Part 8 (1/2)
I'd just tweaked the sleeve of his windbreaker when I heard the sound of Miranda Morrow's fruity voice coming from inside the house.
”Six o'clock, darling. Time for me to go. If you'll take up your trousers . . . I think you've had enough for one morning, don't you?”
I recoiled, grabbed Nicholas's arm, and yanked him away from the window. I shook my head vehemently to indicate that his days as a voyeur were over, and we retreated to the back of the house. Having identified Miranda's inimitable voice, I no longer needed to watch the front door for her departure.
Nicholas slipped nimbly over the wall that separated George Wetherhead's back garden from the Buntings' and made for the French doors that gave access to the vicar's study. I clambered over the wall less gracefully, landed up to my ankles in what appeared to be a small lake, and remembered too late that I'd used up my allotment of dry clothing. With a heavy sigh, I waded ash.o.r.e and followed Nicholas up the stone steps to the gla.s.s-paned doors.
Bill and I had spent many a pleasant evening in the book-lined study at the rear of the vicarage. Its furnis.h.i.+ngs were as shabby-and as comfortable-as an old bathrobe, but they didn't deserve to be treated shabbily. I wrung out my puddle-soaked trouser cuffs and took off my sopping sneakers before entering the room.
By the time I came inside, Nicholas had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his windbreaker, lit a fire in the fireplace, and retrieved a pair of cotton towels as well as a woolen blanket from his aunt's linen closet. He placed my sneakers beside his shoes near the fire and nodded toward the green velvet sofa that faced the vicar's armchair across the hearth.
”Have a seat,” he said. ”You must be chilled to the bone.”
”There's no need to fuss.” I sat on the sofa and held my hand out for a towel. ”I'm fine.”
Nicholas smiled wryly as he wrapped the woolen blanket around my shoulders. We spent a moment in companionable silence, toweling our hair while the fire leapt and crackled and warmed the room. When my short curls and his long locks were sufficiently blotted, Nicholas took the damp towels away and returned with two large mugs of hot cocoa. He presented one to me, sat in the vicar's armchair, and held his stockinged feet out to the fire.
I swung my legs up on the couch, to put my own feet within drying distance of the flames, and eyed Nicholas speculatively as I sipped the steaming cocoa.
”You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said. ”What did you think you were doing, looking in on them like that?”
”I was confirming a hunch,” he replied.
”What hunch?” I asked.
”One of recent vintage. It came to me when you mentioned Ms. Morrow's profession.” He peered at me quizzically over the rim of his mug. ”What do you think they were doing back there?”
”It seemed pretty clear to me,” I mumbled, blus.h.i.+ng.
”You didn't even look,” he objected.
”I didn't want to look,” I retorted.
Nicholas shook an index finger at me. ”Never theorize in advance of the facts, Lori. It's fatal to any investigation.”
”Okay, Chief Inspector,” I said sarcastically. ”Tell me what you saw.”
”I saw”-Nicholas paused for dramatic effect, then went on matter-of-factly-”a skilled physiotherapist ministering to a patient.”
My mouth fell open, and Nicholas grinned.
”I saw Ms. Morrow administering a therapeutic ma.s.sage to Mr. Wetherhead,” he clarified. ”Her manner was that of a highly competent and professional therapist. She was using a portable ma.s.sage table and a kit stocked with what I a.s.sume to be herbal oils of her own devising.” He finished his cocoa and set the mug aside. ”Witchcraft is, among other things, a healing profession.”
”A therapeutic ma.s.sage,” I repeated, as whole piggy banks of pennies began to drop. ”Miranda's been working on George's injured hip. That's why he doesn't need a cane anymore.”
”It may also explain the clandestine nature of her visits,” Nicholas said. ”A hip injury would require manipulations of fairly intimate parts of the anatomy. Mr. Wetherhead might permit them to ease his suffering, but he might at the same time find them rather embarra.s.sing.”
”He would,” I stated firmly. ”Especially since it's a woman doing the manipulating, and not just any woman, but an attractive, unmarried witch. The poor guy . . .” I cupped the mug between my hands. ”He was so afraid of scandal that he scheduled his treatments in a way that sparked the very rumors he was afraid of.” I finished my cocoa and placed the mug on the small table at the head of the couch. ”d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's going to be sadly disappointed when the truth comes out.”
”Speaking of Mr. Peac.o.c.k . . . ,” Nicholas prompted.
I told him about the van, the cardboard boxes, and the packet d.i.c.k had given to the driver. I was proud of myself for remembering the van's plate number without referring to my scribbled note.
”Mrs. Pyne was telling the truth,” said Nicholas, ”and Mr. Peac.o.c.k was concealing it.”
”I think he's buying smuggled liquor,” I said.
”It's possible.” Nicholas wriggled his toes as if savoring the fire's warmth. ”It's not easy to keep a pub going in a place as small as Finch. Mr. Peac.o.c.k wouldn't be the first landlord to cut costs by stocking his bar with tax-free brew.”
”Sally Pyne seems to know what he's doing,” I pointed out, ”and she doesn't seem to mind. Pruneface, on the other hand, may not have been so tolerant.”
Nicholas tilted his head back and recited, ”There's taking an interest and there's poking your d.a.m.ned nose in places where it has no business being.” He pursed his lips. ”Mrs. Hooper seems to have poked her nose into Mr. Peac.o.c.k's business as well as Mr. Wetherhead's.”
”She probably spied on both of them from Crabtree Cottage.” I curled my legs under me, drew the blanket over my lap, and leaned back against the sofa's velvet arm. ”I wonder if she threatened to expose them?”
”If she did,” said Nicholas, ”it would give both men a motive for murder. Her wagging tongue would have threatened Mr. Peac.o.c.k's livelihood and Mr. Wetherhead's health.”
I gazed unhappily into the fire. Aunt Dimity believed that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper had said or done. Threatening one's neighbors was nothing if not regrettable. Had one of the men snapped? d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k was as strong as he was large. A glancing blow from him would be enough to crack Prunella Hooper's skull.
And George Wetherhead's three-p.r.o.nged cane was an undeniably blunt instrument.
I glanced over at Nicholas. He was staring at the dancing flames and slowly combing his fingers through his hair. The vagrant gold strands gleamed in the firelight, and his eyes shone like liquid opals.
”Doesn't it get in the way?” I asked.
He came out of his reverie. ”Sorry?”
”Your hair,” I said. ”Doesn't it get in the way when you're karate-chopping people?”
”Perfect vision isn't essential if one hones one's other senses.” He sat forward in his chair. ”Close your eyes.”
I closed them.
”Listen,” he instructed, ”not with your ears alone but with your entire body. Try to locate me.”
I cheated at first and focused on my sense of hearing, but Nicholas in stockinged feet on a Turkish carpet, however threadbare, made not a sound.
I closed my eyes more tightly and widened my focus until I felt as if I were listening with my skin. This time I felt a tingle, as if an electrical field surrounding me had been subtly altered. I raised my hand, reached out, and seemed to touch spun silk. I opened my eyes to find my fingers tangled in Nicholas's hair.
He was on his knees beside me. He gazed at me in silence for a moment, then brought his shadowed face so close to mine that I caught the scents of wood smoke and rain lingering on his skin.
”Your sixth sense can alert you to many things,” he said softly. ”Not only physical sensation but emotion, intention . . . It can help you to avoid danger if you trust it.”
We were alone in the study. No nosy neighbors were keeping watch, and Reginald was in Wysteria Lodge. I let my fingers trail through his hair.
Nicholas caught his breath and gathered my hand in his, murmuring, ”Not a good idea.”