I'd just tweaked the sleeve of his windbreaker when I heard the sound of Miranda Morrow's fruity voice coming from inside the house.

"Six o'clock, darling. Time for me to go. If you'll take up your trousers . . . I think you've had enough for one morning, don't you?"

I recoiled, grabbed Nicholas's arm, and yanked him away from the window. I shook my head vehemently to indicate that his days as a voyeur were over, and we retreated to the back of the house. Having identified Miranda's inimitable voice, I no longer needed to watch the front door for her departure.

Nicholas slipped nimbly over the wall that separated George Wetherhead's back garden from the Buntings' and made for the French doors that gave access to the vicar's study. I clambered over the wall less gracefully, landed up to my ankles in what appeared to be a small lake, and remembered too late that I'd used up my allotment of dry clothing. With a heavy sigh, I waded ash.o.r.e and followed Nicholas up the stone steps to the gla.s.s-paned doors.

Bill and I had spent many a pleasant evening in the book-lined study at the rear of the vicarage. Its furnishings were as shabby-and as comfortable-as an old bathrobe, but they didn't deserve to be treated shabbily. I wrung out my puddle-soaked trouser cuffs and took off my sopping sneakers before entering the room.

By the time I came inside, Nicholas had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his windbreaker, lit a fire in the fireplace, and retrieved a pair of cotton towels as well as a woolen blanket from his aunt's linen closet. He placed my sneakers beside his shoes near the fire and nodded toward the green velvet sofa that faced the vicar's armchair across the hearth.

"Have a seat," he said. "You must be chilled to the bone."

"There's no need to fuss." I sat on the sofa and held my hand out for a towel. "I'm fine."

Nicholas smiled wryly as he wrapped the woolen blanket around my shoulders. We spent a moment in companionable silence, toweling our hair while the fire leapt and crackled and warmed the room. When my short curls and his long locks were sufficiently blotted, Nicholas took the damp towels away and returned with two large mugs of hot cocoa. He presented one to me, sat in the vicar's armchair, and held his stockinged feet out to the fire.

I swung my legs up on the couch, to put my own feet within drying distance of the flames, and eyed Nicholas speculatively as I sipped the steaming cocoa.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," I said. "What did you think you were doing, looking in on them like that?"

"I was confirming a hunch," he replied.

"What hunch?" I asked.

"One of recent vintage. It came to me when you mentioned Ms. Morrow's profession." He peered at me quizzically over the rim of his mug. "What do you think they were doing back there?"

"It seemed pretty clear to me," I mumbled, blushing.

"You didn't even look," he objected.

"I didn't want to look," I retorted.

Nicholas shook an index finger at me. "Never theorize in advance of the facts, Lori. It's fatal to any investigation."

"Okay, Chief Inspector," I said sarcastically. "Tell me what you saw."

"I saw"-Nicholas paused for dramatic effect, then went on matter-of-factly-"a skilled physiotherapist ministering to a patient."

My mouth fell open, and Nicholas grinned.

"I saw Ms. Morrow administering a therapeutic ma.s.sage to Mr. Wetherhead," he clarified. "Her manner was that of a highly competent and professional therapist. She was using a portable ma.s.sage table and a kit stocked with what I a.s.sume to be herbal oils of her own devising." He finished his cocoa and set the mug aside. "Witchcraft is, among other things, a healing profession."

"A therapeutic ma.s.sage," I repeated, as whole piggy banks of pennies began to drop. "Miranda's been working on George's injured hip. That's why he doesn't need a cane anymore."

"It may also explain the clandestine nature of her visits," Nicholas said. "A hip injury would require manipulations of fairly intimate parts of the anatomy. Mr. Wetherhead might permit them to ease his suffering, but he might at the same time find them rather embarra.s.sing."

"He would," I stated firmly. "Especially since it's a woman doing the manipulating, and not just any woman, but an attractive, unmarried witch. The poor guy . . ." I cupped the mug between my hands. "He was so afraid of scandal that he scheduled his treatments in a way that sparked the very rumors he was afraid of." I finished my cocoa and placed the mug on the small table at the head of the couch. "d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k's going to be sadly disappointed when the truth comes out."

"Speaking of Mr. Peac.o.c.k . . . ," Nicholas prompted.

I told him about the van, the cardboard boxes, and the packet d.i.c.k had given to the driver. I was proud of myself for remembering the van's plate number without referring to my scribbled note.

"Mrs. Pyne was telling the truth," said Nicholas, "and Mr. Peac.o.c.k was concealing it."

"I think he's buying smuggled liquor," I said.

"It's possible." Nicholas wriggled his toes as if savoring the fire's warmth. "It's not easy to keep a pub going in a place as small as Finch. Mr. Peac.o.c.k wouldn't be the first landlord to cut costs by stocking his bar with tax-free brew."

"Sally Pyne seems to know what he's doing," I pointed out, "and she doesn't seem to mind. Pruneface, on the other hand, may not have been so tolerant."

Nicholas tilted his head back and recited, "There's taking an interest and there's poking your d.a.m.ned nose in places where it has no business being." He pursed his lips. "Mrs. Hooper seems to have poked her nose into Mr. Peac.o.c.k's business as well as Mr. Wetherhead's."

"She probably spied on both of them from Crabtree Cottage." I curled my legs under me, drew the blanket over my lap, and leaned back against the sofa's velvet arm. "I wonder if she threatened to expose them?"

"If she did," said Nicholas, "it would give both men a motive for murder. Her wagging tongue would have threatened Mr. Peac.o.c.k's livelihood and Mr. Wetherhead's health."

I gazed unhappily into the fire. Aunt Dimity believed that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper had said or done. Threatening one's neighbors was nothing if not regrettable. Had one of the men snapped? d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k was as strong as he was large. A glancing blow from him would be enough to crack Prunella Hooper's skull.

And George Wetherhead's three-p.r.o.nged cane was an undeniably blunt instrument.

I glanced over at Nicholas. He was staring at the dancing flames and slowly combing his fingers through his hair. The vagrant gold strands gleamed in the firelight, and his eyes shone like liquid opals.

"Doesn't it get in the way?" I asked.

He came out of his reverie. "Sorry?"

"Your hair," I said. "Doesn't it get in the way when you're karate-chopping people?"

"Perfect vision isn't essential if one hones one's other senses." He sat forward in his chair. "Close your eyes."

I closed them.

"Listen," he instructed, "not with your ears alone but with your entire body. Try to locate me."

I cheated at first and focused on my sense of hearing, but Nicholas in stockinged feet on a Turkish carpet, however threadbare, made not a sound.

I closed my eyes more tightly and widened my focus until I felt as if I were listening with my skin. This time I felt a tingle, as if an electrical field surrounding me had been subtly altered. I raised my hand, reached out, and seemed to touch spun silk. I opened my eyes to find my fingers tangled in Nicholas's hair.

He was on his knees beside me. He gazed at me in silence for a moment, then brought his shadowed face so close to mine that I caught the scents of wood smoke and rain lingering on his skin.

"Your sixth sense can alert you to many things," he said softly. "Not only physical sensation but emotion, intention . . . It can help you to avoid danger if you trust it."

We were alone in the study. No nosy neighbors were keeping watch, and Reginald was in Wysteria Lodge. I let my fingers trail through his hair.

Nicholas caught his breath and gathered my hand in his, murmuring, "Not a good idea."

"Sorry," I said, but made no attempt to withdraw my hand.

"Don't apologize," he said. "It's been hovering in the air for a while. We may as well admit it." He ran his thumb along the back of my hand and lightly stroked each finger. "I won't deny that I'm drawn to you, Lori, but we have to leave it there. Anything else would be too . . . complicated. For you. Not only because you're married, but because you live here. This is your home. I'm merely pa.s.sing through."

"Right." A wave of regret tumbled through me and I ducked my head to hide my confusion. Nicholas was talking common sense. I was the one with my head in the clouds.

He released my hand and sat back on his heels. "There's a palpable charge between us, Lori. It crackles every time our eyes meet. What are we going to do about it?"

"Ground it," I said unsteadily, "and move on."

"I hope we can, because we've serious work ahead of us"-his fingertips grazed my cheek-"and I'm not beyond temptation."

The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and Lilian Bunting entered the study, clad in bedroom slippers and a quilted dressing gown. She looked from me, reclining on the sofa beneath a rumpled blanket, to Nicholas, kneeling closely by my side, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I could ask if you've been here all night," she said, "but I'm not sure I want to know the answer."

"Then offer us breakfast instead," Nicholas suggested. "We've been sleuthing since dawn and we're famished."

"Sleuthing?" Lilian pursed her lips as if intending to keep her thoughts to herself, but as she turned to leave the room she murmured audibly, "I sincerely hope that's all you've been doing since dawn."

Chapter 13.

Lilian and the vicar listened somberly as we described what the dawn's early light had revealed. Nicholas did most of the talking. I was too busy stuffing my face with toast, marmalade, sausages, and poached eggs. My early-morning work-out had sharpened my appet.i.te, but I felt astonishingly alert and eager to get on with the investigation.

I'd telephoned Annelise to let her know where I was and that I might be gone longer than I'd planned. When she offered to bring me a change of clothes, I told her not to bother. My sneakers and puddle-dampened trousers had dried nicely before the fire in the study.

"It seems we were sadly mistaken about Mrs. Hooper," admitted Lilian when Nicholas had finished summarizing our suspicions.

The vicar's already-pensive expression became more pensive still. "I thought she was merely being helpful when in fact she was using me in her petty vendetta against Sally Pyne." He frowned thoughtfully. "She never criticized Sally's floral arrangements overtly, you understand. It was the way she admired them, always with a slight droop of disappointment in her voice, as if the bouquets weren't quite up to snuff."

"Sally said she never gave a compliment without implying a criticism," I interjected. "Like ground gla.s.s folded into whipping cream."

"In retrospect, I concede it to be an apt description." The vicar folded his hands and rested them on the table. "I was a fool to be taken in by her."

"As was I," Lilian said loyally.

"Don't blame yourselves," I told them. "Kit and Sally both said that Mrs. Hooper could be extraordinarily charming when she put her mind to it."

"She could also be extraordinarily vindictive," Nicholas added. "She sought to avenge supposed wrongs done to her grandson by ruining Kit's reputation and stealing Sally Pyne's thunder. Has Mr. Wetherhead had a run-in with the boy?"

"I doubt it," said the vicar. "George avoids confrontation whenever possible."

"She was rather prudish," Lilian offered. "She was quite shocked when I told her the story about the old schoolmaster's personal involvement in increasing the school's population. She thought it reflected badly on the village. If she believed that George was misbehaving with Miranda, she might have felt a moral obligation to step in."

"G.o.d save us from self-righteous busybodies," the vicar murmured.

Nicholas dipped a triangle of toast into the yolk of his poached egg. "What about Mr. Peac.o.c.k? What did Mrs. Hooper stand to gain from hara.s.sing Finch's favorite publican?"

"She was a teetotaler," Lilian said promptly. "She never missed our sherry evenings, but she refused to drink anything stronger than tea. I must say that she made the rest of us feel rather louche, in an unspoken, terribly polite sort of way."

"More ground gla.s.s," I mumbled through a mouthful of marmalade-slathered toast.

"If that's the case, why in G.o.d's name did she choose to live beside Peac.o.c.k's pub?" the vicar expostulated. "Crabtree Cottage can't have been much of a bargain, not with Peggy Taxman collecting the rent."

"They were old friends," Lilian reminded him. "Perhaps Peggy gave Mrs. Hooper a special rate."

The vicar looked skeptical but allowed that there was a first time for everything.

"Let's not get sidetracked," I said. I put my fork down and focused on the matter at hand. "Let's say that Mrs. Hooper was a crusading prohibitionist as well as a prude, a snoop, and a liar. If she saw d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k receiving smuggled liquor, she'd have all the ammunition she'd need to shut him down."

"And Mr. Peac.o.c.k," said Nicholas, "would have a good reason to want her dead."

His observation seemed to cast a pall over the Buntings. The vicar studied his fingernails, and Lilian shook her head sorrowfully. When Nicholas opened his mouth to speak, I motioned for him to concentrate on his breakfast instead. His aunt and uncle needed time to digest what they'd learned about a woman they'd once admired.

The vicar pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and walked to the window to peer out at Saint George's Lane.

"The village has been rippling with undercurrents for months," he said heavily. "I sensed bitterness, furtiveness, guilt, but I paid them little heed. I thought Sally Pyne would return to church when her wounded pride had healed. I rejoiced to see George Wetherhead's improved health without once asking how it came about."

Lilian nodded. "I heard vague rumors about Kit and dismissed them out of hand, but I never thought to demonstrate my support publicly. And it never occurred to me that financial difficulties might force d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k to engage in illegal activities. I was under the impression that the pub was flourishing."

"We've been woefully inattentive shepherds," the vicar concluded. "Is it any wonder that one of our flock has gone astray?"

"Aunt Lilian, Uncle Teddy," Nicholas said, "we don't know if anyone has strayed so far as to commit murder. Lori and I have done nothing more than gathered sc.r.a.ps of local gossip."

"You need to gather facts," Lilian said firmly. "d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k has some explaining to do, as does George Wetherhead. You must give each man a chance to explain where he was when Mrs. Hooper died."

The vicar concurred. "Perhaps Miss Morrow will be able to provide Mr. Wetherhead with an alibi." He reached up to ma.s.sage his right shoulder. "I wonder if she would bring her skills to bear on my bursitis?"

"It seems unlikely that the bishop will approve of any treatment given by a pagan," Lilian pointed out.

"Oh, I don't know," the vicar temporized. "We're very ec.u.menical these days." He stopped rubbing his shoulder and waved his hand in the direction of the square. "Speak of the- Well, we don't know that he's a devil, but I hope the two of you will soon find out." He swung about to look at me and Nicholas. "George Wetherhead has returned from the Emporium with his daily loaf. I believe I hear the sound of opportunity knocking."

Nicholas and I exchanged dubious glances.

"Vicar," I said patiently, "what do you think will happen when your nephew and I show up out of the blue, asking Mr. Wetherhead to explain something he's been trying to hide for who-knows-how-many months?"

"He'll slam the door on us," said Nicholas.

"Even if we do get a foot in the door, we'll have to use dynamite to open his mouth." I lifted my fork and speared one last succulent bite of sausage. "The Pyms' gingerbread would've given us a plausible excuse to drop in on him, but I didn't bring his box with me this morning."

"Take a box of my lemon bars instead," Lilian suggested. "I baked a batch last night, and I know that Mr. Wetherhead's inordinately fond of them."

"Whatever you do, please make haste," the vicar urged. "The suspense is making me dyspeptic."

Mr. Wetherhead's home was every bit as humble as its owner. The one-story dwelling was built of golden stone and sat well back from the lane amid a garden that was little more than a patch of balding lawn. It was as if the retired railwayman lavished so much attention on the minuscule landscapes he created for his model trains that he had none to spare for the full-size landscape surrounding his house.