And George Wetherhead’s three-pronged cane was an undeniably blunt instrument.
I glanced over at Nicholas. He was staring at the dancing flames and slowly combing his fingers through his hair. The vagrant gold strands gleamed in the firelight, and his eyes shone like liquid opals.
“Doesn’t it get in the way?” I asked.
He came out of his reverie. “Sorry?”
“Your hair,” I said. “Doesn’t it get in the way when you’re karate-chopping people?”
“Perfect vision isn’t essential if one hones one’s other senses.” He sat forward in his chair. “Close your eyes.”
I closed them.
“Listen,” he instructed, “not with your ears alone but with your entire body. Try to locate me.”
I cheated at first and focused on my sense of hearing, but Nicholas in stockinged feet on a Turkish carpet, however threadbare, made not a sound.
I closed my eyes more tightly and widened my focus until I felt as if I were listening with my skin. This time I felt a tingle, as if an electrical field surrounding me had been subtly altered. I raised my hand, reached out, and seemed to touch spun silk. I opened my eyes to find my fingers tangled in Nicholas’s hair.
He was on his knees beside me. He gazed at me in silence for a moment, then brought his shadowed face so close to mine that I caught the scents of wood smoke and rain lingering on his skin.
“Your sixth sense can alert you to many things,” he said softly. “Not only physical sensation but emotion, intention . . . It can help you to avoid danger if you trust it.”
We were alone in the study. No nosy neighbors were keeping watch, and Reginald was in Wysteria Lodge. I let my fingers trail through his hair.
Nicholas caught his breath and gathered my hand in his, murmuring, “Not a good idea.”
“Sorry,” I said, but made no attempt to withdraw my hand.
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s been hovering in the air for a while. We may as well admit it.” He ran his thumb along the back of my hand and lightly stroked each finger. “I won’t deny that I’m drawn to you, Lori, but we have to leave it there. Anything else would be too . . . complicated. For you. Not only because you’re married, but because you live here. This is your home. I’m merely passing through.”
“Right.” A wave of regret tumbled through me and I ducked my head to hide my confusion. Nicholas was talking common sense. I was the one with my head in the clouds.
He released my hand and sat back on his heels. “There’s a palpable charge between us, Lori. It crackles every time our eyes meet. What are we going to do about it?”
“Ground it,” I said unsteadily, “and move on.”
“I hope we can, because we’ve serious work ahead of us”—his fingertips grazed my cheek—“and I’m not beyond temptation.”
The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and Lilian Bunting entered the study, clad in bedroom slippers and a quilted dressing gown. She looked from me, reclining on the sofa beneath a rumpled blanket, to Nicholas, kneeling closely by my side, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I could ask if you’ve been here all night,” she said, “but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.”
“Then offer us breakfast instead,” Nicholas suggested. “We’ve been sleuthing since dawn and we’re famished.”
“Sleuthing?” Lilian pursed her lips as if intending to keep her thoughts to herself, but as she turned to leave the room she murmured audibly, “I sincerely hope that’s all you’ve been doing since dawn.”
Chapter 13
Lilian and the vicar listened somberly as we described what the dawn’s early light had revealed. Nicholas did most of the talking. I was too busy stuffing my face with toast, marmalade, sausages, and poached eggs. My early-morning work-out had sharpened my appetite, but I felt astonishingly alert and eager to get on with the investigation.
I’d telephoned Annelise to let her know where I was and that I might be gone longer than I’d planned. When she offered to bring me a change of clothes, I told her not to bother. My sneakers and puddle-dampened trousers had dried nicely before the fire in the study.
“It seems we were sadly mistaken about Mrs. Hooper,” admitted Lilian when Nicholas had finished summarizing our suspicions.
The vicar’s already-pensive expression became more pensive still. “I thought she was merely being helpful when in fact she was using me in her petty vendetta against Sally Pyne.” He frowned thoughtfully. “She never criticized Sally’s floral arrangements overtly, you understand. It was the way she admired them, always with a slight droop of disappointment in her voice, as if the bouquets weren’t quite up to snuff.”
“Sally said she never gave a compliment without implying a criticism,” I interjected. “Like ground glass folded into whipping cream.”
“In retrospect, I concede it to be an apt description.” The vicar folded his hands and rested them on the table. “I was a fool to be taken in by her.”
“As was I,” Lilian said loyally.
“Don’t blame yourselves,” I told them. “Kit and Sally both said that Mrs. Hooper could be extraordinarily charming when she put her mind to it.”
“She could also be extraordinarily vindictive,” Nicholas added. “She sought to avenge supposed wrongs done to her grandson by ruining Kit’s reputation and stealing Sally Pyne’s thunder. Has Mr. Wetherhead had a run-in with the boy?”
“I doubt it,” said the vicar. “George avoids confrontation whenever possible.”
“She was rather prudish,” Lilian offered. “She was quite shocked when I told her the story about the old schoolmaster’s personal involvement in increasing the school’s population. She thought it reflected badly on the village. If she believed that George was misbehaving with Miranda, she might have felt a moral obligation to step in.”
“God save us from self-righteous busybodies,” the vicar murmured.
Nicholas dipped a triangle of toast into the yolk of his poached egg. “What about Mr. Peacock? What did Mrs. Hooper stand to gain from harassing Finch’s favorite publican?”
“She was a teetotaler,” Lilian said promptly. “She never missed our sherry evenings, but she refused to drink anything stronger than tea. I must say that she made the rest of us feel rather louche, in an unspoken, terribly polite sort of way.”
“More ground glass,” I mumbled through a mouthful of marmalade-slathered toast.
“If that’s the case, why in God’s name did she choose to live beside Peacock’s pub?” the vicar expostulated. “Crabtree Cottage can’t have been much of a bargain, not with Peggy Taxman collecting the rent.”
“They were old friends,” Lilian reminded him. “Perhaps Peggy gave Mrs. Hooper a special rate.”
The vicar looked skeptical but allowed that there was a first time for everything.
“Let’s not get sidetracked,” I said. I put my fork down and focused on the matter at hand. “Let’s say that Mrs. Hooper was a crusading prohibitionist as well as a prude, a snoop, and a liar. If she saw Dick Peacock receiving smuggled liquor, she’d have all the ammunition she’d need to shut him down.”
“And Mr. Peacock,” said Nicholas, “would have a good reason to want her dead.”
His observation seemed to cast a pall over the Buntings. The vicar studied his fingernails, and Lilian shook her head sorrowfully. When Nicholas opened his mouth to speak, I motioned for him to concentrate on his breakfast instead. His aunt and uncle needed time to digest what they’d learned about a woman they’d once admired.
The vicar pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and walked to the window to peer out at Saint George’s Lane.
“The village has been rippling with undercurrents for months,” he said heavily. “I sensed bitterness, furtiveness, guilt, but I paid them little heed. I thought Sally Pyne would return to church when her wounded pride had healed. I rejoiced to see George Wetherhead’s improved health without once asking how it came about.”
“We’ve been woefully inattentive shepherds,” the vicar concluded. “Is it any wonder that one of our flock has gone astray?”
“Aunt Lilian, Uncle Teddy,” Nicholas said, “we don’t know if anyone has strayed so far as to commit murder. Lori and I have done nothing more than gathered scraps of local gossip.”
“You need to gather facts,” Lilian said firmly. “Dick Peacock has some explaining to do, as does George Wetherhead. You must give each man a chance to explain where he was when Mrs. Hooper died.”
The vicar concurred. “Perhaps Miss Morrow will be able to provide Mr. Wetherhead with an alibi.” He reached up to massage his right shoulder. “I wonder if she would bring her skills to bear on my bursitis?”
“It seems unlikely that the bishop will approve of any treatment given by a pagan,” Lilian pointed out.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the vicar temporized. “We’re very ecumenical these days.” He stopped rubbing his shoulder and waved his hand in the direction of the square. “Speak of the— Well, we don’t know that he’s a devil, but I hope the two of you will soon find out.” He swung about to look at me and Nicholas. “George Wetherhead has returned from the Emporium with his daily loaf. I believe I hear the sound of opportunity knocking.”
Nicholas and I exchanged dubious glances.
“Vicar,” I said patiently, “what do you think will happen when your nephew and I show up out of the blue, asking Mr. Wetherhead to explain something he’s been trying to hide for who-knows-how-many months?”
“He’ll slam the door on us,” said Nicholas.
“Even if we do get a foot in the door, we’ll have to use dynamite to open his mouth.” I lifted my fork and speared one last succulent bite of sausage. “The Pyms’ gingerbread would’ve given us a plausible excuse to drop in on him, but I didn’t bring his box with me this morning.”
“Take a box of my lemon bars instead,” Lilian suggested. “I baked a batch last night, and I know that Mr. Wetherhead’s inordinately fond of them.”
“Whatever you do, please make haste,” the vicar urged. “The suspense is making me dyspeptic.”
Mr. Wetherhead’s home was every bit as humble as its owner. The one-story dwelling was built of golden stone and sat well back from the lane amid a garden that was little more than a patch of balding lawn. It was as if the retired railwayman lavished so much attention on the minuscule landscapes he created for his model trains that he had none to spare for the full-size landscape surrounding his house.
He seemed somewhat dismayed to find Nicholas and me standing on his doorstep on such a rainy morning. He fidgeted with the collar of his plaid shirt, mumbled a response to my greeting, and plunged his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers before looking up at Nicholas.
“You’re the nephew,” he said bluntly. “If you’re collecting for the church, you can tell your uncle that I give generously every Sunday.”
His boldness surprised me. The George Wetherhead I knew would have given his last tuppence to the church rather than make a fuss. Miranda’s treatments had evidently strengthened his mind as well as his body.
“We’re not collecting anything,” I assured him, and held up the cardboard box Lilian had filled with her tangy-sweet confections. “We’ve come to give you something.”
“What’s that?” he said, eyeing the box suspiciously.
“Aunt Lilian made lemon bars last night,” said Nicholas. “She wondered if you might—”
“Lemon bars?” Mr. Wetherhead seemed to relax. “I thought you were going to land me with a load of the Pyms’ rubbishy gingerbread, the way you’ve done everyone else. Never could stand the stuff. But lemon bars, that’s different.”
I could almost hear his mouth watering, so I decided to strike while the iron was steaming. “Would it be too much trouble to show Nicholas your trains as long as we’re here?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Nicholas chimed in. “I’d love to see your trains. Lori’s told me so much about them.”
“I suppose . . . Yes, alright.” Mr. Wetherhead acquiesced grudgingly after I handed over the box of lemon bars. “Museum’s not open till May, but I suppose I can make an exception for the vicar’s nephew. . . .”
I’d seen grown men regress instantly to childhood upon entering Mr. Wetherhead’s humble abode. He’d furnished the front room with a series of plywood sheets on sawhorses, upon which he’d built an astonishingly detailed miniature mountain range. The snowy peaks and verdant valleys were so realistically rendered that I half-expected tiny trout to leap from the sparkling river. Precisely laid ribbons of train tracks wound from one Alpine village to the next, traversed fields, farms, and forests, and crossed the shining river on a cunningly constructed trestle bridge.
The prodigious display of craftsmanship rendered me speechless, but Nicholas wasn’t quite so overwhelmed. He said the right things, and said them in a properly awestruck tone of voice, but as he spoke, his searching gaze moved past the mini-Matterhorn to the closed door at the far end of the room.
“Aunt Lilian tells me you’ve a notable collection of railroad memorabilia,” he said, stepping toward the door. “Is it through here?”
“The memorabilia room is closed to the public,” Mr. Wetherhead announced.
“Come, now, Mr. Wetherhead,” Nicholas chided, still edging toward the door. “Lori’s not the public. She’s an old friend, and I hope you’ll come to regard me as—”
“Here, you, stop!” shouted Mr. Wetherhead, but though he was more agile than he’d once been, he still wasn’t quick enough to keep Nicholas from breezing into the next room without a backward glance.
Mr. Wetherhead hobbled after him in high dudgeon, and I took up the rear. As I entered the darkened room, I caught a telltale gleam of light from the small gap in the heavy draperies covering the window where Nicholas had played Peeping Tom.
The memorabilia room had been tidied since I’d last seen it. The helter-skelter accumulation of station signs, signal lanterns, and timetables had been organized by category and neatly labeled. The most noticeable difference in the room, however, was the floor space that had been cleared around Miranda Morrow’s portable massage table.
Nicholas strode directly to the table. “What a curiously modern artifact,” he mused aloud. “Was it used by the train crew or the passengers, I wonder?”
“It’s none of your business,” barked Mr. Wetherhead.
“You’re quite right, sir. It isn’t.” Nicholas faced the infuriated little man. “But I wish you’d confide in me before the police ask you to confide in them.”
“The p-police?” Mr. Wetherhead paled. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about murder.” Nicholas stood motionless. In the dim half-light, he looked almost menacing. “It’s not a nice subject, but it’s one I think you know something about, something you haven’t told the police.”
Mr. Wetherhead blinked nervously. “I t-told them the t-truth,” he stammered.
“I’m sure you did,” crooned Nicholas, placing a hand on the massage table, “but did you tell them the whole truth or only part of it?”
Mr. Wetherhead’s gaze was drawn inexorably to the table. His cheek twitched, and beads of perspiration appeared on his domelike forehead. “I . . . I . . .”
“Who are you protecting?” Nicholas pressed in a voice as soft as velvet. “Yourself or Ms. Morrow?”
“I’m not . . . I’m . . .” Mr. Wetherhead lifted his chin defiantly. “If you try to lay the blame on Miranda, I’ll say that she was with me when that woman died.”
“You’ll say she was with you?” Nicholas’s velvet voice became a battering ram. “But that’s not true. That’s no
t even partly true. Your lies may have worked with the police, sir, but they won’t work with me because I know what you’ve been up to. I know that Ms. Morrow leaves here at six A.M., and I know that Mrs. Hooper died between five and nine.” Nicholas struck the table with a clenched fist. “Tell me the truth, sir, or—”
“Miranda should get a medal for killing Pruneface!” cried Mr. Wetherhead. “The evil-minded cow deserved to die!”
Chapter 14
The silence that filled the room was broken only by the sound of lemon bars rattling in the cardboard box. Mr. Wetherhead was shaking so badly that I feared his legs would give way beneath him. I shot a reproachful glance at Nicholas and took the little man gently by the elbow.
“Come on, George,” I said, guiding him toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Mr. Wetherhead wasn’t the only one shaken by Nicholas’s performance. I was as rattled as the lemon bars. The browbeating bully who’d surfaced in the memorabilia room bore little resemblance to the soft-spoken, kindly man who’d wrapped a blanket around my shoulders in the vicar’s study. I understood why Nicholas had employed such harsh tactics, and I was glad of the results, but the confrontation had made me uncomfortably aware that my newfound friend could be as ruthless as he was charming.
He turned on the charm when we reached the kitchen. While I made tea, he sat across from Mr. Wetherhead at the Formica-topped kitchen table and offered a sincere apology for his behavior.
Mr. Wetherhead wasn’t mollified. “You’re no different from her,” he mumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Come here all sweetness and light, pretending to tell me things for my own good. Being neighborly, she called it—pah! You’re exactly like her.”
“We’re not like Mrs. Hooper.” I placed the sugar bowl and the cream jug on the table and transferred the lemon bars from the box to a serving dish. “She wanted to make trouble. We want to clear it up.”
Aunt Dimity: Detective Page 9