Honest Doubt

by Amanda Cross

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Praise

  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

  By Amanda Cross:

  Copyright Page

  To my kin and kith in Park Slope

  There lives more faith in honest doubt

  Believe me, than in half the creeds.

  —TENNYSON

  More praise for Amanda Cross and Honest Doubt

  “Cross is wise in the ways of academe, and her figures speak in literate, complete sentences, which surely is a requirement for nuanced ambiguity.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “[A] stroke of genius on Cross’s part is her creation of a character who is not part of any academic regime. Woody’s stumbling into professors’ offices and homes is like a wanderer coming upon an entirely foreign kingdom. Her take on academe is satirically biting, delightfully funny, and positively devastating. . . . Intriguing characters . . . pop up amid refreshingly brisk and thoughtful conversations. . . . [Cross] creates a buoyant new voice and hero who uncovers a genuinely labyrinthine mystery. Of course Cross still fills her text with references to T.S. Eliot, Clinton, Angela Lansbury, King Lear, and Dostoyevsky, but in doing so only elevates and propels her own courtly, eminently civil and stylish wit.”

  —The Providence Journal

  “Treat yourself to some of the best mysteries around, and read all the Kate Fansler novels. You won’t be disappointed.”

  —Bay Area Reporter

  “NO ONE HAS A SHARPER EYE THAN AMANDA CROSS.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “If by some cruel oversight you haven’t discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommon pleasure in store for you.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “An intelligent thriller with a touch of romance . . . Fans of the popular Kate Fansler series will be pleased to see her again.”

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick)

  “Delightful . . . Highly recommended . . . Cross deftly skewers the academic establishment. . . . Woody, a down-to-earth, overweight sleuth, is a likable foil to the elegant, erudite Kate.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “FASCINATING. . . .

  In Woody, [Cross] has created a character that will endure—one we may just grow to appreciate as much as we appreciate Kate.”

  —The Mystery Review

  “Amanda Cross writes wonderfully witty mysteries full of well-developed characters and insights on modern foibles.”

  —United Press International

  “If Woody roars into the next Kate Fansler mystery, Kate may just hop onto that motorcycle with her. A lot of readers surely will.”

  —Winston-Salem Journal

  “Cross remains queen of the American literary whodunit.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Some work of noble note, may yet be done.

  —TENNYSON, “Ulysses”

  One

  WHEN I had finished writing up my report, covering everything in the investigation as it then stood, I leaned back in my chair and gave myself up to facing facts. So far, so good, but only so far and no further. I knew the moment had come to call upon Kate Fansler.

  She had been recommended to me as the logical, perhaps the only, person who could be of help at the current impasse. As a private investigator of some reputation and accomplishment, I never shy away from consulting anyone who can offer me a shove, however minimal, in the right direction, but Kate Fansler gave me pause. She was a detective herself, if strictly amateur, and a professor into the bargain. I don’t mind asking experts for explanations in any abstruse field—I’m ready to admit what’s beyond my powers—but I couldn’t help fearing that the air that lady breathed was a little too rarefied for my earthly self.

  And then of course there was the fact that she was said to be slender. I, being fat, dislike thin women—I’m more open-minded about men—and in the end I admitted this to my client, the one who had suggested Fansler. I was guaranteed that though she was undoubtedly skinny—that term, being vaguely insulting, appeals to me—Fansler never worried about her weight or threatened to go on a diet.

  If there is one thing more revolting than another, it is thin women complaining about their fat and screaming about their need to lose weight. Not Fansler, I was assured. With her it’s a matter of metabolism—genes, really. She eats what she wants and hates health food and any form of low-fat diet, my client told me. Well, blessings are unevenly distributed in this world, though Hindus think we all earned our fate by our actions in a previous life. I probably was starving, skeletal, and yearning for food every minute of the day and night. Hence my current figure.

  I’d gone to many doctors and diet specialists, all of whom tried to determine why I was fat, and how I might get thin. It was always assumed it was some problem with my psyche. One day I happened to meet up with a doctor who explained that there was such a thing as an inherited tendency to largeness. He held to this view even under my vigorous cross-examination. I began not only to accept the fact that I was fat, that my father had weighed three hundred pounds and my mother not far behind, but that, furthermore, once people got used to the idea of my size it might not matter that much anymore. It was genes with me, same as with Fansler.

  But of course it still matters. I collect plump people who are accomplished as well as heavy. It helps to knit up my raveled self-esteem. People seldom realize it, but fat is the only affliction that has never been protected by affirmative action, anti-bias laws, or any other category like sexual harassment, date rape, or domestic violence, though I seem to remember someone once wrote a book called Fat Is a Feminist Issue. The point is, it’s okay to say and do anything to fat people short of murder, and to refuse them a job because you think their failure to lose weight is a character and mental defect. They don’t even call it heft-disadvantaged or weightily challenged.

  There was Nero Wolfe. It’s easier for men, of course, with this as with everything else. Dorothy Sayers was fat. When she lived in Witham, they used to say that her husband drank and she ate. When she wasn’t translating Dante, that is. When she’d had enough of Peter Wimsey. I’m afraid I’ve gotten in the habit of mentioning my size to bring it out into the open when I meet someone so that we can go on to other things. I’d have to be careful not to overdo that with Kate Fansler.

  Enough, I told myself firmly. Without thinking about it too much, I picked up the phone and called her, introducing myself as recommended to her by Claire Wiseman, who used to teach at Clifton.

  “Ah,” Fansler said, “what Charles Dickens called a mutual friend.” She made an appointment to see me at her home the next afternoon.

  My name is Estelle Aiden Woodhaven, licensed as a private investigator; everyone calls me Woody. Estelle was my grandmother’s name; Aiden is what they would have named me if I’d been a boy, which they had rather hoped I would be. It’s easy to figure out what Woody is short for; I think it definitely sounds investigative, which Estelle certainly does not. One of the fancy academic types I’ve been dealing with said it sounded androgynous, so people wouldn’t know I was a woman until they were face-to-face with me. Right, I thought; and they wouldn’t know I was fat, either.

  Of course, I didn’t say all this to Kate Fansler when I met her the next afternoon; I just drew attention to my size, because I find
it’s necessary to assure clients and those I consult that I may be fat, but I can get around. In fact, I told her, I coach a college hockey team—field hockey, not ice; I’m also trained in self-defense. Also, I pointed out, there’s an advantage in looking like a lazy linebacker if you’re not really sluggish.

  “Sorry to have put you through all that,” I said to Kate Fansler. “I guess the thought of talking to you made me nervous.”

  Kate opened her mouth and closed it. She put on glasses to read the card I had handed her, which she had been too polite to look at while I was talking. Now she gazed at me over her glasses, which gave her the look of a psychoanalyst I’d once gone to, another thin dame, who had knitted throughout our sessions when she wasn’t peering at me over her spectacles. She hadn’t helped me at all, and neither had any of the other shrinks I’d been advised to consult.

  “I didn’t know anyone played field hockey anymore,” Kate said. “We used to play it in school; I was a wing—much smacking of ankles with sticks.”

  “Not if it’s played properly,” I said with dignity.

  “I shall come by one day and watch the team you coach,” Kate said. “Meanwhile . . .”

  “What am I here for? My usual tasks involve divorce, theft, blackmail, suspicions of commercial cheating. Now I’ve been hired for a job that’s a bit beyond my scope; I was hoping to hire you as a consultant, a subcontractor, whatever. Is there a chance you might agree?”

  “There’s a chance I might listen. May I venture a guess that your case has to do with an academic or literary matter?”

  “They said you were a good detective.”

  Kate smiled. “It hardly took detective powers to guess that. Tell me about it, and we’ll see if I think I can help. Won’t you sit down?” she said, waving toward a chair. I had been standing while I made my speeches and handed her my card. Now I sat.

  “Can’t I get you a cold drink?” Kate said. It was late September but really hot—Indian summer or something. Even though riding a motorbike is cooler than walking, you’re still moving through the humidity and heat and likely to be sweating upon arrival. Not that a taxi would have been much better; they aren’t really air-conditioned whatever they claim. The subway cars are cool enough, but the stations are Turkish baths.

  “A glass of cold water would be welcome,” I said. I seemed to take a lot of time deciding what to say to her. She left the room to fetch my drink, and I took the opportunity to look around. I’m not much interested in furniture as a rule; I only notice it when it concerns some problem I’m trying to figure out. I’m good at noticing; any half-decent detective has to be good at noticing, but I don’t sit around describing everything to myself the way they seem to do in books. This room was appealing, however, cool of course—there was an air conditioner—but also comfortable, as though they’d bought some pretty good furniture a while back and just let it grow old along with them. A bit shabby, I guess it was, but you didn’t get the feeling they were trying to impress anyone with their good taste. This was just a room to sit in.

  Kate came back with a tall glass of water for me and one for her too. I drank mine eagerly, not caring how thirsty I looked. Kate sipped hers, which made me decide she brought herself a drink of water to make me feel comfortable. She seemed to me a nice sort of person, nothing special, but not hard to be with, which was all very fine, but the question was, Would she be willing to help me? The truth was, I didn’t really see why she should bother, in this heat, with a backbreaker of a case that hadn’t anything to do with her.

  I’d put my glass down and was about to launch into my long history when something happened—a very small thing, really, but I think it somehow made a bond between us. I’d heard a door open and shut, and a man, who’d obviously just come in, walked past the living room, where we were sitting, without looking our way. Kate didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either, and then a huge dog appeared in the doorway. It just stood there, looking at us, and then wandered over to Kate to say hello.

  I’ve got to admit I’m a nut about dogs. I’ve never had one; my parents thought they were just dirty beasts, not fit to be in a civilized house, and once I’d left home I couldn’t take charge of any animal who was depending upon me for the basics of life, not to mention company. This great creature was a Saint Bernard. I leaned toward the dog and held out my hand.

  “Let me say hello to you,” I addressed the dog, who got up slowly, as that size dog does most things, and moved over to inspect me. After letting myself be sniffed in the proper way, I put my hands around that great big head and cooed; well, that’s what I did, I cooed, calling him a magnificent and beautiful creature. He sat down and put an enormous paw on my knee.

  I told Kate about always wanting a dog. “He’s wonderful,” I said.

  “It’s a she,” Kate said. “Banny is her name; it was her name when we got her. Her former owner, who had bred her, named all her puppies after actors: Anne Bancroft, in this case.”

  “Beautiful Banny,” I said. To a non–dog lover I would have sounded giddy, if not of questionable sanity, but no owner of Banny could fail to understand my infatuation. After a pause, to show no rejection was meant, Banny left me to lie next to Kate Fansler. Somehow it was easier to tell my story now.

  “First of all,” I began, still trying to put off the moment of actually starting to outline the case, “do you know much about Tennyson?”

  “The woman in the Prime Suspect series?” Kate asked. “The one played by Helen Mirren? If I was naming Banny after an actress now, I’d name her after Helen Mirren.”

  “Not Jane Tennison,” I said, delighted with the response. “The poet Tennyson—Alfred, Lord. Victorian. I tried to read his poetry when this case came up, but it seemed awfully long-winded to me. I thought he could have said what he wanted to say a lot more simply in prose, but I don’t really know anything about poetry.”

  “T. S. Eliot would have agreed with you,” Kate said. “He didn’t care for Tennyson’s poetry, but he said one thing about Tennyson that I’ve always felt was also true of me. Eliot said that Tennyson was ‘the most instinctive rebel against the society in which he was the most perfect conformist.’ I’ve often been accused of the same thing.”

  “Are you a conformist?” I heard myself asking.

  “Superficially, I suppose. I’m married, I don’t have to worry about money, I value courtesy. I do, all the same, feel rebellious about much in our society. But you haven’t come here to discuss me. How does the poet Tennyson come into it?”

  “The professor who was murdered was a Victorian specialist and a particular admirer of Tennyson. In fact, he was writing a book about Tennyson when he died.”

  “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning,” Kate said. “I make no promises, but we can at least decide if I’m able to help.”

  “I didn’t come in at the beginning,” I said. “At first murder wasn’t suspected, and he was buried in the small cemetery near his country home; you know the sort of thing, sweet grassy spots, with a huge tree shading them and the best view to be found for miles around; I saw it and I wouldn’t mind lying there myself for all time. Fortunately, as it turned out, he was buried and not cremated, though I suppose it was no surprise, since he was remarkably old-fashioned in all his ways; he’d left strict instructions about the family plot, which he had bought some years ago. His wife had been buried there, though she had let her children know that she wished to be cremated, and was. One of the many things I learned in the course of this case was that ashes can be interred in a churchyard as well as a body.”

  “I’m to gather they had to dig him up to find the cause of death,” Kate said, coming crisply to the point as was, I would soon learn, her habit.

  “Exactly. His son came home when he, the father, died, and insisted there was something phony about the death. The dead man, the father, the professor— why don’t I call him by his name, which was Charles Haycock— Charles had married again, rather soon after his wife’s death
, and none of his three children much cared for their stepmother, who was, and is, a rather selfish and bossy woman. Cynthia is her name. In addition to the son who raised the suspicion about his father’s death and who is named Hallam— something to do with Tennyson, as I understand it— and has always been called Hal, there are his older brother, Charles Jr., called Chuck, and his younger sister, Maud, also a name with a Tennyson connection, or so I was informed. Can you possibly follow all this?”

  “I think I’ve got it,” Kate said. “Trying to set forth a whole case from the beginning is like trying to describe step by step how one puts on an overcoat—not easy. So son Hallam had Papa dug up?”

  “After a great deal of rumpus, I was told. And they found the wrong drug in him, some pill that would be fatal to anyone with a weak heart, or for that matter anyone. I’ve got the names here, if you can hold on a minute.”

  “Let’s get back to that later,” Kate said. “Go on.”

  “Hallam immediately accused his stepmother, who inherits the father’s house, pension, life insurance, and social security. She was, it turned out, far away on the day her husband died, but that seemed to Hallam less an alibi than evidence against her. After all, he kept saying, anyone can play hankypanky with medications.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t need to be present to poison someone,” Kate said. “It’s not like shooting them or stabbing them with a handy knife from the kitchen. But if you’re going to slip them something fatal, you probably need to be there to supervise the administration. I suppose one could mix the fatal dose in with some daily medication, but that’s certainly chancy and might well be noticed by the guy taking it. Is this when you came in?”

  “Yes, just about then. The police admitted they had a homicide on their hands, and the family—that is, the professor’s children—were not satisfied with the progress the police were making, so they hired me. I was recommended to them by someone whose money had been cleverly diverted to the account of a con man and for whom I had recovered it, or most of it. Also, I think they supposed that a woman would be likelier to understand familial suspicions. I’d hardly begun on the case, and who knows where it would have ended, except that there came an anonymous letter. Well, almost anonymous. It was written on a computer and printed on the sort of machine available to, if not owned by, thousands of people, maybe millions. No clue there, except that the letter was written on English department stationery from Charles’s college; it’s called Clifton, by the way. It claimed that he had been murdered by a member of the department out of ‘frustration and detestation and for political reasons’; I remember the wording exactly.”