Part 7 (2/2)
I'd worn the all-weather jacket and pants Bill had included with his Christmas present, but icy, wind-lashed droplets kept finding c.h.i.n.ks in my rainproof armor. By the time I reached the humpbacked bridge, my turtleneck and jeans were uncomfortably damp, my hands were numb, and I was feeling far less clever than I had the day before. When I thought of Nicholas keeping watch over George Wetherhead's house from the cozy confines of the vicarage, I wanted to spit.
I dismounted at the bridge, switched off the headlamp, and walked the bike along the river path that wound behind the buildings on the east side of the square. Three miles of vigorous pedaling had left me hobbling almost as gingerly as my ride on Zephyrus had done, which made negotiating the slippery path a challenge. I groaned with relief when I made it to the back door of Wysteria Lodge, the picturesque house that had become Bill's place of business.
Panic threatened when my frigid fingers fumbled for the key, but I found it eventually, in the outside pocket of the daypack into which I'd also tucked a change of clothes, per Dimity's sage advice, and Reginald. I leaned the bicycle against the wall and let myself into the office's windowless back storage room.
I paused to wipe my face and rub my sore behind before reaching for the light switch on the wall. I clicked it several times, but nothing happened. With a stifled grumble of frustration, I groped for the box of candles Bill kept on hand for just such emergencies. Power outages during inclement weather were not unknown in Finch.
I changed by candlelight into black wool trousers and a ruby-red chenille sweater, blew the candle out, and opened the door to the main office, where I felt my way past the photocopier, the fax machine, the printer stand, the file cabinets, and the myriad other obstacles that stood between me and the front window. I longed for a nice hot cup of tea but the electric kettle wouldn't work without electricity, so I huddled at the window, hugging Reginald for warmth and wis.h.i.+ng he were Nicholas instead.
The idle thought startled me, and I thrust it aside, but as the minutes ticked by it returned, demanding my attention so forcibly that I finally gave myself up to it.
It was useless to deny the flicker of attraction that I felt for Nicholas, and Bill's absence didn't make things any easier. For the first time it occurred to me that I was lucky to have a host of nosy watchdogs standing guard over my marriage, since I was so transparently ill equipped to manage on my own. Did every marriage require community support? I wondered wistfully. Maybe not, but mine evidently did, not because of any failure on Bill's part but because of my own abiding weakness for charming men.
My troubled meditations were interrupted by a rush of adrenaline as the pub's front door opened and d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k appeared, draped in a ma.s.sive rainproof poncho. It was one minute past five o'clock. The merest wisps of thin gray daylight had begun to smudge the square, and d.i.c.k, in his black poncho, looked as huge and as forbidding as a storm cloud.
He glanced once at his wrist.w.a.tch, then let his gaze traverse the square. Reginald and I ducked when he looked in our direction, and I counted to ten before I raised our heads again. d.i.c.k was staring up Saint George's Lane and s.h.i.+fting restlessly from foot to foot.
My pulse raced when I heard the faint sound of a vehicle changing gears. A moment later, a gray van emerged from the lane and stopped at the pub. d.i.c.k opened the van's rear door, and he and the driver began unloading cardboard boxes, which they carried into the pub. They worked methodically, with the speed and efficiency of a well-practiced team.
The boxes appeared to be unmarked and fairly heavy. The men unloaded three each before d.i.c.k closed the rear door, handed a small white packet-an envelope?-to the driver, and hurried back into the pub. The driver tucked the packet inside his slicker, hopped into the driver's seat, and drove around the square. Reginald and I hunkered down again as he pa.s.sed Wysteria Lodge, but I scribbled the license-plate number on a sc.r.a.p of paper before the van vanished up Saint George's Lane.
That was it. The drama was over. The rain continued falling, the sun rose bit by bit, and the buildings on the square seemed once again as devoid of life as the churchyard's weathered tombs.
I sat back on my heels and gazed thoughtfully into Reginald's black b.u.t.ton eyes.
”Contraband,” I murmured. ”What do you think, Reg? Is d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k smuggling liquor into Finch? Does Sally Pyne know about it? More important still, did Mrs. Hooper-” I fell silent as a cold draft of air wafted over me.
Someone had opened the back door.
I clutched Reginald to my breast and crept behind Bill's desk, peering fearfully toward the storage room. I was reaching for the telephone when I heard a soft thump and a m.u.f.fled ”Ow!”
”Nicholas?” I whispered, and hastened in a half-crouch to the storeroom.
His quiet voice floated to me from the darkness. ”Yes, Lori, it's Nicholas.”
”Stay where you are.” I closed the door behind me and re-lit the squat white candle I'd left standing on a box of files.
Nicholas stood just inside the back door, rubbing the knee he'd bashed against a plastic storage bin. He was wearing a rainproof windbreaker, but his pant legs were damp, his shoes muddy, and his hair hung in draggled tresses he'd pushed behind ears he had no reason to hide. His sea-green eyes by candlelight took my breath away.
”You're wet,” I said, trying valiantly to ignore my galloping heart. ”I think Bill has some towels somewhere.”
”Don't bother,” he murmured, straightening. ”I'm fine.”
”You're not fine,” I insisted, rummaging for the towels. ”You're wet and muddy and-”
”I'm fine,” he repeated. ”There's no need to fuss.”
”I'm not fussing. I'm . . .” I stopped my search and commanded my treacherous heart to behave itself. ”What are you doing here, Nicholas? I thought we agreed-”
He stepped closer to me. ”I know what we agreed, but I couldn't wait.” He came closer still, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my skin. ”Is that . . . a rabbit you're holding?”
I looked down at my pink-flannel chaperon, mortified. I started to explain that I'd been nervous and in need of moral support, but soon gave up and bowed my head, murmuring morosely, ”It's not something you would understand.”
”I understand what it is to be alone and afraid during a stakeout,” Nicholas said softly. He lifted my chin with his fingertips. ”It was wise of you to bring a talisman.”
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep myself from reaching up to smooth away the scattered raindrops sparkling like tears on Nicholas's face. If Reginald hadn't been there, I might have smoothed them away with my lips.
”W-what couldn't wait?” I managed, shoving my free hand firmly into my trouser pocket.
His fingers lingered briefly beneath my chin, then fell away. ”George Wetherhead is with a woman,” he whispered. ”She was wearing a hooded cape when she entered his house, so I couldn't see her clearly, but I'm certain that you'll know who she is.”
”Why?” I asked.
”Because,” he said, his bright eyes dancing, ”she lives across the street from my aunt and uncle.”
My brain seized for a moment. ”M-Miranda Morrow?” I sputtered. ”George Wetherhead is having an affair with Finch's witch?”
Chapter 12.
Miranda Morrow was a tall and shapely strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties who practiced telephone witchcraft for a living. She had a flat in London but spent a good part of the year at Briar Cottage, which stood directly across Saint George's Lane from the vicarage.
Mr. Wetherhead, by contrast, was a short and balding man in his mid-fifties who ran a train museum to augment his disability pension. He never went to London; in truth, he spent so much of his time creating miniature landscapes for his toy trains that he seldom left his home, which stood between the old schoolhouse and the vicarage.
”Miranda Morrow and George Wetherhead?” My mind reeled. ”I don't believe it.”
”Then come and see for yourself,” Nicholas coaxed. ”If we hurry, we may catch her as she's leaving.”
I grabbed my jacket and threw caution to the wind. The rumor mill would grind itself into dust if Nicholas and I were seen together, but I couldn't pa.s.s up the chance to find out for myself if Finch had sp.a.w.ned the most improbable pair of lovers in the history of affection.
Reginald, however, remained behind. I didn't want the added burden of the daypack, and with Nicholas at my side, I feared no one.
Nicholas extinguished the candle and led the way through the back door. From that point on, it was all I could do to keep up with him. I'd a.s.sumed we'd take the river path to George Wetherhead's house, but Nicholas had reconnoitered a more direct route. The fact that his shortcut involved hopping walls, ducking branches, and squeezing through a hedgerow didn't bother him. He moved as lithely as a panther and used simple hand gestures to signal changes in speed and direction.
I scampered after him as swiftly as I could, the rain and my sore muscles forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. I felt as if I were flying.
We slowed when we reached the old schoolhouse, then crept stealthily to the far corner of the schoolyard wall. George Wetherhead's house stood not ten yards from us, its windows shrouded with heavy drapes.
We worked our way along the wall until we had an un.o.bstructed view of the front door, but Nicholas wasn't content to watch from a distance. He darted forward and moved from window to window, searching for a gap in the curtains.
I was appalled. I had no intention of playing Peeping Tom, and I didn't think Nicholas should, either. When he motioned for me to join him near a side window, I went forward to express my displeasure.
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