Aunt Dimity: Detective by Nancy Atherton Read Free Book Online Page B

uncle—and everyone else in Finch—already knew: Mrs. Hooper had been struck on the head with a blunt instrument by a person or persons unknown between the hours of five and nine in the morning on Thursday, March 22.
    She’d evidently been killed where she’d been found, in the front parlor of Crabtree Cottage. The cottage’s doors and windows had been unlocked, but the police had found no evidence of theft. Finally, and perhaps most predictably, no locals had been on hand to offer testimony, apart from Peggy Taxman, who’d described finding the body.
    â€œMrs. Taxman had come to collect the rent, apparently,” said Nicholas. “She and Mrs. Hooper knew each other, back in Birmingham, before Mrs. Taxman came to live in Finch.”
    â€œShe sounds like the kind of friend Peggy Taxman would have,” I commented dryly.
    â€œMrs. Taxman is an imposing woman,” Nicholas acknowledged.
    â€œShe’s terrifying.” I held up a cautioning finger. “If she so much as mentions the church fête, run the other way or you’ll find yourself in charge of the pony rides.”
    â€œI see,” said Nicholas, grinning, “an organizer. There’s one in every village. Thanks for the warning.”
    â€œDon’t mention it,” I said, glad that, for once, I’d made him smile instead of the other way around.
    The inquest’s impact on the vicar was, alas, no laughing matter. The proceeding’s inconclusive conclusions had left Theodore Bunting so depressed that he’d spent the previous evening brooding in his library, and so distracted that he’d skipped over the third collect in the morning service.
    â€œI’m concerned about my uncle,” Nicholas explained, “and somewhat underfoot at the vicarage, so I thought I’d lend the police a hand. Or at least a pair of ears. When Aunt Lilian mentioned the Pyms, it occurred to me that they might provide a starting point.”
    â€œThey usually know what’s what,” I agreed. “And the police wouldn’t have much luck questioning them.”
    Nicholas smiled wryly. “It takes a practiced ear to understand the Pyms.”
    We walked on in silence while I weighed the pros and cons of asking Nicholas to join forces with me. He’d already displayed a willingness to share information, and he knew how to listen. He was comfortable with all sorts of people, and as the vicar’s nephew, he’d fit neatly into the constellation of relationships that formed the social fabric of the village. Moreover, I was comfortable with him. On the whole, I decided, he would make an admirable substitute for Emma.
    â€œNicholas,” I said, coming to a halt, “I’m as worried about my friend Kit as you are about your uncle, and I’ve lost faith in the police. I didn’t come here today out of idle curiosity. I want to find out who killed Pruneface Hooper.” I bowed my head, let my shoulders slump, and emitted a melodramatic sigh. “The trouble is, my interrogation skills aren’t what they used to be. I keep leading my witnesses.” I peeked up at Nicholas and saw his eyes curve into half-moons as yet another smile wreathed his face. “I could use your help.”
    â€œAs I could yours,” he said. “Four ears are far better than two.”
    I wondered fleetingly what his ears looked like under those wavy curtains of hair, then turned to him and offered my hand. “Partners?”
    â€œPartners,” he repeated firmly.
    â€œAnd may our next interview be more successful than our last,” I added.
    As we shook hands, I noticed the strength of his grip and the calloused ridge of skin that ran along the outside of his palm. If our inquiries roused any rabid dogs, I told myself, it would be comforting to have a self-defense expert in my corner.
    With a scant ten minutes left before our lunch date at the vicarage, we made our way back to