Trouble in the Town Hall (3 page)

Inspector Morrison raised an eyebrow and smiled a little at her retreating back, shaking his head. “A vanishing breed, God bless her. Salt of the earth, but infuriating at times.” He shook his head again, dismissed Mrs. Finch from his mind, and turned the full force of those disconcerting gray eyes on me. “Can you tell me, Mrs. Martin, your impression of Mrs. Finch when she found the body? Was she truly surprised, or . . .?”

“If she wasn't flabbergasted and terrified, you can tell the Queen to hand her a knighthood, or a dameship, or whatever it is, for being the finest actress in the United Kingdom. I never saw a more genuine fit of hysteria. Anyway, you only have to look at her to know she's honest.”

“Right.” The monosyllable accepted what I'd said, without necessarily agreeing. “Of course, the one who finds the body is so often—however. Now, if we can go once more over—”

“Dorothy! There you are! Morning, Morrison, this one fell to you, eh? Bad luck on such a glorious day!”

Alan, a big man who looks like Alistair Cooke, made an impressive entrance. I was so glad to see him I looked up with what must have been a
Perils of Pauline
sort of expression; he smiled back affably and spoke again to the inspector.

“You haven't met Mrs. Martin, have you, Derek—except officially, I mean? Pity you had to meet over a corpse, but we may yet be thankful she was here. You'll find her a good witness, I believe.”

“I had already drawn that conclusion, sir.” His eyes softened. “I was just about to take her through it all again, but it's probably pointless; she was thorough and concise the first time. If you'd like . . .” He sketched an “after you” in Alan's direction.

There was something about his gesture that suggested he was deferring not only to his superior officer, but to an important friend of the witness. Ah, well, Sherebury is a small town, after all. So he'd known all along I was Alan's—what? Perhaps this was not the moment to try to define the relationship.

“No, indeed, I shan't interfere. But if you've actually finished, I'd like to give the lady some lunch. Dorothy? Do you need to brush yourself down?”

“No, Mrs. Finch keeps the place spotless. I'm just stiff. Is my hat all right?”

“Very nice indeed,” he said with the almost hidden smile he addresses to all my hats, and offered me his arm.

I was glad enough to take it; reaction had set in. “Alan, I don't know if I can manage Indian food, after all. My insides are acting a little peculiar.”

“I shouldn't wonder, but you do need to eat. How long ago was breakfast?”

“It feels like years.”

“Right, then what about something simple and sustaining at Alderney's?”

Alderney's is the tea shop in the Cathedral Close and one of my favorite places in Sherebury. “Perfect. They have wonderful comfort food.” He started to move toward the door, but I pulled at his arm.

“Alan, I have to know what they've found out. Did you have a chance to talk to anyone? Who is—he?” I jerked my head toward the broom closet. “Does this have anything to do with the preservationist battle over the Town Hall?”

“No idea. I did have a word with the men before I talked to you, but they don't know much yet. How in the name of all that's holy did you get mixed up in this, by the way?” His voice was quiet, but the concern he wouldn't display in front of Inspector Morrison was apparent.

“Pure accident, and I'm not ‘mixed up' in it. I just had the bad luck to be here.” I summarized what had happened. “Who is he?” I repeated.

“There was no identification on the body. Young, early twenties probably; you will have gathered that. I don't suppose he was at all familiar to you?”

“I didn't look properly. I could check now, I suppose.”

Alan put his hand over mine, still clinging to his arm. “Only if you want to. There's little likelihood you would know him, after all.”

“No, it's all right. You're a very reassuring person, you know.”

“If you're certain.” He took me to the door of the closet and said something to the policemen still working there, who moved aside.

The man lay on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled, filling the floor of the small room. He was dressed in a dirty black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, frayed at the knees and not, I thought, on purpose. He looked very young indeed. A scrabble of beard failed to hide a pasty, acne-scarred face. His hair, worn longer than my taste preferred, was of a color hard to determine, so greasy were the locks scattered against the floorboards. His eyes were shut.

“No,” I said in a not very steady voice after a long look. I was shaken with pity for a young life ended, and perhaps, from his appearance, unhappy, meaningless even before the final blow of fate. “No, I've never seen him before.”

We were on our way out of the building before I spoke again. “Alan, would they—the police, I mean—would they have moved the body?”

“Not at this stage; they haven't finished with photographs. Why?” He was all Chief Constable Nesbitt again.

“Because it's been moved. His arms were down at his sides when I saw him. I didn't see much, but I saw that. And—” I tried to control a shudder “—his eyes were open.”

A
FTER THAT
, of course, Alan stayed to talk to Inspector Morrison and his men for a few minutes, with the result that we hit Alderney's at the height of the lunchtime rush. Alan managed to get us a table. He usually does; I've never been sure whether it's those devastating blue eyes or the fact that a chief constable is an important person, rather like a medieval lord sheriff. It was definitely the eyes, though, that got a pot of tea on the table almost instantly. He poured me a cup and made me add a lot of sugar. He also poured a little brandy in it.

“Alan, you never cease to amaze me! Do you always carry a flask? I've never noticed it.”

“Emergency stores only. I bring it when I feel I may be called upon to rescue a swooning lady. Drink that down.”

I'd have disputed “swooning lady” if it hadn't been so close to accurate. As it was, I obediently drank my tea, relaxed, and suddenly recovered my senses.

“Alan, the bookshop! My job! What time is it? I have to go—”

“Sit still. I'll ring them up.” He untangled his long legs from the maze of table and chairs, spoke to the hostess, and picked up her telephone at the desk.

“What did you say?” I demanded when he got back. “I wouldn't want Mrs. Williamson upset—”

“That you were being detained by the police to assist us with our inquiries.”

“Alan, you didn't! She'll have a heart attack!”

“No, I didn't, actually. I said you'd been unavoidably delayed and would be there as soon as possible. I did identify myself.”

I sighed. “She'll worry herself into a stew, poor dear. I'd better hurry, so I can explain for myself.”

“You'd do better to go home after you've had a spot of lunch. You're still quite white, you know.”

“Oh. Well, no, I didn't, but really I'm fine, Alan, or I will be when I've eaten something. I have to get to the bookshop, Mrs. Williamson's counting on me. Anyway, work keeps me from thinking, and the cathedral is such an oasis of calm, I'll feel much better. I'm sure.”

I was protesting too much, but Alan let it go and simply said, “Why on earth don't you call the woman by her first name? The English aren't all
that
formal, you know.”

“Her first name is Ariadne.”

“Oh, dear. Yes, I do see. What do the others call her?”

“Willie. Somehow I can't . . .”

“Quite.” He looked at the menu. “How about chicken rolls and rice pudding for both of us? Nursery food.”

“Sounds good.” And when the sandwiches arrived, crusty rolls with lots of white meat and lettuce, I attacked mine like a starving woman.

“So how,” I said when I could speak, “are plans for the royal visit coming along?” I wanted a respite from murder, and I figured Alan was good for several minutes on his chief headache of the moment, the impending visit of Prince Charles to open the new wing of the hospital.

Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck. “As smoothly as these things ever go, I suppose, actually. It's just that the Palace has got the wind up, rather. And so have I, much as I hate to admit it.”

“About what—hecklers about the Diana situation?”

“Not so much that as these damned anarchists.” He glanced casually around the room, which was beginning to thin out as those on limited lunch hours hurried off. The table next to ours was empty, but Alan lowered his voice all the same. “I can't be specific, but a recent episode is seen as a direct threat to Prince Charles. They managed to keep it out of the press, but—” He raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“The Prince's people think there'll be a next time?”

“There will be, undoubtedly. The question I must deal with is, Will it be in Sherebury? That's what I want to know from M15 and the rest of the security lot, what sort of threat I might have to contend with, and so far they've not been able to tell me.”

“I can't get over being amazed at the idea of anarchists.” I glanced at my plate, surprised to find it empty. Alan's prescription had been admirable. “It all sounds so quaint and dated, straight out of the twenties.”

“Doesn't it? Unfortunately the current lot are not at all dated. They organize their little games over the Internet.”

“Good grief. Do you really think someone like that might be working in Sherebury?”

Our rice pudding arrived and we both tasted its creamy goodness before Alan replied.

“I don't know—and I should know—but I'm uneasy. I have a feeling something nasty is going on; I just can't put my finger on it.” He ran his hand over his neck again and began to tick off points on his fingers. “There's the Town Hall business. Pettifer wants to turn it into his mall; the preservationists are fighting tooth and nail to save it. All right, but it's getting just that much more heated than one would expect. So is the controversy over that university housing scheme of his—did you know Pettifer's received two anonymous letters? No more than vague threats, but it's unusual in a preservation matter; the chattering classes are the ones who care the most, and they don't stoop to such tactics.”

“And now—today—”

“Indeed. Can you talk about it now?”

One reason Alan has risen to such a senior police rank is his sensitive understanding of people. It's also one of the reasons I'm so fond of him. I smiled and put down my spoon.

“So long as we avoid the more graphic bits, I want to know what you know.”

He sat back and tented his fingers in what I had come to know as his lecturing pose. “Well, I asked, of course, about the body, and got confirmation they hadn't moved it except to look for identification. There was none, as I told you. At that stage they hadn't even taken his fingerprints.”

“That means Pettifer, doesn't it? He was alone with—him—” I couldn't make myself call that pitiful creature
it
“—while Mrs. Finch and I went to Debenham's.”

“It looks like it. Though why . . .?” Alan shrugged his massive shoulders. “They'll put him through it, of course, about that and about the question of keys.”

“I've thought about that. I don't suppose there's a snap lock to any of the outside doors, so someone—the murderer—could have left it locked behind him?”

“No, I asked. There are only the two outside doors, front and side, and of course the front has that great medieval bar. Primitive, but very effective for all that. The back door—side door—whatever you want to call it—has an old-fashioned lock. You Americans call it a dead bolt, I believe—locks only with a key from either side. So, it looks as though our murderer—if it was murder—had a key.”

“Assuming Mrs. Finch was right about the door being locked when she arrived this morning. I'm sure she wasn't lying on purpose, but she might have just assumed it was locked, because it always was.”

Alan looked dubious. “An old lock like that is apt to be pretty stiff. I should think there'd be a fairly obvious click or screech when the bolt gave way. Hard to think she'd not notice a difference.”

“True.” I sat silent for a moment, absently sipping my tea. “Why did you say, ‘if it was murder'?”

He shrugged. “Cautious habit, I suppose. They don't know the cause of death yet, of course. It could, stretching the limits of possibility, have been suicide or accident, but Morrison seemed to think the body had been moved to the broom cupboard, which would mean . . .”

I put down my cup, and Alan scraped back his chair.

“It's time we got you to that precious job of yours, if you're still determined to work this afternoon.”

We strolled across the Cathedral Close together. Sherebury's Close, a broad area of grass and trees and flower beds surrounding the cathedral, is bordered not only by the administrative buildings of the cathedral and the homes of her clergy, but by a few commercial buildings. Alderney's, at the far end by the west gate, is followed by a bank, a jeweler, a gift shop, and my favorite pub, the Rose and Crown. The Olde English effect makes tourists go into ecstasies, especially on days like today.

The sun glinted off diamond-paned windows and shone warm on our backs. Someone across the Close was cutting the grass, the scent perfuming the air, as did the pink roses blooming profusely by the path. Birds sang in the tops of the oak trees while squirrels chased each other noisily round and round the trunks. Looming benevolently over all, the cathedral dozed in early-afternoon languor, and beyond it, on the other side of the precinct wall, we could just see the uneven gables and chimneys of my Jacobean house. I pointed.