Body in the Transept

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Hello, Dorothy.” I whirled, startled.

  “Oh, Alan! Alan, did you hear that man? Of all the pretentious, maddening, egotistical . . . and did you know he wasn’t here most of Christmas Eve? And he’s lying about it? And he’s been stealing from the collection, and Billings was just about to get the goods on him, and . . .”

  “Yes, I know all those things, and I should be very grateful if you would lower your voice. Sound does carry in here, you know.”

  “Oh.” I lowered it to a hiss. “Sorry, but I was annoyed. Am annoyed.” I had gotten louder again, and Alan quirked his eyebrows.

  “If you’re not staying for the service, as I gather you are not, shall we get out of this echo chamber?”

  I managed not to say anything until we were safely beyond the cloister door, and then I erupted.

  “But if you know, why haven’t you done anything about it? It’s perfectly obvious—”

  “Unfortunately there’s a small matter of evidence. No, let me finish. I’ve been talking to the dean, and I’d best tell you what he said before you begin tilting at several improbable windmills. There is no proof whatever that Mr. Wallingford was responsible for the defalcations. And—” he held up a finger to curb my interruption “—the money has been put back. All of it, they think. Of course they never know exactly how much there should be, but they can compare totals with previous years, and so on. There was a large anonymous gift in this morning’s pouch. And as there were only seven people at Matins, all of them known to Canon Richardson, who read the service—”

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. “But that doesn’t make any difference! He can’t buy his way out of murder! Just because there’s no proof now doesn’t mean there wouldn’t have been, if Billings had gone on digging. And that means—”

  “Dammit, Dorothy, I am not Inspector Lestrade or Sugg or Slack or any of the other idiot Scotland Yard detectives your favorite authors love! Don’t you think I know all that? The point, if you had let me finish, is that with the return of the money, the dean has decided not to pursue the matter. And without his evidence about the thefts, there is no case whatever against Robert Wallingford.”

  12

  THE SHEREBURY THURSDAY market was in full cry. At crowded stalls, ablaze with color in the crystalline light of a bitter cold, sunny afternoon, vendors hawked their wares as they had ever since the market was chartered in 1378. Thursday isn’t usually quite as important a market as Saturday, but on this last day of the old year shoppers thronged the Market Square. The selection was dazzling. Meats, vegetables, fruits, woolens, tools—those things had always been sold here. But Brazilian butterflies, video games, paintings on black velvet always took me by surprise.

  If tacky modern merchandise seemed out of place in the almost medieval scene, however, the noise of market day was surely unchanged for centuries. Calls of vendors in a broad accent I still couldn’t understand, the cries of babies in their prams, the high-pitched gabble of women bargaining over purchases—it was all very lively and very English.

  I went to the market that day, not so much to buy anything as to soothe my feelings after what had turned into an awful quarrel with Alan the day before. I had refused to accept the idea that Wallingford couldn’t be arrested right then, and Alan kept explaining the rules of police procedure with more and more elaborate patience until I could have screamed, and finally did, right there in the Cathedral Close. Well, yelped with frustration, at least. At that point he became coldly reasonable and suggested that I needed some tea, and I became coldly polite and replied that what I needed more was some intelligent advice, and after that, of course, there was nothing to do but march off home, where I burst into tears of pure anger.

  I was still angry, none the less because I knew he was right. Logic was on his side. But logic be damned, I still wanted to do something. My choice of the market as a distraction was perhaps unfortunate, because I could certainly do something there. I could spend money.

  There is something stimulating about crowds of people eagerly bent on commerce. Those who run shopping malls all over America (and, increasingly and disgustingly, England) make fortunes on the principle. I bought in rapid succession several things I didn’t need at all, including some rich tea cakes that would be ruinous for my figure.

  The only thing I almost needed was a pair of festive earrings to brighten up the old party dress I planned to wear to Jane’s New Year’s Eve party tonight. It was a black beaded affair, my standby for years. I was really very fond of it, but for New Year’s Eve it needed a little glitz. As I doubtfully studied the effect of gold filigree, a face appeared behind me in the mirror.

  “Inga, my dear! What do you think of these?”

  I hid apprehension behind cheeriness. How was she feeling about me? Would she snub me? Blow up?

  “They’re all right,” she said dully.

  I turned from the mirror then, and we looked at each other for a long moment. Her face was as pale as her hair.

  “Inga, I—”

  “Mrs. Martin—” she said at the same instant.

  “You haven’t called me Mrs. Martin for years,” I said sadly. “Oh, my dear, don’t look at me that way! It’ll be all right, really it will.” I put my arms around her shoulders and pulled her close, and after a moment she relaxed, with a long, quavery sigh.

  “We can’t talk here,” I said when I was sure she wasn’t going to cry. “May I buy you a cup of tea?”

  It was a little early yet; the nearest shop had a vacant table or two. We got our tea from the serving line and then settled ourselves and our purchases and unbuttoned our coats.

  “That’s a smashing hat,” said Inga in an admirable attempt at lightness. “It looks like something from a Carole Lombard flick.”

  I tilted the burgundy soup-plate concoction a little farther over one eyebrow. “It’s old enough,” I said. “It belonged to my mother. I couldn’t bear to throw it out. Wearing it always lifts my spirits, and they needed it today.” I gave up the pretense. “Inga, how is Nigel?”

  “He’s not in jail yet,” she said a little shakily. “I reckon that’s something to be grateful for, anyway. He was raked over the coals pretty thoroughly yesterday, but they sent him home in the end. Dorothy, I’m scared!”

  “So am I, my dear,” I said, glad to be “Dorothy” again. “But we’ll just have to keep up our courage. We know Nigel is innocent, and . . . what?” For a hint of a smile had appeared on her face.

  “Oh, nothing, really. I just suddenly thought how much he would hate being called ‘innocent.’”

  I thought of those wicked blue eyes. “Yes, well, I guess it’s not quite the word, is it? Really, you know, we should have more confidence in his ability to get himself out of trouble. He’s had a lot of practice.”

  Somehow I’d managed for once to say the right things. We finished our tea in companionable silence. The air was clear again; Inga’s color had returned, and along with it her composure.

  “So what are you wearing to the party tonight?” I asked when we were back in the marketplace. “You are going, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mum and Dad said they could manage without me for one New Year’s Eve. We’re booked up, of course, but a set meal is easier to serve. And I’ve the most smashing new frock—oh, Lord, look, there he goes!”

  I turned and saw only a small crowd of people gathered round a stocky, red-faced, bull-necked man I didn’t recognize. “There who goes?”

  “That’s Mr. Pettifer, you know, the councillor. I’ll bet he’s making a speech. Well, it’s a safe bet, really, he always is.”

  “Come on, then, I want to know what’s going on.” I moved closer, but apparently it was a private speech, because the stocky man gave me an irritated look, turned his head away, and lowered his voice slightly.

  “. . . need to develop . . . increase traffic by at least forty percent . . . younger buyers . . . sentimental nonsense . . . no more trouble about permission . . .”

  The
snatches that reached us, along with his gestures at the building in front of the little group, told the story. I turned to Inga in dismay. “Oh, no! He’s going to turn that gorgeous old building into a shopping mall! What is it, really?”

  “The Town Hall, but it’s going to be vacant soon. They’re putting the city offices in the new Civic Centre out near the university. I don’t know why they keep moving everything farther away. This was really convenient for official business, and it’s beautiful inside, too, all linenfold paneling and beamed ceilings. And what are they going to do about the Hall? It’s been the meeting place for town activities for centuries. It’s a frightful pity to cut it about into tacky little shops!”

  “It hasn’t happened yet,” I snapped.

  “It will,” she said with a sigh.

  “Who are those people he’s talking to?”

  “I don’t know all of them, but the bald one is on the council, and that woman in the frightful tartan coat owns a chain of gift shops, and I think the man who looks sort of Michael Caineish is John Thorpe, the estate agent. He’s gathering all the forces together, you see. I do wish progress didn’t always seem to mean pulling something down, or messing it about.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Oh, heavens, I’ve got to fly or Mum’ll be having seven fits. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I can’t wait to see your dress!” I waved, and she was off. I was glad she was feeling better. But for how long?

  I wandered unhappily, letting my feet take me where they would while my mind pursued its own paths, and they took me, as usual when given free rein, to the cathedral. I found myself in the nave with no idea how I had gotten there, but willing enough to pass some time in its vast peace and stillness, tangible as water in a pool. Only a handful of people were in sight; I would be in no one’s way if I relaxed for a while.

  For a long time I simply sat, bathing in serenity, letting my mind drift. Even on this bright day the nave dozed in the softened light of medieval stained glass. Stirrings of sound somewhere in another part of the cathedral only intensified the fundamental quiet.

  How odd, really, if one thought about it, that after all that had happened this place should still be a retreat of tranquility. Or perhaps not so odd. The present crisis must be, to this vast and venerable pile of stone, but a tiny, fleeting stain on the fabric. It had seen far worse down through the centuries. The worst that man could invent could have no lasting impact on the essential character of the cathedral. If we were to burn it down, I thought dreamily, leaving nothing but a lacy Gothic shell, it would remain a refuge and a haven, like Tintern Abbey.

  But what of the people? To be selfish, what about me? The cathedral might survive no matter what, but I still didn’t like the stain. I wanted to scrub it out. Until this was settled there was an uneasiness, a disquiet. Until this was settled, I couldn’t settle—into a new community, into a new life.

  That, I realized, was at the heart of it. That was why I went on meddling in something distinctly unpleasant that was really none of my business. Because this murder had involved me almost from the beginning, I had to stay involved to the end or lose the sense of belonging that I had just begun to establish. No matter how much of a fool I looked to other people, this was my business.

  The uneasiness had taken up residence between my shoulder blades; I couldn’t sit still any longer. I set off in search of the dean. The time had come when I had to talk to him about Messrs. Sayers and Wallingford. And come to think of it, what might he know about one Archibald Pettifer?

  The play of light in the nave was like music made visible. In bright chords of color it reflected from wall to wall, swirled and eddied in the dust motes like a chant. One could almost hear it.

  I could hear it; the chant was real, though no singer was visible. Mystified, I followed my ears and saw the dean, fully vested, and—surely that was the bishop with his crozier!—both of them behind an acolyte who was swinging his censer and making his way down the south choir transept. Moving quietly at a discreet distance, I stepped after the little procession.

  They stopped at the last side chapel before the cloister door. In my position, sheltered behind a tomb, I couldn’t hear the words of the prayers that the dean and bishop were intoning so softly, but their intent was clear. I didn’t need the clouds of incense that were enveloping altar, clergy, and all to tell me that a cleansing was taking place here. This holy place had been desecrated with the intent of murder, if not the actual act. Evil had been here, and could not be allowed to remain. I stole a little nearer and heard the words of the Litany rise with the incense. “From all evil and mischief; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the devil; from thy wrath, and from everlasting damnation . . .” With the others, I murmured in response, “Good Lord, deliver us.”

  The service was short. As the little procession turned to go, I blinked the incense out of my eyes, and then blinked again. The light in the Norman transept was never good, but surely there was a fourth figure in the procession? Humbly bringing up the rear, a monk walked with lowered head and silent, sandaled feet. I turned my head away, but not this time in fear. It was only right to give him his privacy, poor man. How many hundreds of years had it been since any kind of service had been held at that altar, his own particular place? He was worshiping in his own way, I supposed, and it was right that he should do so. What matter whether he was alive or dead?

  When I looked again he was gone. They were all gone. But I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Clouds of incense still hung in the air. I suppressed a cough and moved away quietly, feeling as if I had intruded on something private, a family affair.

  I waited about, reading tomb inscriptions, until the dean emerged from the vestry.

  “How nice to see you, Mrs. Martin,” he said, smiling. It was nearly his old smile, without the lines of worry that had shadowed it for the past week. Serenity shone once more from his kind face. Perhaps the service had exorcised the demons from the chapel; certainly they were gone from the dean. “I’m glad you were there just now,” he went on. “This has surely been as trying for you as for all of us. Perhaps it will be better now.”

  “It is better, thank you. I didn’t mean to intrude on the service, though; that’s why I stayed in the background. I might have known you would see me. Did you see . . .?” I bit off the question, but the dean’s smile turned almost to a grin.

  “Our friend? Was he there? It wouldn’t surprise me. But I didn’t see him. I never see him, if I can help it.”

  I chuckled. “No, it wouldn’t be proper, would it? You know, the odd thing is, I’ve seen him twice before, and he terrified me, both times. This time I just felt rather sorry for him. Perhaps I’m getting used to seeing ghosts.”

  His face changed; he looked worried and upset. “You know, Mrs. Martin, there really are no such things as ghosts; I shouldn’t have joked about it. If we think we see odd things now and again in an old place like this, they can be nothing more, really, than shadows of things that were, with no power to harm us. If you were frightened, there must be—something else. I’m sure I don’t know what,” he ended rather helplessly.

  “No, it’s all right, I’m just being an idiot, I expect. But I did want to talk to you about—what happened here. If this is a bad time I can come back . . .”

  “No, no, of course not. I’m entirely at your disposal until Evensong. Would you like to come across to the deanery, or will the little study do?”

  I said the little study would be fine, and the dean led the way, securely in charge again. I felt uneasy. He thought I was troubled by a crisis of conscience or some such spiritual malady; how would he react to my playing detective?

  “There now,” he said when we were both settled in the squashy old chairs, “what can I do for you?”

  I sat in silence for a long moment, considering how to begin. “I don’t know if this is going to make any sense to you,” I said finally. “I’m not sure it makes sense to me, to tell the truth. But you see, I’
ve been—looking into Canon Billings’s murder.”

  The dean cocked his head to one side, inquiringly.

  “Sort of—talking to people. Trying to find out what happened. Oh, I know what you’re going to say,” I added as he opened his mouth. “And I agree with you. The police are the people to do this, and they’re quite competent, and all that. But somehow I can’t leave it at that. It’s partly that I love this cathedral,” I mumbled, embarrassed at displaying emotion in front of an Englishman, “and partly that I found the body, and partly that I rather fell for Nigel Evans and want to make sure he’s well out of it, and—oh, I don’t know, really. But I’ve been asking a lot of questions, and there are some I’d like to ask you, that’s all.” There, it was out. And it sounded quite as silly as I expected it to.

  “I think that’s perfectly natural,” said the dean. “So long as we agree that I may not be able to answer in some cases, ask me what you like.”

  I gave him a grateful smile. Someday I may learn not to underestimate people.

  “I should have known you’d understand. All right, then, I won’t try to be tactful. First of all, there are lots of rumors circulating that both Mr. Sayers and Mr. Wallingford had good reason to dislike the canon, in fact that they both stood to lose their jobs if he had his way, and Mr. Wallingford might face a term in jail. Can you tell me anything about any of that?”

  “I’ve discussed part of this with the police, of course. They don’t seem to have got hold of the rumors about Mr. Sayers yet, and I didn’t think to tell them. . . .”

  “I may have to, you know. I promised myself I wouldn’t get cute with anything important. As a matter of fact I doubt I’ll find out anything they don’t already know; it’s just that I might interpret it differently.”