uncleâand everyone else in Finchâalready 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.
Sheâd evidently been killed where sheâd been found, in the front parlor of Crabtree Cottage. The cottageâs 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, whoâd described finding the body.
âMrs. Taxman had come to collect the rent, apparently,â said Nicholas. âShe and Mrs. Hooper knew each other, back in Birmingham, before Mrs. Taxman came to live in Finch.â
âShe sounds like the kind of friend Peggy Taxman would have,â I commented dryly.
âMrs. Taxman is an imposing woman,â Nicholas acknowledged.
âSheâs terrifying.â I held up a cautioning finger. âIf she so much as mentions the church fête, run the other way or youâll find yourself in charge of the pony rides.â
âI see,â said Nicholas, grinning, âan organizer. Thereâs one in every village. Thanks for the warning.â
âDonât mention it,â I said, glad that, for once, Iâd made him smile instead of the other way around.
The inquestâs impact on the vicar was, alas, no laughing matter. The proceedingâs inconclusive conclusions had left Theodore Bunting so depressed that heâd spent the previous evening brooding in his library, and so distracted that heâd skipped over the third collect in the morning service.
âIâm concerned about my uncle,â Nicholas explained, âand somewhat underfoot at the vicarage, so I thought Iâd 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
âThey usually know whatâs what,â I agreed. âAnd the police wouldnât have much luck questioning them.â
Nicholas smiled wryly. âIt takes a practiced ear to understand the Pyms.â
We walked on in silence while I weighed the pros and cons of asking Nicholas to join forces with me. Heâd already displayed a willingness to share information, and he knew how to listen. He was comfortable with all sorts of people, and as the vicarâs nephew, heâd 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.
âNicholas,â I said, coming to a halt, âIâm as worried about my friend Kit as you are about your uncle, and Iâve lost faith in the police. I didnât come here today out of idle curiosity. I want to find out who killed Pruneface Hooper.â I bowed my head, let my shoulders slump, and emitted a melodramatic sigh. âThe trouble is, my interrogation skills arenât what they used to be. I keep leading my witnesses.â I peeked up at Nicholas and saw his eyes curve into half-moons as yet another smile wreathed his face. âI could use your help.â
âAs I could yours,â he said. âFour ears are far better than two.â
I wondered fleetingly what his ears looked like under those wavy curtains of hair, then turned to him and offered my hand. âPartners?â
âPartners,â he repeated firmly.
âAnd may our next interview be more successful than our last,â 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
Learning to Kill: Stories