He smiled, but his voice when he answered was serious. ‘Yes, of course I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense financially. I’m trying to get by without taking out a lot in loans, because … well, I don’t like the idea of getting into debt. The thing is … well, you used the word “possessed”. I suppose that’s what it amounts to. I’m being called to the priesthood. I’m not sure why. I mean, I’m nothing special as a chap, but I know this is what I’m meant to do.’
There was just a trace of defiance in his tone, a little ‘Call me crazy if you want to’. But not much. Timothy knew quite well that a claim of a vocation is an oddity in the twenty-first century, and he didn’t know us well enough to be sure of our reaction, but he wasn’t going to back down.
‘If you feel that way, and the fear of poverty hasn’t deterred you, then I salute you,’ said Alan, raising his coffee-cup of wine in a toast. ‘You’ve managed to cobble together adequate funding?’
Timothy sighed. ‘Not quite, actually. There’s the loan, and I had hoped for a small scholarship. And then there are the two jobs, though they don’t pay much. I was promised … well, when I first started down this path, I thought I would have another resource, but it didn’t work out, so I’m quite a bit short, really. I may have to stand out for a year or try to find yet another job.’ He took a healthy swig of wine. ‘Now I want to know more about you. How did you come to leave your home, Mrs Nesbitt, and settle in England?’
‘It’s Mrs Martin, actually. I kept my own name when Alan and I married. But I’m more comfortable with Dorothy, if you don’t mind. And how I got here is a long story, but I’ve always been an Anglophile, and when I was widowed some years ago I moved to Sherebury and met Alan, and there we were.’
‘The abridged version. I see. I’m speculating that you might have been a teacher at some time of your life.’
I blinked. ‘Goodness, does it show? I hope I don’t come across as one of those bossy, always-right women that are such nuisances!’
‘Certainly not,’ said Alan before Timothy could reply. ‘Not always right. Only ninety-seven per cent of the time.’
‘Now, now,’ said Timothy. ‘No bickering in front of the children. I don’t find you a nuisance, Mrs … Dorothy, but you do have an air of authority. I can see you being a very effective teacher. And you, sir, have that same authority, but perhaps not academic?’
‘Should you ever decide against the priesthood, young man, you’d be a shining star in the police force, seeing through people as clearly as you do. That was my profession, so you got it in one. Authority, but not academic. I’m also good at asking intrusive questions, and I’m not going to let you drag a red herring across our path. Before you changed the subject, you started to say you were promised additional funding for your education. I’m not too keen on unfulfilled promises. Was this a scholarship of some sort, or grant, or …?’
Timothy could easily have found a nice way to say that was none of our business. It might have been Alan’s ‘air of authority’ or the kindness in his voice, but Timothy hesitated, grimaced, and then replied. ‘It’s just such a trite old story. You’ll find a thousand variations of it in any library. A woman I called my aunt had a good deal of money and had promised to leave it to me when she died. She was very ill, and suffering, so I thought it wasn’t too frightful to wish her a speedy end.’
‘You’re not going to tell us she was murdered!’ I said in horror.
‘One moment, Dorothy. You say that you called her your aunt. She was not really an aunt?’
‘No, she was my mother’s best friend. She never married, so my sister and I became almost like her family. She took us on holidays, always remembered Christmas and our birthdays, that sort of thing. She was a dear, and we loved her. When my parents were killed in a car smash a couple of years ago, she was as devastated as we were. That was when she promised she’d look after me and see I got the education I wanted.’
‘What about your sister?’ I put in.
‘She’s three years older than I am, and she married young. She’s very pretty,’ he said with the dispassionate judgement of a brother who can’t quite see the attraction. ‘She and her husband live in London. He works for a Labour MP and she works from home for a publishing house. Even with two young kids, they’re doing all right. Aunt Sue knew they didn’t need her help, and she knew I did, and she knew she was dying. So she told me not to worry.’
‘And then she let you down! What a despicable thing to do! What made her change her mind?’
‘Well, that’s rather the thing, you see. Her doctor moved away and she changed to another one some of her friends had recommended. He was supposed to be very good with the elderly, and since Aunt Sue had plenty of money, she could afford a private doctor.’
I had a nasty feeling I knew where this was going.
‘Go on,’ said Alan in a grim voice.
‘She loved him – thought he was wonderful. She said she felt so much better. She thought he was going to save her life, and in gratitude she changed her will. That’s all. She died about a month later, and he came in for all the money. All of it.’
‘And his name,’ Alan said with a deep sigh, ‘was Blake Armstrong.’
Timothy’s mouth dropped. ‘How did you know?’
‘Dorothy and I have become involved with another matter concerning Dr Armstrong. Do you have a little time, or do you need to get back to your job, or your studies?’
‘I should be studying, but it’s not term time, and the night is yet young. What’s the story?’
I opened my mouth, but Alan silenced me with a look. ‘Timothy,’ he said, ‘a friend asked us to go to the nursing home where Dr Armstrong was staying. The man is dead.’
We were both watching his face, and if the news didn’t come as a complete surprise to the young man, I’ll retire to Bedlam.
‘But – nursing home? He was ill? I knew nothing about any of this!’
‘Is there some reason why you should have known? Have you been in contact with him?’
Alan sounded a bit sharp. Timothy gave him a wary look. ‘I thought my solicitor would have told me. I’ve asked him to contest the will, alleging undue influence. I suppose that’s moot, now. I had hoped—’
‘I don’t imagine you can afford to pay a lawyer.’ My heart was aching for him.
‘He’s doing it – he was doing it pro bono. He said there had been a lot of talk about him – Armstrong – but that he’d always been careful before. The little old ladies who left him their fortunes had been alone in the world, with no family to protest. He must have been somewhat surprised to learn about me. I wonder if that was what shocked him into the heart attack, or whatever put him in the nursing home.’
‘He was said to be suffering from nervous exhaustion.’ I couldn’t keep the sneer out of my voice. ‘Of course, as a doctor himself, he didn’t need a referral to the Milton Home.’
‘Oh, is that where he is – was? I’ve heard that’s a posh place for the rich to spend their declining years, not just for sick people.’
Alan nodded. ‘In fact, not principally for the sick. The residents don’t need skilled nursing care, just a staff to look after their needs and of course to deal with memory issues.’
Timothy frowned. ‘And do they boot them out when they get really old and have serious health problems?’
Alan and I looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think to ask.’
‘But,’ said Timothy slowly, ‘if Dr Armstrong wasn’t really ill – nervous exhaustion, you said—’
‘He said,’ I corrected. ‘The staff didn’t seem too sure about it.’
‘Anyway, nothing critical. Then what did he die of?’
Alan sighed. There was no getting around it. ‘He died,’ he said precisely, ‘of having a pillow held over his face until he stopped breathing. He was in fact murdered.’
EIGHT
‘Murdered.’ The boy’s voice was flat. I’ve heard more passion expressed
about toothpaste. Bad reaction.
There was some Glenfiddich left in the bottle. Alan rinsed out his coffee cup and poured a small tot. ‘Drink that.’
Timothy took the cup politely and drank. And choked. Eyes streaming, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘What is that stuff?’
Alan grinned. ‘Some of the finest whisky God ever made. I gather you don’t routinely drink spirits.’
‘A little gin now and again. With tonic. That stuff is pure fire!’
I chuckled. ‘The aboriginal people in America, the ones we inaccurately called Indians, used to call whisky firewater. But it’s a gross insult to a fine product like Glenfiddich. I’m not much for scotch; I prefer bourbon. But even I can tell that “stuff”, as you call it, is a very superior potable. Try sipping it, instead of knocking it back.’
‘Well, I didn’t know, did I?’ he said, and took a cautious sip. ‘Hmm.’ He took another, and Alan reached out a hand for the cup.
‘I’ve no thought to getting you drunk, young man, and when you’re not used to it, whisky can pack a mean punch. It’s excellent for medicinal purposes, however. You seem now to be present and accounted for.’
‘I was a bit gobsmacked, wasn’t I? Sorry about that, but it isn’t every day that someone you know gets murdered. I still can’t come to terms with the word. Or the idea.’
‘You knew him, then?’ I asked before Alan could. I was afraid he couldn’t keep the policeman out of his voice.
‘I only met him once. That was enough. And before you get around to asking, no, my feelings for him were not exactly what you might expect from someone reading theology. All Christian teaching to the contrary, I hated and resented him, and if I’d had a chance I might have enjoyed kicking him downstairs. But I did not, repeat not, murder him.’
‘I never thought you did,’ said Alan calmly. ‘I’d be a poor policeman indeed if I couldn’t see that the news came as a complete surprise to you. Nor can I see that you had anything to gain by his death; rather the opposite, indeed.’
‘Right. As long as he was alive there was some chance my lawyer might get some sort of settlement. Look, I want you both to understand that I’m not a litigious sort of person. In fact, it’s rather against my principles. That sounds rich, doesn’t it, coming from someone who just talked about kicking a man downstairs?’
‘Sounds very human. I’m not much for lawsuits, myself, and neither is Alan. They’re so often prompted by sheer greed, on the part of the lawyers as well as the clients. But in this case, I think you were certainly justified. What a pity it’s all for naught.’
‘It might not be,’ said Alan, running a hand along his chin. ‘I’m no expert on the law, but surely it might be possible to sue his estate. It might depend on who his beneficiaries were. I don’t know. If that lawyer of yours is still willing to work gratis, you might ask him about the possibility.’
Timothy thought about that for a long moment. ‘But if I do that, it would give me a motive for his murder, wouldn’t it?’
We talked about that for a long time after Timothy took himself out into the rain. It had slackened off a little, but he would still be very wet when he got back to his no-doubt bleak room.
‘At least he has a little liquid warmth inside him,’ Alan commented as I looked out the window to watch his splashing progress.
I turned away as he reached the gatehouse and moved out of sight. ‘I feel so sorry for him,’ I mourned. ‘The poor kid’s between a rock and a hard place. He’s afraid to press ahead about the inheritance, because it will put him in the spotlight as someone who could benefit from that dreadful man’s death. But if he does nothing, he just drifts deeper into debt and might have to take out more loans or even leave the university. And he’s bright and committed.’
‘And “called”. If that’s truly the case, he must continue. I hate to think of more loans, even though, as he says, the system here is far less punitive than in America. Presumably Tim will be given the means, somehow, if we really believe that God looks after his own.’
‘I do believe that – in the long run. But look at all the saints who were tortured for their faith, or killed. I don’t think we were ever promised life was going to be easy for anyone, no matter how saintly. Alan, isn’t there anything we can do?’
‘We could afford to pay his fees for a term or two, but not beyond that. And he wouldn’t take it, in any case. You saw how reluctant he was to take a tip, and then he turned around and spent it on us. He’s hell bent on making his own way.’
‘I’m not sure that’s the right expression, but I see what you mean. So we stand by and watch a promising priest fall by the wayside?’
‘No. We do our level best to find out who really killed Dr Armstrong, so Timothy can, we hope, eventually get his rightful inheritance.’
‘And how, O guru, do we do that? Seems to me we’re at a dead end.’
‘We’re tired and discouraged. By morning we’ll have ideas. We always do. Let’s tidy up the mess and get to bed.’
‘Because,’ I trilled a few bars of the famous theme song, ‘“Tomorrow is another day”.’
‘Right. ’Night, Scarlett.’
The morning dawned clear and serene, having forgotten its bad temper of the day before. I felt sunshiny myself. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ I announced, as soon as I’d imbibed the requisite dose of caffeine.
‘And are you going to share the secret? More coffee?’
‘No, I’ll wait till we get downstairs. Their coffee is much better than this stuff. I’ll wait on coffee, I mean, not my idea. Though it has nothing to do with solving the murder.’
Alan just looked at me.
‘All right, all right. What I thought was, since Timothy is having a hard time making ends meet, what if we could find a way to lower his housing costs? He isn’t living here in the castle, which means he’s on his own somewhere, and it’s bound to be costing more than he can afford.’
‘And how … oh.’
We shared a look. ‘Exactly. David needs to get out of his granddaughter’s house, but he’d be lonely living alone. We think he has enough money to get a reasonably nice flat, or even a house. If he finds one with two bedrooms, why shouldn’t he let Timothy use one at a nominal rent, or maybe no rent at all in exchange for some household chores? It would be a great solution for both of them, and it wouldn’t feel to Timothy like the charity he’s so loath to receive.’
‘Hmm. Might work, if we put it to them the right way. You do realize we don’t have an address or phone number for Timothy. Not even a surname.’
I waved away that difficulty. ‘He’s a student here. We can find it. And I’m starving. Let’s get some breakfast and then go over to the library. Someone there will know who our guide was yesterday.’
The best-laid plans, as Burns reminds us in more interesting language, don’t always work out. We were just finishing our meal when Alan’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, then rang off and turned to me. ‘We need to hurry a bit, love. David’s picking us up in a few minutes at the same place, the top of Owengate.’
‘But it’s after ten. I thought he said he couldn’t drive there at this time of day. Yes, OK, I’m coming!’
Alan led the way out of the Great Hall at a rapid pace. ‘Something urgent, he said. No explanation. Apparently he’s willing to face the charge this time. Let’s hope he pays it in time, so it doesn’t cost him a fortune. We have other uses in mind for his money!’
David explained when we got out of Durham traffic and out on the open road. ‘There’s been a development. A witness has turned up at the Milton with a story that might be important. I managed to persuade the management there that it would be a good idea for you two to hear it.’
‘A witness to the murder?’
‘No. But it might matter, all the same. It’s a bit complicated, so I won’t try to summarize. Better you hear it from her own lips.’
‘Her? The witness is a woman?’ Alan sounded surprised enoug
h that I was reminded of his deeply buried bias about women. It doesn’t often surface, bless him.
‘A girl. A young woman, I suppose I should say. She’s a student at the university, St Mary’s College.’
And he would say no more.
Today no swarm of police was in evidence. There was one car in the Milton car park that was so very unobtrusive that I figured it had to belong to the police who, unlike those in the country of my birth, often prefer subtlety. I raised an eyebrow at David, he nodded.
We didn’t need to announce ourselves to the receptionist or sign in; she was expecting us and took us to the director’s office. He stood when we entered, as did the man in the suit, and a very pretty young woman. Three empty chairs took up most of the space in the room.
Mr Williams indicated the other man. ‘This is Detective Inspector Harris. Mr Harris, David Tregarth, who recently moved to Durham from Exeter, where he was a senior police officer.’ They shook hands. ‘Alan Nesbitt lives in Sherebury, where he was chief constable until his retirement, and his wife Dorothy Martin is from America originally.’ We nodded and smiled. ‘They’re here visiting with Mr Tregarth. And this young woman is Eileen Walsh, a student at St Mary’s, who has some information that might be very important. Shall we all sit down? Miss Walsh, the floor is yours.’
She sat composedly, showing no signs of embarrassment or unease. The morning sun coming through a window set her strawberry-blond hair on fire and turned her pale, smooth skin almost translucent. When she spoke, the hint of a lilt confirmed her Irish origins.
‘I am a student, as Mr Williams said, studying a course in biosciences.’ She nodded to the director. ‘My special interest is botany. I enjoy walking along the river, simply because it’s beautiful and peaceful, but also because of the variety of plant species at different times of the year. They’re very lovely; some of them are unknown to me from my home, and I love learning more about them. I walk usually in the morning, but occasionally at night after a difficult day. I’m always very careful at night, as the path is not well-lit in places, and because the rowdies are often out then and I’ve no wish to get mixed up with them.’
Death Comes to Durham Page 6
