Trouble in the Town Hall (4 page)

“It does look picturesque, doesn't it?”

“Pure seventeenth century. Are you any closer to being able to bring it into the twentieth?”

I sighed. “Not really; I'm caught in a maze of bureaucracy. To begin with, I can't get anyone started on plans. It's just plumbing and wiring and windows and that kind of thing, but it seems I need a specialist in old buildings. There are only two firms like that left in Sherebury, and they're both so busy I can't get a commitment. Then after I have the plans I have to apply for grants to help with the cost, from the council and English Heritage, and even if I get the money I can't let anyone get started until I get planning permission, and listed building permission as well.” I stopped, out of breath.

“That can take forever. When does your lease expire?”

“That's the trouble—end of August. The owner says he's willing to extend it a bit, since I've contracted to buy, pending all the approvals. But he's not being very pleasant about the delay, and I'm afraid he'll sell it out from under me if things go on for too long. I can't even stand to think about having to move. Where would I ever find another wonderful house like that?”

“It's frightfully inconvenient, of course, a really old house. And you do realize it costs the earth to maintain?”

“Yes, I know, but I love it, Alan. I know it isn't an important house—it's small, and nobody famous ever lived there or slept there or hid there while escaping from whatever—but it's important to me. In a way, it's the symbol of everything I love about England, the respect for the past, the fine workmanship . . . and as that loses ground to the shoddy and modern, as England becomes more and more Americanized, I want to cling to my little corner of grace and tradition.”

I looked away, embarrassed, but there was more I had to say. “And, you see—it's home. It would have been Frank's and mine, he loved it, too, and now—it's my security blanket, I suppose.” I blinked away a tear and Alan took my hand firmly in wordless sympathy. We walked to the cathedral door in silence.

L
ATE AS I
was, I sat in the nave for a few minutes. The great space was filled with light from massive stained-glass windows, shafts of it coloring the dust in the air, rainbow pools of it lying on the cool stone floor. The voices of tourists and guides seemed only to emphasize the essential quiet. Women attending to the flowers shook the fragrance of roses into the air, to mingle with the scent of old stone and the faint, lingering perfume of incense. Somewhere a flute and a choirboy were practicing Handel.

I stood, restored and ready for my job.

When Frank and I first visited England, I was a bit taken aback by the bookshops in all the cathedrals; visions of Jesus chasing the money changers out of the temple sprang to mind. Once I began to appreciate the finances involved, however, I changed my mind. It costs millions of pounds a year to keep these magnificent buildings from falling down. If bookshops can help preserve the cathedrals for their original purpose of inspiring awe and worship, then I'm all for them, especially as the prices are reasonable and most of the labor is donated by overworked volunteers.

So when I began to cast about for something to do in my adopted home, I tried the bookshop, where Mrs. Williamson made me feel not only welcome but much needed.

I waved to her as I entered the shop, and as soon as she could free herself from a cluster of tourists with questions, she hurried to me with furrowed brow.

“Oh, Dorothy, I've been so
worried
! Has something dreadful happened? When the chief constable rang up—”

“No, no, I'm fine,” I interrupted. With one eye on the far corner of the shop, where the other volunteer for the afternoon was working at the cash register, I tried to edge toward the staff room. “Just let me put my things away, won't you, and I'll be right out to help. I really am so sorry, Mrs. Williamson, I can see you're busy and I didn't mean to worry you. I—there was a—an accident that I happened to—er—witness. So I had to stick around for a while.”

“You weren't hurt!” Her voice rose as the cathedral organist began to practice, and curious eyes turned toward us, including those of the anemic blond cashier.

“No, it was nothing like that.” The shop was beginning to empty as the tourists followed the compelling voice of the organ. “I—um—can we talk about it later? I'll just leave my purse—”

But it was too late. The volunteer had dealt with the last purchase and was edging toward us like a nervous cat, pale blue eyes full of apprehension. Clarice Pettifer. Mrs. Archibald Pettifer.

“Oh, whatever happened, Dorothy?” she gasped. “Willie said you were with the police!”

There was no evading it. I had wanted a little time to organize my response before facing Clarice, but the shop had cleared. It was just the three of us. I had no excuse.

I took a deep breath. “Clarice, you'd better come back and sit down.”

“Why?” Her voice rose and there were pink spots on her cheeks where her pale color had faded even more, leaving painfully obvious makeup. “What's the matter? It isn't—” her hand flew to her mouth “—it isn't Archie?”

“No, he's—I'm sure he's fine. Do sit down.”

Mrs. Williamson, bewildered but cooperative, helped me get her into the staff room and onto a chair.

“Tell me, you must tell me!”

I was going about this very badly. Clarice was a fragile, nervy type. Mention of a dead body even in the abstract would upset her, and with her husband involved, I had hoped to break the news gently. Some hope.

“It's nothing to get upset about, really, but—well, it does concern your husband, in a way.” I hurried on, trying not to meet Clarice's red-rimmed eyes.

“It's just that—well, I happened to be in the Town Hall—”

“The Town Hall?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and her hand moved to her mouth again.

“Yes, I was talking to Mrs. Finch, the cleaning lady, and she happened to—um—” I cast about for a euphemism. There weren't any.

“I'm sorry, but she—we—found a dead man.”

We were able to catch Clarice before she hit the floor.

B
ETWEEN US, WE
managed to move her to the shabby couch that, with a dilapidated overstuffed chair, a tiny sink, and an electric kettle, constituted the luxury of the staff room. I bathed her forehead with cool water while Mrs. Williamson ran distractedly into the shop to shoo out two or three browsers and put the “Closed” sign on the door. When she got back, Clarice was beginning to stir.

“I think we'd better have the doctor, don't you?” said Mrs. Williamson. She hugged her midriff; her ulcer must have been giving her fits.

“Oh, no,” said Clarice, weakly but quite distinctly. “I'm quite all right, really.” She struggled to sit up and went white again. “No, if I could just—rest for a bit—really, I don't want a doctor—Archie wouldn't like—might I have a glass of water, do you think?”

I got the water. “Are you sure you don't need a doctor? You're still terribly pale.”

“No.”

I recognized in the set of the little rosebud mouth the stubbornness sometimes found in normally compliant people. “Then I'm taking you home. Do you have your car?”

“Oh, no, I'm sure I can manage. We can't leave Willie—the shop—”

“Don't be silly.” Mrs. Williamson's voice was suddenly crisp. “You've both—had a shock. If I can't cope alone, I'll recruit some emergency help or leave the shop closed.”

It was a noble sacrifice at the height of the tourist season, and I said so. “That's very kind of you, Mrs. Williamson. If I see someone on my way out, I'll—”

“You will not; you've enough to do. I'll see to it. And I do wish you'd call me Willie. You make me feel like your grandmother. Clarice, can you walk?”

It was a long way from the bookshop to the cathedral parking lot, but one of the vergers helped with Clarice. And then Clarice's car turned out to be a BMW, and the thought of driving it on the left side of the narrow Sherebury streets nearly undid me. But Clarice was in no shape to drive and my own sturdy little VW was in my garage, so there was no help for it. I got in the driver's seat and prayed, and somehow we made it without a scratch.

I don't know what kind of house I'd expected the Pettifers to live in. I suppose, knowing they were rich, I'd imagined a stately old manor house of some sort. I couldn't have been more wrong. The house, built at the crest of one of Sherebury's many hills, was certainly close to the million-pound class, but it was brand, spanking new and seemed at a glance to consist mostly of white stone and glass. The entry hall was tiled in black and white; the stairway was marble and chrome—the spotless, sterile home of a wealthy, childless couple.

Over her feeble protests I helped Clarice up to bed in her frilly, feminine bedroom, an interesting contrast to the rest of the house, and then went down to the kitchen to make the universal English cure, a nice cup of tea.

The kitchen, full of all the latest gadgets, was so clean and neat I wondered if Clarice or anyone else ever cooked in it. I took extreme care not to spill anything as I made the tea. Back upstairs, I somewhat guiltily slipped into Clarice's bathroom and explored the medicine chest before I went into the bedroom with the tea.

“I couldn't find any biscuits,” I said cheerfully as I set the tray on the bedside table and poured out a cup. “You'd better have a lot of sugar in the tea, though.” Not only is sugar good for shock, it would help disguise the taste of the sleeping pill I'd dropped into the cup.

“Oh, I always take four lumps,” Clarice said. “Archie says it's a low taste. You're being very kind, Dorothy.”

“Don't be silly. How are you feeling?”

“I'm quite all right, really.” A tiny bit of color came into her cheeks. “I expect you think I'm a frightful bore, fainting like that.”

“Not at all. I should have been more tactful—”

“It was just that—Archie has been spending so much time at the Town Hall, and I was afraid—of course, I realize you'd have told me if . . .” She trailed off and looked at me anxiously.

“Oh, he's fine. He was there, as a matter of fact; he came in just after we—made our discovery.”

“When . . .?”

“Very close to noon.”

“Then why didn't he ring me? I was at home until after one. Why hasn't he come home?”

There was panic in her voice again. I did my best.

“The police kept us quite a long time, asking questions, and Mr.—your husband was still there when I left. I expect they wanted to discuss the—er—layout of the building. And so on.” And may St. Peter, or whoever keeps an eye on liars, forgive me. “Would you like me to try to find him for you? I don't think you should be alone.”

That threw her back into a dither. “Oh—well—he'll be annoyed, if he's busy—but perhaps—I
should
like to talk to him—but if he's doing something important—I don't know, I'm sure—”

“I'll tell you what.” She was working herself up again, and I wanted the sedative to take effect. “I'll see if I can track him down, and then he can decide what to do. You finish that tea, and I'll be right back. No, I'll use the phone in the kitchen; it may take several calls and I don't want to disturb you.”

Before I left the room, I managed to unplug the phone beside the bed. I had all too good an idea where Archie might be, and I didn't want Clarice to hear.

A
FTER A FEW
anxious minutes, I managed to reach Alan, but it was a few more before he could check with his men and call back with news that wasn't as bad as I'd feared.

“Then they're going to let him go?”

“Oh, yes, certainly, nothing to hold him for. Remember, we're not even certain it's murder, yet. Pettifer's being questioned closely as a matter of routine.”

I snorted.

“Oh, heard that one before, have you? Useful phrase, I admit, but in this case it's true. We need statements before people can forget details—or change their stories.

“I did gather Morrison isn't very happy with Pettifer. Apparently Pettifer admits to closing the eyes whilst you and Mrs. Finch were fortifying yourselves. He says he couldn't bear to be stared at by a dead man. Very well, but he had no business to do it, and he probably destroyed valuable evidence. There are also one or two fingerprints that look like friend Archie's, but then, there would be, wouldn't there? He's still in and out of the building rather a lot.

“The problem, of course, is that there are damned few prints, or fibers, or what have you, about the place at all. Mrs. Finch is too efficient, bless her misguided heart. They'll have to talk to the old dear later, ask exactly where she wreaked her havoc.”

“They've already asked, and believe me, she won't appreciate repeating it. Alan, what can I tell Clarice? I don't want to break the news that her husband is a murder suspect if I don't have to. She's frantic, and she wants him home. When do you think . . .?”

“That's up to Morrison, of course, but it may be quite a time yet. They want to grill Pettifer about his alibi. It looks as though our man died before midnight, and Pettifer says he had a dinner meeting with the Lord Mayor and some other early on, and then went drinking with a builder friend, one Herbert Benson. It'll have to be checked.”

“Alan, how—do they know how the poor man died?”

“They're theorizing he took a sharp right to the jaw—I don't know if you noticed the bruise—and was knocked into the newel post. It's iron hard after four hundred-odd years; it would have done for him. That doesn't explain, of course, why he was found several yards away behind a closed door. However, Pettifer has no apparent injuries to either hand—and he would have if he'd delivered a blow like that. Which is another good reason to let him go.