Part 3 (1/2)
I read between the lines. ”You want me and Emma to find out if Mrs. Hooper spread rumors about someone other than Kit.”
Correct. I think that Mrs. Hooper was exactly what Mr. Barlow said she was: a troublemaker. If she managed to stir Kit, Annelise, and Mrs. Sciaparelli to anger, it's more than likely that she stirred others.
”And her stirring might have provoked her killer,” I put in.
I believe so. Find the motive and you'll find the murderer-and the murderer must be found. Crime has a way of contaminating all who come in contact with it.We mustn't allow the infection to spread. Run along, now.
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 a.s.signment. 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.
”I just wish I knew for certain that I was marching in the right direction,” I added worriedly.
Reginald's black b.u.t.ton eyes remained impa.s.sive. He was much too wise a bunny to contradict Aunt Dimity.
”Okay,” I said, ”I'll recruit Emma, finagle an invitation to the vicarage, and-”
The telephone on the old oak desk interrupted my monologue. I answered it and felt a stab of anxiety as Kit's frantic voice broke into my greeting.
”Lori,” he said urgently. ”The police came to Ans...o...b.. Manor to question me. They seem to think that I killed Pruneface Hooper!”
Chapter 6.
The police weren't entirely stupid. They'd gotten wind of the scandalous rumor Pruneface Hooper had invented about Kit, but their informant had given it a darker twist. The new version held that Mrs. Hooper had caught Kit in the act of abusing Nell Harris the day before the murder, when Nell had been home for a brief holiday from school. If the story were true, it would give Kit a clear motive for wanting to silence Mrs. Hooper. True or not, it had given the authorities the excuse they needed to question him.
To make matters worse, Kit had no one to vouch for his whereabouts on the morning of the murder, and the stables were chockablock with blunt instruments.
Emma and Derek Harris had returned from Devon to find their friend and employee under siege. They'd spoken up for him and summoned their solicitor to keep the police at bay, but the encounter had shaken Kit to the core.
I did what I could to calm him, then asked to speak with Emma.
”Can you believe everything that's happened since you left for Devon?” I asked, when she picked up.
”I wish we hadn't gone,” she replied. ”We should never have left Kit alone. First the rumors, then the phone calls, and now this. Derek and I are concerned about him, Lori. We're afraid he might do something drastic.”
”Mrs. Hooper's dead,” I reminded her. ”It doesn't get a whole lot more drastic than that.”
”Not to Mrs. Hooper,” Emma said, exasperated. ”To himself. I don't think he can take much more.”
”For G.o.d's sake,” I said, clutching the phone, ”you don't mean that he might hurt himself, do you?”
”That's exactly what I mean,” Emma said grimly. ”He'd hoped to escape this mess by leaving Ans...o...b.. Manor, but the police have requested-politely but pointedly-that he stay put. Kit feels trapped and persecuted and . . . I don't know what he might do.”
”You keep an eye on him,” I told her.
”I intend to,” she declared. ”Derek and I won't leave home until the police catch the real culprit.”
I wasn't even vaguely tempted to mention Aunt Dimity's plan. If Emma couldn't join me in my quest to find the killer, I'd carry on alone. When I finished my conversation with her, I called Bill.
”The cops are picking on Kit because he's an easy target,” I insisted, after filling him in on the latest turn of events. ”They don't have a sc.r.a.p of evidence.
”How do you know?” asked Bill.
”Lilian Bunting's G.o.ddaughter-”
”The village grapevine,” Bill interrupted. ”I should have guessed.” He sighed. ”Tell Kit to sit tight. Derek's solicitor is more than capable of dealing with a case of police hara.s.sment.”
”What about the other hara.s.sment?” I demanded. ”Some creep has accused Kit of being a child molester.”
”It's gotten out of hand,” Bill agreed, ”but there's not much we can do about it except stand by Kit.” There was a pause. ”Lori, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Gerald's come in with a client.”
”Okay,” I said, making a heroic effort not to grumble. ”I'll see you on Sat.u.r.day.”
”Lori,” Bill said. ”As long as Kit has you and Emma and Derek to defend him, he doesn't need a solicitor. I'll be home soon, love.”
I hung up the phone, sat back, and lifted my gaze to the blue journal. Reginald sat beside it, his black b.u.t.ton eyes gleaming imperiously, as if to remind me of the folly of second-guessing Aunt Dimity.
Because Dimity had been right. The crime's infection was spreading in Finch, poisoning hearts and minds. Things would go from bad to worse as long as the killer remained at large. Kit was already cracking under the strain. If the crime wasn't solved soon, he might break down completely.
I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and savagely punched the Buntings' number. I no longer cared who I sent to prison. I had to find out who'd killed Pruneface Hooper before Pruneface Hooper's murder killed my friend.
I left Annelise in sole charge of the boys the following morning and drove my canary-yellow Range Rover toward the village. Lilian Bunting had invited me to lunch at the vicarage, but I'd left two hours earlier than necessary. I wanted to make a stop along the way and knew from past experience that it might take a while.
Ruth and Louise Pym were identical twin sisters who lived about a mile outside of Finch. They were well into their nineties, yet they somehow managed to stay as spry as sparrows. They drove their own car, won flower-show blue ribbons for their chrysanthemums, and knew which way the wind blew in the village. Their minds sometimes meandered along unfathomable paths, but there was always a point to the journey, and it was always one worth waiting for.
Their house, unlike most in the area, was made of mellow orange-red brick, with lattice windows and a neatly trimmed thatch roof that had weathered through the years to a mottled gray. Not one wall in the house was straight, not one floor was even, but the furniture had been there for so long that it had accommodated itself to the building's peculiarities-neither chairs nor tables wobbled, and no pictures hung askew.
I parked my car on the gra.s.sy verge and let myself through the wrought-iron gate between the Pyms' short hedges. The carefully tended flower beds bordering the path to the front door were alight with bright spring bulbs. Drifts of hyacinths, daffodils, and tender white narcissi turned their faces to the sun like a choir praising the miracle of spring. I paused on the doorstep to survey the lovely scene before turning the key-shaped handle on the old-fas.h.i.+oned bell.
The door opened. One sister appeared, then the other, but it was beyond my poor powers of observation to figure out who was who. Both were dressed in long-sleeved gowns of the palest dove-gray wool, with four flat pleats falling from crocheted collars to tiny, cinched-in waists. Their shoes were black and extremely sensible, and their white hair was caught up in identical buns on the backs of their identical heads. I'd long since learned to rely on my ears rather than my eyes to tell the sisters apart: Louise's voice was softer, and Ruth invariably spoke first.
”Two visitors in one morning!” Ruth exclaimed. ”And such . . .”
”. . . welcome ones,” Louise continued. ”Come in, come in, dear Lori, and tell us about . . .”
”. . . your voyage to America!” Ruth finished. The sisters' Ping-Pong speaking style required the listener to have an agile neck.
I returned their greetings and handed each a tissue-wrapped length of Brussels lace. ”My father-in-law sends his best wishes,” I said, ”and hopes that you'll forgive the tardy arrival of his Christmas presents.”