Trouble in the Town Hall (15 page)

Mr. Pym looked at Mr. Farrell helplessly. “The lady found this, she says—I can't make out what it is or what she wants me to do with it.”

Farrell shot a sharp glance at me. “Let me see.”

The gray little man complied.

“Hmm. Part of an electoral roll, it seems. Where's the rest of it?”

The question was addressed to me. I shrugged.

“Search me. I found this in the Town Hall. I—er—went to see Mrs. Finch and she was—showing me some of the damage up in the attics. This was on a dusty shelf; there was nothing with it.”

“I see. And did you find your earring?”

“What earring?”

The question was out before I had time to think, and Farrell's sarcastic smile was ample punishment for my witlessness.

“The one you lost the other day. Or had you forgotten?”

“I found it. Under my bed. So kind of you to ask.” I smiled, showing as many teeth as possible, and gathered myself to return the attack. “I must say I'm surprised to find you here, Mr. Farrell. Given your modernist views, I wouldn't have thought history was your cup of tea.”

Perhaps someday I'll learn not to let my mouth run away with me. Too late, I remembered that Farrell had displayed considerable knowledge and interest in Sherebury history.

“History is a fine thing in its place, Mrs. Martin. Its place is here, in museums, not trying to ruin lives in the twentieth century. And if you've been snooping about the Town Hall, I should think you'd have seen for yourself that such a ruin is no place for a shopping mall.”

I was so upset at finding myself in agreement with him that I lost my head completely. “My snooping, as you call it, has to do with trying to find out who committed murder, not with civic disputes. I suppose you'd rather the question remained unresolved?” My tone was as nasty as I could make it, and little Mr. Pym shrank back nervously.

“As a matter of fact, I should!” Farrell shouted, pounding his fist on the counter. “So far as I'm concerned, doubt about that murder is perfectly splendid. Uncertainty is just as good as guilt any day for putting spokes in Archie Pettifer's wheels. I would suggest, Mrs. Martin, that you consider minding your own business from now on. An excellent policy, especially for foreigners! Good day, Mr. Pym.”

He slammed my miserable electoral roll down on the counter, breaking off a corner in the process, and banged the door so hard behind him that one bell shook loose, fell to the floor, and rolled into the corner, tinkling madly all the way.

I
WENT HOME
with an ache in my head and determination in my soul, and picked up the phone.

“Alan, I need to talk to you. Would you be free for a few minutes if I drove out there?” Central police headquarters for the county are located in a sprawling complex just outside Sherebury, accessible by a busy highway and a terrifying double roundabout. I must have let some apprehension show, because Alan's voice developed a hint of a chuckle.

“Longing for a drive in the country, are you? I've an appointment at the cathedral at three to pin down security arrangements for the concert for our royal guest.” The sigh was only a small one. “Supposing I call for you when I've finished with that, and we'll go to tea somewhere.”

“Fine.” It wasn't, actually. I wanted privacy to express my suspicions, and I wanted to talk
now
. But I could have tea ready for him, and preparing it would give me time to sort out my thoughts.

So I made sandwiches and cut them into crustless triangles, and whipped up a batch of cookies, and tidied away some of the cat hair that settles on every surface of my house. Alan was ringing my doorbell as I put away the vacuum cleaner.

“I see your roof work is under way,” he said as he came in. “Benson or Pettifer?”

“Pettifer, much as I hate to admit it. At least he's covered it—we'll see whether he comes through with the rest.”

Alan sniffed and changed the subject. “Is that peanut butter cookies I smell?”

“That's right, they're your favorite, aren't they?” I said brightly—as if I didn't know! “I thought we'd have tea here, if you don't mind. The cookies aren't proper tea fare, I know, too American, but the sandwiches are all right. How did your session go at the cathedral?”

Alan followed me into the kitchen and munched on a cookie as I heated water and arranged the tray.

“All serene there, I think,” he said between bites. “We've all been through this so many times before, it was just a matter of going over the drill once more, with a few added touches to try to meet whatever additional threat there may be. Frustrating not to know what that might be, but—” he waved his hand in the air and scattered crumbs “—one does one's best. The dean is being perfectly cooperative, of course, as usual.”

“That's nice.” Alan looked up sharply, and I pulled myself together. “I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else. Alan, I may be making mountains out of molehills. I've had time to think about it since I called you, and I think I probably am. But I'll feel better if you tell me that. Shall we take this into the parlor?”

Prevailing English usage for the principal room of the house is “lounge.” I think it sounds like a hotel or a bar and refuse to use it. On the other hand, “living room” is far too American for a house as old and English as mine. I've compromised on “parlor,” and my friends accept it amiably as another American eccentricity. We settled down on either side of the fireplace, unlit on this warm and beautiful day, and I poured out the tea before I drew a deep breath and launched into it.

“You won't think I'm silly?”

Alan just looked at me. I've learned to recognize that look. It means something like
Don't you know me well enough by now to know I take you seriously?

“All right, then. Alan, I think William Farrell may have killed that boy.”

He took a sandwich and bit into it thoughtfully. “Why do you think so? Any evidence, or just a feeling?”

“When you're as old as I am, feelings about people are perfectly legitimate evidence in themselves,” I retorted. “They're always based on experience. But I know what you mean—police-court evidence. And I do have some. Has anyone working on the case noticed Farrell's right hand?”

He relaxed and took another sandwich. “Ah, his hand. So you saw that, too—and drew the perfectly logical conclusion. Yes, Morrison interviewed him personally, and got an explanation.

“It seems that our Farrell has quite a temper. He says that after the Lord Mayor's famous dinner party the night of the murder, he was extremely upset. He went home fuming about Pettifer and his plans, and by the time he got home, he'd worked himself up to the point of slamming his fist into the wall.”

“He could be lying.”

“Of course. But our people checked; the wall next to the door had marks of blood and skin on it, at about the right height. And the ME, who took a look at Farrell's hand, doesn't think the injuries could have been caused by contact with Jenkins's jaw. He's quite sure a bare fist couldn't have done so much damage to the jaw, either, not unless the fist belonged to a trained boxer—which Farrell certainly is not.”

I was both relieved and disappointed. “Well. Then it looks as though he's out of it. But—Alan, his temper
is
awful! Two people, on separate occasions, told me he left that dinner meeting looking as if he wanted to kill someone—those were their very words. And this morning when I saw him, he certainly looked ready to kill me!”

“And when was that?” Alan's tone was mild, but his eyes narrowed and he put down a cookie.

“Oh, a perfectly innocent encounter in the Sherebury Museum. I went in to take—um, that is, I found something old, and . . .”

I floundered to a stop and Alan picked up the cookie again, and simply waited.

“Oh, all right, if you must know. Did you rise to your exalted rank by exploiting the power of silence in an interview?”

He said nothing to that, either. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “You are the most exasperating man! I had no intention of telling you I was poking around the Town Hall looking for secret passages.”

“Ah. So that's it. And I presume you found the room in the attic?”

It was so deflating to have everyone at least one step ahead of me.

“Mrs. Finch showed it to me. I thought—oh, I suppose you might as well have all of it. I was off on a Nancy Drew tangent again. I thought maybe there was something hidden close to where Jenkins was actually killed. And maybe the murderer moved him to keep whatever it was secret. And if Pettifer knew about it—well, anyway, it seemed to hang together when it first occurred to me. But Mrs. Finch—Ada, I mean, I keep forgetting—she says the attic room is the only one in the Town Hall. And she ought to know.”

“Have a sandwich; you're not eating anything,” said Alan kindly. “It's a perfectly plausible theory, actually. We—that is, Morrison—thought of it, too.”

“You did? I wasn't being totally ridiculous? I even thought he might have gotten his head injury on one of those beams—they're pretty low.”

“Dorothy, you really must stop underestimating yourself, you know. The idea is sound, and we've investigated it thoroughly. Unfortunately, it looks as though Ada Finch is right. The plans for the Town Hall—the original plans, and drawings of alterations down through the years—have been kept. It's a remarkable piece of cultural history, actually, all in the Sherebury Museum. But when our people studied them they found no sign of anything except the attic strong room, and that's shown quite clearly. Of course, an addition that was really meant to be a secret would have been kept out of documents, so the men went over the building itself with a fine-tooth comb, measuring the depth of walls and so forth. They came up with absolutely nothing. So I'm afraid we know no more than we did about why the man was moved.”

“Or by whom,” I said, and sighed. “So that's that. As a detective I think I make a great—”

“Cook,” Alan supplied, polishing off the last cookie on the plate. “So was it interesting, that ‘something old' you found in the Town Hall?”

“No. Just a piece of old town records. I don't think Mr. Pym has the slightest idea of what to do with it, not that it matters. That museum is a disaster, Alan!”

“Another victim of a strained municipal budget. It needs more space and a proper curator, is all. The collection is actually quite good.”

“Well, it doesn't look like it! Somebody needs to take it in hand.”

He grinned at me as he heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair. “There's a project for you, my dear—just mind you keep out of the way of our bad-tempered Farrell. I must go. Splendid tea, Dorothy. By the way, what have you done to your hair?”

“Oh, just got tired of it and decided to experiment.” I'd rearranged it to cover up the lump I had no intention of telling him about.

“Oh, I thought you might have bumped your head on one of those wicked beams.” He grinned at my scowl, gathered me up in a brief but very efficient bear hug, and was gone; my musings for the rest of the day had nothing whatever to do with museums or murder.

B
Y THURSDAY MORNING
Bob was ready to start planting one small part of my garden, so I spent a few hours in the delightful occupation of watching someone else work, now and then offering a suggestion, praise, or even a little help. And early in the afternoon Mr. Pettifer, true to his word, telephoned to say that the plans and estimate for my roof were ready, and could he drop them off straightaway?

He was there in ten minutes. I showed him into the parlor and he got down to business at once. “Now,” he said, “here's the estimate. It's high, but not so bad as it might be because I was able to pick up those old slates. And of course you'll get some help from English Heritage, and/or the council.”

He handed it to me. It took my breath away; I certainly hoped a great deal of financial help would be forthcoming from somewhere or my landlord was in danger of cardiac arrest.

“We'll match the original techniques and materials as nearly as possible,” he went on, “and the appearance will be identical.”

“I must confess I had a few qualms about that when I talked to Mr. Benson. He didn't seem to realize that I
wanted
the house kept the same; it wasn't just a question of complying with the authorities. By the way—uh—have you talked to him?”

“Yes. He wasn't best pleased, but he must learn to keep his promises. Nothing drives off trade faster than breaking appointments. I told him so.” He smiled grimly.

“Yes, well—thank you for dealing with him. Now, once the financing is worked out, how long do you think the job will take?”

“No more than three weeks, given reasonable weather. There's nothing much on our plate at the moment.” He grimaced and then shut his mouth firmly and looked the other way.

There was something about his unspoken comment that made me suddenly see him as a human being instead of a cardboard villain, and (as I often do and almost always live to regret) I said the first thing that came into my head. “Mr. Pettifer. You're obviously a good craftsman, with respect for fine old work. Why do you want to destroy the Town Hall?”

Mr. Pettifer gave me a look that would peel paint and stood, drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. “Destroy it! I don't want to destroy it! I want to save it, make it of some use to the town! Where's the crime in taking a fine old building and using it for something different, putting people to work, getting new money flowing? I am fed to the teeth with all the do-gooders acting as if I was proposing to commit murder!”

I glared right back at him as anger stripped off what few restraints were left on my tongue. “Well, if that's the way you answer a civil question, I don't blame them! I asked because I wanted to hear your point of view, instead of just believing what everyone says. If you don't want to talk about it rationally, fine!”