Aunt Dimity wasn’t worried in the least about my safety.
I seriously doubt that Mrs. Hooper’s murder was premeditated. The elegant lines of royal blue ink curled smoothly across the blue journal’s blank page, reflecting Dimity’s calm assessment of the situation. A planned murder would have taken place in a back room or the shed, not in a window overlooking the square. No, I suspect it was a spur-of-the-moment, snap reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper said or did. Our killer’s not a professional, and he’s not likely to strike again. He might even welcome your attention. He has a heavy burden on his conscience. It won’t be lifted until he’s brought to justice.
“So you don’t think I’ll be in any danger,” I confirmed.
The only danger you’ll be in is catching cold if it rains tomorrow morning. Be sure to bundle up, my dear, and bring a change of clothing, just in case.
The motherly advice made me smile, but I couldn’t shake the feeling Bill had engendered in me, that I might be biting off more than I could chew. Like a rabid animal, Mrs. Hooper had poisoned everyone with whom she’d come in contact. She’d forced Kit to find his temper, brought a curse to Dick Peacock’s lips, and left Sally Pyne embittered enough to gloat over the vicar’s ill health. I knew Kit would never turn on me, but how could I be sure about the others? As I returned Aunt Dimity’s journal to its niche on the shelves, I decided to call upon an old friend for moral support.
“Reginald,” I said. I took the pink-flannel rabbit down from the shelf and ran a fingertip along his hand-stitched whiskers. “You and I have been through the wars together. How’d you like to join me on a stakeout?”
I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in ten years, and I’d never ridden one in a monsoon. The fact that it was pitch-dark when I left the cottage made the ride into the village even less of a treat. The bicycle’s headlamp illuminated about two square inches of the road ahead, but I couldn’t see even those two inches clearly because of the rain sluicing my face.
I’d worn the all-weather jacket and pants Bill had included with his Christmas present, but icy, wind-lashed droplets kept finding chinks in my rainproof armor. By the time I reached the humpbacked bridge, my turtleneck and jeans were uncomfortably damp, my hands were numb, and I was feeling far less clever than I had the day before. When I thought of Nicholas keeping watch over George Wetherhead’s house from the cozy confines of the vicarage, I wanted to spit.
I dismounted at the bridge, switched off the headlamp, and walked the bike along the river path that wound behind the buildings on the east side of the square. Three miles of vigorous pedaling had left me hobbling almost as gingerly as my ride on Zephyrus had done, which made negotiating the slippery path a challenge. I groaned with relief when I made it to the back door of Wysteria Lodge, the picturesque house that had become Bill’s place of business.
Panic threatened when my frigid fingers fumbled for the key, but I found it eventually, in the outside pocket of the daypack into which I’d also tucked a change of clothes, per Dimity’s sage advice, and Reginald. I leaned the bicycle against the wall and let myself into the office’s windowless back storage room.
I paused to wipe my face and rub my sore behind before reaching for the light switch on the wall. I clicked it several times, but nothing happened. With a stifled grumble of frustration, I groped for the box of candles Bill kept on hand for just such emergencies. Power outages during inclement weather were not unknown in Finch.
I changed by candlelight into black wool trousers and a ruby-red chenille sweater, blew the candle out, and opened the door to the main office, where I felt my way past the photocopier, the fax machine, the printer stand, the file cabinets, and the myriad other obstacles that stood between me and the front window. I longed for a nice hot cup of tea but the electric kettle wouldn’t work without electricity, so I huddled at the window, hugging Reginald for warmth and wishing he were Nicholas instead.
The idle thought startled me, and I thrust it aside, but as the minutes ticked by it returned, demanding my attention so forcibly that I finally gave myself up to it.
It was useless to deny the flicker of attraction that I felt for Nicholas, and Bill’s absence didn’t make things any easier. For the first time it occurred to me that I was lucky to have a host of nosy watchdogs standing guard over my marriage, since I was so transparently ill equipped to manage on my own. Did every marriage require community support? I wondered wistfully. Maybe not, but mine evidently did, not because of any failure on Bill’s part but because of my own abiding weakness for charming men.
My troubled meditations were interrupted by a rush of adrenaline as the pub’s front door opened and Dick Peacock appeared, draped in a massive rainproof poncho. It was one minute past five o’clock. The merest wisps of thin gray daylight had begun to smudge the square, and Dick, in his black poncho, looked as huge and as forbidding as a storm cloud.
He glanced once at his wristwatch, then let his gaze traverse the square. Reginald and I ducked when he looked in our direction, and I counted to ten before I raised our heads again. Dick was staring up Saint George’s Lane and shifting restlessly from foot to foot.
My pulse raced when I heard the faint sound of a vehicle changing gears. A moment later, a gray van emerged from the lane and stopped at the pub. Dick opened the van’s rear door, and he and the driver began unloading cardboard boxes, which they carried into the pub. They worked methodically, with the speed and efficiency of a well-practiced team.
The boxes appeared to be unmarked and fairly heavy. The men unloaded three each before Dick closed the rear door, handed a small white packet—an envelope?—to the driver, and hurried back into the pub. The driver tucked the packet inside his slicker, hopped into the driver’s seat, and drove around the square. Reginald and I hunkered down again as he passed Wysteria Lodge, but I scribbled the license-plate number on a scrap of paper before the van vanished up Saint George’s Lane.
That was it. The drama was over. The rain continued falling, the sun rose bit by bit, and the buildings on the square seemed once again as devoid of life as the churchyard’s weathered tombs.
I sat back on my heels and gazed thoughtfully into Reginald’s black button eyes.
“Contraband,” I murmured. “What do you think, Reg? Is Dick Peacock smuggling liquor into Finch? Does Sally Pyne know about it? More important still, did Mrs. Hooper—” I fell silent as a cold draft of air wafted over me.
Someone had opened the back door.
I clutched Reginald to my breast and crept behind Bill’s desk, peering fearfully toward the storage room. I was reaching for the telephone when I heard a soft thump and a muffled “Ow!”
“Nicholas?” I whispered, and hastened in a half-crouch to the storeroom.
His quiet voice floated to me from the darkness. “Yes, Lori, it’s Nicholas.”
“Stay where you are.” I closed the door behind me and re-lit the squat white candle I’d left standing on a box of files.
Nicholas stood just inside the back door, rubbing the knee he’d bashed against a plastic storage bin. He was wearing a rainproof windbreaker, but his pant legs were damp, his shoes muddy, and his hair hung in draggled tresses he’d pushed behind ears he had no reason to hide. His sea-green eyes by candlelight took my breath away.
“You’re wet,” I said, trying valiantly to ignore my galloping heart. “I think Bill has some towels somewhere.”
“Don’t bother,” he murmured, straightening. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I insisted, rummaging for the towels. “You’re wet and muddy and—”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “There’s no need to fuss.”
“I’m not fussing. I’m . . .” I stopped my search and commanded my treacherous heart to behave itself. “What are you doing here, Nicholas? I thought we agreed—”
He stepped closer to me. “I know what we agreed, but I couldn’t wait.” He came closer still, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my skin. “Is that
. . . a rabbit you’re holding?”
I looked down at my pink-flannel chaperon, mortified. I started to explain that I’d been nervous and in need of moral support, but soon gave up and bowed my head, murmuring morosely, “It’s not something you would understand.”
“I understand what it is to be alone and afraid during a stakeout,” Nicholas said softly. He lifted my chin with his fingertips. “It was wise of you to bring a talisman.”
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep myself from reaching up to smooth away the scattered raindrops sparkling like tears on Nicholas’s face. If Reginald hadn’t been there, I might have smoothed them away with my lips.
“W-what couldn’t wait?” I managed, shoving my free hand firmly into my trouser pocket.
His fingers lingered briefly beneath my chin, then fell away. “George Wetherhead is with a woman,” he whispered. “She was wearing a hooded cape when she entered his house, so I couldn’t see her clearly, but I’m certain that you’ll know who she is.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” he said, his bright eyes dancing, “she lives across the street from my aunt and uncle.”
My brain seized for a moment. “M-Miranda Morrow?” I sputtered. “George Wetherhead is having an affair with Finch’s witch?”
Chapter 12
Miranda Morrow was a tall and shapely strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties who practiced telephone witchcraft for a living. She had a flat in London but spent a good part of the year at Briar Cottage, which stood directly across Saint George’s Lane from the vicarage.
Mr. Wetherhead, by contrast, was a short and balding man in his mid-fifties who ran a train museum to augment his disability pension. He never went to London; in truth, he spent so much of his time creating miniature landscapes for his toy trains that he seldom left his home, which stood between the old schoolhouse and the vicarage.
“Miranda Morrow and George Wetherhead?” My mind reeled. “I don’t believe it.”
“Then come and see for yourself,” Nicholas coaxed. “If we hurry, we may catch her as she’s leaving.”
I grabbed my jacket and threw caution to the wind. The rumor mill would grind itself into dust if Nicholas and I were seen together, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to find out for myself if Finch had spawned the most improbable pair of lovers in the history of affection.
Reginald, however, remained behind. I didn’t want the added burden of the daypack, and with Nicholas at my side, I feared no one.
Nicholas extinguished the candle and led the way through the back door. From that point on, it was all I could do to keep up with him. I’d assumed we’d take the river path to George Wetherhead’s house, but Nicholas had reconnoitered a more direct route. The fact that his shortcut involved hopping walls, ducking branches, and squeezing through a hedgerow didn’t bother him. He moved as lithely as a panther and used simple hand gestures to signal changes in speed and direction.
I scampered after him as swiftly as I could, the rain and my sore muscles forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. I felt as if I were flying.
We slowed when we reached the old schoolhouse, then crept stealthily to the far corner of the schoolyard wall. George Wetherhead’s house stood not ten yards from us, its windows shrouded with heavy drapes.
We worked our way along the wall until we had an unobstructed view of the front door, but Nicholas wasn’t content to watch from a distance. He darted forward and moved from window to window, searching for a gap in the curtains.
I was appalled. I had no intention of playing Peeping Tom, and I didn’t think Nicholas should, either. When he motioned for me to join him near a side window, I went forward to express my displeasure.
I’d just tweaked the sleeve of his windbreaker when I heard the sound of Miranda Morrow’s fruity voice coming from inside the house.
“Six o’clock, darling. Time for me to go. If you’ll take up your trousers . . . I think you’ve had enough for one morning, don’t you?”
I recoiled, grabbed Nicholas’s arm, and yanked him away from the window. I shook my head vehemently to indicate that his days as a voyeur were over, and we retreated to the back of the house. Having identified Miranda’s inimitable voice, I no longer needed to watch the front door for her departure.
Nicholas slipped nimbly over the wall that separated George Wetherhead’s back garden from the Buntings’ and made for the French doors that gave access to the vicar’s study. I clambered over the wall less gracefully, landed up to my ankles in what appeared to be a small lake, and remembered too late that I’d used up my allotment of dry clothing. With a heavy sigh, I waded ashore and followed Nicholas up the stone steps to the glass-paned doors.
Bill and I had spent many a pleasant evening in the book-lined study at the rear of the vicarage. Its furnishings were as shabby—and as comfortable—as an old bathrobe, but they didn’t deserve to be treated shabbily. I wrung out my puddle-soaked trouser cuffs and took off my sopping sneakers before entering the room.
By the time I came inside, Nicholas had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his windbreaker, lit a fire in the fireplace, and retrieved a pair of cotton towels as well as a woolen blanket from his aunt’s linen closet. He placed my sneakers beside his shoes near the fire and nodded toward the green velvet sofa that faced the vicar’s armchair across the hearth.
“Have a seat,” he said. “You must be chilled to the bone.”
“There’s no need to fuss.” I sat on the sofa and held my hand out for a towel. “I’m fine.”
Nicholas smiled wryly as he wrapped the woolen blanket around my shoulders. We spent a moment in companionable silence, toweling our hair while the fire leapt and crackled and warmed the room. When my short curls and his long locks were sufficiently blotted, Nicholas took the damp towels away and returned with two large mugs of hot cocoa. He presented one to me, sat in the vicar’s armchair, and held his stockinged feet out to the fire.
I swung my legs up on the couch, to put my own feet within drying distance of the flames, and eyed Nicholas speculatively as I sipped the steaming cocoa.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said. “What did you think you were doing, looking in on them like that?”
“I was confirming a hunch,” he replied.
“What hunch?” I asked.
“One of recent vintage. It came to me when you mentioned Ms. Morrow’s profession.” He peered at me quizzically over the rim of his mug. “What do you think they were doing back there?”
“It seemed pretty clear to me,” I mumbled, blushing.
“You didn’t even look,” he objected.
“I didn’t want to look,” I retorted.
Nicholas shook an index finger at me. “Never theorize in advance of the facts, Lori. It’s fatal to any investigation.”
“Okay, Chief Inspector,” I said sarcastically. “Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw”—Nicholas paused for dramatic effect, then went on matter-of-factly—“a skilled physiotherapist ministering to a patient.”
My mouth fell open, and Nicholas grinned.
“I saw Ms. Morrow administering a therapeutic massage to Mr. Wetherhead,” he clarified. “Her manner was that of a highly competent and professional therapist. She was using a portable massage table and a kit stocked with what I assume to be herbal oils of her own devising.” He finished his cocoa and set the mug aside. “Witchcraft is, among other things, a healing profession.”
“A therapeutic massage,” I repeated, as whole piggy banks of pennies began to drop. “Miranda’s been working on George’s injured hip. That’s why he doesn’t need a cane anymore.”
“It may also explain the clandestine nature of her visits,” Nicholas said. “A hip injury would require manipulations of fairly intimate parts of the anatomy. Mr. Wetherhead might permit them to ease his suffering, but he might at the same time find them rather embarrassing.”
“He would,” I stated firmly. “Especially since it’s a
woman doing the manipulating, and not just any woman, but an attractive, unmarried witch. The poor guy . . .” I cupped the mug between my hands. “He was so afraid of scandal that he scheduled his treatments in a way that sparked the very rumors he was afraid of.” I finished my cocoa and placed the mug on the small table at the head of the couch. “Dick Peacock’s going to be sadly disappointed when the truth comes out.”
“Speaking of Mr. Peacock . . . ,” Nicholas prompted.
I told him about the van, the cardboard boxes, and the packet Dick had given to the driver. I was proud of myself for remembering the van’s plate number without referring to my scribbled note.
“Mrs. Pyne was telling the truth,” said Nicholas, “and Mr. Peacock was concealing it.”
“I think he’s buying smuggled liquor,” I said.
“It’s possible.” Nicholas wriggled his toes as if savoring the fire’s warmth. “It’s not easy to keep a pub going in a place as small as Finch. Mr. Peacock wouldn’t be the first landlord to cut costs by stocking his bar with tax-free brew.”
“Sally Pyne seems to know what he’s doing,” I pointed out, “and she doesn’t seem to mind. Pruneface, on the other hand, may not have been so tolerant.”
Nicholas tilted his head back and recited, “There’s taking an interest and there’s poking your damned nose in places where it has no business being.” He pursed his lips. “Mrs. Hooper seems to have poked her nose into Mr. Peacock’s business as well as Mr. Wetherhead’s.”
“She probably spied on both of them from Crabtree Cottage.” I curled my legs under me, drew the blanket over my lap, and leaned back against the sofa’s velvet arm. “I wonder if she threatened to expose them?”
“If she did,” said Nicholas, “it would give both men a motive for murder. Her wagging tongue would have threatened Mr. Peacock’s livelihood and Mr. Wetherhead’s health.”
I gazed unhappily into the fire. Aunt Dimity believed that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper had said or done. Threatening one’s neighbors was nothing if not regrettable. Had one of the men snapped? Dick Peacock was as strong as he was large. A glancing blow from him would be enough to crack Prunella Hooper’s skull.
Aunt Dimity: Detective Page 8
