Malice in Miniature (12 page)

Margaret Allenby, the Dean's wife, moved over one place so I could sit at the end of the front row, and handed me the order of service for the day. I nodded my thanks and slipped to my knees for a moment before scrambling to my feet for the opening versides and responses and the Venite.

I confess that I paid little attention to the service. I sat, stood, and knelt automatically, letting the beautiful old words and music wash over me. Here in the magnificent fan-vaulted choir, where little natural light penetrated on even the brightest of days, the November gloom seemed to matter less. The light of the choir's candles, of the beautiful brass chandeliers, of centuries of faith cast a warm glow of peace and good cheer.

But when old Canon Lovett had delivered the benediction in his kind, quavery voice, and choir and clergy had filed out, I turned to Margaret.

“Good morning, Dorothy. Lovely anthem this morning, didn't you think?”

“Beautiful,” I said without a blush. I was sure it had been; it always was. “Margaret, do you have time for coffee?”

“Of course. My house is frightfully untidy, I'm afraid, but—”

“Heavens, I wasn't inviting myself over. I thought maybe Alderney's, if you don't mind walking in the rain.”

“My dear Dorothy, perish the day an Englishwoman can't walk in the rain!” She gathered up her umbrella and followed me up the nave.

Alderney's is at the far west end of the Close, and we were both damp around the edges by the time we got there. The wetness was as much fog as rain, and had a penetrating quality unique, in my experience, to England.

It was late for breakfast and early for the morning coffee crowd; we had the place almost to ourselves, which was fine with me. We sat at a table in front of the fire and ordered coffee and Alderney's specialty, a kind of yeast bun with raisins that they serve doused with cinnamon butter. I waited until the waitress was back in the kitchen before planting my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands.

“Margaret, I need to talk to you.”

“I rather suspected you might,” she said mildly, and I smiled in spite of myself. “There, now, that's better! I thought you looked a bit seedy when you came panting in this morning.”

“Very seedy. I badly need some advice.”

“Then take some now, and get some food into you before you say another word.”

I was sure I couldn't eat, but when our order arrived, the buns smelled so good that I took a tentative bite, and then proceeded to wolf down the whole rich, buttery pastry.

Margaret nodded with satisfaction. “You have some color back, now. You were gray as a ghost.”

“I was hungry,” I said with surprise. “Come to think of it, I didn't have any dinner last night.”

“A great mistake, going without food,” said Margaret crisply. “Saps the strength, lowers the resistance. Now.” She leaned back and folded her hands across her stomach. “What's up?”

I waded in without preliminary. “You know about the murder at the Hall yesterday, of course, and that Ada Finch has asked me to—well, what she really wants is for me to prove that Bob didn't do it. She has an exaggerated idea of my abilities, and a very poor opinion of the police. And, of course, ordinarily I'd do anything I could, but—oh, everything's different now that Alan and I are married. People won't talk to me freely, and I don't think Alan likes the idea of my being involved. Well, I know he doesn't. He's away, of course, so we haven't talked about it at length, but he was very odd on the phone last night. Wary, sort of. And I can't bear the thought of anything coming between us, but I can't just let Ada down, either. And besides, I—I
want
to get into this.”

I struggled to say what was in my mind. “Margaret, something's happened to me in the past few months. I've come alive again, somehow. After Frank died, I wasn't really a person for a long time. I was locked up in a cage, looking and talking like a human being, but actually being a robot. Everything was automatic.

“Do you understand at all what I'm trying to say? Somehow, now, the cage is open. I'm free, free to find out who I am, to redefine myself, and I'm finding out that I'm good at some very odd things. Like—well, like solving some kinds of crimes, silly as it sounds. This business, now. It's right up my alley, so to speak, and then with people I know and care about being involved . . .” I ran down, poured myself more coffee, and took a sip.

“Hmmm. Have you talked to Jane?”

“I can't, not about this. She has some peculiar notion about the Hall, and she doesn't like my going out there. She'll give me information when I ask, that's all.”

“Jane has excellent judgment, you know.”

I sighed irritably. “Does that mean you're going to tell me the same thing? Not to get involved?”

“I'm going to tell you no such thing. You must make up your own mind what to do. It's your conscience that has to be satisfied, after all, no one else's. What I am saying is to listen to what Jane tells you, because it will be reliable information. And, Dorothy—don't sell Alan short. He's not an unreasonable man, not the sort to keep a woman caged up, or glorified on some sort of pedestal. He simply loves you.”

“I know he does. And I love him. But I—oh, I don't know. I come, not just from a different country, but from a different world in many ways, and I'm used to being independent. And then there's his job. If I get into trouble, it's going to reflect on him, and . . .” I ran down again.

“Have you told him all this?”

“No. He knows.”

“You'd be astonished at what people don't know until you tell them. My advice, for what it's worth, is that you defer any decision until you've talked it out thoroughly with your charming husband. Argue your point of view, and see what he says. And then think about it again for a good twenty-four hours, so you're not doing anything irrevocable when your mind is in a turmoil.

“Now I must run. I've a meeting of the Altar Guild in five minutes. I'll pray for you, my dear, and I'll ask Kenneth to, as well. Don't leave your umbrella behind.”

She laid some money on the table and blew out the door.

Maybe it was the sensible, matter-of-fact advice, or the stabilizing influence of a centuries-old form of worship, or the prayers of a good woman. Coffee and food probably had something to do with it, too. At any rate, I left Alderney's with a plan.

First on the agenda was the phone call to Ada.

The voice that answered was male, and I instantly felt twenty years younger. “Bob! You're home!”

“Ar.”

I waited for an explanation, but there was only silence, punctuated by heavy, adenoidal breathing. “That's good news!” I said brightly. “Have they arrested someone else, then?”

“Naow.”

A further interval. “Bob, I actually called to talk to your mother. Is she around?”

“Ar.” The phone was laid down with a bang, and eventually Ada's voice sounded.

“'Ullo?”

“Ada, it's Dorothy. I was so relieved when Bob answered, but I couldn't get anything out of him. Has he been cleared?”

She gave a snort, unmistakable even over the phone. “Not so's you'd notice. 'Ere, 'old on a minute.”

There was the sound of a door closing, and Ada came back on the line.

“I didn't want 'im to 'ear me. 'Ee's mopin' around like a sick turkey, feelin' sorry for 'isself.”

“But why, for heaven's sake? If he's been allowed to come home—”

“'Ee ain't out of the woods yet,” Ada said somberly. “They didn't 'ave enough evidence against 'im to 'old 'im, but they told 'im not to leave town, and 'ee come 'ome yesterday, so today 'ee goes out to work, it not rainin' 'ard enough to matter, an' there bein' a pile 'o work to be done on two of' is gardens before winter sets in 'ard.”

She paused for breath. “An' they both told 'im they didn't need 'is services no more.”

There was no adequate response. “I see,” I said slowly, growing angrier the longer I thought about it. “Just because he's under suspicion. It isn't
fair
, Ada!”

“An' 'oo said life was fair?”

I couldn't think of anything helpful to say to that, either, and hung up feeling I had done no good. But instead of being depressed myself, I was gloriously angry, and in that mood I put on one of my most outrageous hats for moral support, flung myself in my car, and headed recklessly out to Brocklesby Hall for the second item on my mental list.

Rain slowed the traffic, so I had time on the way to think out an approach. The museum would probably be closed. In fact, the whole place was probably designated a Crime Scene, but I might be able to wangle my way in. If being the wife of the chief constable was proving to be a handicap in some ways, surely I was entitled to use its advantages for all they were worth.

So I smiled pleasantly to the young constable on duty at the door. “Good morning. I don't believe we've met, but I am Mrs. Nesbitt.” Never mind my preferred usage for now; this was a time for name-dropping. “I hope I won't be in the way, but Mrs. Cunningham needs some help in the library, what with all the confusion. May I use this door, or would it be better to go in the back?”

Poor man, he knew perfectly well that he should keep me out, but he couldn't quite face the possible consequences. Nor could he leave his post to make sure I went where I said I was going to. He smiled uncertainly, but my hat settled the matter. No one who would deliberately don an object featuring droopy chrysanthemums and velvet oak leaves could be taken seriously as a villain.

“I'll just ask someone to show you the way, madam—”

“Oh, never mind, I know the way. Thank you
so
much!” I sailed in, making a mental note to ask Alan to keep the poor constable out of trouble. I wasn't playing fair, and I knew it, but just at the moment I didn't care.

I hoped Meg was actually in the library. I had no idea whether she would be; she had been an excuse to get inside the house. I'd thought I'd offer to help, anything to lend some credence to my lie, and then slip out as soon as I decently could and poke around, trying to avoid the legitimate representatives of the law. My thoughts hadn't progressed any further than that.

Which was just as well, because the minute I laid eyes on the librarian I knew she was in genuine need of help. Her eyes were swollen; there was a sodden handkerchief on the desk in front of her.

“You poor dear, what is it? Has Claude—”

She jumped when I spoke, dabbed angrily at her eyes, and glared at me. “It isn't Claude. Claude's away; nobody's seen him since the murder. It's just—oh, everything is so miserable!” She picked up the handkerchief, I substituted a clean one from my purse and let her cry it out.

“Sorry, Dorothy,” she finally muttered stiffly. “No excuse for that.”

“My dear girl, don't apologize! One reason women have fewer ulcers and heart attacks is because society allows us to show our emotions. Well, at least American society does; you English . . .”

She blew her nose and sat up straighter. “Repressed and neurotic, that's us. Though my Irish means I
can't
always keep it in. Thanks for the handkerchief.”

“Any time. Do you want to talk about it? You'd probably feel better. Or shall I go away and let you cry some more?”

Her eyes flashed at that. She was recovering. “Even I can't weep to order. But—”

“But you're worried about what I'll tell my husband. He's out of town at the moment, and I only tell him what I think is relevant. If you'll allow me that judgment, I'm a pretty good listener, Meg.” I sat down and removed my hat.

Meg eyed it warily, blew her nose again, and began to speak in something like her usual incisive manner.

“You were right, at that. It does all go back to Claude. If only he were the one who . . .” She sighed and went on. “I suppose you know about—our past history.”

“I know a little, yes.” She winced and I made haste to explain. “You mustn't think that these things are made public. It's rather a special case, since I had guessed that something was very wrong, and asked Alan to check on Claude. I haven't told anyone, and you don't have to talk about it if it tears you up.”

“Not anymore. At least I thought it didn't. I thought I'd dealt with it. It happened over a year ago, when I first started working here. Claude was living here then, in his mother's part of the house. He was always hanging about, trying to chat me up, and I—well, I was pretty off-putting. He wasn't as disgusting then as he is now, but—oh, I hadn't been divorced very long, and I was supersensitive, I suppose. The fact is, I could never bear him. Perhaps if I'd been polite, anyway, he—”

“Stop blaming yourself. He's a blot on society and the sort who would victimize anyone. You're not the only one, you know.”

“I did have some idea, actually. One hears things. Well, anyway, one day he—”

“We can skip that part. How is it he got away with it?”

“There was no proof of anything. I screamed and Richard came, and Claude pretended nothing had happened. I did make a complaint, but Claude had scarpered for London by the time the police got around to doing anything—sorry.”

“It's all right. I don't identify myself with Alan's job. And even he knows he doesn't have enough men to do every job right. So then . . .”

“I decided not to pursue it. I need this post badly, for one thing, so I can't afford to antagonize Mrs. Lathrop. And then it's quite trying to relive that sort of thing, which I would have had to do if I'd decided to take him to court. And, of course, there was Jemima.”

“She would have been about six then?”

“Nearly seven. She's eight now, but small for her age, and young, as well. I didn't tell her anything, of course, but she's always been perceptive about emotions. She knew I was upset. Neither of us was terribly good at sign language then, so I couldn't tell her much or console her very well, and I could see she was worried. That's one reason I dropped it. She'd only just begun in her new school, and it was so good for her I didn't want anything to upset her. Besides, I needed to put it behind me. I thought I had,” she repeated. “I wasn't really afraid for myself, you know. It was just—if he'd ever come to my house—with Jemima there . . .” Her voice trailed off.