After Sally had tucked the box of gingerbread behind the cash register, I carefully explained that my husband would be home on Sat.u.r.day and that Lilian Bunting had asked me to entertain her nephew during his visit because the vicar wasn't feeling well.

Sally huffed triumphantly when she heard about the vicar. "He's probably worried sick about who's going to do the font for Easter. He knows better than to ask me."

"What a pity." Nicholas sounded truly disappointed. "I was so looking forward to seeing your arrangement, Mrs. Pyne. My aunt tells me that you're magical with moss."

"Vicar should've remembered that when he sacked me," Sally retorted.

"Indeed, he should have." Nicholas nodded gravely. "I believe he meant well when he rea.s.signed the task to Mrs. Hooper. He was trying to make a new parishioner feel welcome."

"A new parishioner." Sally snorted derisively. "A blood-sucking piranha, more like. Vicar was bamboozled by Pruneface's smarmy flattery. She was sweet as honey when she saw something she wanted, and what she wanted was to snub me."

Nicholas leaned forward. "Why on earth would she want to snub you?"

"Because I tossed her beastly grandson out of my tearoom." Sally pointed to a spot on the wall above the cash register, crying indignantly, "He broke my clock!"

I looked up and noticed for the first time that the glorious sunburst clock had been replaced by a cat-shaped plastic timepiece with hideous ticktocking eyes, a dial in its belly, and a swinging pendulum tail.

"Came in here with a football, the little beast, and threw it when I told him not to. Knocked my beautiful clock right off the wall," Sally went on. "I could've wrung his fat neck, but I just told him to get out. Next thing I know, Vicar's given the font to Pruneface." She paused to catch her breath. "Now, you may think I'm adding two plus two and getting five, but-"

"I don't," I interrupted. "Kit Smith had a run-in with Mrs. Hooper, involving her grandson, and she made him regret it."

Sally was all ears as I told her about the incident at the Ans...o...b.. Manor stables and the rumor Mrs. Hooper had spread to punish Kit for refusing to let her grandson ride Zephyrus.

Nicholas, on the other hand, was all eyes. I glanced at him a few times while recounting my tale and was mildly disconcerted by his sheer intensity. He'd gone into Zen listening mode, sitting absolutely motionless and watching Sally's face with an expression that was neither kindly nor good-humored. It was cold and hard and penetrating, as if he were recording Sally's minutest reactions for later in-depth a.n.a.lysis.

"I never did believe the folderol about Kit and Nell," Sally declared. "And even if it were true, where's the harm? Nell's older than her years, old enough to know her mind, and the man hasn't been born who could seduce her without her full cooperation. Besides, everyone knows that Kit's a saint. Nell could do a lot worse than fall in love with him." She pushed the plate of jam doughnuts toward us and urged us to partake. "It's Peggy Taxman who kept that rumor going about Kit seducing Nell, but I never did believe it. Parroting her chum, she was."

"Did you happen to mention the broken clock to the police?" Nicholas inquired.

"Why should I?" Sally demanded. "It had nothing to do with Pruneface's death. There's no need to tell the police every little thing that happens. It only clutters their minds."

Nicholas c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "Mrs. Hooper seems to have been slightly neurotic about her grandson."

"She preferred her grandson to her son," Sally told him eagerly. "She treated that son of hers like dirt. Never heard her say a kind word to him without a razor buried in it, like ground gla.s.s folded into whipping cream, but that grandson of hers could do no wrong."

"Is that why she was buried in Finch," I asked, "instead of closer to her son?"

"'Course it is," said Sally. "You could see it in the poor chap's eyes when he spoke at the wake. He was glad to see the back of her and didn't plan to haunt the graveyard like that deluded fleabrain Peggy Taxman."

"Mrs. Taxman seems to be the only person mourning Mrs. Hooper's death," Nicholas observed. "She's angry about it, too."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Peggy Taxman's been pointing fingers left and right ever since Pruneface was thumped. She thinks I did it because of the font, she thinks Kit did it to avoid more scandal, and I don't know why she thinks Billy Barlow did it but-"

"He was on the square that morning," Nicholas put in swiftly.

"He wasn't the only one," Sally pointed out, in full flow. "d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k was there, too, like he is every Thursday morning, keeping an eye out for-" She broke off abruptly, colored to the roots of her stylishly cropped white hair, and averted her gaze. "Good heavens, look at the time," she said, getting to her feet. "Have to get the kettles boiling before the lunch crowd tumbles in. Eat up, you two. I'll be back to top up your pot."

I lifted a jam doughnut from the plate. It wasn't like a doughnut in the States. Sally's jam doughnuts were made of heavy, chewy dough. They were shaped like submarines, rolled in grainy sugar, split in two, and filled with thick, b.u.t.tery whipped cream, with a scant dab of jam smeared down the middle. The mere sight of one made me weak with desire.

"I wonder," I said quietly, "if the scorned son stood to inherit anything from mommy dearest."

"That's the sort of thing the police will wonder, too, and they're better equipped than we are to look into it." Nicholas reached for a doughnut. "I'm more interested in finding out why Mr. Peac.o.c.k's on the square every Thursday morning."

I felt a quiver of excitement. "Tomorrow's Thursday," I pointed out. "Do you want to mount a stakeout?"

"Why don't we try speaking with him first?" Nicholas's eyes widened as he bit into his doughnut. "My G.o.d," he mumbled reverently through a mouthful of heavy cream, "this is incredible."

"Don't eat more than one," I cautioned, glancing at the cat clock, "because in exactly twenty minutes we'll be sitting down to lunch at Peac.o.c.k's pub."

Chapter 10.

The heavens opened as soon as we left Sally's tearoom, so I decided to leave the Peac.o.c.ks' gingerbread in the Rover for the time being. I pulled up the hood on my oiled-cotton jacket, Nicholas held his trench coat over his head like a cape, and we sprinted across the soggy green toward the pub.

d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k saw us coming and opened the door for us and a pair of field hands who'd dashed over from the Emporium. The experienced publican's ready greeting covered all four of us.

"Good weather for the crops," he remarked cheerfully as we shook the rain from our a.s.sorted coats, "but a dirty day to be on foot."

d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k was a large man, so big around that he'd been forced to widen the hatch in the bar to accommodate his girth. He was also finicky about his appearance. His mustache and goatee were works of art, and he had a closet full of brightly colored shirts. He'd chosen one in aquamarine today, perhaps in tribute to the "dirty" weather.

d.i.c.k's majestic proportions could be attributed directly to his wife's culinary skills. If Sally Pyne reigned supreme over all things rich and sweet, Christine Peac.o.c.k was the rightful queen of grease. Christine's famous homemade sausages and chips came from the kitchen dripping, her fried bread and fried tomatoes glistened with globules of fat, and the crusts of her meat pies were laden with lard.

Christine was, as a result, nearly as big around as her husband, but she carried her weight gracefully and dressed to suit herself. As we hung our wet coats on the wall rack, she emerged from the pub's kitchen wearing a long-sleeved striped pullover and a pair of outsized jeans.

"Lori," she called. "Welcome home."

"Thanks," I replied. "It's good to be back."

While d.i.c.k served the field hands at the bar, Christine guided Nicholas and me to a table at the front window, talking nonstop.

"How was your visit to the States, Lori? And your father-in-law? He's well, I hope? And how are the boys? They must've grown a foot since I last saw them."

Christine's rapid-fire questions reached a climax with an inquiry that had by now become as predictable as spring rain.

"Bill stayed on in London, did he?" Christine's blue eyes darted to Nicholas's face. "No trouble there, I hope."

"He's catching up on paperwork with his cousin Gerald," I explained patiently, "and he'll be home on Sat.u.r.day. In the meantime, Lilian Bunting asked me to-"

"-show her nephew Nicholas round Finch." Christine turned to my companion. "I'm pleased to meet you, Nicholas. d.i.c.k saw you running by the river this morning. Gives a man an appet.i.te, does running. Will you be having lunch?"

Christine's cholesterol-crammed cuisine may have been a cardiologist's nightmare, and it wasn't something I indulged in every day, but when I did, I invariably cleaned my plate. I ordered a cla.s.sic fry-up, Nicholas followed my example, and Christine retreated to the kitchen.

"I didn't know you ran," I said to Nicholas.

"Penance for my gustatory sins," he confessed, "which have been mounting at an alarming rate ever since I arrived in Finch." He looked over at d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k and lowered his voice. "I suspect I'll have to run to Kathmandu and back to work off today's lunch."

I was still chuckling when d.i.c.k came to take our drinks order.

"I think the rain has scared away your regulars," I commented, eyeing the empty tables.

"It's a busy time of year for farming folk," d.i.c.k said.

"They'll be in this evening, though, whatever the weather. Did I tell you how good it is to have you back, Lori? We missed you." He surveyed my smiling face, then extended his hand to Nicholas. "And you're the Buntings' nephew. Pleased to meet you, Nicholas. Lori seems to be having great fun with you. I haven't heard anyone laugh like that in ages."

"My aunt tells me that Finch hasn't had much to laugh about lately," Nicholas ventured. "Nasty business, a neighbor being murdered."

"Well, Nicholas, it depends on how you look at it." d.i.c.k stroked his goatee philosophically and gazed out of the window.

"I take your point." Nicholas nodded sagely, as if the publican had made a profound observation. "I suppose, for example, it could depend on how neighborly the neighbor was."

"That's it in a nutsh.e.l.l," d.i.c.k said. "And I'm sorry to say it, but Mrs. Hooper wasn't the neighborliest of neighbors."

"Is that right?" Nicholas looked puzzled. "Peggy Taxman told us that she took an interest in people. Surely that's an admirable quality."

"Well, Nicholas, it depends on how you look at it," d.i.c.k repeated. He folded his arms and settled back on his heels. "There's taking an interest, and there's poking your d.a.m.ned nose in places where it has no business being, and I'm sorry to say it, but old Pruneface had a snoot on her like a pachyderm." He smiled down at us beneficently. "Now, what will you be drinking?"

I ordered a half-pint of shandy, and Nicholas requested a pint of stout. When d.i.c.k had gone back to the bar, I raised both eyebrows.

"I've never heard d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k swear before," I murmured.

Nicholas leaned forward, whispering, "Pruneface the pachyderm strikes again."

An elephantine snort of laughter escaped me, and I turned my face to the window to hide my merriment. I didn't want to give d.i.c.k the impression that I was having too much fun with Nicholas.

"It's stopped raining," Nicholas observed, and sure enough, the cloudburst had ended, and the square had come to life. Little knots of people spilled out of the Emporium, the tearoom, and the greengrocer's and scattered in all directions. Most took advantage of the opportunity to make a dry escape and went directly to their cars.

"Huh," I said, catching sight of a lone figure walking from the tearoom toward Saint George's Lane. "There's George Wetherhead. We have a box of gingerbread for him." I watched the retired railwayman idly for a moment, then more attentively. There was something different about him, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was.

"Here you are." d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k had returned with our drinks. "Enjoy."

Nicholas took a long pull on his stout and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. "A fine brew, Mr. Peac.o.c.k."

"We aim to please," d.i.c.k said. His smile faltered slightly. "Not that you can please everyone. If that Hooper woman didn't like living next to a pub, she shouldn't have rented Crabtree Cottage."

"Indeed not," Nicholas agreed.

"There goes old George." d.i.c.k's smile returned as he noted the direction of my gaze. "He's looking awfully chipper these days, don't you think?"

"Where's his cane?" I asked suddenly. A hip injury suffered in a fall from a freight car had forced Mr. Wetherhead's early retirement from the railway. I'd never seen him walking without the aid of a three-p.r.o.nged cane.

"Leaves it at home these days." d.i.c.k peered over his shoulder at the kitchen door, as if to make sure that his wife was safely out of earshot. When he turned back to us, he was smirking. "There's a spring in his step, wouldn't you say?"

"It's wonderful," I marveled. "What happened? Did he see another specialist?"

"In a manner of speaking," said d.i.c.k. "What I've heard about old George is-"

He fell into a guilty silence as his wife loomed at his elbow, carrying a serving tray. Grog, the Peac.o.c.k's ba.s.set hound, trailed hopefully at her heels, his attention riveted on the artery-clogging, aromatic feast she placed before us.

Christine glared at her husband. "Did I hear you talking about Mr. Wetherhead?"

d.i.c.k raised a placating hand. "Now, dear, I was only trying to fill Lori in on the latest news."

"The latest nonsense, I'd call it." Christine planted one hand firmly on one broad hip. "It's nothing but rumors, d.i.c.k, and I won't have such talk repeated in my pub."

"Just because they're rumors doesn't mean they aren't true," d.i.c.k said. "Where there's smoke-"

"-there's usually a large pile of rubbish," Christine broke in. "You'll do well to remember it, Richard Peac.o.c.k. What folks get up to in their own home in the wee hours or at any other time is their business, so let that be an end to it."

d.i.c.k hastened to the bar in chastened silence, but the moment the kitchen door had swung shut behind his wife, he returned to our table, ostensibly to check the levels of our drinks.

I couldn't contain myself. "In the wee hours?" I prompted.

d.i.c.k's bearded face took on the avid expression of a devoted gossip. "Round about dawn, so I've heard."

"We've heard you're up at that hour," Nicholas murmured.

d.i.c.k's face froze for a fleeting second; then he laughed. "Me? Up at dawn? You ask Chris if I ever get up that early. She's lucky to roll me out of bed by opening time. But George, now, that's a different matter." He lowered his voice. "There's some who say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. But there's some tricks that'll put a spring in any old dog's step. Good for him, I say." His eyes narrowed. "But not so good for Mrs. Hooper. She should've stayed out of old George's business." He pressed a finger to the side of his nose, then scurried back to the safety of the bar.

I caught a last glimpse of George Wetherhead as he entered Saint George's Lane. He wasn't striding like an athlete, but he was moving steadily and without the support of his cane. It was an incredible sight, though not half as incredible as d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's sly insinuations.

I turned to Nicholas. "I can't believe-"

"Not now," he broke in quietly. "Mrs. Peac.o.c.k's antennae are extended." He fed Grog a sliver of black pudding, and the ba.s.set hound gazed up at him worshipfully. "We'll take in the war memorial when we've finished lunch. Tell me then."

It was a case of hiding in plain sight. The war memorial stood at the north end of the green, in full view of the buildings on the square but far enough away from them to allow for confidential conversation.

As soon as Nicholas and I had cleared our greasy plates, we said good-bye to Chris and d.i.c.k and left the pub. We crossed the cobbled lane encircling the green and stood for a moment in the wet and spongy gra.s.s, as if debating what to do next. Nicholas motioned toward the imposing Celtic cross, and we strolled casually in its direction.

"We've established that Mrs. Hooper was vindictive," Nicholas began. "She held grudges on her grandson's behalf against both Mrs. Pyne and Kit, and she acted on those grudges in ways that infuriated each of them." He put a hand in the small of my back to guide me around a muddy puddle. "Now we're being told that she was intrusive as well."

"According to d.i.c.k, she poked her nose into George Wetherhead's business." I stepped around the wet patch, and Nicholas withdrew his guiding hand.

"To judge by Mr. Peac.o.c.k's leer," he continued, "Mr. Wetherhead's business involves something naughty, something that's given him the strength to throw aside his cane and walk with a spring in his step." He stopped short. "Would it be fair to a.s.sume that Mrs. Hooper discovered what Mr. Wetherhead was doing and threatened to expose him?"

"It's fair," I said grimly. "I wouldn't put anything past Pruneface. On the other hand, I can't imagine George Wetherhead involved in something naughty. As far as I know, the only thing he gets up to in the wee hours is playing with his toy trains."

"Perhaps he's found a new hobby." Nicholas's suggestive smirk recalled d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's.

I blinked in disbelief. "Like . . . an affair?"

"s.e.xual energy can work wonders on the anatomy." Nicholas gazed reflectively toward Saint George's Lane as we moved on. "I don't know if it can make the blind see, but it might make the lame walk."

The difficulties of conducting an illicit love affair in Finch had crossed my mind so recently that I didn't have to search for an objection.