“Clear it up?” Mr. Wetherhead moaned. “How can you clear it up?”
“By discovering the truth,” Nicholas answered. “That’s what we’re trying to do, and we can’t do it without your help.”
Nicholas said nothing more until I’d taken my place at the table and poured the tea. The pause, the tea, and a large bite of lemon bar seemed to restore Mr. Wetherhead’s composure. When Nicholas spoke again, the little man was no longer shaking.
“We know why Miranda Morrow has been coming to see you,” Nicholas told him. “We know that she’s been acting as your physiotherapist. Why don’t we start there?”
“It was Miranda’s idea.” Mr. Wetherhead gave a small moan and sipped his tea. “She’d done a course in rehabilitative therapy, you see. She was convinced that therapeutic massage combined with regular doses of her herbal medicines would ease the stiffness in my joints. . . .”
The whole story came out in short order, and it was much as I’d imagined it would be. Mr. Wetherhead had been tempted by the prospect of improved mobility but embarrassed by the hands-on nature of the treatment. When he’d proposed conducting sessions at an early hour, to ensure privacy, Miranda Morrow had agreed to give it a try.
“I wanted to protect her reputation,” Mr. Wetherhead explained. “You know how people talk in Finch if they think someone’s fooling around. The things I’ve heard about you two would curl your—” He looked from my tousled curls to Nicholas’s cascading waves and ducked his head. “Well, anyway, it’d make you blush.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Nicholas’s mouth, but he mastered it and asked soberly, “Did Mrs. Hooper suspect you and Ms. Morrow of fooling around?”
Mr. Wetherhead’s face twisted into an indignant frown. “She stood there in that window of hers and looked down on the rest of us like she was some sort of holy saint. Came here to shake her finger at me and tell me to stop philandering or—” The words seemed to catch in his throat. He broke off abruptly and took a long pull on his cup of tea.
Nicholas waited until Mr. Wetherhead had slaked his thirst before murmuring sympathetically, “I do realize how difficult this must be for you. Would it help if I told you that nine times out of ten your worst fears don’t come true? You may think you know what happened to Mrs. Hooper, but you may be wrong.”
“I could be wrong,” Mr. Wetherhead said, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. “I didn’t actually see who smashed her head in.”
Nicholas flinched, but his voice was soothing. “Of course you didn’t. But Mrs. Hooper came here to see you. She ordered you to behave yourself or . . . ?”
Mr. Wetherhead bowed his head. “Or she’d turn Miranda in to the drug squad.”
Nicholas’s eyes met mine across the kitchen table. He looked as bewildered as I felt.
“Pardon?” he said. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say the, er, drug squad?”
“It’s all lies!” Mr. Wetherhead’s head came up, and his face was desperate. “Miranda’s herbal remedies are as wholesome as my granny’s chamomile tea. There’s no question of her using illegal substances. Miranda may be a witch, but she’s a law-abiding witch. I’ll swear to it.”
“Is that what you told Mrs. Hooper?” Nicholas asked.
Mr. Wetherhead glowered. “What I said to Pruneface Hooper isn’t fit to repeat in mixed company.”
Nicholas’s face remained impassive. “Did you tell Ms. Morrow of Mrs. Hooper’s unfounded accusation?”
“I had to, didn’t I?” The little man was pleading now.
“Miranda had to know what she was up against. When I told her, she laughed and said that the Prunefaces of the world had been holding matches to her feet for hundreds of years but they hadn’t burnt her yet because . . . because witches know how to protect themselves.” He paused to take a shuddering breath.
“That’s why you suspect Ms. Morrow of killing Mrs. Hooper,” Nicholas clarified. “You thought Finch’s resident witch might have been protecting herself.” He leaned back in his chair and gazed at Mr. Wetherhead reflectively. “Why would Ms. Morrow need to protect herself if Mrs. Hooper wasn’t telling the truth about the herbal remedies?”
“I could be wrong,” Mr. Wetherhead said doggedly. “There’s others who could’ve done it. Billy Barlow could’ve. Mrs. Taxman was saying only this morning that Billy was on the square early that day, and he hated old Pruneface’s guts.”
“Why did he dislike her so intensely?” Nicholas inquired.
“She kicked his terrier,” Mr. Wetherhead replied. “I saw her do it, right there in front of the Emporium, the Sunday before she died.”
I gasped. “Pruneface kicked Buster?”
Mr. Wetherhead nodded eagerly. “Claimed Buster’d nipped her grandson. More likely the other way round, if you ask me, but Pruneface lashed out at Buster anyway. I thought Billy Barlow would throttle her on the spot.” Mr. Wetherhead’s face brightened suddenly, as though a ray of hope had shone through the dark cloud of his foreboding. “He’s disappeared, hasn’t he? No one knows where he’s gone or when he’s coming back. He’s on the run, is my guess.” He pointed at Nicholas. “You concentrate on finding Billy Barlow and leave Miranda out of it.”
“It may not be possible to leave Ms. Morrow out of it,” Nicholas told him, “but I’m grateful to you for speaking with us.” He stood. “Would you be willing to listen to a word of advice from a younger, less experienced man?”
The dark cloud had settled once more over Mr. Wetherhead, but he nodded.
“All of this sneaking about is doing more harm than good to Ms. Morrow’s reputation,” said Nicholas. “I suggest you reschedule your treatments during normal business hours.”
Mr. Wetherhead put his head in his hands and groaned. “You don’t understand,” he said. “There won’t be any more treatments if your so-called search for truth lands Miranda in prison.”
It was still raining. Nicholas and I stood beneath the peaked roof sheltering Mr. Wetherhead’s front door and contemplated the dense thorn hedge that shielded Briar Cottage from Saint George’s Lane.
“Our next stop,” said Nicholas. “I’m rather looking forward to meeting Ms. Morrow.”
“She won’t be bullied as easily as Mr. Wetherhead,” I muttered.
Nicholas took a deep breath. “I wondered when you’d get around to scolding me.” He scuffed his shoe against the doorstep. “I thought you knew what to expect, Lori. You’re the one who said we’d need dynamite to open Mr. Wetherhead’s mouth.”
“I know.” I hunched my shoulders as a gust of wind splashed rain against my face. “I just didn’t expect you to be so . . . explosive.”
“We’re dealing with murder,” Nicholas reminded me. “We can’t always afford to be polite.”
“I’d advise you to be polite with Miranda Morrow,” I warned, glancing up at him, “or she’ll turn both of us into frogs.”
“You’d make a fetching frog.” He smiled crookedly. “Am I forgiven?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I admitted. “You got the information we wanted. I suppose I can’t carp too much about your methods.”
“Frogs and carp.” Nicholas dabbed a raindrop from the tip of my nose. “You’ve been in the wet too long, Lori. It’s coloring your vocabulary.”
I laughed, but as Nicholas turned up the collar of his trench coat and peered at the leaden sky, I couldn’t keep myself from worrying about his methods. I didn’t mind questioning my neighbors or surveilling them from a distance, but I wasn’t willing to shout at them or sneak up to their windows or threaten to sic the cops on them if they refused to speak with us.
Nicholas seemed willing to do anything. What had started as a casual pursuit had at some point become for him something far more serious. Why was he pushing so hard? Was he driven by a sense of duty to his aunt and uncle, or by a compulsion I did not yet understand? As we approached Briar Cottage I couldn’t help wondering just how far he’d go to find out who’d killed Pruneface Hooper.
Chapter 15
Briar Cottage’s front garden was a haven for plants most people despised. Once through the squeaky gate in Miranda’s thorn hedge, Nicholas and I found ourselves surrounded by beds of nettles, thistles, and teasels, which would, in a few short weeks, be joined by dock, ragwort, speedwell, spurge, and the perennial summer favorite, dandelions. The pesky intruders that drove most gardeners insane were welcome here: Miranda tended her weeds as lovingly as Emma Harris tended her roses.
“The source of Ms. Morrow’s herbal remedies, I assume,” said Nicholas, surveying the curious collection.
“She grows hemlock and deadly nightshade in a greenhouse out back,” I informed him. “Lucky for her Mrs. Hooper wasn’t poisoned.”
“Indeed.” Nicholas looked at the cottage. “It’s a pretty place.”
I agreed with him. I loved everything about Briar Cottage, from its shaggy thatched roof to its lichen-mottled stone walls. It was a shade too small to accommodate a growing family, but for a single woman living with a cat, it was ideal.
Miranda Morrow opened the front door before we had a chance to ring the bell. A true believer might have surmised precognition, but I suspected a more mundane explanation, which Miranda soon confirmed.
“Lori!” she exclaimed. “How delicious to see you. George rang to warn me of your visit.”
Miranda’s eyes, like Nicholas’s, were green, but whereas his were flecked with blue and gold, hers were as pure as emeralds. She was in her mid-thirties, and her wholesome good looks defied clichéd descriptions of ugly witches. Her nose was sprinkled with freckles instead of warts, and her waist-length hair was strawberry-blond, not grizzled gray. She wore a long pale green sweater over an ankle-length skirt made of a swirling patchwork of yellow and gold velvet.
Miranda’s green eyes narrowed as they fell on Nicholas’s face. She studied him in silence for perhaps thirty seconds before saying, “I know who you are, darling.”
“I’m Nicholas Fox,” he said. “Lilian Bunting’s nephew.”
“So I’ve been told.” She stepped aside. “Come in, you splendid creatures, and warm yourselves before my fire.”
Miranda’s front room was cluttered with the tools of her trade. Tarot cards, faceted crystals, dousing twigs, and a miscellany of arcane paraphernalia littered the rough wood-beam mantelpiece, astral charts covered the walls, and bunches of dried herbs hung from the smoke-darkened rafters, filling the room with a pleasantly pungent mélange of fragrances.
Miranda may have used the cards, crystals, and charts as reference tools, but she depended on modern technology to earn a living. She was a telephone witch, dispensing advice, readings, and predictions to all who called. Her state-of-the-art computerized switchboard was tucked discreetly in a nook beneath the stairs to keep it from spoiling the cottage’s distinctly pretechnological ambience.
Miranda hung our coats on pegs protruding from the door and motioned for us to be seated on a fat little sofa draped with paisley shawls and set at an angle to the redbrick hearth.
“I’d like to thank you,” she said to Nicholas as she bent to add coals to the fire. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for convincing George to dispense with secrecy.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had convinced him,” said Nicholas.
“He told me you were most persuasive.” Silver rings glinted on Miranda’s fingers as she caressed a black cat curled on the burgundy-fringed ottoman. The cat opened its luminous yellow eyes, bumped its head against Miranda’s knuckles, tucked its nose under its paws, and went back to sleep. “Seraphina isn’t alarmed by you,” Miranda noted. “Should I be?”
Nicholas smiled. “Ms. Morrow—”
“Miranda, darling. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Not the usual ceremony, at any rate.” She sat in an overstuffed armchair that was set, like the sofa, at a slight angle to the hearth. “I shall call you . . . Nicholas. He’s the patron saint of wolves, I believe. Have you come to Finch seeking prey?”
“I’ve come seeking the truth,” said Nicholas. “I want to find out who murdered Prunella Hooper.”
“So, presumably, do the police,” Miranda murmured.
“My aunt tells me that the villagers aren’t cooperating with the police,” Nicholas said. “No one’s come forward with information.”
“That’s where you come in, is it?” There was a taunting lilt to Miranda’s voice. “Scrounging for tidbits to feed to the authorities?”
“I’m doing what needs to be done to give my aunt and uncle peace of mind,” Nicholas answered calmly.
I spoke up. “We’re trying to help Kit Smith, too. The police are treating him as a suspect.”
“Sweet Kit? A suspect in a murder inquiry?” Miranda rolled her eyes heavenward. “I thought we’d already scaled the heights of absurdity, but I can see we’ve a ways to go yet. What utter rot.”
“I’m with you,” I assured her. “But the police aren’t, and the pressure’s getting to Kit. If this case doesn’t break soon, I’m afraid he will.”
“Poor lamb,” Miranda cooed. “First Mrs. Hooper picks on him and now the police.”
My ears pricked up. “You’ve heard the nasty story Mrs. Hooper concocted?”
“Had it straight from the source.” Miranda folded her legs beneath her and shook her hair back from her face. “She came here one day not long before she died. Brought me a potted geranium. She said she was being neighborly, but I knew what her game was the moment I laid eyes on her.”
“Did you invite her in?” Nicholas asked.
“Naturally. I knew I’d have to purify the place after she left, but her brand of pathology fascinates me.” Miranda stretched her arm out dramatically. “Evil incarnate, offering me a potted plant. I leapt at the chance to observe her at close quarters.” Miranda’s gaze fell on me. “She sat where you’re sitting now.”
Her gaze lingered long enough to make me acutely aware of how small the fat little sofa was. Nicholas couldn’t help pressing his thigh against mine. There was nowhere else for it to go.
Miranda seemed to sense that it wasn’t the fire’s warmth alone that brought a flush to my cheeks. Her eyes twinkled merrily as she went on.
“We had a scrumptious chin-wag,” she said. “She’d been collecting tidbits, too, pinpricks of poison sprinkled judiciously into the chatter. Had I heard that Sally Pyne hated little boys? Did I know that Dick Peacock was engaged in shady dealings? What about Mr. Barlow’s vicious terrier? Wouldn’t I agree that Buster should, for safety’s sake, be put down?”
“Good grief,” I muttered.
“The nonsense was presented so artfully, with so much charm, that I wanted to applaud.” Miranda’s green eyes flashed. “Until she came to Kit. When she told me he’d taken advantage of Nell Harris, I simply had to laugh.”
“You laughed?” I said, nonplussed.
“What else could I do?” Miranda shrugged. “It was the best joke I’d heard in years. Sweet Kit assaulting Nell the Invincible? I think not.”
“Did you voice your opinion?” inquired Nicholas.
“I told Mrs. Hooper that I envied her,” Miranda replied. “Most gardeners are forced to labor over heaps of compost, but she could manure her geraniums simply by talking to them.”
I snickered, Nicholas grinned, and Miranda sighed with pleasure, as if reliving the memorable moment.
“I imagine she was offended,” Nicholas said dryly.
“It took a moment for the insult to register, but once it did, yes, she was offended.” Miranda studied the silver rings on her left hand. “That’s when she began lecturing me on my morals.”
“Had she seen you visiting George Wetherhead?” I asked.
“Watching us was, apparently, her idea of early-morning entertainment,” said Miranda. “She had our schedule by heart. She accused me of corrupting an innocent.”
“She accused George of philandering,” I told her.
“Lovely!” Miranda clapped her hands. “Men like George s
o rarely get the chance to be seen as naughty boys.”
“He was pretty upset by it,” I said.
“Was he?” A puzzled frown crossed Miranda’s face. She tilted her head back, as if giving the matter profound consideration, and murmured, “I wonder if I should be offended?”
Nicholas, too, looked upward, at the bundled herbs hanging from the rafters. His glance seemed perfunctory, but I felt his body tense as his gaze came to rest on a gap between two of the bundles.
He looked at Miranda. “How did you respond to Mrs. Hooper’s accusation?”
Miranda shook her head mournfully. “I told her that jealousy was a sad emotion and that I’d be perfectly willing to step aside if she wanted George for herself.”
“You didn’t,” I said, delighted.
“I did.” Miranda ran a finger along her skirt’s patchwork seams. “That’s when she began to discuss the unusual variety of plants in my garden. She was under the impression that I’d not only corrupted George’s morals but introduced him to the demon weed as well.”
“Marijuana?” I said. “What made her think you grow pot?”
“My herbs, presumably.” Miranda swept a hand through the air to indicate the bundles overhead. “I cultivate medicinal plants, but to a woman with Mrs. Hooper’s vicious imagination, any medicine that isn’t dispensed by a chemist is automatically suspect.”
“Marijuana has therapeutic applications,” Nicholas pointed out.
“True.” Miranda went on speaking as she got up to toss more coal onto the fire. “Its use in treating glaucoma is well documented. It can also help to reduce nausea and increase appetite in people undergoing chemotherapy or radiation treatment. It can work the same way for people afflicted with AIDS. It’s an extremely useful plant.”
“It must be frustrating to be unable to use it,” Nicholas commented.
“It is,” Miranda agreed. She dusted the palms of her hands together lightly and returned to her chair. “But its production must be specially licensed.”
Aunt Dimity: Detective Page 10
