Trouble in the Town Hall (23 page)

Archie's son, and I didn't want it to be true, but I knew it was. And I tried to get away, but he ran after me out into the hallway and grabbed my arm, and I turned around and pushed as hard as I could—but we were standing next to the stairs, and he fell, and—and then he just lay there, so still, on the landing, and I thought I heard something, and I turned and ran, and ran . . .”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

I cleared my throat. “Clarice, dear, don't you think you'd better—”

“No. I have to finish it. I went home and waited for hours, but when Archie finally came home I couldn't talk to him after all. I pretended to be asleep. I thought we could talk later, when I wasn't so upset. I—I didn't know the boy was dead, you see. And then when you found the body, I nearly lost my mind, but I realized they might blame Archie, and I would have to be clever. If I just kept on saying nothing about it, with a bit of luck no one would connect the dead boy with us. And when things seemed to calm down, I thought it would be all right. But you wouldn't leave it alone.”

“I couldn't—I didn't know—”

“It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. And I think I'm glad you know, now. I couldn't let Archie take the blame for what I did. I'm tired, Archie.”

She looked up at him and he strode across the room to her, and the doorbell rang.

I knew it would be Inspector Morrison even before I looked out the window and saw the police car. I walked to the door and opened it; Archie and Clarice were oblivious, lost in their own world of sorrow and grief.

“I think you'd better come in, Inspector.” I had to clear my throat before I could go on. “There's been—Clarice has confessed to the murder. But give them a moment, if you can. They need to forgive each other before the law steps in.”

T
HE MORNING WAS
nearly spent before I was able, very shakily, to drive home. I'd had to repeat everything I'd been told. Then Clarice had been asked to make her statement all over again, with a sergeant taking it down, and after she was taken away, Archie, still sitting limply on the beautiful, sterile white couch, had to explain his part in the confusing events of the evening.

“It was about ten when I finally left the meeting and went to the Town Hall to meet Jack. When I saw the side door standing wide open, I was angry; I'd given Jack the key against my better judgment and told him to keep the door shut and locked until I got there. I went in intending to give him a piece of my mind, but I couldn't find him. I didn't dare call out very loudly or switch on a light; it wasn't yet really dark outside and there were still people on the streets. I stumbled about and finally risked the light in the broom cupboard.”

“And he was in there, I suppose,” said the inspector. “Head injuries affect people oddly; they can sometimes walk about for a bit before they collapse.”

“No, he wasn't there. The room was empty. I left the light on with the door almost shut, and it gave me enough light to see—on the landing—”

He couldn't go on for a moment, and the inspector waited patiently enough.

Archie blew his nose and continued. “He was my son, Inspector. I'd never known him very well, and he was no good, and he was making my life a misery to me, but he was my only son, and he was dead. Inspector, when can I see my wife?”

“Presently, sir. Go on with your story.”

Gray and weary, Archie pulled himself together with visible effort. “Where was I?”

“You'd just seen Jack, on the landing.”

“Yes, well, it was a terrible shock. I went down to him, of course, but—well, it only took a moment to know that—that there was nothing I could do. And after a bit I started to think about my position. I ought to have called the police right then, but—you would have wanted to know why I was there, and the whole story would have come out. I thought, if I could move him—hide him until I could think what to do—I knew I shouldn't, but I wanted some time.

“So I carried him up the stairs, just half a flight to the ground floor, and put him in the cupboard. It would have been better to get him out of the Hall altogether, but with people about, and the twilight, I didn't dare. And it was—it was dreadful.” He shuddered strongly. “He was still warm and limp; he couldn't have been dead very long. I thought I could deal with the nightmare better after I'd had some sleep. I did search his pockets as best I could in the dark, because I wanted to get my key back—I knew that would lead straight to me—but I couldn't find it.

“That was why I came back Monday morning, to find the key and take away any identification. I'd quite forgotten it was Mrs. Finch's day, and the sound of her scream put the wind up me so badly I very nearly turned tail and ran. But there was nothing for it but to bluff it out. I searched the body while she and Mrs. Martin were having their tea, but the key was gone. There was nothing in his pockets at all. Inspector, I really must be allowed to see my wife.”

It was a feeble imitation of Archie's usual bluster, and it didn't impress the inspector at all.

“After you have completed your statement, Mr. Pettifer,” he said grimly. “Now tell me, sir, just when did you strike Jenkins on the jaw?”

Archie looked at him without comprehension. “Strike him? I didn't strike him. I tried to be as careful as I could, moving him. It was almost—I couldn't help feeling I ought not to hurt him. Silly, I knew that—but I told you, he was my son.”

“And why did you lie about where you were that night?”

“I—it was stupid. I don't know. I couldn't say where I really was, but that weak story—it was Benson's idea. He said he'd vouch for me, and no one could prove I wasn't there, and at the time it seemed reasonable. I—I'm almost glad it's all out—lately he's been hinting that he'd have to tell the truth, and I didn't know what to do—it's been hell.” He dropped his head into his hands, but the inspector took no notice.

“And what can you tell us about Mrs. Dean?” he asked in the same level, implacable tone.

Archie just blinked, looking as if he couldn't quite remember who Mrs. Dean was. “What about Mrs. Dean? What does she have to do with any of it?” He brushed his hand across his eyes, but the tears welled up again. “Inspector, I implore you—”

His voice broke, and Morrison rose. “Very well, we'll talk again later. Sergeant Tanner will transcribe your statement for you to sign at the station. If you'll come with me, we'll see if you can be allowed to speak with Mrs. Pettifer for a few moments.”

I had to turn away; it was indecent to look at the naked longing in Archie's face. Whatever had caused him to bully his wife, I thought, shaken, it hadn't been a lack of love. It was there, raw, powerful, frightening.

When I got home I wanted two things quite desperately, and couldn't get either of them. I needed to talk things out with Alan so badly it was a physical longing, and I needed a very large, very powerful drink. It's a bad idea to drink out of necessity, but there are exceptions to every rule.

Of course, Alan was still in London. Presumably. I called his office with no hope at all, and my pessimism was fully justified. “Very late this evening” was the best guess about his return. I left a message that he was to call, no matter how late, and sat considering my second problem.

I'd been meaning for some time to stock up on liquor, but I hadn't been planning a party, so there was no hurry. Now there was literally not a drop of anything alcoholic in the house, barring the vanilla. Jane wasn't home, apparently—there was no movement visible in the windows on the side of her house I could see from mine.

I was so tired I could barely move, but I couldn't nap. The thoughts in my head wouldn't cease their squirrel-cage chase.

Furthermore, I knew I needed to eat, even though I was too upset to be hungry, and I still hadn't bought groceries. And there was that dress I needed to return to Mrs. Hawkins at the King's Head. I got out the car.

My mind was working so badly, I was actually inside the door of the pub before I remembered that I might well run into Benson, and I nearly turned and left. But I could always snub him, I reasoned. And I truly needed something to eat, and yes, all right, at least a moderate something to drink.

Mrs. Hawkins, when she came bustling to greet me at the bar, reassured me. “Thank you, dearie, you didn't need to worry about the dress, but ta all the same. And you needn't think you may be bothered with Mr. Benson; he's away for the weekend, left early this morning. Now, it's a bit early for lunch, but can we do you a sandwich? There's cold ham and cold beef, or salmon if you'd like, or a salad, or a ploughman's, of course—”

“A cold beef sandwich would be lovely,” I said hastily, before she could list the entire contents of her larder. “And do you stock bourbon whiskey?”

I was settled with a large bourbon—neat—and a huge, crusty sandwich with salad and pickles, in what seemed like a few seconds. I prudently ate some of the food first and then sipped the drink with appreciation. It tasted good, but I didn't want it as much as I'd thought. Mrs. Hawkins's conversation flowed over me soothingly, calming my troubled thoughts as she moved about the bar, polishing the beer handles, wiping the glasses.

“And you could've knocked me over with a feather when they told us, me and Derek.” I realized she was talking, not about the Pettifers, but about the discovery of Barbara Dean's body, and tried to concentrate. Somehow it didn't seem as important as it had earlier. I couldn't stop thinking about meek little Clarice and bullying Archie, now cast in roles befitting neither of them.

“. . . and just outside our door, too, would you believe it?”

She was waiting for me to answer a question. “I'm sorry, what? I was—distracted.” I'd drunk more of the bourbon than I'd intended. I pushed the glass away.

“It's all right, dear, you look tired to death. I just said, who'd have thought it, a lovely lady like her, to jump in the river? Why would she go and do a thing like that?”

I wasn't going to debate the manner of Barbara's death with Mrs. Hawkins. “It's very sad,” I said, shaking my head. “And that was lovely, but I'd better be getting home.” I was taking no chances about Benson. “Oh, and could I buy a bottle of Jack Daniel's to take with me?”

“There, now, just you take this.” She thrust a bottle into my hands. “We don't have an off-license, but you bring us a fresh bottle one day. You look as though you could do with the stuff now.”

I went home and slept like a baby for most of the afternoon. Kindness was the real cure.

W
ITH WAKING, THOUGH
, came memory, and with memory came pain. I went downstairs, fed the cats, and then walked restlessly in my garden, where Bob had made some impressive progress, though it was still a disaster area. Picking up a leaf or a twig here and there, I tried to wipe out the pictures that kept replaying across my mind. The look on Clarice's face as she talked about the son she'd never had—and on Archie's, talking about the son he did have, who died trying to blackmail him. It was no use. Nothing would ever erase those images from my memory.

There was the image, too, of Archie with his arms around his wife as she sobbed against him. Those two had begun to understand each other this morning.

Yes, and what good was that going to do them? England doesn't execute murderers anymore—and Clarice would probably be charged with something short of murder, in any case—but she'd be away for a very long time. And would Archie begin to brood about her killing his son, for whatever reason, however accidentally? Would he end by hating her—or she him, for giving another woman the child she wanted?

The bells from the cathedral tower had been sounding over my head for quite a while, I suddenly realized. Evensong was about to begin. I didn't even bother to wash my hands or tidy my hair, just walked straight across the Close and slipped into an obscure place as the choir was beginning the first psalm. Here, at least, was peace and respite.

And in the calm and quiet of the great cathedral, with timeless chant washing over me and light from the altar candles gently touching the incomparable beauty of carved stone and wood, my mind slowed and hushed and began to work properly again. Through the familiar words, one layer of my mind replayed the morning's scene yet once again, but analytically this time.

And I realized I didn't believe it.

Very well, why not? They weren't lying. No one lies that convincingly. They both meant every word they said. Well, at least Archie was lying at first, but that was to protect Clarice. He must have guessed the truth by then. But later, in his statement to the police, he was telling the truth.

Yes, that felt right. And Clarice's statement, tearful, wrenched out of her by her fear for Archie—she was telling the truth, too, surely. I knelt for the General Confession, and its words intertwined with mental protests: . . .
the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done
. . . . Yes, there's too much left unanswered. How did Jack's jaw get broken? Clarice couldn't possibly have done it, and Archie claimed he'd never touched him, except to drag him upstairs. And he was telling the truth. And what happened to the key?

The rest of the prayers droned on, unheard, as I considered other questions. Who killed Barbara Dean, and why? It certainly wasn't Clarice. Archie hadn't even seemed to know she was dead. And what was the Sheffield connection? I was sure there was one, but had the police looked into the matter of one George Crenshawe?

It was an anonymous-sounding name. Of course! I made some small noise that I had to turn into a cough to reassure the woman kneeling next to me. Why hadn't I realized until now that the man could be operating under another name? Nothing was easier. Assume that the Sheffield investigation had uncovered criminal culpability in the building of those council flats. George Crenshawe was long gone by that time. Why shouldn't he be here, in Sherebury as—well, why not as a nasty-tempered builder named Farrell?