Part 7 (1/2)
”Mr. Wetherhead would have to be clinically insane to think he could keep an affair secret,” I stated flatly. ”Have you noticed how people keep shoving the word husband down my throat? You and I are already raising eyebrows, and we're only hanging out together.”
Nicholas gave me a brief, diffident glance, then looked away. ”Do you mind?”
”Being talked about?” The question took me off guard. I looked down at the rain-dappled gra.s.s and smiled shyly. ”It's flattering, in a way. At least they haven't written me off as just another boring housewife.”
”You will never be a boring housewife,” Nicholas murmured. ”No matter how hard you try.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. ”My point is,” he resumed briskly, ”that people engaged in pa.s.sionate love affairs aren't necessarily thinking clearly. If Mr. Wetherhead's engaged in one, he might not pause to consider the consequences.”
We'd reached the holly hedge Emma Harris had planted around the war memorial. Nicholas gazed up at the weathered cross, then stepped closer to it and bent low to read the names carved into its base.
My gaze wandered wonderingly to Saint George's Lane. It wasn't easy to envision short, balding, reserved Mr. Wetherhead in the throes of a pa.s.sionate affair. He was so bashful that he rarely met my gaze in conversation and so modest that I could scarcely imagine him holding a woman's hand.
But perhaps my imagination was too limited. After all, George Wetherhead was human. Like the rest of us, he had needs, desires, dreams. If he'd found love, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, who was I to quibble? And who was Pruneface Hooper to go poking and prying into something that had nothing whatsoever to do with her?
”Okay.” I leaned back against the cross and folded my arms. ”Maybe Mr. Wetherhead is playing with something other than trains in the wee hours, and maybe Mrs. Hooper found out about it. I still can't believe that he killed her. He's the most inoffensive guy you'd ever want to meet.”
”Haven't you heard? It's always the quiet ones who go spare.” Nicholas ran his battered hand across the memorial's rough surface. ”You have to face it, Lori. If Mrs. Hooper confronted Mr. Wetherhead with something he's deeply ashamed of, there's no telling how he might react.”
”He's got strong arms, from using his cane,” I acknowledged reluctantly. ”I suppose he could have hit her hard enough to kill her.”
”Irrelevant.” Nicholas stood. ”It wouldn't take a great deal of strength to inflict the kind of head wound that killed Mrs. Hooper.”
”How do you know?” I asked.
”It came out at the inquest,” Nicholas replied. ”Mrs. Hooper was struck here”-he touched his fingertips lightly to the side of my head, froze, and jerked his hand away-”where the skull is particularly thin and vulnerable.”
His touch sent a s.h.i.+ver through me, but I remained adamant. ”If I stretch my imagination as far as it will go, I can almost conceive of him seeing some woman on the sly. But I can't stretch it any further. I can't see him as a murderer. I'm sure d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's got the wrong end of the stick. Or . . .” I gave the pub a penetrating glance. ”Or he's trying to direct suspicion away from himself. Sally Pyne says he's up early on Thursday mornings, but d.i.c.k claims to sleep in. Who's lying?”
”There's one way to find out,” said Nicholas.
I straightened with alacrity. ”Time for a stakeout?” I asked.
Nicholas's face softened as he looked down at me. ”I do think it's time for a stakeout,” he said, ”but I don't think you should partic.i.p.ate.” He held up a hand to cut short my protest. ”As you've pointed out, we're already raising eyebrows in the village. If we're seen sneaking about together at dawn, I'm afraid we'll start an avalanche of gossip.”
”But-”
”Apart from that,” Nicholas interrupted, ”your Range Rover is far too conspicuous to use in a covert operation.”
Much as I wanted to, I couldn't argue with his logic. My canary-yellow Range Rover stood out like a neon sign everywhere it went, and the rumor mill would kick into high gear if I were seen lurking at dawn with a man who was most definitely not my husband.
As he circ.u.mambulated the stone cross, I racked my brain to come up with a way to join the stakeout without jeopardizing it-or our reputations. The solution came to me so quickly that I nearly danced for joy.
”Bill's office,” I said, scrambling after Nicholas. ”It's right across from the pub. I go there all the time to fetch papers he's forgotten. I can go there just before dawn and sneak in through the back door. I'll be able to see everything that happens on the square.”
”And everyone on the square will be able to see your Rover,” Nicholas pointed out.
”I'll ride my bicycle!” I exclaimed, proud of my cleverness. ”Everyone knows that Bill gave me a bike for Christmas and that I haven't had a chance to try it out yet. I'll take the road to the bridge, and from there I'll use the river path . . .” I began to outline my intended route with gestures, but Nicholas caught hold of my arm.
”Don't point,” he scolded. ”No need to give our plans away.”
”Our plans?” I peered up at him anxiously. ”You mean it?”
His smile brought light to the sunless day. ”Four eyes, like four ears, are better than two.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, and we began to walk back to the Rover. ”While you watch the pub from your husband's office, I'll watch Mr. Wetherhead's house from the vicarage. We'll meet up later at your cottage to compare-” He broke off.
I felt him stiffen-his biceps bulged even through the triple layer of s.h.i.+rt, tweed blazer, and trench coat-as he came to an abrupt halt.
”What's wrong?” I asked.
”Nothing's wrong.” He patted my hand, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. ”It just struck me that there's only one place on the square from which one can view both the pub and Mr. Wetherhead's house simultaneously.”
The hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled as we slowly turned to stare at Crabtree Cottage.
”Well, well, well,” Nicholas murmured, half to himself. ”What a perfectly splendid vantage point for spying on one's neighbors.”
Chapter 11.
Bill wasn't entirely happy when I told him of my plans to surveil the pub. By the time I'd finished recounting all that Nicholas and I had learned that day, he was very nearly vexed.
”It's not a game, Lori,” he said repressively. ”Prunella Hooper may have been killed because she saw something she shouldn't have seen. What if you see the same thing? What if you're found out? You could be putting yourself in danger.”
”I'll lock the office door,” I promised. ”I'll keep well out of sight. No one will know I'm there.” I clucked my tongue impatiently. ”I'm glad that you're worried about me, Bill, but I honestly don't think it's necessary. Nicholas will take care of me.” I tagged on the last sentence without pausing to consider the impression it might make.
It evidently made the wrong one.
There was a long pause before Bill asked, with excruciating nonchalance, ”Will he?”
”He teaches self-defense,” I said, carefully enunciating each word. ”If any fool comes after me, Nicholas'll chop him up faster than my food processor.” I sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Bill chuckled.
”I forgot about Nicholas's profession,” he admitted, and finally agreed to telephone the cottage at three A.M. to add verisimilitude to my story of running into town to retrieve a file. ”I should know by now that it's pointless to discourage you from taking risks,” he added before we said good night. ”I won't promise not to worry, love, but I'll rest easier knowing you have a bodyguard.”
As I hung up the phone, I remembered the firm pressure of Nicholas's palm as he guided me around the muddy puddle by the war memorial. I felt safe when I was with him. If he wouldn't let me get my feet wet, he surely wouldn't let me come to more grievous bodily harm.
Aunt Dimity wasn't worried in the least about my safety.
I seriously doubt that Mrs. Hooper's murder was premeditated. The elegant lines of royal blue ink curled smoothly across the blue journal's blank page, reflecting Dimity's calm a.s.sessment of the situation. A planned murder would have taken place in a back room or the shed, not in a window overlooking the square. No, I suspect it was a spur-of-the-moment, snap reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper said or did. Our killer's not a professional, and he's not likely to strike again. He might even welcome your attention. He has a heavy burden on his conscience. It won't be lifted until he's brought to justice.
”So you don't think I'll be in any danger,” I confirmed.
The only danger you'll be in is catching cold if it rains tomorrow morning. Be sure to bundle up, my dear, and bring a change of clothing, just in case.
The motherly advice made me smile, but I couldn't shake the feeling Bill had engendered in me, that I might be biting off more than I could chew. Like a rabid animal, Mrs. Hooper had poisoned everyone with whom she'd come in contact. She'd forced Kit to find his temper, brought a curse to d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's lips, and left Sally Pyne embittered enough to gloat over the vicar's ill health. I knew Kit would never turn on me, but how could I be sure about the others? As I returned Aunt Dimity's journal to its niche on the shelves, I decided to call upon an old friend for moral support.
”Reginald,” I said. I took the pink-flannel rabbit down from the shelf and ran a fingertip along his hand-st.i.tched whiskers. ”You and I have been through the wars together. How'd you like to join me on a stakeout?”
I hadn't ridden a bicycle in ten years, and I'd never ridden one in a monsoon. The fact that it was pitch-dark when I left the cottage made the ride into the village even less of a treat. The bicycle's headlamp illuminated about two square inches of the road ahead, but I couldn't see even those two inches clearly because of the rain sluicing my face.