Trouble in the Town Hall (26 page)

I didn't have to. The scholarly looking man who had the seat to Ada's left was delighted to move up twenty or so rows. We settled ourselves, and I encouraged Ada to tell me about her day in Brighton. More important matters would have to wait until later, preferably with Alan present.

And then it was “God Save the Queen,” not the shortened version that sometimes precedes or follows a performance, but a full rendition in Charles's honor, and Ada, full of bliss, finally saw him. I felt better, too—I'd spotted Alan just behind him in the VIP section.

I imagine the concert was superb. The orchestra, the choir, the soprano, the violinist all were of the very first rank. I didn't hear a note. The wallet was burning a hole in my pocketbook. What was Alan going to say? How were we going to prove the case against Benson now that I'd messed up the chain of evidence? Did Ada really have the missing stone from his ring, and had he figured that out yet? If this blasted concert would just end so I could get to Alan! I looked at my watch for the tenth time: seven forty-five.

They were playing the last selection, a Mozart thing I should have enjoyed, when I saw him. He was sitting on the other side of the aisle, two rows ahead, and he wasn't paying attention to the music either. His eyes scanned the crowd, and as I watched, he glanced over his shoulder and spotted Ada's hat.

Benson. Back in town and loaded for bear.

I looked away as fast as I could, but not before he'd seen me see him.

His look was three parts malice and one part sheer satisfaction.

Oh, dear God. He knew I had his wallet. He'd talked to Mrs. Hawkins.

And he knew Ada had the rest of the evidence that would help convict him of two murders.

I looked around frantically for help, but there was no help. Only the crowd, the blessed, slow-to-move crowd that surrounded us. And the social conventions that decree one does not make a scene in the middle of a concert.

Especially not when royalty is present. There was that. All those unobtrusive policemen around—we stood a very good chance, after all!

“I will follow upon mine enemies and overtake them . . .” Or, in this case, I would escape mine enemy, and Ada with me, until I could get the proper authorities to overtake him. We'd get out of there the very moment the music ended, and we'd sit locked up in my house until Alan came knocking at the door.

Would they never stop playing?

They did, of course, and there was a standing ovation, joined in enthusiastically by Ada, who hadn't followed a note, either, but would go along with anything her prince enjoyed. Then the VIPs were ushered out and we were free to leave.

But all the south doors into the Close were open, and everyone was heading that way, for the reception. I'd forgotten the reception. Damn the reception! We'd edge out along the side of the crowd, my eyes open all the time for Benson, and just go through the Close to my house.

I hadn't counted on the obsession of Ada Finch.

She grasped me by the hand. “'Urry along, luv! No seats out there. We can get up as close to 'im as we like. Come on, shake a leg there, dearie!” I was towed behind as she elbowed her way through the throng. They were pressing so close, I couldn't see anyone except the people whose feet I was stepping on as we passed.

When she finally panted to a satisfied stop, we were just in front of the dais that had been set up on the grass. On the dais sat Charles, the dean, the bishop, the Lord Mayor, and Alan. Behind us was a mass of humanity that made escape impossible.

And just on the edge of the crowd, at the front and to our right, stood Herbert Benson, pointing toward us and speaking urgently to the constable standing guard.

“Ada, I'm not feeling very well,” I stage-whispered. It was true enough. “Let's go home. This way.” I tugged to the left.

She remained firmly planted. “Not me, dearie. You go ahead if you've a mind. I'm staying right 'ere.”

“No, you have to come, too. It's—please, Ada! Come
now
!”

She just stared at me.

“Oh, all right! It's Benson. I think he thinks you have something he lost in the Town Hall, and I don't think he's going to be very nice about it. Do come before he—”

I finally got through. “The Town 'All?” she said slowly. “Would this be it?”

She opened her handbag and pulled out something very small, laying it in the palm of her other hand. It was black and shiny, like a tiny pool of black water.

It was the onyx from Benson's ring.

I've never fully believed in thought transference, but that night I think Ada read my mind, or part of it.

“Oh, my Gawd!” she said, her voice beginning to rise. “'Ee musta lost it that night—and that means 'ee—”

She looked at him and screamed.

I
T WAS ALMOST
three in the morning.

“I must go home,” said Alan, yawning.

“You'll have to see yourself to the door. I can't move.” I was in the biggest chair in my parlor, looking and feeling like a rag doll, dropped there by a careless child. Sam, on the window seat, and Emmy, on the hearth rug, had long since settled themselves for the night.

“Nor can I.” He yawned again from the couch and propped one long leg over the other.

“Will they ever let you supervise a royal visit again, do you think? I mean, to say that all hell broke loose is an understatement.” Mrs. Finch's scream had brought Benson and the police guards to our side simultaneously, and Benson's furious shouts during the struggle were enough to convict him of a number of things. Prince Charles, of course, had been unceremoniously removed from the scene the moment the fracas began.

He grinned, a little wryly. “At least we caught the villain, and we've got the evidence, and no harm came to the Prince, even if he did have to be hustled out of there rather more quickly than we'd planned.”

“We'd have gotten the villain a long time ago if Mrs. Finch hadn't held out on us.”

“Morrison did point that out to her.” The grin was pure pleasure this time. “She said she was just doing her job and what harm did it do to pick up something pretty for her locket as her son gave her for her birthday, and were we accusing an honest woman of stealing—words to that effect, and lots more. Morrison was totally vanquished.”

“All the same, if she'd given it to the police, Barbara Dean might not have died.”

“There's never any point in ‘if only,' love. And you're not to apologize again for stealing evidence. I'm happy we have him now. He has a lot to answer for.”

I accepted Alan's dictum and changed the subject. “I wonder what'll become of the Town Hall.”

He shrugged and yawned, his jaws cracking, and struggled out of the couch. The cats twitched their ears and opened sleepy eyes.

“Who knows? Something useful, I hope.”

“I know! How about moving the Sherebury Museum there? It would be a perfect place—”

Alan yawned again. “Your next project. I'm for home. Come here.”

He held out both his hands, and I managed, after all, to get out of the embrace of the chair and into Alan's.

When he could speak again, he said, “By the way, to answer your question, no, I'll never supervise a royal visit again.”

“Alan! Do you mean you're retiring?”

“Not quite yet. I'm being posted away for a few months, starting in September.”

“Away where?” I moved out of his arms, disturbed.

“I'm to take over temporarily as commandant of the Police Staff College at Bramshill. Have you heard of it?”

“Heavens, yes! That's where they send the senior officers for special courses. But Alan that's a really important job! Congratulations! Only—”

I stopped.

“Only what?”

“Nothing. I'm really happy for you. That's a wonderful promotion.” Emmy and Sam caught my tone of voice and woke fully.

“Only what?” He pulled me back into his embrace.

“I'll—miss you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like having you around! Because I—”

“No, I'm not trying to make you say it!” He chuckled. “What I meant was, why need you miss me? Why not come along? It's a Jacobean house, you know, same period as this one but rather larger—about fifty bedrooms, originally. And there's an extremely nice apartment for the commandant and his wife.”

“His—wife?” There was something wrong with my breathing.

“Well, we're going to have to do something, aren't we? Because if we see much more of each other, one evening neither of us is going to want me to leave, and it would never do for a chief constable and a respectable American lady . . .”

“No, it wouldn't, would it?”

There was an interval.

“Alan, I—”

“It's all right. Don't answer me now. I really am going home, because my driver's waiting and I daren't shock him.” He gave me one more very proficient kiss and Emmy, jealous, twined herself around his ankles. “I'll ring you in the morning—well, afternoon, perhaps, when you've had a chance for some sleep. We never had that carouse, did we?”

“No, Mrs. Finch and Benson between them canceled those plans. And I'd enjoy a really wild evening with you. But, Alan, what I was about to say is, I—I'm not sure I'm ready for marriage quite yet. But—well, even the cats seem to approve of the general idea.”

Half an hour later, as his car drove decorously up a sleeping Monkswell Street, the first hint of dawn's gray appeared in the eastern sky, and somewhere, tentatively, a lark began to sing.