The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Dennis drew back and stared at her. ‘End? What do you mean, child?’

  ‘I heard something,’ she said, scuffling her feet under her chair. She reminded me of an embarrassed schoolchild, the child she so recently was. ‘I wasn’t meant to hear it. It was after the staff meeting at the end of term. You’d said my teaching schedule would be in the office, so I went in and was just about to turn on the light – the whole building was dark – when I heard voices in the inner office. I didn’t know whose they were, but they sounded angry, and I almost left, but the door squeaks so much, and somehow I didn’t want them to know I’d been there.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘So I sort of skulked. I didn’t mean to listen, truly, but they were shouting. And one of them said he didn’t have the money, and the other said he’d have to find it, and said it in sort of a funny way. I didn’t understand. Then they both left, and I escaped. Now I know, though, that the one who was sounding so strange was Braithwaite. And the other one must have been the head. Who else would have been in his office?’

  ‘So you think Braithwaite was asking for yet more money, and Chandler turned him down?’

  ‘Well, actually it didn’t sound quite like that. It was more as if Braithwaite was making some sort of threat. But that doesn’t make any sense. He already gets all he wants for his studio. Everyone’s talking about how unfair it is. Braithwaite’s a real scuzz, and I wish he’d been the one under that lift!’

  SIX

  I suppose I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t. ‘He sounds like a nasty man. I don’t know that I’d wish him dead, but he certainly ought to get his just deserts. I still don’t understand why he’s tolerated around here. I’d have thought someone would have sued him long ago.’

  ‘The man is a menace, but he’s not stupid, Mrs Martin.’

  ‘If you’re Dennis, I’m Dorothy,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Dorothy, then. If a victim goes to law, she has to prove her case. Our William has made sure, over the years, that there could be no proof. There are never any witnesses to his advances. Nothing is ever put in writing. It’s always the victim’s word against his, and his argument has always been that he was more sinned against than sinning. He’s an attractive chap, I suppose. Well, you’ve seen him.’

  ‘In a dark hallway. Probably not to recognize again. I’d know his voice, though. And his attitude. Why was he so unwilling to give me a little help, back there? I was only asking directions.’

  ‘Will doesn’t need a reason to be disagreeable. It’s his natural disposition. He no doubt calls it artistic temperament. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Or different, anyway. Has that husband of yours found our murderer yet, Dorothy?’ He grinned at the look on my face. ‘Aha! Surprised you! I may not remember names, but I don’t forget who people are. I don’t remember your husband’s name, either, but I know he used to be the great white chief in the police here, and the whole town thinks he walks on water.’

  I blinked at that. Of course I thought Alan was marvellous, but I’d never noticed him displaying any peculiar aquatic skills. ‘I might not go quite that far, but yes, he’s a very dear man, and he was a very good policeman. Of course he’s long since retired.’

  ‘But he was right here on the spot, and so were you. And I’ve heard about you, too. The Miss Marple of Sherebury.’

  ‘I like to know what’s happening,’ I admitted. ‘And I can tell you that no one apparently knows very much about Mr Chandler’s death, so far. Of course Alan isn’t officially involved, but as you say, both of us were here, so the police are bound to have some questions for us. I thought someone around here might know something, or at least have some ideas.’

  ‘Oh, we have ideas. The staff has done almost no work since it happened. We’re spending all our time speculating, and looking at each other crosswise. The fact is, Dorothy, that John Chandler was not a popular man. Virtually everyone in the department hated him, if that’s enough reason to kill someone.’

  ‘Murder has been done for hatred, Dennis. Many times. Or jealousy, or greed, or lust. Pick a motive.’

  ‘Yes. You might, I suppose, just as well know mine straight off. I am a man of frustrated ambitions, and the source of the frustration was found under the lift. I submitted my application for promotion to principal lecturer. That was the first step on the path to what I really wanted, which in fact was John’s job.’

  ‘And you’d do a much better job than he ever did, if what I hear is true!’ said Gillian passionately.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. In fact, I think I would be a better administrator than John. That’s not saying a great deal. Almost anyone would have done a better job. But he was the one who had to endorse my application, and he threw it out. He claimed I hadn’t the qualifications. Which is a lie. So there you have it. Enraged, frustrated, I pushed him down the shaft.’

  Gillian made a protesting noise. ‘I see,’ I said calmly. ‘There’s no point in confessing to me, but I’ll be happy to call Inspector Morrison if you like. Or perhaps you’d like to tell me about your accomplices in the dastardly deed.’

  He chuckled. ‘No shortage of possibilities, but I’m not going to tell tales about my colleagues. They’ll tell you themselves, I imagine. De mortuis and all that, but the only real sentiment being expressed about that man’s death is general rejoicing, I can tell you. Gillian, why don’t you take Dorothy off to someplace where she can get a decent cup of coffee and you can have whatever it is you do have, and then when you get back we can take a look at how badly you’ve mucked up your darling Summer.’

  I must have looked my confusion, because Gillian giggled. ‘That’s the name of my bronze. You’ll see why.’

  We left the building by the nearest door, which left me hopelessly lost. ‘I have no idea where I am. Or where my car is.’

  ‘You probably came in the main door. I’ll help you find your car. But we don’t have to drive anywhere. If you don’t mind Starbucks, there’s one just around the corner.’

  ‘I love their coffee, though I’m sorry they’ve wiped out so many proper English cafés and tea shops.’

  ‘But you’re not English!’

  ‘No, but I’m a devout Anglophile, and I really hate the creeping Americanization of England. Like the convert who’s more Catholic than the Pope, you know.’

  She giggled again. I don’t usually care much for gigglers, but hers was a pleasant laugh, very like a little girl.

  ‘So why did you decide to be a sculptor?’ I asked when we were settled with my double espresso and her hot chocolate.

  ‘I’m not sure I decided. I mean, it sounds really affected and stupid, but it sort of chose me. There was never a time when I didn’t know that was what I was going to do with my life.’

  ‘A vocation.’ I nodded. ‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all. It sounds fortunate. Not everyone finds their proper niche in life, but you obviously have.’

  ‘Oh, if only it doesn’t get spoilt! I was over the moon when I got this appointment, and now who knows what’s going to happen! That rotten Braithwaite has the department in his own hands now, and there are fifty ways he could make my life miserable if I won’t play his nasty little games.’ She was near tears now, her emotions as volatile as a toddler’s.

  Really, I had to stop thinking of her as a child. ‘Gillian, listen to me. You must protect yourself. Never be alone with Braithwaite. In fact, you might take to carrying some small recording device with you. Do they still make tiny tape recorders, or maybe some digital thing you can put in your handbag or pocket?’

  ‘I think maybe my phone will do that. Or I know you can buy recorders.’

  ‘Good. Get one. I’ll buy it for you if you can’t afford it. I want you to record every word that man says to you, especially, of course, the suggestive remarks.’

  She shuddered. ‘You couldn’t call them suggestive. They were too overt for that.’

  ‘Even better, because it wouldn’t be subject to misinterpretation. You mustn’t e
ntrap him, but if he does sneak a chance to come on to you, make sure you get it recorded. Get a voice-activated recorder, that’s the best way, and make sure it’s ready to go anytime you’re in the same room with him. The same building. The same universe.’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘You bet I am. I want to get this guy almost as much as you do, for the sake of that poor secretary and her kids, if for no other reason. And the only way we’re going to do it is with evidence that can be taken to the authorities.’

  ‘You’re right! I’ll do it. And I can afford to buy it. I don’t make very much money here, but I have some savings, and my parents – well – they can help. I just hope I wasn’t so fierce with Braithwaite that he’ll give up on me.’

  ‘That kind never gives up. They take rejection as a challenge, and they never believe the woman really means it. No doesn’t mean no to them, it means maybe. Or later. Or whatever they want it to mean. The danger is if you made him so angry that he’ll push for your dismissal before you can collect any ammunition to fight him. Maybe you’d better follow him when he’s around other attractive girls as well.’

  ‘I don’t know many of the students yet, but I’ll try. Thanks, Dorothy.’

  ‘Good. Now, since this man is obviously not exactly an upright citizen, what do you think about him as a possible for—’ I looked around and lowered my voice ‘—for what happened at the reception?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve thought about it, actually. He’s certainly vicious enough, but I can’t see that he’d have had any reason. He was getting everything he wanted out of Chandler.’

  ‘No names, please. It’s noisy in here, but you never know who might be listening. And you did say that you had some idea the victim might have been cutting off the funds.’

  ‘I wish I could remember exactly what was said. It was two months ago, and I was sort of scared, if you want the truth. They sounded … not just angry. Dangerous? Oh, that sounds stupid.’

  ‘Gillian – what’s your last name?’

  ‘Roberts,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Gillian Roberts, you have to stop saying you’re stupid! You’re an intelligent young woman, and it’s time you learned to trust your own judgement! Forgive an old woman for lecturing you, but I hate to see people underestimating themselves. Now, I’m pumped up with caffeine, and I’d like to go see that sculpture of yours.’

  ‘It’s really not … no, I won’t say that. You’re right. I’ll let you form your own opinion about it. Actually, I … I like it a lot!’

  ‘Good for you.’

  We walked in silence. It was a gorgeous day after the storm, crisp and cool with the promise of autumn to come. Here and there gardeners were at work on the campus, picking up downed limbs and other debris of the storm, but the university didn’t seem to have suffered much damage. I thought of the yew tree in the close and was saddened, but all things have their lifespan, and the yew had certainly had a good run. It would be mourned, though. The English cherish their old trees.

  I was grateful that we didn’t run into William Braithwaite when we returned to the Fine Arts building. Knowing what I now knew about him, I doubted I could have been even civil, and I wasn’t entirely convinced that he couldn’t have murdered Chandler. His motive was obscure, I agreed, unless something else was going on that I didn’t understand. But there was plenty of evil character, evil enough, I thought, to do the deed.

  The sculpture studio was deserted, Dennis apparently about other business. Gillian shyly opened the door to the bronze workshop and turned on the lights.

  There stood one of the loveliest pieces of sculpture I’d ever seen. About half life-size, the girl stood with her head and arms upraised. She was essentially nude, with only a suggestion of diaphanous draperies clinging to her taut young body. Her whole being expressed the joy of the warm sun, of abandonment of care, of sheer youthful exuberance.

  Gillian was watching me anxiously. ‘My dear,’ I said at last, ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect. It’s … I have no words.’

  She sighed with relief. ‘I haven’t shown it to many people, only Dennis and Inga. Dennis picked it apart, of course. That’s his job. And it isn’t really finished yet. I have to grind down the welds, and of course add the patina. She’s going to be a bright bronze, almost gold. I want her to look like sunlight.’

  ‘She does already. It isn’t the colour. It’s the whole attitude. She almost sings, Gillian. And how in the world did you manage to make those scarves, or whatever they are, look so soft and fine? This is metal, for heaven’s sake, but I want to reach out and touch to make sure it isn’t really cloth.’

  ‘Well, I work in clay, of course, and that’s a softer material. I – I can’t tell you how I did it. There are techniques, but this just sort of came, as if I wasn’t really doing it myself.’ She spoke hesitantly, sounding almost ashamed.

  ‘And don’t you dare say that sounds stupid! It sounds awesome, in the real sense of that word. You have a great gift, Gillian.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘And this may be the last bronze piece I do for a long time. At least in this sort of size. I began this at Hallam and brought it with me to finish. It’s to go in their student exhibition in the spring. But awful William says we can’t afford bronze here, and the horrible head said we were to concentrate on found materials, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘I don’t either, but I know it would be a crime if you couldn’t continue with what you do so well.’

  ‘Mooning over Summer again, are you, love?’

  Dennis had come into the room with that disconcerting quietness of his. I turned on him. ‘I’ll not hear a word against this work of art,’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m not an art teacher, or critic, but I’m old enough to have seen a lot of art, and I know this is brilliant work.’

  ‘And who said it wasn’t?’

  ‘Gillian said you picked it to pieces.’

  ‘I pointed out where, in its earlier stages, she could make it better. She did. She’s a good craftsman and a good child, and right now she needs to get busy setting up the studio for her classes, which begin, I remind her, in two days. Off you go!’ He gave her a friendly slap on her shoulder, and she grinned and left.

  ‘Don’t think me a monster,’ he said quietly when she’d gone. ‘She’s the best sculptor I’ve seen in thirty years of teaching, which is why I ride her unmercifully. She has some things to learn yet about technique, ways to make the work easier, tricks of the trade. But her eye, her mind …’

  ‘Her soul,’ I said. ‘You called her a craftsman. You know she’s an artist.’

  ‘She is. There will come a time, soon, when I have nothing more to teach her, and then she’ll have to go on to the Slade or the Royal College, or simply take off on her career.’

  ‘Dennis, why did she come here, where there’s next to no budget for sculpture?’

  ‘I didn’t want her to. I saw what a tragedy it would be. If that child can’t do what she was born to do, which is figurative work in bronze, she’ll pine away. It was Will who pressured Chandler into making her a good offer. She’s getting paid about twice what most graduate students draw. It’s still not much, but it was enough to get her here.’

  ‘I got an idea from something she said that her parents were wealthy and could afford to support her until her career takes off.’

  ‘They are, and they could, but she’s eager to be independent. She’s an interesting character, childish in some ways, adult and assertive in others. If I had murdered Chandler, it would have been for that girl’s sake. I suppose I should wish you luck in your efforts to find his killer, but quite honestly I wonder if the chap who did it shouldn’t get a medal.’

  SEVEN

  And maybe he did, in fact, murder Chandler, I mused as I wandered aimlessly around the building, trying to find my way to my car. Gillian had promised to help, but I didn’t want to talk to her just then. Suppose I found out that Dennis was guilty,
and thereby helped put her friend and mentor in prison. I was afraid, if I met her, that these thoughts might show on my face, which I’ve been told is the sort that should never get involved in a poker game. No, I didn’t want to see Gillian just now.

  Dennis didn’t seem the murdering type, but then Alan had told me again and again that there is no such thing. Certain kinds of murder can be identified with certain kinds of personalities, but there are too many variables to say, this man, or that woman, is incapable of killing. I liked Dennis. That had nothing to do with anything, either.

  There was the chisel, of course. That was a piece of information that the police were keeping to themselves. If Dennis had said, ‘I grabbed a chisel and went for him,’ I’d have known for sure. But he didn’t mention it. And the chisel wasn’t the murder weapon, in any case. So why was it there?

  That was a path I’d been down before, and it led nowhere. And speaking of paths, where on earth was I going? The corridor I’d chosen at random seemed to end abruptly, with no turning or exit. I began to feel a bit like Charlie on the MTA. Would I ever return?

  ‘You look lost.’ The voice apparently came out of nowhere. I was getting used to that, in this place. Not only was the design eccentric and the lighting inadequate, the acoustics were peculiar as well. I peered, and a figure materialized through a doorway.

  ‘I am well and truly lost,’ I admitted. ‘I was trying to get to the main door so I can find my car, but I find the layout confusing!’

  ‘And worse with all the lights out,’ the man growled. ‘Economy measure, when only the staff are here. Damn nonsense. I can see in the dark, though, so let me direct you.’

  ‘Then you must be a photographer,’ I said as he gave me his arm.

  ‘Clever of you,’ he said approvingly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘My first husband was a photographer. Only an amateur, but he had his own darkroom and developed excellent lowlight vision. We used to say he was part cat. And you smell like a photographer.’