Death Comes to Durham

by Jeanne M. Dams

‘But what’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been … oh, it’s too complicated. I’ll try to get them to let you in or let me out, one or the other. Sit tight.’

  I put the phone away and confronted the stalwart guard. ‘Young man, the person I was to meet is inside those doors. My name is Dorothy Martin, I am the wife of a retired chief constable, and I do know the rules. I don’t intend to cause any trouble, but until you let me in or he is allowed out, I’m going to sit right here. I’m an old woman and I’m tired.’ I plumped myself down on a step, well to the side, and gazed down the street, trying to look rooted to the spot.

  ‘But ma’am, you can’t … I’m supposed to …’

  I took my phone out of my purse. ‘Give me the phone number of your superior, please. Or should I simply call 999?’

  ‘No! Don’t do that!’

  ‘You seem to think that my presence here constitutes an emergency,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, but—’

  The impressive front door opened. A man impressive enough to match the door came out. ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ he said to the distressed guard. ‘Is this Mrs Martin?’

  I stood, not without difficulty. ‘It is.’

  ‘Then come with me, please.’

  I was escorted inside. I refrained from giving the sergeant a triumphant look, which I hope counts in my favour at the pearly gates.

  Inside all was chaos. The reception desk was occupied by a uniformed policeman, a second line of defence, I assumed. More uniforms milled about in the foyer, along with young people I presumed were students.

  Tim made his way through the mob. ‘Dorothy! I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time, but they were asking me questions – and then they wouldn’t let me leave—’

  ‘Mrs Martin,’ said the gentleman who had admitted me, ‘perhaps we could find a quieter place to talk.’

  ‘The middle of Piccadilly Circus?’ I suggested, and was rewarded with a wintry smile.

  He led Tim and me down a hallway into a small room equipped with a table, three straight chairs, and one lamp that had seen better days. He shut the door. ‘Not the Ritz, but private, at least. Mrs Martin, my name is Peter Simms. I’m the liaison between university and city authorities here in Durham. I understand your husband is a highly ranked police officer in Belleshire?’

  ‘He was the chief constable there for many years. His name is Alan Nesbitt. He retired some years ago, but he assists in investigations now and again, and right now he’s helping his long-time friend David Tregarth with a town-and-gown matter here in Durham.’ Plainly flim-flam would not work with this man.

  ‘I see. And you are assisting him in this matter?’

  ‘I do what I can. People sometimes seem to find me easy to talk to.’

  ‘Ah.’ He considered that for a moment.

  ‘Mr Simms, plainly something fairly drastic has happened here. Can you tell me what?’

  I could feel Tim, sitting beside me, grow tense.

  ‘Yes, you need to know. A student has been viciously attacked.’ He ignored my gasp and continued. ‘A man whom we presume to be another student assaulted him with a broken beer bottle, inflicting severe cuts to his face and arms. A large vein was severed, and the boy lost a good deal of blood before the chap living in the next room heard the disturbance and came to check. That’s when the police were called.’

  ‘And will he be all right?’

  ‘It’s touch and go at the moment, I’m told.’

  ‘Did the attacker get away?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. But the police have a positive identification, and he is being sought.’

  Tim could bear it no longer. ‘Dorothy, it was Colin Grimsby! And the student he half-killed is roommate to the one who told you about him, Charles Lambert.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Of course that meant a long explanation of our suspicions and conclusions about the deaths of Nathan and Dr Armstrong, and how Alan and I became involved, and had sought the help of Tim and other students, and the few bits of actual evidence we had gathered. It all took a while. Mr Simms took careful notes.

  ‘And I take it the police have all this information?’ he said when we’d finished.

  ‘Yes. David and Alan spent much of the morning with them. The problem was that, although we had a moral certainty that Colin was the villain of the piece, there was no evidence that would stand up in court. Now that he’s attacked this poor boy, everything’s different. And he even got the wrong one, if he was after Charles!’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Mrs Martin, and Mr Hayes. You may both leave now, if you wish. In fact, the traffic prohibitions have probably been lifted while we talked. The boys’ room will be sealed off for some time, I imagine, but the rest of college will have to be opened up. Term begins on Monday, as you would know, Mr Hayes, and the returning students must be allowed in their rooms.’

  ‘What is his name, Mr Simms?’ asked Tim. ‘The victim, I mean.’

  ‘Mark Ziegler. I don’t believe he can be visited in hospital, though. Not yet.’

  ‘Probably not. I just want to add him to prayers. At the cathedral,’ he explained.

  Mr Simms looked slightly taken aback. ‘I’m not sure – that is, I think he’s Jewish.’

  Tim smiled. ‘So was Jesus.’

  We were very subdued as we left the college. Tim came back to the castle with me, walking his bicycle. It was getting colder by the minute, and windy. I invited Tim up for a cup of tea.

  Alan was there. ‘I heard,’ he said. He handed me a cup of tea as soon as I sat down. ‘Laced with a tot of bourbon. I thought you’d want something hot and sustaining. What about you, Tim?’

  ‘Just tea, thanks.’

  I kept shaking my head as I thought over the multiple crimes one young man had committed, the lives he had ended, the ones he had disrupted. ‘I can’t help wondering why,’ I said at last.

  Both men knew what I meant. ‘I didn’t have a chance to talk to anyone before all hell broke loose at Jude’s,’ said Tim, ‘but in the midst of all the confusion when the police came, I heard a few students talking about Colin. He wasn’t well-liked, and that’s unusual at Jude’s. They’re a small college and a pretty close-knit group. One chap said he’d wondered if the man was quite sane. Well, what he actually said was that he thought he was a bit loopy.’

  ‘More than a bit, I’d say,’ said Alan with a sigh. ‘His actions have become increasingly violent. I think George Elliot was lucky he wasn’t badly hurt. Grimsby seems to have slipped a cog. The police are taking no chances. The bulletin states that he is to be regarded as extremely dangerous and approached with caution.’

  I held out my cup; Alan filled it with the mixture as before. ‘Do we know anything about his background? Where he’s from, anything like that?’

  ‘The police are looking into that, assuming that he might head for home,’ said Alan. ‘All David and I could glean was that he lives in a village in Sussex, apparently with elderly grandparents, and that the family is not very well off.’

  ‘Oh, dear! They’ve probably sacrificed a lot to send him to university, and now he’s blown it. I do feel sorry for the grandparents.’

  The bells sounded from the cathedral next door, calling us to evensong. We didn’t even need to consult each other, but stood, put our raincoats on, and headed out. It was beginning to rain, but the distance was short, and we were dressed for it. As we entered the choir, I caught hold of Tim’s arm. ‘Mark Ziegler,’ he said. I do love it when someone understands without a word.

  So we prayed for Mark’s recovery, and I at least for his miserable, confused attacker, and for the messy, confused world we live in, and heard lovely music, and went out into the cold evening somewhat restored.

  The rain had that steady, determined aspect that makes one sure it’s going to last all night, unabated. The wind had picked up as well, and no matter what direction I turned it was in my face. ‘Oh, dear, Tim, I wish one could get a car up here.’ I had to shout over the din
of the storm, and I held tight to Alan’s arm as I slithered over the wet cobblestones. ‘We’re going to be drowned rats by the time— What was that!’

  It sounded like an explosion, loud enough to dominate even the noise of wind and rain. Alan peered into the blinding rain, uttered an expression unsuited to his surroundings, and pulled us both back. ‘Inside! Back in the church! NOW!’

  The verger was just closing the door. ‘Let us in!’ Alan demanded in his best policeman voice. ‘Keep everyone in the building. Send someone to the other doors, or put a message on the speakers. A dangerous criminal is at large in the car park!’

  In the instant before Tim and I rushed inside, the wind shifted for a moment and I saw what he had seen. A car had ploughed into a van and was backing up, apparently ready to have another go.

  Alan had shouted to everyone outside in his most stentorian tones, and as they ran to the shelter of the church, he pulled out his phone, punched 999, and began to issue crisp orders.

  Tim and I told the verger briefly what was happening, and then we did our best to calm the frightened crowd. It helped when a priest appeared, the one who had officiated at evensong. I didn’t know if he was the dean or one of the canons, but his presence was soothing. Someone had explained to him.

  ‘My dear friends,’ he said, ‘you could be in no safer place, no matter what danger threatens outside. This church has stood for over nine hundred years, and is as much a fortress as the castle next door. Come away from the doors into light and warmth, and I’m sure our excellent police will deal with the situation.’

  And faintly, from beyond the solid stone walls and the solid oak doors, we could hear the stentorian sounds of sirens and see, through stained glass, a hint of flashing blue light.

  Alan stayed on the phone with the police. Tim and I spoke with the priest, telling all we knew and nothing of what we speculated. He nodded sadly. ‘These things are beginning to happen here, though nothing like as frequently as in your country.’ I was too upset to correct him about my misleading accent. He disappeared for a few minutes and soon gentle, quiet organ music filled the space. Several clergy joined him. The frightened crowd took seats at the back of the nave, soothed by the music and the unruffled clerics.

  If I had to take refuge from a homicidal maniac, I thought a trifle wildly, I couldn’t imagine a nicer place to do it. It wasn’t too long before the choir drifted in. Shorn of their vestments, the boys looked like the ordinary mischievous urchins that choir boys usually are, but their director rounded them up, along with the men, gave a cue to the organist, and they launched (by memory) into a lovely anthem by Purcell, ‘Rejoice in the Lord Alway’. This was an edited version, without the solos, but words and music were both lovely, and we were further comforted.

  We were all beginning to get a bit restive when Alan finally put down his phone and went to speak to the officiant. The priest nodded and stood in front of the congregation, motioning for silence and asking us to move closer to him.

  ‘I hope you can hear me. Voices rather echo in here, I’m afraid. I have good news. The danger is past, and you may all go on your way.’

  A subdued cheer. One man stood and asked, ‘Did they get the scoundrel, then?’

  Alan answered, ‘Unfortunately, not. He was away before the police arrived. They know who he is, however, and have made sure he has left the area. You need not fear. The police are confident that they will capture him soon.’

  The crowd muttered at that, not quite reassured. The priest took over, dismissing us with a lovely prayer and a beaming smile.

  ‘You and the reverend whoever-he-is make a good tag team,’ I said as we made our way out into the now-gentle rain. ‘Secular and sacred arms of authority.’

  ‘Do you really think they’ll catch up with him?’ asked Tim quietly.

  ‘I’m certain they will. Eventually. He’s made it easier for them, now that his car is badly damaged.’

  ‘Why did he do such a crazy thing?’

  ‘You said it, my dear. Crazy. My guess is he’s gone completely off the rails.’

  ‘He never had too far to go, if what I overheard at Jude’s is true,’ said Tim. ‘But where do you think he is?’

  Alan sighed. ‘I couldn’t say this earlier. The people in the cathedral needed reassurance. Stirring up fear is almost never a good idea. But I think he isn’t far away. My guess is that his mad fury is directed toward those he thinks have shopped him, and that would most likely be the students at St Jude’s. They’re under police surveillance, which should not only keep them safe but make it easier to capture poor Colin.’

  In which suppositions my husband was both right and dangerously wrong.

  We had reached the car park, and David got out of a car, hailed Tim, and hurried over to us. ‘Tim, I drove up to save you a bike ride in the rain, but in view of what’s happened, I’d like to give you all a ride to my house. Tim, we can put your bike in the boot – but I don’t see it.’

  ‘It’s up at the castle. But I can easily ride. It’s not far, and the rain’s almost stopped.’

  ‘I’d rather you collected it later,’ David said firmly. ‘Eileen’s waiting for us, and I think she’s cooking something that shouldn’t be kept waiting. Come along.’

  Tim shrugged and got into the car with us.

  ‘He isn’t worried about a meal, is he?’ I whispered to Alan. He shook his head.

  Eileen had made a delicious soup, just right for a chilly evening. It would only have improved with standing, a fact nobody mentioned. There was crusty bread and a chunk of wonderful cheese to go with it, and strawberries and cream to follow, and we left the table sated and content. By common consent we had said nothing about the disasters of the day. We were only too happy to set them aside for a little while.

  It was still quite early when Alan stood. ‘That was a perfect meal, Eileen, and we thank you for your gracious hospitality, David, but I think it’s time we made our way back to the castle, if it’s convenient for you to give us a ride.’

  ‘Of course. And Eileen, I’d like you to let me take you home as well, after I return. Not a pleasant evening for walking.’

  Especially, everyone was careful not to say, with a murderer on the loose.

  David drove us to the cathedral car park, as close as he could get to our lodgings. ‘Be careful,’ he said as we thanked him and got out of the car. He might have been referring to the slippery cobbles.

  So dark was the sky that it might have been midnight instead of early evening. We hurried as best we could. The rain had turned into that sort of drizzle that seems simply to hang in the air and penetrate to one’s very pores.

  The massive gate to the castle forecourt was closed; we had to enter through the small, low door cut into the big one. As we turned toward our staircase I saw Tim’s bicycle looking forlorn. It had been propped up against a wall but had fallen into a puddle, probably blown over by the wind. ‘Oh, poor thing! All that wet isn’t going to do it a bit of good!’ I moved toward it to pick it up, and a shadow, detaching itself from behind a buttress, was upon me before I could even scream.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I woke up in a strange bed in a strange room, feeling as though I’d had a ride in a gigantic rock-tumbler. There wasn’t an inch of me that didn’t hurt. I blinked bleary eyes and tried to focus.

  ‘Ah. You’re with us again.’ It was Alan’s voice, sounding a bit thin, but definitely his voice. ‘Have a little lovely chipped ice.’

  ‘Water,’ I croaked. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to my teeth.

  ‘They won’t let you have water quite yet, love, until they’re sure you won’t choke. Open your mouth.’

  He spooned in a piece or two of ice. I crunched them obediently, and they did help. ‘Where …?’ It came out as a cough. I tried again. ‘Where am I? And who’s “they”?’

  ‘You’re in hospital. “They” are the doctors and nurses attending you, and an officious lot they are, I must say.’

  I would
have pursued that, rather enjoying the idea of my husband being bossed around, but I fell asleep in the middle of a sentence.

  The next time I woke my mind was in much better working order, though my body still felt perfectly awful. Alan was still there.

  I worked myself up, painfully, into a half-sitting position. Alan helped, finding the button that raised the head of the bed. ‘I feel like death warmed over,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll bet you do,’ he said, still in that odd voice. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s a bit of a miracle that nothing is broken, but you seem to have bruises on your bruises.’

  ‘But what happened? The last thing I remember is walking through that funny little door into the castle courtyard. Did I slip on the cobblestones or something?’

  ‘Or something. You were attacked, my dear, by our old nemesis Colin Grimsby.’

  ‘No! But why would he attack me? Or has he gone right round the bend, attacking anyone in sight?’

  ‘He’s not making a great deal of sense at the moment, but—’

  I interrupted. ‘He’s in custody, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and booked on a list of charges as long as your arm. As I say, he’s rambling, but from what anyone can make out, he finally worked out that it was you pursuing him and causing him all sorts of inconvenience, so he decided to settle you once and for all.’ Alan swallowed again. ‘He nearly did, you know, darling. It took four of us to pull him away. The porter was in his lodge, heard the mêlée and came to help me, and two brawny students came in just then. If it hadn’t been for them …’ He took a swallow from the glass at my bedside, water this time.

  ‘You poor dear! You must be bruised and battered, too.’

  He tossed that aside. ‘I only wish there were something to be done about your pain. I had to tell them you couldn’t take any of the opiates; they were all ready to give you a hefty jab of morphine.’

  I shuddered. ‘That would really have done it. If anything could make me feel worse, it would be being desperately sick for hours on end. Thank you for stopping them. I must say, I do sometimes feel sorry for myself, being unable to take any really effective painkillers.’