Aunt Dimity: Detective (22 page)

“I was afraid she might try to foist some god-awful modern nonsense on us,” Sally explained. “You know the sort of thing—a bare branch and a pile of pebbles to symbolize God alone knows what.”

“Teddy wouldn't have allowed it,” Lilian protested indignantly.

Sally gave her a jaundiced look. “That's as may be,” she allowed with exaggerated politeness, “but I couldn't risk it. The font's always been my responsibility, so I thought I'd have a chat with Pruneface, to let her know that Finch isn't the sort of place that takes kindly to experiments. . . .”

Sally had risen at five o'clock to make herself a cup of tea and thus had witnessed the bustle of activity on the square. She'd seen Dick unloading the gray van, Peggy rearranging the Emporium's display window, and Mr. Barlow walking Buster. She'd taken particular note of Pruneface spying on Dick Peacock from the front window of Crabtree Cottage.

“I knew she was awake,” Sally said, “so I told myself, No time like the present. After I got dressed and had a bite to eat, I nipped across the square.”

“What time was it when you reached her house?” I asked.

“A quarter to six,” Sally replied. “The church bells were ringing the quarter hour when I knocked.”

I jotted
5-5:45
on my notepad.

“I knocked several times, good and loud,” Sally continued, “and when Pruneface didn't come to the door, I got upset. I thought she was snubbing me again, so I pushed the door open and invited myself in.”

The schoolroom was so quiet that I could hear the tap dripping in the ladies' bathroom. Nicholas sat very still, but it was the stillness of self-absorption rather than watchfulness. He seemed distant and withdrawn, detached not only from me but from the group at large, as if preoccupied by something far more troubling than the murder we'd spent all week investigating.

“I called her name,” Sally went on, “and when she didn't answer, I thought she might have fallen ill or hurt herself.” Sally regarded us pugnaciously. “I didn't care for the woman, but I know what it's like to live alone, and I couldn't leave without making sure she was alright.”

George Wetherhead nodded, and there was no trace of mockery in Miranda's somber expression. Like Sally, they knew the hazards of living alone.

“I went into the front parlor,” said Sally, “and there she was, stretched out beneath those red geraniums . . . dead. I thought she'd had a stroke”—Sally took a shaky breath—“till I saw the blood. It gave me a queer turn, I can tell you.”

Her eyes glazed briefly, and the rest of us shuddered, as if we'd each glimpsed those red geraniums reflected in Mrs. Hooper's blood.

Sally ran a hand through her hair. “That's when I realized how suspicious it would look for me to be there. So I made sure the coast was clear and nipped back to the tearoom.”

“You could have rung the police anonymously,” said Lilian.

“And have my number recorded? I might as well have turned myself in.” Sally lifted her chin determinedly. “I don't imagine any of you will believe me, but it's the God's truth. Pruneface Hooper was dead when I found her.”

I waited for Nicholas to speak, but he remained lost in his own thoughts.

“You said you saw Mr. Barlow walking Buster,” I ventured. “Did you see him enter Crabtree Cottage?”

Sally shook her head. “He walked Buster to the war memorial and tossed that silly rubber ball a few times. He let out a big laugh once, like he does when Buster makes a good catch; then he went home. Ten minutes later, he and Buster hopped into the car and took off. I didn't see him go into the cottage.”

I referred to my scanty notes. If Sally was telling the truth, Mrs. Hooper had been killed between five and five forty-five in the morning, when nearly everyone present had been awake, dressed, and smarting under Mrs. Hooper's lash.

“Sally,” I said, “did you see anyone enter or leave Crabtree Cottage
before
you went there?”

“I wasn't watching the whole time,” Sally answered. “I suppose someone could've gone in without my noticing, but it would've taken some pretty fancy footwork for them to get out again.”

“Miranda and I didn't see anyone but Sally,” George offered.

Lilian sat forward. “Did any of you see anyone other than Mrs. Pyne enter or leave Crabtree Cottage on the morning in question?”

The villagers quailed under her stern, schoolmarmish gaze, and after a moment's discomfited silence, Dick spoke up.

“I saw Sally,” he said reluctantly. “I was scrubbing glasses in the pub when she made her dash back to the tearoom.”

“Dick told me he'd seen her,” Christine admitted.

“Christine passed it on to me,” Peggy informed us.

“My wife confided in me, of course,” Jasper added.

“You
all
knew, yet
not one
of you saw fit to share this very pertinent information with the authorities?” Lilian clucked her tongue in disapproval.

“It was nothing to do with them, Mrs. Bunting,” said Dick. “None of us thought Sally would kill someone over the ruddy baptismal font. Even if she had, I wouldn't've blamed her overmuch. Mrs. Hooper was a small-minded, interfering old crow who caused nothing but misery. She deserved a clout in the head.”

“I didn't shed a tear when I found her,” Sally acknowledged. She smiled ruefully at Dick. “To be honest, I was convinced you'd smacked her—to keep her from turning you in to the inland revenue. And I didn't blame you, either.”

“Decent of you, Sally.” Dick nodded toward George Wetherhead. “My money was on old George. I thought he'd whacked her with his crutch to keep her from blabbing about his affair with Miranda.”

“Did you really?” George's face lit with delight. “I didn't kill Pruneface, Dick, but it was kind of you to think of me.”

“My pleasure,” said Dick with a friendly nod.

I didn't know whether to be amused or disgusted by the abrupt change in atmosphere. The tense confrontation engineered by Lilian Bunting had suddenly turned into a convivial gathering of neighbors eager to clear up a slight misunderstanding. Murder accusations weren't hurled, but tossed lightly between suspects, and the accused responded not with howls of protest but with good-humored, low-key denials.

“I have to admit that I thought Miranda might've had a hand in Pruneface's death,” George said, going with the flow. “I'm sure you've heard the lies she concocted about Miranda's medicinal herbs.”

The villagers' hesitant nods and sidelong glances suggested that although they were less certain than George that all of Miranda's herbs were strictly medicinal, they'd still rather side with her than with Pruneface.

“The wretched woman threatened to turn Miranda in to the drug squad,” George went on. “I would've understood if Miranda had thumped her.”

“You sweet creature,” said Miranda, patting George's knee. “I was out of patience with Mrs. Hooper, but I don't believe in violent retribution. I was quite willing to leave her fate in the hands of the goddess.”

“Let's see now . . .” Dick licked his pencil and applied it to his notepad. “I didn't smash her head in, nor did my wife, and Sally, George, and Miranda claim they didn't. So that leaves . . .” He circled three names on his scribbled list. “Mr. Barlow, Jasper, and Peggy.”

“I'd cross Peggy off the list if I were you,” Sally advised. “Why would she knock off an old chum?”

“You'd have to ask her,” Miranda murmured.

I was about to step in when I was distracted by a faint, familiar yapping coming from outside the schoolhouse. A cool breeze fluttered the paper napkins on the refreshments table as the outer doors opened. Claws skittered on the cloakroom floor, and Buster bounced into the room, followed closely by Mr. Barlow.

As the terrier gamboled merrily around the circle, greeting all and sundry, a second man entered the room. He was in his mid-fifties, I guessed, with a sprinkling of gray in his thick dark hair. He scanned the faces in the room anxiously, as if hoping to find someone he knew. When his eyes met Peggy Taxman's, his chest heaved.

“Mrs. Taxman?” he said.

“M-Mark?” Peggy gasped, and toppled slowly from her chair in a dead faint.

Chapter 24

If Jasper hadn't broken her fall, Peggy would have broken her head. The stranger rushed forward to help Jasper prop her up, and Mr. Barlow seized Buster's collar to keep the frisky terrier from licking Peggy's face. Lilian fetched a cup of water from the ladies' bathroom, dampened a paper napkin, and applied it to Peggy's temples.

While everyone else milled around Peggy, I kept an eye on Nicholas. The commotion had broken his trance. He blinked, as if emerging from a deep sleep, and stiffened when he caught sight of Mr. Barlow. He turned toward me, but before he could say a word, Peggy's eyelids fluttered open.

She raised a trembling hand to touch the stranger's face. He gazed down at her tenderly and nodded.

“That's right, Mrs. Taxman,” he said. “I'm your son.”

Everyone froze. Even Buster stopped squirming and pointed his twitching nose in Peggy's direction.

A sob caught in Peggy's throat. “Y-your name,” she stammered. “What did they call you?”

“Harry,” he replied. “Harry Mappin, after my father.”

Peggy pushed herself into a sitting position and said fiercely, “Your father's name was
J. Mark Leese,
and don't you forget it.”

“No, ma'am,” Harry said gently. “I won't.”

Lilian Bunting applied the dampened napkin to her own temples as she stood. She touched Sally's arm, then Miranda's, and the milling villagers gradually cleared a space around the tableau on the floor.

“Welcome to Finch, Mr. Mappin,” Lilian said with astonishing aplomb. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“We're going home,” Peggy barked. She allowed Jasper and Harry to haul her to her feet, straightened her dress, and glared defiantly at her neighbors. “I had a baby when I was a girl, and I gave him up for adoption. There you have it! And that's all you're going to get till I've had a chance to speak with my husband and m-my boy.” She hooked one hand through Jasper's arm, and the other through Harry's, and marched them out of the schoolhouse without a backward glance.

One by one, the villagers returned to their chairs. Sally Pyne opened her mouth, but closed it again without emitting a syllable. Miranda Morrow studied her silver rings, Christine Peacock scratched her head, and George Wetherhead appeared to be thoroughly at sea. Dick Peacock watched Mr. Barlow, who was looking from Lilian to Nicholas as if awaiting instructions.

Nicholas was the first to break the silence. “Mr. Barlow,” he said, “would you be so kind as to tell us where you've been and what you've been doing?”

Mr. Barlow released Buster's collar, swung Jasper Taxman's chair around, and straddled it, his arms folded across the back. Buster curled alertly at his feet.

“I never pretended to like Mrs. Hooper,” he said gruffly. “I know trouble when I see it, and Mrs. Hooper was trouble with a capital T. I watched her stirring her little wasps' nests all winter long, and when she kicked my pup, I decided that enough was enough. If she wouldn't leave Finch voluntarily, I'd find a way to make her go. That's why I went to Birmingham, to have a chat with that son of hers.”

“You told us you were going up north to visit family,” said Sally.

“That came later,” said Mr. Barlow, “after I learned from Mrs. Hooper's son that his mother never lived in Birmingham.”

The villagers exchanged glances, then sat forward, their chins in their hands, enraptured by the new, exciting tidbit Mr. Barlow had unearthed.

“Prunella Hooper was from Whitby,” said Mr. Barlow. “That's where she met Peggy Taxman.”

“Peggy said—” Christine began, but Mr. Barlow would brook no further interruptions.

“Peggy lied,” he said bluntly. “You and I know that Peggy Taxman never lies, even when we wish she would, so it struck me as strange that she'd tell a lie about Mrs. Hooper. Then it struck me that maybe Mrs. Hooper had invented the lie and forced Peggy to go along with it.”

Sally grunted. “I can't see anyone forcing Peggy to do anything.”

“What if Mrs. Hooper had something on Peggy?” Dick interjected. “Some secret Peggy didn't want us to know.”

“Such as an illegitimate child?” Miranda suggested, gazing toward the cloakroom.

“You want me to tell the story?” Mr. Barlow asked with a touch of petulance. “Or do you want to go on guessing?”

“Forgive us, Mr. Barlow,” Lilian said hastily. “Please continue.”

“I was born near Whitby, in Scarborough,” he said. “I still have family up there, so I decided to go see 'em. I figured they might've heard of Mrs. Hooper. A woman like that always leaves a trail. . . .”

Mr. Barlow's relatives had heard of Mrs. Hooper. What's more, they'd been able to put him in touch with several of her former neighbors, classmates, and coworkers, some of whom had been willing to describe the havoc she'd wrought in their lives.

“Leopards don't change their spots,” said Mr. Barlow. “Prunella Hooper pulled the same nasty tricks in Whitby that she pulled in Finch. She spied on people, eavesdropped, started rumors, made threats, spread lies. She befriended folk, then waited for her chance to stab 'em in the back. That's what she did to Peggy. . . .”

The trail of contacts had led Mr. Barlow to an old people's home near Whitby, where he'd struck gold in the form of an elderly resident called Mick Shuttleworth.