I was no longer afraid of her. Bad manners rouse my anger, which is always a galvanizing force. I drew myself up and moved closer to the platform. “My name is Dorothy Martin, and I’m here on behalf of one of your parishioners, Mrs. Doyle. And her daughter, Miriam.”
“You are misinformed.” Her voice had become positively glacial. “There are no followers of the One True God named Doyle.”
“Mr. John Doyle—”
“Mr. Doyle is dead, at the hands of the woman you mention. This chapel has no interest in her, save to hope and trust that she will receive the punishment she so richly deserves. It is a pity that capital punishment has been abolished. Good day.”
“Just a moment, Mrs.—”
She ignored me and started to step back.
“Wait! What is your name, please?”
“Mrs. Rookwood.” She said it grudgingly, and her glare dared me to comment.
“Mrs. Rookwood, you should know that the police are not entirely convinced that the murder lies at Mrs. Doyle’s feet. There is considerable doubt, and they are looking into other possibilities. Meanwhile, she and her daughter—who I believe attends your school—are in financial need, and in need of comfort, as well. Surely the church—the chapel—must have some sort of plan, some routine for bereaved—er—members.”
“Madam, our faith tells us to shun the sinner and avoid the path of the evildoer. It is plain that you do not follow this commandment, but we in this chapel do. We have no communication with whited sepulchres.”
She turned away and shut the door firmly behind her. I heard the snick of an efficient lock.
Yes, definitely my day to annoy people. I left the depressing place, got in my car (which by some miracle had not collected a parking ticket), and drove thoughtfully home.
I’d gone to the church to learn what I could about John Doyle. In a way I’d hit a blank wall, but in another way I’d learned quite a lot. Any man who could devote himself to such a religion and associate with people like Mrs. Rookwood was a man few normal people would like. I could easily believe he’d made enemies.
And if I intended to go through with this, to try to prove that neither his wife nor his daughter killed him, it behooved me to track down a few of those enemies.
I would come back to this travesty of a church and talk to as many of its members as possible before I got thrown out. Meanwhile, there were other paths to follow.
His job. Frictions often arose on the job. Where had Mrs. Beecham said he worked? A bank, wasn’t it? That was unfortunate, because the weekend was upon us, and I’d have to wait until Monday.
On the other hand, the weekend was the perfect time to visit a church. I wished I’d taken a leaflet from that tract rack in the foyer, since it would presumably list service times. Never mind. I’d find out. And tomorrow I’d talk to some of the neighbors, find out if any of the animosities Mrs. Doyle had talked about had been serious enough to lead to murder.
The only thing was, what was I going to tell Alan?
I didn’t want to tell him about Miriam. Alan was a kind man. His first wife, who had died some years ago, had presented him with children, and they with grandchildren, to all of whom he was devoted. He was also, however, a policeman. He had a deeply ingrained respect for the laws and procedures under which he had operated for a lifetime. I was sure he wouldn’t want to keep my terrible secret. He would argue, quite plausibly, that the officers in charge would take great care of the little girl, that there would be psychiatric help available if she needed it, that even if she were to be found guilty, some form of rehabilitation was far more likely than a prison sentence. And if she were guilty, then surely I, a responsible adult, didn’t want her to go free, perhaps to kill again.
It would all sound reasonable. And I simply couldn’t accept it.
If the police, acting by themselves, conceived a suspicion that Miriam might have murdered her father, I wouldn’t do anything about it, but I would not take the responsibility for pointing them in her direction.
In fact, now that I thought of it, I was going to have to have a private talk with Mrs. Doyle. If she behaved with everyone the way she did with me, the police, who are not stupid, would soon draw the same conclusion I had. She was, somehow, going to have to polish up her act. Maybe she should send Miriam away. If the child weren’t around to utter those chilling remarks about her father, people wouldn’t notice the mother’s nerves so much, or would attribute them to other causes. Goodness knows she had enough to be nervous about.
I was avoiding the real issue: what to tell Alan. And I had to make up my mind soon, because I was almost home.
In the end I decided to stick to a version of the truth. I was concerned about the Doyles, who seemed to have no friends. I wanted to do what I could to help, blah, blah, blah. He would accept that, I hoped, as a screen for my curiosity about the murder. I had something of a reputation for poking my nose into crime, and Alan had learned to be tolerant, so long as I kept myself out of danger and didn’t get in the way of the police.
But I hated not telling him everything.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to say much. He had just hung up the phone when I walked into the kitchen.
“Hello, love. I thought you’d fallen off the ends of the earth. How did you find Mrs. Doyle?”
“A good deal upset, and pretty prickly about accepting help. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to talk someone from her church—or her husband’s church—into offering a little support, but I might as well have talked to the bricks on the wall. They’d have been just as sympathetic.”
“Well, I have some news for you. That was Derek on the phone. He did manage to push through the autopsy, over the usual bitter complaints about overwork and everyone always wanting everything yesterday.”
“And?”
“They came up with a time of death, for one thing. Doyle died at some time after midnight Wednesday night. Thursday morning that would make it, officially. Between midnight and two, they think, and probably closer to midnight, though the doctor wouldn’t commit himself to an exact time, naturally. They never will.
“The interesting thing is that it turns out they were quite right about the stab wound. It was made after death. Quite soon after, probably, because there was some blood, but not a lot. I’ll spare you the details, but the kicker is that the man died of an overdose of some form of digitalis.”
“Foxglove,” I said automatically. In novels, when someone dies of digitalis poisoning, it’s always because the bad guy has brewed up some foxglove tea.
“Not in this case, apparently. I didn’t grasp the niceties of the medical explanation, but apparently he was bungful of ordinary medicinal digitalis, the kind given for certain kinds of heart trouble.”
“Did he have heart trouble?”
“Don’t know. Derek hasn’t managed to reach his doctor yet. But he says there was no digitalis in the house when his men searched. No medicine of any kind; they noticed particularly. It’s pretty unusual for a family not to have any aspirin around, or cold medicine, or that sort of thing, but there was nothing at all.”
Well, that was a relief. “Then it looks as though Mrs. Doyle is out of it, after all.”
“It’s too soon to say that, Dorothy. But the likelihood has certainly been reduced. Derek phoned the woman and asked if she wanted police protection.”
“Why—oh, because someone killed Doyle and might be a danger to the rest of the family, you mean?”
“That was the idea. But Mrs. Doyle rejected the offer quite flatly. Said she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and her daughter. Rather a peculiar woman, is she?”
I took a moment over that one and answered with care. “Not so much peculiar, I think, as overwhelmed. Her husband’s dead, and even though she didn’t get along with him, it’s a terrible shock. And she has suffered so long under his domination that I don’t imagine she’s able to cope very well by herself. It isn’t that she’s stupid. She’s a teacher,
after all, and a good one. It’s just that he made the decisions all their married life, and she hasn’t learned how, just as she hasn’t learned how to make friends.”
Alan smiled a little and shook his head. “I knew I’d hear it sooner or later.”
“Hear what?”
“That tone of voice that means you’re about to take another lame duck under your wing.”
“Well—she does need someone with some common sense on her side. And I feel sorry for that poor little girl.”
“My dear, you don’t have to make excuses. Unlike Mr. Doyle, I don’t presume to make your decisions for you. Except, as it’s getting late and I’m getting peckish, suppose I make a unilateral decision that we’re going out to dinner.”
“That’s one I’ll never challenge. Shall I change into something nicer?”
“Not if a pub meal will do.”
“Lead me to it.”
We had a pleasant meal, but I was conscious, all the time, of an underlying feeling of guilt. Alan was being so nice about this, and all the time I was being devious with him.
And with splendid inconsistency, I also wondered, in between snatches of conversation, if there was any way Miriam Doyle could have known about the toxic properties of digitalis.
9
THE next morning I decided it was time to enlist some help, and there was only one person I could go to. I looked up Ruth Beecham’s phone number and gave her a ring.
“Mrs. Beecham? This is Dorothy Martin. Look, I know I’ve been something of a pest lately, but there’s something I need to talk to you about. Yes, about the Doyles. I’m sure you’re frantically busy on weekends, I always was when I was teaching, but if you can spare me half an hour or so, I’d be grateful. Well, right now if that’ll work.”
Alan was busy with his book. I kissed the top of his head and told him to expect me when he saw me. He grunted something.
When I got to Mrs. Beecham’s, she was alone, her husband and the kids out on various pursuits. “I hope you don’t mind if I carry on with my shopping list,” she said as she seated me, somewhat reluctantly, at the kitchen table.
I took the hint and got straight to the point.
“Mrs. Beecham, we don’t really know each other, but I’m going to trust you with something important. As far as I can see, you really are the only friend Mrs. Doyle has. I hope you’ll believe that I want to be her friend, too. And I hope you’ll understand my motives when I ask you if you’ve noticed something very odd about her attitude toward Miriam.”
Mrs. Beecham, who had been fidgeting with pad and pencil, became suddenly still. “Odd how?”
“So you have seen it. You think, don’t you, that she suspects Miriam of killing Mr. Doyle?”
After a pause she said, “You’re very—direct, aren’t you?”
“When polite fictions are inappropriate, yes, I am. I believe you’re the same.”
“Sometimes.” She stood up suddenly. “Would you like some tea? I’ve just given up cigarettes, and I’m dying for one. Tea would help.”
Seated again with a pot steeping on the table, she opened up. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know how you saw it, not knowing Amanda, but I could tell right away that something was wrong, and when I saw the way she looked at Miriam—”
“That’s it, you see. The look. I wouldn’t have noticed anything if it hadn’t been for that look. Of course it came after Miriam had said some extraordinary things about her father, how wicked he was, and that he had deserved to be killed.”
“She didn’t do it!”
“We don’t know that, do we? Even her mother thinks she did, or might have.”
Mrs. Beecham put down her teacup and looked at me, hard, for about five seconds—which is a long time to be under scrutiny. “I’ve been talking to people about you,” she said slowly. “You’ve rather made murder your hobby, haven’t you? And you’re Alan Nesbitt’s wife.”
“A few crimes have come my way, yes,” I said in a voice I had to work hard to keep steady. “And yes, I am married to a retired policeman. I don’t know that I would call murder my hobby, precisely. And you might be interested to know that I have told neither my husband nor anyone else what I believe Mrs. Doyle suspects. I came here hoping we could talk about what’s best to do for both Mrs. Doyle and Miriam. If you don’t want to trust me, I’ll go away and we’ll both forget this conversation ever took place. But I’d much rather have your help.”
Our eyes met and held for a long beat. Then she shrugged. “Very well. I suppose it can’t do any harm. If Amanda keeps on shying like a startled colt every time Miriam makes remarks, the police will catch on soon, anyway.”
“Exactly! Just what I thought. Now, look, Mrs. Beecham—”
“If we’re to be conspirators, or accessories after the fact, or whatever, you might as well call me Ruth,” she said with the ghost of a smile.
“Good. And I’m Dorothy. What I was going to say was, what are the chances of Miriam going away for a while? It would calm Mrs. Doyle down and defuse the situation. Surely there must be some family she could go to, somewhere.”
“I suppose there must, except Amanda never talks about them. Let me think, though. She mentioned a sister once, in—Canterbury, was it? If I remember properly, the sister wasn’t quite as off-putting as the rest of her people.”
“I don’t suppose you remember her name?”
“Lord, no. I may even be wrong about the whole thing.”
“Would Mrs. Doyle tell you?”
“You might as well stick to Amanda. She hates being called Doyle. I think she’s planning to go back to her maiden name. As for telling me the name of the sister—I don’t know. She’s stubborn, you know.”
“She’s also extremely frightened, for her daughter and perhaps for herself as well. Could you convince her that Miriam would be much better off away from her for a while?”
Ruth groaned. “I don’t even know if Miriam could be persuaded to go. They’ve always been close, she and her mother, but now! They cling. Miriam isn’t going to school, even. That’ll come to a screeching halt soon; the authorities will see to it.”
“That reminds me. Did you know that Miriam had been enrolled at St. Stephen’s as of the beginning of next term? I heard Amanda talking about it to the school secretary.”
“She told me. Quite calmly, too, as if she hadn’t had major battles with John for years about that chapel school. Then one day she just coolly puts Miriam down for St. Stephen’s. I don’t know how she got the nerve.”
I sighed. “That doesn’t look good, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“She defies her husband’s wishes, which she’s never had the courage to do before. A day or two later he’s dead. It doesn’t take too much imagination to believe that she knew he was going to be dead.”
Ruth winced. “You’re a frightening person, Dorothy Martin. God, I wish I had a cigarette!”
I picked up my purse and rummaged in it. “Here, have a chocolate bar instead. Chocolate makes you produce a lot of that feel-good stuff, what do they call it? Endorphins, that’s it.”
“And puts on pounds and pounds.” She reached out a hand.
“But to return to the subject—I do believe that somehow we’ve got to get Miriam out of town. I can try to approach Amanda, but you’d be much more likely to get results. Tell her we know what she suspects, if you have to. If that won’t scare her into action, I don’t know what will.”
Ruth swallowed a large bite of chocolate. “Okay, I’ll try. If I can’t manage it by myself, I’ll call you in for reinforcement. You can be a very persuasive lady.” Her eyes strayed for a moment to her shopping list.
“All right. I said half an hour and I’ve been here an hour and given you extra work to do. I’ll let you get on with your day if you’ll tell me one more thing. Did Amanda ever tell you why she didn’t show up to teach that day?”
“Not a word. I tried and tried to get it out of her, but she just kept on
saying it was necessary and she was sorry to have been a nuisance.”
“All right, once you’ve worked on her about Miriam, I’ll tackle her about her absence without leave. I was the injured party, after all. Maybe I can play on her guilt.”
I left then, but as I drove off I wished I hadn’t used that particular word.
I also wished I had thought to ask where Amanda had been married. The record of that marriage would give her maiden name. That would be useful in tracing her family if she proved obdurate with Ruth.
Or perhaps—of course! How could I have forgotten? The very best source for information of any kind about anyone in town lived next door to me. I’d go and talk to Jane!
I went home, made lunch for Alan (whose mind, perhaps fortunately, was still on his book), petted two sleepy cats, and then set out across the backyard. Jane and I have been on a drop-in basis for years now.
Jane was washing her luncheon dishes, and her dogs, fortunately, were sleeping off their midday meal. Jane adores her bulldogs, whom she rather resembles, and spoils them. They’re nice enough beasts, but there are a good many of them and they’re pretty boisterous. Their welcomes can be overwhelming, especially to someone used to the restrained affection of cats.
Jane greeted me with raised eyebrows and a proffered coffeepot. “No, thanks,” I said, and sat down. I’ve often wondered why Jane uses words as though there were a tax on every one she utters. But that’s Jane, and I’ve gotten used to her style by now.
She poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. “Doyle?”
“Doyle. I seem to have gotten myself embroiled in the affair.”
“Never thought you’d leave it alone. Here to pick my brains?”
“Something like that. What do you know about him, for a start?”
She snorted. It was eloquent, expressing every derogatory adjective in the thesaurus in one explosive sound.
Sins Out of School Page 6
