Malice in Miniature (18 page)

A
sip of tea bought me a couple of seconds' respite, enough time to decide that my only chance lay in telling Meg the truth, so far as I knew it. My suspicions, of course, I would keep to myself.

“I don't know what he's doing now, in any detail. I do know that he was talking to the police half an hour or so ago when I phoned the Hall to speak to you.”

“You mean the police were talking to him.”

“Probably.” I took a deep breath and looked up to meet her gaze steadily. “I just hope he's answering their questions, and with the truth this time. He's been lying, you know, and that's a really bad idea. The police don't like it; they get very annoyed. Not only that, it makes their job harder, so they take longer to find the guilty— and exonerate the innocent.” I waited for a moment. Meg picked up her teacup, stirred its contents, and put it down again.

“
Why
is he lying, Meg? I'm sure you know, if anyone does.”

She stared at the chrysanthemums, reached over, pinched off a dead leaf.

“My dear, you have to make up your mind. Either you trust me, or you don't If you don't, I'll go home and stop bothering you, but I'd rather we tried to help each other.”

“Why should I trust you?” It wasn't a retort; she was asking a genuine question.

It wasn't an easy one to answer, either. It was my turn to fiddle with my teacup.

“The only answer I have to that, I guess, is that my intentions are good, and you have to trust someone. You can't go through life watching your back all the time. I can't make any rash promises about Richard; you know that. Quite frankly, at the moment I would guess he's at the top of the list of suspects. And, Meg, you think so, too, don't you?”

She didn't bother to deny it. Nor did she meet my eye. Her gaze was fixed on the plant, though I was sure she saw, not leaves and flowers, but something much darker.

“Don't you see, Meg, the truth can't hurt him. If he's guilty, the police will find that out. I have the greatest respect for the English police, and not just because I'm married to Alan. They really do get their man, nearly always. And they almost never send an innocent one to jail— but if Richard is innocent, they'll know it much sooner if they have all the facts at their command.” And if I'd left a good deal out of that speech, at least what I'd said was honest.

“Yes, I see.” She drained her teacup. Probably her mouth was as dry as mine. I sipped from my own cup and waited.

“Very well,” she said suddenly. “You're right. I must trust someone. But I can't tell you anything, because I don't know what Richard is hiding.

“He's hiding something, though, you're quite right about that. He has been ever since Mrs. Lathrop was killed. He wouldn't even talk to me at first, except to keep insisting I leave town. Finally, on Sunday we saw each other in church, and I couldn't bear it any longer. I worked up my courage, and after coffee I went up to him and asked him to have dinner with Jemima and me. We ended by spending the rest of the day together, the three of us, but he took care never to be alone with me for a moment, so we couldn't really talk. Even after we put Jemima to bed, he insisted on watching some silly film on the telly. Dorothy, I'm so scared! He won't talk, and he hated the Lathrops so, Claude more than his mother, but both of them, really, because they were a threat to me and Jemima. And of course he knows all about garden plants. What if he—I don't really think he would, but what if—”

“Wait a minute, Meg, wait a minute! Go back to Sunday. Richard was with you and Jemima—starting when?”

She wiped a traitorous tear off her cheek with an angry swipe of her hand. “What difference does it make? I told you he wouldn't say anything, and I tried, I really did—”

“Just tell me. How long were you all together?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Oh, for heaven's sake! He was in church, I told you that. I saw him when we got there, a little before ten. Then we came here, to my house, and stayed here all day.”

“And he went home—when?”

“After that stupid film was over. I wasn't watching the clock, but after midnight, I know that much. And if it's our morals you're concerned about—”

“Not at all.” I had been holding my breath; now I let it out in a great gust. “I'm sure you can look after your own morals. The point is, my dear, you and I need to make sure Richard tells the police what you just told me, and as soon as possible. Because if he was with the two of you all that time on Sunday, he didn't put Claude Lathrop in the lake!”

I
CALLED THE
police station from her house, and, after being passed up the polite but obstructive ladder, finally learned that Inspector Morrison was still out at the Hall. I asked them to tell him I was on my way with important information. Meg drove; I thought she'd make much faster progress than I, with my stupid foreigner's timidity.

“Do you have to pick Jemima up from school?”

“Not till after five. The school has quite a lot of working mothers, so they organize games and free playtime for the children after school. It's good for Jemima, the socializing, so I didn't want to cancel it today, even though I could have picked her up early.”

“You worry about her a lot, don't you?”

“Too much, Richard says. He thinks I should let her live a more normal life, stop being so protective, and perhaps with Claude gone—oh, Dorothy, I can't believe I don't have to be afraid of him anymore! You're quite sure Richard's in the clear?”

“Quite sure. Richard couldn't have pushed him in the lake.” Neither, thank God, could Meg. I grinned at her, giddy with relief. “I can't give you the details, but you can take it from me that there's absolutely no doubt. And I refuse to believe in two separate murderers, so that means he didn't kill Mrs. Lathrop, either.”

And there was a fine, reckless piece of conclusion-jumping, I thought as we negotiated the double roundabout. I'd have to enter that one in Alan's Olympics. But I couldn't tell Meg that it was just possible Claude was murdered by one person and pushed in the lake later by another. For one thing, the fact that he was dead when he went in was confidential, and the police wanted it kept that way. For another, the only conspiracy I was prepared to consider was Meg-Richard, and they were now in the clear, at least for Claude's death. If there was any possibility of Richard's involvement in Mrs. Lathrop's murder—well, I simply couldn't mention it. I've never been much good at tearing the wings off butterflies.

This time I didn't have to bluster my way into the Hall. I was escorted by a deferential constable, Meg in tow. Inspector Morrison had established himself in Sir Mordred's office, which he had turned into an incident room. He rose as we came into the room.

“Mrs. Martin, how nice to see you. Please sit down. And this is?”

“Meg Cunningham, the curator and librarian of the museum here. Meg, this is Detective Chief Inspector Morrison, one of the very best men on the force.”

Inspector Morrison gestured her to a chair. “How do you do, Mrs. Cunningham. It is Mrs.?”

“I'm divorced, Chief Inspector. Mrs. or Ms., whichever you prefer.”

He inclined his head. “I'm glad you came, Mrs. Cunningham. I was just getting around to sending someone to talk to you and now I won't have to. Mrs. Martin, you said you had some information for me?”

“Meg does. Tell him what you told me, my dear.”

She recited her story of the events of Sunday, her eyes never leaving his face. Like the good policeman he is, he didn't let his expression change, but when she finished, he sat back in his chair looking bemused.

“And have you verification for any of these times, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Well, there's Jemima. She was with us until she went to bed. I don't know if you accept the evidence of children, though—and she's deaf, of course, you'd have to have an interpreter—”

“We have expert signers on the force, and children often make very good witnesses. Is there anyone who can take up after the time when Jemima went to bed?”

Meg grimaced. “Mrs. Graham. She's my next-door neighbor, and a one-woman espionage patrol. She's always complaining when Richard spends more than five minutes at the house, and she watches like a hawk for him to go home. She'd love to catch him spending the night. As a matter of fact, she spoke to me Monday morning about it. ‘Your gentleman friend stayed very late last night, didn't he? Watching the telly, were you?' She was quite rude when I told her we were.”

Inspector Morrison sat up again and sighed. “Yes, well, we'll check, of course, but I've no doubt what we'll learn. Your Mr. Adam told us exactly the same story, you see. And so we sent him home.”

She was on her feet and out the door before either of us could say another word. The constable taking notes made for the door, but the inspector said, “Sit down, Colin. She's gone to find him. And they're both out of it.”

He looked at me and sighed again. “I suppose I should be grateful to have it all so nice and clear, but I'm not. You do realize, Mrs. Martin, that this takes us back to square one?”

“No other suspects at all?”

“Not for Claude's murder. It's wide open, now. Everyone we might have considered was elsewhere Sunday night.”

“Bob Finch?”

“He was under the firm surveillance of his mother, who's been keeping him at home. She's afraid he'll go on a world-class drinking bout, so she's keeping him tied to her apron strings. Vouched for by three neighbors who came in to keep Bob company.”

“And Ada's word would have been good enough on its own. I'm sorry, Inspector. I seem to have put a monkey wrench in the works.”

The inspector smiled, a little wearily. “It's not your fault. The works would have ground to a halt soon, in any case. You just speeded up the process a bit. We had a man on Adam, pending our talk with Mrs. Cunningham. Now we can call him off. For which, as I said, I should be grateful.”

“Did Richard—Mr. Adam—say anything that was of any use at all? Other than the negative evidence, I mean?”

“Not he. He doesn't like us very much, and I must say the feeling is mutual. We'll need to talk to him again, of course. He's still lying about something, but I can't put my finger on what.”

“Oh, I know what, I think. He saw something on the morning Mrs. Lathrop was killed, something he doesn't want to talk about.”

“He's talked to you?”

“No. He doesn't like me, either. No, actually he talked to a friend of mine. Well, you know Jane Langland. She was the one who figured it out, really. He ran into her at church and went out of his way to tell her he saw nothing at all that morning. Which, of course, since he's innocent, means that he did.”

Inspector Morrison didn't quite scratch his head, or let his eyes drift heavenward. He's a very polite man. Also an intelligent one.

“If Adam had been abroad that morning,” he said after a moment, with precision, “he might have told us there was nothing to be seen, to try to discredit anyone who said they had seen
him
. But if we stick to the single-murderer theory, which is the most reasonable one at the moment, he was
not
out that morning poisoning Mrs. Lathrop's tea. Therefore, if he's lying when he says he saw no one, it means he did see someone. Is that your premise?”

“I must say, put that way, it has an awful lot more ‘if's in it than I thought it had. But yes, that's the idea. And if it's the right idea, then I think he may be ready now to tell you the truth. If you'll excuse me, Inspector, I think I'll go and try to persuade him to do just that. If you have no objection?”

“Be my guest, Mrs. Martin. And the best of British luck to you.”

Well, he could be excused for sounding just a little sour. But I didn't think I was going to need much luck, British or otherwise. Richard was not a stupid man or Meg wouldn't care so much about him.

And how was that for a fine conclusion jump?

I found Richard's cottage easily enough, and was invited in, though I must say I've received warmer welcomes. Meg and Richard seemed to have better things to do than talk to me. I could sympathize, but they'd have lots of time for that later. Just now there were important matters to clear up.

“I'm sorry to bother you. I do realize you have—um—things to talk about.”

Meg giggled at that. Richard's face remained stony, but I ignored his displeasure and forged ahead. “Mr. Adam— or do you mind if I call you Richard?”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Meg's eyes begged me to understand, but I ignored her, too.

“Richard, then, since you're easily young enough to be my son. You've got to go tell the police what you saw on Thursday morning.”

“I have told them,” he said without an instant's pause. “I saw nothing. If they choose not to believe me, it's their affair.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, snap out of love's young dream for just a second and
think!
Meg was with you on Sunday night. That means you and she are both out of the running for Claude's murder. So, unless you can believe there's a second villain skulking around someplace, the person you saw going into the Hall on Thursday
couldn't
have been Meg!”

Richard's jaw, which had been set so tightly I could hear his teeth grinding, dropped, and Meg's did, too.

She turned on him. “You thought I—so that's why you—but how could you think—”

“Of course it couldn't—I never thought—but now that I know—what a fool I've been!”

They went on in that fashion for a few minutes. I was forgotten, so I stood patiently waiting until they had finished accusing and explaining and forgiving and doing a few other things along the way. When their incoherence had finally abated, I cleared my throat.