Free Aunt Dimity: Detective by Nancy Atherton Page B

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 analysis.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDid you happen to mention the broken clock to the police?” Nicholas inquired.
    â€œWhy 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 cocked his head to one side. “Mrs. Hooper seems to have been slightly neurotic about her grandson.”
    â€œShe 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 glass folded into whipping cream, but that grandson of hers could do no wrong.”
    â€œIs that why she was buried in Finch,” I asked, “instead of closer to her son?”
    â€œâ€™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.”
    â€œMrs. 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—”
    â€œHe was on the square that morning,” Nicholas put in swiftly.
    â€œHe wasn’t the only one,” Sally pointed out, in full flow. “Dick Peacock 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, buttery whipped cream, with a scant dab of jam smeared down the middle. The mere sight of one made me weak with desire.
    â€œI wonder,” I said quietly, “if the scorned son stood to inherit anything from mommy dearest.”
    â€œThat’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. Peacock’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?”
    â€œWhy don’t we try speaking with him