Table of Contents
Cover
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries From Jeanne M. Dams
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams
THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT
TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL
HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES
MALICE IN MINIATURE
THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION
KILLING CASSIDY
TO PERISH IN PENZANCE
SINS OUT OF SCHOOL
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT *
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO *
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S *
MURDER AT THE CASTLE *
SHADOWS OF DEATH *
DAY OF VENGEANCE *
THE GENTLE ART OF MURDER *
* available from Severn House
THE GENTLE ART OF MURDER
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Jeanne M. Dams.
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Dams, Jeanne M. author.
The Gentle Art of Murder. – (A Dorothy Martin mystery)
1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Women private
investigators–England–Fiction. 4. Americans–England–
Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.5’4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-07278-8481-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-585-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-634-2 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Among the many to whom I owe thanks for help with this book are sculptors Tuck Langland and Derek Sellars, who gave me a great deal of advice about sculpture and art in general, and art schools in England and America. There are also many other artists I met years ago when I worked at a local university, who remain in fond memory and helped me with characterizations, though they don’t know it! And as always I owe much to my friends Christine Seitz and Jaime Owen, who read the manuscript and showed me where I screwed up. Any remaining errors are certainly my fault, not theirs.
ONE
Wednesday, July 16
‘Very well, gentlemen, let’s begin. I presume that our missing colleague will appear in due time, but I do not propose to wait for him. We have important matters to discuss, and I for one am eager to be off on my holiday to Greece.’
‘And who’s keeping us all here, I’d like to know?’ said Dennis under his breath.
‘With any luck he’ll get caught in a political riot,’ replied Matt, frowning and sinking lower into his chair.
John Chandler, the department head, was droning on, apparently oblivious to the murmurings of his subordinates. ‘Of course I’ve often visited Greece before, but what architect can resist the pull of the pure classical influence that pervades that country? Not only the Acropolis with its unparalleled structures, but the small, lesser-known gems that await one around every corner …’
‘Another “Survey of Art History” lecture,’ murmured Will. ‘Somebody wake me when he’s finished.’
The door opened, interrupting Chandler. ‘Ah, Mr Andrews, so good of you to find time to join us. I’m sure your latest opus needed a great deal of arduous planning and attention. Mind you don’t slip on that dusty patch. Clay or something of the sort, I assume. We really must ask the students to keep the studio a bit tidier, eh, Mr Singleton?’ He directed a humourless smile at Dennis, whose sculpture students worked tirelessly to keep the studio as clean as was consistent with their work.
‘We could do,’ said Dennis, ‘if the cleaner would honour us with her presence a bit more often than once a term.’
‘Budget constraints, my dear man, budget constraints! Which brings me to the principal reason for this meeting. I’ll not keep you long, but I thought you’d want to know well in advance that we’ll all have to tighten our belts next term. I want you to look at your materials requests and cut them at least in half.’
There was an immediate uproar of anger and disbelief. ‘We’ve cut to the bone already,’ roared Sam Andrews. ‘I spent the morning trying to work out how my students can learn without film, chemicals, paper and proper darkroom equipment!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Chandler sweetly, ‘you’ve heard of digital photography? The latest thing, or so I’m told. I believe it requires neither film, nor darkroom, nor chemicals, only a camera and a computer.’ Before the infuriated photographer could reply, Chandler turned to Matt. ‘And the same applies to your students, Mr Thomas. Prints have been made for thousands of years by the ancient techniques you so admirably try to teach your students, but we live in the twenty-first century. The giclée print can be beautiful if properly done. I recommend it to you.’
‘Even for that, the students need a proper colour printer,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve asked every term I’ve been here, but we still have only a cheap office—’
‘I’m sure your innovative and devoted young students can solve the problem, Mr Thomas.’
A quick intake of breath, sounding like a hiss, came from nearly everyone in the room. Matt’s sexual preferences were well-known, but only the head ever made snide – and un
true – suggestions that he numbered his male students among his amours. Matt’s dark eyes flashed and his cheeks turned a mottled red, but he shut his mouth firmly.
‘I believe that leaves only sculpture to deal with. Your expenses, Mr Singleton, have been extremely heavy for the past several terms.’
‘The increased need for copper in the developing countries has driven the cost of bronze through the roof,’ said Dennis. ‘Clay isn’t cheap, either. Nor are wood and stone. What do you suggest I do about it?’
‘I’m so glad you ask. I suggest, Mr Singleton, that you, like the rest of my staff, are mired in the backwater of outmoded methods of artistic expression. I say again, we are in the twenty-first century. Far more interesting, far more relevant sculpture is being produced nowadays using – I believe the term is “found materials”. You will no doubt correct me if I am wrong. Not only do these materials avoid the clichés so often found in works of bronze and marble and wood and so on, they also have the very great advantage of being free.’
He raised his hand against further comment. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I expect your revised budgets to be on my desk by the end of the day today. That’s all, and I hope you enjoy your holidays.’
‘What about the budget for painting, then?’ shouted Matt over the general angry buzz, but he was ignored as Chandler left the room, neatly avoiding the small smear of dry clay near the door.
Dennis was right behind him. ‘John, one moment, please.’
Chandler turned, grimacing. ‘What is it, Singleton? I’m really very busy, and I warn you, I can come up with no more money for sculpture.’
‘What’s being done about my application?’
Chandler’s grimace turned to a frosty smile. ‘Nothing. It was plainly not worth troubling the committee with it. You simply haven’t the qualifications for a principal lecturer. You’ll excuse me.’ He turned and went into his office, closing the door behind him. There was a soft ‘snick’ as the lock was engaged.
Dennis considered smashing the glass panel on the door, then looked at his hands. His sculptor’s hands. However satisfying it might be, it wasn’t worth it.
On the way back to his studio he encountered Sam, who was scowling, an expression like the one he felt on his own face.
‘Off to clean up your studio, Dennis?’ said Sam.
‘Off to clean up your darkroom, Sam? Or clean it out?’
‘Damn little to clean out. I’m down to nothing in the way of chemicals.’
‘Then let’s go imbibe some chemicals ourselves. Kill the taste of that meeting. The first round’s on me.’
‘Then you’d better have plenty of money with you, because mine’s going to be a barrel of the best. It’ll take at least that much to drown my sorrows.’
Gillian watched them as they walked out of the building in the direction of the nearest pub. She shrugged, then went inside to find the departmental office. As a new graduate assistant, she hadn’t been invited to the end-of-term meeting. She thought maybe she was just as glad. Her boss and his colleague hadn’t looked happy.
Gillian had been in the building, her new workplace, only twice before: once for her interview, once to see over the sculpture studios and be taken on a quick tour of the Fine Arts building. It was an odd-looking structure, basically a cube, but with bits stuck on or cantilevered out here and there to accommodate the needs of the varying departments. Sculpture, with its heavy raw materials and sometimes massive finished products, was housed on the ground floor. Painting was on the third floor, the top of the building, for the light. The other departments had been sandwiched in between, with darkrooms, print rooms, storage cupboards, supply cupboards all ready to hand for the teachers’ and students’ needs.
But it was getting old. Built in the late sixties, not one of the best periods of English architecture, it was showing its age. Bits of the concrete façade had peeled off, giving the exterior a leprous look. Windows no longer fitted properly, the flat roof leaked here and there, and worst of all, as the focus of the arts changed to include design and various media concerns, the carefully planned interior just didn’t work anymore. Rooms intended for one purpose were being used for another, so offices sat cheek-by-jowl with studios, darkrooms had windows (carefully but not always effectively covered). The erstwhile staff room had become a storage room, the student lounge was a lecture room, and the floor plan was wretchedly confusing.
Gillian wandered up one corridor and down another, peeking into studios and lecture rooms and once a capacious broom closet, before she finally found the office. She knew that they were temporarily without a secretary, but Mr Singleton had promised to leave a copy of her teaching schedule for the coming term in her mailbox.
Her mailbox! She felt a little flutter when she thought about it. She was actually a teacher in an art school! All right, a graduate teaching assistant. Never mind that the pay was almost non-existent and the recognition absolutely non-existent. She had a teaching job! She could properly call herself an artist, a real-life sculptor.
She opened the office door and stopped just inside. Somewhere in an inner office two men were talking, and it was plainly a private conversation.
Not that they were taking the trouble to keep their voices down. Probably they thought they were alone in the building. Gillian hesitated, undecided whether to leave or stay. The door’s hinges hadn’t been oiled recently; they shrieked like a soul in torment. Lucky they hadn’t heard her come in; they were probably talking too loud. But if she opened it to leave, and they heard … Better stay and hope they didn’t come out this way. What a good thing she hadn’t turned the light on!
Cowering like a frightened mouse in the darkest corner, all her new-found confidence gone, she tried not to listen, but she couldn’t help hearing. ‘You’ll just have to find a way then, won’t you?’ said one of the men in the raspy voice of a chain-smoker, and indeed Gillian caught a whiff of cigarette smoke drifting in from the other room.
‘Damn it, I don’t have the money! And put that damn thing out. You know there’s no smoking in the building.’
‘Right. So sack me.’
‘I’ve half a mind to do just that, and to hell with it all.’
‘But we don’t think you will, do we? After all, I get more attention for your precious department than anyone else in the whole pathetic institution. You can’t afford to lose that, can you? Or anything else?’
The last words were spoken in a way that Gillian didn’t understand at all. They sounded almost like a threat. She swallowed, wishing desperately that she could get away.
‘Somebody’s going to murder you one day, you bloody—’
‘Now, now! Language! I’ll leave you before you get too tempted, my hot-headed friend. But I’ll expect to see the usual at the end of the month. Enjoy your holiday!’
Gillian tensed, but the corridor door to the inner office opened and closed and she breathed again. But had both men left, or just the one?
Just the one. Gillian heard a loud thump, as of a fist striking a hard surface, and then a long string of profanity. Drawers were opened and slammed shut. At last, at last, a chair squeaked as it was relieved of weight. The corridor door opened and shut. Silence.
Whew! Gillian allowed herself a long sigh and moved from her corner. Now to get away with no one seeing her. She wasn’t sure what the shindy had been about, but she was quite sure the two men hadn’t meant it for public consumption.
She opened the office door just far enough to let her head stick out. No one in sight, and there was a door out of the building at the end of the corridor. She slipped out the door and closed it with great care.
It squeaked loudly. She froze, but no one came to investigate. She tiptoed down the hall and left the building with all the exhausted relief of an escaped prisoner.
She had forgotten all about her schedule.
TWO
Sunday, August 31
I was sitting in my garden half asleep when Nigel walked up the path. It was a d
rowsy sort of afternoon. The summer had been unusually kind to my garden, with just the right mix of sun and rain. The flowers in my border were blooming with such energy I thought they might burst from the effort, and the bees taking advantage of this bounty made a constant, soporific humming. The bells of the Cathedral, calling the faithful to Evensong, floated over the peaceful scene like a benison, and the roses, off in a bed of their own in lordly eminence, spread their perfume over my whole garden.
I say ‘my garden’. In truth, though the plot of ground belongs to me and my husband, Alan, the garden is all Bob Finch’s doing. The dear man has a drinking problem, but his energetic mother, who also cleans our house, keeps him sober much of the time. In those lucid periods, he’s the best gardener any fortunate homeowner ever had. In England, a well-kept garden is not only a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but also an important factor in one’s reputation with the neighbours. I might be an American expat and a renowned snoop, but as long as my garden kept up the best English traditions, I was accepted as almost one of the natives. Of course my husband, who had lived in Sherebury all his life and was a perfect dear, didn’t hurt, either. I counted myself a lucky woman to have met him after my beloved Frank died and I moved to England.
Watson raised his head from his paws, and then dropped it again, not even bothering to wag his tail. Samantha and Esmeralda, the two cats, never twitched a whisker. I waved a languid hand. ‘Come and sit down, Nigel. I’m too lazy to get up. Have some lemonade.’ I waved at the pitcher on the table.
Nigel Evans sat, poured himself a glass of lemonade, loosened his tie, and mopped his brow. ‘I can’t remember a summer this hot,’ he said with a sigh.
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