Body in the Transept (6 page)

It really
was
a gorgeous day. The town looked like a movie set. Most of the houses on my street are Georgian, built in one of Sherebury’s most prosperous periods. At any time their red brick and white trim made them look fresh and tidy, but in the sunshine of that December day they might have been newly made from children’s Christmas building sets. The crystal-cold light glinted and sparkled off brightly painted front doors, polished brass knobs, spanking clean bow windows. I found myself humming as I hurried along to Dr. Temple’s, three streets away.

“My dear, what a delightful surprise! Come in, come in!” The old professor opened his door wide, letting me and a lot of cold air in and at the same time letting out his pair of indignant Siamese cats, who hated company.

“Will Soo and Ling be all right in all this cold?”

“They’ll be back in a bit to sit staring at you cross-eyed, trying to make you go away. You remember their routine. Intimidating animals. Useful for unwanted guests, but a trifle embarrassing with friends. Now—coffee? I was just about to have some myself.”

I followed Dr. Temple to his spotless kitchen. His little house, only a few years old, was as tidy as his scientific mind. Not for him the slipshod splendors of the past. “Have you the slightest idea,” he had said when I moved into my ancient pile, “how many varieties of vermin can be found in your average picturesque dwelling? Give me a place I can keep clean.” Many were the maiden ladies of Sherebury who had longed to capture this pearl, but the wily Dr. Temple had managed, with the help of Soo and Ling, to maintain both his bachelor independence and his reputation for cordiality, no mean feat.

I laid the package of cookies on the gleaming counter. “These might be good with the coffee.”

“Splendid! Although I shall no doubt eat far more than I should. Alas!” He patted his stomach complacently, blue eyes twinkling at me over his granny glasses, white hair flying out of control as it always did when he was pleased.

“Nonsense. If you lost weight you wouldn’t be half so effective playing Santa Claus.”

“Well, my dear, the hair and the beard would still fit the part, and one could always wear padding. No, the real danger is that one day I shall actually outgrow the red suit, and then what’s to be done, eh?”

We settled down with coffee and cookies at the kitchen table, where a tie box–shaped parcel lay wrapped in white tissue paper. “For you, my dear.”

The box weighed virtually nothing and made no noise when I shook it. I looked up to see the twinkle much in evidence, but Dr. Temple refused to say a word, so I ripped off the paper, lifted the lid, and saw—

“Feathers?”

“Feathers. I find them, you know, when I go out birding. The pheasant you’ll recognize, and the peacock—only a portion, that, I’m afraid. Poor fellow must have broken it off in a fight. And any number of small birds, common, but colorful.”

I was still bewildered, and he chuckled.

“My dear, for your hats!”

“Of course! How stupid of me. They’re the very thing; thank you so much!” I tucked the long pheasant feather into the brim of my orange hat, giving it a rakish look that pleased me very much.

“So. What’s going on at the university these days?” Dr. Temple kept up with the gossip, though he’d held emeritus status for years.

“Well, we’ve lost a good teacher. But you’d know all about that.”

“I would?”

“Canon Billings, my dear. You did know he taught a philosophy seminar, didn’t you?”

“I had no idea. I didn’t know the man at all, except to speak to. Was he really a good teacher? I wouldn’t have thought . . .”

“In the sense that he was a first-rate scholar and lecturer, yes, he was. Not popular, of course, too sarcastic and superior for the students to like him, but they respected him.”

“What about the rest of the staff? What did they think of him?”

“Not trying to do a little prying, are you, my dear? See yourself as an amateur sleuth?” The blue eyes were keen.

“Of course not,” I said. Too quickly? “I’m curious, that’s all. I do have a personal interest, after all.”

“Of course.” But the eyes stayed alert. “Actually most of the staff saw very little of him. The seminar was held evenings, naturally, since the canon had his duties during the day. I know old Pebmarsh thought a great deal of his abilities.”

Dr. Pebmarsh, head of the philosophy department, was at least fifteen years Dr. Temple’s junior. The use of “old,” then, told me something, as did the rest of the cautious wording. As much as he loved gossip, the dear old professor hated to say anything bad about anyone. The fact that he hadn’t been able to say anything really good . . .

“Have you seen George Chambers lately?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Christmas Eve, just for a moment, but not really to talk to. How’s he getting along?”

“Not so very well, as I understand it. His lectures aren’t well attended, I’m told. Of course George always was a bit pompous, and students don’t like pomposity—excepting their own.”

I laughed at that, and we discussed student politics over the last of the cookies. When imperious yowls indicated that the Siamese wanted in, I took the opportunity to slip away before Dr. Temple could work up to offering me lunch. I needed a good long walk to deal with all that butter and sugar.

The sun was still shining brightly, but there was a softer feeling to the air and a slight haze that told me rain might be on the way. Better enjoy Sherebury while the sun shone.

When Frank and I first visited England we got a little claustrophobic about all those houses with touching walls, opening directly onto the sidewalk. The place looked so different from the shady streets of Hillsburg, Indiana, our hometown. We longed for soft green front lawns with untidy rambler roses climbing over the railings of front porches hospitably furnished with swings and rockers. And maple trees that dropped bushels full of leaves to clean up in the fall, all the neighbors out at the same time, helping each other, and the lovely smell of burning leaves. And elms growing into graceful Gothic arches over the street. . . .

But Hillsburg’s elm trees are all gone now, fallen to disease. Leaf burning is against the law, and neighborliness is disappearing, too, a victim of hurry and stress and fear. The big lawns that seemed so friendly when we were young serve to isolate people now; they’ve built high fences, and no one sits on the front porches. Small-town America isn’t what it used to be.

Probably small-town England isn’t either, but I didn’t know it way back when, and there’s a lot to be said for the way it is now. As I walked I watched the passing parade of humanity with appreciation. People greeted each other, smiling, asking about the health of mothers and spouses and offspring as if they really wanted to know. There seemed, in England, still to be a network of neighbors caring about each other. If only I could belong to that network . . . but even if I never did, quite, I was glad it existed. Maybe there was nothing momentous about being told what a beautiful day it was or asked how one was feeling, but small courtesies grease the machinery of life. In their own way, they’re important.

Deep in thought, I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into a fellow pedestrian.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, it was my fault—oh, it’s you, George. Dear me, did I do any damage?”

“No, no. Actually, I’m glad I—er—ran into you, Dorothy. I wanted to ask—” he looked around and lowered his voice “—how you’re getting on. Unpleasant experience, discovering a body.”

So George knew all about my involvement. So had Dr. Temple. I suppose by now everyone in town knew. No space-age communications network can compete with the one English cathedral towns have relied on from time immemorial.

Was there an answer to George’s remarkable understatement? It didn’t matter; he wasn’t listening anyway.

“We thought—Alice and I—you might like to come to tea. If you’ve nothing planned, that is. Get away from it all for a bit, don’t you know. Alice makes jolly good Christmas cake,” he added enticingly.

I had to swallow a grin. Tea! The panacea for everything from weariness to a cold to murder. Some things about England never change, which is why I love it so much.

I considered. Poor old George
was
a bit of a bore, but he and his wife were kind to us in the old days. George, even though he was history and Frank was biology, had made a point of welcoming Frank at the university. And it was true that Alice made the best Christmas cake I’d ever tasted. Besides, if they were beginning to recognize my continued existence, for the first time, really, since Frank—well, I’d be stupid and ungrateful to turn down the invitation.

“Thank you, George, that’s very kind of you. I’d love to come to tea. Five o’clock or so? I’ll see you then.”

I
WAS GETTING
fairly good at reading English weather. By the time I was ready to set out for tea the softness had turned, not yet to rain, but to an insidious fog that wrapped its clammy fingers around the town. Emmy had come in with several remarks about the damp and plumped herself down where she could dry her fur in front of the “electric fire,” as the ugly little heater is euphemistically called. As I wrapped myself in various layers against the elements she looked up and uttered a brief but pungent comment.

“You’re quite right. I’m an idiot, but I’ve said I’ll go, so I have to. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can decently get away. You leave the tree alone, now.” I gave one last longing look at the heater and let myself out into the raw dampness.

Familiar streets had turned strangely forbidding as the fog closed in, and I stumbled, trying to hurry, on obstacles that seemed to pop out of the pavement as I approached. It was a fair piece of a walk. George and Alice lived on the edge of town, close to the university, which is really outside Sherebury proper. Their house, a new one built at the end of an old street, is in the style that used to be called “stockbroker Tudor.” To me it has always looked as out of place in its setting as a chorus girl among duchesses. It is undoubtedly bigger, more convenient, and easier to maintain than my own, which makes it even more unforgivable.

And you should be ashamed, Dorothy, I scolded myself. Here are nice people who’ve invited you over for the proverbial tea and sympathy, and you’re criticizing their taste. All the same, as I knocked at their door I couldn’t help smiling. The large, well-polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth was so deliciously inappropriate for George’s house.

Alice greeted me with such resolute charm and grace that I instantly wondered if the invitation had been her idea. Surely it would never have occurred to George that I might need some comfort.

Ensconced in an overstuffed chair while Alice went to cope with tea, I studied the room, redecorated since I had seen it last. I remembered the rumors that Alice had money. Somebody certainly had; George’s job couldn’t support them in this style. It looked straight out of
Architectural Digest
and made me profoundly uneasy, especially the white furniture, though blissfully comfortable. In this house stray cat hairs would not be looked upon with favor, and my dark slacks were, as usual, covered with gray fuzz.

Before I could tear apart the rest of the room, Alice and the cake entered to a silent fanfare of trumpets, followed by George with a heavily laden tea tray. His rather pink nose seemed to twitch slightly, and suddenly his graying fair hair, neat military mustache, and little academic potbelly reminded me irresistibly of the White Rabbit.

“Now that’s what I like to see, a nice smile! Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. Delighted you could come. But would you rather have a drop of something, eh? Mulled wine, whiskey?”

“No, no, tea is just right on a day like this, thank you.” That sounded as if George
was
in charge of this meeting. Curiouser and curiouser. I furtively pulled an extra-large gray clump from the chair cushion and settled myself with my cup of tea and a sandwich or two.

“Now then, my dear, cheers, and the very best wishes of the season!” He lifted his teacup in salute. “And what on earth is all this nonsense about murder, eh?”

So that was it. Not compassion, curiosity. He wanted to hear all the gory details. Well, he was going to be disappointed. My resolve to be practical and positive about this murder didn’t mean I had to wallow in gore for George’s entertainment.

Alice was obviously horrified at George’s idea of teatime conversation. She gave him a kick on the ankle that I wasn’t supposed to see and changed the subject.

“I do hope you had a lovely Christmas, Dorothy. We’re not doing you very well in the way of weather, are we? This foggy frost is so frightfully depressing, I always think.”

Not very original, but I was happy to go along. “Oh, it is. Just like
A Christmas Carol
, at the beginning, you know, the part about ‘foggier still, and colder.’ I feel definitely cheated about snow. But yes, Christmas was very agreeable, thank you. I had people over for dinner, the Andersons, you remember them, don’t you? And Jane Langland.” I was prepared to regale them with a full description of the dinner menu, or anything else so long as it didn’t have to do with bodies, but George was not to be diverted.

“Ah, yes, how did dear old Jane take it? The murder, I mean.”

“Really, George!” But Alice sighed and picked up her teacup, recognizing defeat. When George climbs on a subject, I remembered from the old days, he rides it to death, and the quickest way to get it over with is to go along for the ride.

He was waiting for an answer. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I responded shortly. “I haven’t see her since I heard that it
was
murder. She didn’t seem particularly devastated by his death, if that’s what you mean. But why on earth should Jane ‘take it’ in any particular way? I didn’t get the impression she was a particular friend of the canon.”

“No, no, but I should have thought—that is, what with all those students hanging about—at least—”

“What
are
you talking about, George?” asked Alice, very crisply indeed. One well-shod toe beat a tattoo against the carpet.