer of shirt, tweed blazer, and trench coat—as he came to an abrupt halt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He patted my hand, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “It just struck me that there’s only one place on the square from which one can view both the pub and Mr. Wetherhead’s house simultaneously.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as we slowly turned to stare at Crabtree Cottage.
“Well, well, well,” Nicholas murmured, half to himself. “What a perfectly splendid vantage point for spying on one’s neighbors.”
Chapter 11
Bill wasn’t entirely happy when I told him of my plans to surveil the pub. By the time I’d finished recounting all that Nicholas and I had learned that day, he was very nearly vexed.
“It’s not a game, Lori,” he said repressively. “Prunella Hooper may have been killed because she saw something she shouldn’t have seen. What if you see the same thing? What if you’re found out? You could be putting yourself in danger.”
“I’ll lock the office door,” I promised. “I’ll keep well out of sight. No one will know I’m there.” I clucked my tongue impatiently. “I’m glad that you’re worried about me, Bill, but I honestly don’t think it’s necessary. Nicholas will take care of me.” I tagged on the last sentence without pausing to consider the impression it might make.
It evidently made the wrong one.
There was a long pause before Bill asked, with excruciating nonchalance, “Will he?”
“He teaches self-defense,” I said, carefully enunciating each word. “If any fool comes after me, Nicholas’ll chop him up faster than my food processor.” I sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Bill chuckled.
“I forgot about Nicholas’s profession,” he admitted, and finally agreed to telephone the cottage at three A.M. to add verisimilitude to my story of running into town to retrieve a file. “I should know by now that it’s pointless to discourage you from taking risks,” he added before we said good night. “I won’t promise not to worry, love, but I’ll rest easier knowing you have a bodyguard.”
As I hung up the phone, I remembered the firm pressure of Nicholas’s palm as he guided me around the muddy puddle by the war memorial. I felt safe when I was with him. If he wouldn’t let me get my feet wet, he surely wouldn’t let me come to more grievous bodily harm.
Aunt Dimity: Detective Page 7
