Malice in Miniature

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “So she ’as a bad turn last week, an’ uses up all ’er mixture. An’ she tells Mr. Adam as ’ow she needs more, an’ ’ee tells Bob wot to get from the garden, an’ ’ee gets it. An’ last night she drinks it, and this mornin’ she’s dead. An’ ’ee never ’ad nuffink to do wiv it!”

  She embroidered on that familiar theme for some time before I was able to extricate myself. Before I left, she made me promise to do what I could for Bob. I tried not to sound overly hopeful, but she had talked herself into believing that it was all a mistake, like the other time, and that I would soon clear it up. Her faith in me was touching, but terrifying, especially after I’d talked to Inspector Morrison.

  “We’re a long way from making a charge, but it’s serious enough, I’m afraid,” he said somberly. We were standing in the hallway, swirls of activity going on around us. “It isn’t just the gathering of the herbs, or even the fact that Bob disliked Mrs. Lathrop. That motive would apply to everyone in the house, apparently. But it looks as though there might be a much stronger one, as well.” He looked miserable as well as tired. “Mrs. Martin, I’m truly sorry. Bob’s always been a respectable sort of man, apart from his drinking, and I take no pleasure in saying this, but it seems at least possible that he is, after all, a thief. There is no reason not to tell you that there was a plastic bag hidden behind some palms in the conservatory. It had Bob’s fingerprints all over it, and it was full of miniatures.”

  8

  I went home feeling very depressed, and very much alone. There was no point in trying to call Alan. He would call me when he heard the news from Morrison; till then I could only confuse the issue. In any case, I wasn’t certain I was looking forward to talking to him, because I was sure I knew what he was going to say.

  I don’t know what Alan’s first wife was like, but I had gotten the impression that she had been a lovely woman, intelligent and cultured, and quite happy to serve as Alan’s helpmeet in the conventional way. I wasn’t like that. I was American and prickly about independence. I’m not a feminist, exactly. I like men, on the whole, but I also like to follow my own pursuits, and Frank never tried to stop me. But Alan—Alan was protective. Oh, it wasn’t his fault. He was brought up in the English gentlemanly tradition, and it was charming when it was a question of helping me into a car, or carrying something heavy. Interfering with my activities was another matter.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten mixed up with the investigation of a crime, and on the previous occasions Alan hadn’t been very happy about my involvement. True, once he’d gotten over his professional indignation at the idea of amateur meddling, and discovered I could actually be useful, he’d mellowed a little, but I knew he was deeply concerned that I might, someday, get into trouble I couldn’t get out of. And now that we were married, it would be much worse.

  He was going to try to keep me out of this investigation, I was sure of it. We would quarrel, and there is nothing so miserable as a long-distance quarrel. I moped.

  The day was very long, and the weather was changing again. Clouds began to gather. The barometer began to fall. I should have been trying to help Bob somehow, but I couldn’t make my brain work. And what was the point, when Alan was going to stop me in my tracks?

  I tried for a little while to work on my dollhouse, but the weather had made my arthritic hands stiff and clumsy, and the project had somehow lost its appeal. There was nothing tempting on my bookshelves; my library consists largely of mysteries, which pall when one is involved in the real thing, and we hadn’t yet unpacked most of Alan’s books. I jumped every time the phone rang (two wrong numbers and the plumber, putting off his appointment yet again).

  Alan called, finally, as I was pushing my supper around my plate.

  “Well,” was his greeting.

  “Yes,” I said. There was a pause. “Are you going to come home?”

  “I don’t think so. Morrison is perfectly competent, and in a way, I’m personally involved, since Bob works for us, so it’s best I keep my distance.”

  Another pause.

  “Are you still coming on Saturday?” he asked, finally.

  “I don’t know. It depends on what happens tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  It was horrible that we could speak only in formalities. I gulped down the lump in my throat “Alan, I—you do understand that I have to support Ada?”

  A sigh came over the line. “I understand what you think you have to do. I’m not entirely sure I agree.”

  “She’s a friend, Alan,” I said a little desperately. “She thinks I’m Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes put together. She trusts me, and she—I’m sorry, but she doesn’t trust the police at all. It’s a class thing, I suppose, but there it is. I can’t just abandon her.” I stopped, perilously close to tears.

  “Dorothy, I do see your point of view, but—look, we can’t discuss this properly on the telephone. You will try to come on Saturday, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “Call me late tomorrow and I’ll let you know.”

  “Very well. Good night.”

  I put my plate on the floor and let Sam and Emmy fight over it. I couldn’t have choked down another mouthful.

  The next day, Friday, I woke with a headache and no inclination at all to get out of bed. The sky was as gray as my mood, and the bedroom was cold. Yesterday had been so warm I hadn’t turned on the central heating, but the weather, as it had threatened yesterday, had changed during the night Now it was very Novemberish.

  “‘A damp, drizzly November in my soul,’” I said aloud to Emmy, who jumped on my stomach and showed no interest in literary allusions. She was hungry, and so was Sam, and they told me so in ringing tones.

  “All right, all right. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Moby Dick anyway. You’d think he was cat food.”

  At last I’d said something that made sense. “Cat” and “food” are two of the words they know. Emmy nudged my cheek with a cold nose by way of encouragement, and Sam wailed in my ear. I got up.

  It was too early to call and see how Ada was doing, too early to go to the police station and check on progress, even if they would tell me anything, which was doubtful. I dressed fast, turned on the heat, made some coffee (after feeding the cats, of course), and sat letting hot, fragrant caffeine warm and cheer me.

  It took some time for the bells to penetrate my consciousness. The drizzle in the air muffled the tone, of course, but I had become so used to living with the sound of the cathedral’s bells that I often didn’t hear them, even on bright, crisp days when they chimed out clearly.

  I looked at the clock. Five minutes till Matins.

  I pulled on a hat at random, grabbed my umbrella, and streaked across the Cathedral Close, skidding through the arch in the choir screen just as the choirboys were filing into their stalls.

  Margaret Allenby, the Dean’s wife, moved over one place so I could sit at the end of the front row, and handed me the order of service for the day. I nodded my thanks and slipped to my knees for a moment before scrambling to my feet for the opening versides and responses and the Venite.

  I confess that I paid little attention to the service. I sat, stood, and knelt automatically, letting the beautiful old words and music wash over me. Here in the magnificent fan-vaulted choir, where little natural light penetrated on even the brightest of days, the November gloom seemed to matter less. The light of the choir’s candles, of the beautiful brass chandeliers, of centuries of faith cast a warm glow of peace and good cheer.

  But when old Canon Lovett had delivered the benediction in his kind, quavery voice, and choir and clergy had filed out, I turned to Margaret.

  “Good morning, Dorothy. Lovely anthem this morning, didn’t you think?”

  “Beautiful,” I said without a blush. I was sure it had been; it always was. “Margaret, do you have time for coffee?”

  “Of course. My house is frightfully untidy, I’m afraid, but—”

  “
Heavens, I wasn’t inviting myself over. I thought maybe Alderney’s, if you don’t mind walking in the rain.”

  “My dear Dorothy, perish the day an Englishwoman can’t walk in the rain!” She gathered up her umbrella and followed me up the nave.

  Alderney’s is at the far west end of the Close, and we were both damp around the edges by the time we got there. The wetness was as much fog as rain, and had a penetrating quality unique, in my experience, to England.

  It was late for breakfast and early for the morning coffee crowd; we had the place almost to ourselves, which was fine with me. We sat at a table in front of the fire and ordered coffee and Alderney’s specialty, a kind of yeast bun with raisins that they serve doused with cinnamon butter. I waited until the waitress was back in the kitchen before planting my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands.

  “Margaret, I need to talk to you.”

  “I rather suspected you might,” she said mildly, and I smiled in spite of myself. “There, now, that’s better! I thought you looked a bit seedy when you came panting in this morning.”

  “Very seedy. I badly need some advice.”

  “Then take some now, and get some food into you before you say another word.”

  I was sure I couldn’t eat, but when our order arrived, the buns smelled so good that I took a tentative bite, and then proceeded to wolf down the whole rich, buttery pastry.

  Margaret nodded with satisfaction. “You have some color back, now. You were gray as a ghost.”

  “I was hungry,” I said with surprise. “Come to think of it, I didn’t have any dinner last night.”

  “A great mistake, going without food,” said Margaret crisply. “Saps the strength, lowers the resistance. Now.” She leaned back and folded her hands across her stomach. “What’s up?”

  I waded in without preliminary. “You know about the murder at the Hall yesterday, of course, and that Ada Finch has asked me to—well, what she really wants is for me to prove that Bob didn’t do it. She has an exaggerated idea of my abilities, and a very poor opinion of the police. And, of course, ordinarily I’d do anything I could, but—oh, everything’s different now that Alan and I are married. People won’t talk to me freely, and I don’t think Alan likes the idea of my being involved. Well, I know he doesn’t. He’s away, of course, so we haven’t talked about it at length, but he was very odd on the phone last night. Wary, sort of. And I can’t bear the thought of anything coming between us, but I can’t just let Ada down, either. And besides, I—I want to get into this.”

  I struggled to say what was in my mind. “Margaret, something’s happened to me in the past few months. I’ve come alive again, somehow. After Frank died, I wasn’t really a person for a long time. I was locked up in a cage, looking and talking like a human being, but actually being a robot. Everything was automatic.

  “Do you understand at all what I’m trying to say? Somehow, now, the cage is open. I’m free, free to find out who I am, to redefine myself, and I’m finding out that I’m good at some very odd things. Like—well, like solving some kinds of crimes, silly as it sounds. This business, now. It’s right up my alley, so to speak, and then with people I know and care about being involved . . .” I ran down, poured myself more coffee, and took a sip.

  “Hmmm. Have you talked to Jane?”

  “I can’t, not about this. She has some peculiar notion about the Hall, and she doesn’t like my going out there. She’ll give me information when I ask, that’s all.”

  “Jane has excellent judgment, you know.”

  I sighed irritably. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me the same thing? Not to get involved?”

  “I’m going to tell you no such thing. You must make up your own mind what to do. It’s your conscience that has to be satisfied, after all, no one else’s. What I am saying is to listen to what Jane tells you, because it will be reliable information. And, Dorothy—don’t sell Alan short. He’s not an unreasonable man, not the sort to keep a woman caged up, or glorified on some sort of pedestal. He simply loves you.”

  “I know he does. And I love him. But I—oh, I don’t know. I come, not just from a different country, but from a different world in many ways, and I’m used to being independent. And then there’s his job. If I get into trouble, it’s going to reflect on him, and . . .” I ran down again.

  “Have you told him all this?”

  “No. He knows.”

  “You’d be astonished at what people don’t know until you tell them. My advice, for what it’s worth, is that you defer any decision until you’ve talked it out thoroughly with your charming husband. Argue your point of view, and see what he says. And then think about it again for a good twenty-four hours, so you’re not doing anything irrevocable when your mind is in a turmoil.

  “Now I must run. I’ve a meeting of the Altar Guild in five minutes. I’ll pray for you, my dear, and I’ll ask Kenneth to, as well. Don’t leave your umbrella behind.”

  She laid some money on the table and blew out the door.

  Maybe it was the sensible, matter-of-fact advice, or the stabilizing influence of a centuries-old form of worship, or the prayers of a good woman. Coffee and food probably had something to do with it, too. At any rate, I left Alderney’s with a plan.

  First on the agenda was the phone call to Ada.

  The voice that answered was male, and I instantly felt twenty years younger. “Bob! You’re home!”

  “Ar.”

  I waited for an explanation, but there was only silence, punctuated by heavy, adenoidal breathing. “That’s good news!” I said brightly. “Have they arrested someone else, then?”

  “Naow.”

  A further interval. “Bob, I actually called to talk to your mother. Is she around?”

  “Ar.” The phone was laid down with a bang, and eventually Ada’s voice sounded.

  “’Ullo?”

  “Ada, it’s Dorothy. I was so relieved when Bob answered, but I couldn’t get anything out of him. Has he been cleared?”

  She gave a snort, unmistakable even over the phone. “Not so’s you’d notice. ’Ere, ’old on a minute.”

  There was the sound of a door closing, and Ada came back on the line.

  “I didn’t want ’im to ’ear me. ’Ee’s mopin’ around like a sick turkey, feelin’ sorry for ’isself.”

  “But why, for heaven’s sake? If he’s been allowed to come home—”

  “’Ee ain’t out of the woods yet,” Ada said somberly. “They didn’t ’ave enough evidence against ’im to ’old ’im, but they told ’im not to leave town, and ’ee come ’ome yesterday, so today ’ee goes out to work, it not rainin’ ’ard enough to matter, an’ there bein’ a pile ’o work to be done on two of’ is gardens before winter sets in ’ard.”

  She paused for breath. “An’ they both told ’im they didn’t need ’is services no more.”

  There was no adequate response. “I see,” I said slowly, growing angrier the longer I thought about it. “Just because he’s under suspicion. It isn’t fair, Ada!”

  “An’ ’oo said life was fair?”

  I couldn’t think of anything helpful to say to that, either, and hung up feeling I had done no good. But instead of being depressed myself, I was gloriously angry, and in that mood I put on one of my most outrageous hats for moral support, flung myself in my car, and headed recklessly out to Brocklesby Hall for the second item on my mental list.

  Rain slowed the traffic, so I had time on the way to think out an approach. The museum would probably be closed. In fact, the whole place was probably designated a Crime Scene, but I might be able to wangle my way in. If being the wife of the chief constable was proving to be a handicap in some ways, surely I was entitled to use its advantages for all they were worth.

  So I smiled pleasantly to the young constable on duty at the door. “Good morning. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I am Mrs. Nesbitt.” Never mind my preferred usage for now; this was a time for name-dropping. “I hope I won’t b
e in the way, but Mrs. Cunningham needs some help in the library, what with all the confusion. May I use this door, or would it be better to go in the back?”

  Poor man, he knew perfectly well that he should keep me out, but he couldn’t quite face the possible consequences. Nor could he leave his post to make sure I went where I said I was going to. He smiled uncertainly, but my hat settled the matter. No one who would deliberately don an object featuring droopy chrysanthemums and velvet oak leaves could be taken seriously as a villain.

  “I’ll just ask someone to show you the way, madam—”

  “Oh, never mind, I know the way. Thank you so much!” I sailed in, making a mental note to ask Alan to keep the poor constable out of trouble. I wasn’t playing fair, and I knew it, but just at the moment I didn’t care.

  I hoped Meg was actually in the library. I had no idea whether she would be; she had been an excuse to get inside the house. I’d thought I’d offer to help, anything to lend some credence to my lie, and then slip out as soon as I decently could and poke around, trying to avoid the legitimate representatives of the law. My thoughts hadn’t progressed any further than that.

  Which was just as well, because the minute I laid eyes on the librarian I knew she was in genuine need of help. Her eyes were swollen; there was a sodden handkerchief on the desk in front of her.

  “You poor dear, what is it? Has Claude—”

  She jumped when I spoke, dabbed angrily at her eyes, and glared at me. “It isn’t Claude. Claude’s away; nobody’s seen him since the murder. It’s just—oh, everything is so miserable!” She picked up the handkerchief, I substituted a clean one from my purse and let her cry it out.

  “Sorry, Dorothy,” she finally muttered stiffly. “No excuse for that.”