Aunt Dimity: Detective (5 page)

“I just wish I knew for certain that I was marching in the right direction,” I added worriedly.

Reginald's black button eyes remained impassive. He was much too wise a bunny to contradict Aunt Dimity.

“Okay,” I said, “I'll recruit Emma, finagle an invitation to the vicarage, and—”

The telephone on the old oak desk interrupted my monologue. I answered it and felt a stab of anxiety as Kit's frantic voice broke into my greeting.

“Lori,” he said urgently. “The police came to Anscombe Manor to question me. They seem to think that
I
killed Pruneface Hooper!”

Chapter 6

The police weren't entirely stupid. They'd gotten wind of the scandalous rumor Pruneface Hooper had invented about Kit, but their informant had given it a darker twist. The new version held that Mrs. Hooper had caught Kit in the act of abusing Nell Harris the day before the murder, when Nell had been home for a brief holiday from school. If the story were true, it would give Kit a clear motive for wanting to silence Mrs. Hooper. True or not, it had given the authorities the excuse they needed to question him.

To make matters worse, Kit had no one to vouch for his whereabouts on the morning of the murder, and the stables were chockablock with blunt instruments.

Emma and Derek Harris had returned from Devon to find their friend and employee under siege. They'd spoken up for him and summoned their solicitor to keep the police at bay, but the encounter had shaken Kit to the core.

I did what I could to calm him, then asked to speak with Emma.

“Can you believe everything that's happened since you left for Devon?” I asked, when she picked up.

“I wish we hadn't gone,” she replied. “We should never have left Kit alone. First the rumors, then the phone calls, and now this. Derek and I are concerned about him, Lori. We're afraid he might do something drastic.”

“Mrs. Hooper's dead,” I reminded her. “It doesn't get a whole lot more drastic than that.”

“Not to Mrs. Hooper,” Emma said, exasperated. “To
himself.
I don't think he can take much more.”

“For God's sake,” I said, clutching the phone, “you don't mean that he might hurt himself, do you?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” Emma said grimly. “He'd hoped to escape this mess by leaving Anscombe Manor, but the police have requested—politely but pointedly—that he stay put. Kit feels trapped and persecuted and . . . I don't know what he might do.”

“You keep an eye on him,” I told her.

“I intend to,” she declared. “Derek and I won't leave home until the police catch the real culprit.”

I wasn't even vaguely tempted to mention Aunt Dimity's plan. If Emma couldn't join me in my quest to find the killer, I'd carry on alone. When I finished my conversation with her, I called Bill.

“The cops are picking on Kit because he's an easy target,” I insisted, after filling him in on the latest turn of events. “They don't have a scrap of evidence.

“How do you know?” asked Bill.

“Lilian Bunting's goddaughter—”

“The village grapevine,” Bill interrupted. “I should have guessed.” He sighed. “Tell Kit to sit tight. Derek's solicitor is more than capable of dealing with a case of police harassment.”

“What about the other harassment?” I demanded. “Some creep has accused Kit of being a child molester.”

“It's gotten out of hand,” Bill agreed, “but there's not much we can do about it except stand by Kit.” There was a pause. “Lori, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Gerald's come in with a client.”

“Okay,” I said, making a heroic effort not to grumble. “I'll see you on Saturday.”

“Lori,” Bill said. “As long as Kit has you and Emma and Derek to defend him, he doesn't need a solicitor. I'll be home soon, love.”

I hung up the phone, sat back, and lifted my gaze to the blue journal. Reginald sat beside it, his black button eyes gleaming imperiously, as if to remind me of the folly of second-guessing Aunt Dimity.

Because Dimity had been right. The crime's infection was spreading in Finch, poisoning hearts and minds. Things would go from bad to worse as long as the killer remained at large. Kit was already cracking under the strain. If the crime wasn't solved soon, he might break down completely.

I snatched up the phone and savagely punched the Buntings' number. I no longer cared who I sent to prison. I had to find out who'd killed Pruneface Hooper before Pruneface Hooper's murder killed my friend.

I left Annelise in sole charge of the boys the following morning and drove my canary-yellow Range Rover toward the village. Lilian Bunting had invited me to lunch at the vicarage, but I'd left two hours earlier than necessary. I wanted to make a stop along the way and knew from past experience that it might take a while.

Ruth and Louise Pym were identical twin sisters who lived about a mile outside of Finch. They were well into their nineties, yet they somehow managed to stay as spry as sparrows. They drove their own car, won flower-show blue ribbons for their chrysanthemums, and knew which way the wind blew in the village. Their minds sometimes meandered along unfathomable paths, but there was always a point to the journey, and it was always one worth waiting for.

Their house, unlike most in the area, was made of mellow orange-red brick, with lattice windows and a neatly trimmed thatch roof that had weathered through the years to a mottled gray. Not one wall in the house was straight, not one floor was even, but the furniture had been there for so long that it had accommodated itself to the building's peculiarities—neither chairs nor tables wobbled, and no pictures hung askew.

I parked my car on the grassy verge and let myself through the wrought-iron gate between the Pyms' short hedges. The carefully tended flower beds bordering the path to the front door were alight with bright spring bulbs. Drifts of hyacinths, daffodils, and tender white narcissi turned their faces to the sun like a choir praising the miracle of spring. I paused on the doorstep to survey the lovely scene before turning the key-shaped handle on the old-fashioned bell.

The door opened. One sister appeared, then the other, but it was beyond my poor powers of observation to figure out who was who. Both were dressed in long-sleeved gowns of the palest dove-gray wool, with four flat pleats falling from crocheted collars to tiny, cinched-in waists. Their shoes were black and extremely sensible, and their white hair was caught up in identical buns on the backs of their identical heads. I'd long since learned to rely on my ears rather than my eyes to tell the sisters apart: Louise's voice was softer, and Ruth invariably spoke first.

“Two visitors in one morning!” Ruth exclaimed. “And such . . .”

“. . . welcome ones,” Louise continued. “Come in, come in, dear Lori, and tell us about . . .”

“. . . your voyage to America!” Ruth finished. The sisters' Ping-Pong speaking style required the listener to have an agile neck.

I returned their greetings and handed each a tissue-wrapped length of Brussels lace. “My father-in-law sends his best wishes,” I said, “and hopes that you'll forgive the tardy arrival of his Christmas presents.”

Ruth beamed up at me. “We'll consider them . . .”

“. . . early Easter gifts,” Louise promised, “and cherish the giver. Now, do come in, Lori, and let us . . .”

“. . . introduce you to our other guest.” Ruth drew me into the sitting room, but there was no need to make an introduction. I'd already met their other guest.

Nicholas Fox's eyes smiled as he rose from his chair at the tea table. He was wearing blue jeans, a creamy turtleneck, and his trusty brown tweed blazer.

“We meet again,” he said.

“I thought we would,” I replied, disconcerted, “at lunch.”

“Ah, but it was such a beautiful morning,” he said, “I couldn't resist a stroll.”

Ruth stood between us, her bright bird's eyes darting from my face to Nicholas's. “Dear Nicholas walked all the way . . .”

“. . . from the vicarage,” said Louise. “We were in the front garden when he passed . . .”

“. . . and he said such splendid things about our hyacinths,” Ruth went on, “that we simply had to ask him in for a cup of tea. Do be seated, both of you.”

Nicholas moved a sturdy Queen Anne chair to the tea table for me before resuming his own seat, and the sisters took their places facing us.

The modestly proportioned walnut table was trembling under the weight of the Pym sisters' “cup of tea.” Three plates of crustless sandwiches vied with a pair of overladen pastry stands and an exquisite tea set painted—by the sisters' own hands, I suspected—with a sprinkling of dew-dappled strawberries.

While Louise busied herself with the teapot, Ruth pressed me to sample the goodies. I conscientiously filled a dish and hoped that Lilian Bunting was preparing a light lunch.

“We didn't recognize Nicholas at first,” Ruth informed me. “He was much younger . . .”

“. . . the last time he came to visit his dear aunt,” said Louise, “and his delightful hair was much, much shorter.”

“I don't see my aunt and uncle as often as I should,” Nicholas acknowledged. “London's an all-absorbing sort of place. It's far too easy to forget that the rest of the world exists.”

“We've never been to London,” said Ruth. “But we've heard that it's . . .”

“. . . rather large and terribly exciting,” Louise commented. “Our small community must seem . . .”

“. . . distressingly dull by comparison,” Ruth concluded.

“Not at all,” said Nicholas. “Finch is a charming village.”

“And it's had its share of excitement lately,” I put in. “I can't tell you how surprised I was to hear about what happened to Mrs. Hooper.”

A chill seemed to pass through the room as the Pyms' lips primmed into identical thin lines of disapproval. Nicholas, who'd been contentedly gorging himself on the sisters' feather-light éclairs, suddenly became as still as stone.

“That's because you didn't know her, dear,” said Ruth. “She was a most . . .”

“. . . objectionable woman.” Louise sipped her tea before adding, “Her wake was an almost silent affair. Since no one wished to speak ill of the dead . . .”

“. . . no one spoke,” said Ruth. “Apart from the vicar, of course, and Mrs. Hooper's son. It reminded us of the hermit's wake . . .”

“. . . though he hadn't a son to speak for him,” Louise informed us, “and people were silent then not because they disliked the poor fellow but because so little was known about him.”

“No one seems to know anything about Mrs. Hooper's death, either,” I prompted hopefully, but Ruth went on as if I hadn't spoken.

“The hermit was antisocial in his way,” she observed, “just as Mrs. Hooper . . .”

“. . . was antisocial in hers,” said Louise. “The difference being that the hermit's ways harmed no one, whereas . . .”

“. . . Mrs. Hooper's did a great deal of harm.” Ruth offered me a slice of seedcake. “The truly regrettable thing is that she continues . . .”

“. . . to do so much harm after her death.” Louise refilled Nicholas's cup.

“Did she harm you?” Nicholas asked.

“She was a serpent in the bosom of our village,” Louise declared. “My sister and I know how to deal with serpents.”

The seedcake, of which I was very fond, seemed to turn to chalk in my mouth. I'd never heard the Pyms speak so bluntly about anyone.

“One avoids them,” said Ruth.

“As we avoided Mrs. Hooper,” added Louise. “Others did not and were stung . . .”

“. . . rather severely.” Ruth brushed a crumb from the tablecloth. “And now they sting each other. That's the trouble, you see. Questions . . .”

“. . . so many unanswered questions.” Louise tilted her head to one side. “And gingerbread, of course.”

I glanced uncertainly at Nicholas, but his eyes were fixed on Louise's.

“Did you say . . . gingerbread?” I ventured.

“Gilded gingerbread.” Louise nodded. “We make it every year . . .”

“. . . to give as gifts at Eastertide.” Ruth's nod mirrored her sister's. “Our motor isn't functioning properly, however, and since Mr. Barlow is away from home—”

“He is?” I interrupted. I'd been counting on a conversation with the prophetic mechanic.

“He's visiting family, we believe,” said Ruth. “Somewhere up north. Naturally, we wouldn't trust our motor to anyone but Mr. Barlow, so we were rather hoping . . .”

“. . . that you would do us a great favor,” said Louise, “and deliver the gingerbread for us. There's no hurry. It will keep for several days. We've written the names of the recipients . . .”

“. . . atop each box,” Ruth concluded.

Nicholas deposited his empty plate on the table and stood. “Ladies,” he announced, “I am at your service.”

“Me, too,” I piped up hastily. “We can use my car to make the deliveries. And if you need to go anywhere, please give me a call.”

“So kind, so kind,” the sisters chorused.

The Pyms were acquainted with everyone who lived in and around Finch and were known for their generosity, so I expected to fill the Range Rover to the roof with gingerbread. I was puzzled, therefore, when Nicholas returned from the kitchen carrying only six boxes.

“Shall we come back for the rest?” I asked hesitantly.

Ruth smiled. “We wouldn't dream of . . .”