Aunt Dimity: Detective by Nancy Atherton

the Rover and took off for the village. We were nearly through the dangerous bend that curved around the Pyms’ house when Nicholas spoke.
    â€œI don’t know that I agree with you about our first interview,” he said. “I found it extremely informative.”
    â€œYou did?” I said. “The Pyms didn’t tell us anything new, unless you count the bit about the hermit’s wake.”
    â€œFunny . . .” Nicholas pursed his lips meditatively. “I was under the impression that they’d provided us with a list of suspects.”
    I glanced at him so sharply that he had to catch hold of the steering wheel to keep me from swerving off the road.
    â€œDid I miss something?” I asked, resuming control of the car. “When did they give us a list of suspects?”
    â€œThe gilded gingerbread.” Nicholas looked over his shoulder toward the rear compartment. “There are only six boxes for the entire village. A somewhat inadequate supply, don’t you agree? And not one is addressed to the vicarage. A curious omission, at Eastertide.”
    I nodded, but kept my eyes focused on the road. I’d already totaled one Range Rover in a fog-shrouded valley in Northumberland. Bill would never let me hear the end of it if I put so much as a dent in its replacement.
    â€œRuth and Louise gave us six boxes . . . and six names,” I said. “Our suspects?”
    â€œIf not of the murder, then of withholding information.” Nicholas faced forward. “The Pyms may not have held Mrs. Hooper in high esteem,” he understated, “but they want her killer caught. They want answers to those unanswered questions, and they’re doing what they can to point us in the right direction.” He held up six scarred fingers. “Six directions, in fact: Billy Barlow, George Wetherhead, Miranda Morrow, Sally Pyne, Dick Peacock, and Peggy Taxman. Those are the names on the boxes.” He let his hands fall. “Do they suggest anything to you?”
    â€œYeah,” I muttered. “They suggest that I’m going to have to get one friend in trouble in order to protect another. Ah, well,” I went on, taking a deep breath, “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” Nicholas said bracingly. “Shall we begin our deliveries after lunch?”
    â€œTallyho,” I said, and comforted myself with the knowledge of how pleased Aunt Dimity would be to hear that I’d finally marshaled a resource.
    Â 
    Â 
    Finch’s business district—such as it was—encircled an irregular oblong of lawn fringed by a ribbon of cobbles and adorned at one end by a Celtic cross, which served as a war memorial. As we bumped over the humpbacked bridge, I saw that the square was deserted. No one, it seemed, was in the mood to be out and about, enjoying the spring sunshine.
    I cruised past the greengrocer’s, the Emporium, and Peacock’s pub, glanced over at Sally Pyne’s tearoom and at Wysteria Lodge, which housed Bill’s office, and slowed to a standstill when I came to Crabtree Cottage, next door to the pub, on the northwest corner of the square. Apart from a no-trespass notice posted on the front door, the cottage looked unchanged.
    â€œThe scene of the crime,” Nicholas noted in suitably sonorous tones.
    â€œIt’s not exactly buzzing with activity,” I commented.
    â€œI imagine the scene-of-crime team has picked it clean by now,” said Nicholas.
    Whatever the state of the investigation, someone was looking after the geraniums. The bloodred blossoms looked as stunning as they had in late December and swayed gently in their hanging pots, as if they’d just been watered. I craned my neck to see if I could spy a face beyond the multipaned window but saw no one.
    A quick left turn took us into Saint George’s Lane. I pointed out the old schoolhouse, which served as the village