“Don’t, is my advice. You said something about dessert?”
We worked our way through cheesecake and coffee and decided to take our brandy to the parlor; the kitchen chairs were getting a little hard. Alan made short work of building up a nice fire in the parlor grate.
“Alan, how did you get involved in police work?” I asked when we were nicely settled with some Mozart on the CD player. “It seems an odd career for a man like you.”
He looked at me, amused. “And what am I like?”
“Oh—cultured, sensitive, observant, kind.” I blushed a little. Was I getting too personal?
“You must admit that ‘observant’ is a pretty good qualification for a copper. You might have added inquisitive and self-righteous. I like to know what’s going on, and I don’t like crime. And I found that knowing a little about what people think and feel—there’s your ‘sensitive,’ I suppose—made me good at the job. So I stuck with it. That’s all, really.”
“I can’t imagine you enjoyed catching the crooks, when you did that personally. I mean actually arresting them and charging them with murder or whatever, especially back when you knew they might hang.”
“No, it could sometimes be a nightmare. I used to wonder if I had the right, or if any man had the right, to take the life of another. But then I would think of the victim, whose body I had always seen, remember, and remind myself that he or she hadn’t deserved to die, either. That helped. And there was a satisfaction about coming to the end of a case, knowing that one had taken a villain off the streets and freed everyone else from suspicion.” He sipped his brandy, a little embarrassed about airing his feelings.
“I wish we’d come to the end of this one,” I said fervently. “It seems to me we’re right back where we started. We were so sure—well, I was, anyway—about Wallingford, and now he’s been murdered, so obviously—”
“No, not quite obviously. Murderers have been murdered before now. But I agree, the probability is against it. I’ve been thinking a good deal today about the money he paid back to the cathedral.” He paused to let that sink in.
“You think it was an admission of guilt? An atonement, sort of? Or—no, of course, what an idiot I’ve been. Blackmail!”
“It does make one wonder, doesn’t it? A murder is committed in or around the cathedral. A man who frequents the cathedral, and who lied about his actions on the night of the murder, is suddenly in possession of a large sum of money. Then he himself is murdered.”
“He obviously never read Agatha Christie,” I said flippantly. “She knew that blackmailing a murderer was a very dangerous way to make money.”
Alan looked at me, cupped his glass in his hands, and looked away. “Dorothy,” he said, gazing fixedly at the flames of the dying fire, “you’ll resent this, I suppose, but you do realize that hunting down a murderer is also a hazardous occupation? I wish you’d leave it to us. I know you’re intelligent and clever, and all the rest, but I do wish you’d give it up. It would—damage my pride considerably if you . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“No, I don’t resent it, not now. It’s very kind of you, really. But—I can’t give it up, Alan. Not and ever live with myself.”
“So long as you don’t forget,” he said with an edge to his voice, “that the operative word is ‘live.’”
15
JANE POPPED HER head in the back door. “Dorothy? Going to market. Need anything?”
I seized the chance to get out of the house. “I’ll come with you.”
Jane was uncommunicative as we walked up the street.
“Beautiful day,” I offered tentatively. “More like April than the second day of January. Although it seems unnatural to me; I really like winter to be winter.”
Jane snorted.
“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said after another moment or two of silence. “About Wallingford, I mean.”
She grunted.
I presumed that was a yes. Well, whether she wanted to talk about it or not, I did. “But, Jane, it’s important! If he didn’t kill the canon, who did? They’ll start looking cross-eyed at Nigel again!”
She grunted once more, and even spoke. “My house the whole time.”
I got it after a beat or two. “I know Nigel was at the party when the fire started. No, he couldn’t have done that. But the police aren’t sure the two murders were committed by the same person. And everyone else who’s in the running for First Murderer was at the party, too. Jeremy Sayers was playing the piano the whole evening, and Mr. Pettifer was stuffing his face and holding forth about something most of the time. What was he doing there, by the way, Jane? I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”
Jane unbent at last. “He’s not. Bag of wind, but he never refuses an invitation. Wanted to talk to him about that building scheme of his. Never got the chance.”
“You may get the chance now,” I pointed out as we rounded the corner into the Market Square. “There he is.”
He was strutting across the marketplace like a one-man parade. Jane quickened her march to intercept him, and timed it nicely, reaching his path just a second before he did. He very nearly ran slap into her, which put him off balance, literally and metaphorically.
“Morning, Councillor.”
“Er—good morning, Miss Langland. I hope I didn’t—that is—I trust—”
I joined in gleefully. “Good morning, Mr. Pettifer. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
He turned to me and raised his hat stiffly. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, madam.”
“Sorry,” said Jane with a glint in her eye. “Mr. Pettifer, my next-door neighbor Dorothy Martin. Dorothy found the body.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I put my hand out. “How do you do?” I said sweetly. “Jane means that I was the one to find poor Canon Billings.”
“Oh—ah—indeed. Most unfortunate, most unfortunate. He will be sorely missed.”
That was Jane’s cue. “Miss him like a toothache yourself, eh?”
“I’m not sure that I understand you, Miss Langland.” The sun was still shining warmly, but the conversational temperature was dropping fast.
“Hear you’ll go ahead now with your slum program.” Her wording left doubt as to whether Pettifer was going to tear down slums or build new ones. Or both. “Understand Billings was against it.”
“My dear lady.” He ignored me completely. My accent had placed me as an American, therefore a nonvoter and a person of no influence whatever. “It is by no means certain that the council will go ahead with our building program.” He stressed the plural. “No, no, not at all certain. We shall have to consider all options most carefully. I should not wish you to believe that it is the habit of your Borough Council to engage in precipitate action. No, no, debate and compromise have made our great British system what it is. I will concede the likelihood that we shall now be able to conduct our deliberations without that attitude of stubborn obstruction to progress which characterized—” He suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be sorry about Billings’s death. “That is, although Canon Billings was a most capable man, one cannot deny that he lived to a great extent in the past. Admirable in a scholar, no doubt, but a sad mistake for a practical man. If one lives in the past, I am fond of saying, one will never envision the future, and it is the vision of the future which makes for a vibrant present.
“Speaking of which”—he made a great show of consulting his watch—“my own future presses. I trust you will excuse me, ladies. Good morning.”
“Should we have applauded?” I asked when he had raised his hat and gone.
Jane snorted.
I WAS STILL restless after putting away my purchases, and still trying to digest Mr. Pettifer’s political address. A pretty unappetizing tidbit, really. If the man thought any more of himself he’d have trouble finding hats to fit.
But I thought, reluctantly, that I couldn’t see him as a murderer. On the whole I thought he’d find very l
ittle that was worth a risk to his own precious skin. It was a pity, too, because that left the field, in my mind, to Jeremy Sayers and Nigel, with or without some of the Endicotts. All of whom I liked very much better than Mr. Archibald Pettifer. Goodness, how that man could talk without saying anything!
In fact, however, he had reintroduced one idea to my head. Billings, he’d said, had lived in the past. That was what I’d been chasing earlier: Just which part of the past was he living in before he died? No one seemed to know, and I remembered that I’d intended to ask George.
Well, what was wrong with right now?
The walk was altogether more pleasant than the last time in the fog. The morning really was delightful. A few plants were pushing green spikes through the ground, tulips and daffodils and crocuses. The jasmine creeping over garden walls was covered with tiny yellow flowers, and in the warmth of the sun the earth was beginning to smell like spring. And in the little parks I passed, the children contrived to make just as much noise and get just as muddy as they would when spring really did arrive.
In George’s street his raw modern atrocity shone brightly in the sun, defiling the gentle, harmonious blend of gray stone and golden stone, tile roof and slate roof. I knocked for some time on his door before giving up.
Alice was probably doing the marketing, but I couldn’t see George going along on such a woman’s errand, as he would think of it. He seemed to have been spending a lot of time over the holidays at the university, though, working on his book. I toiled up the steep little hill to the campus.
Sherebury actually has a campus, if a small one, somewhat in the American pattern. It’s a Victorian institution that has recently grown, so there’s an odd mixture of old and new buildings, but that looks American, too. George’s office was in one of the old buildings, I thought, but I’d only been there once or twice and wasn’t sure I remembered which. I’d have to ask someone, though few students were around during the holidays.
I turned a corner, and there, against all the odds, I saw George, heading down a pathway. He was facing away from me, and by his side, attentively by his side, walked an extremely shapely girl in an extremely short skirt.
And suddenly Alan’s remarks came back to me and I put two and two together with such force that I almost turned around in a panic and went home.
Oh, no! Not George! But if he was still playing tomcat, and if Billings knew about it and threatened to tell Alice, Alice with the money . . .
Rabbits, when threatened, freeze and try to become invisible. If they have to run, they run like the wind. But if they are finally cornered, they will fight. No one expects it, which makes them that much more dangerous.
What would George have done? Bluster, deny the whole thing, plead? Nothing would have been of any use. Billings would have been precise as to his facts, adamant in his attitude. And George, goaded beyond endurance, would have picked up whatever was handy, and . . .
As the imaginary blow fell, I shook myself. Common sense told me I couldn’t condemn George for murder just because he was walking across the campus in broad daylight with a girl. There were a hundred innocent reasons for that, for heaven’s sake. No, I came to talk to him, and I was going to talk to him. I’d have to trust my talent for prevarication to get me through without disaster. I took a deep breath and called out.
“George! Oh, George!”
The looks they gave each other as they spun around made me panic again. I saw her shoulders jerk with a quick intake of breath, saw the guilt in her round eyes. George, on the other hand, looked quite simply furious, though whether at her for her obvious reaction or at me for my interruption, I couldn’t tell.
I had no choice now but to ignore their distress and go through with it. I walked up to them, smiled at the white-faced girl, and turned to George.
“I’m so glad I caught you, George.” Did they wince at my unfortunate choice of words? I hurried on. “I was out for a walk, and there’s something I wanted to ask you. Are you terribly busy or could you spare me a few minutes?”
“Thank you ever so much for your help, Professor Chambers,” said the girl, glancing from him to me like a nervous mouse. “I shan’t take up any more of your time.” She ran up the path.
“Did I interrupt something, George?” I asked pleasantly and, I realized too late, ambiguously.
He cleared his throat. “A—um—an undergraduate. Reading for one of my seminars. We were discussing—ah—”
I was as embarrassed as he. “Well, at any rate, now that I have interrupted, do you suppose you’d have time to talk to me? Just for a little while—in your office, if it’s all right,” I added firmly. “I’ve walked a long way and I’m not as young as I used to be.”
He had little recourse but to consent, however ungraciously, and lead me to the cramped room in one of the older buildings that served as his office.
It was not only cramped, it was stuffy on this warm day, and a terrible mess. “Gracious, George, you’ve been neglecting your housekeeping,” I said as I picked up a pile of papers from the only visitor’s chair. “Is this your book? Where shall I put it?”
He grunted something and shoved a dented brass planter away from the corner of his desk. I put the papers in its place, hoping they wouldn’t cascade onto the floor. “That plant of yours could use some water,” I commented idly.
He glanced at it, irritably. “Needs repotting. Haven’t had time. Now, what was it you wanted, Dorothy? I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”
I sat down, fiddling with the plant while I considered an approach. “What it needs is a new pot. This one’s had it. But I think the plant’s dead, anyway.”
Might as well go ahead and ask, now that I was here. “George, I won’t be long, I promise. But I was glad to find you, because I did want to ask you about Canon Billings’s book. I’ve been trying to find out what he was working on. No one seems to know anything except that it was about St. Paul. I thought, since that’s more or less your field, too, he might have talked to you. Do you have any idea?”
George had taken his pipe from his pocket and was taking forever to light it, using his gadgety pipe lighter and sending small abortive puffs of sickeningly sweet smoke into the already airless room.
“What makes you think,” puff, puff, “it was about,” dig, wheeze, puff, “St. Paul?”
“I’m not sure, really—oh, yes, something the dean said. But he didn’t know, he was just guessing.”
The pipe seemed now to be going properly, to my regret. “I think he’s wrong. Billings never said anything definite to me, but I got the distinct idea it had to do with Nero.”
I blinked away the smoke. “Nero! Why on earth would he be interested in Nero?”
“Nero’s connection with Corinth, you know. The canal he engineered across the peninsula. Didn’t actually get built until this century.” He puffed energetically, beginning to disappear in a blue haze. “Was there anything else? I am rather busy . . .”
I swallowed a cough. “No, thank you, George, sorry to bother you. If you do get any firmer lead on what he might have been doing . . .”
“Not likely to, but I’ll keep it in mind. Enjoy the lovely day, Dorothy.”
I escaped, had a coughing fit in the corridor, and found my way outside, where I stood actively enjoying the pleasure of breathing.
16
THE MOMENT I got back I wanted to talk to Jane, but she wasn’t home. It took some courage to go to the phone.
I succeeded on the third try.
“Chief Constable Nesbitt here.”
He sounded so official I suddenly felt about ten years old. “Um—are you terribly busy? This is Dorothy Martin, and I have something to tell you, but if you’re—”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.” His voice warmed slightly, but apparently we were going to be formal. “I’m sorry, I am late for a meeting; my driver is waiting. May I ring you up later, about seven perhaps?”
“Yes, of course, it’s nothing urgent. Good-bye.”
“Dorothy! My dear! We just got back, we’ve been in Paris, and we read all about the fire and another murder. Are you all right? Do you need any help? What can we do?”
“Lynn! You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear from you. Actually, my urgent need right now is to talk to somebody, and you’re exactly the person.”
“That’s why we called.” Tom’s voice came on the line. “Lynn and I thought you might like to get out of that idyllic little village of yours, with all that boring peace and quiet, and there’s a pub outside Maidstone we’ve been wanting you to see, anyway. Have you mastered the wrong side of the road yet, or shall we meet you at the train in Maidstone?”
I gulped. I had, in fact, learned to drive on the left, but the thought of doing so still left me weak-kneed. And those awful traffic circles they call roundabouts, with buses and trucks bearing down on you from the wrong direction . . . “Yes, of course, I’m all right as long as there isn’t too much traffic,” I lied staunchly. “I need really good directions, though, Tom. Every single roundabout I come to is going to have five ways out of it, to Little Puddleby, and Upper Slaughter, and Something Parva, and heaven knows what, and not one word about Maidstone, and I’ll just keep driving round and round in circles . . .”
“Relax, kid. You know how to get from your house to the motorway, don’t you? Toward London?”
“Certainly.” I put on my dignity.
“Okay, then here’s what you do . . .”
He made me write down every step of it.
“It sounds simple enough,” I said dubiously.
“It’s an easy hour from your house. If you haven’t found us in an hour and a half, say by four-thirty, get to the nearest phone booth and call the Wicked Lady, and we’ll come and find you.” He gave me the number. “You still driving that beat-up old Beetle?”
Body in the Transept Page 16
