Part 2 (1/2)

I directed Kit to the master bedroom, where I'd laid out his dry clothes, advised him that lunch would be ready in ten minutes, and brought Lilian's nephew with me to the kitchen.

Nicholas Fox was impressively well prepared to spend an afternoon with toddlers. His pockets were stuffed with tiny cars, plastic farm animals, and a host of windup toys guaranteed to win my sons' affection. He, in turn, seemed delighted by Will and Rob.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as I threw together a salad-soup-and-sandwich meal. He clearly enjoyed roughhousing with the twins, and ate his lunch with equal relish, complimenting me on the fresh-baked bread as well as the blackberry crumble I'd whipped up for dessert. I couldn't understand why Lilian found her nephew so difficult to entertain. He didn't seem to be all that hard to please.

Kit left for Ans...o...b.. Manor as soon as the table was cleared, and Annelise took the twins outside to play. Nicholas offered to accompany them, but I shook my head and invited him to sit with me in the living room instead.

”Pace yourself,” I advised, ”or you'll be dropping in your tracks by the time you leave.”

He bowed his head. ”I defer to the expert, but they are charming children. And you have a lovely home.”

”Thanks.” Nicholas had so far praised my sons, my cooking, and my cottage. If he was trying to endear himself to me, he was succeeding. I gestured for him to take a seat in Bill's armchair and knelt to light the fire. ”Do you have a family of your own?”

”Apart from the one I was born into, no,” he replied. ”No wife, no fiancee, and no prospects in the offing. I'm singularly single. I don't even own a cat.”

”I didn't mean to pry,” I said, blus.h.i.+ng. ”I only asked because you're so good with Rob and Will.” I eyed his tweed blazer. ”Are you a teacher?”

”Of a sort,” he said. ”I teach self-defense.”

My gaze s.h.i.+fted to his scarred knuckles. ”Karate? Judo? That sort of thing?”

”I'm small but deadly,” he said, his eyes twinkling. ”I've no students at the moment, so I thought I'd pay a visit to Aunt Lilian. I haven't been to Finch in years. As I live in London, I was rather hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.”

”Instead of which you walked straight into the crime of the century.” I was joking, but Nicholas didn't laugh.

”It's truer than you think,” he commented. ”According to Aunt Lilian, there hasn't been a murder in the village of Finch since one shepherd whacked another with the hook of his crook in the autumn of 1879. Since then there's been a number of deaths by misadventure but not a single murder.”

I sat back on my heels. ”So Mrs. Hooper's murder really is the crime of the century?”

”It is. Finch has had an exceptionally tranquil history.” He paused. ”Until now.”

I got to my feet and made myself comfortable in the overstuffed armchair facing Nicholas's across the hearth. ”No wonder the vicar's so upset. He must feel terrible, knowing that Finch's first major crime in over a hundred years happened on his watch.”

”The murder shocked Uncle Teddy, naturally,” said Nicholas, ”but I believe he's even more troubled by the villagers' reactions to it.”

”How have they reacted?” I asked, though I already had an inkling.

”With distinct indifference,” he answered. ”They seem to be taking Mrs. Hooper's death very much in stride.”

”Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I murmured, half to myself.

”Pardon?”

I raised my voice. ”It's something my nanny said. About Mrs. Hooper . . .”

I turned toward the fire and began to tell Nicholas what I'd learned about the unpopular Mrs. Hooper. I repeated Mr. Barlow's observations on women who cause trouble wherever they go; recounted Annelise's hints about mischief and wicked rumors; and shared, with increasing indignation, the unfortunate results of Kit's attempt to protect Mrs. Hooper's grandson from Zephyrus. Nicholas listened without interruption, almost without blinking, his craggy face a sober mask of concentration.

”Mr. Barlow hit the nail on the head,” I concluded. ”Pruneface Hooper was as sneaky-mean as they come. She simpered to Kit's face while she stabbed him in the back. I wish I'd been home when the rumors started. If I'd known what she was up to, I'd've wrung her neck.”

”Would you?” Nicholas said mildly.

I looked up, startled. I'd forgotten that he was in the room. ”How did you do that?”

”Sorry?” he said.

”You disappeared into the woodwork while I was talking,” I said. ”How'd you do it? Is it some kind of Far Eastern mind-body-control thing?”

”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. Ans...o...b..-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 G.o.ddaughter 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 G.o.d 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.”