Sins Out of School

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Miriam looked at her mother, who nodded wearily. The little girl got a pound box of sugar, about half empty, from the pantry. I measured two teaspoonsful into each mug, poured out the tea, and looked for the milk.

  “We take our tea without milk, and I’m afraid there’s none in the house at the moment,” said Mrs. Doyle. “But if you’d like a cup taken black—”

  “No, thank you, but I’ll sit down for a moment if you don’t mind.” I sat without waiting for permission. I was being shockingly rude, but really this woman needed some help. She must have some acquaintances, at least, among the neighbors. It seemed inexcusable that none of them had come to offer assistance.

  I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but I can hardly sit here where—here in your kitchen, and act as if everything is normal. I’m sure you must be terribly shocked and worried over what’s happened, and I’m upset that you seem to have no help in your time of trouble. I don’t know either of you well, but if there’s anything I can do, please tell me. I’d be glad to go to the store for milk, for instance. Or if you’re afraid to stay here alone, I could easily—”

  “Thank you, but we’ll manage.” Mrs. Doyle took a sip of tea and then set her mug down carefully. It clattered against the tabletop; a little tea slopped out. “Mrs. Martin, you’ve talked to Ruth Beecham. There’s no need to pretend a grief I don’t feel. You know that my husband was not an easy man to live with.”

  “He was wicked,” said Miriam in the cool, precise way of a polite English child. “Everyone thought he was a righteous man, but he wasn’t.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “He pretended to be good, but he was a Judas.”

  Mrs. Doyle gasped, swallowed the wrong way, and coughed. I could understand why. I tried not to react, but I suppose my mobile face betrayed me. The woman across the table clasped her hands, hard, and leaned forward, looking at me with an expression of such intensity that I moved back involuntarily.

  “You are shocked by what Miriam says. She is simply repeating what she has heard me say. You are surprised that no one has come to help us. I don’t know that it’s any of your business, to be frank, but since you’ve wondered, I’ll tell you. It’s because John made enemies of all our neighbors. He would complain to the police about barking dogs, and parties, and rubbish fallen out of the bins. He once stayed awake for three nights in a row to catch a neighbor dealing drugs. He enjoyed that sort of thing, showing up other people, making them pay for their wrongdoing.”

  “Your family—”

  “I have no family,” she said flatly.

  “Well, then, surely your church—”

  “John’s church. Not mine. They will stay away because John convinced them that I was an unrepentant sinner, a worldly woman, an unfit mother for Miriam. No, we’ll get no help from them, nor would I want any.”

  “Then I insist on doing what I can. I’ll go pick up some milk right now, and any other food you might—”

  Mrs. Doyle pushed herself back from the table and stood. “Mrs. Martin, you will help us most by leaving us alone. Since you ask what help we want, that is my answer. I instructed Miriam to let no one in because we prefer not to talk about John. Nor do we need anything from anyone.” She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  Miriam finished her sandwich and leaned against her mother. “Daddy was a wicked man,” she said again in her precise manner. “He deserved to die. I’m glad he did. We’ll get on much better without him.”

  Mrs. Doyle looked down at Miriam, but not before I got a good look at the mother’s face. All the blood seemed to have drained from it, and her eyes held the hunted look of sheer, stark terror.

  7

  I MUTTERED something about being sorry I had intruded and got out of there as fast as I could. Driving heedlessly, my knuckles white on the wheel, my mind racing, I found myself presently in a cul-de-sac somewhere in some development. I pulled up to a curb, turned off the ignition, and sat there shaking for a while.

  I could not accept what I had seen back there in the Doyles’ kitchen. It was impossible. Surely I was mistaken.

  Did Mrs. Doyle really think Miriam had killed her father?

  Think? Or know?

  Miriam. Polite little Miriam, product of a strict Christian home and a strict Christian school. Miriam who thought cats were dirty and anything pretty was “vanity.” Miriam who rejected her father but appeared to embrace his cold, harsh religion. Miriam who hated her father and thought him so wicked he deserved to die.

  Could that child have killed that man?

  Well, of course she could. Children did kill, sometimes spectacularly. There had been a famous case in England not so long ago, two boys who had killed a girl, apparently simply for kicks. As I recalled, they hadn’t been much older than Miriam.

  But those children were mentally and emotionally disturbed.

  It was easy to see that after the fact, wasn’t it? And who was to say that Miriam wasn’t disturbed? She’d certainly been brought up oddly enough to disturb the balance of anyone’s mind.

  Could she have stabbed a full-grown man? I wondered how sharp the knife was, and then was struck with horror that I would even think about it. Anyway, Doyle had, perhaps, not been killed with the knife. It would be easy enough, one would think, for someone to stab a dead or dying man. It wouldn’t take much strength. Even a child …

  Nauseated, I pushed the picture out of my mind.

  However sickening the image, though, I forced myself to consider the idea. Not the details, but the broad outline.

  Doyle has been to a meeting at the church. What sort of meeting? Would that be what they called their services? Well, no. A worship service would hardly go on until after midnight, would it? Or would it?

  Well, let it pass for now. He’s been to a meeting. He comes home and lets himself in with his key. Maybe he’s in a bad mood—not an unlikely supposition. He doesn’t bother to be quiet, and he wakes Miriam, who is a light sleeper, according to her mother.

  Then what? They quarrel? He scolds her for something, probably for being up at that hour, even though it’s his fault. He rouses such childish rage and resentment that she takes a knife and …

  No. He was probably killed some other way, remember. And it’s hard to imagine Miriam, such a controlled child, in a rage. No, she takes everything he has to dish out, all the cold verbal abuse, all the sadistic torture a harsh parent can inflict on a helpless child. But this child has decided she isn’t helpless. She makes him some tea and puts in some …

  Some what? What does a child know of poisons?

  A child with intelligent parents knows a lot about them. There’s poison aplenty in every household, and children must be taught caution. Something common, more or less tasteless—anyway, she finds something and puts it in his tea, and waits.

  It would have to be something without violent symptoms, no vomiting or … no, I don’t know that, do I? Mama cleaned up the kitchen the next morning, don’t forget. Still, it would be hard to clean all traces of vomit off the victim’s clothing, and the police didn’t mention finding any.

  At any rate, she waits. When her father is dead, she arranges him nicely on the floor and stabs him.

  And then goes quietly off to bed to leave her mother to discover him in the morning?

  The fact was, I thought, sitting back with a sigh, that I didn’t know one single thing about what had gone on. The mother could have been in on it, but then why that look of horror on her face? Well, let that go for the moment. Suppose she was involved. Together they could have cleaned up the scene and waited for morning to call the police. Everything Mrs. Doyle said could have been a lie. And as for Miriam, a child suffering under harsh, unreasonable discipline often learns to lie almost as a matter of course.

  Miriam hadn’t actually said much, had she? Silence can be the most effective lie of all, if one has the poise to carry it off. And Miriam had plenty of poise, and plenty of intelligence.


  I let out a long, shuddering sigh. I was constructing an elaborate hypothesis on the basis of nothing more than a few words and a terrified expression on a face. But I was ready to swear that Amanda Doyle believed her daughter guilty of murder.

  What was I going to do about it?

  I started the car and slowly picked my way through the maze of streets, heading uphill whenever I had a choice, until I came to an overlook where I could see the city spread out at my feet. Then it was easy enough to use the Cathedral spire as a homing beacon.

  I didn’t go home, though. Not just yet. I drove down the hill, found a space in a car park near the Cathedral, and walked across the Close. I needed more time to think, and I can think better in the Cathedral than anyplace else.

  The chimes in the tower struck a quarter to three as I entered the church by the south door. The late November afternoon was wearing on, and clouds were gathering. The more remote areas of the Cathedral were dim, though the choir stalls were lit; Evensong was about to begin. I heard a murmur of voices as the choir and clergy assembled. I didn’t join them. Just now I wanted to deal with my anxiety in my own way. I dropped into a pew toward the back of the nave, behind a pillar where the vergers wouldn’t easily spot me, and thought it out.

  I had three options, I realized when my emotions had calmed enough that my reason could operate. I could do nothing at all. I could take my suspicions to the police and let them deal with the horrible possibilities. Or I could keep quiet and look into the matter myself.

  I hated all three options.

  How could I leave it alone? That clichéd idea about evil prevailing when “good men do nothing”—well, it got to be a cliché because it’s so true. I’ve never been the “I don’t want to get involved” sort.

  The police. If I talked to them, they would take me seriously. I was, after all, the wife of the former chief constable. They would talk to Miriam, perhaps bring her in for questioning. They would take her fingerprints and ask her if she wanted legal representation. They would do it all with exquisite courtesy and the utmost regard for her tender age, and it would all be pure hell for her.

  And if they found likelihood of her guilt, there would be a hearing and a trial and then—then, what? What did they do with juvenile murderers in England? Prison of some sort? An “approved school”?

  And if she were not guilty, what then? What of the suspicion that would cling forever? What of the nightmare memories?

  How could I set in motion such a juggernaut train of action?

  Up beyond the choir screen, the boys’ voices soared in that angelic sound that is the epitome of English church music. I couldn’t hear the words and didn’t know the tune. They were just children singing.

  Did Miriam sing? Would she ever sing again?

  I often found peace in the Cathedral, but this time it eluded me. I slipped out before Evensong was over and made my way drearily back to my car with a sense of duty hanging heavy over my head.

  Almost four o’clock. Ruth Beecham would probably have left school. She might be at home, unless she had gone over to comfort the Doyles. Of course I didn’t have her address. I drove to St. Stephen’s, caught the secretary just as she was leaving, and persuaded her to go back inside and get me Mrs. Beecham’s address. She was snippy about it, as she had every right to be. This seemed to be my day for offending people.

  This time I found the house with no trouble. Mrs. Beecham lived at one end of the High Street in a charming Georgian house. She, too, was just coming out the door when I pulled up in front.

  “Oh! It’s you. I’m sorry, I’m just going to pop over to Amanda’s and see what I can do for her.”

  “I just left there. Well, a little while ago. She told me she didn’t need any help, but of course she doesn’t know me.”

  “No, and she values her privacy. I’m sure you can understand, especially at a time like this.”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid I was a little pushy. I can’t blame her for being annoyed with me. But I do know she needs milk, and her neighbors didn’t seem to be exactly rallying ’round.”

  “No, they wouldn’t. I do want to push off, so—”

  “Yes, but can you tell me one thing, first? What family does Mrs. Doyle have?”

  “None, for all practical purposes. They don’t like her, or they didn’t like him, or something. She didn’t talk about it much, just said there were no ties anymore.” She opened the door of a car at the curb.

  “One more thing, then. What’s the name of the church Mr. Doyle attended?”

  “Oh, Lord, something outlandish. Let me think. No, the name’s gone, but I know where the place is. A horrid, dingy pile of brown brick near the university. Left at the big roundabout and then the second right; Thomas Street, it is.”

  “Thank you, I’ll find it. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  But she stood there, car keys in hand. “Why d’you want to know?”

  I might have known she’d ask. Fortunately I had a reasonable answer. “I want to give them a piece of my mind for not doing anything to help the Doyles at a time like this!”

  “Now there’s a thought! Give them a piece of mine while you’re there.” She waved, got in the car, and drove off.

  By this time it was nearly five. I wondered what sort of hours a nonconformist church secretary kept. In fact, I wondered if they even had a secretary. I really knew nothing about any churches in Sherebury except the Anglican ones (or Episcopal, as we would say in America). Some were large and prosperous and stayed open all day, with staff in evidence. Some were tiny and poor and were kept locked, with no one in evidence except during services.

  Well, in America the fundamentalist sects were the same way; some small, some big and very rich. I supposed it might be the same here. At any rate it wouldn’t hurt to try, and I thought I could get there without too many wrong turns.

  I spotted the building, in fact, halfway down the street. It was easily the biggest one around, and the ugliest. It looked like 1920s vintage, and not a good year. I can’t imagine what its original purpose was, but it was now clearly, indeed gaudily, identified as the CHAPEL OF THE ONE TRUE GOD. Two large, lighted signs, one on the roof and one over the front door, informed the world of the name, incidentally implying that if they worshiped elsewhere, they were misguided.

  There was, of course, no place to park, but I squeezed the car into a half space at the front of a row, only partially on the double yellow line that indicated no parking. I probably wouldn’t be long, and surely the police had better things to do than seek out parking misdemeanors.

  I wasn’t sure why I had felt obliged to come here. I wouldn’t like these people, and they certainly wouldn’t like me. And what might they have to tell me that could possibly advance my unpleasant quest?

  Maybe nothing, but if all else failed, I could do as I’d told Mrs. Beecham I would. That at least would be satisfying.

  The front door was unlocked. Trying to look braver than I felt, I pushed it open and went inside.

  8

  INSIDE, the place fully justified my expectations. Whoever had planned and executed the interior design had subscribed zealously to the creed that beauty was sinful. There was a small entrance hall, paneled in dark, narrow boards that made the space seem even smaller. A dangling lightbulb emitted about fifteen watts of illumination. There was no sound of human occupancy, but a coat hung from one of the bent, rusty hooks that, together with a tract rack, were the sole adornments of the walls. Maybe somebody was around, after all.

  Double doors led out of the foyer into, I discovered, the main worship space of the church. At least I supposed it was. It resembled no church I’d ever seen. An assembly hall in some old and poverty-stricken school, perhaps. The walls, paneled in the same disgusting brown tongue and groove, rose to a high peaked ceiling painted prison beige. No pictures hung on the walls, no plaques commemorating pious or generous parishioners, no stained-glass windows, oh, no. The windows were narrow and plain, with the kind of knobb
ly glass found in bus-station rest rooms. Come to think of it, the place smelled like a public rest room, too—eau de Lysol. The odor of sanctity, perhaps.

  There were a lot of plain wooden chairs, arranged in precise rows. At the far end of the room, a raised platform accommodated a few more chairs. And that was it. No altar, no candles, no flowers. No organ, not so much as a modest upright piano. Linoleum tile on the floor in a predictable brown and beige checkerboard. Industrial fluorescent fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

  The One True God appeared to be a drab, dreary deity.

  There were small doors on either side of the platform. In most churches they would have led to a robing room or sacristy on one side and perhaps a choir room on the other. In this odd establishment, I hated to think what might lie behind them, and I was reluctant to find out. Indeed, the place reminded me of the horrible mission church in a 1930s Hitchcock film, The Man Who Knew Too Much, and I was getting cold feet. Some very nasty things went on in that Hitchcock church.

  My feet weren’t the only cold parts of me. There was no sign of radiators in the room, and the longer I stood there, the colder I got, both literally and figuratively. I had to make up my mind. Go in search of someone to talk to, or turn tail and run.

  My sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor, despite my earnest attempts at stealth, I edged along the wall toward the door to the right of the platform.

  It opened. I thought for a moment I was going to scream. There was no creak of hinges, no sound of footsteps, but a woman appeared in the doorway.

  She didn’t really look like a Hitchcock housekeeper. It was just my imagination, or the dim light, that gave her a long black gown and black hair pulled back in a bun.

  “What do you want?” was her cordial greeting. Hitch would have loved her chilly voice.

  I moistened my dry lips. “I was looking for the church secretary, or the—er—pastor.”

  “I am in charge of the business affairs of the chapel. Mr. Rookwood, the elder, has left for the day, and I was about to do so when I heard a noise in here. Since no one should be in the meeting hall at this time of day, I naturally checked. So I ask again, what is it that you want?” She hadn’t moved from the doorway. She was shouting and expecting me to shout back.