Aunt Dimity: Detective

by Nancy Atherton

  “Nicholas?” I said, wiping the rain from his face. “Nicholas, come with me.”

  I took his hand as if he were a child and led him into the vicarage, where I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed. The vicar was spending the night with Lilian’s brother, and Lilian would be fully occupied, answering questions about her nephew. If Peggy, Jasper, and Harry returned to the schoolhouse, the session might drag on for hours.

  Nicholas was as docile as a lamb. I threw our wet coats onto a chair in the foyer, helped him out of his blazer, and held his arm while he slipped his shoes off. He let me take him to the green velvet sofa in the vicar’s study, where I got a fire going, toweled his hair, and wrapped him in a blanket. I considered making cocoa, but I was afraid to leave him alone for too long, so I added another stick of wood to the fire and sat beside him on the sofa.

  I let the silence linger before asking solemnly: “Are you dying?”

  Nicholas’s laugh twisted into a sob. He pulled his hands free of the blanket and wiped his eyes. “I may be having a nervous breakdown, Lori, but I don’t seem to be dying.”

  I looked up at him. “Are you really a policeman?”

  “I don’t know what I am,” he replied. “But I did at one time work undercover for the drug squad. As Ms. Morrow is so fond of pointing out, auras never lie.” He squinted vaguely at the fire. “I can’t think why she didn’t give me away.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Witches like to keep secrets.” I looked down at the threadbare Turkish carpet. “Can you tell me about this nervous breakdown?”

  He hunched forward, pulling the blanket around him more closely, and stared unblinking into the fire for a long time before he spoke.

  “I had . . . a partner,” he began. “His name was Alex Lay-ton. Our last case”—he swallowed hard—“ended badly.”

  He was shivering. I reached over to gently stroke his back.

  “It ended badly,” he repeated. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Someone slipped up, our covers were blown, and the bad guys got to us before we could pull out. They knocked me about and shot me full of dope but kept me conscious long enough to watch as they beat Alex to death.”

  His sea-green eyes had lost their luster, gleaming dully beneath a glaze of tears. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled and rain crashed against the French doors, but Nicholas seemed aware of nothing but the nightmare visions he alone could see writhing in the flames.

  “I awoke in hospital. I’d been rescued and revived, but no one could save Alex. The human skull is so fragile in places that even a flowerpot can break it.” He bowed his head and pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. “Imagine what a length of pipe can do.”

  My heart ached for him so badly that I could scarcely breathe. I remembered how he’d jerked his hand away after showing me where Mrs. Hooper had been struck. Had he seen his partner’s face for one brief moment, relived the horror of his partner’s death?

  “When I recovered,” he said softly, “they put me on light duties, teaching self-defense to new recruits.” He touched my leg. “It wasn’t all lies.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He closed his eyes. “When I put my fist through one wall too many, they gave me three months’ leave without the option. I spent the first month drunk, the second in counselors’ offices, and the third getting myself back in shape. I came to Finch to rest up before my final meeting with the medical board.”

  The doctor’s appointment, I thought. He’d had to face the medical board only a few hours before he’d faced the villagers.

  “When I first arrived in Finch,” he said, “Aunt Lilian asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Hooper’s death. She told me there was bad blood in the village and that it needed to be purged.”

  “Does she know about Alex?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s not the sort of thing one tells one’s aunt. It’s not the sort of thing one talks about at all, if one can avoid it.”

  I put my arm around him. “But you couldn’t refuse your aunt’s request without telling her why.”

  “She’s so proud of me.” He sighed. “Me and my charm. The villagers would never suspect Mrs. Bunting’s charming nephew of being a copper. She said you mustn’t know, either, because you’d give me away. Not intentionally,” he added, and turned to cup my chin in his hand. “You have many gifts, Lori, but concealing your thoughts isn’t one of them.”

  “Maybe you can coach me,” I said ruefully. “Teach me Zen and the art of playing poker.”

  “I wouldn’t change you for the world.” Nicholas touched his forehead to mine, then turned back to the fire. He’d stopped shivering, but his face remained shadowed with despair.

  “I thought I could handle the villagers,” he said, “but their callousness got to me. They spoke constantly of whacking Mrs. Hooper, clouting her, thumping her, smashing her head in—cavalierly, without remorse, until I couldn’t tell the difference between them and the thugs who’d killed Alex. If you hadn’t been with me, I might’ve put my fist through a few more walls.”

  I reached for his hand and gazed down at the scarred, misshapen knuckles. They bore mute witness to the damage his soul had sustained.

  “I almost wish you had punched a few walls,” I said.

  He looked at me questioningly.

  “I wish you hadn’t kept your feelings bottled up,” I told him. “I wish you’d shouted, screamed, accused everyone of callousness.” I enfolded his hand in both of mine. “Including me. I was just as cavalier as they were about Mrs. Hooper’s death.”

  “No,” Nicholas said firmly. “They would’ve let her killer go free. You alone were willing to pursue the culprit. You wanted to bring the murderer to justice, if for no other reason than to prove Kit’s innocence.”

  “Won’t be easy,” I murmured, “bringing a homicidal flowerpot to justice.”

  A wan smile touched Nicholas’s lips, and the faintest hint of a twinkle lit his troubled eyes.

  “I’d vote to pin a medal on it,” he said.

  I returned his smile. “Me, too. Mrs. Hooper was a truly horrible woman.”

  “I’ve seldom encountered a more deserving victim,” Nicholas agreed. His hand relaxed, and the tension seemed to leave his body as he leaned back against the sofa. “The scene-of-crime team slipped up with the flowerpot. They didn’t find the evidence they needed until Mr. Barlow told them where to look for it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about the flowerpot when you arrived tonight?” I asked.

  “Aunt Lilian didn’t want me to,” said Nicholas. “She wanted the villagers to have a go at one another. She believed it was the only way to purge the secrets and lies that had been poisoning the village, and she was right. It wasn’t enough for you and me to discover the truth. The villagers had to admit it to each other.”

  I curled up next to Nicholas and twined my arm in his. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the brunt of the storm had passed. Rain pattered gently on the stone steps, and the room was filled with the comforting snap and hiss of the crackling fire.

  “Nicholas,” I said, “what happened with the medical board?”

  He gazed blankly at the ceiling. “I’m on indefinite leave. I can’t resume my duties until I’ve sorted things out.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Go back to London,” he said listlessly. “Speak with more counselors. Wait for the board to declare me fit for duty.”

  My mind rebelled at the thought of his returning to an empty apartment. Three months of professional counseling hadn’t helped him to cope with the trauma of his partner’s death. He needed a healing circle of loving friends. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder, tightened my hold on his arm, felt his firm bicep, and was struck by a scathingly brilliant idea.

  “How are you at digging ditches?” I asked, and without giving him a chance to speak, sat back on my heels and told him about the new drainage system Kit was installing at
Anscombe Manor.

  “He could use your help,” I said excitedly, “and Emma has a million extra rooms she never uses. Stay with her and Derek. Work with Kit. I’ll bring the twins to see you, and I know for a fact that you can have a kitten.”

  Nicholas was nearly blinded by the blaze of my enthusiasm, but after a moment’s hesitation, he looked thoughtful.

  “It might be good to get away from London for a while,” he allowed, “but—”

  “There are no buts,” I insisted.

  “But,” he reiterated, “I doubt that your husband will want me as a neighbor.”

  “Why don’t you ask her husband?”

  My heart kerthumped at the sound of Bill’s voice. I’d been so carried away by my plans for Nicholas that I hadn’t heard the front door open or the sound of footsteps coming up the hallway.

  “Bill,” I whispered, and turned my head in time to see my husband fill the doorway.

  He filled it admirably. When I’d first met Bill Willis, he’d been bearded, bespectacled, pale-faced, and as soft in the middle as a loaf of bread.

  He’d changed a lot since then.

  An accident with an exploding stove had cost him his beard and in the process revealed a face so ruggedly handsome that I refused to let him cover it up again. Recent surgery had corrected his vision, so glasses no longer masked his velvety brown eyes, and five years of bicycling from the cottage to his office on the square had completed the transformation. My formerly soft-bellied husband was now as lean as a cougar, and his skin had the ruddy glow that comes only from ample doses of fresh air and exercise.

  “Bill?” I repeated, looking him up and down.

  He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, and black jeans that looked as if they’d been painted on. I’d never seen him wearing jeans, leather, or a black T-shirt. It was the exact opposite of his usual style. But I could get used to it.

  “You look . . . amazing,” I said.

  He surveyed my shapeless tunic. “You look—”

  “Like a sack of potatoes,” I finished for him. “I know.”

  “I happen to be very fond of potatoes,” he returned. As he strode into the room, I noted with astonishment that he was wearing black leather boots. “Nicholas Fox? I’m Bill Willis, Lori’s husband.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Bill.” Nicholas shook Bill’s proferred hand, but when he began to get up, Bill motioned for him to stay where he was.

  Bill stretched his hands out to the fire, then sat in the vicar’s armchair and crossed his legs. I couldn’t take my eyes off his boots.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Nicholas,” he said, “but I made some inquiries about you while I was in London.”

  Nicholas met Bill’s level gaze. “I would have done the same thing if a strange man was spending too much time with my wife.”

  “If I had to choose a man to spend time with my wife,” said Bill, “it would probably be you. You’ve an impressive record, and your colleagues admire and respect you.” Bill hesitated. “I . . . know what happened to your partner. I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I,” Nicholas murmured.

  “I overheard Lori’s proposal,” Bill continued. “I hope you’ll consider it. I have no objection to it whatsoever.”

  “None?” Nicholas eyed him skeptically.

  “None,” said Bill. He cocked an ear toward the hallway. “I believe your aunt has returned.”

  Lilian Bunting bustled into the room, caught sight of Bill, and stopped short.

  “G-good evening, Bill,” she said, looking rapidly from him to Nicholas. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  “I finished up in London sooner than I expected,” he told her. “I hope your meeting went well.”

  “It was marvelous, in its way.” Lilian came around the sofa to gaze anxiously at her nephew. “Nicky, are you unwell? You were terribly quiet this evening, and you left the schoolhouse so abruptly that I thought you might have been taken ill.” She put her palm to his forehead, fussing over him as she must have done ever since he was the twins’ age. “It was extremely foolish of you to leave without your coat.”

  “Bill,” I said, and jutted my chin toward the front door.

  “I’m afraid we must be going, Mrs. Bunting,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “Don’t let me chase you away,” said Lilian, and while Bill distracted her, I spoke with Nicholas.

  “Will you be okay if we leave?” I asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “And I will consider your proposal, Lori. Are you sure Emma won’t mind?”

  “I’m absolutely one hundred per cent positive,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well, my friend, and dream of drainage ditches.”

  Nicholas’s sea-green eyes sparkled with tears. He pulled me close and held me tightly before letting me go. “Good night, Lori. I won’t say good-bye just yet.”

  I had to wipe my own eyes as Bill and I left the vicarage, and it took me a while to find my voice. When we emerged from Saint George’s Lane, Bill started for the Rover, but I pulled him over to stand before Crabtree Cottage. The red geraniums looked like splashes of blood against the rain-washed window.

  “Did Nicholas tell you about his partner?” Bill asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It nearly broke my heart.” I looked up at him and said earnestly, “Thank you for making him feel welcome.”

  Bill wrapped his arms around me. “Nicholas has been through hell,” he said. “We can’t let him go back to London until he’s well again, and for that to happen, he’ll need Kit and Emma and Will and Rob and you.”

  “And you,” I said, clinging to my husband. “Nicholas needs all of us. And a kitten.”

  Bill laughed. “Most especially the kitten.”

  I rubbed my cheek against his leather jacket. “Did I happen to mention how much I like your new look?”

  “Man does not live by tweed alone,” Bill said, kissing the top of my head. “Shall we go home?”

  “In a minute.”

  I turned my back on Crabtree Cottage and looked slowly around the square. The schoolhouse was dark, but lights were on in every other building. The extraordinary meeting of the Easter vigil committee might have ended, but the villagers would burn the midnight oil, reviewing its extraordinary findings.

  Nicholas and I had set out to capture a killer and had caught instead grudges and sausages, massages and marijuana, blackmail and a long-lost child. We’d discovered that Mrs. Hooper hadn’t poisoned Finch on her own—she’d had the villagers’ full cooperation. Would they be more wary when the rumor mill went back into production? I doubted it. As Nicholas had said, wherever two or more are gathered . . .

  Yet my neighbors had proven themselves to be far more tolerant than Mrs. Hooper could have guessed. If Dick Peacock was cutting costs with smuggled liquor, so be it. If George and Miranda were having an affair, good for them. If Miranda sprinkled a few pot plants in with her other herbs, well, she was a sort of doctor, wasn’t she? And pot had its place in folk medicine.

  Peggy’s child was no one’s business but hers, and everyone knew that Kit Smith was a saint. If Nell wanted to set her cap at Kit, that was okay with them, too. Nell had always had an old head on her shoulders, and she could do a lot worse.

  The villagers hadn’t shed a tear over Mrs. Hooper’s death, but as Aunt Dimity had predicted, they’d protected one another. Like a true family, they bickered among themselves, but when push came to shove, they stood united. Sally Pyne and Miranda Morrow would never be the best of friends, but they didn’t have to be, as long as they were good neighbors.

  I leaned back against Bill and smiled. For all of its turbulent undercurrents, Finch was still a blessed backwater. I could think of no better place to call home.

  Epilogue

  Nicholas returned briefly to London, to collect his things and sublet his flat. He took the tower room at Anscombe Manor and was promptly adopted by a fleet-footed kitten he called Rumor. Nell’s black
lab took to him, too, and the two could be seen every morning, jogging to Finch and back.

  Nicholas, Kit, and Lucca worked like navvies all summer, installing the new drainage system, repairing fences and out-buildings, and looking after the stables. Will and Rob demanded daily visits once they learned that Uncle Nicky and Uncle Kit loved mud as much as they did and that Uncle Lucca would let them swing on the paddock gate.

  Nell came home at Easter and took about three seconds to figure out Emma’s less than subtle scheme to offer Lucca in exchange for Kit. Lucca was willing—seldom has a young man been more willing—but Nell remained steadfast, though she toned down her protestations after a long and private talk with Nicholas.

  Nicholas and I spent much of Easter week delivering gilded gingerbread for the Pyms. Ruth and Louise had been baking and decorating ever since we’d left their house, and although Mr. Barlow had repaired their “motor,” there were far too many boxes for the sisters to handle.

  The vicar began the Easter service with a special tribute to Sally Pyne’s magnificently traditional floral display and concluded it by introducing Harry Mappin to the congregation. Peggy and Jasper Taxman watched proudly as Harry nodded to the parishioners, and only Nicholas and I seemed to notice the small brown monkey peeking out of his breast pocket.

  Nicholas and Bill confounded everyone in Finch by establishing a close and lasting friendship. Our threesome has provided the villagers with ample gossip fodder, but we don’t mind. Bill says it’s the least we can do to repay our nosy neighbors for keeping an eye on me when my eye was wandering.

  My eye hasn’t stopped wandering, and Bill’s drifts from time to time, but the bond between us is stronger than ever. If a true marriage recognizes human frailty—and thrives on a certain element of suspense—then ours is the truest marriage I know.

  Aunt Dimity summed up the murder investigation by commenting that Finch is surely the only place on earth where the crime of the century would be committed by a flowerpot.

  Which is, she added, why we love it.

  Nicholas seems to agree with her. It’s autumn now, and although he’s grown strong in mind and spirit, he’s shown no inclination to return to London. Bill and the boys are delighted. Uncle Nicky has become as much a part of our family as Kit. Will and Rob—with mud on their minds, no doubt—want him to stay forever.