Alan didn’t whistle; that wasn’t his style. He didn’t say anything, either. He just stood there in his immaculate black suit and regimental tie and looked me over with his careful policeman’s eye, a smile slowly broadening on his mobile face.
When he spoke at last I could have kissed him. “Smashing. Absolutely top marks, except—where’s your hat? You’re not really you without a hat.”
“I’ll be the only woman in the place wearing one.”
“What does that matter?”
“Alan, I do love you,” I said gratefully, and flew upstairs to get it.
“It’s stopped raining,” he said as he held my raincoat for me, “but it may start again at any moment. And will you ruin your shoes if you walk on the wet path?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I’m wearing wellies.” I slipped out of my black patent heels and into a pair of yellow rubber boots, and we set off across the Close, arm in arm and well pleased with ourselves despite the glances that greeted my eccentric ensemble and the shoes dangling from one hand.
“How is your roof holding up in the rain?” asked Alan as we made our way up the nave looking for our seats.
“Fine, and Pettifer’s come through with the plans and cost figures.” We’d reached our row, second from the front, and had begun to excuse our way past the knees. “Now if my landlord will get a move on, and the grant applications can actually make it through the planning bureaucracy—oh, heavens! I’m so sorry!”
For in scrambling past a very large, pillowy woman I had slipped, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand to keep from falling.
It happened to be the head of the man in the front row.
And the man in the front row happened to be Daniel Clarke, Lord Mayor of Sherebury.
If I could have vaporized I gladly would have. Or better yet, been beamed up to the Enterprise, to return in a time warp a few seconds ago with the sense to be more careful.
Somehow one survives these things. I apologized profusely to everyone in sight, was established by Alan’s firm hand on my elbow in the seat directly behind my victim, and hid behind my program until a shaking of my chair caught my attention. I peeked out to see who was moving it, and why, and saw that Alan had nearly reached the point of apoplexy with suppressed laughter.
I could have killed him, but when he caught my eye he snorted loudly and had to reach for his handkerchief to cover more unseemly demonstrations, and I began to giggle myself. It was perhaps fortunate for all concerned that the conductor came out just then and we had to behave. I wasn’t sure I would make it through the politenesses at the beginning, with all the dignitaries welcoming everyone, but when the music began I forgot everything else.
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony isn’t easy to program. It’s too short to make up an evening by itself, really too long for a second half, and too spectacular for anything to follow it. Tonight’s conductor had chosen the conventional route, beginning with a short Haydn symphony and giving us a long intermission to prepare for the master. It was at the intermission, just as I was feeling calm and comfortable, that the Lord Mayor turned to speak to me.
“It’s Mrs. Martin, isn’t it? I believe we were introduced last Sunday.”
A politician needs a good memory for names and faces, but I would have been much happier to remain his anonymous assailant. However, I acknowledged my identity while Alan, infuriatingly, stood smiling and silent by my side.
The Lord Mayor went on. “Did I hear you say you’re having some difficulty with grant applications, or something of the sort? Is it possible that I might be of some help? Mrs. Dean mentioned something to me a day or two ago.”
I was awed. So La Dean could talk even the Lord Mayor into dealing with a peon. I muttered something inarticulate and Alan, at last, came to my rescue.
“Mrs. Martin is eager to get the roof question settled quickly, since her lease will expire soon and there is a good deal of further work to be done on the house, as well.” He explained about my conditional purchase offer.
“Oh, dear, dear. Well, I shall certainly do all I can. Your house is quite lovely, Mrs. Martin, and essential to the character, not only of your street, but of the Close, since it can be seen from the cathedral. We cannot allow our finest buildings to perish from neglect, can we?”
Here he was interrupted by the dean.
“I’m so sorry, I must go and attend to some details, but I shall speak to you again, Mrs. Martin. I shan’t forget.”
Well, no, he probably wouldn’t forget the woman who had nearly snatched him bald.
“That color is very becoming,” murmured Alan.
I hoped he was talking about my jacket, not my face, but my blush ebbed as I mulled over what the Lord Mayor had said. He was concerned enough about Sherebury’s architectural heritage to go out of his way for a stranger.
Was he concerned enough to commit murder?
That one so distracted me that I surfaced again only when the baritone launched into his fourth-movement solo, and then I tried to dismiss everything but the music from my mind. But a niggling thought kept insisting that the brotherhood of man espoused by the “Ode to Joy” was a lovely idea, all right, but even the first pair of brothers didn’t get along any too well.
In fact, one of them had killed the other.
12
DEARLY AS I love England, every now and then I reach a stage of acute frustration with its pace of life, and with the relentless politenesses and restraints. By Saturday, having gotten exactly nowhere with a solution to the murder, and chafing under the delay with my housing problem, I was more than ready to spend the weekend with American friends in London, celebrating the Fourth of July.
It did me good. The Andersons are two of my favorite people, and the party was marvelous. Tom is some sort of exalted vice president of a multinational with a lot of American employees in London, and every July 4 they throw a big shindig at the company headquarters, a country estate on the Thames. A picnic, brass bands, fireworks—the whole bit, including a tour of the mansion. I hadn’t liked the idea of a big manor house being turned into offices, but after I saw how tastefully it had been done, I came back to Sherebury on Monday morning thoughtfully considering a new aspect of the preservation question. Surely it was better to put a glorious old house to a new use than to let it decay because no family could afford to live there anymore.
Much as I detested Pettifer’s plan, it was sounding more and more logical.
The cats pointedly ignored me, as punishment for my absence. When I sat down at the dining-room table, however, and began to open my mail, the rustle of paper was too much for Samantha. She dived onto the table, claws extended.
“Ouch! Bad cat! You know you’re not allowed up here—and you’ve been told before about those claws. Scat!”
I had to crumple an envelope for her to chase before I could get rid of her. Sucking on a scratched knuckle, I turned over the letter she’d attacked. It had survived pretty well, with just two neat punctures where she’d grabbed it between her teeth.
It was nothing very interesting, just a note from friends asking how I was and saying they missed me. Not important at all, except that the Davises live in Sheffield.
“Sam, it’s a sign,” I informed her. She stopped in mid-chase, all four legs stiff, brown tail quirked into a question mark. “I hadn’t been sure whether I ought to pursue this thing anymore, but here’s an excuse to go right to the heart of the mystery. Now, I certainly can’t turn it down, can I?”
I waved the letter, which was a mistake. Sam leapt into the air, neatly seized it from my hand, and killed it.
After a hasty lunch, I poked my head out the back door to check the weather. It had been deteriorating all morning; the air hung still, hot, and heavy under a sullen sky.
“Is it going to rain, Bob?” He was hard at work on my back flower bed, seemingly impervious to the heat.
He sat back on his heels and studied the sky. “Not today.” He spoke with authority. “J
ust get ’otter. Tonight, mebbe. Tomorrow, sure. Got to get these ’ere chrysanths in ’afore it comes; they’re good and sturdy to stand up to a storm, but they don’t like bein’ planted in mud.”
I trusted his forecast. My umbrella stayed in the stand and I strolled across the Close with no raincoat.
“Aren’t you going to get wet, Dorothy?”
Clarice was in the staff room ahead of me, hanging her yellow slicker on her peg and setting her umbrella quietly in the stand.
“Bob Finch says it won’t rain until tonight at the earliest. I should think you’d boil in that oilskin thing, or plastic, or whatever it is.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose it is warm, but Archie thought I should wear it.” She smiled a little, and there was something in her tone that made me look up.
“You’re looking very nice today, Clarice. That pink blouse suits you. You must be feeling better.”
“I’m quite all right. I told you I was. I—had a headache on Friday, that’s all. Did you have a pleasant weekend?”
I told her all about the party, and she smiled again.
“It sounds rather exhausting in this heat. Archie and I enjoyed a quiet weekend at home.” There was that tone of voice again. Satisfied? Happy? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but at any rate, she didn’t seem likely to throw a fit of the vapors this afternoon.
Which was just as well. We were worked off our feet; for once I was glad Barbara Dean was also helping. We found ourselves side by side straightening the stock in one of the few slack moments.
“I had occasion to call on Mr. Benson this weekend, Dorothy; he does not seem to be an entirely satisfactory person, so perhaps you were wise to consult Mr. Pettifer. I trust your tarpaulin is properly fixed in place; a storm is coming, and we don’t want further damage before the repairs can be completed.”
“It seems secure, thank you, Mrs.—er—Barbara.” Lightning didn’t strike me down, so I ventured further conversation. “By the way, I’m thinking of a little visit to your old haunts. Some friends from Sheffield want me to come see them; you’re from there originally, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllable was not encouraging, but I persisted. “I don’t suppose you know them—Colin and Gillian Davis? They’re both at Hallam University; he teaches sculpture and she’s in drama.”
“I have very few contacts in Sheffield now. My family are all gone, and I have lived in Sherebury since I married, many years ago. Yes, sir, may I help you?”
And she turned to a customer, almost, I thought, with relief. But probably she was simply discouraging familiarity on the part of her inferior. And I’d thought we were beginning to be on equal terms. The nuances of English social relations still elude me.
Business slacked off at the end of the day, and Willie shooed me away a bit early. True to Bob’s prediction, the storm hadn’t broken by the time I got home, but it was nearer and I was as restless as the cats. I ate an unsatisfactory supper of leftovers and decided to call Alan. I wanted to tell him I was probably leaving town again for a few days, and he might also have some updated information. He wasn’t home, though; I finally reached him at his office.
“No, nothing new. So far as I know.” He sounded tired and distracted, and I could hear conversation in the background. “The trail’s pretty cold by now, you know. Two weeks—Morrison reports to me only when there’s some promising development. And we’ve had two serious drugs cases break over the weekend, and an armed robbery, and a smash-and-grab raid on the jewelers in the High Street. And of course The Visit.” I could hear the capital letters even on the phone. “How was your weekend?”
“Fun. A little hectic. Alan, I won’t keep you, but I’m thinking of paying a short visit to some friends in Sheffield. They’ve written, and I thought I might take it as an invitation. I just might find out something.”
“It’s a big place, Dorothy. I very much doubt that you’ll learn anything to the purpose. In any case—damn, there’s the other phone, and my secretary’s gone home.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m leaving.”
“Fine.”
He’d hung up before he’d even finished the word.
Well! This was apparently my day for being rebuffed. He was busy, of course, and tired, but surely he could have been a little friendlier? Or had I just been imagining that his feelings for me were—I didn’t want to pin down exactly what I’d thought about our relationship, but I was certainly confused. My restless energy suddenly collapsed in on itself like a dying star, leaving the same sort of black hole. Turning for comfort to a cat, I found that both of them had disappeared, probably under my bed, to wait out the approach of the storm. The sky was growing very dark, with an ominous greenish cast.
I turned on the lights and tried to think positively. I had other friends, after all. Friends who enjoyed my company. They’d said so. I picked up the phone again and punched in the lengthy series of numbers to reach Sheffield.
Colin answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Colin? It’s Dorothy Martin.”
“Well, hullo, love! Gill, it’s Dorothy—pick up the other phone.” He came back to me. “I can’t hear you very well. Are you here in Sheffield?”
“No, I’m at home, and we’re going to have a thunderstorm any minute. You’re not very clear, either.” I raised my voice and pressed the receiver to my ear. “Gillian, I got your note, and I really have been meaning to come up and see you. It’s awfully short notice, but how would this coming weekend do?”
“Oh, but what a pity!” It was Gillian’s voice, but it faded in and out. “We’re just off to . . . tomorrow, for a fortnight. Colin . . . some sketches for a big bronze he’s planning, and I’m . . . a play.”
“Sorry, I missed some of that. You’re off to where?”
“Portugal!” Colin’s voice came through loud and clear for a moment. “Why don’t you come along with us, and we could have a good, long holiday?”
I tried to hide my disappointment. “It sounds delightful, and it’s very kind of you to ask, but I can’t. I’ve got too many irons in the fire here to be gone for more than a few days. Actually—oh, I might as well admit it. I was hoping to pick your brains about a—well, something puzzling that’s happened here in Sherebury.”
“About what?” said Gill. The line was getting worse.
“A murder,” I shouted. We might be cut off at any moment; there wasn’t time for circumlocution.
“There’s a man here, a builder named Pettifer, who’s from Sheffield originally. He’s been trying to develop the Town Hall into a shopping mall, and there’s a lot of controversy about it. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago a young man was found murdered in the Town Hall. His name was Jack Jenkins, and he was from Sheffield, too. And there’s a third person involved, also from Sheffield—Pettifer’s chief opposition, a formidable lady named Barbara Dean, head of the local preservation society. So you see, your part of the world plays rather a prominent role, and I wondered if any of those names rang a bell.”
There was a crackly silence at the other end of the line, and thunder began to rumble close by.
“Did you get all that?” I asked anxiously.
“Most of it.” Jack’s voice sounded faint. “I can’t say it raised any instant recognition in my mind. What about you, Gill?”
“None of the names, no,” she said, and I thought I could hear doubt in her voice. “I do recall a scandal here a few years ago about a building controversy, if that might have a connection, but I don’t think any of your people were involved.”
It sounded awfully tenuous. “What was it about?”
The static began again in earnest as Colin and Gillian talked at once. “Council housing . . . blocks of flats . . . pensioners . . . fire . . . faulty wiring . . . three people died.”
“Who was the contractor?” I shouted, afraid of the answer, but straining to hear. The rain had begun pelting down, and thunder boomed almost continuously. “Was it Archibald Petti
fer?”
“No,” said William, decisively, and for a moment clearly. “I’d remember a damn-fool name like that. No, it was about three years ago, and the names have vanished from my mind. I do remember the preservation faction was led by a woman, but then they nearly always are, aren’t they? That’s probably why Gill remembered at all—parallel with your case—but I’ve lost her name as well.”
“Me, too,” said Gillian, “but I do recall one rather poignant detail, now that I think of it. One of the people killed in the fire was her old auntie. The newspapers—”
There was a blinding flash of lightning and a doomsday crack of thunder. All my lights went out, and I was holding a dead telephone in my shaking hand.
The house hadn’t been struck, I realized after a quick, terrified tour of inspection. It was the magnificent old oak tree between my house and Jane’s. A large limb lay in my backyard, crushing all Bob’s work in the flower beds, and incidentally burying electrical and phone wires. As the tempest raged and lightning flashed, I could see other trees straining before the wind.
It was a terrifying storm, but like most of its kind, it didn’t last long. As soon as the rain slowed to a drizzle, I ran over to check on Jane—the front way. She popped out of her front door the same moment I did.
“Stay out of your back garden, Dorothy!” she shouted. “The cables are down!”
“I know. I was coming to tell you the same thing. I’m off to the nearest working telephone to report it.”
I awoke late to a clear, balmy morning denying all connection with storm and tempest, and began to assess the damage. Destruction was everywhere. Limbs had fallen from venerable old trees all over the neighborhood, in one case through a roof. My tarp had miraculously held, but the wind had driven rain under it and into my upstairs hall.
As I set out for my job, Bob stood mutely by my gate, unable to work with live wires everywhere, but shaking his head at the flood of mud and all the young plants that lay with roots miserably exposed, dying in the brilliant, crisp sunshine.
Trouble in the Town Hall Page 13
