Aunt Dimity: Detective (4 page)

“I teach Zen and the art of listening,” he said gravely. “I can also charm snakes and levitate.”

“Yeah, right.” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Too bad you weren't on hand to charm Pruneface. And to answer your question, no, I probably wouldn't have strangled her, but I definitely would have given her a piece of my mind.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Nicholas rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingers. “I wonder if Mrs. Hooper spread the same kind of rumor about someone else in Finch—someone less amiable than Mr. Anscombe-Smith.”

“You mean someone who might have reacted violently?” I sighed. “It's possible, I suppose. I don't like the idea, but it's hard to avoid.”

“Indeed.” Nicholas tapped the tips of his index fingers together.

“You'd think the police would've figured it out by now,” I said. “It's been ten days—eleven now—and the killer's still on the loose.”

Nicholas got to his feet and strolled over to peer out of the bow window. He complimented me on the pleasant view, then added conversationally, “Did you know that Aunt Lilian's goddaughter is a file clerk at the local constabulary?”

“Is she?” My eyebrows rose. “How useful.”

“If young Imogen is to be believed, the police are having a difficult time.” Nicholas turned toward me. “They've found no forensic evidence in Crabtree Cottage, and the villagers have been strikingly unforthcoming during interviews. Furthermore, no one has come forward with information.”

“There are no witnesses?” I said, astonished.

“None.” Nicholas moved slowly around the room, pausing before a framed watercolor Bill had given me for Christmas. He inclined his head toward the painting. “Lesley Holmes?”

“Yes,” I said. “She painted a series of watercolors in Finch last summer. I'm fond of her work.”

“As am I.” Nicholas took a backward step to admire the watercolor at arm's length. “It's Crabtree Cottage, isn't it?”

“It was done before Mrs. Hooper moved in,” I said hastily.

“I thought as much.” He gazed at the painting a moment longer, then returned to his chair. “No geraniums.”

“Nicholas,” I said impatiently, “what you said before, about there being no witnesses—it's absurd. Someone must have seen something. Nothing goes unnoticed in the village.”

“Murders do, apparently.” Nicholas rested his head against the back of the chair. “That's why Uncle Teddy's worked himself into a lather. The most heinous of crimes has been committed, a crime against God as well as man, and no one seems to care.”

Theodore Bunting was a peace-loving soul, but he also possessed a temper. I'd felt his righteous fury only once, when his flock had ignored a homeless man in need of help—Kit, in fact. The vicar's sermon, on that occasion, had scorched the villagers' ears. I could easily imagine his reaction to their casual dismissal of a violent death.

“Is your uncle fuming?” I asked.

“He alternates between fuming and brooding,” Nicholas replied. “Aunt Lilian's afraid he'll make himself ill if this affair isn't resolved soon.”

A commotion arose in the hallway as my sons returned from their outdoor expedition. Since they'd explored every puddle in the back garden, I excused myself to give Annelise a hand with changing them into dry jammies and putting them down for their naps. When I returned to the living room, I found Nicholas talking on his cell phone. I retreated to the hallway to give him privacy, but he called for me to come in and ended his conversation rapidly.

“Aunt Lilian,” he explained. “She and Uncle Teddy are back from the inquest. My cue to depart.”

“It's been a pleasure meeting you,” I said, walking him to the front door. “And the boys are googly-eyed. They're convinced that you're related to Santa Claus.”

Nicholas pulled a pair of yellow dinosaurs from his breast pocket and handed them to me. “For Will and Rob when they awaken,” he explained. “I have a reputation to maintain.” He took his trench coat from the hall stand and folded it over his arm as he opened the door. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Lori. I hope we'll meet again before I leave.”

“I'm sure we will,” I said, and waved him on his way.

I watched as he backed his car out of the drive, then stood for a moment, savoring the lush scent of spring and contemplating our conversation.

I wondered if Nicholas Fox understood the extreme implausibility of the information he'd acquired. Could a man who lived in London understand life in a rural village, where there was no such thing as privacy, where no one was anonymous, and where gossip spread as quickly as spilt milk?

I closed the door and went into the living room, to stand before the painting of Crabtree Cottage. The news of my sons' first steps had reached Finch long before I'd made the announcement, and Bill's confidential client list was discussed routinely in Peacock's pub—yet no one knew a thing about the murder.

My gaze roved restlessly over the painting, from the cottage's green door to the delicate fringe of gingerbread adorning the stoop's half-roof, and finally came to rest on the drip molding above the multipaned front window. Mrs. Hooper had been struck down near that window, in full view of the square, in a village top-heavy with busybodies—yet no one had seen or heard a thing.

It didn't make a lick of sense to me.

It might, however, make sense to someone else. What I needed was a local expert on village matters, and as luck would have it, I knew exactly where to find one. I called to Annelise to keep an eye on the boys and made a beeline for the study.

It was time to consult Aunt Dimity.

Chapter 5

When I inherited the cottage Bill and I now called home, I also inherited a few surprises. The greatest of these was the ongoing presence of the cottage's former owner, a remarkable woman named Dimity Westwood.

Dimity Westwood had been my late mother's closest friend. They'd met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War, and maintained their friendship long after the bombs had stopped exploding. The letters they wrote to each other, recounting joys, sorrows, and the vital trivia of everyday life, were among my most treasured possessions.

I'd grown up hearing about Aunt Dimity, but only as a fictional character in a series of bedtime stories. I didn't learn about the real Dimity Westwood until after her death, when she bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, and a blue-leather-bound journal with blank pages.

It was through the blue journal that I first exchanged words with Aunt Dimity. As she had once written to my mother, so she now wrote to me, but from an address much closer to heaven than to Finch.

When I opened the blue journal, its pages came alive with Dimity's elegant script, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when blacksmiths were abundant. I couldn't explain the unearthly phenomenon. I could only acknowledge, humbly and gratefully, that Dimity Westwood continued to be as remarkable in death as she had been in life.

A scant handful of people shared the secret of the blue journal. Bill, Kit, and Emma were among them, but Annelise was not, so I closed the study door before taking the journal from its niche on the bookshelves and settling with it in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs that flanked the hearth.

“Dimity?” I said, opening the book. “Are you there?”

Guilt pricked my conscience as I watched the familiar lines of royal blue ink loop and curl across the page.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I should have come to you sooner.”

“Oh, but there is,” I told her. “Something's happened. Something incredible.”

“There's been a murder, in Finch.”

There was a lengthy pause. Then three words appeared, printed in letters so large, they filled nearly half the page.

Dimity was among the most understanding of souls, but even she was a bit put out with me for taking a whole day and a half to inform her of the crime of Finch's century. By the time I finished bringing her up to speed, she'd stopped blotting the page, but I could tell by the way she crossed her T's that she was still a little peeved.

“My words exactly,” I said. “But no one's volunteered any information to the police.” I leaned closer to the page and added, “If you ask me, the villagers are engaged in a conspiracy of silence.”

“Then why hasn't anyone spoken out?” I asked.

“What do you think they're saying?” I coaxed.

I put a hand to my forehead, dizzied by Dimity's plain speaking. She'd done nothing more than summarize my own suspicions, but those suspicions still made me uncomfortable. I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that my law-abiding neighbors would take it upon themselves to act as judge and jury in a case involving a capital offense.

The question took me by surprise. “What do you expect me to do about it? It's up to the police to catch criminals.”

“If you want to know who killed Mrs. Hooper,” I said reasonably, “why don't you . . . ask her? She's dead, isn't she? You have that much in common.”

“I have resources?” I said doubtfully.

I agreed with Dimity's assessment of my friend. Emma Harris was an imperturbable font of common sense, which explained why we got along so famously. Her cool head provided a perfect foil for my sometimes overheated one.

“I think she and Derek are still in Devon,” I said. “But I'll talk to her as soon as she gets back. May I ask what I'm enlisting her for?”

I read between the lines. “You want me and Emma to find out if Mrs. Hooper spread rumors about someone other than Kit.”

“And her stirring might have provoked her killer,” I put in.

I waited until Dimity's handwriting had faded from the page, then stared meditatively into the middle distance. I would never have admitted it to Aunt Dimity, but I wasn't as sure as she was that the killer should be caught. Sometimes it was wiser to let sleeping dogs lie.

I closed the journal and considered my assignment. I doubted that Emma and I would discover any useful information, but what if we did? What if we unearthed a tidbit that led to the killer's arrest and conviction? Would the villagers forgive us for turning one of their own in to the police? Would I forgive myself?

I knew that I should sympathize with the victim, but the victim in this case had made the mistake of attacking one of my dearest and most defenseless friends. Granted, she'd done so with words alone, but words could cause wounds that lingered longer than those inflicted by sticks and stones. If I felt any sympathy at all, it was for the victim's victims.

With a troubled sigh, I returned the blue journal to the shelf.

“Well, Reginald,” I said, addressing the pink-flannel rabbit who shared the blue journal's niche, “I've got my marching orders.”

Some people might consider talking to a stuffed bunny a minor form of madness. To me, it was as natural as conversing with a book. Reginald had entered my life shortly after I'd entered the world, and I'd been speaking with him ever since. He was, like Nicholas Fox, a gifted listener.