Trouble in the Town Hall

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Not bad at all.”

  “Come in the kitchen and tell me, then, while I put together a salad. I’m sorry I can’t offer you another drink,” I added, pointing at his glass. “We’ve drunk it all—I keep forgetting to stock up.”

  “Just as well. Now, I’ve already told you,” he said, gathering up Sam, who was trying to trip him, “about the head injury. That was the cause of death, as Morrison thought. The medical examiner found another one, just a bad bump, really, that he thinks happened some little time before death, so there may have been a quarrel that went on for a bit. Quite a wide range for time of death, because so many variables are unknown—they say from nine P.M. to two A.M. And then there’s the bruise on the chin. Some scratches there, so the ME has guessed the murderer may have worn knuckle-dusters. It would explain why the blow was so effective; it actually broke the jaw, though it was the crashing of the head into whatever it hit that did the job. I gather you don’t want all the medical details.”

  “Not really,” I agreed. “I notice you’ve stopped qualifying yourself every time you say ‘murder,’ though.”

  “The injuries couldn’t have been self-inflicted, and no one delivers a punch like that to the jaw by accident. The inquest hasn’t been held yet, and all sorts of routine inquiries are still grinding along—tracing Jenkins’s movements, and everyone else’s, that sort of thing—but murder does seem the only reasonable possibility at this point.”

  “Then all we have to do is figure out what a petty crook from Sheffield was doing in the Town Hall, and why someone wanted to murder him,” I said, taking the smoked salmon from the fridge. “Here, guard it with your life. That and a spinach soufflé are most of dinner—catch her!”

  Sam managed to make off with only a little of the salmon, and my house is solid enough that the chase didn’t damage the soufflé much. We put the cats out and sat down to our meal in peace.

  “You haven’t told me anything about your house yet,” said Alan. “I didn’t notice any signs of roofing.”

  “There aren’t any. And my enthusiasm has dimmed considerably. The man I asked to do something about my roof isn’t keeping his promises.”

  Alan raised his eyebrows. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Herbert Benson.”

  The eyebrows rose still further. “Pettifer’s friend?”

  I smacked my hand on the table. “That’s it! I knew I’d heard the name somewhere. He’s the one Pettifer was drinking with, the night of the murder—the alibi. Good grief, and I thought I could trust him!”

  Alan chuckled. “Having a pint or two with Pettifer surely isn’t enough to make a man untrustworthy.”

  “Maybe not, but add his failure to show up when he said he would—twice, now—”

  “Did he give you a reason?”

  “The first time he said he was shorthanded—some of his men didn’t show up for work,” I admitted grudgingly. “Today I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Unreliable workmen can happen to anyone. Give the man a chance. But if he doesn’t work out, what about Pettifer himself?”

  I put my fork down. “Alan, are you out of your mind? He’d never stoop to such a plebeian task as a new roof. And I wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to. The man who’s going to desecrate the Town Hall, working on my house? The man who’s driving his wife into a nervous breakdown? And probably a murderer, to boot?”

  “You do love jumping to conclusions, don’t you?” said Alan calmly. “Have some more of this excellent wine of yours and listen for a moment. First, Pettifer has done nothing to the Town Hall thus far, and he won’t unless and until planning permission is given. Second, I don’t know what the matter with Mrs. Pettifer is, and neither do you. It may have nothing to do with her husband. Third, a man is innocent until proven guilty in this country. I believe you’ve heard of the system.”

  I glared at him. He appeared not to notice.

  “Finally, whatever else he may be, Archibald Pettifer is an excellent builder, and I doubt his men have a great deal of work just now. Dorothy, I don’t like the man myself. He’s arrogant and pretentious and a social climber and all the rest of it, I freely admit. But he doesn’t feel to me like a murderer, and I confess I have some sympathy for him just now. This Town Hall project is an abomination, of course, but it was the dream of his life and his chances of completing it grow dimmer every day that this murder is left unsolved. Morrison says he saw him in church yesterday, and the man is disintegrating before one’s eyes. You must have noticed, yourself.”

  Well, no, I hadn’t. I’d had eyes only for Clarice. I pushed some salmon around my plate and avoided Alan’s eye. We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Alan,” I said finally, “you have a talent for making me feel ashamed of myself. I think I’ve been childish about a number of things.”

  “Dorothy, I—”

  “No, let me finish. I’ve been running around poking my nose into things, even knowing you wouldn’t like it much. And you’ve made me see I’ve been unfair to Pettifer. I’d like to start over on a better footing. If Benson doesn’t show up tomorrow, I’ll call Pettifer. And I promise—”

  “No,” said Alan, putting his big, warm hand over mine. “Stop punishing yourself. You’re not childish, just curious and independent and impulsive and very, very human. Don’t make me any promises. Or—no, on second thought, I’ll accept one. Promise me you’ll look after yourself. I do care a great deal about what happens to you, you know.”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, so gently and tenderly that there were tears in my eyes when I tried to smile at him.

  “Now,” he said, pushing back his chair. “What delectable sweet have you concocted to finish off this marvelous meal?”

  It wasn’t until the middle of the night that I swam up out of insidiously pleasant dreams and realized I’d never told him about Mr. Farrell’s injured hand.

  9

  TUESDAY MORNING CLARICE finally turned up at work.

  “I sure am glad to see you! How are you feeling?” She looked awful, a lot worse than when I’d seen her last. Her sweater and skirt hung limply on a body that seemed at least ten pounds thinner, though she could hardly have lost that much weight in a week. She was making a brave attempt to keep the flags flying, however. Her hair looked all right, and careful makeup tried to hide her pallor and the purple circles under her eyes. Looking at those eyes, I wondered for the first time if she were really physically ill, not just upset. “Are you sure you’re well enough to be here?”

  She tried to smile. “I’m fine, truly. Canon Richards came to see me yesterday, and made me see how foolish I was to give way to my nerves over such a little thing. He says I’ll be better out of the house, keeping my mind occupied. I hope we’re busy today.”

  “Speaking of busy, I have a job that needs doing,” I said, a little nervously. Might as well get it over with. “I know your husband is an important contractor, of course, and probably doesn’t take on small jobs, but—”

  The change of subject was a great success. Clarice’s face took on some animation. “Oh, I’m sure he’d be happy to help you! He’s just waiting, you know, for a decision to be made about the new mall, and now that . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I hurried into the breach.

  “Yes, well, it’s my roof, you see. It’s leaking badly. I’m embarrassed even to mention it, and I wouldn’t dream of bothering him ordinarily, but the people who usually do this sort of thing all seem to be booked up, and unless I get it repaired or replaced soon I may have serious problems. I did talk to Mr. Benson, and I don’t suppose he’ll be very happy if I give the job to someone else, but he hasn’t done anything about it, and Alan thought—”

  Clarice’s chin lifted. “Herbert Benson?”

  “Yes. Oh, that’s right, you must know him, he’s a friend of Mr. Pettifer’s.”

  “A business acquaintance.” There was no mistaking the frost in her voice. “You’d be much better off having Archie do the work. Shall I
speak to him this afternoon?”

  “I wish you would. Have him call me—ring me up, I mean.” What on earth was Clarice’s problem with Herbert Benson? Clarice gave me no chance to pursue that thought.

  “I’m sure he’d like to work on your house,” she went on with some vigor. “It’s a very interesting period, you know—architecturally, I mean. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to find a hidden passage or a secret room—a priest’s hole or something like that, you know. There’s a book here—if I can find it—” She rummaged around in the architecture section of the shelves, and finally pulled out a little volume with a cry of triumph.

  “Here it is! The Architecture of Dissent. It’s all about the Reformation and the Civil War and times like that, and the way buildings were altered to help people escape persecution. Archie has a copy; he’s always been fascinated with that sort of thing.”

  “I’m sure there’s nothing like that in my house; it’s too small,” I objected, but I took the book. It was intriguing. The secret passages that sound so fairy tale–like to an American were indeed a way of life in England’s history, and I’ve always been interested myself, but I was startled to hear of Pettifer’s fascination. It began to look as though Alan might be right about the man.

  I was a little unnerved by the way Alan kept working his way into my thoughts. I was too old, I told myself, to go around mooning like a teenager over a kiss—a brotherly one, at that. And if I gave in, I’d get nothing else done.

  I managed to close the mental door, but the hinges were a lot stiffer than I’d expected.

  Clarice and I were as busy as she’d hoped, and as the morning wore on, it seemed that the canon’s advice had been good. She went about her duties with a lighter step and her voice grew stronger and more assured. The crowd of teenagers that arrived just before noon, though, did her in. A school group from Birmingham, doing a tour of cathedrals just before their holidays began, they were noisy and demanding.

  “You look ready to drop,” I said as we were leaving for lunch. “What did those miserable kids do to you?”

  “Nothing, really. They were only—being kids.” Her voice was back to virtually inaudible.

  “Well, I think you did too much. You’d better go straight home to bed. Or can I buy you some lunch first?”

  “No, I’ll have something at home, but thank you very much all the same. And I shan’t forget to tell Archie to ring you.”

  There was that stubbornness again. Well, one couldn’t hold the woman’s hand forever, after all. She had to learn sometime to deal with life’s vicissitudes. She hadn’t even seen the body, for heaven’s sake. There was no real reason why she shouldn’t pull herself together. And if she was so eager to get home to Archie, let her. No accounting for taste, I thought with great originality as I waved good-bye and headed for home.

  Pettifer phoned me before I’d finished my sandwich lunch. I was profusely apologetic about bothering him with such a small matter, and he was at least civil—a major step forward in our relationship. Furthermore, he was at my house an hour later, with two men to measure the roof, and when he sent them away and the two of us sat down to talk about the project, I began to think humble pie was going to be my dessert du jour.

  “We’ll have to tear off the whole lot and start fresh; repair any structural damage first, though from what I can see there’s very little so far,” Pettifer said authoritatively. “Now, what you want is slates that match the originals, and they’re not going to come cheap if we have to buy them new. The best thing would be old ones that have already weathered. I’ll ask about, see if I can lay my hands on some. There’s a redundant church being pulled down over Bradford way with a slate roof; I might—”

  “Yes, but Mr. Pettifer,” I interrupted, “will old slate keep out the rain?”

  He looked at me pityingly. “So long as they’re not broken. They’re used because they’re durable, you know. And we’ll reuse any of yours that we can remove in one piece. That way we’ll still have the lichens, and you’ll want them—nice, soft, old look they give the place.”

  I could hardly believe this was the same man who was so pompous in public, the man who wanted to do unspeakable things to the Town Hall.

  “It’s very nice of you to deal with this for me. You do realize the roof will have to be identical in appearance to the old one?”

  “Yes,” he said, reverting to his old manner, “I am familiar with the requirements of a listed building.”

  Well, it had been a stupid question, hadn’t it? I studied the pattern on the carpet. “I’m sorry, silly of me. Of course you are. When do you think . . .?”

  “The men will be back with a tarpaulin within an hour or two, so you’ll not have to worry the next time it rains. I’ll have a cost estimate by Thursday at the latest. You understand it depends on what we find when we get to the timbers, but I can give you a range. The men can proceed as soon as you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  I stood. “Mr. Pettifer, you can’t imagine how grateful I am to deal with someone who obviously knows what he’s doing. My only problem now is to tell Mr. Benson I’ve given the job to someone else, and I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “My wife mentioned that. I shall be seeing him later this afternoon; I’ll tell him if you like.”

  There was a look in his eye that told me he would be delighted to pass bad news along to his colleague, and again I wondered why, but lacked the nerve to ask.

  “Yes, thank you again.” I shook his hand. “Mr. Pettifer, I—we haven’t always gotten along too well, and I—er—apologize if I was ever rude, or—”

  “Not at all.” With the all-purpose English nonresponse and a curt nod, he was out the door and I was left shaking my head and wondering if I would ever understand the man.

  At any rate, he kept his promises. An enormous sheet of blue plastic arrived in short order and was firmly fastened down. Let it rain!

  Not that it showed any signs of doing so. The English summer was still behaving the way the tourist brochures make you think it always does, with blue skies and enough heat to seem almost like real summer. Too much of the afternoon was left to fritter it away; my conscience drove me into the garden, trowel in hand.

  An hour later, hot, dirty, and thoroughly fed up, I was knocking on Jane’s back door.

  “Is your cold better?” I asked when she appeared. “I sure hope so, for my sake as well as yours.”

  “Nearly gone,” she said. “Soup did the trick. Down, sir!” (This to the friendliest of the bulldogs, Winston, who was eagerly raising his head to be patted.) “Beer?” she added, noting the sweat pouring down my face.

  She produced it, cold and ambrosial, along with a couple of damp paper towels that removed the worst of the grime.

  “I’ve had it,” I announced after a life-giving swig or two. “That garden is defeating me and enjoying it. The only things that are thriving are the weeds. It needs someone to tell it who’s boss. Do you know of a good gardener looking for work?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Bob Finch,” she said promptly.

  “Finch? Is he—?”

  Jane nodded. “Her son. Likes his drink now and again, but works hard in between. Knows his business.”

  “Well, if he’s anything at all like his mother, he’s the man for me. He lives with her?” I downed several more cold swallows.

  “Does now. Wife left him a few years ago; he moved back in with mum. Seems to suit both of them. He’s company for her and she chivvies him back to work when he’s on the drink.”

  I finished my beer and pushed my chair back. “Jane, you’ve come to my rescue so many times I’ll never be able to repay you. There is no one else’s kitchen in the world that I’d dare invade looking like this and asking a favor. And that’s a dubious honor if there ever was one. I’d give you a hug if I were fit to touch anybody.” Embarrassed, she muttered something and turned away to scold a dog, and I made off home to call Bob Finch.

  Fortun
e was smiling on me today; maybe it had something to do with the sunshine. Bob was at home and sober, and would be ’appy to come over and ’ave a look at my problem.

  He turned up a few minutes later in an amazing vehicle that had once been a pickup truck. A short, compact, wiry man of indeterminate age, he wore earth-brown garments that looked older than he did and gave him a distinct resemblance to a gnome. The watery blue eyes and ruddy nose trumpeted his alcohol problem, but his hands, today, were steady and as strong as pieces of oak, and his weather-beaten face was honest, the rosy-apple cheeks good-humored.

  “Dear, oh dear, madam, let the place go somethin’ shockin’, ’aven’t you?” He clucked accusingly and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it sift through his fingers. “Good soil, that, too—you could make a picture o’ this ’ere place. Delphiniums along the wall, see, with ’olly’ocks in the corners to ’old it all up, like. Not too many roses, they’d be too fancy, except for some of the old-fashioned ramblers on this ’ere fence. Daffs in the spring, o’ course, and snowdrops, and you want some lavender for the smell, and then wallflowers in summer. Some cuttin’ flowers, you’ll want, snapdragons and mebbe some asters and chrysanths . . .”

  As he went on, gesturing broadly, it all materialized before my eyes. Gone were the weeds; in their place a perfect English cottage garden nodded drowsily in the soft breeze, birds sang, butterflies skipped from blossom to blossom . . . I blinked, and there were only weeds, with a little brown gnome standing in the middle of them, pointing.

  “That there mint, you got to dig it all out. Take the place, mint will; put it in a pot if you ’ave to ’ave it.”

  “How long will it take?” I asked abruptly.

  Bob blinked. “To get that mint out? I’d say—”

  “To do it all. What you said—hollyhocks and snapdragons—all that.”

  “Given a free ’and, madam?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Four, five years.” He saw the look on my face and went on reassuringly. “Gardens takes time to grow proper. But I can ’ave it lookin’ tidy in a month or two, and get a start with bedding plants, then we can add on, like.”