“Except for Howard Gleason,” she suggested.
“Criminal!” Miss Oberon exclaimed. “Criminal, that waste of talent!”
“And tragic,” Lisa added. “I wonder why a young man with such a promising career ahead of him chose to refuse the scholarship and stay on in Bellville to teach. He had no family, no obligations—”
“He had eyes,” Miss Oberon snapped, “and he was a man!”
Lisa had eyes, too. She saw the swift fury in Miss Oberon’s face, and the way her fingers suddenly froze on the pitch pipe. Not a reliable witness, perhaps, but better than none.
“Then it’s true that he was in love with Marta Cornish?” she asked.
“Of course it’s true,” the music teacher said. “Howard was deeply in love with that girl. He met her as soon as he came to the festival. That’s why he stayed on.”
“Then what happened?”
“What happened? What always happens where Marta Cornish is concerned? What is it, Miss Bancroft, that makes a beautiful girl so careless with love? Why do they throw it away?”
Aging Miss Oberon, unlovely and unloved, asked the question. She didn’t wait for an answer.
“She never cared for Howard, and he was a fine young man. It was the same with that other one—Pierre Duval. She never cared for him, either.”
Now Lisa was intrigued. She’d come asking of one suitor and stumbled across two.
“Pierre Duval?” she repeated. “I don’t believe I know the name.”
“Her music teacher, Miss Bancroft. Another fine young man. Mrs. Cornish brought him over from Paris, I think, about six years ago. He lived at Bell Mansion for the next three years and taught Marta all she really knows about music—if she knows anything.”
If she knows anything? The inference was too plain to be ignored. “I thought Marta had the reputation of being quite talented.”
It could be jealousy. The thin smile on those tight lips wasn’t beyond such emotion. Lisa watched and Lisa listened.
“A reputation Mrs. Cornish never misses an opportunity to embellish,” the woman said bitterly. “Frankly, Miss Bancroft, I think it’s very much overrated. I think that’s the reason Marta never gets a composition into the judges. It’s just talk, that’s all. Nothing but talk!”
And then Miss Oberon’s slightly crossed eyes wandered over the wall until they came to rest on a framed reproduction of the painting in the Cornish museum. Martin Cornish hung just above a bust of Beethoven. The tone of the woman’s next words made it seem this arrangement was symbolic.
“She’s getting by on her father’s reputation,” she said, “but she doesn’t have his genius. His greatness. Can’t you feel it, Miss Bancroft? Can’t you just see it in his eyes?”
What Lisa could see in the eyes of Martin Cornish wasn’t nearly so interesting as what she could see in the eyes of Miss Oberon. A lonely woman living close to greatness.
“Did you know him?” she asked.
Miss Oberon didn’t look away from the portrait. “Not really. I came to Bellville a few years after his tragic death, but I feel that I know him. I know him through his music, the only way an artist can be known.” And then Miss Oberon remembered that she had an audience, blushed, and began to finger the pitch pipe again. It was a good time to change the subject.
“But what about Pierre Duval?” Lisa reminded. “What happened to him?”
She had to wait a moment for Miss Oberon to return.
“Oh, he’s dead,” she said.
Casually, as if everyone knew.
“But how?” Lisa asked.
“He was living at Bell Mansion, as I told you. It was assumed that he and Marta were—well, in love.”
That tight smile was returning, but Lisa had already done her mental arithmetic.
“Marta is twenty. Twenty-one this September.” The professor’s words were only a thought away. “If Duval came from Paris six years ago, Marta could have been only fourteen, fifteen at the oldest.”
And still the tight smile. “But she was eighteen when he died, Miss Bancroft. A tragic thing, too. He fell down the stairs in that house and died instantly.”
Lisa didn’t have to ask what house. She did have to ask, “Merely from falling downstairs?”
“Duval had a plate in his skull, the result of a war injury. We all knew that.”
“We all knew that.” The implication was too naked to be accidental. And then Miss Oberon seemed to regain her senses. She remembered who she was, and where she was, and to whom she was talking. Her hands became busy with some papers on her desk. Her eyes couldn’t meet Lisa’s even on the bias.
“If you’ll excuse me, I really must be getting on with my work. With commencement coming, and the festival after that, I really haven’t the time—”
“Of course,” Lisa said. “I should have realized.”
“And, Miss Bancroft—”
With her hand on the doorknob, Lisa turned back. Miss Oberon looked frightened. Actually frightened.
“You won’t repeat anything I’ve told you about Marta Cornish, will you? About—about her talent, I mean. I may have been too hasty.”
About which talent? Lisa restrained the desire to ask. She was only a schoolteacher, after all. With all her dreams of greatness, she was only a schoolteacher in a town founded and dominated by the family in “that house.”
“I’ll never repeat a word of it,” Lisa said. “You may depend on that.”
Lisa left the schoolroom deep in thought. Howard Gleason, Pierre Duval. Marta Cornish had two suitors and both were dead. It always came back to that. She’d been right from the beginning. The story was Marta.
But what was the story? One man had shot himself and another had fallen downstairs. Was there enough in that to arouse the suspicion of such a quiet, unemotional man as Curran Dawes? Lisa pondered the problem as she made her way down the corridor toward the doors. Not until she’d reached them, and was putting out her hand for a doorknob that suddenly wasn’t there, did she realize the subject of her pondering was so close at hand. Hat in hand and raincoat over his arm, Professor Dawes was preparing to end a busy day. She assumed it was busy by the quantity of textbooks under that raincoat-clad arm.
“Miss Bancroft, I’m offended,” he said, swinging the door open before her. “You come to visit our high school and fail to call on me.”
“I’ve been catching up on my music research,” Lisa said. “And I might have called on you if you didn’t have such an annoying habit of leaving your stories unfinished.”
The professor laughed. Once outside the building, he donned his hat. The line of dark clouds across the horizon had risen to the distant rooftops across the athletic field, and the wind that had sprung up seemed to foretell a need for that raincoat before long. The professor squinted at the sky thoughtfully and took Lisa’s arm. The steps to the sidewalk were easier that way.
“I don’t mean to be annoying,” he explained as they descended. “I mean to be fair. If I were to tell you all I know—” he let go of her arm at the sidewalk: he needed it to anchor his hat against a gust of wind—”all I think I know,” he corrected, “you would merely inherit my opinions. When one enlists the aid of a consultant on a diagnosis it seems only wisdom to allow that party a free rein for investigation.”
“A consultant,” Lisa repeated. “So that’s what I’m supposed to be. And the diagnosis in question is a matter of Marta’s sanity.”
“All the world is mad but me and thee …” Lisa remembered her own words and poised on the verge of a question She felt reckless and asked it.
“Incidentally, professor, you never did tell me why you left the university to teach in Bellville.”
“Why I left—?”
Across the street, another truck was pulling onto the athletic field. It was easy to read the lettering on the side: Cushing Construction Company. The professor followed the truck’s progress with his eyes.
“Politics, Miss Bancroft. It exists even in universities
. My contract wasn’t renewed, that’s all.”
“And Bellville?”
“It’s a pleasant community.”
And then the professor faced her again. By this time he understood. There was just a twinge of tension in his voice.
“I believe you’re insinuating that I came here to be near my nephew. As a matter of fact, that may be true. He preceded me here by several months. But that doesn’t mean that I’m just a meddling old fool. There’s nothing wrong in being concerned for the happiness of a loved one.”
Nothing at all. Lisa couldn’t argue that. But she was still puzzled, and the professor was still protesting too much.
“Of course, if you’ve found nothing of interest—”
“Oh, I have!” Lisa interrupted. “I’ve found very much of interest. Let’s see now, how the bodies do pile up! There’s Howard Gleason who committed suicide—that’s damaging evidence against Marta, I’m sure. And then there’s Pierre Duval who fell downstairs. Or was he pushed, Professor?”
The professor was losing his poise. Lisa hated herself for what she was doing, but there must be some way to make the man declare himself.
“And then there’s old Alistair Hubbard who couldn’t find his medicine.”
“Now, that’s going a bit too far,” the professor protested. “I’m not concerned with backstairs gossip.”
“But why not, Professor? Very interesting things occur backstairs. If we’re going to diagnose this case together, let’s consider all the symptoms. But we can’t consider them all if you continue to hold out on me.”
It was a straight, flat statement and Lisa was glad she’d said it. She expected a straight answer, too. She expected it for all of five seconds while the professor was making up his mind, and then something happened that sent her expectations scattering with the wind. It began with a scream, a woman’s scream, and then such a din of falling lumber and masculine shouts that nothing could be remembered then but that something of a drastic nature was occurring on the athletic field across the street. The professor whirled about and made as if to run toward the scene. Then he stopped and glanced back at Lisa.
“Go ahead,” she cried. “I’m coming, too. I’m right behind you.”
She was—all the way. By the time they reached the source of the clamor, it had all but died away. But the evidence remained. An erstwhile truckload of evidence spilled haphazardly across the ground—planks, two-by-fours, and heavy beams. The shouting was over, but not the grumbling.
Joel wasn’t hurt. Lisa saw him at the same instant the professor did. Both slackened their pace. Joel wasn’t hurt, but he was angry.
“What the devil happened here?” he demanded. “Who’s loading that stuff down at the yard? Do I have to do everything myself?”
And then he saw Lisa and the professor, and left the crew to start the clean-up job.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to muster up a grin. “You caught me in a bad mood.”
“What happened?” the professor demanded.
“Nothing important. A little bad luck, that’s all.”
“Bad luck? You might have been killed!”
Lisa had been thinking the same thing. It was not only a natural thought after the recent topic of conversation; it was all too possible. A truckload of spilled lumber wouldn’t land like a caress. And then she remembered.
“Where’s Marta?” she asked.
“Marta? Was Marta here?”
Gone now the professor’s calm and poise. Gone his quiet self-control. Joel noticed, too. He seemed to sense trouble.
“She was,” he admitted, “but she’s gone now. She left some time ago.”
The professor looked suddenly relieved. Much too suddenly for camouflage.
“Thank God,” he said. “At least you haven’t made over your insurance to her the way the others did.”
CHAPTER 8
It had finally happened. The professor had blurted out what was on his mind, and in a bombastic way. Lisa was almost stunned for a moment, and then she wanted to grab onto the coattails of that moment and demand an explanation. Joel beat her to it.
“What do you mean?” he choked. “What dirt have you been digging up now?”
It was crude and rather terrible. Curran Dawes wasn’t the man for this kind of talk.
“Nothing,” he said hastily. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry, Joel. I was upset, that’s all.” He looked sorry. More than sorry. The textbooks were shifted from one arm to another. “I really must be getting along. Final exam papers to check, you know. Will you be home for dinner tonight, Joel?”
Timidly he asked. The anger was still in Joel’s face.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll have to hang around until this mess is cleaned up.”
“Well, I’ll leave something in the refrigerator if you’re late.”
It was pitiful. Lisa preferred the professor with his pride riding high and a sly smile playing at his mouth. His goodbye was barely audible as he scurried off. The moment was gone and it had netted Lisa nothing but another puzzle.
“Miss Bancroft—”
Joel stopped her when she started to turn away. He didn’t seem so angry now as troubled.
“Don’t pay any attention to my uncle. He’s been listening to a lot of town gossip.”
Lisa looked at Joel Warren. He was young and strong. He looked as if he would be able to meet a matter head on.
“As a matter of fact, so have I,” she said. “Some of it is most interesting.”
The technique worked. When Lisa started to turn away, Joel was at her side instantly. “I want to talk to you,” he announced.
“My car’s at the curb,” Lisa said.
“Good. We can talk there quietly.”
Someone in Bellville would speak directly. Someone wouldn’t talk in riddles, or hide behind the subterfuge of being fair-minded. Joel Warren was too young to have learned to hide. He helped Lisa into the station wagon and crawled in beside her. One work-callused hand shoved a lock of wind-blown hair out of his eyes. He sighed.
“That was a pretty display you just witnessed,” he said. “You must think we’re all a pack of neurotics.”
“What happened?” Lisa asked.
“With the truck? Oh, I suppose it was improperly loaded and the lumber unbalanced when the men started to take it off. That’s not what I meant. I meant the way I flew off the handle at Uncle Curran. He’s harmless, you know.”
“He loves you,” Lisa said.
Joel grinned. “I’m aware of that, Miss Bancroft, and I love him, when it comes to that. But I love Marta Cornish more.”
“And she loves you?”
“I’ve asked her to marry me. I didn’t twist her arm when I did it, but she seemed to like the idea.”
“And she still does?”
Joel’s face was as changeable as the overcast sky. Now a smile of sunshine, now a cloud of darkness.
“I haven’t heard otherwise,” he said.
“Forgive me,” Lisa murmured. “I might as well confess. I overheard the tag end of what seemed to be a first-class quarrel when I parked here about an hour ago. Perhaps I was wrong.”
The sunshine came out of the clouds again.
“Oh, that,” Joel said. “Sure, we were having words, but nothing serious. I was just trying to encourage Marta to finish her concerto. Say, maybe you could talk to her, Miss Bancroft. She might listen to you.”
I doubt that, Lisa thought. Martas seldom do. Aloud she said, “What am I supposed to say to her?”
“Anything. Anything that’ll make her go ahead and try. She gets cold feet. She thinks her work isn’t good enough to enter in the competition.”
“Do you think it’s good enough?”
Joel began to play with the glove compartment. The catch was loose. Lisa almost expected him to pull a screwdriver out and fix it on the spot.
“I guess I’m prejudiced,” he said at last, “but I think it’s great. And it has to be, Miss Bancroft. Marta needs to
win that competition. She needs the confidence.”
“And the money?” Lisa suggested.
Joel didn’t seem to mind the question. “It would help,” he admitted, “but what she really wants is to take the scholarship and go to Paris to study. I’m all for that, too. I have a few dreams of my own. I’d like to be a real architect someday, have my own office. If I’m entitled to my dream, Marta’s entitled to hers. Everyone has a right to an identity. We all have to feel that we are somebody.”
“Especially if we’re not sure,” Lisa mused.
‘That’s it,” Joel said. “That’s it exactly. Marta’s caught in a vise in this town. She’s Martin Cornish’s daughter, or she’s old man Bell’s granddaughter. She can’t be herself at all. But the Cornish Award is the answer to everything. I have about thirty-five hundred left from my parents’ insurance. I could take Marta away from here tomorrow, if that was the only question; but I don’t want her to just run away. I don’t want her to change her father’s identity for mine. Neither of us could be happy long that way.”
It was wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful to find someone in Bellville who could make sense. And Marta needs it, Lisa thought. She needs this young man more than she knows.
But what of the ghosts of Howard Gleason and Pierre Duval? When Joel talked they vanished; when he fell silent they were still there—the grim unmentionables.
And the best way to get rid of unmentionables is to mention them.
“I’m sure Marta’s told you about her other suitors,” Lisa suggested.
The glove compartment slammed shut with enough force to dislodge a few more screws.
“She has!” Joel answered. “Honestly, now, you haven’t been taken in by all that talk, have you?”
“They’re both dead,” Lisa said.
“Sure they are. And there’s a cemetery out at the edge of town filled with several thousand other dead bodies; but none of them are any more Marta’s responsibility than Gleason and Duval. An accident’s an accident. Don’t you suppose the authorities investigated when Duval fell down the stairs?”
Insurance, Lisa remembered. If the police had investigated, surely the insurance companies would as well.
Crime is Murder Page 7
