JANE AND I FOUND LITTLE TO SAY TO EACH OTHER AS WE trudged across the Cathedral Close. Speculation was futile, and we didn’t want to talk about our fears. I saw the dean coming out of one door of the Cathedral as we went in another. I was tempted to hail him, but I feared that his kind sympathy would shatter Jane’s fragile composure. She had let me see her cry once. That, for Jane, was a lifetime’s allotment. Let her maintain her dignity as long as she could.
“Do you suppose they’ve searched this place?” I ventured to ask as we traversed the shadowy south aisle. “It’s full of nice medieval nooks and crannies.”
“Bound to’ve. No reason he’d come here, anyway. Bill’s not religious.”
“Mmm.” I wondered briefly how well that boded for their marriage. Jane is quiet about her beliefs, but they are important to her.
I dismissed the thought. Just now other worries loomed larger on the horizon. I tried to shove another thought aside, as well. Even if Bill wouldn’t go to the Cathedral of his own volition, there might be good reasons for someone to bring him here. So many hiding places in a fifteenth-century building … but Jane was right. The police would have looked here. We went out of the church into the hard bright sunshine.
“Jane! Will the museum be open?” I put a hand on her arm as we turned into the High Street. “Young Tubbs can’t neglect his university work indefinitely.”
“Don’t know. We’ll get in somehow.”
The building was open, however, and Walter Tubbs was sitting at his desk. This time there were books in front of him and he seemed to be studying. He looked up when we entered, and blinked at us.
“Oh, it’s you. Sorry. I was in the fourth century.” He gestured at the books. “Roman Britain and all that. They’re building roads and drains at the moment. Not frantically thrilling, but I’ve an essay due tomorrow. Have you heard anything about Mr. Fanshawe?”
“No, but I suppose no news is good news.” Walter didn’t look impressed by the cliché, and neither did Jane. I realized it had been a pretty stupid thing to say, and changed the subject. “Walter, we’ve come with more roads for you to look at, modern ones this time.” I took the atlas out from under my arm and thrust it at him. “Or at least, the places the roads lead to. This is the book we found in Bill’s desk yesterday, and we found some markings in it. We wondered if you’d have any idea what they’re all about. Open it to the Indiana pages and have a look.”
He studied it for a few moments and then looked up, bewildered. “I suppose he was planning to go and see these places. But I don’t know why, or when. He hadn’t said anything to me about a trip to America. I’ll take a closer look, if you’d like to leave it with me.”
He was speaking about Bill in the past tense. I hoped Jane hadn’t caught it. “I suppose we might as well. We don’t seem to have learned anything from it, and you just might come up with something if you think about it for a little while. Or more likely, if you don’t think about it. At least that’s the way my mind works.” I was babbling. I took a deep breath. “Of course, the markings don’t have to have any significance. Maybe he was just doodling.”
“He did that a lot. Mostly on his desk pad, though. I wouldn’t have thought he’d deface a book.”
That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to me. Yes, it
was
odd that a curator would write in a book. A modern book, true, and one whose lasting value was limited, but still … “Well, he did write in this one. For whatever reason. Or wait! I don’t know why we’re assuming the marks are Bill’s. We found the atlas in his desk, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he made the marks.”
“I think he did, though. He had a thing about blue pencils. I don’t know anyone else who uses them.”
“Ah. Well, we may never know why—um, maybe we’ll only know when we can ask him.”
This time Jane did notice. She looked at me, her face dull with misery, and then turned away.
I bit my lip. There was nothing I could do to comfort her, nothing, apparently, I could do to help. I’d tried every way I could think of to find Bill, but nothing had worked. I exchanged a look with Walter; we both shook our heads.
“Well, Walter, I suppose we’ve bothered you long enough. You’re putting in an awful lot of extra time here, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t really have anyplace else to go. I mean, I can study here better than where I’m living. And I’m happy to be here, if it’s any help to Mr. Fanshawe. I only wish …”
We both wished. Wishing didn’t help. “It’s nice of you, all the same. Will you be here tomorrow, then, in case we think of something?”
“I have to be. There’s some kind of donors’ meeting in a few days, and I need to try to get ready for it. I saw it in Mr. Fanshawe’s diary.”
“Diary? He kept a diary?”
Walter looked puzzled. “Of course.”
“Not the journal sort,” Jane explained to me. “Calendar. Engagement book.”
Walter still didn’t understand, but I didn’t enlighten him about the differences in our common language. “Yes,” he said. “Quite a nice one, black leather, with his initials. Anyway, I don’t suppose I’ll be much use to the donors, but I thought I should be here. People like that can get awfully waxy if they feel neglected.”
“Surely they’ll know about Bill, wouldn’t you think?”
“Probably. But I don’t know who’s to be there, exactly. The note in the diary simply says ‘Donors.’ It might be two people, or a crowd. So I can’t phone them to make sure they know about Mr. Fanshawe, and …” He trailed off again.
I felt sorry for him. He sounded forlorn, and very young. I tried for a moment to imagine being eighteen or so, with no better place to go than a small, not very exciting museum. “I’m sure you’ll deal with them just fine,” I said briskly, and smiled at him. “By the way, I left a lot of bags full of stuff here the other day and forgot all about them. Do you have them?”
He produced the bags. I bundled everything together as comfortably as possible and headed for the door. “Come on, Jane. Home. You can help me when some of these threaten to fall out of my arms.”
She followed silently, slowly, as if reluctant to leave. I could sympathize, but there was nothing more we could do there. I intended to spend the afternoon trying to catch up on Christmas, and then I was going to try to get Jane to take a sleeping pill, by bullying if nothing else worked. Maybe if I thought about something else for a while, and Jane got the first good rest she’d had in days, one of us might have a bright idea.
“I gave him that diary,” she said as we walked home. That was all, but all her fear and worry were somehow condensed into that single sentence.
Alan and I put up the Christmas tree that afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it. The tree was a small one, English style, that fit nicely on a table by the bay window. We’d picked it out a week ago, and I’d looked forward to decorating it. Now it was just a chore. I tried hard to get into the mood, but I kept thinking about Jane and her Bill. I’d hardly known him, but she was my best friend, and the poor woman was coming apart at the seams. She was trying to cling to the hope that he was still alive, but I could see that hope waning. As for me, I felt as useless as I ever had in my life. I was supposed to be kind of good at figuring things out, and I hadn’t come up with one single good idea.
Every time the phone rang, I jumped, hoping it might be good news, fearing it might be bad. And every time it was no news at all, just friends or Alan’s family calling about inconsequential matters. They were kind, pleasant, and friendly. I could have screamed at every one of them.
I wrapped some presents that evening, rather listlessly, and then went over to Jane’s with one of my magic pills.
She was sitting in her kitchen waiting morosely for a pot of coffee to steep. Even the bulldogs were subdued, reflecting their mistress’s mood as animals so often do.
“Late for a visit,” she growled.
“I know. I’m sorry, but I’m worried about you. I mean really worried, Jane. You’re going to be in really bad shape if you don’t get some sleep. Have you ever taken a sleeping pill?”
She shook her head and reached for the coffeepot. Gently, I stayed her hand.
“Jane, listen to me. How many times, when I’ve been upset, unhappy, beside myself with worry, have you held my hand and dried my tears, figuratively, at least?”
“Mmph. Didn’t do anything much.”
“Yes, you did, and you know it. And not just for me, but for virtually anybody in this town who was in trouble. You’ve bullied us, cajoled us, fed us, done whatever was needed, and always for our own good. Now it’s time I did something for your good. Please, for my sake if not for your own, take one of these tonight. They’re not narcotic, but they work. You’ll sleep well, you’ll feel better in the morning, and you’ll be ready tomorrow to help me do whatever needs to be done. I can’t do this all myself, Jane. Please.”
That was a cheap shot, but it did the trick—that, or the quite genuine quaver in my voice. Wordlessly she accepted a pill out of the bottle and swallowed it with a swig of the water I provided.
“Now what?” she growled. “Do I fall over in five minutes?”
“No, you get ready for bed, take a warm bath, read a little—whatever will relax you. In about half an hour you’ll be really sleepy and want to turn out the light. I’ll look in on you tomorrow. And thanks, Jane.”
I slipped out, mission accomplished, and went to bed early myself. I tried, before I dropped off, to think hard about all I’d learned at the museum, in the hopes that some part of my brain would keep working on the problem after my conscious mind had set it aside.
I also said a fervent prayer for Bill, wherever he was, and for Jane.
Maybe it was the prayer that did it, or perhaps my mind did keep on working. At any rate, I woke very early on Thursday, long before dawn, with an idea. It was so urgent an idea that I woke Alan, who was still snoring peacefully.
“Mmph?”
“Are you awake?”
“Mmph.”
“Alan, do wake up. Really, I mean. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m awake.”
He wasn’t, though. He’s mastered the art of talking in his sleep on such occasions. So I got up, made coffee, and fed the cats, all in a fever of impatience. I made all the noise I possibly could, and it worked. He appeared in the kitchen just as I was about to take coffee up to him.
“There you are, finally.”
He looked pointedly at the kitchen clock, whose hands hadn’t quite made it to six-thirty.
“I know, but I have an idea, a really good idea, and I need you to call Derek and get things moving.”
He took the cup of coffee I thrust into his hand. “This is about Bill?” He sounded fully awake now.
“What else? Listen, something I heard yesterday started me thinking. Bill’s assistant at the museum was talking about Roman Britain, and the roads and sewers and things the Romans built, and it reminded me. Isn’t there a system of Roman sewer tunnels under Sherebury?”
“Yes. Well, they were Roman originally. They were enlarged considerably in medieval times, and then later—”
“Yes, okay, but the point is, where can you get into them?”
“There were once entrances from most of the important buildings in town, I believe, but they’ve been blocked off. The tunnels aren’t at all safe, you know. They haven’t been shored up for hundreds of years, some of them.”
“Was there an entrance from the Town Hall?”
“Certainly there used to be at one time.” Alan put down his coffee cup. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“Why not? If there was once an entrance, even if it was boarded up, it could have been opened again. After all, Bill saw to a lot of renovations when the museum opened. He could have found plans and discovered the entrance.”
“Dorothy, even if the entrance exists, why would Bill have gone there on Monday?”
“How do I know? Maybe he wanted to get a better look at the tunnel, with an idea to using it for storage, or opening it up as a part of the museum. It’s part of Sherebury history, after all. I don’t
know
why he might have gone there. I just think it’s a possibility worth exploring. He hasn’t been found anywhere else, after all, and everyone’s just about run out of suggestions.”
Alan considered that. He began to nod slowly. “You’re right, love. It may be far-fetched, but we can’t neglect any possibility. I’ll ring Derek.”
I prepared a very quick breakfast while Alan made the call, but we would have had time to eat it twice over before the inspector was finally found. He’d been called out very early on an important drugs case and hadn’t returned to the office. The sergeant on night duty assured Alan she’d have Derek ring up as soon as he was able.
He did better than call. He turned up on our doorstep.
“I was nearby when they reached me on the mobile,” he said when I answered the doorbell, “so I thought I might as well pop in.”