Aunt Dimity: Detective by Nancy Atherton Page B

centered on my recent visit to the States—anything to divert her husband’s attention from local events—while Nicholas and I attempted to polish off the roast beef, new potatoes, fresh asparagus, and assorted side dishes that Lilian had so lovingly prepared. We were attacking the dessert—a dreamy crème brûlée speckled with freshly ground vanilla beans—when I sat up abruptly and stared out of the window.
    â€œYou could charm the whiskers off a cat,” I said to Nicholas. “How are you with dragons?”
    â€œUndaunted,” he owned.
    â€œThen polish up your armor,” I told him, “because we’re about to do battle.”
    Nicholas followed my gaze in time to see Peggy Taxman walk determinedly past the vicarage. She was dressed in black from head to toe and gripped a cellophane-wrapped floral bouquet in both hands.
    â€œShe’s going to the churchyard,” said Lilian. “She goes there every day. She must be spending a small fortune on flowers.”
    â€œWorldly wealth is of little consequence when one has lost a friend,” the vicar observed.
    â€œBe that as it may,” Lilian said tartly, “I’ve never known worldly wealth to be of little consequence to Mrs. Taxman.”
    While his aunt and uncle debated the point, Nicholas calmly finished his crème brûlée and put down his spoon.
    â€œI’ve been meaning to pay my respects to the dead,” he murmured. His sea-green eyes twinkled as he gave me a sidelong look. “Care to join me?”
    â€œI’ll bring the gilded gingerbread,” I said. “You bring the graveside manner.”
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    Saint George’s Church stood at the top of Saint George’s Lane in the midst of a manicured churchyard bounded by a low stone wall and entered by means of a shingle-roofed lych-gate. It was a tranquil place, crisscrossed with graveled paths, dotted with weathered tombs, and shaded in summer by two towering cedars of Lebanon.
    Aunt Dimity’s mortal remains were buried there, beneath a tangle of vines that would soon be awash in a froth of fragrant pink roses. I was irrationally pleased when I saw that her final resting place was nowhere near Mrs. Hooper’s. I doubted there would ever be two less kindred spirits.
    Saint George’s newest grave had been dug at the front of the churchyard, in the tussocky southwest corner. We spotted Peggy Taxman standing over it as we came up the lane. She stood facing us but gazing downward, her eyes closed and hands folded, as if in prayer. By the time we’d passed through the lych-gate, she’d finished her devotions and stooped to tweak her most recent floral offering into a more pleasing position.
    I crept toward her, bracing myself for the first blast of her voice. Peggy Taxman was neither tall nor unusually wide, and her attire was exactly what one would expect of a middle-aged woman in mourning, but the sheer force of her personality more than made up for her modest appearance. When she spoke, Finch trembled.
    â€œGood afternoon, Peggy,” I said, crossing to the far side of the grave. “Forgive me for intruding, but I wanted to let you know how sorry I was to hear about your friend.”
    â€œThank you,” she said in unnaturally subdued tones. She favored Nicholas with a measuring look as he came up beside me. “You’re Lilian Bunting’s nephew. Nicholas, isn’t it? You’ve been calling on the Pyms, I hear.”
    If Nicholas was surprised by Peggy’s artless demonstration of the grapevine’s efficiency, he didn’t show it.
    â€œThe kind sisters took pity on a footsore rambler,” he said politely.
    â€œDid they take pity on you, too, Lori?” Peggy’s eyes narrowed shrewdly behind her rhinestone-studded glasses. “I heard that you dropped in on them on your way to the vicarage.”
    â€œRuth and Louise asked me to deliver their gilded