Sins Out of School (4 page)

Mrs. Beecham smiled rather bleakly and went back to her papers.

It was really none of my business where Amanda Doyle had been, or what she'd been doing. And it would take me a good half hour to walk home, and there were things I urgently needed to be doing. If I had any sense, I'd leave the thing alone and get out of there.

As I walked past the school office, across the hall from Catherine's more private cubicle, I saw Mrs. Doyle again. She was talking to the secretary, her back to the open door. It wasn't really eavesdropping if I just happened to walk a little slower as I passed.

“At the beginning of term, then. Miriam, yes; she was nine in July. It would be better if she were put in Ruth Beecham's room, don't you think? It would be awkward for her to have her mother for a teacher.”

She leaned over the desk to sign something, and I hastened away.

So she was enrolling her daughter in St. Stephen's next term.

Well, well, again.

I thought about Amanda and her mysterious absence all the way home, and then not again for two days. My time was completely occupied with joyful holiday preparations. I love to cook, and I love company, and somehow it was especially pleasant to celebrate a holiday when the rest of the town was carrying on its regular business. Not having to clean the house made it even more delightful. I made pies and salads and casseroles, and rose at dawn on Thursday to start the turkey cooking. Things were well enough under control that I could pop over to the Cathedral, which is virtually in my backyard, for Matins. Of course there was no mention of Thanksgiving with a capital
T
. There were none of the usual hymns of my childhood, “We Gather Together” and “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come,” but the ritual satisfied me. I said my own prayers of thanksgiving and hurried away, refreshed, to set the table.

The house smelled wonderful. A wave of sage and onions engulfed me as I came in the door. I took a long, appreciative sniff, hung up my coat and hat, and went to get my best tablecloth out of the drawer.

The phone rang as Alan and I were pulling the table apart to put in the leaves. “Oh, I do hope that isn't somebody saying they can't come.”

“More likely someone wanting to sell you life insurance. If you'll get it, love, I can manage now.”

“Hello, Dorothy, it's Catherine Woodley.”

“No.”

“I need—what did you say?”

“I said no. I absolutely, positively will not come to your rescue today. Eight guests are going to arrive in about an hour, and I don't care how many teachers you're missing or how deep you are in nine-year-olds, I'm sorry but I'm
not
available.”

“Oh, I forgot. It isn't that, Dorothy. It's far more serious, I'm afraid.”

I dropped the bantering manner. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be frivolous. You're really in some kind of trouble, aren't you?”

“Well, not I. That is, not exactly. It's—” She took a deep breath. “It's Amanda Doyle. Her husband's dead.”

I made a shocked noise.

“Yes, and it's worse than you know. He's—I'm afraid there's no doubt he was murdered.”

I
SAT
down and drew a deep breath of my own. “Tell me what you need me to do, and if I possibly can, I will.”

“Well, you see, it's the little girl. Miriam. There's no other family, apparently, and Amanda is—is talking to the police, perhaps for quite some time.”

“Is being questioned, you mean? Catherine, you're not telling me Amanda killed her husband?”

“No, no, of course not!” She sounded very emphatic. “But the trouble is, the police don't know who did, so of course they must ask Amanda a lot of questions. And the child is here, here at school. Amanda brought her here on the way to the police station. I thought perhaps we could look after her, put her in one of the classes for the day. She's enrolled for next term, in any case, so—I'm sorry, I'm babbling. The point is, Miriam has tried to do as she was told, but she's much too upset to work with the other children, and one can hardly wonder, poor little mite. She needs some individual attention, and we're simply not equipped to deal properly with one extremely unhappy little girl. So I thought I'd ask if you could look after her, just until after school, when one of us can take her home. But I'd forgotten about your holiday. Of course you can't possibly.”

“There must be friends—neighbors—”

“I've asked Ruth Beecham. She thinks she is literally Amanda's only friend, and obviously she can't leave school and look after the child. She says the family never got on with their neighbors.”

“Their church, then. Mrs. Beecham says they're very religious.”

“Dorothy, believe me, I've thought of everything. Ruth suggested to Miriam that she might like to go to her own school, the church school, for today, at least. We both thought it might be better to maintain some semblance of normal routine. But Miriam refuses to go.”

Catherine was sounding more frazzled by the second. I bit my lip and did some rapid thinking. “All right, look, Catherine. One of my guests is a little girl. Ten now, if I'm counting right, a year older than Miriam, but young for her age. She's deaf, but she's very good at reading lips and can speak a little. If you think Jemima and Miriam would get along, bring her over and I'll manage somehow. Do you suppose she likes cats?”

“Not a clue, I'm afraid.”

“Well, we'll work it out. Jane Langland will be here, too, and I've yet to see the child she can't deal with. Can you get Miriam here? I'm afraid Alan and I are both too busy to leave just now.”

“I'll bring her myself. You are an absolute angel. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I took two of those to phone Jane, my next-door neighbor. “Can you come over now instead of waiting till later, Jane? I need you; there's a crisis looming.”

Jane asked no questions. She was at my back door almost before I'd hung up the phone.

“What's up?”

I explained to her and Alan at the same time. When I had finished, Alan cocked his head to one side and looked very thoughtful. Jane, as usual, was more direct. “Did she do it?”

“Good heavens, I don't have the slightest idea! I met the woman only once. I have to say my impression was of someone who wouldn't say boo to a goose. But she's a good teacher. Everyone says so, and I could tell from the way her class acted. And a person has to have a good deal of backbone to teach effectively. Without it, the children will run all over you. Well, you know that, Jane.” Jane had taught for years at Trinity School, the secondary school where children went after St. Stephen's, and what she didn't know about teaching and children probably wasn't true anyway.

She waved off the side issue and stuck to the point. “Police think she did.”

“It does sound that way, doesn't it? And of course the spouse is always the first suspect.”

Alan nodded and sighed. His many years as a policeman had taught him the sad truth about domestic disputes. In his pre-retirement position as chief constable he had not had to deal directly with the wives and husbands who took the quick way out of a marriage, but he hadn't forgotten.

“Well, whether she did or not, the little girl is our concern at the moment. And I think she's here, right this minute, so look cheerful!”

Miriam Doyle was not overjoyed to be foisted on strangers. That was plain the moment she stepped out of the car. Her face was streaked with tears and her chin wobbled. She was not an attractive child, at least not with her long fair hair scraped back as tightly as her mother's. I went out to greet her with trepidation.

She had, however, been taught obedience. When Mrs. Beecham led her to me and introduced us, she shook my hand politely and said, “It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Martin. Thank you for letting me come.” Her voice shook. Tears welled up in her eyes. But she was trying.

“I'm delighted to have you, Miriam. Now come in and meet my cats.”

“I'm not allowed to play with animals, Mrs. Martin. They're dirty.”

“My cats aren't, and when you're in my house you may play with them as much as you like. Or not, if you don't want to. Come along, now. You're getting cold.”

Her drab brown jacket was nothing like warm enough for the dark, windy November morning, and when she got inside and removed the jacket, her other clothing was lightweight, too. It looked like a school uniform. Cheap white cotton blouse, short tan skirt, tan knee socks that sagged and wrinkled on her thin little legs. Everything was clean, but threadbare, and I remembered what Mrs. Beecham had said about the strained budget of the family. Poor child! Things would be much worse with the father gone, even if the mother didn't face prison.

Miriam waited, a forlorn little bundle of misery, while I hung up her coat. I gave her a quick hug and a little push into the parlor. “There are some people I want you to meet. This is my husband, Mr. Nesbitt. We don't use the same name; I hope that isn't too confusing. And these are my cats Esmeralda and Samantha, but they're usually called Emmy and Sam. Sam is the funny-looking brown-and-cream one. She's half Siamese, but she looks like the real thing. And this lady is my next-door neighbor and my best friend, Miss Langland. She used to be a teacher, like your mother.”

Jane sized her up with a quick, shrewd glance and took over. “You look as though you need something to do, child. Lots of work in the kitchen. Know how to scrub vegetables?” A shy nod. “Good. We'll tackle the potatoes and then do the celery and lettuce.”

I picked up my cue. “Lovely, Miriam. And when you've finished, I could use some help setting the table.”

The immediate problem solved, I continued getting out napkins, plates, glasses, and silver, for eleven places, now, instead of ten. It was going to be a tight squeeze around the table, but there was plenty to eat, and to spare.

I could hear Jane keeping up a gentle flow of conversation in the kitchen. If Miriam answered, I didn't hear her, but neither did I hear any sounds of weeping. Jane was coping, as usual.

“I wish I knew what was happening with her mother,” I said to Alan, sotto voce.

“It depends on the situation,” he replied equally softly. “Ordinarily they'd talk to the spouse at the home. If they've taken her to the station, it's because there's a better chance than usual that she's guilty.”

I had already figured that out. Having Alan say it didn't make me feel one bit better.

“Of course,” he continued, “Catherine might have been wrong. Mrs. Doyle might have been on her way to the morgue, being driven there by the police. She'd have to identify the body, of course. Or there might be another suspect in custody, someone they wanted Mrs. Doyle to look at. Any number of possibilities.”

“Thanks, love. I know you're just trying to make me feel better, but thanks.”

“I'll tell you what I'll do. The rest of our guests will be here any moment, but as soon as I can get away from them, I'll make a phone call or two and see what I can find out. How would that do?”

I gave him a hug as the doorbell rang.

Tom and Lynn Anderson were the first. My oldest friends in England, they're an American couple who live in Georgian splendor in London's fashionable Belgravia. Then Nigel and Inga Evans arrived, Inga's slender figure hidden behind a bulging tunic.

“Goodness! Not twins, surely?”

“They say not, but I must say I can't imagine one child taking up this much room. I keep thinking they must be wrong about the date.”

“Well, heavens, come in and sit down, and if you feel one single twinge, don't be shy about telling us. I'm excited about your baby, and thrilled to pieces that you've asked me to be the godmother, but I'd rather he, or she, wasn't born at my dining table.”

Nigel grinned broadly as he escorted Inga to the most comfortable upright chair. At this stage, extricating her from an overstuffed one would be difficult and probably unwise.

As for me, I blinked back a couple of unexpected tears. Childless myself, I was already dotingly fond of this baby-to-be, who might never have happened if not for my tendency to snoop into other people's affairs. You never know what a little interfering may lead to.

Jane and I, with timid assistance from Miriam, finished setting the table while Alan poured drinks. Miriam was as careful as I would have been with my best china, and positively reverential with the crystal. “It's pretty,” she whispered to me. “We don't have anything so nice. Maybe it's a vanity, but I don't care! I like it.”

I had no time to think what she might mean, for our last guests arrived just then, Meg and Richard Adam and Meg's deaf ten-year-old daughter, Jemima. They, too, had been involved in an odd matter a while back, in which I had become embroiled. We'd been fast friends ever since. I'd even learned a little sign language from Jemima.