The White Rabbit’s nose twitched again, and he cleared his throat self-importantly. “Jane’s protégés, that’s what. Surely it’s occurred to you that Nigel Evans is one of the prime suspects, if Billings really was murdered?”
He sat back and sipped his tea, watching smugly for our reactions. Mine must have disappointed him: blank incomprehension.
“George, Nigel is only a name to me, and I don’t have a clue as to what you mean. And he isn’t one of Jane’s ‘protégés,’ as you put it. I did ask her about him yesterday—no, not as a murder suspect, don’t be silly,” as his ears perked up. “I was interested because I saw him at the cathedral and he has such a striking face. She told me a little about him, but said she didn’t know him very well. What on earth makes you think he could have—done something like that?” The words “kill” and “murder” were too embarrassing; they sounded like cheap melodrama, especially in Alice’s highly refined room.
“Oh, I don’t say he did. But he had reason. I suppose Jane told you, at least, that he worked for Billings?”
I nodded. “In the cathedral library.”
“And did she tell you they had a blazing row the very day the good canon—died?”
Alice and I fastened our eyes on George with an attention that seemed to please him. He cleared his throat again.
“I presume you do know Evans is a student.” He was going to make us wait for it.
“Jane told me he’s at the university. She didn’t say what he’s studying.”
“Reading history. Thinks he’s God’s gift to scholarship. Entirely above himself, that lad. If you ask me, he needs a good kick in the pants, which is just what he would have got if Billings hadn’t died just now. He was about to be sent down.”
“Sent down! Expelled, you mean? But surely not! Jane called him ‘brilliant.’”
“That’s as may be.” George was getting worked up; his face was an alarming shade of purple. “He’s bright enough, when he wants to be. He’s also belligerent, rude, and too cocky by half.”
“He’s one of your students.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not mine, really. Worked with me from time to time, that’s all, helped proofread my book for a little spare cash. Oh, I won’t deny he’s been a good student. Keen. But he’d got to the point where he knew a little about this and that, and thought he knew it all. Actually argued with me over some points in my book. He’s twenty years old! I was reading history before he was born or thought of.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, rudeness is annoying, certainly, but the young
are
sure of themselves.” And, I didn’t say aloud, being rude to you is almost irresistible. “I can’t believe that’s enough to get him thrown out of school! He’s not the first young man in a university to be rude.”
“Of course that’s not all of it,” said George irritably. “I told you he had a row with Billings. Flinging accusations all over the shop, and the
language
! There would have been no choice but to report his shameful behavior to the university authorities, and what would they have done about it, I ask you?”
I was beginning not to like the smell of this. “What was the quarrel about, George?”
“Don’t know,” he admitted with some reluctance. “I was in the library at the time, in the stacks. Apparently they didn’t see me. I couldn’t actually hear what they said until they started shouting, and by that time it was all name-calling, or worse, and I wanted no part of it. But before I left I heard Evans threaten him. ‘You’ll regret it if you do, I promise you that.’”
“If everyone who made threats carried them out, the undertakers couldn’t keep up,” I retorted. “Personally, I don’t think the canon was murdered at all. It had to have been some sort of accident.”
“Ah, yes, I wondered what you thought of it all,” said George. “You know more than any of us, of course.”
“I don’t know a thing, except what I saw, and I don’t want to talk about that.” I felt I had made sufficient payment for my tea. “I don’t even want to think about it. I simply can’t believe anyone would kill a clergyman in his own church.”
“It has been done,” murmured Alice. “And Canon Billings was a much less popular man than Thomas à Becket. But Dorothy, you haven’t had any Christmas cake. Do let me cut you some.”
George opened his mouth but was quelled by a look that would have frozen warm Jell-O. Alice had had more than enough, and this time she intended to exercise her authority.
I was delighted to drop the subject and settle down to some cake, myself. English tea pastries are always wonderful, but at Christmastime they surpass themselves. You get miniature mince pies, extremely flaky and rich, and Christmas cake, which has no American equivalent. Alice’s was especially noteworthy: dark, heady fruitcake; homemade marzipan encasing the cake on top and sides with melting richness; sparkling white frosting whipped up into drifts as a foundation for the little Christmas landscape of candy trees with a tiny china reindeer. It was rich and sugary and wonderful; I downed two pieces without the least trouble.
“Tell me, George,” I asked, hoping to distract attention from the speed of my fork, “how is your book coming?” George’s book was something of a joke in university circles. He’d been writing it forever on some abysmally dull subject. Introducing the topic was risky; it could have kept George going for half an hour at least.
This time he didn’t get a chance to get started; Alice, beaming, got in first. “Oh, Dorothy, it’s nearly finished, and you haven’t heard the real news. We’re rather pleased, actually—it’s to be published by Oxford University Press! Buried here at Sherebury, George has been rather left out of things, but this may make a difference. Just between us, it will make him a very strong candidate for the Clarendon Chair.”
It was my day for inadequate responses. “Er—the Clarendon Chair?”
George condescended to explain. “Of course you’ve forgotten, Dorothy, you’ve left the academic world. The Clarendon Chair of History of Holy Scripture, at St. Swithin’s College, Oxford. It’s vacant just now, and I admit it’s rather a plum. I was up for it a good many years ago, but it usually goes to a clergyman. As Alice says, they may make an exception this time. But you know, Alice, we said we wouldn’t talk about it yet.”
“No, but Dorothy won’t tell anyone, I’m sure. She doesn’t really know anyone . . .” Alice turned slightly pink and stopped talking.
I was suddenly not hungry anymore. The fact that Alice hadn’t intended the slap in the face didn’t make it feel any better. George, with his usual tactlessness, had said it baldly: I’d left the academic world. I was a nonperson, in fact. Frank had provided my identity, and now that he was gone . . . I put down my plate and stood up.
“You must forgive me, I have the most terrific headache. Thank you so much for tea, and that sublime cake, Alice, but I must get home. No, George, it’s kind of you to offer, but the walk will do me good, I think.” George’s standard of driving matched his minimal knowledge of cars, and in any case, if I spent any more time with him I was going to break something. “Enjoy the rest of the holidays, and good night.”
N
IGHT HAD TRULY
fallen, though it was just past six. As I groped through the now-dense fog I mused bitterly on its penetrating quality. I was wet to my skin by the time I turned down my street, and very sorry for myself indeed. George and Alice had depressed me, the fog made everything worse, and the sight of my gloomy house—I’d forgotten to leave a light on—was the last straw. It was all very well to make optimistic resolutions when the sun was out, but how did you maintain them in the dismal dark?
Next door a lamp shone warmly through red curtains in the front room, and a gap in the curtains revealed bright flames in a snug little fireplace. On impulse I climbed the steps and knocked.
Jane opened it abruptly, said, “Oh, it’s you,” and then really looked at me. “Good grief, woman, you’re wet through. Come in and have something to warm you.”
“Is this a bad time? I was just coming home, and your house looked so friendly . . . but if you’re expecting someone, or—”
“No. Wasn’t doing anything. Glad to have you.” I sighed with relief. Jane almost never bothers to be gracious, but she never tells social lies, either. If she said she was glad to have me, she was.
“All right, now, upstairs with you and we’ll get you out of those clothes,” she ordered. “My dressing gown is good and warm, and then we’ll get some drink into you. Come along, your teeth are chattering.”
Jane enjoys old houses, but like Dr. Temple she values comfort and convenience. Her large bathroom, added on long after the house was built, has heated towel racks on which she draped my sweater and slacks while I swathed myself in her brown flannel dressing gown. The kitchen, also added on, also large and well equipped, was beautifully warm, and a potent hot whiskey and water quieted my teeth.
“Went out to tea, did you?” asked Jane.
“Yes, George Chambers invited me over.”
She barked a laugh. “Bored you to death about his book, I suppose.”
“No, actually it was Alice this time. She seems to think it’s going to set the world on fire.”
“Doubt it. George may think he’s God’s gift to scholarship, but the world’s not so flammable as all that.”
I snickered into my glass, but Jane’s face sobered. She studied me over the tops of her steel-rimmed glasses.
“No need to ask if you’ve heard the news.” She ran a hand through her untidy hair.
I nodded. “Last night before I went to bed. But I haven’t looked at a paper today. What are they saying?”
“Not much.” She shoved over a pile of newsprint. “See for yourself.”
I skimmed. The Rev’d Canon Jonathan Billings . . . wound to the head (I shuddered and passed over that one) . . . aged 52 . . . no family living . . . educated Oxford . . . publications
The Roman Occupation and Its Implications, Paul and the Young Churches, Early Christian Dissent
, etc.,
etc.
. . . early preferment . . . brilliant career . . . police pursuing vigorously . . .
“It doesn’t give much of a picture of the man, does it?” I said finally, shoving the papers back.
She made a sound of disgust. “Makes him sound like some kind of a saint. Which,” tossing off her whiskey and pouring a little more, “he was not.” She sat back and folded her hands across her stomach.
“I didn’t really know him all that well,” I said, “but from what’s been said, and not said, I get the impression people didn’t like him much.”
“
Like
him!” The contempt dripped. “One couldn’t like the man. He was perfect. Expected everyone else to be perfect. Never lost his temper, just got coldly reasonable, pity you were wrong and too stupid to see it.”
“He quarreled with lots of people, then?”
“Didn’t ‘quarrel’ with anyone. Just what I’m saying. Thought it beneath him. Half the town quarreled with
him
.”
Jane doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but I’d never heard her say anything really scathing before, and I’d never seen her in this combative mood. I glanced at the bottle on the table between us.
“I’m not tipsy,” she growled, “though it’s not a bad idea. Just bloody furious. The man set the town by its ears when he was alive, made it worse by dying. Going to cause trouble for a lot of innocent people before it’s done.” She glared at me.
Did I see a glimmer of what was really bothering her? “I wonder,” I began tentatively, “if Nigel Evans knows anything about—”
“Who’ve you been talking to?” Jane demanded fiercely.
“Jane Langland, don’t jump on me like that! It’s not my fault I stumbled over a body and got mixed up in a murder. Believe me, I’m not enjoying it!”
So I was right. She was silent for a moment, and then made a face.
“Sorry.” She moved her glass in little circles on the table. “Didn’t intend to lose my temper. Someone’s told you Nigel had a row with Billings, I suppose.”
I nodded unhappily. “George. Not that I pay much attention to him as a rule . . .”
“Oh, it’s true enough. Did he tell you Billings gave him the sack?”
“Oh, no! Not that, too! George overheard them having it out, but he left before the end. His idea was that Nigel was likely to be expelled from the university on the strength of it. But fired! Jane, that’s awful! What will he live on? You said he’s barely getting along as it is. Although, perhaps, now that . . .”
I stopped and looked at Jane in dawning horror.
“Precisely. You see just how bad it looks. And you’re on
his
side. What will the police think?”
“Half the town had reason to hate him, but Nigel had a large public fight with him the day he died,” I recited mechanically. “And lost his job, and might have been expelled from the university. The police are going to jump on it. And you’re right, I
am
on his side, though I’m not sure why. I don’t even know the kid.”
“He’s all right, really, as kids go,” said Jane, with a show of disinterest that didn’t take me in for a moment. “But—it’s worse than you know, Dorothy.” She took a deep breath, settling her glasses firmly on her nose. “No point in hiding it. He’s been in trouble before. Petty stuff—joyriding, the odd small theft. And he’s been sent down before. From King’s. Cambridge.”
“Jane!”
“He can sing. That and first-class A-levels got him a scholarship. But he started a brawl with a policeman and lost everything.” She sighed heavily, shaking her head. “The two sides to the Welsh: music and drink.”
“He was drunk?”
“I should imagine. Got a temper, yes, but not violent when he’s sober. Point is, he’d’ve had a jolly hard time getting into yet another university. Or finding another post. Properly up against it.”
There was a long pause.
“Of course he didn’t do it,” Jane said in quite an ordinary voice.
“Of course not,” I echoed.
“Don’t need to be all that polite. No reason why you should believe me, but I know. Spent too long with kids not to know their heads. He’s not a killer.”
I believed that she believed it. And she does know kids, inside out. But still . . .
“You don’t know him all that well; you said so yourself. And George thinks he did it,” I pointed out.