As he left only a small sum to maintain the collection, and as the books had nothing to do with agriculture, they were dumped into a room at the back of the library building and locked up until such time as somebody got around to straightening them out.
The college grew. The librarian got busier. The Buggins Collection got dustier. Once in a while, somebody would unlock the door, sneeze a few times, shake his head; and lock it again. The books couldn’t be circulated, or even consulted, because they had not been catalogued. Nobody cared because nobody wanted to read them anyway, until Peter Shandy joined the faculty.
Professor Shandy had a pleasant, old-gentlemanly taste for verse as distinct from poetry. He had grown up on Macaulay Joel Barlow, and John G. Saxe. He could never read “Jim Bludsoe of the Prairie Belle” without choking up on those immortal lines, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank/Till the last galoot’s ashore.” He could recite “The Dinkey Bird goes singing/In the amfalula tree,” although he had not done so since Alice grew up.
He thought of the treasures in rhyme that must be lurking among those cobwebbed piles, and wished to Christ somebody would get busy and straighten them out. He would gladly have taken on the job himself in his spare time, but Porble the librarian never let anybody have the key to the Buggins Room because the books couldn’t be circulated since they hadn’t been catalogued and it was against library rules for nonstaff people to go in there and mess around.
So Shandy, once tenure had made him bold, started chanting at faculty meetings, “We ought to do something about the Buggins Collection.” First it was a joke, then a bore. Nothing happened until he did what he should have done in the first place and voiced his concern to Mrs. Svenson at a cocktail party. Jemima Ames, who had a knack for popping up in the wrong place at the worst time, overheard and at once volunteered herself as assistant librarian for the Buggins Collection.
Sieglinde Svenson knew Mrs. Ames as a tireless worker in college causes. She spoke to Thorkjeld. President Svenson knew there was money in the Buggins fund that couldn’t be touched for any more useful purpose. He did not know Mrs. Ames’s total inability to stick to anything she was really supposed to do, so he hired her.
At the time of her demise, Jemima had held the appointment for almost a year. She had requisitioned card files and made great play with Library of Congress lists. She had spent much time and energy promoting a contest to design a special bookplate for the Buggins Collection which nobody bothered to do because there were no prizes and which would in any case have been redundant as the late Mr. Buggins had already put in his own bookplates. She had flaunted her title and talked of the great work to be accomplished, but not one book had got dusted, much less shelved.
If Shandy had in fact been the one to slaughter Tim’s wife, it would have been the Buggins Collection that drove him to it. Since nobody else gave two hoots about the old books, however, some other frustration must have triggered the deed.
But how could he know frustration was the motive? Jemima had been putting people’s backs up for years, and nobody had murdered her before.
“More whiskey, Pete?”
“Er—no, thanks.” He set down the glass he’d emptied without realizing it. “I think we ought to get along to the dining room, or they’ll have nothing left but turkey hash. To tell you the truth, I’ve been wondering why anybody wanted to kill Jemima. I mean, wanted to so badly that he or she actually did it. Oh, damn, you know what I’m trying to say.”
“I know, Pete. She could be the most exasperating woman on earth, but she wasn’t basically ill-natured. I’ve been wondering about that myself.”
“Did you tell Ottermole we’d decided it was murder rather than accident?”
“No, I thought I hadn’t better. He thinks I’m about one step ahead of the funny farm anyway, and I figured he wouldn’t listen to me. He’s convinced he did a brilliant piece of detecting.”
“I expect he wants to think so, anyway. The townees don’t want to run afoul of Svenson any more than we do. Did you manage to find the marble?”
“No sign of it. I made Harry the Ghoul search her clothes while I stood there and watched. That was another thing that made Ottermole sure I was rounding the bend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for? Damn it, I’m sorry, too, but not about what that jackass thinks of me. Come on, Pete, we might as well tie on the feed bag.”
Chapter 6
THEY PICKED THEIR WAY among the cider-swiggers and gingerbread-nibblers, the sliders and the strollers, up the slippery, trodden Crescent toward the college. Shandy marveled that so many humans were willing to drive long distances over secondary and often tertiary roads for the privilege of being fleeced by Balaclava’s car-park bandits and joggled by fellow gapers as they milled around ankle-deep in slush. To his horror, he could see that Shandy’s Folly was indeed the hit of the show.
“Boy, whoever lives in that place believes in giving us our money’s worth,” he heard one tourist exclaim. “I’d hate to have their light bill.”
The professor winced. He hadn’t thought of that. Power from the Cookie Works, as it was irreverently called, was not precisely cheap. No wonder Svenson encouraged the Illumination in all its excesses. The college must do a tidy business in electrical fees on top of everything else. Shandy observed as much to his companion.
Tim didn’t hear. He was rambling on about his own problems, mouthing words without realizing no sound was coming out. This often happened. Shandy nudged him in the ribs.
“Speak up, Tim,”
“Eh? Oh, I was just sounding off about Harry the Ghoul.” Undertaker Goulson was well liked in town, but the nickname was irresistible. “He was pestering me about what I wanted Jemima laid out in. Showed me a bunch of fancy dresses with no backs to ’em. Most indecent things I ever saw. Told him I wouldn’t stand for anything so disgusting, and so I won’t. Pete, I can’t handle this thing. I wish to God Jemmy could have come.”
He kicked at frozen slush and took another tack. “I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, Pete, but we’re going to be about as popular around here as a couple of skunks at a lawn party. All the people who couldn’t stand Jemima when she was alive are going to feel guilty and blame us for her getting killed. You’d better come to California with me.”
“No, I’ll stand the gaff. You had nothing to do with it.”
“I let her lie there for three days. They’ll call me a callous brute. Suppose I was.”
“No, you weren’t,” said his friend loyally, even though he knew the, neighbors must be saying that and a great deal more. Confirmation appeared in the shape of Jemima’s staunch ally, Hannah Cadwall, bearing down on them with blood in her eye. Knowing his only defense was in attack, Shandy beat her to the draw.
“Hannah, we came out looking for you.”
His outright lie stopped her in her tracks. Shandy pressed his advantage.
“Tim was just saying we need a woman’s help in this terrible time. I expect you’ve heard about our—er—tragedy?”
Mrs. Cadwall nodded, not quite sure how to reply. Professor Ames nodded, too, and had presence of mind enough to leave the talking to Shandy.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind walking along with us to the dining room. I’m trying to get him to eat something,” Shandy added in a conspiratorial murmur.
“Why, of course. Anything I can do—such a dreadful—still can’t believe she’s—” Mrs. Cadwall’s earnest incoherencies were a welcome switch from the reproaches she no doubt had ready framed. She did show a distressing tendency to lead the shattered widower by the arm, but that would have to be borne. If he could get her to see Ames as victim instead of villain and himself as a well-intentioned blunderer, public opinion might still be swayed in their favor, because Hannah was a talker and so was her husband. Shandy eased the tremolo stop out another notch.
“Unfortunately, he won’t be able to have either of the children with him. Roy’s at the South Pole and Jemmy’s about du
e to have her baby, as you doubtless know. She’s so dreadfully cut up about her mother that Tim’s promised to go out there right after the funeral. Rather heartbreaking, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Cadwall obliged with a sniffle. “Poor soul, whatever will become of him? Jemima was so—so—”
“Indeed she was. It’s a sad loss for us all. I’ll confess to you, Hannah, as an old friend, that I’m having strong guilt feelings about this awful thing. After that—er—little talking to you two gave me, I—er—tried to make amends, as you must have realized. You can’t say I didn’t try.”
“No, you certainly tried,” Mrs. Cadwall had to concede.
“Chief Ottermole feels that Jemima must have been in the process of—er—modifying my efforts when she slipped and fell. I’ll never forgive myself.” That last bit, at any rate, was not humbug.
“Now, Peter, there’s no sense in your brooding over what can’t be helped. In a way, I suppose it’s as much my fault as yours. I nagged at you enough about decorating. Next year, I’d be glad to—”
“It’s right this minute we need you most, Hannah. Do you think you might possibly be willing, as Jemima’s—er—closest friend and confidante, to do her a last favor?”
“Oh yes, anything!”
“Tim was just saying—Tim,” he bawled into the widower’s ear, “why don’t we ask Hannah about the dress?”
Ames, who had been lip-reading as best he could, picked up his cue.
“Goulson wants to know what to lay her out in. Tried to talk me into some piece of nonsense he’s got down there. Didn’t look like her style. Can’t you pick out something of hers that she liked, that she’d feel comfortable in?”
The last words came out jumbled, probably because his teeth were slipping. Hannah took it for emotion and was won.
“Leave it to me, Tim. I’ll straighten out Harry the Ghoul. Shall I order the flowers, too? The florist’s his brother-in-law and they’ll skin you alive between them if you don’t put your foot down.”
“Hannah, you’re a good friend. You go ahead and do it the way you think Jemima would have wanted, and send the bills to me.”
Mrs. Cadwall blew her nose. “Peter,” she choked, “see that he eats a good dinner.”
There was a fair amount of shoulder-patting and hand-squeezing before Mrs. Cadwall sped off on her errand of light. This took place directly in front of the dining hall and was witnessed by a satisfying number of faculty members. Ames almost queered the performance by remarking, “God, Pete, you played her like a violin,” but fortunately he forgot to turn up the volume. Shandy got him inside fast and asked the waitress in properly subdued tones for a table in a quiet corner.
They got through the meal rather quickly. The student waitress was brisk and efficient. Those fellow diners who came over to offer condolences didn’t linger at the table. It was never easy to make small talk with Professor Ames, and the subject was not a pleasant one.
“The funeral?” Tim answered the question for the sixth time. “It’s tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in the college chapel. Don’t want to drag it out and put a damper on the Illumination. Jemima wouldn’t have liked that.”
He sighed and picked up his dessert fork. The inquirer took the hint and left.
Tim was looking awfully tired, Shandy thought. This must be a terrible strain on the deaf man, so used to living in his own silent world. Probably the best thing would be to get him straight home. For Shandy himself there could be no rest. Among other things, he must call on the Dysarts, not only because he owed them an apology but because he wanted to know more about Jemima’s last actions of record.
He signed the check, left a lavish tip feeling that he’d better get as many people as possible on his side, and shepherded his old friend back down the hill. Neither of them said much until they were inside the house that its late mistress had bedecked so exuberantly without and allowed to remain such a dismal mess within.
“Do you mind staying here alone, Tim?”
“Why the hell should I? Anyway, I expect Hannah will be along pretty soon to get that dress. I forgot to give her my key.”
“Speaking of keys, I’ve been wondering whether you or Jemima had a key to my house.”
“Damned if I know.” Ames glanced around the cluttered room helplessly. “If we did, it’s buried somewhere. It wasn’t on her, anyway. She wasn’t even carrying a key to this house. She knew I’d be here.”
“Then I wonder how she got in. She or whoever took her. I could find no sign of forced entry.”
“Maybe they picked the lock.”
“They’re supposed to be the nonpickable kind. You have to use a key both coming and going. Tim, that’s another mistake! I had to use my own key to get in. If there was no key on her, how in hell did the doors get locked? I think we’ll have to go back and try to pound some sense into Ottermole’s head.”
“Can’t be done, Pete, believe me. He’ll claim the door was unlocked and you didn’t notice or the key was there and you hid it or some damn bunch of horsefeathers. He doesn’t want a murder during the Grand Illumination and he’s not going to have one and that’s that. Oh, Christ, Pete, I can’t handle this.”
“All right, Tim. You concentrate on getting through the funeral and out to be with Jemmy. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
“At this stage, I don’t know what I want except a few hours’ sleep. I’m not going to ask you to sit on this. You’re a scholar. If one of your plants died, you’d think it was part of your job to find out why. If somebody gets killed in your house, the same principle has to apply, I suppose. You know I’ve always worked with you as best I could, and I’m not backing off now, especially when it’s my own wife that’s dead. I’m just asking how much you think you’re going to accomplish by raising a ruckus when you’re already in the doghouse for trying to sabotage the Illumination. You know damn well that’s what you had in mind and so does everybody else around here who isn’t an utter jackass, regardless of your fancy footwork back there with Hannah Cadwall. Aren’t they going to think this is just another scheme to stir up trouble because your first one laid an egg?”
Shandy hunched his shoulders. “You’ve never given me bad advice yet, Tim. I’ll wait until I have something more tangible to show. Er—you’re not by any chance planning on cremation, are you?”
“No, we have a family plot up near Groton. I’m having her buried there as soon as the ground can be dug. In the meantime, they’ll keep her in some damnable cold storage vault they’ve got somewhere. So we can get at the body without having to order an exhumation for the next couple of months, I daresay. That what you had in mind?”
“Er—yes. Though the cause of death seemed obvious enough. Tim, I can’t leave this awful business lying on my doorstep. Surely it won’t hurt to keep nosing around in a quiet way?”
“It might hurt a great deal, if the wrong person got wind of what you’re up to. You know yourself that students in Poultry Management are always squeamish about killing their first chicken, but after that they take it in stride.”
“For a man who doesn’t talk much, you have quite a gift for words, old friend. I’ll try not to wind up in the soup.” Shandy rewrapped his muffler. “Florence Nightingale is about to ring your doorbell. I’ll leave you to her.”
“Thanks, pal. Care to walk me down to the funeral? I’m supposed to get there early so people can cry over me.”
“I’ll pick you up at a quarter past nine.”
Shandy opened the door for Hannah Cadwall, pressed her hand and was rewarded with a watery smile, and went out to breast the tide of jollity once more. He had no scruples about leaving his friend with Hannah, as Tim could always turn off his hearing aid.
That remark of Tim’s about chickens was uncomfortably perspicacious. He hadn’t thought of the possibility for himself. There seemed to be a great many things he hadn’t thought of. At least he ought to be safe enough making his apologies to the Dysarts.
�
�Watch it, Professor!”
There was that accursed girl again, trundling some squealing wretch over the iced-in ruts on her confounded sled.
“Watch it yourself, young woman,” he snapped. “You’re supposed to keep those sleds out of the walkways.”
She sped past before he got the words out, with a provocative waggle of her backside. Some other bogus elf, anonymous in a knitted mask, yelled from one of the gingerbread houses, “Don’t be a party-pooper, Professor. How about a hot cider to melt that cold, cold heart?”
“I’ve just finished dinner, thank you,” he replied with what fragment of dignity was left to him. “However, I’ll take a packet of those—er—coconut cowpats.”
The Dysarts went in rather heavily for whimsy.
“You’ll never regret it,” the student assured him, accepting a five-dollar bill and returning a shockingly small amount of change.
“I regret it already,” the professor replied, gazing in dismay at the pittance in his glove. “In any event, I don’t intend to eat them myself so the worst will be spared to me. Er—speaking of survival, can you tell me the name of that—er—blond bombshell who keeps trying to run me down with her sled? I’ve been wondering if she does it out of personal animosity or near-sightedness.”
The elf stared through its yarn-fringed eyeholes. “You mean you don’t know Heidi Hayhoe?”
“Obviously not. Is there any reason why I should?”
While the elf was still groping for words, its stand was suddenly inundated by a horde eager to exchange cold cash for hot cider. Shandy grabbed his bag of cowpats and fought his way loose.
The Dysarts lived in the last and largest house on the Crescent. Actually, it faced Shropshire Avenue, the road that meandered down from behind the college to cross Balaclava Junction’s Main Street. However, the Crescent counted the handsome fieldstone and clapboard residence as its own because it did the neighborhood credit. So, most people felt, did the Dysarts.
Rest You Merry Page 5
