Sins Out of School (6 page)

This day I listened. There was no mighty peal being rung, only the bells of the clock telling the hour, but there was comfort in the sound. The bells, some of them, have been there for longer than my house; the two oldest date from the fifteenth century. The chimes of the clock are nothing like that old, but somehow, when I hear them ring out, I hear also a hint of eternity. Age and tradition suggest continuity and permanence. In this uncertain, impermanent world, I find that a consolation.

I was already feeling better as I entered the side door and walked past tombs and chantries and memorials in stone and bronze. Even these reminders of mortality didn't depress me. They were, after all, reminders of immortality as well. I stopped in the little chapel set aside for private meditation and said a prayer for Mrs. Doyle and little Miriam, and a reluctant one for Mr. Doyle, and then went on to the gift shop.

It turned out they didn't need me there. It was a slow day. The manager, Mrs. Williamson, kindly let me putter around a bit, but it was busywork, and I soon tired of it. The Cathedral had done its work on my mood, anyway. I'd go home and get at those weeds.

I was on my knees and thoroughly grubby when my husband came to a stopping place in his work and strolled out to survey my progress. “Nearly time for a turkey sandwich, wouldn't you say, love?”

“Right. I'm starving. But I want to finish this corner first.”

“Then I'll make the sandwiches. Oh, by the way, Derek called while you were out. They've let Mrs. Doyle go home.”

“Somebody bailed her out?” I crawled forward another foot, careful not to crush any chrysanthemums.

“Posted bond, my dear. No, as a matter of fact. They found some evidence that cast considerable doubt on her guilt.”

I sat back (to the ruination of several plants) and looked up at him. “Really! What evidence?”

“Don't get excited. It's nothing conclusive, and it won't be until the autopsy is completed, but it turns out that there was a good deal less blood on Mr. Doyle's clothing than one would have expected. So little, in fact, that they are now not sure the stabbing was the cause of death. That upsets the whole scenario, of course. So they're letting Mrs. Doyle go home, for the time being, at least. I imagine they'll put pressure on the medical examiner's office, try to get the autopsy rushed through.”

I pulled another weed or two and thought about that. “It doesn't really help much, does it? Because even if she didn't stab him, she might have killed him some other way. Though why she would then stab him …”

“Precisely. She might have done. People will do almost anything. If I learned anything in nearly fifty years of police work, it was that. If she hated him enough, she might have wanted to make assurance doubly sure. But it seems a little unlikely.”

“So she's home with Miriam?”

“For now. The forensics people have finished with the house, so they've let them back in.”

“That was quick work.”

“I imagine it was the thought of the little girl that hurried them. She'd have had no place to go.”

So now they had a home, anyway. But Mrs. Doyle wasn't likely to go back to her teaching job for a while, I thought as I disposed of the last few pesky weeds. That wouldn't help the family financial situation. It gave me a practical way to help a little, though. I'd take some turkey and other leftovers to the house this afternoon. At least they wouldn't have to worry about food for a while.

I went in with a lighter heart to clean up and eat my lunch.

I
HAD
to stop at St. Stephen's to find out where the Doyles lived. Catherine wasn't in the office; the secretary told me she was taking Mrs. Doyle's class. I felt guilty that I hadn't even offered to substitute for another day. I also felt that if I didn't get out of there quickly, I might very well be roped in. I got the address and some directions from the secretary and hastened out the door.

The Doyles lived in a part of town I knew only by reputation, and I got lost getting there. Sherebury isn't a big place, but because the heart of town is medieval, and was at one time walled, the streets are narrow and winding, and even after several years here I can still get lost very easily. One might think that the newer areas, developed from the middle nineteenth through the late twentieth century, would have been laid out on a more rational grid, but not so. The streets are slightly wider, but they wind just as much. In a way it's actually harder to navigate in the new housing estates, because the buildings are all exactly alike, at least in the less expensive developments.

The Doyle home, when I finally found it, was in the least expensive area of all. Built in the 1980s (not a happy period in English domestic architecture), the skimpy two-up-and-two-down houses were of shoddy construction, and most of them were showing it badly. The pebbles that had originally covered up the exterior stucco had fallen off in haphazard patterns, giving the walls an odd moth-eaten look. Large cracks had appeared here and there. Rain gutters sagged, downspouts were missing. Roof tiles had been replaced, not with the original brown, but with any color that (one assumed) was on sale. Woodwork had been left unpainted for so long it was, in many places, beginning to rot. The small square houses must always have been ugly, but it would have been an austere, sterile ugliness when they were new. Now the majority of them were simply squalid.

The Doyles had done their best to make repairs and restore the house to its austere sterility. A fresh coat of stucco had been applied. The roof tiles all matched. The woodwork was painted a repellent shade of shiny gray. The tiny patches of ground on either side of the front walk were covered, not with flowers, but with grass that had, one felt, never been allowed to grow so much as an extra quarter of an inch before being efficiently mowed. High yew hedges, clipped to rigid rectangles, gave the house a dark, secretive look.

Never had I seen a house that so clearly shouted of cheerless duty relentlessly done.

I had expected to see several cars parked near the house, but there was only one, probably Mr. Doyle's. No friends and neighbors had come to call on the victims of tragedy? I checked the address to make sure I had the right house. This was 42 Wilbraham Crescent, all right.

Well, Catherine had said Mrs. Doyle had no friends except for Mrs. Beecham. I shrugged, got out of the car with my shopping bag full of food, and rang the bell.

I heard a key turn. The door opened two inches against the chain and Miriam peered around the edge.

“Hello, Miriam. I came to see you and your mother. May I come in?”

“Hello, Mrs. Martin. I'm sorry, but Mummy told me not to let anyone in.”

“Is she out?” I asked in some alarm. Surely no woman would leave the child alone, under the circumstances.

“No. She's taking a nap. She's very tired.”

“I'm sure she is, and I don't want to disturb her if she's able to get a little rest. Maybe I could just give you this?” I held up the bag. “We had so much food left over from dinner yesterday, and I thought your mother might not feel like cooking for a while, so I brought some of it to you.”

“Well—Mummy said not to open the door, but p'raps it will be all right—I'll have to close it first, though—”

The door closed and I heard the chain rattle. Before Miriam could open the door again I heard Mrs. Doyle's voice sounding clearly through the thin walls. “Miriam? Who is it, darling? Remember, you mustn't let anyone in.”

“It's just Mrs. Martin, Mummy. She brought us some food. And I'm hungry.” The last was said in a near whisper. I wasn't intended to hear.

There was a pause and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened, halfway this time, it was an exhausted-looking Mrs. Doyle who stood there, a depressing bathrobe over her pajamas.

“It's kind of you to call, Mrs. Martin, and especially kind to think about food. I'm afraid I've been too put about to do any marketing. I don't suppose you have time to come in for a moment?”

She didn't want me there. That was perfectly plain from her tone of voice. Any polite person would have taken the hint. However, she had asked me in, and she and Miriam needed some lunch.

“Thank you, I have plenty of time, and I thought I'd just make you a cup of tea before I go.” I moved forward. Mrs. Doyle had little choice but to stand aside and open the door the rest of the way.

There was no need to ask the way to the kitchen. It, with a dining area, was to the right of the minute entrance hall. The living room was on the left. A steep flight of stairs led, presumably, to the bedrooms and bathroom. The house was very cold. I left my coat on and buttoned the top button.

“Really, I don't need any tea,” said Mrs. Doyle, following me. “At least, I can make some myself.”

“But so can I, my dear, and you look ready to drop, if you don't mind my saying so. You just sit there at the table and I'll have tea and sandwiches ready in no time. Miriam, dear, if you'll show me where things are?”

The habit of obedience was strong in both of them. The mother sat; the daughter got out the teapot, mugs, and plates while I sandwiched thick slices of turkey into leftover dinner rolls. There was no butter in the small refrigerator, but margarine would do, and I'd brought some lettuce. When the tea was brewed, I asked where the sugar was.

Miriam looked shocked. “We don't use sugar in tea. It's too expensive. Here's the saccharine.”

“Never mind. This time you need sugar. Do you have some for baking?”

Miriam looked at her mother, who nodded wearily. The little girl got a pound box of sugar, about half empty, from the pantry. I measured two teaspoonsful into each mug, poured out the tea, and looked for the milk.

“We take our tea without milk, and I'm afraid there's none in the house at the moment,” said Mrs. Doyle. “But if you'd like a cup taken black—”

“No, thank you, but I'll sit down for a moment if you don't mind.” I sat without waiting for permission. I was being shockingly rude, but really this woman needed some help. She must have some acquaintances, at least, among the neighbors. It seemed inexcusable that none of them had come to offer assistance.

I took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. “I don't quite know how to say this, but I can hardly sit here where—here in your kitchen, and act as if everything is normal. I'm sure you must be terribly shocked and worried over what's happened, and I'm upset that you seem to have no help in your time of trouble. I don't know either of you well, but if there's anything I can do, please tell me. I'd be glad to go to the store for milk, for instance. Or if you're afraid to stay here alone, I could easily—”

“Thank you, but we'll manage.” Mrs. Doyle took a sip of tea and then set her mug down carefully. It clattered against the tabletop; a little tea slopped out. “Mrs. Martin, you've talked to Ruth Beecham. There's no need to pretend a grief I don't feel. You know that my husband was not an easy man to live with.”

“He was wicked,” said Miriam in the cool, precise way of a polite English child. “Everyone thought he was a righteous man, but he wasn't.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “He pretended to be good, but he was a Judas.”

Mrs. Doyle gasped, swallowed the wrong way, and coughed. I could understand why. I tried not to react, but I suppose my mobile face betrayed me. The woman across the table clasped her hands, hard, and leaned forward, looking at me with an expression of such intensity that I moved back involuntarily.

“You are shocked by what Miriam says. She is simply repeating what she has heard me say. You are surprised that no one has come to help us. I don't know that it's any of your business, to be frank, but since you've wondered, I'll tell you. It's because John made enemies of all our neighbors. He would complain to the police about barking dogs, and parties, and rubbish fallen out of the bins. He once stayed awake for three nights in a row to catch a neighbor dealing drugs. He enjoyed that sort of thing, showing up other people, making them pay for their wrongdoing.”

“Your family—”

“I have no family,” she said flatly.

“Well, then, surely your church—”

“John's church. Not mine. They will stay away because John convinced them that I was an unrepentant sinner, a worldly woman, an unfit mother for Miriam. No, we'll get no help from them, nor would I want any.”

“Then I insist on doing what I can. I'll go pick up some milk right now, and any other food you might—”

Mrs. Doyle pushed herself back from the table and stood. “Mrs. Martin, you will help us most by leaving us alone. Since you ask what help we want, that is my answer. I instructed Miriam to let no one in because we prefer not to talk about John. Nor do we need anything from anyone.” She put her hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Miriam finished her sandwich and leaned against her mother. “Daddy was a wicked man,” she said again in her precise manner. “He deserved to die. I'm glad he did. We'll get on much better without him.”