Trouble in the Town Hall (16 page)

“And what,” he asked, purple in the face, “does everyone say?”

“That you used to be a fine builder before you fell in love with money and power. That all you care about now is your own advancement, no matter who or what stands in your way. That you've got enough influence to push through this Town Hall plan even though it's an absolute sacrilege, and the university housing project, too.” I paused and then threw the last shred of caution to the winds. “That you bully your wife, and you probably killed the man in the Town Hall because he might have ruined your plans somehow.”

There was a long pause. The house was very quiet. As I watched Pettifer's face, wondering if I should reach for the poker, I could hear the chink of Bob's tools in the garden, and even the lapping of Emmy's tongue as she drank some water out of her bowl in the kitchen.

“You speak your mind, don't you?” he said, finally, his color closer to normal. “I wonder you care to employ me if that's what you believe.”

“I didn't say I believed it all. You asked what was being said. I told you.”

“Yes. In reply, then, A: I am still an extremely good builder, with high standards. B: I do not find either the Town Hall Mall or the university housing project to be detrimental to Sherebury. My mall will save a magnificent building from destruction, and the Victorian houses I propose to replace with new flats are insanitary, ugly, and poorly built. I sincerely hope my influence is still sufficient to see that both proposals are approved. C: My relationship with my wife is no one's business but ours. D: I did not murder anyone. Good day, Mrs. Martin.”

Whew! After he slammed the front door, I stood for a moment shaking my head just to make sure it was still on my shoulders. My record of winning friends and influencing people was growing more and more dismal. And all I'd done was ask a few honest questions. A few more and I wouldn't have a friend left in Sherebury.

It was just as well that I had an urgent errand to keep me from brooding about that nasty little encounter. Now that I actually had a cost estimate for my roof, I intended to ginger up my dilatory landlord by presenting him with the proper grant applications, all filled out and ready for his signature. I'd seen the forms, which weren't impossibly complicated; I could get them from the planning office this afternoon, complete them, and mail them to him tomorrow.

There were, I had learned, various legal recourses open to me if the landlord didn't act quickly. I was mulling them over, hoping very much I wouldn't have to use them, as I pulled into the Civic Centre parking lot and congratulated myself on still being alive after the drive.

I was in no way mentally ready for an encounter with John Thorpe, who was coming out the door as I went in.

He saw me, of course, and his eyes lit up. There was no escape; civility forced me to respond, if coolly, to his greeting and handshake.

“Ah, Mrs. Martin!” he boomed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I believe I may have some good news for you. We have a new house on our books—at least, an old house, ha, ha—that may be just what you're looking for. The moment I saw it, I thought of you. A Victorian rectory, marvelous old place, all sorts of charming woodwork and so on. In need of some tender, loving care, but I think it's just up your street. When may I show it to you?”

“Well—actually—I don't like Victorian architecture much, not the English variety anyway. And I think I've decided to go ahead and fix up my own house. I have the estimate for the roof here, as a matter of fact, just ready to submit with the grant applications. So you see . . .”

He saw, unfortunately, a good deal more than I intended him to. His geniality vanished. “Yes, indeed. Quick decision, wasn't it? Looking for a new house last week, staying in the old one this week? Just what
are
you planning to do, Mrs. Martin? Or don't you know?”

I stood my ground. I was tired of being bullied. Surely I could do as I liked about my housing problem.

“I'm staying in my house. Definitely. I'm so sorry to have taken up your time before I made up my mind. If you'll excuse me—”

“Yes, well, there's no accounting for tastes, is there? I wouldn't stay in that house myself, the condition it's in. Who knows what might happen? But it's your funeral.”

He nodded curtly and strode away. I picked up my forms and drove home, where I painstakingly filled in blanks for a couple of hours, posted the letter to the landlord whose existence I was beginning to question, and spent the evening with a nice, familiar Agatha Christie. I found it comforting to deal with something I knew the ending to.

I
WOKE TO
a fine drizzle on Friday morning. As I plodded across the Close to work, the murky light washed the color out of the world, and the cathedral seemed to brood, its great gray bulk hugging the earth.

Inside, though, the atmosphere was entirely different. The staff were arranging chairs and music stands at the east end of the nave, and marking rows of seats with numbers. Armies of volunteers scurried about with masses of flowers in their arms. Screeches and the voices of invisible technicians issued raucously from the sound system.

The cathedral was
en fête
. I had completely forgotten that the Sherebury Cathedral Music Festival began tonight. And I was going to the gala opening, a performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony by an extremely exalted orchestra.

With Alan.

My step was light as I walked into the bookshop.

Clarice evaded my inquiries about her health. “I'm fine,” she said persistently. “Truly.”

And not another word could I get out of her. Well, she looked more or less all right, if a bit droopy—but she was often droopy. And we were too busy to talk, anyway. The hundreds of music lovers who had come to town for the festival all seemed to be whiling away the time in the cathedral. They raised a brisk trade in postcards and guidebooks.

At about eleven Barbara Dean blew in and came straight over to me.

“I've been hoping to speak to you,” she said, “and this is the first moment I've had. Some of those volunteers!” She threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and I remembered that she was (of course!) in charge of the front of the house arrangements for the music festival.

“If you're too busy, we can make it another time,” I said hastily, but she was not to be deflected.

“No, no, I simply wished to know about your house. I see that you have a tarpaulin in place. I trust that means you have been successful in finding a contractor for the work?”

“Yes, thank you. The man recommended by Planning Aid, a new man in town named Herbert Benson, wasn't getting anything done, so I called in Mr. Pettifer, and he's given me an estimate for the work. I—er—I know you and he aren't exactly friends, but he does seem to be quite professional.” She said nothing at all, and I hurried nervously on. “I mailed—posted the grant applications to my landlord yesterday.”

“Good,” she said briskly. “And you'll let me know if he doesn't respond?”

“Well—”

“Splendid. Good morning!”

The breeze as she swept out wafted three sheets of poetry off the counter.

When my shift was over and I'd had some lunch at home, I lay down for a nap. I wanted to be fresh and rested for the concert, and at my age, the way to be fresh in the evening is to sleep in the afternoon.

I had just settled myself comfortably, with a cat curled up on each side and the rain beating a nice lullaby on the plastic-covered roof, when the phone rang.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Martin, Herbert Benson here.”

“Oh, Mr. Benson, I—”

“Sorry about the little misunderstanding over your roof. No hard feelings, of course, but you might have let me know.
But
still, no use crying over spilt milk, eh? I have a quote for you on those windows we talked about. Shall I bring it over straight, away?”

“No! No, Mr. Benson, I don't want—”

“Ah, well, if this is a bad time I'll ring up again. Ta-ta!”

He had hung up before I could make some excuse. He reminded me of one of those hard rubber balls. The harder you throw it away, the faster it bounces back to you. Would I never be able to get rid of him? It was a good half hour before I could stop fretting and get to sleep. Even then, my dreams wrapped me in blue tarps and buried me under tiles and slates, and I woke with the sheets wound around me and the cats long fled.

It was an effort to work up any enthusiasm for getting dressed and going out, but I put lots of carnation bath oil in the tub and soaked for a long time in the bubbles, and when I'd applied careful makeup and gotten into my laciest, most feminine undies, I was myself again.

I hesitated for quite a while about the outer layer. I tend to overdress. If I'd been going by myself I wouldn't have cared, but I didn't want to embarrass Alan. I finally chose a slimming black silk sheath, topped off with a very chic scarlet jacket I'd bought for almost nothing in the Portobello Road. Pearls were always correct, and I put on and then regretfully took off a little black satin evening hat that I loved. I was cramming necessities into a small black beaded bag when the doorbell rang.

Alan didn't whistle; that wasn't his style. He didn't say anything, either. He just stood there in his immaculate black suit and regimental tie and looked me over with his careful policeman's eye, a smile slowly broadening on his mobile face.

When he spoke at last I could have kissed him. “Smashing. Absolutely top marks, except—where's your hat? You're not really you without a hat.”

“I'll be the only woman in the place wearing one.”

“What does that matter?”

“Alan, I do love you,” I said gratefully, and flew upstairs to get it.

“It's stopped raining,” he said as he held my raincoat for me, “but it may start again at any moment. And will you ruin your shoes if you walk on the wet path?”

“Yes,” I said. “That's why I'm wearing wellies.” I slipped out of my black patent heels and into a pair of yellow rubber boots, and we set off across the Close, arm in arm and well pleased with ourselves despite the glances that greeted my eccentric ensemble and the shoes dangling from one hand.

“How is your roof holding up in the rain?” asked Alan as we made our way up the nave looking for our seats.

“Fine, and Pettifer's come through with the plans and cost figures.” We'd reached our row, second from the front, and had begun to excuse our way past the knees. “Now if my landlord will get a move on, and the grant applications can actually make it through the planning bureaucracy—oh, heavens! I'm
so
sorry!”

For in scrambling past a very large, pillowy woman I had slipped, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand to keep from falling.

It happened to be the head of the man in the front row.

And the man in the front row happened to be Daniel Clarke, Lord Mayor of Sherebury.

If I could have vaporized I gladly would have. Or better yet, been beamed up to the
Enterprise
, to return in a time warp a few seconds ago with the sense to be more careful.

Somehow one survives these things. I apologized profusely to everyone in sight, was established by Alan's firm hand on my elbow in the seat directly behind my victim, and hid behind my program until a shaking of my chair caught my attention. I peeked out to see who was moving it, and why, and saw that Alan had nearly reached the point of apoplexy with suppressed laughter.

I could have killed him, but when he caught my eye he snorted loudly and had to reach for his handkerchief to cover more unseemly demonstrations, and I began to giggle myself. It was perhaps fortunate for all concerned that the conductor came out just then and we had to behave. I wasn't sure I would make it through the politenesses at the beginning, with all the dignitaries welcoming everyone, but when the music began I forgot everything else.

Beethoven's Ninth Symphony isn't easy to program. It's too short to make up an evening by itself, really too long for a second half, and too spectacular for anything to follow it. Tonight's conductor had chosen the conventional route, beginning with a short Haydn symphony and giving us a long intermission to prepare for the master. It was at the intermission, just as I was feeling calm and comfortable, that the Lord Mayor turned to speak to me.

“It's Mrs. Martin, isn't it? I believe we were introduced last Sunday.”

A politician needs a good memory for names and faces, but I would have been much happier to remain his anonymous assailant. However, I acknowledged my identity while Alan, infuriatingly, stood smiling and silent by my side.

The Lord Mayor went on. “Did I hear you say you're having some difficulty with grant applications, or something of the sort? Is it possible that I might be of some help? Mrs. Dean mentioned something to me a day or two ago.”

I was awed. So La Dean could talk even the Lord Mayor into dealing with a peon. I muttered something inarticulate and Alan, at last, came to my rescue.

“Mrs. Martin is eager to get the roof question settled quickly, since her lease will expire soon and there is a good deal of further work to be done on the house, as well.” He explained about my conditional purchase offer.

“Oh, dear, dear. Well, I shall certainly do all I can. Your house is quite lovely, Mrs. Martin, and essential to the character, not only of your street, but of the Close, since it can be seen from the cathedral. We cannot allow our finest buildings to perish from neglect, can we?”

Here he was interrupted by the dean.

“I'm so sorry, I must go and attend to some details, but I shall speak to you again, Mrs. Martin. I shan't forget.”

Well, no, he probably wouldn't forget the woman who had nearly snatched him bald.

“That color is very becoming,” murmured Alan.

I hoped he was talking about my jacket, not my face, but my blush ebbed as I mulled over what the Lord Mayor had said. He was concerned enough about Sherebury's architectural heritage to go out of his way for a stranger.