The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  There was a flash of lightning as we reached the gate into our street, and the first big drops of rain splashed down. We got inside just before the heavens opened and the thunder and lightning began in earnest.

  Watson ran to find Alan. The dog loves my company, but in times of stress, he finds Alan a great comfort. As do I.

  ‘Any luck?’ Alan called from his den. He had to raise his voice over the tumult of the storm, which beat on our slate roof and against our diamond-paned windows with fury. There would be water on the floor somewhere, I knew. Our seventeenth-century home is lovely, but it needs constant repair, and the current problem was the chinks in the weatherstripping, here and there, which let in the weather.

  I went into the den. Alan sat in his big leather chair, his feet up on a hassock, with Watson cowering on the floor under his knees. Both cats, Samantha and Esmeralda, were on his lap, studiously ignoring Watson and pretending the storm didn’t bother them a bit.

  ‘Did you manage to get the windows closed?’

  ‘Only just. It came up fast, and every window in the house was open. But …’ He shrugged, and I nodded.

  ‘I know. We’ll have to call Mr Pettifer as soon as the rain stops, and meanwhile I can mop.’

  ‘Right. As I said, any luck?’

  ‘I just caught Inga, and she gave me a phone number and an address. I have no desire to go out in this, but I thought I’d call Gillian. If I can.’

  Sherebury, officially a city because it rejoices in both a Cathedral and a university, is really quite a small town, and our cell service isn’t always reliable. In an electrical storm it can cut out completely, and when I opened my phone, I saw that this was the case. I sighed and plumped down on the other comfortable chair in the room. ‘Oh, well. Tomorrow, I guess.’

  A brilliant flash of lightning, a peal of thunder like the crack of doom, and the lights went out. Watson yipped, I stifled a scream, and the cats dived under Alan’s chair.

  ‘That was awfully close,’ I said, sounding as scared as I felt.

  ‘Too close. I’m going to check to see if anything was struck.’

  ‘Not outside!’

  ‘No, indeed. But I’m just going to poke my head out the front and back door, and have a look upstairs.’

  He found a flashlight, and I went with him on his little tour of inspection. It was too dark outside, and the rain was coming too hard, to see much, but we could find no damage inside the house, apart from the expected puddles here and there under windows and by both doors. We could see no lights from neighbours’ houses, so apparently the power was out there, too.

  ‘One thing,’ I said when we had groped our way back to the den. ‘It can’t keep this up for very long.’

  ‘You’re thinking of storms back in Indiana, love. The weather here is different, remember? At this time of year, a storm can last quite a long time.’

  I shivered. ‘Thanks a lot. And I’m getting cold. I don’t suppose we have any wood inside for a fire?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But the Aga will be warm. Shall we sit in the kitchen?’

  The Aga, which came with the house, is gas-fired, and is always on. It heats the water for the whole house and has burners that are always hot or warm. (In the worst heat of summer, I avoid the kitchen.) I’ve never quite learned the knack of cooking anything more taxing than soup on it, and certainly not baking in an oven with no temperature control, so we also have a small gas stove. But on a day like today, with the sudden drop in temperature, it was a great blessing. We moved to the kitchen, where Alan found candles and set them on the table, and I moved the kettle to the hottest burner for tea.

  The animals had crept into the kitchen with us, first Watson, and then, with assumed nonchalance, the cats. The storm was moderating a bit, and since they were in the kitchen, all three of them decided they were hungry. I felt they deserved a treat, so I found some ham in the fridge, which all three devoured as if they were starving. Then the idea of a snack seemed to appeal to us humans, too, so I brought the biscuit tin to the table along with the tea. ‘I’m sorry I can’t make toast, but I’m no good at toasting it on the Aga or over a gas flame.’

  ‘Not to worry. Chocolate biscuits will always fill the bill.’

  We sat by the light of the candles, in the cosy kitchen, and despite the puddles growing by the doors and windows, I thought how lucky and contented I was.

  FIVE

  Saturday, September 6

  The rain continued all night, though the thunder slowly diminished to rumbles far away. In the morning the sun was once again shining brightly, though the air had cooled very considerably.

  Alan had been up for a while by the time I got downstairs, and the blessed man had coffee ready for me. I do not consider morning a chatty time, at least not until I have some caffeine in my system, so we sat in companionable silence while Alan read the Telegraph and I came to full consciousness.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ I asked, nodding at the paper as I poured myself a second cup.

  ‘The storm did a lot of damage over most of the south,’ Alan said. ‘Trees down all over Sussex and environs.’

  ‘What about here?’

  ‘Sherebury was spared the worst of it. I strolled about a bit earlier. The only damage I could see was that big yew next to the wall in the close. It was struck by lightning.’

  ‘Oh, what a pity! It was a lovely old tree. That must have been what we heard, that awful thunder clap.’

  ‘Yes, the dean will be very upset. He was especially fond of that tree. It’s been there for probably a thousand years, at least.’

  ‘I’d heard that, but I always thought it was legend. Do they really live that long?’

  ‘Much longer in some cases. But I fear this one’s done for.’

  ‘A shame. But looking on the bright side, it could have been our house.’

  ‘Or Jane’s, or the deanery, or any of them nearby. Yes, we were fortunate to be spared. What would you like for breakfast?’

  I settled on toast and grapefruit, and while we ate we talked about our plans for the day.

  ‘I’m going to get through to Archibald Pettifer just as soon as I can,’ said Alan. ‘Those doors and windows have to be made right. He’ll probably not be able to get to it for a bit, but I want to get us on his list straightaway.’

  ‘Good. I do get tired of mopping up, though it means the floors stay clean. I’m going to try to find Gillian, either at home or at school.’

  ‘Take the car, then. I’ll take Watson for his walk as soon as I’ve talked to Pettifer.’

  Watson, who had been dozing under my chair, was immediately alert at the sound of the magic word. Sam and Emmy woke briefly, observed his doggie enthusiasm with some scorn, and went back to sleep.

  I went to phone Gillian.

  I had no luck, either at the school or her own number. I decided to go in search of her. If I couldn’t find her at either home or school, I’d leave a note. Darn it all, electronics had their place, but good old-fashioned writing could sometimes get the job done quicker.

  She wasn’t at her flat near the university, which I eventually found after some trouble navigating the maze of streets in the area. I spent too many years in America, where towns were laid out in grids and going around the block meant just that. English towns were laid out, not by surveyors or engineers, but by human feet and donkeys and horses, meandering where they needed to go, and when paved streets came along, they followed the same sometimes maddeningly irrational paths. But after leaving Gillian’s flat and making several wrong turns, I found the car park for the Fine Arts building and walked to the rather unsightly pile.

  The school term had evidently not yet begun. There didn’t seem to be any students around. I entered the building by what I thought was the right door and was immediately lost in the maze of corridors. Surely there would be someone I could ask for directions! They wouldn’t leave a building unlocked and unoccupied. Would they? I rather wished I’d brought Watson. This was, I
reminded myself, the scene of a particularly odd murder, and there was great likelihood that the murderer was around somewhere.

  I shook myself. If I nurtured thoughts like that for very long, I’d be seeing bogeymen in every dark corner.

  ‘May I help you?’

  The deep voice came out of a very dark corner and nearly scared me out of my skin. ‘Um – I was looking for the sculpture studios. Actually, I’m trying to find Gillian – um – I’m afraid I don’t know her last name …’

  ‘Classes have been delayed this term. Come back next week.’ It was a good voice, deep and musical, but its owner wasn’t being obliging.

  ‘I don’t want to take a class. I simply want to speak to her.’ Annoyance was beginning to dampen my fright. ‘If she isn’t here, I’ll leave a note for her at the school office. Could you direct me there?’

  ‘The office is closed. We’ve had a serious accident in the department.’

  The owner of the voice had moved into the light, and I could see he was tall and good-looking, and nobody I’d met before. Whoever he was, he was being extremely rude.

  ‘I do know about the accident. I was here when Mr—’ (drat, what was the man’s name?) ‘—when the body was discovered. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the sculpture studios, where someone might be able to help me find Gillian?’

  I taught school in Indiana for many years. I’m capable of a commanding tone of voice when necessary. Usually the listener quails. Not this time.

  ‘Madam, the school is closed until next week. I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but you are trespassing and I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘My name is Dorothy Martin, and I have several good friends here at the university, and it is necessary that I see Gillian. Who are you, for that matter, to order me around?’

  ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, but I’m W.T. Braithwaite. You may be familiar with the name. I paint.’

  He said it as the Queen might have said, ‘I reign,’ obviously expecting me to doff my hat or curtsey. I did in fact recognize the name. He had won quite a lot of recognition for paintings that looked to me like bad freeway accidents rendered in screaming shades of neon.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think I may have heard the name somewhere.’ That was unkind of me, but my irritation was getting the best of me. ‘Do you teach here?’

  ‘I do. In fact, as the senior member of staff I am at the moment the acting head. And I say again, the school is closed—’

  ‘What’s up, Will?’

  Another voice out of the gloom, but I recognized this one. ‘Oh, good! You’re Mr Singleton, aren’t you?’

  ‘Dennis. And you’re the one who came to see poor Gillian and then squashed Chandler in the lift.’

  I winced. ‘Actually I believe he was dead long before he was – er – squashed, as you put it. But yes, my husband and I came to Gillian’s reception, and I’m hoping to talk to her today, see how she’s doing.’

  ‘I’ve told her she’ll have to come back next week. The school is not open until—’

  ‘Oh, dry up, Will. This lady isn’t doing anyone any harm. Come with me, dear, and we’ll find her. She’s in the studios somewhere.’

  ‘Thank goodness you came along,’ I said when we were well clear of the obstructive painter. ‘I thought I was going to stand there all day arguing with that man.’

  ‘Will’s a right prat,’ said Dennis, ‘and loves to throw his weight about. Mind that puddle. The roof leaks, among other problems.’

  ‘So does mine. Or actually, it’s my windows and doors in a storm like yesterday’s. But then my house is something like four hundred years old.’

  ‘The Fine Arts building is something like fifty, but it’s coming to pieces. Bad design from the start. Ah, here we are. Gilly!’ he roared.

  A head poked around a corner. It was clad in a welder’s mask and looked rather like an invader from another world, except I assumed aliens didn’t wear blue jeans. ‘Oh. Hi,’ it said, and doffed the mask to reveal Gillian’s face, innocent of make-up and indeed streaked with what looked like clay.

  ‘Did we catch you at a bad moment, love? Can you leave whatever it is for a little?’

  ‘Sure. I was finished, really.’ She looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Just welding the arms on that one piece.’

  Dennis shook a playful finger at her. ‘Ah, my dear, still stuck in the figurative! Never mind, this place will soon cure you. This lady’s come to see you. I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name.’

  ‘Dorothy Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m no good at names, either, so don’t worry. I have this theory that names live in a particular part of the brain, and my name-spot has turned to cream cheese.’

  ‘Well, I’ll not forget you,’ said Gillian, a shadow coming over her face. She pulled off her gloves. ‘You’re Inga’s friend. And you were in the lift when … oh, yes, I certainly remember you.’

  ‘That’s why I came to see you. I wanted to see how you were doing. It was a pretty horrible experience for you, just starting out here and all. What a way to begin a career!’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly pleasant for you, either, was it? At least I’m not claustrophobic.’

  ‘I do feel so foolish about that. I absolutely hate being at the mercy of irrationality, but I’m afraid I haven’t been able to conquer it.’

  ‘I’ve heard hypnotism can do the trick,’ said Dennis. ‘But look, we don’t have to stand about. Why don’t you both come to my office, and I’ll see if I can find some coffee. There used to be a pot going all the time in the main office, but now we’ve no secretary, everything’s at sixes and sevens.’

  He started down a dimly lit corridor. ‘No secretary?’ I commented. ‘That must be why my voicemails never got answered. Will she come back once the term has started?’

  ‘She was sacked.’ Dennis’s voice was dry enough to vaporize the puddle in front of his office door. ‘Mind you don’t slip. Make yourself at home, and I’ll see what I can do about coffee.’

  ‘Don’t go to a lot of trouble for me,’ I said quickly, as I imagined the kind of coffee he might find. If it was out of a vending machine, I’d very much rather not.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Gillian. ‘I don’t actually drink coffee.’

  ‘Well, then. The stuff I could come up with might be pretty vile, to tell the truth. Give bronze a nice patina, probably. So.’ He sat in one of the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. ‘Take my desk chair, ma’am,’ he said to me. ‘It’s ancient, but it’s comfortable. Just don’t lean back. It has latent homicidal tendencies.’ And then he looked very much as though he wished he hadn’t said that.

  I glanced at Gillian and decided to defer that subject for a little while. Casting about for something else to talk about, I said, ‘So you said the secretary was sacked. Incompetent, was she?’

  ‘She was supremely competent,’ said Dennis, that odd tone back in his voice. ‘She did everything expected of her and more. Her work was completed on time; she kept the staff informed; she reminded us when we’d forgotten some important report or that sort of thing. She was also a beautiful woman.’

  That rang alarm bells. ‘Uh-oh. Domestic problems of some kind?’

  ‘Not exactly. I hadn’t told you, Gillian, but you’d better know, if only for your self-protection.’

  ‘I’ve heard some rumours,’ the girl said quietly. ‘She got in some sort of difficulty with one of the senior staff?’

  ‘You could put it that way. To put it baldly, William Braithwaite made a pass at her. She was married with two children. So’s he, for that matter. Married, I mean. She told him where he could get off. He’s accustomed to getting what, and who, he wants. He kicked up a great shindy, made some entirely unwarranted accusations about her handling of the petty cash funds, and she was sacked without a reference.’

  I made a noise of disgusted disbelief. ‘But that’s … in this day and age! It’s unbelievable. Sounds like the nineteenth century, when the son of the house got
a servant girl pregnant and she was the one who was punished.’

  Gillian had gone white with anger. ‘That man! I might have known. He’s already tried it on with me. I told him where he could stuff it, and said I’d report him to the Head of Faculty if he didn’t back off. That’s sexual harassment of the very worst kind, and I’ll not stand for it! And now you tell me he actually got that poor woman sacked!’

  ‘And with two children!’ I exclaimed. ‘What does her husband do? Can he support them until she finds another job?’

  ‘She doesn’t have a husband now,’ said Dennis. ‘He was killed in a car smash a few days after she had to leave here. She’s been getting along, barely, with a little insurance money and some government support.’

  ‘That poor woman! Does she have to worry about school fees, too?’

  ‘No. The kids aren’t old enough for school yet. She brought them to the day nursery here. It’s free for employees, one of the truly enlightened efforts of the university. Now, when she gets another job, if she gets one, with no reference, she’ll have to pay for child care.’

  ‘It’s iniquitous! What was that man – the head – thinking of, to let it happen?’

  ‘Oh, Will’s his fair-haired boy. Was. He’s had all sorts of honours showered on him for those appalling paintings of his, and it all redounds to the glory of the school. Or so Chandler apparently thought. He let Will nobble most of the budget, too. I tried and tried to make him see that paint and canvas cost a fair amount less than clay and bronze and marble and mahogany, but he wouldn’t listen, just kept yammering on about found materials and the new wave of art, and all the tired old clichés, and let Will scoop the lot.’

  ‘That might have been about to end,’ said Gillian.