“Not I; the arson investigator. I’m not an expert in the field, at all, but I do know that they can tell something about the speed of the burning from the ash. Obviously if something that one would expect to burn quite slowly, such as a carpet, has in fact burnt very fast, the investigator wonders why. Dorothy, this is marvelous.”
“Save some room for dessert. That’s fascinating, about the fire. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up.”
“Without smoke detectors and the sprinkler system it might very well have done, even with the rain-soaked roof.”
“And—the verger—”
“Please believe me, Dorothy, you don’t want to know the details. I found them unpleasant enough and I’m used to these things. I will say only that they had to rely on dental records for identification.”
“But how did they know where to look? I mean, you said yourself forensic evidence is no good without something to match it to, and everybody in Sherebury has teeth. Well, maybe not everybody. I suppose some sets get popped in a glass at night. But out of the whole population of the town that see dentists, how did they know to go to
Wallingford’s
dentist to check the records?”
“That was another piece of carelessness. The murderer forgot to remove Wallingford’s verger’s badge, which survived the fire. So my men had only to check which of the vergers was missing. Simple.”
I shuddered. Somehow that detail was especially poignant. The vergers were proud of their little brass lapel pins, and wore them with dignity. Wallingford, pompous ass though he was, had been proud of his, too.
Alan was watching me. “Dorothy, don’t forget he never knew about the fire. He was dead before it started.”
“Thank you, Alan. That does help. I was imagining . . .”
“Don’t, is my advice. You said something about dessert?”
We worked our way through cheesecake and coffee and decided to take our brandy to the parlor; the kitchen chairs were getting a little hard. Alan made short work of building up a nice fire in the parlor grate.
“Alan, how did you get involved in police work?” I asked when we were nicely settled with some Mozart on the CD player. “It seems an odd career for a man like you.”
He looked at me, amused. “And what am I like?”
“Oh—cultured, sensitive, observant, kind.” I blushed a little. Was I getting too personal?
“You must admit that ‘observant’ is a pretty good qualification for a copper. You might have added inquisitive and self-righteous. I like to know what’s going on, and I don’t like crime. And I found that knowing a little about what people think and feel—there’s your ‘sensitive,’ I suppose—made me good at the job. So I stuck with it. That’s all, really.”
“I can’t imagine you enjoyed catching the crooks, when you did that personally. I mean actually arresting them and charging them with murder or whatever, especially back when you knew they might hang.”
“No, it could sometimes be a nightmare. I used to wonder if I had the right, or if any man had the right, to take the life of another. But then I would think of the victim, whose body I had always seen, remember, and remind myself that he or she hadn’t deserved to die, either. That helped. And there was a satisfaction about coming to the end of a case, knowing that one had taken a villain off the streets and freed everyone else from suspicion.” He sipped his brandy, a little embarrassed about airing his feelings.
“I wish we’d come to the end of this one,” I said fervently. “It seems to me we’re right back where we started. We were so sure—well, I was, anyway—about Wallingford, and now he’s been murdered, so obviously—”
“No, not quite obviously. Murderers have been murdered before now. But I agree, the probability is against it. I’ve been thinking a good deal today about the money he paid back to the cathedral.” He paused to let that sink in.
“You think it was an admission of guilt? An atonement, sort of? Or—no, of course, what an idiot I’ve been. Blackmail!”
“It does make one wonder, doesn’t it? A murder is committed in or around the cathedral. A man who frequents the cathedral, and who lied about his actions on the night of the murder, is suddenly in possession of a large sum of money. Then he himself is murdered.”
“He obviously never read Agatha Christie,” I said flippantly. “She knew that blackmailing a murderer was a very dangerous way to make money.”
Alan looked at me, cupped his glass in his hands, and looked away. “Dorothy,” he said, gazing fixedly at the flames of the dying fire, “you’ll resent this, I suppose, but you do realize that hunting down a murderer is also a hazardous occupation? I wish you’d leave it to us. I know you’re intelligent and clever, and all the rest, but I do wish you’d give it up. It would—damage my pride considerably if you . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“No, I don’t resent it, not now. It’s very kind of you, really. But—I can’t give it up, Alan. Not and ever live with myself.”
“So long as you don’t forget,” he said with an edge to his voice, “that the operative word is ‘live.’”
J
ANE POPPED HER
head in the back door. “Dorothy? Going to market. Need anything?”
I seized the chance to get out of the house. “I’ll come with you.”
Jane was uncommunicative as we walked up the street.
“Beautiful day,” I offered tentatively. “More like April than the second day of January. Although it seems unnatural to me; I really like winter to be winter.”
Jane snorted.
“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said after another moment or two of silence. “About Wallingford, I mean.”
She grunted.
I presumed that was a yes. Well, whether she wanted to talk about it or not, I did. “But, Jane, it’s important! If he didn’t kill the canon, who did? They’ll start looking cross-eyed at Nigel again!”
She grunted once more, and even spoke. “My house the whole time.”
I got it after a beat or two. “I know Nigel was at the party when the fire started. No, he couldn’t have done that. But the police aren’t sure the two murders were committed by the same person. And everyone else who’s in the running for First Murderer was at the party, too. Jeremy Sayers was playing the piano the whole evening, and Mr. Pettifer was stuffing his face and holding forth about something most of the time. What was he doing there, by the way, Jane? I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”
Jane unbent at last. “He’s not. Bag of wind, but he never refuses an invitation. Wanted to talk to him about that building scheme of his. Never got the chance.”
“You may get the chance now,” I pointed out as we rounded the corner into the Market Square. “There he is.”
He was strutting across the marketplace like a one-man parade. Jane quickened her march to intercept him, and timed it nicely, reaching his path just a second before he did. He very nearly ran slap into her, which put him off balance, literally and metaphorically.
“Morning, Councillor.”
“Er—good morning, Miss Langland. I hope I didn’t—that is—I trust—”
I joined in gleefully. “Good morning, Mr. Pettifer. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
He turned to me and raised his hat stiffly. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, madam.”
“Sorry,” said Jane with a glint in her eye. “Mr. Pettifer, my next-door neighbor Dorothy Martin. Dorothy found the body.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I put my hand out. “How do you do?” I said sweetly. “Jane means that I was the one to find poor Canon Billings.”
“Oh—ah—indeed. Most unfortunate, most unfortunate. He will be sorely missed.”
That was Jane’s cue. “Miss him like a toothache yourself, eh?”
“I’m not sure that I understand you, Miss Langland.” The sun was still shining warmly, but the conversational temperature was dropping fast.
“Hear you’ll go ahead now with your slum program.” Her wording left doubt as to whether Pettifer was going to tear down slums or build new ones. Or both. “Understand Billings was against it.”
“My dear lady.” He ignored me completely. My accent had placed me as an American, therefore a nonvoter and a person of no influence whatever. “It is by no means certain that the council will go ahead with
our
building program.” He stressed the plural. “No, no, not at all certain. We shall have to consider all options most carefully. I should not wish you to believe that it is the habit of your Borough Council to engage in precipitate action. No, no, debate and compromise have made our great British system what it is. I will concede the likelihood that we shall now be able to conduct our deliberations without that attitude of stubborn obstruction to progress which characterized—” He suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be sorry about Billings’s death. “That is, although Canon Billings was a most capable man, one cannot deny that he lived to a great extent in the past. Admirable in a scholar, no doubt, but a sad mistake for a practical man. If one lives in the past, I am fond of saying, one will never envision the future, and it is the vision of the future which makes for a vibrant present.
“Speaking of which”—he made a great show of consulting his watch—“my own future presses. I trust you will excuse me, ladies. Good morning.”
“Should we have applauded?” I asked when he had raised his hat and gone.
Jane snorted.
I
WAS STILL
restless after putting away my purchases, and still trying to digest Mr. Pettifer’s political address. A pretty unappetizing tidbit, really. If the man thought any more of himself he’d have trouble finding hats to fit.
But I thought, reluctantly, that I couldn’t see him as a murderer. On the whole I thought he’d find very little that was worth a risk to his own precious skin. It was a pity, too, because that left the field, in my mind, to Jeremy Sayers and Nigel, with or without some of the Endicotts. All of whom I liked very much better than Mr. Archibald Pettifer. Goodness, how that man could talk without saying anything!
In fact, however, he had reintroduced one idea to my head. Billings, he’d said, had lived in the past. That was what I’d been chasing earlier: Just which part of the past was he living in before he died? No one seemed to know, and I remembered that I’d intended to ask George.
Well, what was wrong with right now?
The walk was altogether more pleasant than the last time in the fog. The morning really was delightful. A few plants were pushing green spikes through the ground, tulips and daffodils and crocuses. The jasmine creeping over garden walls was covered with tiny yellow flowers, and in the warmth of the sun the earth was beginning to smell like spring. And in the little parks I passed, the children contrived to make just as much noise and get just as muddy as they would when spring really did arrive.
In George’s street his raw modern atrocity shone brightly in the sun, defiling the gentle, harmonious blend of gray stone and golden stone, tile roof and slate roof. I knocked for some time on his door before giving up.
Alice was probably doing the marketing, but I couldn’t see George going along on such a woman’s errand, as he would think of it. He seemed to have been spending a lot of time over the holidays at the university, though, working on his book. I toiled up the steep little hill to the campus.
Sherebury actually has a campus, if a small one, somewhat in the American pattern. It’s a Victorian institution that has recently grown, so there’s an odd mixture of old and new buildings, but that looks American, too. George’s office was in one of the old buildings, I thought, but I’d only been there once or twice and wasn’t sure I remembered which. I’d have to ask someone, though few students were around during the holidays.
I turned a corner, and there, against all the odds, I saw George, heading down a pathway. He was facing away from me, and by his side, attentively by his side, walked an extremely shapely girl in an extremely short skirt.
And suddenly Alan’s remarks came back to me and I put two and two together with such force that I almost turned around in a panic and went home.
Oh,
no!
Not George! But if he was still playing tomcat, and if Billings knew about it and threatened to tell Alice, Alice with the money . . .
Rabbits, when threatened, freeze and try to become invisible. If they have to run, they run like the wind. But if they are finally cornered, they will fight. No one expects it, which makes them that much more dangerous.
What would George have done? Bluster, deny the whole thing, plead? Nothing would have been of any use. Billings would have been precise as to his facts, adamant in his attitude. And George, goaded beyond endurance, would have picked up whatever was handy, and . . .
As the imaginary blow fell, I shook myself. Common sense told me I couldn’t condemn George for murder just because he was walking across the campus in broad daylight with a girl. There were a hundred innocent reasons for that, for heaven’s sake. No, I came to talk to him, and I was going to talk to him. I’d have to trust my talent for prevarication to get me through without disaster. I took a deep breath and called out.
“George! Oh, George!”
The looks they gave each other as they spun around made me panic again. I saw her shoulders jerk with a quick intake of breath, saw the guilt in her round eyes. George, on the other hand, looked quite simply furious, though whether at her for her obvious reaction or at me for my interruption, I couldn’t tell.
I had no choice now but to ignore their distress and go through with it. I walked up to them, smiled at the white-faced girl, and turned to George.
“I’m so glad I caught you, George.” Did they wince at my unfortunate choice of words? I hurried on. “I was out for a walk, and there’s something I wanted to ask you. Are you terribly busy or could you spare me a few minutes?”
“Thank you ever so much for your help, Professor Chambers,” said the girl, glancing from him to me like a nervous mouse. “I shan’t take up any more of your time.” She ran up the path.
“Did I interrupt something, George?” I asked pleasantly and, I realized too late, ambiguously.
He cleared his throat. “A—um—an undergraduate. Reading for one of my seminars. We were discussing—ah—”