"Mr. Wetherhead would have to be clinically insane to think he could keep an affair secret," I stated flatly. "Have you noticed how people keep shoving the word husband down my throat? You and I are already raising eyebrows, and we're only hanging out together."

Nicholas gave me a brief, diffident glance, then looked away. "Do you mind?"

"Being talked about?" The question took me off guard. I looked down at the rain-dappled gra.s.s and smiled shyly. "It's flattering, in a way. At least they haven't written me off as just another boring housewife."

"You will never be a boring housewife," Nicholas murmured. "No matter how hard you try." He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. "My point is," he resumed briskly, "that people engaged in pa.s.sionate love affairs aren't necessarily thinking clearly. If Mr. Wetherhead's engaged in one, he might not pause to consider the consequences."

We'd reached the holly hedge Emma Harris had planted around the war memorial. Nicholas gazed up at the weathered cross, then stepped closer to it and bent low to read the names carved into its base.

My gaze wandered wonderingly to Saint George's Lane. It wasn't easy to envision short, balding, reserved Mr. Wetherhead in the throes of a pa.s.sionate affair. He was so bashful that he rarely met my gaze in conversation and so modest that I could scarcely imagine him holding a woman's hand.

But perhaps my imagination was too limited. After all, George Wetherhead was human. Like the rest of us, he had needs, desires, dreams. If he'd found love, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, who was I to quibble? And who was Pruneface Hooper to go poking and prying into something that had nothing whatsoever to do with her?

"Okay." I leaned back against the cross and folded my arms. "Maybe Mr. Wetherhead is playing with something other than trains in the wee hours, and maybe Mrs. Hooper found out about it. I still can't believe that he killed her. He's the most inoffensive guy you'd ever want to meet."

"Haven't you heard? It's always the quiet ones who go spare." Nicholas ran his battered hand across the memorial's rough surface. "You have to face it, Lori. If Mrs. Hooper confronted Mr. Wetherhead with something he's deeply ashamed of, there's no telling how he might react."

"He's got strong arms, from using his cane," I acknowledged reluctantly. "I suppose he could have hit her hard enough to kill her."

"Irrelevant." Nicholas stood. "It wouldn't take a great deal of strength to inflict the kind of head wound that killed Mrs. Hooper."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"It came out at the inquest," Nicholas replied. "Mrs. Hooper was struck here"-he touched his fingertips lightly to the side of my head, froze, and jerked his hand away-"where the skull is particularly thin and vulnerable."

His touch sent a shiver through me, but I remained adamant. "If I stretch my imagination as far as it will go, I can almost conceive of him seeing some woman on the sly. But I can't stretch it any further. I can't see him as a murderer. I'm sure d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's got the wrong end of the stick. Or . . ." I gave the pub a penetrating glance. "Or he's trying to direct suspicion away from himself. Sally Pyne says he's up early on Thursday mornings, but d.i.c.k claims to sleep in. Who's lying?"

"There's one way to find out," said Nicholas.

I straightened with alacrity. "Time for a stakeout?" I asked.

Nicholas's face softened as he looked down at me. "I do think it's time for a stakeout," he said, "but I don't think you should partic.i.p.ate." He held up a hand to cut short my protest. "As you've pointed out, we're already raising eyebrows in the village. If we're seen sneaking about together at dawn, I'm afraid we'll start an avalanche of gossip."

"But-"

"Apart from that," Nicholas interrupted, "your Range Rover is far too conspicuous to use in a covert operation."

Much as I wanted to, I couldn't argue with his logic. My canary-yellow Range Rover stood out like a neon sign everywhere it went, and the rumor mill would kick into high gear if I were seen lurking at dawn with a man who was most definitely not my husband.

As he circ.u.mambulated the stone cross, I racked my brain to come up with a way to join the stakeout without jeopardizing it-or our reputations. The solution came to me so quickly that I nearly danced for joy.

"Bill's office," I said, scrambling after Nicholas. "It's right across from the pub. I go there all the time to fetch papers he's forgotten. I can go there just before dawn and sneak in through the back door. I'll be able to see everything that happens on the square."

"And everyone on the square will be able to see your Rover," Nicholas pointed out.

"I'll ride my bicycle!" I exclaimed, proud of my cleverness. "Everyone knows that Bill gave me a bike for Christmas and that I haven't had a chance to try it out yet. I'll take the road to the bridge, and from there I'll use the river path . . ." I began to outline my intended route with gestures, but Nicholas caught hold of my arm.

"Don't point," he scolded. "No need to give our plans away."

"Our plans?" I peered up at him anxiously. "You mean it?"

His smile brought light to the sunless day. "Four eyes, like four ears, are better than two." He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, and we began to walk back to the Rover. "While you watch the pub from your husband's office, I'll watch Mr. Wetherhead's house from the vicarage. We'll meet up later at your cottage to compare-" He broke off.

I felt him stiffen-his biceps bulged even through the triple layer of shirt, tweed blazer, and trench coat-as he came to an abrupt halt.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing's wrong." He patted my hand, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. "It just struck me that there's only one place on the square from which one can view both the pub and Mr. Wetherhead's house simultaneously."

The hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled as we slowly turned to stare at Crabtree Cottage.

"Well, well, well," Nicholas murmured, half to himself. "What a perfectly splendid vantage point for spying on one's neighbors."

Chapter 11.

Bill wasn't entirely happy when I told him of my plans to surveil the pub. By the time I'd finished recounting all that Nicholas and I had learned that day, he was very nearly vexed.

"It's not a game, Lori," he said repressively. "Prunella Hooper may have been killed because she saw something she shouldn't have seen. What if you see the same thing? What if you're found out? You could be putting yourself in danger."

"I'll lock the office door," I promised. "I'll keep well out of sight. No one will know I'm there." I clucked my tongue impatiently. "I'm glad that you're worried about me, Bill, but I honestly don't think it's necessary. Nicholas will take care of me." I tagged on the last sentence without pausing to consider the impression it might make.

It evidently made the wrong one.

There was a long pause before Bill asked, with excruciating nonchalance, "Will he?"

"He teaches self-defense," I said, carefully enunciating each word. "If any fool comes after me, Nicholas'll chop him up faster than my food processor." I sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Bill chuckled.

"I forgot about Nicholas's profession," he admitted, and finally agreed to telephone the cottage at three A.M. to add verisimilitude to my story of running into town to retrieve a file. "I should know by now that it's pointless to discourage you from taking risks," he added before we said good night. "I won't promise not to worry, love, but I'll rest easier knowing you have a bodyguard."

As I hung up the phone, I remembered the firm pressure of Nicholas's palm as he guided me around the muddy puddle by the war memorial. I felt safe when I was with him. If he wouldn't let me get my feet wet, he surely wouldn't let me come to more grievous bodily harm.

Aunt Dimity wasn't worried in the least about my safety.

I seriously doubt that Mrs. Hooper's murder was premeditated. The elegant lines of royal blue ink curled smoothly across the blue journal's blank page, reflecting Dimity's calm a.s.sessment of the situation. A planned murder would have taken place in a back room or the shed, not in a window overlooking the square. No, I suspect it was a spur-of-the-moment, snap reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper said or did. Our killer's not a professional, and he's not likely to strike again. He might even welcome your attention. He has a heavy burden on his conscience. It won't be lifted until he's brought to justice.

"So you don't think I'll be in any danger," I confirmed.

The only danger you'll be in is catching cold if it rains tomorrow morning. Be sure to bundle up, my dear, and bring a change of clothing, just in case.

The motherly advice made me smile, but I couldn't shake the feeling Bill had engendered in me, that I might be biting off more than I could chew. Like a rabid animal, Mrs. Hooper had poisoned everyone with whom she'd come in contact. She'd forced Kit to find his temper, brought a curse to d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's lips, and left Sally Pyne embittered enough to gloat over the vicar's ill health. I knew Kit would never turn on me, but how could I be sure about the others? As I returned Aunt Dimity's journal to its niche on the shelves, I decided to call upon an old friend for moral support.

"Reginald," I said. I took the pink-flannel rabbit down from the shelf and ran a fingertip along his hand-st.i.tched whiskers. "You and I have been through the wars together. How'd you like to join me on a stakeout?"

I hadn't ridden a bicycle in ten years, and I'd never ridden one in a monsoon. The fact that it was pitch-dark when I left the cottage made the ride into the village even less of a treat. The bicycle's headlamp illuminated about two square inches of the road ahead, but I couldn't see even those two inches clearly because of the rain sluicing my face.

I'd worn the all-weather jacket and pants Bill had included with his Christmas present, but icy, wind-lashed droplets kept finding c.h.i.n.ks in my rainproof armor. By the time I reached the humpbacked bridge, my turtleneck and jeans were uncomfortably damp, my hands were numb, and I was feeling far less clever than I had the day before. When I thought of Nicholas keeping watch over George Wetherhead's house from the cozy confines of the vicarage, I wanted to spit.

I dismounted at the bridge, switched off the headlamp, and walked the bike along the river path that wound behind the buildings on the east side of the square. Three miles of vigorous pedaling had left me hobbling almost as gingerly as my ride on Zephyrus had done, which made negotiating the slippery path a challenge. I groaned with relief when I made it to the back door of Wysteria Lodge, the picturesque house that had become Bill's place of business.

Panic threatened when my frigid fingers fumbled for the key, but I found it eventually, in the outside pocket of the daypack into which I'd also tucked a change of clothes, per Dimity's sage advice, and Reginald. I leaned the bicycle against the wall and let myself into the office's windowless back storage room.

I paused to wipe my face and rub my sore behind before reaching for the light switch on the wall. I clicked it several times, but nothing happened. With a stifled grumble of frustration, I groped for the box of candles Bill kept on hand for just such emergencies. Power outages during inclement weather were not unknown in Finch.

I changed by candlelight into black wool trousers and a ruby-red chenille sweater, blew the candle out, and opened the door to the main office, where I felt my way past the photocopier, the fax machine, the printer stand, the file cabinets, and the myriad other obstacles that stood between me and the front window. I longed for a nice hot cup of tea but the electric kettle wouldn't work without electricity, so I huddled at the window, hugging Reginald for warmth and wishing he were Nicholas instead.

The idle thought startled me, and I thrust it aside, but as the minutes ticked by it returned, demanding my attention so forcibly that I finally gave myself up to it.

It was useless to deny the flicker of attraction that I felt for Nicholas, and Bill's absence didn't make things any easier. For the first time it occurred to me that I was lucky to have a host of nosy watchdogs standing guard over my marriage, since I was so transparently ill equipped to manage on my own. Did every marriage require community support? I wondered wistfully. Maybe not, but mine evidently did, not because of any failure on Bill's part but because of my own abiding weakness for charming men.

My troubled meditations were interrupted by a rush of adrenaline as the pub's front door opened and d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k appeared, draped in a ma.s.sive rainproof poncho. It was one minute past five o'clock. The merest wisps of thin gray daylight had begun to smudge the square, and d.i.c.k, in his black poncho, looked as huge and as forbidding as a storm cloud.

He glanced once at his wrist.w.a.tch, then let his gaze traverse the square. Reginald and I ducked when he looked in our direction, and I counted to ten before I raised our heads again. d.i.c.k was staring up Saint George's Lane and shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

My pulse raced when I heard the faint sound of a vehicle changing gears. A moment later, a gray van emerged from the lane and stopped at the pub. d.i.c.k opened the van's rear door, and he and the driver began unloading cardboard boxes, which they carried into the pub. They worked methodically, with the speed and efficiency of a well-practiced team.

The boxes appeared to be unmarked and fairly heavy. The men unloaded three each before d.i.c.k closed the rear door, handed a small white packet-an envelope?-to the driver, and hurried back into the pub. The driver tucked the packet inside his slicker, hopped into the driver's seat, and drove around the square. Reginald and I hunkered down again as he pa.s.sed Wysteria Lodge, but I scribbled the license-plate number on a sc.r.a.p of paper before the van vanished up Saint George's Lane.

That was it. The drama was over. The rain continued falling, the sun rose bit by bit, and the buildings on the square seemed once again as devoid of life as the churchyard's weathered tombs.

I sat back on my heels and gazed thoughtfully into Reginald's black b.u.t.ton eyes.

"Contraband," I murmured. "What do you think, Reg? Is d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k smuggling liquor into Finch? Does Sally Pyne know about it? More important still, did Mrs. Hooper-" I fell silent as a cold draft of air wafted over me.

Someone had opened the back door.

I clutched Reginald to my breast and crept behind Bill's desk, peering fearfully toward the storage room. I was reaching for the telephone when I heard a soft thump and a m.u.f.fled "Ow!"

"Nicholas?" I whispered, and hastened in a half-crouch to the storeroom.

His quiet voice floated to me from the darkness. "Yes, Lori, it's Nicholas."

"Stay where you are." I closed the door behind me and re-lit the squat white candle I'd left standing on a box of files.

Nicholas stood just inside the back door, rubbing the knee he'd bashed against a plastic storage bin. He was wearing a rainproof windbreaker, but his pant legs were damp, his shoes muddy, and his hair hung in draggled tresses he'd pushed behind ears he had no reason to hide. His sea-green eyes by candlelight took my breath away.

"You're wet," I said, trying valiantly to ignore my galloping heart. "I think Bill has some towels somewhere."

"Don't bother," he murmured, straightening. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," I insisted, rummaging for the towels. "You're wet and muddy and-"

"I'm fine," he repeated. "There's no need to fuss."

"I'm not fussing. I'm . . ." I stopped my search and commanded my treacherous heart to behave itself. "What are you doing here, Nicholas? I thought we agreed-"

He stepped closer to me. "I know what we agreed, but I couldn't wait." He came closer still, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my skin. "Is that . . . a rabbit you're holding?"

I looked down at my pink-flannel chaperon, mortified. I started to explain that I'd been nervous and in need of moral support, but soon gave up and bowed my head, murmuring morosely, "It's not something you would understand."

"I understand what it is to be alone and afraid during a stakeout," Nicholas said softly. He lifted my chin with his fingertips. "It was wise of you to bring a talisman."

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep myself from reaching up to smooth away the scattered raindrops sparkling like tears on Nicholas's face. If Reginald hadn't been there, I might have smoothed them away with my lips.

"W-what couldn't wait?" I managed, shoving my free hand firmly into my trouser pocket.

His fingers lingered briefly beneath my chin, then fell away. "George Wetherhead is with a woman," he whispered. "She was wearing a hooded cape when she entered his house, so I couldn't see her clearly, but I'm certain that you'll know who she is."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because," he said, his bright eyes dancing, "she lives across the street from my aunt and uncle."

My brain seized for a moment. "M-Miranda Morrow?" I sputtered. "George Wetherhead is having an affair with Finch's witch?"

Chapter 12.

Miranda Morrow was a tall and shapely strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties who practiced telephone witchcraft for a living. She had a flat in London but spent a good part of the year at Briar Cottage, which stood directly across Saint George's Lane from the vicarage.

Mr. Wetherhead, by contrast, was a short and balding man in his mid-fifties who ran a train museum to augment his disability pension. He never went to London; in truth, he spent so much of his time creating miniature landscapes for his toy trains that he seldom left his home, which stood between the old schoolhouse and the vicarage.

"Miranda Morrow and George Wetherhead?" My mind reeled. "I don't believe it."

"Then come and see for yourself," Nicholas coaxed. "If we hurry, we may catch her as she's leaving."

I grabbed my jacket and threw caution to the wind. The rumor mill would grind itself into dust if Nicholas and I were seen together, but I couldn't pa.s.s up the chance to find out for myself if Finch had sp.a.w.ned the most improbable pair of lovers in the history of affection.

Reginald, however, remained behind. I didn't want the added burden of the daypack, and with Nicholas at my side, I feared no one.

Nicholas extinguished the candle and led the way through the back door. From that point on, it was all I could do to keep up with him. I'd a.s.sumed we'd take the river path to George Wetherhead's house, but Nicholas had reconnoitered a more direct route. The fact that his shortcut involved hopping walls, ducking branches, and squeezing through a hedgerow didn't bother him. He moved as lithely as a panther and used simple hand gestures to signal changes in speed and direction.

I scampered after him as swiftly as I could, the rain and my sore muscles forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. I felt as if I were flying.

We slowed when we reached the old schoolhouse, then crept stealthily to the far corner of the schoolyard wall. George Wetherhead's house stood not ten yards from us, its windows shrouded with heavy drapes.

We worked our way along the wall until we had an un.o.bstructed view of the front door, but Nicholas wasn't content to watch from a distance. He darted forward and moved from window to window, searching for a gap in the curtains.

I was appalled. I had no intention of playing Peeping Tom, and I didn't think Nicholas should, either. When he motioned for me to join him near a side window, I went forward to express my displeasure.