Malice in Miniature (16 page)

“Just as I thought! Penny-ante, and not very imaginative. I can
not
see him as a murderer. No autopsy results yet, I suppose?”

“No, but Morrison has asked them to check specifically for aconite.”

“And I take it Claude is still missing?”

“It looks,” said Alan a trifle grimly, “as though you may have found him.”

After I'd hung up, I sat and chewed the inside of my lip for some time, thinking furiously. Samantha didn't like it. She circled my feet with anxious little chirps and finally jumped into my lap and fixed her cross-eyed blue gaze on me.

“It's all right, Sam. I'm trying to decide what to do, that's all. No, don't lick my nose! Your tongue is rough and you have the most terrible tuna breath.”

Satisfied that she had captured my attention, Sam settled herself into a purring mound, and I stroked her thick, silken fur and thought some more.

If the tracks by the lake had been made sometime between Saturday and this afternoon, Monday, it was extremely unlikely that John Thoreston had anything to do with them. I got out a road atlas and made some mental calculations. York is a good long way from Sherebury, 250 miles or so, I discovered, with London in between. True, it was motorway most of the way, and when the traffic is reasonable, motorways are fast—much faster, usually, than their official speed limit of seventy. The British, on the whole, pay even less respect to speed laws than Americans do. Offsetting that, however, were two facts. The first was that getting out of Sherebury and onto the motorway involves a lot of narrow country roads, and the second was the fearsome traffic in and around London, which is guaranteed to produce delays. Not only that, but if I were John Thoreston, with cause to fear the police, I would take extreme care not to break any traffic laws.

Suppose that Thoreston had been in Sherebury all the time, hiding out somewhere, and had, for some reason I didn't bother to question just then, killed Claude and dumped him in the lake. Now. If he were driving, I'd give him at least six hours to get to York. I didn't, of course, know that he had a car. If he'd had to rely on trains, with weekend schedules as unreliable as they are, it was anybody's guess. I was once delayed for two hours on a fifty-mile run, the excuses ranging from “the late arrival of the driver” to “debris on the line.”

All right. Assume that he owned a car, or had stolen one. He might just have been able to kill Claude Saturday night, dispose of the body, and, late at night when traffic was lighter, get to York in time to be arrested on Sunday. That was if he had headed straight for York, with no deviations.

It was possible, but it seemed contrived, and wildly unlikely. Why on earth should he rush to York just in time to step into the arms of the police? It would have been more in character for him to wander, more or less aimlessly, after Mrs. Lathrop's death, knowing that his peculations would inevitably be discovered and trying to avoid the consequences. He might have ended up in York because he had some connections there, or maybe it just seemed a likely place to hide—a big city far removed from the scene of the crime. It was even possible that he didn't know about Mrs. Lathrop's death, that he had decided to run because Sir Mordred seemed to be getting too interested in the books.

It was all guesswork, of course, until I knew exactly when Morrison's men had checked the lake on Saturday and found it innocent, and exactly when Thoreston had been arrested on Sunday, and whether he had a car. And those things, of course, were very well known to the police and therefore not matters about which I could profitably speculate.

The police would also be making exhaustive inquiries into Claude's movements. Where had be been since his mother's death? What had brought him back to Brocklesby Hall? When would someone, Thoreston or anyone else, have had a chance to kill him?

I tried to shift Sam; my right leg had gone to sleep. She growled in her sleep, gently dug her rear claws into my thigh, and stayed where she was.

The police would be coping with all these matters, and I was theorizing ahead of my data, as Sherlock Holmes pedantically warned never to do, but I thought my conclusions were warranted. I believed Thoreston was out of the picture, and Claude, by reason of being dead, was, too. It was just conceivable, I supposed, that Claude could have pushed his motorbike into the lake and walked off into the blue, but I could think of no possible reason for him to do so. And assuming he was dead, and Thoreston was not responsible for his death, I either had to posit two murderers at Brocklesby Hall or look for another suspect.

And who was there?

I reached for the telephone pad and pencil and made a desk of Sam's back. There weren't so many people left, unless one included the entire staff of Brocklesby Hall and the Museum. Any of them could have stuck around after the house was locked up and poisoned Mrs. Lathrop's tea, but why would they? I had no idea what might motivate the pleasant woman who ran the shop, or the women who volunteered in that lamentable tearoom, or the guides, or—no, it was hopeless.

I had to concentrate on the people I knew.

Which meant:

Bob Finch

Meg Cunningham

Richard Adam

I chewed on the pencil for a moment and looked at the pad uneasily. Three names. One a good friend, one beginning to be a friend. The third I didn't care for much at all, but if he was the one, Meg would . . .

Meg is the best suspect, you know,
whispered that nasty inner voice that torments me from time to time.
Meg is a mother tiger. She'd do anything to protect Jemima. The Lathrops were a threat to her. The Lathrops are both dead
.

I squirmed, mentally and physically, and Sam swore at me in feline Siamese and jumped down. She didn't, unfortunately, distract me from the painful idea I'd managed to keep at bay until now. Meg could have killed Mrs. Lathrop, easily. Claude would have presented more of a challenge, but Richard—oh, Richard would have loved dealing with Claude once and for all . . .

Horrified by the picture I had conjured up, I substituted one of Meg, weeping and miserable. Was that the face of a murderess? Or a conspirator?

Or
, the nasty voice suggested,
a woman terrified for her lover?

I wrenched my unruly thoughts back to the other name on my list Bob Finch.

Supposing, just for the sake of the argument, that Bob had stolen some miniatures and Mrs. Lathrop had found out about it. Never mind how wildly unlikely the scenario was, but supposing. What would Bob have done then?

If he'd been drunk at the time—I modified that thought to
if he'd been exceedingly drunk
—he might, I supposed, have picked up a handy flowerpot and thrown it at her, or conked her on the head with a spade, or something of the kind.

Would he, by any stretch of the imagination, have bided his time, gone out to the garden, picked some monkshood, dried it and shredded it up and deposited it stealthily in Mrs. Lathrop's caddy full of herbal tea, for her to drink later and die in agony?

And would Mrs. Lathrop, meanwhile, have sat by, telling no one about Bob's sins, patiently waiting to be murdered?

I crossed Bob's name off the list while knowing it probably remained on the police list. I'd deal with that later.

That left Meg and Richard.

Alone or together. And Richard was lying to the police. And Meg was acting very oddly.

Where were Meg and Richard on the Wednesday night before Mrs. Lathrop died?

I knew as I wrote the question on the pad that it was pointless. The police had certainly already questioned both Meg and Richard about their movements, just as a matter of routine.

No, there was no point in my going into that kind of thing. What I could do better than the police was find out about people, what worried them, what made them happy, what they were afraid of. I already knew quite a bit about Meg; it was time to find out about Richard.

I headed across the backyard to Jane's.

I tapped on the kitchen door and walked in, to be met by savory smells, assorted bulldogs, and the sight of Jane seated at the table, knife and fork in her hands and a book open by her plate.

“Oh, good grief, I'm sorry. I forgot it was supper time. I'll come back.”

Jane looked at me sharply and pulled out the chair next to her. “Casseroled chicken. There's plenty; get yourself a plate.”

I know Jane's kitchen almost as well as my own. I found a plate and cutlery, helped myself to chicken and vegetables, and let Jane pour me a glass of white burgundy. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I put the first forkful into my mouth, then I applied myself single-mindedly to the business of eating.

“Apple tart?” she said after a while.

I looked down at my empty plate. “Oh, Jane, I'm ashamed of myself! Eating you out of house and home, and without a word of thanks, even!”

“Nary a word of any kind,” she said with raised eyebrows. “What's wrong?”

“What makes you think something's wrong?” I asked defensively.

“Forgot it was mealtime. So hungry you forgot to talk.” She was ticking items off on her fingertips. “Forgot to be polite—you, of all people. Something's on your mind.”

“You know me too well. I'd intended to be subtle about it. Yes, I'd love some apple tart, and some coffee if you're having some, and some information.”

“The Lathrop murders?” She put the kettle on for coffee.

“Murders? Oh, then it was Claude in the lake!”

“You didn't know?”

“I guessed. I saw the print of a motorcycle tire near the lake, and called Alan. How did you find out, the cathedral-town grapevine?”

“The news, about an hour ago,” she said dryly. “Do you never watch the telly?”

“Hardly ever, and certainly not today. I was too busy worrying. Look, Jane, I think Meg Cunningham and/or Richard Adam may be mixed up in this mess, and it worries me. He's a surly chap, and I hardly know him, but I like her, and I feel sorry for her. What can you tell me about them?”

She took her time about measuring coffee into the French coffeepot, carefully pouring in boiling water, fastening the top on.

“Determined to keep on messing about in murder, then?” she said gruffly. It was not really a question.

“Yes, I am, Jane. You know all the reasons why.”

“Know more than you think I do. Been talking to Margaret.” She cut us wedges of pie, set them on the table, and sat down. “Suppose I may as well help, then. Might keep you out of trouble.”

I didn't thank her, or give her a hug, or do any of the things I wanted to do. Jane is not a demonstrative person, and she hates to be praised. I sat eating the excellent pie, and waited.

“Meg Cunningham,” she pronounced after she had pushed down the plunger in the pot and poured us cups of strong, fragrant coffee. “Don't know her except by hearsay. Lived in Sherebury just over a year now. Divorced, one daughter who's deaf, poor child. Suppose you know all that.”

I nodded and sipped my steaming coffee.

“Hasn't much money,” Jane went on. “Lives in a council house. Ex-husband doesn't always pay his share of the expenses, and they're heavy. Special school, training for Meg in sign language—the lot. Makes ends meet, and keeps the house clean and tidy and the girl properly dressed and fed. Not much more than that.”

“Does Richard help, at all?”

“Tries, they say.”

“I suppose Meg won't accept his help. She's very independent.”

“Except when it comes to the child, Jemima. She lets him help with her, not treats, but necessities she can't afford.”

“Where does he live?”

“Cottage in the country, hard by Brocklesby Hall, nearly in Sir Mordred's back garden. It was his mother's; he's lived there always. Him I've known since he was a pup, taught him his sums when he was a boy. Not surly, exactly, but the stubbornest person, boy and man, I've yet met. Thinks because he wants a thing, it has to be that way. Has a good heart, mind, but knows what's best for everybody.”

“Like so many men.” I sighed, and Jane gave me a sharp glance, but made no comment. I went on asking questions.

“So if he lives alone, and Meg lives alone except for Jemima, there's no one to vouch for their whereabouts on the night—at any time.”

I caught myself just in time, I thought, but nothing escapes Jane.

“On the night Lathrop's tea was doctored? Whole town knows she drank it the night before with no problem, then died of it early in the morning. Up to the police to find out where everyone was at the time.”

I grinned in spite of the seriousness of the matter. “Jane, I don't know why Sherebury bothers with a police force at all. You know everything. Alan solemnly assured me that the time element was confidential.”

Jane snorted. “One thing I don't know is why Richard Adam is lying. Went out of his way, Sunday, to sit next to me at coffee after church. Told me he was up early the morning Lathrop died, and saw nobody coming or going about the Hall.”

I furrowed my brow. “Why did you ask him that?”

“I didn't.”

I got it after a beat or two. “He volunteered the information. He told you because he knows you—um—have a finger on Sherebury's pulse.”

She snorted again, with genuine amusement this time. “Finger in Sherebury's pies, you mean.”

“Whatever. You're an information source. But why would he want you to spread the word that he didn't see anyone?”

“Only two reasons I can think of. He
did
see someone he didn't want to see. Or he didn't because he was there himself.”

T
he more I thought about those conclusions, as I groped my way back to my darkened house, the less I liked either of them. Unfortunately, I couldn't fault their logic. That put me right back where I was before I'd gone to see Jane. I had hoped she might give me good reasons why neither Meg nor Richard had been involved. Instead she had added another plank to my shaky construction of fear and speculation. I put a CD on the player, stretched out on the couch with Emmy ensconced on my knees, and tested the wobbly structure a little further.