Sins Out of School

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The syrupy approach worked. He squared his shoulders and looked like a financial expert. “I suppose it would do no harm to tell you that there was no joint account. Doyle had a checking account here, and a small savings account. I believe he took charge of the family finances. Certainly that was only right and proper. He was a bookkeeper here, you know, so of course he knew the proper procedures.”

  Of course. He also wanted his hand, and his alone, holding the family purse strings. How characteristic.

  “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Sam. I appreciate this. You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I’m afraid some things to tell the police. They’ll probably come around to talk to you.”

  “They’ve been,” he said with a shudder. “And no matter how discreet they try to be, having the police in the bank is not good for business.”

  What an epitaph for John Doyle. His murder was not good for business. It was my turn to shudder. “Oh, well then, I suppose you told them all this.”

  “I did not. They didn’t ask me about Doyle’s movements, and I saw no reason to tell them and expose the bank to scandal.”

  “Then I’m sorry, but I must tell them myself.” I rose and turned to go, and then thought of one more thing. “Oh, by the way, had he asked permission to take that day off?”

  “I did not feel free to ask Mr. Hawkins. However, when I taxed Doyle with taking a holiday when I was away, he was quite rude about it. As much as said that it wasn’t my affair, and that he had had urgent business in London. Business, hah!”

  “Did you tell him you’d seen him?”

  “Certainly not. That was none of his affair.”

  “Oh, and did you buy the book?”

  “I did.” He relaxed. “You must come ’round to see it one day. It’s quite, quite lovely.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t, and left.

  Oh, my. Here was something real at last, something to get one’s teeth into. Why on earth hadn’t the silly little man told the police what he knew? Didn’t he know that every change in routine was of interest when a crime had been committed? Had he never read a crime novel?

  Well, no, probably not. He was too busy with Chaucer and Co.

  I walked home slowly, having, as Hercule Poirot might have said, been given “furiously to think.”

  I went straight to Alan with the news. “I think you ought to tell Derek right away.”

  “I don’t,” said Alan. “I think you ought to tell him.”

  “But I’m not exactly official. Will he get into a snit about me talking to witnesses?”

  “Trust me, darling. Derek will not be unbearably surprised that you are looking into Doyle’s murder. And members of the public are always encouraged to give the police any information they may have. However they may have acquired it.”

  So I called the police station and told Inspector Morrison Mr. Johnson’s story. He promised to get people out looking for the mysterious woman immediately.

  Well, that was something the police could do much more efficiently than I, and even they were facing a massive task. Identifying one particular car with one particular woman in it, on a Monday morning at Victoria Station, made the proverbial needle in a haystack look like a snap. Although, I thought irrelevantly, if I were looking for that needle, I’d tear apart the haystack and then get a large, powerful magnet. Perhaps the police had similar techniques for the impossible job of combing London for a single individual.

  Meanwhile, what was I to do?

  Well, really, there wasn’t much. I’d talked to the people at Doyle’s church, and learned nothing except that they were a nasty group with a malicious attitude. I’d talked to Amanda’s sister and learned nothing except that the Blakes were not a loving, unified family.

  There was always the possibility that Gillian had killed Doyle, alone or with Amanda’s help. I had no proof of that whatsoever, but if Amanda had gone to London that day …

  Hmm. What if Amanda had gone to London, and had seen her husband up to something? I found it almost impossible to picture John Doyle involved in the kind of hanky-panky Sam Johnson imagined, but there are other kinds. Let’s see, what would a self-righteous prig with an extremist religion do in London?

  Of course. He would do what he always did. He would get someone into trouble. Probably that “attractive woman.” Attractive women sometimes have a lot to hide.

  And if Amanda had seen him, and had jumped to the same conclusion Sam Johnson had …

  No, that didn’t really work, did it? Amanda hated her husband. She would most likely have been delighted to think he was giving her grounds for divorce.

  Anyway, she probably wouldn’t have jumped to those conclusions. She knew Doyle’s real passion was not for women, but for what he no doubt thought of as exposing the truth.

  And why would Amanda have gone to London in the first place, if not to see Gillian?

  My mind was running in unproductive circles. It was time I gave it up for a while. I went back to Alan’s study. “How would you feel about going out to lunch, love? Somewhere out of town. Maybe that little pub on the way to Brighton, what’s it called?”

  “The Pig and Whistle. How could you forget?”

  “How, indeed?” I laughed. “Let’s go.”

  18

  I WAS not feeling any clearer in my mind when we got back from lunch. Less so, indeed, since the bitter at the Pig and Whistle was particularly good and I’d had a pint, unusual for me at lunchtime. I was ready for a nap when we got home, but there were two calls on the answering machine. The first one woke me up in a hurry. Derek had left a message for Alan, simply asking him to return the call.

  “Good heavens, you don’t suppose they’ve found the mysterious woman already?” I asked, excited.

  “Stranger things have happened, but I very much doubt it.”

  The second message was from Amanda. It, too, was very brief. “Mrs. Martin, I should like to talk to you. Please ring me up.” She gave her phone number.

  “Détente, perhaps?” commented Alan.

  “Stranger things have happened. But call Derek first. I’m excited about his call, and I need all my wits in order before I talk to Amanda.”

  When Alan got through to Derek, he put the call on the speakerphone so I could listen in. As we had suspected, Derek’s men had not found the woman who had met John Doyle in London. That search had barely begun and was expected to take days or weeks. Rather, Derek had called to tell Alan of a development at the medical end of the case.

  “It turns out Doyle had a heart problem for which Lanoxin, a proprietary name for a form of digitalis, was prescribed. According to his doctor, he’d been taking it for some time. As you know, my people found no medicine in the house. We assumed at first that he had simply run out and hadn’t bothered to refill the prescription, but we talked again to Mrs. Doyle after we heard about the heart trouble. She claims she knew nothing of any health problems her husband might have had, and had never seen him take medicine or bring any home. We checked with chemists and found the one that dispensed the prescription, the big Boots in the High Street. Their records show he had refilled the prescription a week before he died.”

  “Ah. There would have been enough, then, to cause death?”

  “Several times over, according to both Doyle’s doctor and ours. The dosage was one tablet, point-two-five milligrams, per day. Thirty tablets were dispensed. If he’d started taking them the day he got the new prescription—which is by no means certain, most people get refills before they’ve quite run out—he’d have had twenty-three left. That many would have stopped his heart.”

  “So the questions, of course, are where he kept that medicine and where it is now.”

  “If we could find it, or even an empty bottle, we’d be far closer to getting a handle on this mess. I’ll swear it wasn’t in the house, though. My men are properly trained. They do a thorough job, even when the cause of death is obscure at first. They went through that
house like a dose of salts, rubbish bins and all. They found no medicine, and no empty containers.”

  “Perhaps he kept it in his desk at the bank. Some men are sensitive about taking medicine. They feel it’s a weakness. He might not have wanted to admit to his family that he needed it.”

  “That’s possible, of course, though one would have thought he’d be equally loath to let his coworkers see him with medicine, especially a heart medicine.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me all this, Derek. I appreciate being kept in the loop, so to speak, and if I get any brilliant ideas, I’ll ring. Don’t hold your breath. Wait a moment, Dorothy wants to ask you something.”

  “Derek, I’m sure you asked Mrs. Doyle what she was doing on that day she wasn’t at school. Can you tell me what she said, or is that privileged information?”

  “She said she needed to buy some clothes for Miriam, and there was never a chance to do it evenings and weekends, when her husband was around, because he wouldn’t let her spend the money.”

  “I see. Did you believe her?”

  “My people looked through the child’s room. There were a few things that looked new, a skirt, some underthings. It didn’t look like a day’s shopping to them. So no, we didn’t believe her, or not entirely, but she stuck to her story.”

  “I see. I think I may try to worm a little more out of her, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Be my guest. At the moment we know nothing at all, and time is passing.”

  “Right. I’ll let you know the minute I find out anything.”

  My need for a nap had disappeared. I punched in the number Amanda had given me. Rather expecting either Miriam or Gillian to answer, I was somewhat surprised when Amanda picked up the phone.

  “Three-six-seven-four-two-eight.”

  “Amanda? Dorothy Martin.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Martin.”

  Was that relief I was hearing? Surely not.

  There was a pause and a long breath. Then, “I believe I owe you an apology, Mrs. Martin, and there are several things I’d like to talk to you about. Would it be convenient for me to come ’round?”

  “Of course, or I could come there. Which is easier for you?”

  “I hate to put you to the trouble, but perhaps if you wouldn’t mind coming here? I’m afraid the press are rather dogging my heels just now.”

  “Oh, dear. I wondered when that would begin.”

  “They’ve just got hold of who my father is, you see.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but it was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose.”

  “I was naive enough to hope not. However, Gillian managed to spirit Miriam away when the first reporter arrived, before the rest turned up. That’s one good thing. But there are hordes of them here now, I’m afraid. They simply won’t go away! I don’t know how you’re to get inside.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Mrs. Doyle, do you have a lawyer?”

  “No.” Her voice was suddenly sharp with fear. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s all right, I don’t mean a criminal lawyer, a—what do you call them?—a barrister. Just an ordinary solicitor, who can issue some sort of noncommittal statement to the press and make them go away.”

  “Oh, I see. No, there’s no one like that, either. John didn’t believe in any sort of legal proceedings.”

  “Don’t you have a will?”

  “No. He didn’t, either. He said neither of us had anything to leave, and he saw no need to spend money for a meaningless piece of paper.”

  “Well, then, I’ll call our solicitor. He’s a pleasant man, but he can be forceful when necessary. If he’s free, I expect he’ll come with me. That should get me in the house, anyway. Shall I call you back and say when we’ll be there?”

  “Yes, please. The only thing is, I don’t know quite when Gillian will bring Miriam back …”

  She let the thought trail off, but I understood. There were things to discuss that shouldn’t be talked about in front of a child. “I’ll come right away then, lawyer or no lawyer. Don’t forget, I used to be a teacher, and I, too, can be forceful when I have to be. I’ll come to the back door if I can manage it.”

  I really wasn’t sure how I’d bully my way through “hordes” of reporters, so I was relieved when our lawyer, Mr. Carstairs, said he’d be right over. He sounded quite pleased, actually. Maybe business was slow, or maybe he was just bored and thought a confrontation sounded interesting. At any rate, he was on my doorstop in something under five minutes. I briefed him quickly as I drove to Amanda’s house.

  “You probably don’t want to get into the Blake connection,” I finished. “All you really need to do is give them some sort of statement and tell them she will say nothing more, on your advice. That should keep them at bay for a little while. I realize that this is out of your usual run of business, but do you think you can manage?”

  “Any attorney,” he said with a smile, “has considerable practice in saying nothing, at great and tedious length. I’m sure I can keep them occupied long enough for you to get in the house. I rather think stealth is in order, don’t you?”

  That settled the question of his feelings. He was enjoying this.

  I had deliberately come out plainly dressed and bareheaded. I usually enjoy the attention my hats draw, but this time I wanted to be inconspicuous. We had to park some distance away because of all the cars and TV and radio vans near the house. I stayed in the car while Mr. Carstairs got out and drew the crowd of microphones and cameras and notepads to himself. While their owners were all shouting questions, I slipped out the door on the street side of the car, walked to the end of the street and around the corner, and then went down the alleyway that ran behind the minute back gardens of the drab little houses. Most of the gardens were little more than waste ground, “yards,” in the English sense, for garbage cans and junk in general. They were backed by high, ugly board fences. Amanda’s fence was in decent repair and had recently been painted brown. Here, too, John’s meticulous, depressing care was evident. The remains of what had been a flourishing vegetable garden, though, showed what I thought was Amanda’s hand. In the early December rain, the garden looked straggly and forlorn. That, too, reminded me of Amanda. But the Brussels sprouts were still bravely green.

  Once I had let myself through the back gate, the fence screened me nicely from any further observation. Amanda was waiting for me at the door, and there was, for the first time, a hint of color in her face, a trace of a sparkle in her eye. “I saw you,” she said in a whisper, “but I don’t think anyone else did. Do you mind coming upstairs? One of them was peeking in the windows a little while ago.”

  We went up the steep, narrow stairs to Amanda’s bedroom. It had originally been small. Now, with the back half partitioned off to make a room for Miriam, it was tiny. There was a twin bed with a prim white spread, a chair, a small wardrobe of wood-grained metal, and a low two-drawer chest with a plain, old-fashioned windup alarm clock on it. No bedside table, no reading lamp, no ornaments, no mirror. Except for the clock, it might have been the cell of a medieval nun.

  “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing at the chair. She sat on the bed, which sagged under her weight, slightly built though she was.

  The room was cold. I left my coat on and wished I had worn a hat, after all. Through the ill-fitting windows came a substantial draft and the drone of Mr. Carstairs’s voice.

  Amanda sat twisting her fingers. “I hardly know how to begin. You were right. There’s been too much misunderstanding. But for you, Miriam and I might have been left to wallow in fear and suspicion. After I read your note, it took only a few minutes to realize how dreadfully wrong we’d both been. And I’ve also misunderstood you. I said unforgivable things. I hope you—I can’t tell you how much—”

  I decided she needed help. “For a start, you can forget the apology. I’ve been intrusive and I know it. I am, sometimes. I hope it was from the best of motives, but I also admit to curios
ity. I have a hard time leaving puzzles alone, and my first puzzle is where you were that day you decamped from St. Stephen’s. You caused considerable consternation, you know.”

  “Yes, and inconvenience, especially for you. At least let me apologize for that. It really isn’t the kind of thing I do. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m that sort of person. But I had to do it. It was for Miriam’s sake, you see, and of course I couldn’t tell anyone while John was alive. Now that he’s gone, I suppose it doesn’t matter so much for her.”

  I gulped. Was I about to hear a confession? Perhaps of conspiracy to murder? Had she, after all, gone to London to see Gillian and plan John Doyle’s murder?

  “I told the police I went shopping for Miriam’s clothes, and that was true, as far as it went. I did buy her a few things, all I could afford. I—I have my own bank account. John didn’t know about it. I always turned my salary over to him, of course, but sometimes I could save a bit out of the housekeeping money. Or in summer, if the garden did well, I’d sell some of the extra vegetables at the Women’s Institute market. There was never much money, but it was all I had that was my own.”

  I was as shocked by this grim little picture of penury, I think, as by anything I’d heard about John Doyle. “Amanda, forgive me for intruding again. But was there nothing your father could or would do to make your situation easier? He’s quite well-to-do, isn’t he?”

  “He made quite a generous settlement when I married. I’m sure he felt at the time—probably still feels—that it was more than adequate. It was paid to John, of course. You must understand, Mrs. Martin, that I have had no contact with my father since my marriage. That’s the way we both want it.” She sounded bleakly matter-of-fact.

  “I understand.” I thought I did, too. Years of bitterness on both sides had widened the rift with her father until it was now an unbridgeable chasm. How sad. “But I’m sorry. I interrupted. You were saying you bought Miriam some clothes …”

  “Yes, but only at the end of the day. You see, I knew John was in London that day.”