Bill? went down on the list.
American.
First time in England.
Here on business.
Here I paused. What kind of business? He’d told me, I was sure. It’s one of the standard set of questions strangers ask each other—where are you from, what do you do, are you married, do you have children, et cetera. He was from California. I remembered that, because I have family there. And he worked in—
Of course! He worked in Silicon Valley somewhere, and he worked with computers! My memory grudgingly released details, a few at a time. Bill’s concern was, specifically, computer software. He was a partner in a small but growing company. That much I had understood. He had told me in great detail exactly what his company’s software did, and why it was so wonderful, and how the tiny two-man operation had grown so rapidly into an international concern. That part hadn’t made sense to me even at the time, so of course I couldn’t remember much. I know very little about computers, which fascinate and scare me at the same time. I did remember, though, that he had told me he’d come to England to look into problems in the London office. Had he used the phrase “growing pains,” or was that simply the impression I’d gained from what he did say?
I sat back, rather pleased with myself. I not only had a few facts in front of me, dredged up from my uncooperative mind, but I had an idea. Its name was Nigel Evans.
Nigel Evans was a graduate student at Sherebury University and a good friend of mine. I’d met him my first Christmas in Sherebury, when I’d been instrumental in saving him from something pretty unpleasant. He’d often said he wished he could do something for me. Well, now was his chance.
For Nigel, at age twenty-something, was a shark at computers. He was doing research in history, but he also worked part-time in the university’s Computer Centre. He had at one time told me exactly what he did there, but of course the jargon had gone in one ear and out the other. I did know, because his delightful young wife, Inga, had told me, that Nigel subscribed to virtually every computer magazine known to man, and knew more about what Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were doing than he did about their neighbors. Inga, greatly to her amusement, had had to explain who Gates and Jobs were.
Nigel was my source of information. And Nigel was the son-in-law of my favorite pubkeepers, the Endicotts at the Rose and Crown, just on the other side of the cathedral. I looked at the kitchen clock. Nearly noon, and I’d had no breakfast. All right, there was no time like the present. I picked up my umbrella and my purse, plucked a rainproof hat off one of the pegs in the hallway, and headed for the gate at the end of my street that led into the Cathedral Close.
3
Despite the rain, I dillydallied a bit on the walk to the cathedral, through it, and out again to the Rose and Crown. My leg ached enough that a slow pace seemed wiser, especially over rain-slick paving stones, but then I always like to take my time in and around the cathedral. I still have to pinch myself now and then to make sure I’m not dreaming, that I really do live next door to all that age and beauty and magnificence. I never want to get used to it, take it for granted.
It wasn’t a good day for pausing outside to look up at the buttresses and pinnacles, but once I was inside the church, I followed my usual practice of wandering idly for a few minutes, trying to find some lovely detail I hadn’t noticed before. Today a small stained glass window in the south aisle caught my eye, and I was puzzling over it when the Dean’s wife appeared at my elbow.
“He’s very gorgeous, our Satan, isn’t he?” she said.
“Almost too gorgeous,” I said, looking at the feathers of purple and scarlet and gold that were flying from the deposed angel’s wings as he fell headlong from heaven. “He actually looks very attractive, if it weren’t for those eyes.”
“Oh, but Satan is attractive! Proud and bold and beautiful—the angel of the morning, you know. Evil always has to be gaudier and more glamorous than good, or it wouldn’t draw any converts at all.” She looked at the window thoughtfully. “The windows were their Sunday schools then, of course. They didn’t have Bibles—the parishioners, I mean—and most people couldn’t have read them even if they’d had them. So the church decorations were meant to teach them the stories.”
“This one is a terrible story,” I said soberly. “And rather a horrible picture, if you look at it closely.”
“Yes, and rightly so. It took Milton to turn the devil into a hero, and that wasn’t for another couple of hundred years after this window was made. The Middle Ages understood the price of pride, Dorothy. Look at what Satan’s leaving behind, so that he can rule, rather than serve. And you mentioned his eyes. Of course they’re frightening. They’re looking down into hell. Into death.” She paused. “My dear, what is it? What have I said?”
She had seen my face change. “Nothing, really. Just your mention of looking into death. I had a bad experience yesterday.” I turned deliberately away from the disturbing window and told her the story, or an abbreviated version. I was beginning to be very worried indeed about Bill’s death. I’d dismissed Jane’s suggestion of murder lightly enough last night, but that was before the dearth of information in the papers had made me think the whole thing had been hushed up. Maybe I was falling prey to senile paranoia, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell very many people about the dead man I was beginning to think of as “mine.” Margaret, of course, was perfectly discreet, but still …
“Oh, dear. How awful for you! Though for him, of course—”
I nodded. “A nice clean instant death. But to be murdered—”
“I doubt that matters to him very much now,” said Margaret matter-of-factly. “I’ll ask Kenneth to pray for him. Bill, you said?”
“It’s all I can remember.”
“Never mind. God knows his name. I must go, my dear. Are quite sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. I was just going to the Rose and Crown for some lunch.”
“Let me see—Wednesday. Cottage pie. Enjoy it, and don’t worry too much.”
She bustled off, and I breathed a small sigh. In this place of peace and goodwill, this temporal place so closely linked to the eternal, the sudden death of a young man disappeared with barely a ripple. Perhaps in the vast cosmic scheme of things, that was appropriate, but I wasn’t able to accept death as easily as Margaret could. I still wanted some answers.
I headed for the west door.
“Hul-lo, my love!” boomed Peter Endicott as I entered the lovely old inn. “Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” Mine host, looking the part right down to the rosy cheeks and spotless white apron, offered me his arm and showed me to a table in the raftered, paneled bar. I was the only customer; noon is a little early for lunch in England. “What’ll it be, then?”
“Margaret Allenby said this is cottage pie day.”
“It is that, and very nice today, too. You’d like a pint of bitter with it, would you, or a glass of claret?”
“Bitter, please, but just a half.” I relaxed into the Governor Winthrop chair, so much more comfortable than it looked, and drank in my surroundings. The Rose and Crown is, to me, exactly what a pub ought to be. It’s a warm place, in both senses, partly because of Peter’s genial personality and partly because of the beautiful old wood and the low ceiling and the diamond-paned windows and the brass ornaments hung here and there. The Endicotts refuse to succumb to the enticements of canned music or the electronic game machines that turn so many other pubs into a hideous clangor of noise. They draw their customers by encouraging conversation and serving excellent bar food, at reasonable prices, during the day, and four-star meals at night in the elegant dining room on the other side of the entry hall. Upstairs a few tastefully decorated rooms provide luxurious lodging for lucky travelers. They always come back.
“Dorothy, you’re looking blooming!” said Peter as he drew my beer and dished up my lunch from the small steam table behind the bar. “But you really haven’t been round for ages
, have you now?”
“Well, we only got back from Bramshill last month, and then Alan had to go chasing off to Zimbabwe, a conference he’d promised months ago to attend. He’ll be gone for another week or two at least, I imagine. I miss him. Oh, thank you, that looks delicious.” I took a bite of the concoction of meat and vegetables and mashed potatoes, spluttered, and downed a quick swallow of beer. “Ouch, hot! Actually, Alan being gone is one reason I stopped in, in a way.”
I had already decided to be less than candid with Peter. He was a good friend, an old friend, but he talked to a lot of people in the course of a day, many of them strangers, and I couldn’t rid myself of that nasty feeling that too much talk about my train victim might prove unwise. “You see,” I went on, hoping I sounded honest, “Alan thinks it might be a good idea for me to get a computer, to keep me amused whenever he’s gone. He’s officially retired, of course, but he knows too much about too many aspects of policing for people to let him get by with much frittering. So he’ll be traveling often, and he worries about me. I could learn a lot from the Internet and the Web, he says, and do some shopping from my own living room, and even keep in touch with people—that sort of thing.” I crossed my fingers. Was I explaining too elaborately? Was I using at least some of the right words? “And of course I don’t know a thing about it, so I was hoping Nigel might—”
“Of course! The very person! He can tell you everything you want to know, and probably a lot you don’t, as well. He’s a fine lad, mind, but he does love the sound of his own voice. The Welsh streak, I reckon.” Peter laughed comfortably.
“I’m glad to hear the recommendation,” I said. I was, too. There had been a time when Peter hadn’t liked Nigel too well, and had been very much opposed to his relationship with Inga, Peter’s adored daughter. It sounded as though he had been won over completely. Which was a relief, especially as I had been instrumental, in a small way, in bringing about their marriage.
My lunch cooled to an acceptable level, and I ate quite a bit more of it before I ventured the question. “Where can I find Nigel today, Peter? I’m eager to get started on this project, now that Alan’s talked me into it.”
“Oh, dear, I don’t keep his schedule in my head, but Greta would know, I imagine. She’s upstairs. I’ll just go and fetch her.”
“Oh, not if she’s busy, Peter. I can easily phone later—”
“No, she’ll be coming down in half a mo’ anyway, to help with the lunch crowd. They’ll be here shortly. Darling!” he called as he went out into the hall and started up the stairs.
Peter’s wife, when she came down, was as lovely as ever, which is saying a good deal. She was dressed with her usual simplicity in a black skirt and a white blouse with simple pearl stud earrings, and as usual I thought that the pearls weren’t really necessary. When you have a perfect oval face, apple-blossom skin, and the kind of blue eyes poets write sonnets about, you don’t need further ornament. Greta was probably in her late forties, but her only sign of age was a silver streak in her golden hair, and even that looked as though she’d had it done in a salon.
She came over and touched her satin cheek to mine. “I couldn’t believe it when Peter told me you were here! You’ve stayed away far too long.”
“I have. You’re right. I should keep my friendships in better repair. That’s one reason I’m so glad Alan and I are back in town. Or at least, I am. Alan’s away—did Peter tell you?—and I’m finding myself at loose ends. That’s why I want to see Nigel.” I repeated the elaborate fiction I’d told Peter. “Would he have time today to give me a few pointers on how to pick out a computer?”
“Today, let’s see. Wednesday. He has classes all morning on Wednesdays, I know, but I believe he works at the Computer Centre all afternoon.”
“Oh, then he won’t be free until this evening?” I tried not to let my disappointment show. If my story were true and it really were just a case of seeking his advice, it wouldn’t be all that urgent.
Greta laughed, the silvery laugh that was so like her daughter’s. “My dear! So far as I can understand it, Nigel’s work consists entirely of messing about on the Internet, unless one of the students needs his help with a project, and this close to the end of term that isn’t likely. They’re finishing their projects, not launching them, and they’ve no time for computer nonsense, games and that sort of thing. I should think he’d have hours to chat with you.”
“Good! Now, just where do I find the Computer Centre?”
It was, fortunately, on the edge of the campus. Sherebury University is built on the hills to the northwest of the town proper, and though I often enjoy walking its spacious, beautiful, American-style campus, I didn’t want to do it in the rain with an aching leg. I went home and got the VW out of the garage, carefully negotiated the short trip to the university, and was lucky enough to find a space in a visitors’ parking lot quite close to the little building that housed the computers.
A kind student in the front hall showed me where to find Nigel. “Just through there, madam, and then the third door on your left. You won’t have any trouble finding him.” He glanced at my gray hair, noted my limp, and tried to hide his smile. A polite young man.
“You’re never too old to learn, are you?” I said brightly. Shaking out my umbrella, I hobbled off in the direction he had indicated.
I did not, in fact, have any trouble finding Nigel. He was the only person in the room. Either end-of-term studies or the rain had apparently discouraged all the other students. Nigel, intent on his work, didn’t look up as I entered, so I took a moment to study him.
Nigel is certainly worth looking at. His coloring is striking—very dark hair, very light skin, deep blue eyes with long lashes. When I first met him he was far too thin, but a year or so of Inga’s tender loving care had changed thin to slim and muscular. He can, when he wants to, exercise enormous charm, which almost always gets him what he’s after. He can also flare up in a hasty temper, which was why I stood there trying to assess his mood. His frown looked more like one of concentration than anger. I hoped so; I wanted his cooperation to be willing.
His concentration was so deep, in fact, that I had a little trouble attracting his attention. His eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him as his right hand moved a mouse and occasionally clicked a button.
I sat down next to him. “Nigel.”
“Ummm. Just one minute, I’ve almost—”
“Nigel, look at me.”
He looked up. I was gratified to see the quick annoyance change to sheer, blazing surprise. “Mrs. Martin. What on earth brought you here?”
Never has anyone had a better cue. “Officially, for the record, I’m here to get your advice on purchasing a home computer. Actually,” I said, loading my voice with all the drama I could muster, “I came hoping you could help me unmask a murderer.”
4
His stare, at least for a moment, was all I could have hoped for. His mouth really did drop open, his gorgeous blue eyes did bulge. Then he spoiled it all by breaking out into a roar of laughter.
“You should go on the stage, Mrs. Martin. I actually believed you for a moment.”
“You rate my talents too highly. I meant it, Nigel.”
His laughter died. “You—you’re not serious!”
“I am, indeed. Or at least I think there’s a distinct possibility something nasty is afoot. Don’t look so skeptical, young man! You, of all people, have reason to know I do occasionally unmask murderers.”
For Nigel had been personally involved in a tragedy involving several deaths during my first eventful year in Sherebury.
“Well—yes. But—”
“But nothing. Nigel, can anyone hear us?”
He looked at me closely. “Good Lord, you are serious! No, I don’t think we can be heard. This is an old building. The walls on either side are pretty thick, and the door fits well. Unless someone comes in to work at the computers, we’re absolutely private.”
“And none of t
hese machines can … can—”
“Spy on us?” He didn’t laugh. “No. I’ve made sure.”
It was my turn to stare. “I think I only meant, can they hear us? And I was joking, or almost. Do you mean to say they actually can spy?”
“Computers can be wired to transmit both audio and video images to another computer. It’s a highly specialized application, but there are students here who would know the technology. I do, for one. That’s how I know these ones are all right. You can tell me—whatever it is you have to tell me.”
He still sounded dubious.
“At this stage it’s more a matter of asking you, and I’m going to sound very confused, I expect. But I’m beginning to think I’ve stumbled into something very odd. Can you keep this quiet, what we’re about to talk about?”
“Depends what it is. I tell everything to Inga.”
Ah, young love! “That’s very commendable of you, and the way it should be, but I don’t want it to go any further. Agreed?”
He shrugged and spread his hands, a little amused. “All right.”
“Okay, I know I sound like James Bond, but—well, you’ll see. Now, what I need first from you, Nigel, is a name. You see, I think I met a murderer yesterday, but I don’t know who he is, or even who the victim is.”
I told him the story of my dead man and the “doctor,” omitting nothing. I told him about my futile search for information in the papers and from the railway.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a very spectacular story, after all, a man dying from a heart attack. It happens every day. And rail personnel in the U.K. have a fixed policy of being unhelpful. You ought to have lived here long enough to know that.”
“All right, how about the police? I got in touch with Scotland Yard through the police here in Sherebury, and they said they knew nothing about it, either. No dead man. Period.”
Nigel frowned. “That’s odd, I admit, but there must be some explanation. Maybe you—”
The Victim in Victoria Station Page 3
