Body in the Transept (5 page)

Glancing out the window I wished once more that it would
snow
instead of just glooming all day. Snow would be so pretty on the ancient slate roof of my little house, would contrast so beautifully with the tiny pink handmade bricks. Snow was
right
for Christmas, but it looked as if we weren’t going to get any.

By the time I got myself into party clothes, the plum pudding reheating in the steamer was adding its sweet clove-and-cinnamon aroma to the fragrance of sage and onion and the heady pine scent of the tree. I lit the fire, the doorbell signaled the arrival of my company, and it was—indisputably, wonderfully—Christmas.

“Hey, how’s my best girl?” boomed Tom Anderson, enveloping me in a bear hug smelling of expensive aftershave the moment I got the door open. “Wow, look at you, gorgeous!” He held me out at arm’s length, surveyed my lacy Victorian blouse and long red velvet skirt, and awarded a wolf whistle.

“Dorothy, I’m
consumed
with envy!” said his wife, Lynn, a slim brunette with a high polish and a Katharine Hepburn accent and nothing to fear from any woman. She wasn’t, of course, looking at me and Tom. “
What
a marvelous house!”

Lynn and Tom live in the Belgravia section of London in a house straight out of
Upstairs, Downstairs
. I dropped a curtsy. “Thank you for them kind words, m’lady. I’m glad you two finally got here to see it before the electric bills drive me out. Do you want a drink first, or the grand tour?”

“Drink,” said Tom, at the same instant Lynn said “Tour.”

“Okay,” said Tom amiably. “I’ll do the drinks while you kids worship the architecture. Point me in the right direction, D. You want the usual?”

“In the kitchen, the cabinet over the fridge. Through there. I’ll have whatever’s in that suspicious-looking parcel under your arm.” I knew perfectly well it was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which Tom picks up for me at duty-free prices when he goes back to the States on business. Wealth hasn’t spoiled Tom’s eye for a bargain, and he shares my weakness for the sour-mash bourbon that’s scarce and expensive in England.

“C’mon, Dorothy, the
house
!”

“Monkswell Lodge,” I began in my best National Trust manner, “was built in 1607 to serve as the gatehouse for Lord William Fitzhenry, who had lived in the monastery buildings since the Dissolution. It is named after Monkswell Street, which in turn comes from the fact that the well serving the abbey was situated—”

“Come off it, and tell me about these
delectable
leaded-glass windows. How do you ever keep them clean?”

“I don’t, as you would see if the sun were shining. But the real gem of the house, outside the wonderful old kitchen, is the bedroom ceiling. . . .”

“I
ADORE THE
name, Monkswell Lodge!” said Lynn with an artistic shiver when we were back in the parlor. “Reminds me of Monkswell Manor in
The Mousetrap
.”

Lynn loves the classic English mystery as much as I do; we met at a convention of the Dorothy L. Sayers Society, but her real favorite is Agatha Christie. “Now can’t you just see this place, isolated by the snow—”

“Humph!” I interrupted. “
What
snow, I’d like to know!”

“Speaking of snow,” said Tom meaningfully.

“Oh!” Lynn dived into her carryall, coming up with a box. “Merry Christmas and all that. I almost forgot.”

I’ve always been a kid about presents. I tore into the wrapping. A box, a smaller box, lots of shredded tissue—ah. I lifted it out, balancing it in my palms.

It was a snowstorm, a big one with a Victorian look. The heavy carved base supported a glass globe in which two china children were building a snowman. When I shook it gently the snow whirled in a most satisfactory blizzard and then settled, leaving little white pyramids on the snowman and the children’s hats.

“Now where did you find something so perfect?”

“Oh, it’s from my family, actually. I got it the last time we went home, but it didn’t really go with my house, and we thought you’d love it.”

“I do.” I shook it again. No, it wouldn’t fit in very well with the Andersons’ Sargents and Renoirs, which, given Tom’s exalted position with one of the multinational conglomerates, were very likely real. But it would be perfect with the homely objects on my mantel. I set it in place carefully and hugged Lynn with real gratitude for both gift and friendship.

I had just handed over the stollen I’d baked for them when Jane arrived with her contribution, a big box of Christmas crackers.

I’ve loved crackers ever since my first English Christmas years ago, when I learned the word didn’t refer to anything edible, but to party favors. The sharp crack when you pull them, the smell of fireworks, the silly hats and toys inside and even the terrible jokes, all seem very festive and English. As soon as introductions were over and I’d given Jane a drink, we got down to serious fun. We went through the whole dozen, solemnly reading out things like, “What’s Christmas when the pump runs dry? No-well!” to a chorus of groans.

“I’m absolutely going to have to get some of these for next year,” I said finally, putting my minute plastic Christmas tree under the big one and settling my paper crown more firmly on my head.

“Come to the Christmas sales on Monday and get some at Harrod’s,” suggested Lynn. “They’ll be on sale, and they’re the best—little silver toys in them. And we’ll treat you to tea at the Ritz. How about it?”

“I can’t afford the best ones even at sale prices, but that’s a really good idea all the same. I might find a bargain in an electric blanket; that nice picturesque bedroom of mine is becoming arctic. And tea at the Ritz is my idea of the ultimate sinful luxury. Done.”

We all wore our crowns in to dinner, which was, if I do say so myself, superb—a traditional Christmas dinner with a distinctly American accent until we came to dessert. I brought in the plum pudding properly aflame, to the proper applause.

“Jane, Lynn, you’re going to have to take some of this home with you,” I said when we had eaten ourselves to a complete stop. “I can
not
eat up three-fourths of a plum pudding by myself.”

“Good,” said Jane promptly. “Some of the kids are coming in for tea next week; I’ll feed it to them. They’re always starving at that age.”

“Speaking of kids,” I said lazily, “there was one with you last night at church who looked as if he might really
be
starving. I’ve never seen him before—dark, intense, good-looking—a striking boy. Is he one of your ‘old boys’?”

“Nigel Evans. No, he came to town just a few months ago. To the university. Don’t know him well, myself. Sat next to him last night to try to talk, but he’s quiet. Supposed to be brilliant, but rebellious. He’ll get over it, they always do, the clever ones. Poor as a church mouse, I hear, and makes it worse by spending every cent on Inga Endicott over at the Rose and Crown.”

“She’s a very pretty girl,” I said tolerantly.

“Sensible girl,” said Jane, from whom it was the highest compliment. “Won’t have much to do with that lad until he settles down, I shouldn’t have thought.”

“And meanwhile he’s squandering his substance on her?”

“What substance he has: not a lot. An orphan, lives from hand to mouth. Thought you’d have seen him at the cathedral. Works in the library.”

“I’ve never spent much time in the library. I don’t care for Canon Billings. Didn’t, I should say.” A little shudder ran up my spine, but I was too full of dinner and Christmas comfort to get a full attack of the horrors.

Lynn looked at me curiously. “Has your canon retired, then?”

“Not exactly retired,” said Jane dryly. “Dead. Some sort of accident in the cathedral. Dorothy knows more about it than I do.”

I didn’t question what Jane knew, or how. Jane knows everything that goes on in Sherebury, by osmosis, I think.

“I don’t know anything, really,” I protested. “I just had the bad luck to find the body. After church, last night.”

“But how awful!” said Lynn. “What on earth happened?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it . . .” Tom spoke quietly, his eyes fixed on me, and Lynn looked abashed.

“No, I don’t mind, really,” I said, and found to my surprise that it was almost true. “I just honestly don’t know what happened. He was on the floor, with a candlestick beside him, and his head was . . .” I trailed off and started again. “I imagine he either fell and hit his head on the floor, or somehow managed to hit himself with the candlestick. They’re heavy and badly balanced. I know, because I picked it up.”

“It doesn’t sound very likely,” said Lynn thoughtfully. “I mean, how do you hit yourself on the head with something by accident? Maybe somebody did him in!” Her eyes were beginning to sparkle. “
Murder in the Cathedral
! No, that was Becket, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think Canon Billings was any saint,” I said, smiling. “He wasn’t very popular, the little I know about it. But I seriously doubt anyone hated him enough to bash him on the head with a candlestick.”

“Speaking of candlesticks,” said Tom, “do you still play Clue?”

“Now you’re talking!” I rummaged about and found the set, and the four of us pursued Colonel Mustard, Mrs. Peacock, et al., through the rooms of poor Mr. Boddy’s mansion for a couple of delightful hours.

It was after six and the early-December evening was upon us when my guests finally left. I was tired but content. It had been a lovely Christmas, after all. It was nearly time for supper, really, but I couldn’t eat a thing and there were small chores to be done. I tidied the parlor a bit, threw scraps of wrapping paper and bits of exploded crackers in the fire Tom had rebuilt for me before they left, and collapsed in the most comfortable chair with a thimbleful of brandy. Emmy jumped into my lap and immediately went to sleep, full of turkey. I thought idly about getting an Agatha Christie or a Dorothy Sayers to while away the evening, but I would have to wait until Emmy decided to move. Everyone knows it’s terrible manners to disturb a sleeping cat. She’d leave soon. Meanwhile it was very relaxing just to pet her soft, warm fur and look into the fire. . . .

When I woke with a crick in my neck Emmy was long gone. The room was freezing; so was I. The fire had been dead for some time.

It was nearly ten. I was wide awake and hungry, so I turned on the TV for the evening news and went to fix myself (and Emmy, of course) some leftovers.

I’d missed the headline stories by the time I got back to the parlor, but I settled down with my plate to pay attention to what was left and catch the weather.

“. . . quiet day in London, to the relief of police, who had prepared for terrorist attacks.

“In other news, foul play is suspected in the death of a Sherebury clergyman. The Reverend Canon Jonathan Billings, fifty-two, was found last night in Sherebury Cathedral dead of an injury to the head, and certain inconsistencies have launched a police inquiry. No one has as yet been detained for questioning.

“The weather for Boxing Day: cold and clear over much of southern England, with a deep depression and snow likely north of . . .”

I didn’t hear the weather after all. I stared at Emmy, who stared unblinkingly back. Murder. I’d laughed at the idea with Lynn, so why did I have the feeling I’d known it all along?

B
OXING DAY,
December 26, dawned clear and cold, as promised. For anyone not yearning for snow, it was a glorious day. Esmeralda could hardly wait to be let out. The sunshine had brought noisy, squabbling birds to my feeder, and Emmy was itching to get at them. Fortunately she’s much too fat and slow to be a threat to anything but the occasional naive mouse. I let her out and turned to my own chores for the day.

The house seemed awfully quiet as I moved about restlessly, flicking a dust cloth here and there. Emmy makes herself so much a presence in the house that without her my thoughts echoed.

And they were thoughts I didn’t want to hear even once. At home, the day after Christmas, Frank and I would have been admiring our Christmas presents again, or laughing over the absurd ones. It was always a lazy day, no point in housecleaning with Christmas spread all over the place, no need to cook with all the leftovers in the house. We’d make turkey sandwiches and eat them sitting around the fireplace, rereading Christmas cards from old friends. . . .

I turned the radio up loud and tried to find something to do, but there didn’t seem to be anything that mattered much. Aimlessly, I wandered into the small room I use as a library and stared at the shelves.

Everybody’s written a Christmas mystery. Agatha Christie’s
Holiday for Murder
. Ngaio Marsh’s
Tied Up in Tinsel
. Ellis Peters’s
Virgin in the Ice
and
Raven in the Foregate
. Dorothy L. Sayers’s
The Nine Tailors
. I picked up
Rest You Merry
by that mistress of the ridiculous, Charlotte MacLeod, and chuckled again over the first few pages, where a respectable professor goes berserk over his Christmas decorations and drives the neighborhood crazy. Slipping into the squashy old armchair, I read on.

I had quite forgotten, until the words accosted me from the page, the cold, fishy stare the murder victim gives the professor as she lies dead on his living room floor. With something between a sigh and a gulp I closed the book. My mind’s eye saw not Professor Shandy’s living room, but a small chapel in Sherebury Cathedral, an eye gleaming out of the darkness, a crushed skull. . . .

It was from that precise moment, I realized much later, that my rehabilitation began. Something in my mind rebelled and I was, abruptly, furious with myself. When was I going to
stop
this self-pity and develop some backbone? Frank, bless his heart, was gone. And I’d had a terrible experience, literally stumbling over a body. Very well. I could continue to wallow in misery and use it as an excuse to avoid life. Or I could do something positive about my circumstances. A vague optimism stirring within me, I slammed the book shut and heaved myself out of my chair.

“I’ll go see Dr. Temple, that’s what I’ll do! It’s Boxing Day, after all.” On the traditional English day for the exchanging of small Christmas courtesies I’d need, though, to take at least a token gift. There were those Christmas cookies I’d baked just to have on hand. I hastily wrapped a dozen of them, pulled on my warmest coat and a bright orange mohair hat, and set out.