Trouble in the Town Hall

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Prevailing English usage for the principal room of the house is “lounge.” I think it sounds like a hotel or a bar and refuse to use it. On the other hand, “living room” is far too American for a house as old and English as mine. I’ve compromised on “parlor,” and my friends accept it amiably as another American eccentricity. We settled down on either side of the fireplace, unlit on this warm and beautiful day, and I poured out the tea before I drew a deep breath and launched into it.

  “You won’t think I’m silly?”

  Alan just looked at me. I’ve learned to recognize that look. It means something like Don’t you know me well enough by now to know I take you seriously?

  “All right, then. Alan, I think William Farrell may have killed that boy.”

  He took a sandwich and bit into it thoughtfully. “Why do you think so? Any evidence, or just a feeling?”

  “When you’re as old as I am, feelings about people are perfectly legitimate evidence in themselves,” I retorted. “They’re always based on experience. But I know what you mean—police-court evidence. And I do have some. Has anyone working on the case noticed Farrell’s right hand?”

  He relaxed and took another sandwich. “Ah, his hand. So you saw that, too—and drew the perfectly logical conclusion. Yes, Morrison interviewed him personally, and got an explanation.

  “It seems that our Farrell has quite a temper. He says that after the Lord Mayor’s famous dinner party the night of the murder, he was extremely upset. He went home fuming about Pettifer and his plans, and by the time he got home, he’d worked himself up to the point of slamming his fist into the wall.”

  “He could be lying.”

  “Of course. But our people checked; the wall next to the door had marks of blood and skin on it, at about the right height. And the ME, who took a look at Farrell’s hand, doesn’t think the injuries could have been caused by contact with Jenkins’s jaw. He’s quite sure a bare fist couldn’t have done so much damage to the jaw, either, not unless the fist belonged to a trained boxer—which Farrell certainly is not.”

  I was both relieved and disappointed. “Well. Then it looks as though he’s out of it. But—Alan, his temper is awful! Two people, on separate occasions, told me he left that dinner meeting looking as if he wanted to kill someone—those were their very words. And this morning when I saw him, he certainly looked ready to kill me!”

  “And when was that?” Alan’s tone was mild, but his eyes narrowed and he put down a cookie.

  “Oh, a perfectly innocent encounter in the Sherebury Museum. I went in to take—um, that is, I found something old, and . . .”

  I floundered to a stop and Alan picked up the cookie again, and simply waited.

  “Oh, all right, if you must know. Did you rise to your exalted rank by exploiting the power of silence in an interview?”

  He said nothing to that, either. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “You are the most exasperating man! I had no intention of telling you I was poking around the Town Hall looking for secret passages.”

  “Ah. So that’s it. And I presume you found the room in the attic?”

  It was so deflating to have everyone at least one step ahead of me.

  “Mrs. Finch showed it to me. I thought—oh, I suppose you might as well have all of it. I was off on a Nancy Drew tangent again. I thought maybe there was something hidden close to where Jenkins was actually killed. And maybe the murderer moved him to keep whatever it was secret. And if Pettifer knew about it—well, anyway, it seemed to hang together when it first occurred to me. But Mrs. Finch—Ada, I mean, I keep forgetting—she says the attic room is the only one in the Town Hall. And she ought to know.”

  “Have a sandwich; you’re not eating anything,” said Alan kindly. “It’s a perfectly plausible theory, actually. We—that is, Morrison—thought of it, too.”

  “You did? I wasn’t being totally ridiculous? I even thought he might have gotten his head injury on one of those beams—they’re pretty low.”

  “Dorothy, you really must stop underestimating yourself, you know. The idea is sound, and we’ve investigated it thoroughly. Unfortunately, it looks as though Ada Finch is right. The plans for the Town Hall—the original plans, and drawings of alterations down through the years—have been kept. It’s a remarkable piece of cultural history, actually, all in the Sherebury Museum. But when our people studied them they found no sign of anything except the attic strong room, and that’s shown quite clearly. Of course, an addition that was really meant to be a secret would have been kept out of documents, so the men went over the building itself with a fine-tooth comb, measuring the depth of walls and so forth. They came up with absolutely nothing. So I’m afraid we know no more than we did about why the man was moved.”

  “Or by whom,” I said, and sighed. “So that’s that. As a detective I think I make a great—”

  “Cook,” Alan supplied, polishing off the last cookie on the plate. “So was it interesting, that ‘something old’ you found in the Town Hall?”

  “No. Just a piece of old town records. I don’t think Mr. Pym has the slightest idea of what to do with it, not that it matters. That museum is a disaster, Alan!”

  “Another victim of a strained municipal budget. It needs more space and a proper curator, is all. The collection is actually quite good.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like it! Somebody needs to take it in hand.”

  He grinned at me as he heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair. “There’s a project for you, my dear—just mind you keep out of the way of our bad-tempered Farrell. I must go. Splendid tea, Dorothy. By the way, what have you done to your hair?”

  “Oh, just got tired of it and decided to experiment.” I’d rearranged it to cover up the lump I had no intention of telling him about.

  “Oh, I thought you might have bumped your head on one of those wicked beams.” He grinned at my scowl, gathered me up in a brief but very efficient bear hug, and was gone; my musings for the rest of the day had nothing whatever to do with museums or murder.

  11

  BY THURSDAY MORNING Bob was ready to start planting one small part of my garden, so I spent a few hours in the delightful occupation of watching someone else work, now and then offering a suggestion, praise, or even a little help. And early in the afternoon Mr. Pettifer, true to his word, telephoned to say that the plans and estimate for my roof were ready, and could he drop them off straightaway?

  He was there in ten minutes. I showed him into the parlor and he got down to business at once. “Now,” he said, “here’s the estimate. It’s high, but not so bad as it might be because I was able to pick up those old slates. And of course you’ll get some help from English Heritage, and/or the council.”

  He handed it to me. It took my breath away; I certainly hoped a great deal of financial help would be forthcoming from somewhere or my landlord was in danger of cardiac arrest.

  “We’ll match the original techniques and materials as nearly as possible,” he went on, “and the appearance will be identical.”

  “I must confess I had a few qualms about that when I talked to Mr. Benson. He didn’t seem to realize that I wanted the house kept the same; it wasn’t just a question of complying with the authorities. By the way—uh—have you talked to him?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t best pleased, but he must learn to keep his promises. Nothing drives off trade faster than breaking appointments. I told him so.” He smiled grimly.

  “Yes, well—thank you for dealing with him. Now, once the financing is worked out, how long do you think the job will take?”

  “No more than three weeks, given reasonable weather. There’s nothing much on our plate at the moment.” He grimaced and then shut his mouth firmly and looked the other way.

  There was something about his unspoken comment that made me suddenly see him as a human being instead of a cardboard villain, and (as I often do and almost always live to regret) I said the first thing that came into my head. “Mr. Pettifer. You’re obviou
sly a good craftsman, with respect for fine old work. Why do you want to destroy the Town Hall?”

  Mr. Pettifer gave me a look that would peel paint and stood, drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. “Destroy it! I don’t want to destroy it! I want to save it, make it of some use to the town! Where’s the crime in taking a fine old building and using it for something different, putting people to work, getting new money flowing? I am fed to the teeth with all the do-gooders acting as if I was proposing to commit murder!”

  I glared right back at him as anger stripped off what few restraints were left on my tongue. “Well, if that’s the way you answer a civil question, I don’t blame them! I asked because I wanted to hear your point of view, instead of just believing what everyone says. If you don’t want to talk about it rationally, fine!”

  “And what,” he asked, purple in the face, “does everyone say?”

  “That you used to be a fine builder before you fell in love with money and power. That all you care about now is your own advancement, no matter who or what stands in your way. That you’ve got enough influence to push through this Town Hall plan even though it’s an absolute sacrilege, and the university housing project, too.” I paused and then threw the last shred of caution to the winds. “That you bully your wife, and you probably killed the man in the Town Hall because he might have ruined your plans somehow.”

  There was a long pause. The house was very quiet. As I watched Pettifer’s face, wondering if I should reach for the poker, I could hear the chink of Bob’s tools in the garden, and even the lapping of Emmy’s tongue as she drank some water out of her bowl in the kitchen.

  “You speak your mind, don’t you?” he said, finally, his color closer to normal. “I wonder you care to employ me if that’s what you believe.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it all. You asked what was being said. I told you.”

  “Yes. In reply, then, A: I am still an extremely good builder, with high standards. B: I do not find either the Town Hall Mall or the university housing project to be detrimental to Sherebury. My mall will save a magnificent building from destruction, and the Victorian houses I propose to replace with new flats are insanitary, ugly, and poorly built. I sincerely hope my influence is still sufficient to see that both proposals are approved. C: My relationship with my wife is no one’s business but ours. D: I did not murder anyone. Good day, Mrs. Martin.”

  Whew! After he slammed the front door, I stood for a moment shaking my head just to make sure it was still on my shoulders. My record of winning friends and influencing people was growing more and more dismal. And all I’d done was ask a few honest questions. A few more and I wouldn’t have a friend left in Sherebury.

  It was just as well that I had an urgent errand to keep me from brooding about that nasty little encounter. Now that I actually had a cost estimate for my roof, I intended to ginger up my dilatory landlord by presenting him with the proper grant applications, all filled out and ready for his signature. I’d seen the forms, which weren’t impossibly complicated; I could get them from the planning office this afternoon, complete them, and mail them to him tomorrow.

  There were, I had learned, various legal recourses open to me if the landlord didn’t act quickly. I was mulling them over, hoping very much I wouldn’t have to use them, as I pulled into the Civic Centre parking lot and congratulated myself on still being alive after the drive.

  I was in no way mentally ready for an encounter with John Thorpe, who was coming out the door as I went in.

  He saw me, of course, and his eyes lit up. There was no escape; civility forced me to respond, if coolly, to his greeting and handshake.

  “Ah, Mrs. Martin!” he boomed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I believe I may have some good news for you. We have a new house on our books—at least, an old house, ha, ha—that may be just what you’re looking for. The moment I saw it, I thought of you. A Victorian rectory, marvelous old place, all sorts of charming woodwork and so on. In need of some tender, loving care, but I think it’s just up your street. When may I show it to you?”

  “Well—actually—I don’t like Victorian architecture much, not the English variety anyway. And I think I’ve decided to go ahead and fix up my own house. I have the estimate for the roof here, as a matter of fact, just ready to submit with the grant applications. So you see . . .”

  He saw, unfortunately, a good deal more than I intended him to. His geniality vanished. “Yes, indeed. Quick decision, wasn’t it? Looking for a new house last week, staying in the old one this week? Just what are you planning to do, Mrs. Martin? Or don’t you know?”

  I stood my ground. I was tired of being bullied. Surely I could do as I liked about my housing problem.

  “I’m staying in my house. Definitely. I’m so sorry to have taken up your time before I made up my mind. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Yes, well, there’s no accounting for tastes, is there? I wouldn’t stay in that house myself, the condition it’s in. Who knows what might happen? But it’s your funeral.”

  He nodded curtly and strode away. I picked up my forms and drove home, where I painstakingly filled in blanks for a couple of hours, posted the letter to the landlord whose existence I was beginning to question, and spent the evening with a nice, familiar Agatha Christie. I found it comforting to deal with something I knew the ending to.

  I WOKE TO a fine drizzle on Friday morning. As I plodded across the Close to work, the murky light washed the color out of the world, and the cathedral seemed to brood, its great gray bulk hugging the earth.

  Inside, though, the atmosphere was entirely different. The staff were arranging chairs and music stands at the east end of the nave, and marking rows of seats with numbers. Armies of volunteers scurried about with masses of flowers in their arms. Screeches and the voices of invisible technicians issued raucously from the sound system.

  The cathedral was en fête. I had completely forgotten that the Sherebury Cathedral Music Festival began tonight. And I was going to the gala opening, a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony by an extremely exalted orchestra.

  With Alan.

  My step was light as I walked into the bookshop.

  Clarice evaded my inquiries about her health. “I’m fine,” she said persistently. “Truly.”

  And not another word could I get out of her. Well, she looked more or less all right, if a bit droopy—but she was often droopy. And we were too busy to talk, anyway. The hundreds of music lovers who had come to town for the festival all seemed to be whiling away the time in the cathedral. They raised a brisk trade in postcards and guidebooks.

  At about eleven Barbara Dean blew in and came straight over to me.

  “I’ve been hoping to speak to you,” she said, “and this is the first moment I’ve had. Some of those volunteers!” She threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and I remembered that she was (of course!) in charge of the front of the house arrangements for the music festival.

  “If you’re too busy, we can make it another time,” I said hastily, but she was not to be deflected.

  “No, no, I simply wished to know about your house. I see that you have a tarpaulin in place. I trust that means you have been successful in finding a contractor for the work?”

  “Yes, thank you. The man recommended by Planning Aid, a new man in town named Herbert Benson, wasn’t getting anything done, so I called in Mr. Pettifer, and he’s given me an estimate for the work. I—er—I know you and he aren’t exactly friends, but he does seem to be quite professional.” She said nothing at all, and I hurried nervously on. “I mailed—posted the grant applications to my landlord yesterday.”

  “Good,” she said briskly. “And you’ll let me know if he doesn’t respond?”

  “Well—”

  “Splendid. Good morning!”

  The breeze as she swept out wafted three sheets of poetry off the counter.

  When my shift was over and I’d had some lunch at home, I lay down for a nap. I wa
nted to be fresh and rested for the concert, and at my age, the way to be fresh in the evening is to sleep in the afternoon.

  I had just settled myself comfortably, with a cat curled up on each side and the rain beating a nice lullaby on the plastic-covered roof, when the phone rang.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Martin, Herbert Benson here.”

  “Oh, Mr. Benson, I—”

  “Sorry about the little misunderstanding over your roof. No hard feelings, of course, but you might have let me know. But still, no use crying over spilt milk, eh? I have a quote for you on those windows we talked about. Shall I bring it over straight, away?”

  “No! No, Mr. Benson, I don’t want—”

  “Ah, well, if this is a bad time I’ll ring up again. Ta-ta!”

  He had hung up before I could make some excuse. He reminded me of one of those hard rubber balls. The harder you throw it away, the faster it bounces back to you. Would I never be able to get rid of him? It was a good half hour before I could stop fretting and get to sleep. Even then, my dreams wrapped me in blue tarps and buried me under tiles and slates, and I woke with the sheets wound around me and the cats long fled.

  It was an effort to work up any enthusiasm for getting dressed and going out, but I put lots of carnation bath oil in the tub and soaked for a long time in the bubbles, and when I’d applied careful makeup and gotten into my laciest, most feminine undies, I was myself again.

  I hesitated for quite a while about the outer layer. I tend to overdress. If I’d been going by myself I wouldn’t have cared, but I didn’t want to embarrass Alan. I finally chose a slimming black silk sheath, topped off with a very chic scarlet jacket I’d bought for almost nothing in the Portobello Road. Pearls were always correct, and I put on and then regretfully took off a little black satin evening hat that I loved. I was cramming necessities into a small black beaded bag when the doorbell rang.