Aunt Dimity: Detective Read online

  Table of Contents

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY AUNT DIMITY: DETECTIVE

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  The Pym Sisters’ Gilded Gingerbread

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY AUNT DIMITY: DETECTIVE

  Nancy Atherton is the author of Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday and six other Aunt Dimity novels, all available from Penguin. She lives next door to a cornfield in central Illinois.

  Also by Nancy Atherton

  Aunt Dimity’s Death

  Aunt Dimity and the Duke

  Aunt Dimity’s Good Deed

  Aunt Dimity Digs In

  Aunt Dimity’s Christmas

  Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. 2001

  Published in Penguin Books 2003

  Copyright © Nancy T. Atherton, 2001

  eISBN : 978-0-142-00154-7

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For

  the people of Bellflower,

  good neighbors all

  Chapter 1

  My family and I were three thousand miles away when the murder took place in Finch. We had what my lawyer husband called “a nearly airtight alibi.” The fact that our twin sons weren’t quite two years old made their involvement unlikely, but since I was—according to Bill—capable of arranging anything, anywhere, regardless of time and space, he was forced to consider me a suspect. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or appalled by his boundless faith in me.

  Bill and I were Americans, though we lived in England now, in a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, near the small village of Finch. Finch was a somnolent hive of inactivity, a rural backwater awash with retirees and seasonal tides of vacationing city-dwellers. It was a quiet place where people led quiet lives, and it suited us to a T. Bill ran the European branch of his family’s venerable law firm from an office on the square, while I stayed at home with Will and Rob and a reliable English nanny-in-residence. We simply couldn’t imagine a better life.

  We had family obligations on the far side of the Atlantic, however, and the first three months of the New Year had been spent fulfilling them. We stayed with Bill’s father at the family mansion in Boston, where Bill’s snooty aunts subjected us to a head-spinning whirl of social calls intended to introduce the twins to every stuffed shirt in the Boston Brahmin directory. I adored my father-in-law, but social whirling wasn’t my cup of tea. By the end of the three months I was more than happy to return to the life I’d left behind in Finch.

  I was standing in the living room the day after our return, enjoying the sight of an April shower bathing the hawthorne hedge, when the vicar’s wife pulled into our graveled drive. I was pleased, as always, to see her. Lilian Bunting was a slender, scholarly woman, middle-aged, mild-mannered, and as shrewdly observant as a case-hardened cop. If anyone could fill me in on three months’ worth of Finchocentric gossip, it would be Lilian.

  I met her at the front door, took her umbrella, and offered to take her raincoat, but she resisted.

  “I can’t stay, Lori,” she informed me. “I really must get back to Teddy.”

  “Is the vicar sick?” I asked, with some concern.

  “No, but he soon will be if this business isn’t cleared up expeditiously.” Lilian clasped her hands together worriedly. “That’s why I’m here. I have a favor to ask of you. I would have asked it of Emma Harris, but she and Derek are spending a few days in Devon.”

  “So that’s where they are.” Emma Harris was my nearest neighbor and closest friend in England. I’d found a message from her on my answering machine when I’d come home, but when I’d tried to return her call, no one had answered.

  “I didn’t like to ask for such a favor over the telephone,” Lilian was saying. “I wouldn’t ask at all if it weren’t for Teddy.”

  My concern increased. Lilian Bunting was a stickler for social niceties, yet she hadn’t welcomed me home after my long absence or made the requisite inquiries about Bill and the boys. Her hair was mussed, her face drawn, and she seemed distracted, almost fretful.

  I leaned forward. “What’s wrong, Lilian?”

  “It’s Nicky,” she said. “Nicholas Fox, my nephew. Nicky’s a darling boy, but he’s staying with us for a fortnight, and I don’t know what to do with him. There’s no one his age in the village, and as Teddy and I will be fully engaged tomorrow afternoon, I was wondering if I might . . .” She looked at me imploringly.

  “Bring Nicky here,” I said promptly. “The boys and I will find a way to keep him busy.” As a mother of twins, I was accustomed to coping with a fair amount of chaos. The prospect of adding one more child to the mix didn’t faze me in the least.

  Lilian grasped my hand. “Thank you, Lori. I know how exhausted you must be after your long journey.”

  “I’m fit as a fiddle,” I countered. “We took the Concorde, so jet lag isn’t an issue. Bill felt so peppy that he decided to stay in London until Saturday, to catch up on paperwork.”

  “Excellent.” Lilian smoothed her hair. “It will relieve my mind to leave Nicky with you while Teddy and I attend the inquest.”

  “Inquest?” I repeated.

  “A waste of time,” Lilian said firmly. “We already know when, where, and how the poor woman was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” I echoed, beginning to feel like a slightly addled parrot.

  Lilian eyed me closely. “Good heavens,” she said. “You haven’t heard.”

  “What haven’t I heard?” I asked.

  “There’s been a murder,” said Lilian, “in Finch.”

  I was certain I’d misunderstood her. The words “murder” and “Finch” didn’t belong in the same sentence unless “never happens” came in between. Finch was a rural haven, not an urban jungle. The last crime committed in the village had been the theft of a series of obscure pamphlets from the vicar’s study. On a crime-spree scale from one to ten, pamphlet-pilfering didn’t even register. Murder, on the other hand, was a calamity of seismic proportions.

  “M-murder?” I faltered, adding inanely, “Are you sure?”

  L
ilian shrugged. “As sure as one can be. The police seem to think—”

  “Who?” I interrupted. Familiar faces were flickering past my mind’s eye with gut-wrenching speed. “Who was murdered?”

  “Mrs. Hooper,” Lilian answered.

  “Pruneface?” I cried, then ducked my head to avoid Lilian’s disapproving glare. “Sorry. That’s what Mr. Barlow called her when he pointed her out to me on the square. He didn’t seem particularly fond of her.”

  “Prunella Hooper may not have been universally admired,” Lilian said stiffly, “but she was enormously helpful to Saint George’s. Her flower arrangements were second to none, and she was always eager to volunteer for the most menial of tasks. Teddy and I found her a welcome addition to the parish.”

  I nodded, suitably chastened. Prunella Hooper had moved to Finch just before Christmas, which explained why I knew so little about her. She’d rented Crabtree Cottage from Peggy Taxman, Finch’s postmistress and the owner of the Emporium, the village’s general store. Mrs. Hooper and I had never been formally introduced, but we’d exchanged pleasantries in passing. I remembered her as a short, plump woman in late middle age who wore too much makeup and curled her tinted hair in an out-of-date bouffant style.

  “How was she killed?” I asked.

  “She was hit on the head with the proverbial blunt instrument,” Lilian answered. “It happened ten days ago, in her cottage. Peggy Taxman found her shortly after nine in the morning, lying in a pool of blood near the front-parlor window, where she keeps—kept—all of those flowers.”

  “The geraniums,” I said, and wondered briefly who would tend the hanging plants that crowded every window in Crabtree Cottage.

  Lilian’s brow furrowed as the hall clock struck the hour. “I’m sorry, Lori, but I must run. Mrs. Hooper’s death has upset Teddy terribly. He’s in no condition to entertain my nephew.”

  “Well, I am,” I told her. “I’m looking forward to meeting Nicky, and the twins will enjoy having a new playmate.”

  Lilian pressed my hand gratefully, took up her umbrella, and plunged back into the pouring rain. I waited until her car had disappeared between the hedgerows, then headed for the solarium.

  It was a blustery April day, windy, wet, and colder than it had any right to be, exactly the sort of day that made me thankful for the glass-paneled room that stretched across the back of the cottage, where my sons could enjoy a reasonable facsimile of fresh air without the attendant risk of pneumonia. Will and Rob were there now, under their nanny’s watchful gaze, wholly absorbed in dismantling the fleet of toy trucks bestowed upon them in Boston by their adoring grandfather.

  “Annelise,” I said from the doorway, “do you have a minute?” When the young woman had joined me, I asked quietly if she knew that a murder had taken place in Finch.

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “Mum told me about it the day after it happened.” Annelise had come with us to Boston but had kept in close touch with her family by telephone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me and Bill?” I asked.

  “Mum said it’d put a damper on your holiday, and besides, old Pruneface was no great loss. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, ’ Mum says.”

  I stared at her, openmouthed. Annelise was one of the most compassionate young women on earth, and her mother was kindness itself. They were the last people I’d expect to speak so extremely ill of the dead.

  “Aren’t you being a little harsh?” I said.

  “Not nearly so harsh as she deserved,” Annelise retorted. “No one was sad to see her go except for the Buntings and Mrs. Taxman, and they didn’t know the half of it.”

  “The half of what?” I asked.

  “The mischief she got up to.” Annelise folded her arms. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say more. Mum ordered us not to dignify that woman’s wicked rumors by repeating them.”

  It was an exercise in futility to countermand an order issued by the matriarch of the Scaiparelli clan, so I turned my attention to the less daunting task of preparing lunch.

  Two hours later, I stood in the clearing atop Pouter’s Hill, gazing through filmy gray curtains of rain without seeing much of anything.

  Pouter’s Hill rose steeply from the meadow beyond my back garden. Climbing it had become a homecoming ritual, a way of reacquainting myself with the countryside after a prolonged separation. More often than not, I found the view soothing—patchwork fields, ever-changing sky, sheep-speckled hills—but it brought me no peace of mind that day.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the first time I’d seen Prunella Hooper, the day Mr. Barlow had pointed her out to me across the square. His comments had made such an impression on me that I could remember them verbatim.

  “I’ve seen her type before,” he’d said. “They simper to your face while they stab you in the back. Sneaky-mean, my dad used to call ’em, and he knew a thing or two, did my dad. Steer well clear of her, is my advice. Women like her make trouble wherever they go.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Barlow’s words had been prophetic. Had Mrs. Hooper made trouble in Finch? Was that what Annelise had meant when she referred to “wicked” rumors? Had one of the rumors been wicked enough to trigger the ultimate retribution?

  Had a villager killed Pruneface Hooper?

  It seemed highly unlikely. It would be daylight madness for a local to commit a murder in a small community where everyone knew who wanted to murder everyone else and how they would do it—and when and where and why—given the chance.

  Yet someone had killed Prunella Hooper. Someone had clouted her on the head and left her to die beneath the vibrant array of potted geraniums hanging in the front-parlor window of Crabtree Cottage. Had that someone been a stranger, or a neighbor?

  I shuddered, envisioning the cheerful red blossoms reflected in a spreading pool of blood, and turned to squelch disconsolately down the muddy path that would take me home.

  I was halfway down the hill when the horse appeared.

  Chapter 2

  It came out of nowhere, a black stallion some fifteen hands high, bearing down on me like a runaway train. In my panicked attempt to get out of its way, I failed to remember how firmly my wellies were planted in the mud and jumped right out of my boots, landing flat on my back in a sodden mass of last year’s leaves well mixed with this year’s muck.

  While I lay there dazed and winded, gasping like a netted trout, the horse’s rider brought the steed to a halt, dismounted, and flung himself to his knees beside me.

  “Lori?” he cried. “Oh, Lori, are you hurt?”

  A gloved hand touched my forehead and I found myself looking up into the violet eyes of a man whose life I’d saved just over a year ago.

  When I’d first met Christopher Anscombe-Smith, he’d been unshaven, unshorn, half-starved, and dressed in rags.

  He’d come a long way since then.

  He was gainfully employed, for one thing, as stable master at Anscombe Manor, the property next door to mine. He lived there, too, in a sparsely furnished flat opposite the stables. He’d shaved his beard and clipped his prematurely gray hair short, exchanged his rags for serviceable work clothes, and added flesh and muscle to his lean frame. His face—his extraordinarily beautiful face—which had once been gaunt and pale, was now glowing with good health. The most charitable part of me rejoiced to see him looking so well.

  The rest of me was ready to strangle him.

  “Kit,” I wheezed. “You maniac. You could’ve killed me.”

  “I’d sooner kill myself,” he murmured, unzipping his rain jacket. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m peachy.” I pushed myself into a sitting position and caught my breath. “There’s nothing I like better than wallowing in frozen mud.”

  Kit wrapped his jacket around me and helped me to my feet—my stockinged feet. I shivered violently as gooey fingers of frigid muck oozed through my socks.

  “May I have my boots?” I asked through chattering teeth.

  “I’ll tie them
to the saddle,” said Kit. “I’m taking you home.”

  “On Zephyrus?” I eyed the stallion warily. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk.”

  “You’ll catch your death.” Kit retrieved my wellies and brought the horse around. “Please don’t argue, Lori. I feel badly enough as it is.”

  “But—”

  Kit cut my protest short by sweeping me off of my feet and onto the horse’s back, where I teetered precariously until he climbed up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “Lean back,” he instructed. “I won’t let you fall. Gently, now, Zephyrus . . .”

  Zephyrus did go gently, and Kit kept me more or less upright, but the downhill journey was a trial nonetheless. I was a lousy horsewoman at the best of times and the steep grade took its toll as seldom-used muscles strained to keep my mud-covered bottom from slithering out of the saddle. By the time Kit tethered the stallion to the apple tree in my back garden, I was certain that I’d never walk again.

  I was on the verge of demanding that Kit carry me into the cottage when I caught sight of Will and Rob gazing wide-eyed at us through the solarium’s back door. Forcing a cheery smile, I slid gingerly from the saddle and hobbled toward the cottage on my own two frozen feet.

  “I’ll help you inside,” Kit offered. “Then I’ll be off.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t.” I seized his elbow. “You think I’d turn you loose on an unsuspecting public? You’re a hazard to your own health and everyone else’s.” I tightened my hold. “You’re coming inside to get dry and warm, and you’re not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  Kit looked away. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  I glared at him. “Do I look stupid? You were riding like a maniac up there. You never ride like a maniac. Ergo, something must be wrong.” I tried to push my wet hair out of my eyes, smeared my forehead with mud, and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Besides, your lips are turning blue. I can’t let you go home with blue lips, so put Zeph in the shed and come inside.”