“Well, I’d gotten that impression from other people, but can you give me any specifics?”
Forced into speech, Jane amplified. “Self-righteous prig. Bible-thumper. Killjoy. All-round troublemaker.”
“I’ve heard he made some enemies along the way.”
She snorted again. “Everyone he met, except those masterpieces at the chapel. All cut from the same cloth, that lot.”
“But, Jane, it’s one thing to be universally hated, and it’s another to have enemies, real enemies. Did he make anyone mad enough to kill him?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Small feuds everywhere. Reported another clerk at the bank because he was a pound short at the end of the day, twice in a row. Boy lost his job because Doyle made such a fuss about it.”
“For two pounds? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Would’ve been overlooked if Doyle hadn’t made such a stink about no smoke without fire, that sort of thing. Made it look as if the boy’d taken a lot over time. Only a kid, not even twenty.”
“You knew him.”
Jane nodded. “Son of a pupil of mine. She—the mother—came to me. Nothing I could do. Sure you won’t have coffee?”
“I think I need some to take the taste of that story out of my mouth.”
“Worse to come.” Jane put the kettle on and spooned coffee into the French cafetière. “Heard about the neighbor he turned over to the police?”
“Drug dealing or something, wasn’t it?”
“Just the point. It wasn’t.”
I raised my eyebrows. Two can play the game.
“Young man. Long hair, low-slung jeans, nose rings. Played in a band. Lived next to the Doyles. Not thought to be respectable.” The snort again. “Set great store by respectability, Doyle did. So he took to watching the boy.”
“How old was he? The young man, I mean.”
A shrug. “Eighteen, nineteen. Young wife, baby. Not much money. One night, some shady business. Parked cars, something changing hands. Doyle called police. Found money and marijuana in one of the cars, arrested everybody.”
The coffee was ready. Jane poured out cups for both of us before she went on.
“Boy’d been in trouble with the police before. Kept at the station for quite a while. Had just landed a job. Doyle told the boss he’d been arrested. Lost the job.” She sipped her coffee and continued, her voice no longer quite steady.
“Wife talked to me, weeks later. Said he’d been buying her a diamond ring that night. Never been able to afford it before. Thought it was maybe stolen, needed to be under the table. Marijuana belonged to other man.”
“But surely the boy was cleared of any drug charges?”
“He was. Too late. When he was sacked, went home and stuck his head in the oven.”
10
IT was a long time before I could ask any more questions, but there were questions to be asked. I blew my nose and cleared my throat. “Did Doyle ever apologize?”
“Not he. Seemed to feel he’d done the right thing, and the boy was to blame for being so wicked as to take his own life.”
I shuddered. “And the girl, and the baby?” There was a murder motive with bells on, I was thinking, for her or her family.
“Don’t know. Left town. Went back to her parents, maybe. She was from the north somewhere.”
I sipped at the fresh coffee Jane had provided, a little brandy in it this time, and pondered how often murder victims seemed to earn their fate. If I had had any doubt before, I had now come around fully to Miriam’s opinion. Her father had deserved to die.
Then I shook my head. Maybe he had, but that was not a decision for any individual to make. Murder is never justified, as unattractive, as downright villainous even, as the victim may be. Killing in self-defense, yes. Killing in combat, maybe. Execution? Well—maybe, sometimes, in cases of particularly heinous crimes when there is no doubt about the criminal’s guilt.
But murder, never. So no matter how glad I was that John Doyle was dead, I felt I had to go on hunting for his murderer.
“So is that the worst?”
“That I know of,” said Jane.
“Did anybody like the man?”
“Big man at the chapel. Well respected there. Says something for the rest.”
“Indeed. I’ve met one of the denizens, the pastor’s wife, and I must say I didn’t care for her. But I think I need to talk to some more of them, little as the idea appeals to me. Do you know when they hold their services on a Sunday?”
“Never wanted to know.” Jane lowered her head and looked at me over the tops of her glasses. “In your place, I’d stay away. Those people are dangerous. Not just crazy. Dangerous.”
I was more shaken by her grammar than her words. When Jane uses a complete sentence, she is very serious indeed.
Nevertheless, the next morning I rose early and went to the first service at the Cathedral. I felt I needed some spiritual sustenance for my next chore of the day.
The early service has always been very moving for me. There is no music save the music of the lovely old words of the Eucharist. There are few tourists, few communicants at all, if it comes to that. The Cathedral is quiet and, in November, dim. One is free to give oneself up to the age-old words of faith and comfort.
The Eucharist was celebrated by one of the canons, but as I left the church and went out, blinking, into the chilly early-morning sunlight, I met the dean on his way in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Martin. A lovely morning, though winter is coming, I fear. You’re up early.”
“Yes, I have something to do later.”
“Alas, even the Sabbath can seldom be devoted entirely to rest, more’s the pity.”
“Well, Dean, it’s never your day of rest, is it?”
“It is a day of service,” he said gently, “which can be exhausting, but brings its own rewards.” He looked at me more closely. “You’re looking tired, my dear. Not ill, I hope?”
“No, just a little—worried, I suppose.”
“Ah. That would be the Doyle matter, I expect. I understand you’re a friend of Mrs. Doyle?”
I have long since stopped expecting anything in Sherebury to escape the dean’s notice. “Not a friend, exactly, though I feel very sorry for her.”
“Yes, of course.” He paused. “You will, I expect, be spending a good deal of time with her for a few days. It does you credit, but you must on no account neglect your own safety. We are sometimes called to walk into danger, but never blindly, you know. And if at any time I can be of help, you know you can always come to me. I shall pray for you, my dear.” And having thus offered spiritual comfort and delicately warned me to keep an eye out for murderers, without mentioning anything so vulgar, he bade me good morning and went into the shadowy vastnesses of the Cathedral he so loved. I mentally contrasted him with Mrs. Rookwood and went home shaking my head.
When I found that Alan was still in bed, I left him a note saying that I’d be home for lunch, and with the utmost distaste made for the Chapel of the One True God.
I was early. The proceedings, according to the badly printed leaflet in the tract rack, would not begin until ten, and it wasn’t even quite nine.
That was fine with me. The longer I could put off the evil hour, the happier I was. I hadn’t had breakfast, so I walked in search of a cafe that was open on a Sunday morning. The university being across the street, and students living in the Victorian houses nearby, I didn’t have too much trouble finding one. It was shabby and smoky, but the coffee smelled good and the doughnuts looked edible. I bought a jelly-filled one and a cup of coffee and sat down at a Formica table scarred with cigarette burns and coffee rings. No one paid the slightest attention to me.
What did I hope to accomplish at the chapel? It would be a pity to put myself through one of their services without a clear goal in mind. I was sure, remembering an experience in the church of a tiny American sect, that I had an excruciating morning ahead of me. Very well, what could I hope to gain
from it? I pulled a paper napkin out of the metal holder on the table, found a pen in my purse, and began to make a list.
Well, first, I wanted to get a really clear idea of the theology of the place. One can learn quite a lot about a man by knowing what he believes, or in this case believed. That his creed was harsh and peculiar, I already knew, but the details might be enlightening.
Second, of course, I wanted to meet some of the people. Or perhaps that was the wrong way to put it. The one woman I had met there had not inspired in me the least desire for acquaintance with any more. However, if I could get some of them talking about John Doyle, it might give me some insight into the man. Like Hercule Poirot, I’ve always felt the character of the victim was often the key to finding the murderer.
Finally, I hoped I could talk to some of the teachers of the school run by the church, and learn a little more about Miriam. If nothing else, it would be an interesting experience to find out just what sort of people could have instilled the warped values she recited so glibly, and so horrifyingly.
That was about it, really. I might not accomplish anything, of course, but it seemed worth a try. I left my coffee, which had not tasted nearly as good as it had smelled, and went back to the repellent chapel.
The congregation nearly filled it. I’ve never understood the appeal of some of the more offbeat religions, but it’s a fact that many of them seem to fill the pews. Even at my age, which is closer to seventy than I care to admit, I don’t have more than a rudimentary understanding of human nature.
I won’t go into details about the service. It seemed to go on forever and was as dreary and depressing as I had expected, consisting entirely of Scripture readings, testimony from the congregation, and a long, ranting sermon by (I presumed) Mr. Rookwood. The theme might have been taken straight from Jonathan Edwards, the terrifying eighteenth-century American cleric whose favorite topic was “sinners in the hands of an angry God.” The readings, of the eye-for-an-eye variety, were all from the Old Testament. I tried to maintain an objective attitude, but I found myself becoming more and more angry. What right had these people, who presumably called themselves Christians, to ignore any hint of a gospel of loving kindness, forgiveness, and redemption? They preached a message of fear, of empty observances of rigid disciplines, of damnation for the mortal who strayed so much as an iota from the arbitrary path set before them, and set, moreover, by Mr. Rookwood. Myself, I preferred a higher authority.
No wonder John Doyle had hounded a man to his death and felt no remorse about it.
The proceedings finally ended, and as we filed out of the hall I realized I hadn’t the least desire to talk to these people. I wasn’t even sure I could talk to them. Our views of the world were so opposed, we could have but little common conversational ground. I was not, in any case, certain that I could keep my temper for more than five seconds if someone tried to convert me. However, I had suffered a great deal for this opportunity, and I would grit my teeth and do my damnedest.
The offering was taken at the door as we all left, by Mr. Rookwood and his wife. Typical, I thought with sardonic amusement. That way they could see exactly how much each person gave. No doubt they would find some way to punish those who kicked in too little. I would have given nothing, but something in the bleak eyes of the Rookwoods sent a little shiver of intimidation up my spine. I fumbled in my purse, produced a pound coin, and dropped it into the basket, where it shone dully among the pile of banknotes. They were certainly raking it in, weren’t they? Amazing what some people will pay out of guilt.
I was somewhat surprised that they had a gathering after the meeting. I had hoped they would, but boiled coffee and squashed buns seemed wild dissipation for so austere a crowd. It made more sense when I realized that the dismal little meal constituted lunch for most of them. Sunday school, Bible study, and other small group meetings would take place immediately after they had refreshed themselves (if “refreshed” was the word). So I joined them in the building next door, ignored the food and drink, and sat down at a table. I immediately found myself, as a newcomer, the center of attention.
It wasn’t congenial attention, either. People stopped talking as they approached my table and fixed me with hostile glares. They sat elsewhere as long as there were chairs elsewhere, but the last ones into the room were forced to sit with me.
No one said anything for a while. They stolidly drank their coffee and ate their buns while darting glances at me, glances that were immediately averted. They took in my makeup, minimal as it was, my clothes (a favorite suit in soft blue-and-purple tweed), my earrings (amethysts and sapphires, small but attractive), my hat (blue felt with purple feathers). I felt, irrationally, that they probably knew I had lace on my underwear. They were clad, men, women and children alike, in blacks and browns and grays, with neither jewelry nor makeup in evidence—nor hats.
Finally one woman cleared her throat. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Come to ask us questions about the death. Indecent, I call it! Coming here flaunting your gaudy clothes and your evil ways! Well, you’re wasting your time. We don’t talk to reporters.”
“Actually, I’m a teacher. Retired.” I took deep breaths and dug my fingernails into my palms.
“Oh, then you’re a friend of That Woman.”
The capital letters were plainly there. My temper rose a little higher. “If you are referring to Mrs. Doyle, I hardly know her. I understand her little girl goes to school here.”
“Went to school here. She was always a troublemaker, asking questions and stirring up the other children. We wouldn’t have her back now if she came crawling, not with a murderess for a mother.”
“That’s right,” another woman chimed in, “and her father not the saint he pretended to be, either, or he wouldn’t have married a woman like that.”
I had to listen. They might say something important. I tried to put my emotions in another compartment of my mind, seal them away so I didn’t react.
“Mr. Doyle was quite an important member of the church—of the chapel, wasn’t he?”
“Not half so important as he thought he was,” growled a man. “We’re all equal sinners in the sight of God; all need to repent and undergo proper discipline. Why, he thought he knew more than Elder Rookwood. Such arrogance.” The others nodded.
Their attitude, however nasty, was interesting. I was beginning almost to wish I had known John Doyle. He had managed to alienate even people of his own ugly stripe. Unless, of course, his death had somehow made him anathema. Yes, that could be it. By the sort of logic that prevailed in this crowd, the fact that he had been murdered could have proved that he was the sort of person to get himself murdered, therefore untouchable, and they were distancing themselves as far as possible.
I felt ill.
A couple of heads turned away from me, then a few more. I saw the preacher coming across the room, toward the table.
Toward me.
“I have been talking to my wife, madam,” he said coldly. “You are not a sinner seeking to repent and be saved from the pit. You are a meddlesome outsider, and you are not welcome here.”
“Elder Rookwood, I presume?” I was so angry now that I didn’t care if I lost my temper.
“My name is of no concern to you.”
“Oh, but it is. I want to tell people about you and your so-called religion.” I stood up. The room had gone deadly quiet. Recklessly I continued. “I want this town to know what kind of people you are, people who would condemn an innocent woman without knowing a single one of the facts. I want them to know that your precious piety is nothing but self-righteous hypocrisy, mixed with a fair amount of sadism. I’d like to expose every one of you!”
And with that outburst I stormed out of the room.
11
I WAS shaking before I got outside, and in tears by the time I got to my car. Furiously I wiped my face and blew my nose and roared out of my parking place. It was lucky that no one else was on the street, for I never looked.
The adrenaline ran out about the time I got to the roundabout, and when I had negotiated it, I pulled into a side street and sat there and shook.
What on earth had I done? Jane’s voice came back to me: These people are dangerous. And with one ill-considered speech I had infuriated every one of them.
Furthermore, I had learned very little. The people at the chapel had displayed hostility toward all the Doyles, even John, who had so recently been one of their leading lights. Perhaps my impression of his position in the group was overblown, but even so, it was remarkable that no one seemed to mourn him. Or it would have been remarkable in another kind of church, but with this crowd … I shivered a little and remembered the words of the Litany: From envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness … “Good Lord, deliver us,” I said aloud.
Maybe I had just talked to the wrong people, I reflected, trying to be charitable myself. Maybe there were some goodhearted souls among those seeking the One True God.
If so, my bitter side retorted, Elder Rookwood was surely not among them.
Well, I’d expected the experience to be unpleasant, and I hadn’t been disappointed. Fine. That was over. I’d learned more than I ever really wanted to know about these people, and with any luck at all, I’d never have to see any of them ever again.
Meanwhile, Sunday afternoon stretched out before me, and I was suddenly hungry. I headed back out into traffic (looking first, this time), and made for home.
Alan, who had just come back from church, looked at me quizzically when I walked into the house. “Taken to heathen ways after all these years?”
“You’re not so far wrong,” I said, hanging up my coat and hat. “I did go to early service, but I spent the rest of the morning at John Doyle’s church, or chapel, or whatever it’s called.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d find Mrs. Doyle there. Derek gave me to understand that she and her husband disagreed about religion.”
“They did, and she wasn’t there. I was just—oh, I suppose I was trying to get an idea of what kind of influence that church was for Miriam. Jane’s been telling me some pretty disturbing things about Doyle, and I wondered if the church, and the church school, had been any comfort to that poor little mite. If I’m to get close to her and her mother, I think I need to know what they’ve been coping with.”
Sins Out of School Page 7
