McNaster had been standing on the fringe of the crowd outside just now. Perhaps he’d strolled over from the inn. He often ate his supper there after he’d left his office out on the property he’d finagled from the town by one of his shady deals. Perhaps he’d come to brood over what might have been if John Architrave hadn’t left that astonishing will. Perhaps he wasn’t brooding.
“Did you notice McNaster out there just now?” Dittany murmured to Arethusa.
“Egad, yes. I wonder where he was when Fairfield took that header out the window,” Arethusa muttered back.
Osbert gave his aunt a reproving look. Sergeant MacVicar, however, did not.
“Ladies, am I to infer you suspect yon McNaster of dark and perfidious deeds?” he inquired.
“Have you taken a good look at those attic windows?” Dittany replied.
“I have.”
“You’ve noticed how small they are, and how wide the ledge is in front of them?”
“I have.”
“Did you try getting them to stay up without being propped open?”
“I did.”
“Then would you care to speculate, eh, on how the flaming heck Mr. Fairfield could have managed to fall out by accident?”
“I have speculated, Dittany. I have also remarked the absence of smudges, stains, or deposits of bird droppings on his garments despite the fact that yon aforementioned ledges have visibly served as roosting places for our feathered friends for, lo, these many decades. I have concluded that it would have taken a degree of ingenuity, agility, and persistence most remarkable in an elderly man of sedentary habit and scholarly inclination for Mr. Fairfield to have accomplished such a feat.”
“But he is dead,” said Osbert, who believed in facing facts even when he had to invent them himself.
“He is indeed defunct, Deputy Monk. I have seldom,” Sergeant MacVicar amplified, “seen anybody deader, at least not on such short notice. There was a fracture of the occiput as well as of the cervical vertebrae.”
“Meaning he landed smack on his head, bashed in his skull, and broke his neck, eh?”
“Correctly and succinctly stated.”
“Ergo, he fell out the window belly-bumper, wearing an apron to keep his clothes clean, and then plummeted to earth as a feather is wafted downward from an eagle in its flight,” said Arethusa. “Now that one sees the complete picture, it’s all drearily commonplace, isn’t it? Too bad.”
“Except that this eagle you cite so glibly couldn’t have just wafted a feather and flapped away,” her nephew pointed out. “He’d have had to be hovering around ready to zero in on the apron and fly off with it.”
“Don’t be absurd, Osbert. The apron blew away, that’s all.”
“There is no wind tonight, Miss Monk,” said Sergeant MacVicar. “Nor has any protective covering that might have been worn by the demised or spread over the ledge been found anywhere in the vicinity. I am inclined to the opinion that Mr. Fairfield fell not from the window, but off the roof.”
“Poppycock! What would he have been doing up there?”
“That, Miss Monk, I have not as yet ascertained.”
“Mr. Fairfield had no head for heights,” said Dittany. “Last week, when they were fixing the ceilings, Hazel Munson’s son asked him to climb the ladder and take a close look at the plaster doodad around the light fixture to see if it could be restored or ought to be taken down. He turned eau de Nil at the mere suggestion.”
“He did what?” demanded Arethusa.
“He looked seasick,” Dittany interpreted. “He claimed he wasn’t supposed to climb ladders on account of his high blood pressure. In my considered opinion, he was plain chicken.”
“An interesting observation.” Sergeant MacVicar took out his notebook and made a neat memorandum. “I will elicit information as to her late husband’s physical condition from Mrs. Fairfield.”
“Speaking of Mrs. Fairfield, where is she now?”
“She is back at her temporary lodgings, being ministered to by Mrs. Oakes and Mrs. Trott.”
“Was she around when her husband fell?”
“It would appear she was not. The sequence of events, according to testimony thus far received, is that Mrs. Fairfield left her husband still working here at about a quarter to five and went back to Minerva Oakes’s house to get bathed and changed. She said she had been working in the attic all afternoon with young Mrs. Monk. You confirm this officially, Dittany?”
“Yes, we’d been at it since half past one and we were both filthy. I wanted to get cleaned up before Osbert got home for his supper, and she told me she was going to do the same.”
“This was when she told you to leave the windows open?”
“Yes, as we were about to go.”
“Did she stay in the attic after you left?”
“No, we went downstairs together, carrying a slop jar and a couple of other things we’d found in the attic. I did leave the museum before her, though. She said she was going to pop in and tell her husband about the bridal quilt.”
“What bridal quilt is this, Dittany?”
“None, actually. It’s just pieces for one that never got put together. We found them in an old trunk.”
“Where are they now?”
“I took them home with me. I thought we might use them to organize a quilting bee as a fund-raiser. It seemed to me Arethusa ought to see them first because she’s head trustee.”
“Then why didn’t you show them to me, addlepate?” Arethusa demanded.
“Because you didn’t give me time, that’s why. You galloped in and told us Mr. Fairfield had been killed and we galloped out and came here.”
“A likely yarn, i’ faith! You forgot because you were too busy being tumbled and tousled by that lecherous lout of a nephew of mine. You’d never catch Sir Percy carrying on like that with Lady Ermintrude.”
“You’d never catch me carrying on like that with Lady Ermintrude, either,” her nephew retorted. “She’s got no more sex appeal than a bowl of tapioca pudding. Like the rest of your silly characters.”
“May I interrupt this literary discussion before Miss Monk gets off on the subject of Appaloosas?” Sergeant MacVicar inquired mildly. “Dittany, would it not have been more consonant with the dignity of his position for you to have left these quilt pieces you found with Mr. Fairfield, instead of taking them straight home?”
“I suppose so. And I would have, if you want the truth, only Mrs. Fairfield was throwing her weight around. I thought I’d kindly and gently let her know she can’t lord it over the trustees the way she does her husband. Did, I mean. No I don’t. She couldn’t have. Could she?”
Sergeant MacVicar turned his head from left to right, then from right to left. “Dinna fash yoursel’ about that, Dittany. Not on the strength of the information we have at hand. Minerva Oakes avers that Mrs. Fairfield arrived at the house at approximately five o’clock in a state of dishevelment and went upstairs to tidy herself. She remained there for some while, having found it necessary, as she later explained, to shampoo her hair and rinse out the garments she had been wearing. She came downstairs at half past five or thereabout, hung the aforementioned garments on Minerva’s clothesline to dry, then sat on the front porch and partook of some iced tea Minerva had ready in a pitcher.
“Zilla Trott stopped by and the three ladies chatted until they heard the church bell strike six. Thereupon, Zilla said she’d better get on home to fix her supper. Minerva Oakes also made some comment with regard to the evening meal. Mrs. Fairfield expressed mild vexation that her husband had not yet made his appearance. Mr. Fairfield did have a tendency to become absorbed in his work, but she had been endeavoring to instill in him a regard for punctuality out of courtesy toward their hostess.
“Minerva said his tardiness was of no moment, as supper was only going to be cold meat and salad, and she had everything ready in the fridge. The two remaining ladies sat on the porch a while longer. As time passed, Mrs. Fairfield grew increasingly restive. At la
st it was decided the pair of them would stroll down to the museum and wrest Mr. Fairfield away from his labors by brute force if necessary. This was said in jest, according to Minerva. Mrs. Fairfield seemed in no way concerned for Mr. Fairfield’s safety or well-being, merely somewhat testy at his apparent lack of consideration.”
“I can believe that,” said Dittany.
Sergeant MacVicar gave her an indulgent nod and went on. “By this time, needless to say, they assumed Mr. Fairfield would be alone at the museum. Everybody else would have gone home to supper some time ago.”
His hearers nodded. People in Lobelia Falls all ate breakfast, dinner, and supper pretty much at the same time as their neighbors. So many of them belonged to so many different committees, clubs, and whatnot that careful synchronizing of family habits was the only way to get members to their meetings on time.
“The two ladies entered the museum together,” he went on. “Having found the door still unlocked, they naturally assumed Mr. Fairfield remembered that his wife had asked him to close the attic windows before he came away. Mrs. Fairfield wondered if he was still up there gloating over some serendipitous find. She expressed dismay at the prospect of climbing all those stairs again, whereupon Minerva, who as you know is a fount of boundless energy, volunteered to make the ascent.”
“As Mrs. Fairfield knew darn well she would,” said Dittany.
“Dittany, were I not so well acquent with the inherent sweetness of your nature, I should begin to entertain a wee suspeecion you have developed a certain animosity toward Mrs. Fairfield.”
“I wouldn’t call it a certain animosity, Sergeant MacVicar. More a chronic pain in the neck. Which I suppose I’d better try to hide or you’ll be hauling me in as a suspect. Changing the subject back to where it was, what did Minerva find when she went up attic? Is that a more appropriate remark, eh?”
“Entirely suitable. Minerva found two of the windows still open and Mr. Fairfield not present. She closed the windows and went back to tell Mrs. Fairfield, who became somewhat alarmed at this report and suggested they search the grounds, such as they are. This, the ladies did, starting in opposite directions. It was Minerva who came upon the lifeless form of Mr. Fairfield.”
“How ghastly!” This time, Dittany hadn’t had to search for the appropriate rejoinder. “What did she do?”
“Let out a yelp, according to her own testimony. That fetched Mrs. Fairfield, eh, who burst quite understandably into sobs and outcries. Minerva pacified Mrs. Fairfield as best she could, then used the museum phone to call me away from a dish of tea and a portion of excellent grosset fool with which I was ending my evening repast,” said the sergeant in a voice from which he was unable to keep a tinge of regret.
Arethusa noticed. “This was hardly the time to think of gooseberries,” she chided.
“I could not, as my grandchildren say, agree with you more. That was why I asked Mrs. MacVicar to set the remainder of my grosset fool in the icebox and came here at once. To resume my narrative, Minerva Oakes then summoned Dr. Somervell, although there was no doubt Mr. Fairfield was already dead as a finnan haddie. The doctor arrived immediately after I did and confirmed that Mr. Fairfield had indeed shuffled off this mortal coil not long since.”
“He was presumed to have gone up to shut the windows just before he left for supper?” said Osbert.
“That was the general assumption, yes. I have so far advanced no alternative theory, except among yourselves.”
“And we’re to keep it among ourselves, eh?”
“You are. That includes you, Miss Monk.”
“I should hope so, egad,” Arethusa replied. “I shall sit mumchance at the sideboard, like the twenty-ninth of February.”
“Huh?” said her nephew.
“Don’t make noises like an illiterate nincompoop, Osbert, though I suppose it’s too late to hope you’ll ever be anything else. Where did Dr. Somervell get to?”
“He took Minerva and Mrs. Fairfield back to the Oakes house in his car. It was his recommendation that Mrs. Fairfield be given a sedative and put to bed, since she was by then in what is commonly referred to as a state. I should assume she is now being ministered to, no doubt by Zilla Trott, with a nice cup of camomile tea.”
“No doubt,” said Osbert, to show he was unscathed by his aunt’s disdain. “What happened to the body?”
“It was carried to Dr. Somervell’s office for further examination, by willing volunteers using a stretcher provided by Roger Munson.”
Dittany nodded. Hazel’s husband was not the sort of man to be caught without a stretcher in time of need.
“When Dr. Somervell and I have completed more detailed observations,” Sergeant MacVicar went on, “the corpus delicti will be sent along to the undertaker in Scottsbeck, pending Mrs. Fairfield’s instructions as to its final resting place.”
“It’s rather awful to be thinking of Mr. Fairfield as remains.” Dittany fastened the top button of her cardigan and snuggled closer to Osbert. “A few hours ago, he was crowing like a barnyard cock over a wooden potato basher Grandsire Coskoff’s new wife brought in. Sergeant MacVicar, do you have any idea at all who did it?”
* The Grub-and-Stakers Move a Mountain.
CHAPTER 4
ARETHUSA STOPPED GIVING OSBERT dirty looks and turned to Dittany with a gaze of wonderment. “Did what, forsooth?”
“Shoved Mr. Fairfield off the roof, of course. Surely you don’t think he was up there by himself practicing swan dives?”
Sergeant MacVicar cleared his throat. “It ill becomes us to form conclusions before we have examined the evidence, Dittany. Deputy Monk, you are a far younger man than I, and one whose powers of observation and deduction have proved efficacious during your previous unpaid but far from unappreciated service to the police force. Perhaps you would be good enough to accompany me to the top of this somewhat overflossy stairwell, from which access to the roof can be gained via the skylight.”
Osbert blushed and stammered that he’d be delighted. “Do we need to fetch a ladder?” he asked, ready to give his all for the cause.
“There’s one up there,” Dittany said. “The roofer left it. We’ve had to get the skylight repaired because it was leaking buckets and ruining all the plaster that hadn’t been ruined already.”
“You never told me, darling.”
“I didn’t want to burden you with trivia when you were trying so hard to finish your book before you went to Toronto, darling.”
“Oh, darling, have I been neglecting you?”
“Unhand her, varlet,” cried Arethusa. “Sergeant MacVicar, haven’t we any town ordinances against public displays of wanton lust?”
Sergeant MacVicar rubbed his hand across his chin to hide a paternal smile. “Noo, Miss Monk, let us e’en be tolerant to the wee follies of those but newly wed. Dittany lass, do I take there has been much going up and coming down within the recent past?”
“I should jolly well hope so. The roofer’s sent in a bill that would choke a walrus.”
“Then if the work has been completed, why has the ladder not been taken away?”
“Because he hasn’t got around to it, I suppose—or else because we’ve told him we’re not paying the bill until we’ve had a good, soaking rain and made darn sure the leaks are really fixed.”
“Cannily reasoned.” Sergeant MacVicar craned his neck to look up through the high stairwell. “I doubt not this will make a handsome effect when the papering and painting are finished. Were you not concerned lest yon roofer might slop tar around the walls and woodwork? I observe that you allowed him to rig his hoist straight down through the skylight into the hall.”
“And leave his woundy great ropes and buckets here where people can fall over them,” said Arethusa crossly.
“Well, there’s no sense in his taking them away till he knows whether he’s going to need them again. And we certainly weren’t going to let him drag stuff up over the side of the roof so he could whack us with another bill for r
eplacing the slates he chipped,” Dittany snapped back.
Sergeant MacVicar nodded. “The roofer would be Browns from Scottsbeck?”
“Who else is there? We’d have chiseled a free job out of somebody local if we could, but these old slate roofs are tricky to work on. If anyone was going to slip off and break his neck, we didn’t want it to be anyone we knew. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t said that.”
“The tongue is a treacherous instrument, Dittany. You were aware that Brown does much of Andrew McNaster’s roofing work?”
“Why do you think we’re waiting for the rainstorm before we pay the bill?”
“He finished the work some days ago, then? Assuming that it is indeed finished.”
“A week ago last Thursday, I believe it was.”
“And he has not been back since, eh?”
“Not to my knowledge. Mrs. Fairfield could probably tell you better than I. She’s always around here. Keeping out from under Minerva’s feet, I suppose,” Dittany added quickly lest she be accused of all uncharitableness.
Osbert, who’d been fiddling with the heavy manila ropes of the hoist, reluctantly gave up the notion of playing Tarzan on them and started up the stairs. Dittany followed, wanting to beseech him to be careful on the ladder, but decided she’d better keep her mouth shut and just stand ready to faint if anything happened. Osbert made the ascent without incident, however, and opened the skylight with no visible effort. He then, to his wife’s horror, climbed up and out.
At that, she could not resist calling to him. “Darling, are you all right?”
“Perfectly, darling,” came the welcome reply. “The roof’s quite flat on top, and there’s a little iron railing. Oho!”
“Oho what?”
“Oho what sort of clothes was Mr. Fairfield wearing? There’s a piece of gray fuzz caught on one of the spikes.”
“Leave it,” shouted Sergeant MacVicar. “I am preparing to ascend. Ladies, would you oblige me by steadying the ladder?”
“Egad,” cried Arethusa. “The plot thickens.”
“That is as may be,” grunted Sergeant MacVicar, plodding cautiously but undauntedly from rung to rung.
The Grub-and-Stakers Quilt a Bee Page 3
