Part 3 (2/2)
Ruth beamed up at me. ”We'll consider them . . .”
”. . . early Easter gifts,” Louise promised, ”and cherish the giver. Now, do come in, Lori, and let us . . .”
”. . . introduce you to our other guest.” Ruth drew me into the sitting room, but there was no need to make an introduction. I'd already met their other guest.
Nicholas Fox's eyes smiled as he rose from his chair at the tea table. He was wearing blue jeans, a creamy turtleneck, and his trusty brown tweed blazer.
”We meet again,” he said.
”I thought we would,” I replied, disconcerted, ”at lunch.”
”Ah, but it was such a beautiful morning,” he said, ”I couldn't resist a stroll.”
Ruth stood between us, her bright bird's eyes darting from my face to Nicholas's. ”Dear Nicholas walked all the way . . .”
”. . . from the vicarage,” said Louise. ”We were in the front garden when he pa.s.sed . . .”
”. . . and he said such splendid things about our hyacinths,” Ruth went on, ”that we simply had to ask him in for a cup of tea. Do be seated, both of you.”
Nicholas moved a st.u.r.dy Queen Anne chair to the tea table for me before resuming his own seat, and the sisters took their places facing us.
The modestly proportioned walnut table was trembling under the weight of the Pym sisters' ”cup of tea.” Three plates of crustless sandwiches vied with a pair of overladen pastry stands and an exquisite tea set painted-by the sisters' own hands, I suspected-with a sprinkling of dew-dappled strawberries.
While Louise busied herself with the teapot, Ruth pressed me to sample the goodies. I conscientiously filled a dish and hoped that Lilian Bunting was preparing a light lunch.
”We didn't recognize Nicholas at first,” Ruth informed me. ”He was much younger . . .”
”. . . the last time he came to visit his dear aunt,” said Louise, ”and his delightful hair was much, much shorter.”
”I don't see my aunt and uncle as often as I should,” Nicholas acknowledged. ”London's an all-absorbing sort of place. It's far too easy to forget that the rest of the world exists.”
”We've never been to London,” said Ruth. ”But we've heard that it's . . .”
”. . . rather large and terribly exciting,” Louise commented. ”Our small community must seem . . .”
”. . . distressingly dull by comparison,” Ruth concluded.
”Not at all,” said Nicholas. ”Finch is a charming village.”
”And it's had its share of excitement lately,” I put in. ”I can't tell you how surprised I was to hear about what happened to Mrs. Hooper.”
A chill seemed to pa.s.s through the room as the Pyms' lips primmed into identical thin lines of disapproval. Nicholas, who'd been contentedly gorging himself on the sisters' feather-light eclairs, suddenly became as still as stone.
”That's because you didn't know her, dear,” said Ruth. ”She was a most . . .”
”. . . objectionable woman.” Louise sipped her tea before adding, ”Her wake was an almost silent affair. Since no one wished to speak ill of the dead . . .”
”. . . no one spoke,” said Ruth. ”Apart from the vicar, of course, and Mrs. Hooper's son. It reminded us of the hermit's wake . . .”
”. . . though he hadn't a son to speak for him,” Louise informed us, ”and people were silent then not because they disliked the poor fellow but because so little was known about him.”
”No one seems to know anything about Mrs. Hooper's death, either,” I prompted hopefully, but Ruth went on as if I hadn't spoken.
”The hermit was antisocial in his way,” she observed, ”just as Mrs. Hooper . . .”
”. . . was antisocial in hers,” said Louise. ”The difference being that the hermit's ways harmed no one, whereas . . .”
”. . . Mrs. Hooper's did a great deal of harm.” Ruth offered me a slice of seedcake. ”The truly regrettable thing is that she continues . . .”
”. . . to do so much harm after her death.” Louise refilled Nicholas's cup.
”Did she harm you?” Nicholas asked.
”She was a serpent in the bosom of our village,” Louise declared. ”My sister and I know how to deal with serpents.”
The seedcake, of which I was very fond, seemed to turn to chalk in my mouth. I'd never heard the Pyms speak so bluntly about anyone.
”One avoids them,” said Ruth.
”As we avoided Mrs. Hooper,” added Louise. ”Others did not and were stung . . .”
”. . . rather severely.” Ruth brushed a crumb from the tablecloth. ”And now they sting each other. That's the trouble, you see. Questions . . .”
”. . . so many unanswered questions.” Louise tilted her head to one side. ”And gingerbread, of course.”
I glanced uncertainly at Nicholas, but his eyes were fixed on Louise's.
”Did you say . . . gingerbread?” I ventured.
”Gilded gingerbread.” Louise nodded. ”We make it every year . . .”
”. . . to give as gifts at Eastertide.” Ruth's nod mirrored her sister's. ”Our motor isn't functioning properly, however, and since Mr. Barlow is away from home-”
”He is?” I interrupted. I'd been counting on a conversation with the prophetic mechanic.
”He's visiting family, we believe,” said Ruth. ”Somewhere up north. Naturally, we wouldn't trust our motor to anyone but Mr. Barlow, so we were rather hoping . . .”
”. . . that you would do us a great favor,” said Louise, ”and deliver the gingerbread for us. There's no hurry. It will keep for several days. We've written the names of the recipients . . .”
”. . . atop each box,” Ruth concluded.
Nicholas deposited his empty plate on the table and stood. ”Ladies,” he announced, ”I am at your service.”
”Me, too,” I piped up hastily. ”We can use my car to make the deliveries. And if you need to go anywhere, please give me a call.”
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