Aunt Dimity: Detective

by Nancy Atherton

How could she help seeing a reflection of her vulnerable, arrogant, fifteen-year-old self in Nell? How could she restrain her hostility toward Kit if she thought he was preying on a young girl? And how could she turn a blind eye to my behavior with Nicholas when any hint of immorality would trigger memories of her own fall from grace?

  “It’s not just that I was in love with Mark,” Peggy said haltingly. “It’s not just that I had a baby out of wedlock. Jasper might understand about those things.” The corners of her mouth trembled. “What he wouldn’t understand is my giving the baby away. He always wanted a son, you see. He could’ve had mine if I hadn’t let them . . .” She put a hand to her mouth. “I wanted to give Sam to the boy so he’d have something from his father, but they took him away before I—” A tear fell on the monkey’s smiling face.

  If I’d had no other reason to despise Prunella Hooper, the sight of Peggy Taxman reduced to tears would have been reason enough. Mrs. Hooper hadn’t merely stuck a knife in Peggy’s back. She’d twisted and turned it and thrust it in more deeply with each jab.

  “Why do you put flowers on her grave?” I asked, bewildered.

  Peggy cleared her throat. “My parents are gone. My auntie is gone. Prunella was my last link with the child I gave up, my last link with Mark.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m grieving for Mark and my baby as much as Prunella, and I’m grieving for the girl she used to be. Prunella Hooper was a good friend to me in those days, my only friend. I’d never have believed she could turn so wicked.”

  Chapter 20

  Peggy returned Sam to her purse and withdrew a nononsense plain white cotton handkerchief. She dried her eyes and wiped her glasses, tucked the handkerchief in beside Sam, and closed the purse. She seemed becalmed, as if she’d absolved herself of responsibility for whatever happened next. Having put her fate in our hands, she awaited judgment.

  Nicholas ran his fingers through his damp hair and stood. He stepped up to the baptismal font and rested his palms on its rough rim. With his back to Peggy, he said, “You know what I have to ask.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Peggy said.

  “She was blackmailing you.” Nicholas gave a weary, half-regretful sigh, as though he’d hoped to avoid pressuring Peggy. “She was tormenting and threatening you. You weren’t with your husband on the morning of Mrs. Hooper’s death. Where were you?”

  “I was rearranging the display window at the Emporium when Prunella was killed,” said Peggy. “I was setting up the lawn mower and the bolt of chintz. You can ask Billy Barlow, if you like. He waved to me as he and Buster went past.”

  Nicholas was reluctantly relentless. “When I last spoke with you, Mrs. Taxman, you gave me the distinct impression that you hadn’t seen Mr. Barlow and Buster. You said you’d heard that he’d been up early that morning. You agreed that he might have been walking his dog. You tried to cast suspicion onto him.”

  Peggy roused herself. “Don’t you think I know how bad it looks for me?” she barked. “If some ferret-faced detective finds out about the blackmail, I’ll be first in line when it comes to handing out motives. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I . . .” She bit her lip and squirmed as I eyed her reproachfully.

  “You drew attention to other people.” Nicholas finished the sentence and turned toward Peggy. His face betrayed no emotion. “You told the police to question Kit Smith, didn’t you, Mrs. Taxman?”

  Peggy craned her neck, as if her coat collar were choking her. “Someone had to question him. All those letters coming in, drenched in perfume. It isn’t right.”

  “It isn’t his fault,” I said. “Nell’s infatuated with Kit. He’s tried to discourage her, but she won’t give it up.” I paused before adding, “Nell’s fifteen, Peggy. She thinks she knows everything there is to know.”

  Peggy shot a wounded glance at me. “That’s why she has to be protected.”

  “Not from Kit,” I said sternly, refusing to back down. “Kit’s incapable of harming anyone but himself. You were wrong to hold him responsible for Nell’s actions. You’ve been wrong about him from start to finish, and you owe him an apology.”

  “You also owe the police an explanation,” Nicholas said. “You must tell them why you sent them to Anscombe Manor on a wild-goose chase.”

  Panic sparked in Peggy’s eyes. “That would mean telling them . . . everything.”

  “The police will keep any information you offer confidential if it has no bearing on the crime,” said Nicholas. “As will we.” His expression softened, and a melancholy note entered his voice. “But I do wish you’d speak with your husband. He loves you dearly, Mrs. Taxman. It’s my belief that he’ll love you more dearly still when he knows what you’ve endured for his sake.”

  “I’ll . . . consider it.” Peggy got to her feet. “Are we finished?”

  “For the time being,” said Nicholas. “We may need to speak with you again, after we’ve spoken with Mr. Barlow.” He made a gracious half-bow. “Thank you for confiding in us, Mrs. Taxman. I hope you understand why it was necessary.”

  Peggy sniffed. “When murder comes through the door, privacy goes out the window,” she said tartly, starting for the door. “Any fool knows that.”

  “Mrs. Taxman,” called Nicholas.

  Peggy turned.

  “I nearly forgot.” Nicholas took a step toward her and smiled his most engaging smile. “My aunt has called for an extraordinary meeting of the Easter vigil committee to take place tomorrow at seven in the schoolhouse. She hopes that you and Mr. Taxman will be able to attend.”

  “Easter vigil committee?” Peggy frowned. “First I’ve heard of it. Tell your aunt she can count on us, though. Jasper and I never miss committee meetings. Good day to you both—and mind how you behave. Finch is a decent village, and I intend to keep it that way.” With a haughty toss of her head, she opened the oak door and left the church.

  Peggy’s parting shot floored me, even as it filled me with grudging admiration. The confession that had reduced her to tears hadn’t come close to quenching her cantankerous spirit, and I astonished myself by hoping that nothing ever would. Though she angered and annoyed me more than anyone on earth, I knew that Finch wouldn’t be Finch without its dragon.

  I turned my attention to Nicholas. He was no longer smiling. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, gazing wistfully at the iron-banded oak door.

  “A pillar of the community,” he murmured. “I wonder how she’ll fare once her story comes out.”

  “Peggy will continue to breathe fire until she stops breathing altogether,” I said confidently. “They broke the mold when they made her. Thank God.”

  Nicholas allowed himself a brief, muted chuckle.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he replied. “Who wouldn’t be? It was a moving story.”

  “You’re the one who got it moving.” I stood and stretched. I felt as if I’d been sitting in one place for hours. “How did you know that Mrs. Hooper wasn’t from Birmingham? Or was it a lucky guess?”

  “It wasn’t a guess.” Nicholas opened the door and drew a deep breath of rain-washed air. A warm, humid breeze tugged at his hair and took the edge off the chill in the church. “The urgent telephone call I had earlier came from Aunt Lilian’s goddaughter.”

  I scanned my memory for the reference. “The one who works at the police station?”

  “That’s the one. I asked her to pull up Mrs. Hooper’s computer file.” Nicholas took off his coat, shook residual raindrops from it, and folded it over his arm. “She discovered that Mrs. Hooper’s place of birth was Whitby, not Birmingham. Mrs. Hooper lived in Yorkshire until she came to Finch.”

  I stared at my friend in dismay. I had no objection to receiving the odd snippet of information from Lilian Bunting’s goddaughter, but I had serious reservations about pursuing those snippets intentionally. It seemed too much like spying on the police, which seemed an awful lot like something that could get him and Lilian’s go
ddaughter arrested. Nicholas had once again behaved in a way I considered both risky and extreme.

  I knew that Aunt Dimity, for one, would agree with me. She’d found it strange that Nicholas would go to such great lengths to discover who’d murdered a woman he’d never known—a woman with whom he had no personal connection. As Aunt Dimity’s words came back to me, a startling idea took shape in my mind:

  What if Nicholas had a personal connection?

  I walked over to stand beside him in the open doorway. I studied his profile carefully before asking, “Are you . . . Peggy Taxman’s son?”

  A broad, authentically amused grin split Nicholas’s face as he laughed out loud. “I know I’m not stripling youth, Lori—I believe your first words to me were that I was not a child—but do I really look as if I’m in my fifties?”

  I did a rough calculation in my head and immediately wished I’d done so before speaking.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, blushing. “Arithmetic never was my strong suit.”

  He was still grinning as he leaned back against the door and asked, “What on earth made you think that I might be Mrs. Taxman’s long-lost son?”

  I shrugged. “You seem so determined to find out who killed Mrs. Hooper. I thought for a minute that it might have been a smokescreen for finding out who your birth mother was.”

  “You suspect me of hidden agendas? Alas, the numbers are against you.” He spoke lightly, but the momentary flash of amusement had faded from his eyes. He looked out at the graveyard. “I’m sorry, Lori. I’ve been a dreary companion today.”

  I decided then and there to clap a lid on my reservations about his illicit use of police files. Nicholas didn’t need to hear a word of criticism from me. He was being hard enough on himself.

  “No problem,” I said easily. “I’m a woman. I can deal with mood swings.”

  I’d hoped the quip might restore his good humor, but his expression grew more somber still.

  “I realize that my intensity disturbs you,” he said, “but I need you to trust me for a little while longer. We’re nearly there.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He contemplated the churchyard in silence. “The Pyms’ gingerbread,” he said finally. “There’s only one recipient with whom we haven’t spoken.”

  “Mr. Barlow.” A flutter of excitement passed through me. “Are we going up north to track him down?”

  Nicholas eyed me skeptically. “I’m not entirely convinced that your husband would be keen on the idea of us running off together.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed, deflated. “What are we going to do, then?”

  “We’re going to wait.”

  Nicholas motioned for me to precede him into the south porch and followed after me, closing the door behind him. We left the porch together and ambled side by side down the gravel path toward the lych-gate. Fat clouds raced across the clearing sky as the churchyard’s rain-dappled grass rippled and swayed.

  I felt as restless as the rippling grass. I was no better at waiting than I was at arithmetic, but we didn’t seem to have much choice. We’d discovered strong motives and weak alibis among our chief suspects but not a single witness to account for what had happened in the front window of Crabtree Cottage on the morning Pruneface Hooper had met her maker. Mr. Barlow was our last chance, and until he returned from his journey, we could do nothing but twiddle our thumbs.

  As we turned into Saint George’s Lane, I invited Nicholas to spend the afternoon at the cottage with me and the twins, hoping Will and Rob might succeed where I’d failed and lift his gloomy spirits. He declined, however, saying that he had to run down to London to attend to some personal business.

  “Nothing’s wrong, I hope,” I said.

  “I’ve a . . . doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon,” he said, looking straight ahead. “Just routine. I scheduled it months ago. I’ll be back in time for the committee meeting tomorrow evening, though.” He glanced at me. “I’m counting on you to be there, too.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Aunt Lilian appointed a select group of villagers to the committee,” he informed me. “It’s composed of the Taxmans, the Peacocks, Mrs. Pyne, Mr. Wetherhead, and Ms. Morrow.”

  “Miranda—?” I broke off and smiled wryly as comprehension dawned. Either the committee had been intentionally stuffed with suspects or Lilian Bunting had decided to make a name for herself as the only vicar’s wife in England to appoint a pagan to an Easter vigil committee. “Do I detect a stage manager’s swagger in your walk, Mr. Fox?”

  “It was Aunt Lilian’s idea,” he protested. “She thought it would be instructive to hold such a gathering now that you and I have, let us say, opened new lines of communication in Finch.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  “Good.” Nicholas flicked his hair back from his face and gazed soberly toward the square. “I expect it to be an extraordinary meeting in every sense of the word.”

  Chapter 21

  I stopped at Anscombe Manor on the way home to have a word with Kit. I found him leaning on the paddock gate, dressed in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, a quilted nylon vest, and muddy work boots.

  His gaze was fixed on Rocinante, Nell’s chestnut mare, who was galloping around the paddock and tossing her head excitedly. He was so absorbed in her boisterous antics that he didn’t notice me until I rested my arms beside his on the top bar of the gate.

  “Hey, Kit,” I said, smiling up at him. “How’re you doing?”

  “Much better,” he replied.

  I nodded toward Rosie. “She seems happy.”

  “The farrier came today,” he said. “She’s trying out her new shoes.”

  While Kit watched the mare prance, I studied him. The haunted, harried look had vanished from his violet eyes. His hands rested loosely on the five-barred wooden gate, and a contented smile played upon his delicately curved lips. He seemed utterly at peace.

  “You look great,” I commented. “Have the nasty phone calls stopped?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t know. Emma won’t allow me to answer the telephone.”

  “Any more visits from the police?” I asked.

  He rested his chin on his arms. “Emma’s solicitor has frightened them off.”

  “What about Nell?” I inquired. “Are you still getting letters from her?”

  “She’s using rosewater now,” he said tranquilly. “It makes a change from lavender.”

  I gave him a questioning glance. “That’s okay with you?”

  “Look.” Kit stretched out his arm and pointed across the pasture to an extremely muddy young man who’d emerged from a drainage ditch, carrying a shovel. “Annelise’s brother, Lucca.”

  I knew Lucca. He was twenty years old, soft-spoken, hardworking, and built like Michelangelo’s David. His tousled black curls framed a face that rivaled Kit’s for beauty, and his eyes were nearly as blue as Nell’s.

  “Emma’s hired him to help me put in a new drainage system.” Kit waved to Lucca, and the young man waved back. “He’ll be here for Easter and all through the summer.”

  “In other words,” I said, “Lucca will be here when Nell’s home from school.”

  “Precisely,” said Kit.

  It wasn’t every stepmother who’d hire one gorgeous man to distract her stepdaughter from another, but Emma clearly felt that desperate times called for desperate measures. I gave her full marks for creativity. Her ploy might not work in the long run—Kit would be a hard act for any young man to follow—but its short-term effects were good enough for me. Emma had taken the pressure off Kit, erected a protective wall around him, and applied the balm of her own serenity to his troubled spirit. I couldn’t have left my friend in better hands.

  “I hope Emma’s persuaded you to drop the idea of going to Norfolk,” I said.

  “Norfolk?” Kit swung his arm up and around me, and pulled me close to his side. “I love Anscombe Manor. I love my job. I have friends here who love me.�
�� He planted a gentle kiss on my brow. “Why would I give all of that up because of a spiteful woman and a moonstruck schoolgirl?”

  As he fed my words back to me, a weight seemed to slip from my shoulders. Though I’d claimed from the start to be defending Kit, the truth was that I needed him. His sweet nature calmed and nourished my turbulent one. His essential goodness was like a beacon guiding me through a world that at times seemed very dark. If Kit had left Anscombe Manor, he would have left an irreparable hole in my soul.

  I knew now that he would stay, no matter what. Whether Nicholas and I succeeded in nailing the murderer or failed miserably, Kit would go on being a part of my life. A wave of relief and gratitude filled my heart to overflowing.

  “You wouldn’t dare leave,” I managed, fighting sudden tears, “because you know I’d come after you and drag you back by the scruff of your neck.”

  “My fierce angel,” he murmured. He ruffled my hair, then rested his arms once more on the gate. “Emma tells me you’ve been wielding your burning sword on my behalf.”

  “Nicholas did most of the wielding,” I said quickly, and told him what Nicholas and I had discovered about the good people of Finch. Kit was deeply touched to learn that so many of his neighbors had gone on believing in him despite Mrs. Hooper’s wicked attempts to blacken his name.

  I saved Peggy’s story for last. Nicholas had promised to keep it confidential, but I refused to conceal the truth from Kit. He’d been persecuted and reviled by Peggy Taxman. He deserved to know why.

  His response was characteristically magnanimous.

  “What an amazing woman,” he marveled. “To build a rich and rewarding life after suffering so many crushing blows . . . What fortitude.”

  I thought he was being a tad overgenerous and reminded him acerbically that Peggy had been willing to throw him to the wolves to save her own hide.

  “She was afraid,” he said simply. “She was being manipulated and threatened by a truly evil woman. I can’t be angry with her.”

  “You can’t be angry with anyone,” I teased.