Wordlessly we struggled out of our too-comfortable chairs and went back to the castle.
EIGHTEEN
David called me just as we arrived, panting a bit, at our lofty room. He inquired about dinner.
‘I’m still full of that marvellous tea. I can’t even think of food. How did it go with Tim?’
‘That lad has certainly gathered very little moss thus far on his journey through life. His belongings fit easily into one suitcase and three boxes, two of which held books.’
‘Well, of course. You remember Erasmus’ famous saying: “When I get a little money, I buy books. If any is left, I buy food and clothes.” Tim has the same priorities. And I have to say I agree with him, within reason.’
Alan looked over at me, grinned, and shook his head. I ignored him. ‘He’s settled in, then?’
‘As if he’s lived there all his life. When I left him to start packing up my own things, he was busy scrubbing the kitchen floor and arranging the cupboards to suit him. We agreed he’s to be cook and gardener and I’ll manage the finances and light housecleaning. I think it’s going to work out splendidly.’
‘And then he’ll graduate, and marry Eileen, and you’ll be alone again.’
‘Bridges to cross, Dorothy. If you’re not hungry, would you enjoy a pint at our favourite pub?’
‘Sounds good to me. Fifteen minutes or so?’
We ambled down. With the students still on break, the place, like The Shakespeare, was nice and quiet. ‘Next week we won’t be able to hear ourselves think in here,’ I commented as we found a table and waited for David.
‘Next week I devoutly hope we’ll have dealt with all the problems and be back home.’
‘Amen. Ah, here he is.’
‘The usual?’ he called from the door, and came to the table expertly carrying three foaming glasses on a not-quite-big-enough tray. ‘It was easier back in the days of the mugs. I could carry three in each hand then.’
‘And they were pretty, too, that heavy, dimpled glass. Ah, well.’ I lifted my brimming glass. ‘Confusion to our enemies!’
‘At least as much as they’ve given to all of us,’ said David ruefully. ‘I wish I had any good news to give you, but there are no new developments. And I won’t be able to pursue it at all tomorrow; I’ve got to spend the day finding a place for poor Amanda to live.’
‘We all hope it won’t come to that,’ said Alan, sounding (I was sure) more confident than he felt. ‘Dorothy came up with a couple of ideas today that might help.’ He gestured at me with his glass.
‘Well, one idea won’t help all that much.’ I explained about the car keys. ‘Of course, they may not find them. But I think they will, and that would fill in quite a few gaps in our understanding of what happened last night.’
‘Indeed. Good thinking. I’ll pass it along. It won’t help find Elliot, though – alive or dead.’
‘No. But my other idea might help find his attacker. We’re going to go to a performance of Pirates of Penzance to meet and talk with the chorus, to see if they can’t identify the person who sicced them on you!’
‘The police—’ David began.
‘The police are official, and therefore threatening. I’m not. I’m just a dotty, little, old American lady – I can strengthen the accent when I need to – who heard about their high jinks and thinks it’s funny. I’ll wear a hat and look as frumpy as I can. I’m pretty sure I can get them to talk.’
David laughed. ‘You might, at that. So you’re harking back to Nathan’s death, still thinking it was murder, still thinking it has to do with Armstrong’s death.’
‘I am. I know you’re not at all certain, but you haven’t lived your life by Goldstein’s Theorem of Interconnected Monkey Business.’
Alan chuckled; David looked confused.
‘I’ll explain. It goes back to some wonderful mystery novels by Aaron Elkins. He created a character, in every sense of the word, named Abe Goldstein, who claims that when several strange things happen in close proximity of time and space, there’s virtually bound to be some connection between them, even though it may not be obvious. Interconnected Monkey Business. I have nearly always found that to be true. And since we have in this case no other notions to chase, why not follow this one? Can’t hurt.’
I was to remember that remark.
We ended up having a couple of Scotch eggs, my favourite pub snack, and then David brought his car round and took us to his new home. It was near enough to the castle that Tim could bike there easily, though I thought of all the steep hills and was very glad it was him and not me.
Tim was home. Eileen was with him; big surprise! We stopped in for just a minute to let him show off his new pad, after which he carried in the first load of David’s stuff, firmly refusing any help from anyone, even Eileen, who was certainly young and strong enough to carry heavy loads. She and I exchanged looks that clearly said, ‘Men!’
David was ready to call it a day, take us home and get to bed himself, but before we left I asked Tim and Eileen about the Pirates cast. No luck. Not students, so far as they knew. We were just going to have to see the show. What a sacrifice!
Dropped off at the corner of Dun Cow Lane, we toiled up the hill and across the Palace Green and collapsed gratefully into our bed.
I didn’t sleep well, though, and woke long before I wanted to on Tuesday morning. After I made the necessary trip to the bathroom (fuming about the more annoying aspects of ageing) I found I couldn’t get back to sleep. The weather had changed in the night. Clouds hung low in the sky and the air was heavy and damp. The sheets were damp, too; I couldn’t get comfortable. Alan slept soundly, which irritated me. I wanted somebody to talk to. And I was hungry, and the dining room wouldn’t open for hours.
I reminded myself that I wasn’t a helpless Victorian sort of woman. I was perfectly capable of finding coffee and pastries. I knew there was a Starbucks nearby, but wasn’t sure exactly where, so I pulled out my phone to check. Sure enough, it wasn’t far away, but it wasn’t open yet. I showered and dressed, hoping I was making enough noise to wake the slumbering love of my life, but no. Sighing, I grabbed my purse and my cane, and the umbrella just in case, and went down the stairs and out into the world.
It wasn’t exactly hot outside, but there was barely a breath of air stirring, and the clouds looked heavier every moment. I hurried as much as I safely could on the treacherous cobblestones and reached the coffee shop just as it opened, and the storm began.
It was a doozey. Reminded me of the storms that used to scare me half to death when I was a little girl in Indiana. Lightning, thunder loud enough to make me nervous, sure something nearby had been struck, rain that made Niagara look like an also-ran. The lights flickered once or twice, but mercifully didn’t go out. Starbucks without electricity to make coffee was not a pretty thought.
That kind of intense storm seldom lasts long. When the thunder had rumbled away and the rain diminished to a drizzle, I chose some pastries, packed everything up in the handy cardboard carrier, and had started out the door when the boy at the counter called me back. ‘Madam, is your name Dorothy Martin?’ He held out a telephone.
What on earth? I took the phone.
‘Ah, Dorothy, there you are. I thought I might catch you.’
‘Alan? Why are you calling me here? I’m just about to head back with breakfast.’
‘Yes, love, but you see you left your phone in the bathroom, and as the storm was bad, I wanted to be sure you weren’t in some sort of trouble. Don’t let the coffee get cold.’ And he clicked off.
Oh, dear. My protective English husband, trying to pretend he hadn’t been worried sick about me, off in a serious storm, and without a phone, with a murderer running loose somewhere. And I’d been cross because he’d been able to sleep when I couldn’t.
There was no doubt about it: I didn’t deserve this man. I hurried back up the hill with coffee and goodies; he met me halfway.
‘Alan, I’m sorry! I should h
ave left a note. But you were sound asleep, and I was sure I’d get back before you woke.’
‘The thunder woke me. It didn’t take me long to work out where you must have gone. But next time you disappear into the blue, love, do take your phone.’
And that was all. No ranting, no recrimination. How did I ever get so lucky?
We ate our very unhealthy but very satisfying breakfast in amity, speaking only in trivialities. When I’d downed the last crumb of a cheese Danish and the last sip of coffee, I sighed with satisfaction. ‘It does feel good to break the rules occasionally.’
My model husband didn’t remind me of how often I break the rules. He dusted off his fingers and said, ‘Right, chief. What’s on the agenda for today?’
‘I was thinking about that most of the night. Bearing in mind Poirot’s maxim that it’s always best to know as much as possible about a victim, I thought we might go and visit Nathan’s mother.’
Alan looked dubious. ‘I’m not sure that’s doable, love. Birmingham is a good long way from here, and I’m not sure what the rail connections might be. And we’re due in Bishop Auckland at eight, don’t forget. With a car we might manage it, but I fear not otherwise. You might phone his mother.’
I shook my head. ‘No. That wouldn’t work at all. Would you talk on the phone about one of your children with a woman you didn’t know from Adam? Well, Eve, I suppose. No, it has to be in person. If not today, then what about tomorrow?’
‘Hmm. It might work, if there’s an early-morning train headed that direction. It’s possible we might have to spend the night.’
‘That would take it to Thursday. We’ve got to move faster than that.’
‘Yes. Amanda’s deadline.’
We sat in a depressed silence. Not only had the sugar high worn off, it seemed less and less likely that we would be able to help solve Armstrong’s murder in time to help Amanda.
The cathedral bells began to ring, and I stood up. ‘We’re going to morning prayer. Can’t hurt. Might help.’
There was no music at this simple service, only the old familiar prayers. Somehow, in a place that had heard those prayers for centuries, they seemed a part of the fabric. If the presider had lost his voice, one felt that the very stones would carry on. For at least four hundred years monks had chanted them in this very choir, had sat in these very stalls. In the nave, the people had brought their fears and woes to God, their joy and worship, their thanksgivings, and had gone away knowing that their prayers had been heard, and secure in that knowledge.
Nowadays there were no monks, and the congregations, except on Sundays, fit in the choir, with room to spare. The Age of Faith is long gone. But Alan and I carried some of that ancient peace away with us when the service was over. He turned and smiled at me. ‘I don’t know about you, but that very early breakfast has vanished as though it had never been. I’d like some real food!’
‘You are a snare and a delusion. I’ll never get thin this way. Lead on!’
We were just in time for breakfast, and over the sausages I made a decision. ‘Alan, I’ve got to call her – Nathan’s mother. She may not want to talk to me at all, but I have to make the attempt. We can’t waste a day. Can you get her number from the police, do you think?’
He considered. ‘If not the number, perhaps her full name. Or I could find that in an obituary, if we knew the date of his death.’
My twentieth-century mind immediately sprang to thoughts of the public library and old newspaper files – and then I remembered my phone and the Internet. I wasn’t very good yet at searching on my phone – I still thought of the device as a way to call people – but I’m learning. ‘OK, I’ll look it up. Or no! Better idea. I’ll call Eileen. She was there! She’ll remember.’
She even, having read Nathan’s obituary, remembered the name of his parents. ‘I never look at obituaries, but I was interested in this one, for obvious reasons. His father’s name is Thomas Elliot. His mother’s name wasn’t given, of course.’ I heard the annoyance in her voice. Women so often didn’t count, even in this somewhat progressive age.
‘Mrs Thomas Elliot. All right, that’s useful. Are you still helping with the move?’
‘Nearly done!’ She sounded smug. ‘David is gone for the day, searching for a home for poor dear Aunt Amanda, but his granddaughter has been good about letting us come and go as we liked.’
‘She’s probably glad to be rid of him!’
Eileen laughed. ‘She tries not to show it. They truly do love each other, but three generations in one house is a bit much, especially when the youngest of them is very young indeed. About two, I’d say, and in perpetual motion. I do bless you for working out this new arrangement. Much better for all concerned!’
‘I’m glad it’s working out. I must go. Carry on!’
It was Alan, much more adept than I with the mysteries of cyberspace, who eventually found a phone number for one Thomas Elliot of Birmingham. Praying that it was the right one, I made the call.
A woman answered. She sounded about the right age to be the mother of a college student. She also sounded wary, as one does when answering a call from an unfamiliar number.
‘Mrs Elliot, you don’t know me, but I’m not a telemarketer or anything like that, so please don’t hang up. My name is Dorothy Martin and I’m trying to get some answers about your son Nathan’s death. You’ll think this is ridiculous, but I believe he was murdered.’
There was a long silence. Finally: ‘Who are you and why is my son’s death any business of yours? You’re not with the police, or you would have said. I suppose you’re one of those tabloid reporters!’
‘No, I’m not, but a friend here in Durham is a retired policeman, as is my husband. We heard of Nathan’s death through a related matter, too long to go into. My husband and our friend are not enthusiastic about my … call it instinct about Nathan’s death, and the police here in Durham aren’t interested, but I’m quite sure in my own mind, and I want to see his killer found. I’m also very worried about his brother George.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Would you have time to talk with me a little about your sons?’
Again the long pause. ‘You’re American, aren’t you?’
I raised my eyes heavenward, a foolish gesture since she couldn’t see me. ‘I was born there. I’ve lived in England for some time, and am now a British subject.’
‘You live in Durham?’
‘No, in Sherebury. My husband and I are visiting here.’
‘I see. Mrs Martin, there’s no sensible reason why I should trust you, but somehow I’m inclined to do so. As it happens, I’m in Bishop Auckland at the moment, hoping to find some trace of George.’
‘Oh, so this is your mobile number.’
‘Yes, of course. The landline forwards to this number.’ She sounded impatient. ‘There’s a reasonably pleasant café near his house. If you would care to join me for lunch, perhaps we could talk.’
‘That’s very good of you. Where and when?’
NINETEEN
After we’d settled on a time and place, I ended the call and sat down to work out logistics with my ever-resourceful husband. A quick Internet search told him there was a train that would set me down in Bishop Auckland in time to meet Mrs Elliot, and then I might as well stay there cooling my heels until time for the opera at eight.
‘We’re lucky, you know. The trains don’t run that often anymore. The rail service in this country …’ And he went off into the familiar English rant about the terrible state of the railways. Coming from a country where train travel is nearly non-existent, I wasn’t inclined to be terribly sympathetic.
‘The real question is how we’re to get home after Pirates. That is, I suppose you’ll come with me? Though you could come later. I can’t see Mrs Elliot as posing a mortal threat, and I’m sure she won’t want you to sit in on lunch.’
He made a face. ‘No. I can see that’s to be ladies only. But I’ll have to come with you, as the only other train will be too late for th
e opera. And there doesn’t seem to be one coming back afterward till tomorrow morning. It’s a wonder they’ve kept that station open at all!’
‘Yes, dear.’ And I turned my mind to the tricky question of wardrobe – something nice enough to wear to the performance but not too dressy for lunch at a ‘reasonably pleasant café’ with a woman whose social and financial status were completely unknown. These things seem to matter a lot more in England than they used to at home.
As usual, I compromised on a pair of black pants and an inconspicuous top, with a colourful scarf I could put on, or not, depending. Along with shoes that didn’t look quite as comfortable as they actually were, I was set.
The train was late. Alan groused some more, but we made it in time, if only just. We had planned to explore the town a bit, but instead I had to hail a taxi to the café. Arriving just as a smartly dressed woman entered, I decided she was Mrs Elliot, and added the scarf to my ensemble.
Smartly-Dressed was standing near the doorway. She looked up as I entered, and I took a chance. ‘Mrs Elliot?’
‘Mrs Martin.’ Her tone was neutral. If not exactly welcoming, it wasn’t hostile, either. ‘There’s a corner booth that will suit us nicely, I think.’
I meekly followed. If she wanted to call the shots, I would go along. Up to a point.
‘I looked you up,’ she said, holding up her phone. ‘You are not unknown,’ she added, almost accusingly.
The only way to play this was straight. This woman was not to be won over by charm. ‘No,’ I replied.
‘Is it accurate, what the newspapers say?’
‘Not entirely. Newspaper accounts seldom are, don’t you find? But if you’ve read that I’ve been involved in untangling a fair number of problems, mostly in and around Sherebury, it’s perfectly true.’
‘Why? Why have you meddled in that sort of thing?’
I bristled a little at her tone, but I tried not to let it show. ‘Usually because someone was in trouble and I wanted to try to help them out of it. After a while I found out I was good at asking questions, and people often seemed willing to talk to me.’
Death Comes to Durham Page 14
