Aunt Dimity: Detective (3 page)

Lady Eleanor Harris wasn't your average gawky teenager. She was tall, willowy, and as ethereally beautiful as frost upon a windowpane. Her eyes were the color of a midnight sky, and her golden curls seemed to catch sunlight even on the cloudiest of days. She was graceful, engaging, formidably intelligent, and secure enough to hold her own with any adult. Nell had a fey quality that might make her seem childlike to the untrained eye, but those of us who knew her best had long since learned—sometimes to our cost—that she was wise beyond her years.

“She's still in
school,
for pity's sake,” Kit was saying. “I'd never—”

“I know you wouldn't,” I soothed.

Kit's face grew pensive. “She sends love poems to me. Passionate ones. In scented envelopes. Peggy Taxman looks daggers at me every time I set foot in the Emporium.”

“Poor Kit,” I said, trying hard not to smile.

“It's not funny,” Kit scolded, reading my expression.

“I know it's not, honestly I do.” I patted his hand. “But I'm afraid you're going to have to grin and bear it. Nell will grow out of it, I promise you.”

“And in the meantime?” Kit's delicately curved mouth was set in a thin line. “I thought the situation had finally sorted itself out, but only this week I've gotten three abusive phone calls. Some wag rang this morning to ask if he could help me break in fillies.”

“So that's what set you off,” I said. “That's why you were up on Pouter's Hill.”

“I was . . . angry. I don't like being angry.” Kit lowered his long lashes and took a tremulous breath. “Lori,” he said, “I've been offered a job at a racing stable in Norfolk. I'm seriously considering—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Absolutely not.”

“But Lori—”

“You're not going anywhere, Kit,” I said sternly. “You love Anscombe Manor, you love your job, and you have friends here who love you. You're not going to give all of that up because of a spiteful woman and a moonstruck schoolgirl.”

Kit lifted his hands helplessly. “I don't know what else to do.”

“You can stand up for yourself,” I snapped. “Do you think you're the first person to trip over the village grapevine? Gossip's as common as clover in Finch.”

“But a man in my position—”

“Do Emma and Derek believe that you've been flirting with their daughter?” I asked.

“Would I still be employed by them if they did?” Kit returned.

“That settles it,” I declared. “I trust you, Bill trusts you, and Nell's parents trust you. The only people who don't trust you are the ones who don't know you, and they can each and every one of them take a flying leap into the river.” I smacked the table with my palm. “Including and most especially
Peggy Taxman!
”

Kit's violet eyes flickered, and a sweet smile slowly crept across his face. “She'd make quite a splash.”

I hesitated, caught off guard by his smile, then grinned back at him ruefully. “She'd drain the river.”

“That would be a sight worth seeing,” he observed.

“You bet it would.” I took a breath. “So don't even think about going to Norfolk, okay?”

“I wouldn't dare.” Kit glanced up as a flurry of wind-driven rain lashed the window above the sink.

“It's supposed to blow itself out by morning,” I said, following his gaze. “Stay here for the night.”

“I can't.” Kit sighed wearily. “With Emma and Derek in Devon, there'll be no one to look after the horses in the morning.”

“I'll call Annelise's brother. Lucca's helped out before. He knows the ropes.” I put my hand over Kit's. “Stay. I'll make up a bed for you on the sofa.”

“Alright. I will. I wasn't looking forward to the ride home. My anger kept me warm before, but for some reason I don't feel quite so furious anymore.” He twined his long fingers with mine. “I've missed you, Lori. I've missed your magnificent roar.”

“I've missed you, too,” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Leave the anger to me, Kit. I'm much better at it than you are.”

“I'll look in on Zephyrus, then have an early night.” Kit sank back in his chair and raised his hand to massage the nape of his neck. “I haven't slept properly since Christmas.”

I noted the dark shadows beneath his wide-set eyes and felt the lioness surge within me. Kit was kind and good and utterly defenseless. He'd done nothing but protect Mrs. Hooper's grandson from harm, and she'd repaid him with a sneaky-mean attack on his reputation.

If she'd walked into my kitchen at that moment, I'd've been sorely tempted to reach for the nearest blunt instrument.

Chapter 4

The storm raged throughout the night, but its fury was spent by daybreak. The sun rose on a glistening world of puddles and rain-stippled hedgerows. The air was sweet, the sky a shimmering blue, with only a smattering of ragged clouds to remind us of the gale that had blown the day before. April in the Cotswolds was nothing if not changeable.

Kit was fast asleep when Annelise and I brought the twins downstairs for breakfast. Will and Rob adored the stable master and threatened to lay siege to the sofa, but I distracted them with cinnamon toast and a trip to the shed to feed Zephyrus, then kept them occupied in the kitchen baking bread. I didn't want them to disturb Kit's first sound sleep since Christmas.

He was still dead to the world when the doorbell rang at half past eleven, heralding the arrival of Lilian Bunting and her nephew. I trotted up the hallway, hoping that little Nicky would be moderately well behaved. I didn't want him disturbing Kit's rest, either. I paused to peep in at Kit's slumbering form, then opened the front door.

A man stood on the flagstone path, clad in a black trench coat. He was in his mid-thirties, about six inches taller than me and slightly built. His hair, an innocuous shade of brown enlivened by vagrant strands of gold, fell in tight waves from a severe center part nearly to his shoulders, as if he were ashamed to show his ears or had never quite outgrown his hippie youth. He had a craggy, unhandsome face, with a pronounced jawline and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, but his eyes were wonderful, a glimmering shade of sea-green flecked with blue and gold. They smiled before his mouth did.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm Nicholas Fox. I believe you're expecting me.”

“Nicky?” I blinked in confusion.

“Nicholas, please,” he said. “I left Nicky behind when I left prep school.”

“But . . . you're not a child,” I faltered.

“I was once,” he said brightly. “And I've been accused of behaving childishly on occasion. Shall I demonstrate?”

I laughed and invited him in.

“Sorry about the misunderstanding,” I said, closing the door behind him. “From the way Lilian talked about you, I thought you were a little boy.”

“Dear Aunt Lilian,” he said. “I'll always be Nicky to her. You, I presume, are Lori Willis.”

“Lori Shepherd,” I corrected. “Willis is my husband's last name, not mine, but we can simplify the whole thing by sticking with Lori.”

“Lori it is, then. My aunt misinformed me as to your last name. Distress is scattering her wits, I fear. She did, however, tell me that you have two little boys of your own.” His gaze flickered downward. “I can see for myself that it's true. Bakers, are they?”

I looked down and saw that my blue jeans were liberally sprinkled with small, floury handprints. I laughed again and offered to take Nicholas's trench coat. He'd dressed casually and for warmth, layering a heathery brown tweed blazer and deep blue V-neck sweater over a pale blue button-down shirt. I glanced with trepidation at his dark brown trousers and reminded myself to wash the boys' hands before they made his acquaintance.

“We've been baking bread,” I informed him, “but I was about to start working on lunch. I hope you've brought an appetite with you.”

“I'm sure I have one here somewhere,” said Nicholas, patting his pockets.

I was in the middle of my third laugh when Kit emerged from the living room, tousled and barefoot and wearing a pair of Bill's striped pajamas.

When Nicholas extended his hand to shake Kit's, I noticed that his knuckles were scarred and misshapen, as if he'd beaten his fists against a brick wall.

“Nicholas Fox,” he said. “Lilian Bunting's nephew. You must be Bill.”

“No, he's not,” I said, tearing my gaze from those battered hands. “My husband's in London. This is my friend Kit.”

“Ah.” Nicholas gently cleared his throat.

Kit broke the pregnant silence by clasping Nicholas's awkwardly hovering hand. “I'm Kit Smith,” he said. “I run the stable yard at Anscombe Manor. Lori was kind enough to put my horse and me up for the night when we were caught out in the storm.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Nicholas.

I directed Kit to the master bedroom, where I'd laid out his dry clothes, advised him that lunch would be ready in ten minutes, and brought Lilian's nephew with me to the kitchen.

Nicholas Fox was impressively well prepared to spend an afternoon with toddlers. His pockets were stuffed with tiny cars, plastic farm animals, and a host of windup toys guaranteed to win my sons' affection. He, in turn, seemed delighted by Will and Rob.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as I threw together a salad-soup-and-sandwich meal. He clearly enjoyed roughhousing with the twins, and ate his lunch with equal relish, complimenting me on the fresh-baked bread as well as the blackberry crumble I'd whipped up for dessert. I couldn't understand why Lilian found her nephew so difficult to entertain. He didn't seem to be all that hard to please.

Kit left for Anscombe Manor as soon as the table was cleared, and Annelise took the twins outside to play. Nicholas offered to accompany them, but I shook my head and invited him to sit with me in the living room instead.

“Pace yourself,” I advised, “or you'll be dropping in your tracks by the time you leave.”

He bowed his head. “I defer to the expert, but they are charming children. And you have a lovely home.”

“Thanks.” Nicholas had so far praised my sons, my cooking, and my cottage. If he was trying to endear himself to me, he was succeeding. I gestured for him to take a seat in Bill's armchair and knelt to light the fire. “Do you have a family of your own?”

“Apart from the one I was born into, no,” he replied. “No wife, no fiancée, and no prospects in the offing. I'm singularly single. I don't even own a cat.”

“I didn't mean to pry,” I said, blushing. “I only asked because you're so good with Rob and Will.” I eyed his tweed blazer. “Are you a teacher?”

“Of a sort,” he said. “I teach self-defense.”

My gaze shifted to his scarred knuckles. “Karate? Judo? That sort of thing?”

“I'm small but deadly,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I've no students at the moment, so I thought I'd pay a visit to Aunt Lilian. I haven't been to Finch in years. As I live in London, I was rather hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Instead of which you walked straight into the crime of the century.” I was joking, but Nicholas didn't laugh.

“It's truer than you think,” he commented. “According to Aunt Lilian, there hasn't been a murder in the village of Finch since one shepherd whacked another with the hook of his crook in the autumn of 1879. Since then there's been a number of deaths by misadventure but not a single murder.”

I sat back on my heels. “So Mrs. Hooper's murder really
is
the crime of the century?”

“It is. Finch has had an exceptionally tranquil history.” He paused. “Until now.”

I got to my feet and made myself comfortable in the overstuffed armchair facing Nicholas's across the hearth. “No wonder the vicar's so upset. He must feel terrible, knowing that Finch's first major crime in over a hundred years happened on his watch.”

“The murder shocked Uncle Teddy, naturally,” said Nicholas, “but I believe he's even more troubled by the villagers' reactions to it.”

“How have they reacted?” I asked, though I already had an inkling.

“With distinct indifference,” he answered. “They seem to be taking Mrs. Hooper's death very much in stride.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I murmured, half to myself.

“Pardon?”

I raised my voice. “It's something my nanny said. About Mrs. Hooper . . .”

I turned toward the fire and began to tell Nicholas what I'd learned about the unpopular Mrs. Hooper. I repeated Mr. Barlow's observations on women who cause trouble wherever they go; recounted Annelise's hints about mischief and wicked rumors; and shared, with increasing indignation, the unfortunate results of Kit's attempt to protect Mrs. Hooper's grandson from Zephyrus. Nicholas listened without interruption, almost without blinking, his craggy face a sober mask of concentration.

“Mr. Barlow hit the nail on the head,” I concluded. “Pruneface Hooper was as sneaky-mean as they come. She simpered to Kit's face while she stabbed him in the back. I wish I'd been home when the rumors started. If I'd known what she was up to, I'd've wrung her neck.”

“Would you?” Nicholas said mildly.

I looked up, startled. I'd forgotten that he was in the room. “How did you do that?”

“Sorry?” he said.

“You disappeared into the woodwork while I was talking,” I said. “How'd you do it? Is it some kind of Far Eastern mind-body-control thing?”