“Dorothy.” He lifted his hands, let them drop, took a deep breath and let it go. “I would much prefer not to discuss, in a public place, the details of a murder case under investigation.” The necessity for keeping his voice down made the words come out in a hiss. “Generalities, perhaps—to you—and even that is stretching a point, because I trust your discretion. Now can we change the subject, please?”
Well, I deserved that, I supposed, but it annoyed me all the same. What did he expect me to talk about, the weather and everyone’s health, à la Eliza Doolittle? “The rain in Spain,” I said with a bright smile and precise attention to the vowels, “stays mainly in the plain. In Hertford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment, and then crashed his fist down on the table, threw his head back, and roared with laughter. The people at the next table decided it was time to leave.
“By God, Dorothy,” he said when he could speak, “you do me good. Stop fiddling with those silly biscuits and have something proper to eat. Waitress!”
W
HICH WAS ALL
very well, I thought half an hour later as I headed for home. I’d been jollied into a better mood, but I hadn’t got any forrarder, as Agatha Christie used to put it. And why
had
Alan invited me to tea if he hadn’t wanted to talk about the murder? Maybe he wanted to ask all the questions. Only he hadn’t asked any, had he? Maybe he simply wanted to cheer me up. Maybe he was just a nice man.
The fact remained that I knew no more than I had in the morning and curiosity was killing me. What evidence did the police have that they couldn’t “match up” with anyone? Why had they released Nigel? Did he have a really good alibi for the time—good grief, come to think of it, what time period were we talking about? When did they think Billings died? And what nefarious deeds had the man been up to, that he wouldn’t tell anybody what he was working on?
Oh, I had plenty of questions, including all of those “whereabouts” queries from that silly list I’d made on the train. But nobody seemed willing, or able, to answer them.
“Aha!” I snapped my fingers, not realizing I had spoken aloud until I saw the glare on the face of the elderly passing clergyman. In his day—a very long time ago, that was—women did not go about getting sudden ideas in the Cathedral Close. It wasn’t done. He sniffed and turned his back.
To get from Alderney’s to my house, one must either go all the way round the far south side of the Close or cut through the cathedral to the cloister door and across the cemetery. The fog still being thick and disagreeable, I chose the shorter way, which took me right past the Rose and Crown, the best pub in Sherebury. A higgledy-piggledy pile of brick and stone and half-timbering, the Rose and Crown was the pride and joy of the Endicotts. Inga was at this moment probably serving at the bar or doing something about dinner in the kitchen. Why hadn’t I thought to ask Inga?
I turned in.
After the cathedral, the Rose and Crown is my favorite place in town, and the Endicotts some of my favorite people. We met years ago, the first time Frank and I came to Sherebury on vacation. Frank hadn’t yet learned to drive on the wrong side of the road, so we arrived by train, late and exhausted. Naturally it was raining, with not a bus or a taxi in sight. By the time we’d bought a town map and walked to the Rose and Crown (highly recommended by the sympathetic woman at the newsstand), we were soaked, our luggage seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and I at least was close to tears from cold and hunger and fatigue.
And the inn was full.
“I can’t understand it,” the stunning blond woman at the desk kept saying apologetically. “We’re
never
booked up except at holidays. There must be something on at the university, or the cathedral. We can put you up starting tomorrow, but not tonight. You say you
walked
from the railway station? But that’s a
frightfully
long way!”
She was literally wringing her hands in distress when a large, scrubbed-looking, pink-cheeked man walked in, looked us over, and said to her, “Why don’t you ring up the George, darling?”
In five minutes she had called an inferior but more expensive hostelry and obtained a room at the Rose and Crown’s rate by mendaciously claiming a reservation gone astray. The pink-cheeked man had whisked us there in his car. “No bother, no bother at all, delighted.”
The charming man and wife were, of course, Peter and Greta Endicott. She, we found out, was German; he was as English as the wonderful food he served in the pub. They had an engaging, grave-faced little girl of about three, Inga, who looked likely to turn out as beautiful as her mother. The first time we saw her she was sitting splay-legged in front of the parlor fire, cradling a minute gray kitten in her arms like a baby and crooning to it. She staggered to her feet, came over to me, put the kitten against her cheek, and then held it out to me, saying, “Soft. Feel the kitty?” I was her slave for life.
That kitten was the first of a long line of prize British Blues at the Rose and Crown. Max, the present incumbent, was a lazy rake who spent his days on the mantel of the huge bar fireplace and his nights prowling the neighborhood siring yet more descendants. My Emmy was one of Max’s casual offspring; Inga gave her to me with a little speech of welcome when I moved into my house so many years later.
Now, full of my bright idea, I walked in the door. There was no one at the reservations counter in the little hall, only Max, sleepily supervising operations from a cozy nest on a pile of papers as a change from the mantel. He acknowledged my respectful greeting with a wide yawn and stretch as I spotted my quarry. Inga, lovely, leggy, blond Inga, was indeed behind the crowded bar, serving with Peter.
“Dorothy!” Peter boomed when he saw me. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself, then? We’ve missed you.”
I smiled affectionately at him. “Peter, you old smoothie, you say the same thing every time I walk in here.”
“Well, you always stay away too long, don’t you?” He turned his head toward an altercation at the end of the bar, cocked an amused eyebrow at me, and walked over to the combatants. “Now, then, how about a nice cup of coffee all round before you go out into the cold, eh?” He firmly removed their glasses and stretched his arms out wide, leaning on the counter. “Had about enough of that lot, haven’t you? No coffee, then? Sure? Ah. Well, then, see you next time.” There had been no hint of anything but genial courtesy in his manner, but Peter seldom needed force to get rid of troublemakers. There was something about his look when he leaned toward them. . . .
“Dorothy, I’ve something to show you.” Inga, free for a moment, dived under the bar. “Look what I made!” She held it out, her face lighting up in a smile that must certainly, I thought, have already broken a number of hearts. Oh, Nigel, take care!
I squeezed up closer, between the balding man in baggy tweeds and the redhead in the almost nonexistent black miniskirt. “Oh, my. But it’s beautiful!” It was a pale pink rose, perfectly modeled, its thin, fragile petals folding into points, the color softly shaded. “What’s it made of, china?”
“Sugar.” She laughed at my expression, quiet silvery laughter as lovely as the rest of her. “Fooled you, didn’t I? Right, one G and T and a lager.” She dealt briskly with the orders, still watching my reaction with delight.
“But how on earth did you do it? It’s absolutely perfect.” I turned it admiringly. “Here, you’d better take it back. My hands are damp and I don’t want to melt it.”
“It’s all right, this one is lacquered. I wouldn’t, of course, if it were going on a cake. I’m taking a sugar class up at the university, and we learned to make these this morning.”
“You mean this is a cake decoration? It’s much nicer than the ones we have at home, more real. They’re soft.”
“Oh, yes, that’s just icing sugar. This is pulled sugar, and it’s much better; you can get finer detail, but it’s tricky to work with, and quite hot!” she said, looking ruefully at her reddened fingers. “Oh, Dad, we’re running short of limes, could you—thanks. Yes, sir, large whiskey. Soda or water?”
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to do those amazing things with spun sugar, birds’ nests and baskets and things like that,” I said idly when she could talk again.
“Oh, those are quite easy, actually, we learned them in the first lesson.” She leaned across the bar eagerly. “I can teach you, if you’d like. I do them here occasionally, when our pastry cook has the day off. Oh, sorry, would you like a beer or something?”
“Not right now, thanks. I just stopped in to see if you’re booked up for dinner.” This was obviously no time to try to talk to the poor girl; she was run off her feet. And the Rose and Crown is famous for its food.
“Tonight?” She consulted the reservation book behind the bar. “We’re quite full, actually, but we could fit you in early—or late.”
“Late, I think, I had a substantial tea.” Besides, at the end of the evening she might have some time to sit down and talk, if she weren’t ready to fall into bed.
“Right. Nine? Nine-thirty?”
“Nine will be just right.”
“Super! See you then!”
That child works, I thought as I went through the cathedral, quiet except for the hum of a place where many people are going about their jobs. On her feet all day at the pub, yet somehow finds time to take a continuing ed class to make her an even better cook. No wonder her parents are dubious about Nigel, who’s bright enough, and charming when he wants to be, but doesn’t have a splendid record for dependability. But give him a chance, I willed. He’ll be all right; give him a chance.
I
DRESSED UP
for my meal. Good food deserves to be honored. Pink wool jersey and pearls rather flattered my gray hair, I thought, so I wore nothing on my head except a filmy silver scarf to keep it dry. Pleased with myself, I put on my best coat, told Emmy to be good, and set off.
Greta was on duty at the front desk when I arrived. “Lovely to see you again, Dorothy.
Don’t
you look splendid!” She was simply dressed in a dark suit and a pale, soft silk blouse, her now-silvering hair swept back from high cheekbones, silver-rimmed glasses perched on a perfect nose. At fortysomething she swept every woman in the place out of the competition, except possibly Inga. I laughed.
“I do my best to keep the tone up, but I must say next to you I look like a refugee from a rummage sale.”
“Nonsense, you know quite well you look very nice indeed. We’ll put you at the front table and show you off.”
Inga seated me in the small bow window where I could see everyone, and took my order. I did go rather well with the dining room, I thought complacently. The pink-shaded candles on each table and the paler pink tablecloths went nicely with my dress, and the sprigs of mistletoe, nestled in evergreen branches, matched my pearls. Greta always made sure her Christmas decorations were simple and tasteful and set the right mood; here in the elegant dining room, with its pale green Jacobean paneling and carved ceiling, they were subdued, while across the hall in the bar the red and gold suited the huge open fire, the low, ancient beams, and the jovial spirit.
Trade was brisk in both rooms. From the bar an occasional loud laugh broke through to our more decorous retreat. In the dining room one or two tables were beginning to empty this late in the evening, but Inga and her staff were still extremely busy. She found time, though, for a typically graceful gesture; when she brought me my soup she paused to nestle her sugar rose in my hair. “I knew it would look super there. Enjoy your meal!”
I did, of course, even if I was there with ulterior motives. It was ambrosial. Purée of chestnut soup was followed by a sublime concoction of fish and prawns in a delicate sauce whose ingredients I couldn’t begin to guess, served with puff pastry that might have floated off the plate. There was a perfect salad, crusty homemade rolls, and finally a dessert of rich custard and tangy fruit, orange and grapefruit and kiwi, surmounted by a dome of golden sugar filigree.
“I’ll bet you made this,” I said as Inga served me, her pride shining through her weariness. “Look, can’t you sit down and have some coffee with me? I’m the last soul in the place, and you look all in.”
“Whew, thanks.” She dropped into a chair, kicking her shoes off. “Do you like it? It wasn’t on the menu; I made it just for you.”
“It’s beautiful,
and
delicious. I always eat far too much here, and I don’t regret it a bit.” I reached over to the serving table, got another coffee cup, and poured her some. “Inga, you’re ready to drop. You need more help in this place.”
“We’d like to hire someone, but there’s not quite enough business to make it pay. If we manage to expand, we can do it.”
“I didn’t know you were expanding. What a good idea; you certainly could use more room.”
“Dad’s been wanting to build on. You see, if you turned this little bow window into a good big bay and added a bit on the east side, there’d be room for at least six more tables.” Her hands and arms described the changes and placed the tables with wide gestures, and her eyes sparkled despite the fatigue. “But so far we haven’t been able to get permission.”
“Oh, naturally, I suppose this is a listed building, being so old and all.”
She laughed. “Not likely, not with the way it’s been pulled about over the years! There are bits of all the best architectural periods in this building, with a few of the worst, and quite a lot of ghastly Victorian reconstruction. No, there’s no problem with the planning people; it was the Dean and Chapter.”
I pushed back my plate and tilted my head to one side. “Well, I must say, I knew the cathedral ran a lot of things in this town, but what on earth do they have to do with a pub? I thought you owned the place.”
She sighed. “We own the business, but the building belongs to the cathedral. Didn’t you know? It used to be somebody-or-other’s lodgings a million years ago when the monks were still about the place.”
“So why wouldn’t they let your dad build his additions? You’ve all got good taste; you wouldn’t do anything that would spoil the look of the Close, if that’s what they were worried about.”