Malice in Miniature (11 page)

“She certainly has Sir M. bullied. Alan thinks she's nourishing a secret passion for him.”

Jane sighed. “What fools these mortals be! Myself, I'd as soon cuddle up to a Pekingese. Sooner. Even the silliest dogs have some sense; silly men, never.”

She refused dessert and went home, and I spent the evening with my dollhouse, planning decorating schemes, hunting up soft old scraps of cloth to make into curtains. The cats were just as interested as I, jumping in and out of the house and playing with my scraps. They also complained about Alan's absence, running down the stairs to find him and then up again to inform me that he wasn't there. He called just as I was climbing into an early bed.

“So tell me all about Bramshill,” I said when I had nestled myself comfortably into the pillows.

“It's a pretty complex operation,” he said. “I've taken courses here over the years, naturally, but I never fully realized the scope.” He detailed the breadth of College activities. “I certainly wouldn't care to be responsible for the day-to-day running of the College as a permanent job. But what they want me for, principally, is to overhaul the overseas aspect of operations, the advanced training of foreign police officers, before they hand it on to the next chap.”

“Well, you've got the experience for that, certainly. All that time you've spent in Washington, and Brussels—”

“And Nairobi and Hong Kong and New Delhi, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, I think I could make a contribution. But I need to learn a good deal more about the details before I take on the job. And of course I want you to look the place over thoroughly. You'll like the manor house, I think. The tapestries in the drawing room must be seen to be believed.”

“Have you come across the ghost yet?”

He chuckled. “I'm told the poor lady seldom leaves the main house, and has so far totally avoided the students' blocks. Perhaps if you come for the weekend she might condescend to materialize for you; they've found a guest room in the house for us. I'm free almost all of Saturday and Sunday; can you get away, do you think?”

“I don't see why not. Give me directions and I might even try driving.”

“I shouldn't, if I were you. You'd have to go through London or around it, in that ghastly traffic, and there are fairly decent trains from Waterloo. You want to go to either Winchfield or Hook; I've looked up the times for you . . .”

I wrote down his detailed instructions. “Okay, so I'll call you from Waterloo Station Saturday morning, when I figure out which train I can catch, and you'll meet me. Got it. Meanwhile, I miss you, and the cats do, too. You should have seen them, looking for you all over the house.”

“Tell them I'll bring them a peacock feather to play with. The beasts are molting; their feathers are everywhere. And as for you . . .”

I ended the day feeling much happier than I had at its beginning, but my sense of well-being was shattered shortly after breakfast the next morning.

“Mrs. Martin, it's Derek Morrison here. I don't know if you remember me—”

“Of Town Hall fame! I met you over a corpse, with poor Ada Finch just recovering from hysterics. How are you, Chief Inspector?”

“I'm getting along splendidly, thank you, but I'm afraid Mrs. Finch is not doing quite so well. She's here at the police station and asking for you. Her son, Bob, has been brought in for questioning.”

“Not more thefts at the museum!” I wailed.

Inspector Morrison cleared his throat. “Unfortunately not. There's been a murder.”

I
RAN OUT
the door without even putting on a hat. Panting, I arrived at the police station in the High Street to find Inspector Morrison waiting for me in the front hall.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Mrs. Lathrop, out at Brocklesby Hall, died early this morning. It seems clear that she was poisoned, and Bob may have been involved. That's virtually all I know at the moment.

“I think you should see to Mrs. Finch straight off; she's on the verge of collapse. There's a matron with her, of course, but I don't think she'll calm down until she talks to you. I won't come with you; I'd be worse than no help. And I need to get back into the fray, but I wanted to brief you myself. The constable will direct you; I'll find you in a bit.”

“Does Alan know?”

“Not yet.” Morrison looked grim. I gathered he wasn't looking forward to passing the news along to his boss.

He left me in the care of an attractive young policewoman who took me to a small office on the next floor. Ada Finch was seated on a bench, her head in her hands, sobbing her heart out while the matron tried to comfort her.

I sat down on the bench next to Ada, gathered my wits about me, and spoke sharply.

“Ada, stop crying this minute and tell me what's happening!”

It was a risky move that might have sent her over the edge into full hysterics, but I was gambling on Ada's lifetime of deferring to “the gentry,” hoping that my sternest schoolteacher voice would act on her reflexes.

To my great relief, it worked. Ada sat up obediently, hiccuped, and accepted the wad of tissues I thrust into her hand.

She looked awful. Her bright blue eyes were swollen, her nose red from crying, her hair hanging in strings. I wanted to hug her, but sympathy at this stage would probably send her right off again. I hardened my heart, and when she finished blowing her nose and looked up at me dismally, I used my flintiest voice.

“That's better. I must say you've disappointed me, Ada. I'd expect you to fight back, instead of melting like this. Now, what kind of a mess has Bob gotten himself into this time?”

What with her misery and her anger—mostly directed at me—Ada wasn't terribly coherent, but I could get the details later from Morrison. My only goal just now was to get the poor woman calmed down.

“. . . and never mind what the bloody p'lice say, 'ee never done nuffink!” she concluded, glaring at me fiercely.

“I expect you're right,” I said mildly. “Unless there was some sort of silly accident. Was he—umm—”

“'Ee never drinks on the job, as 'oo should know better than you! An' 'ee knows 'is plants. 'Ee never put nuffink in there wot didn't belong!”

Her lower lip jutted out; her eyes snapped. Much better. Maybe now I could actually get some information.

“I think you'd better tell me all about it, Ada. All I know is that she was poisoned.”

“An' no loss to the world, neither! Just like 'er to cause trouble even by dyin'.”

That was just Ada venting her spleen, but it was dangerous talk, with the matron listening to every word. I put my hand over hers, squeezed, and said, “Tell me what happened.”

She pulled herself together, and when she spoke again, it was to the point. “I don't know, only wot they told me, as wasn't much. She takes—took—this tea, see, when she 'ad a bellyache from eatin' too much. Not proper tea, but 'erbs and that. Peppermint, an' 'oo knows wot.” She sniffed meaningfully. “It'd poison anybody, I'd think!

“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.”

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.