Part 15 (1/2)

Dimity allowed me to gibber hysterically for a solid five minutes before writing a single word.

Lori?

I blinked down at the page. ”Huh?”

If I might redirect your attention for a moment?

”To what?” I said.

To your husband. Bill cherishes your compa.s.sionate nature, my dear, but you might want to tone down your concern lest he misinterpret it. He may not understand why you've worked yourself into such a tizzy over someone who's merely a pa.s.sing acquaintance. I do, but he may not.

”You do?” I said.

I may have taken leave of this earth, Lori, but I haven't taken leave of my senses. In our recent conversations, you've expressed more interest in Nicholas than in the murder.

”That's because I care about Nicholas,” I said boldly, ”and I don't give a toss about Prunella Hooper. As far as I'm concerned, her death was a gift to Finch. Wait until you hear what she did to Peggy Taxman.”

I've been waiting. If handwriting could be ironic, Dimity's was. I took the hint and unfolded Peggy's story in all of its poignant detail for the second time that day.

Dimity didn't respond at once. There was a long pause before her words began to scroll across the page, as if she'd needed time to reconcile her old image of Peggy the termagant with the new one of Peggy the brutalized victim.

Poor Mrs. Taxman. I knew there was more to her than met the eye, but I'd no idea how much more. I never would have guessed that we had so much in common. I sympathize with her more deeply than I'd ever thought possible.

I felt a pang of remorse as the real reason for Dimity's prolonged silence dawned. She, too, had lost her first love to the war. She and Peggy were bound by ties of loss and suffering I couldn't begin to comprehend.

Her burden was far greater than mine, of course, for I was never forced to give up a child. How galling it must have been for her to live under Mrs. Hooper's thumb, and how painful to have her past abused in such a way.

”I don't know how Peggy stood it,” I said.

Nor do I. I find it extremely difficult to believe that a woman with her explosive temperament would submit to such a cruel form of blackmail for so long without striking out. If motive is all we have to go by, I fear that Mrs. Taxman is our most likely suspect.

”If it turns out that Peggy killed Mrs. Hooper, I'll call it justifiable homicide,” I declared. ”I'm reserving judgment, though, until we hear from Mr. Barlow.”

A wise decision. In the meantime, try not to lose too much sleep over Nicholas's impending death. There could be other explanations for his moodiness.

”Name one,” I challenged.

He could be in love with you. Sleep well, my dear.

”Sleep well?” I squeaked. I watched in mute distress as the gracefully curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page, then closed the journal and buried my face in my hands.

Could it be true? I asked myself. Had Nicholas fallen in love with me? I knew that he was drawn to me-he'd told me so-but he'd done nothing to suggest that his emotions were involved. When he'd said he was ”not beyond temptation,” I'd a.s.sumed he meant temptations of the flesh. Had I missed another cue? Had straightforward physical magnetism evolved into something deeper-something that touched his heart, disrupted his speech, filled him with melancholy?

Deeper feelings would p.r.i.c.k at his conscience as well. He'd said only this morning that he hoped our ”a.s.sociation” wouldn't cause trouble for me after he'd gone. He'd told me in the vicar's study that he didn't want to complicate my life. It had never crossed my mind that I might be complicating his.

While Nicholas had treated me with kid gloves, I'd played silly games. I wanted to sink through the floor when I thought of the playful, public kiss I'd given him. It had seemed like a clever joke at the time, a way of baiting my nosy neighbors. I hadn't stopped to consider its effect on Nicholas.

I felt like an unmitigated cad. When all was said and done, I could run home to my family, but Nicholas had no one to run home to-no wife, no fiancee, no girlfriend. Who would help him get over me? He didn't even own a cat.

Unrequited love could prey on a man's mind as morbidly as impending death. It suddenly occurred to me that Nicholas might have invented the doctor's appointment as an excuse to put distance between himself and the unworthy object of his blighted affection.

I groaned miserably and dragged myself to bed, tormented by thoughts of love and death. Given a choice between Aunt Dimity's explanation of Nicholas's behavior and Emma's, I almost preferred Emma's. I could nurse Nicholas through the most dreadful of diseases, but I couldn't mend a heart that I had broken.

Chapter 22.

Bill telephoned bright and early Sat.u.r.day morning to let me know that, due to the demands of a particularly difficult client, he wouldn't be coming home until Sunday. I was disappointed but not surprised. Since most of Bill's clients were difficult and since he'd been away from his practice for three months, a certain number of complications were only to be expected.

I spent the rest of the day obsessing about Nicholas. I reached for the telephone a dozen times but decided each time that a phone call would be cowardly. Though I dreaded finding out that he was either heartsick or just plain sick, I felt I owed it to him to do so face-to-face.

I left the cottage early in order to help Lilian Bunting prepare the schoolhouse for the meeting and, if the opportunity presented itself, to have a private word with her nephew.

The old schoolhouse had been used as an all-purpose meeting place since 1963, when a fire had destroyed Finch's village hall. It had once held two cla.s.srooms, but the wall dividing the two rooms had been removed to create a large open s.p.a.ce in which the villagers conducted meetings, staged plays, and judged exhibitions related to the year's various fairs and festivals.

I'd attended many events in the schoolhouse, but none had seemed as momentous as the one that would start in less than an hour. As I parked the Rover beside the schoolyard wall, I had little doubt that the judgments pa.s.sed by the select members of the Easter vigil committee would be remembered long after the winner of the Best-Flower-Arrangement-in-a-Gravy-Boat compet.i.tion had been forgotten.

Work-booted b.u.t.terflies romped in my stomach as I let myself in through the schoolhouse's double doors, hung my jacket on a hook in the long, narrow cloakroom, and entered the schoolroom proper. I saw at once that Lilian had preparations well in hand.

A circle of ten folding chairs sat in the middle of the room, with the refreshments table centered on the north wall. A dozen serving dishes filled with an a.s.sortment of homemade pastries had been placed on the table, along with the cheap paper napkins and the virtually indestructible cups, saucers, and teaspoons used at all community gatherings. The muted sound of running water suggested that someone was at the sink in the ladies' loo, filling the giant tea urn.

The circular seating arrangement was new to me. At every meeting I'd attended, the chairman had occupied a lofty position on the raised platform at the far end of the room, facing regimented rows of lowly committee members. I wondered if Lilian's circle had been designed to promote a more democratic spirit-or to provoke a confrontation.

I'd brought with me the Pyms' undelivered gingerbread, which I planned to distribute at the end of the meeting. I slid the boxes under the refreshments table and scanned the room, searching for some sign of Nicholas's presence. I saw none, and when the door to the ladies' bathroom opened, I hastened to give Lilian a hand lugging the heavy tea urn to the refreshments table.

”Thank you, Lori.” Lilian's face was flushed from the exertion. ”We keep meaning to purchase a rolling cart for this monster, but we always forget to include it in the annual budget.”

”Where's the vicar?” I asked.

”I thought the meeting might be stressful for Teddy,” Lilian replied, ”so I sent him to spend the night at my brother's.”

”What about Nicholas?” I said.

”He hasn't returned from London yet,” Lilian informed me. ”I expect the poor boy's trapped between lorries on the M40. The roads have become purgatorial since the government ruined the railways.”

”Have you spoken with him?” I asked, fis.h.i.+ng for details. ”Did his doctor give him a clean bill of health?”

”Nicky runs five miles every morning,” Lilian replied dryly. ”His profession requires him to be in tiptop condition. He has nothing to fear from a routine medical examination, whereas you and I”-she paused to change her grip on the slos.h.i.+ng urn-”may need a chiropractor before the evening's done. Now . . . lift!”

Once we'd maneuvered the urn onto the table, Lilian plugged it in, turned it on, and stood back to survey the table. It didn't take long for her glance to fall on me.

”What a . . . striking costume,” she faltered, eyeing my outfit with poorly concealed dismay. ”It's so, um, homespun.”

I looked down self-consciously. I'd carefully selected the shapeless gray tunic and loose-fitting black trousers in an attempt to appear as s.e.xless as possible, for Nicholas's sake, but Lilian's pained expression suggested that I might have gone a bit overboard.

”It's comfortable,” I said lamely.

”Comfort is important,” Lilian agreed with a self-satisfied glance at her well-tailored tweeds.