Body in the Transept (16 page)

“Mrs. Martin, how pleasant,” the dean’s wife said comfortably. “You know Mrs. Peters, don’t you?” The other woman, a soft round little dove with china-blue eyes, lovely white hair, and the complexion of a very soft, faded rose petal, smiled and murmured something gentle.

“Mrs. Martin found our body the other night, you know,” Mrs. Allenby went on, and turned to me. “You look as though you’re feeling better.”

“Much, thank you, although—” I hesitated, and then plunged on, “—although I’d be better still if I didn’t keep seeing ghosts. It’s unnerving.”

Mrs. Allenby cut a red carnation to the proper length while Mrs. Peters deftly snipped off some brownish juniper. “I expect you’ve seen our monk,” Mrs. Peters said softly. “You needn’t let him upset you; he’s rather an old dear, really.”

“I feel sorry for him,” said Mrs. Allenby, placidly poking flowers into the brass vase. “He’s surely earned his rest after all these years. I asked Kenneth once why he thought the poor man wandered, and he was annoyed; the Church of England doesn’t believe in ghosts, officially, you know.”

Above our heads the organ suddenly spoke: a series of squeaks and growls interspersed with little runs and chords. “Oh, dear, it’s later than I thought, if Jeremy is already choosing the stops for Evensong. We’d best be off, Dulcie. Do you think these look all right, Mrs. Martin?”

“Lovely,” I said absently. “I do like to hear Mr. Sayers practice; he’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Very good, indeed,” said Mrs. Allenby approvingly. “I am so glad he’s decided to stay.”

“You don’t mean to say he was planning to leave?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, not seriously, I don’t think, but there was some little disagreement with Canon Billings, and for a bit there was talk . . . but now, of course, there’s no need for him to think about leaving us. We’re extremely lucky to have him; I know Kenneth thinks so, too. Music is so important to the services, don’t you agree?”

I agreed, rejoicing in success and trying to figure out how to turn the conversation in the direction of vergers in general and Wallingford in particular when the man himself appeared from the choir. He was moving with the same pompous tread he employed in procession—chin up, leaning just slightly backward—a posture that displayed to great advantage his well-curved front elevation.

“Good h’afternoon, Mrs. Allenby, Mrs. Peters.” He bowed, deferentially to the dean’s wife, coolly to the flower volunteer. “Mrs. Martin.” A slight nod put me firmly in my place. “I shall ’ave to ask you ladies to h’abandon your labors; h’Evensong will begin in . . .” he produced a pocket watch from some hidden recess of his cassock, “h’exactly nineteen minutes.”

“Yes, I am aware of the time, Mr. Wallingford,” said Mrs. Allenby in as near to a snub as I had ever heard her administer. “Shall we go, Dulcie? Mrs. Martin, I’m delighted to see you looking better.” She turned her back and swept away, a performance that both impressed and astonished me, in view of her usual motherly disposition.

The verger had turned ponderously away, ignoring me altogether, but I wasn’t about to let him go now that I had him in my web, so to speak. “Oh, Mr. Wallingford,” I trilled, “I did want to tell you how beautifully the service went on Christmas Eve.” That, at least, was true. “I’m sure you must have worked terribly hard to get everything so perfectly organized.” My fingers were crossed again.

Wallingford condescended to turn back. The nod this time was slightly warmer, acknowledging the praise as only his due. “It is h’always somewhat trying on Christmas Eve, preparing for the late service whilst tidying up after the children’s service. I may say that I ’ave never, in the h’eight years I ’ave served this cathedral, been so fortunate as to partake of h’either tea or dinner on Christmas Eve.”

“Why, that’s terrible! Do you mean to say you didn’t get a chance to leave at all?” My fingers were crossed so hard they were beginning to cramp.

“I was, as usual, going about my h’appointed duties ’ere from well before Matins until well past midnight, with a brief respite for tea and a cold pork pie in the early h’afternoon,” said the martyr to duty. “H’it is gratifying to know that the sacrifice was h’appreciated. I h’assume, madam, that you are planning to h’attend h’Evensong?”

“Well, no . . .”

“H’although,” said Wallingford weightily, “the rule states that h’anyone not ’ere in a religious capacity is required to leave during services, I am prepared to make an h’exception in your case. I trust that you will not create any h’undue disturbance should you remain, madam.” Another inclination of the head graciously bestowed his permission to stay. “Good h’afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” I said through gritted teeth. He moved away toward a small group of tourists, to whom he spoke officiously. They scuttled out, no doubt with a fine impression of the warm Christian hospitality the cathedral had to offer. I felt a twinge in a tooth I suspected was due for a root canal, and unclenched my jaw. But really, how dare the man! You couldn’t have people wandering about making noise during a service, of course. But you could be nice about it; you didn’t have to make them feel like worms under your pompous, snobbish feet. What a lazy, self-important, stupid, boring . . .

“Hello, Dorothy.” I whirled, startled.

“Oh, Alan! Alan, did you hear that man? Of all the pretentious, maddening, egotistical . . . and did you know he wasn’t here most of Christmas Eve? And he’s lying about it? And he’s been stealing from the collection, and Billings was just about to get the goods on him, and . . .”

“Yes, I know all those things, and I should be very grateful if you would lower your voice. Sound does carry in here, you know.”

“Oh.” I lowered it to a hiss. “Sorry, but I was annoyed.
Am
annoyed.” I had gotten louder again, and Alan quirked his eyebrows.

“If you’re not staying for the service, as I gather you are not, shall we get out of this echo chamber?”

I managed not to say anything until we were safely beyond the cloister door, and then I erupted.

“But if you know, why haven’t you done anything about it? It’s perfectly obvious—”

“Unfortunately there’s a small matter of evidence. No, let me finish. I’ve been talking to the dean, and I’d best tell you what he said before you begin tilting at several improbable windmills. There is no proof whatever that Mr. Wallingford was responsible for the defalcations. And—” he held up a finger to curb my interruption “—the money has been put back. All of it, they think. Of course they never know exactly how much there should be, but they can compare totals with previous years, and so on. There was a large anonymous gift in this morning’s pouch. And as there were only seven people at Matins, all of them known to Canon Richardson, who read the service—”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. “But that doesn’t make any difference! He can’t buy his way out of murder! Just because there’s no proof
now
doesn’t mean there wouldn’t have been, if Billings had gone on digging. And that means—”

“Dammit, Dorothy, I am not Inspector Lestrade or Sugg or Slack or any of the other idiot Scotland Yard detectives your favorite authors love! Don’t you think I know all that? The point, if you had let me finish, is that with the return of the money, the dean has decided not to pursue the matter. And without his evidence about the thefts, there is no case whatever against Robert Wallingford.”

T
HE SHEREBURY THURSDAY
market was in full cry. At crowded stalls, ablaze with color in the crystalline light of a bitter cold, sunny afternoon, vendors hawked their wares as they had ever since the market was chartered in 1378. Thursday isn’t usually quite as important a market as Saturday, but on this last day of the old year shoppers thronged the Market Square. The selection was dazzling. Meats, vegetables, fruits, woolens, tools—those things had always been sold here. But Brazilian butterflies, video games, paintings on black velvet always took me by surprise.

If tacky modern merchandise seemed out of place in the almost medieval scene, however, the noise of market day was surely unchanged for centuries. Calls of vendors in a broad accent I still couldn’t understand, the cries of babies in their prams, the high-pitched gabble of women bargaining over purchases—it was all very lively and very English.

I went to the market that day, not so much to buy anything as to soothe my feelings after what had turned into an awful quarrel with Alan the day before. I had refused to accept the idea that Wallingford couldn’t be arrested right then, and Alan kept explaining the rules of police procedure with more and more elaborate patience until I could have screamed, and finally did, right there in the Cathedral Close. Well, yelped with frustration, at least. At that point he became coldly reasonable and suggested that I needed some tea, and I became coldly polite and replied that what I needed more was some intelligent advice, and after
that
, of course, there was nothing to do but march off home, where I burst into tears of pure anger.

I was still angry, none the less because I knew he was right. Logic was on his side. But logic be damned, I still wanted to
do
something. My choice of the market as a distraction was perhaps unfortunate, because I could certainly do something there. I could spend money.

There is something stimulating about crowds of people eagerly bent on commerce. Those who run shopping malls all over America (and, increasingly and disgustingly, England) make fortunes on the principle. I bought in rapid succession several things I didn’t need at all, including some rich tea cakes that would be ruinous for my figure.

The only thing I almost needed was a pair of festive earrings to brighten up the old party dress I planned to wear to Jane’s New Year’s Eve party tonight. It was a black beaded affair, my standby for years. I was really very fond of it, but for New Year’s Eve it needed a little glitz. As I doubtfully studied the effect of gold filigree, a face appeared behind me in the mirror.

“Inga, my dear! What do you think of these?”

I hid apprehension behind cheeriness. How was she feeling about me? Would she snub me? Blow up?

“They’re all right,” she said dully.

I turned from the mirror then, and we looked at each other for a long moment. Her face was as pale as her hair.

“Inga, I—”

“Mrs. Martin—” she said at the same instant.

“You haven’t called me Mrs. Martin for years,” I said sadly. “Oh, my dear, don’t look at me that way! It’ll be all right, really it will.” I put my arms around her shoulders and pulled her close, and after a moment she relaxed, with a long, quavery sigh.

“We can’t talk here,” I said when I was sure she wasn’t going to cry. “May I buy you a cup of tea?”

It was a little early yet; the nearest shop had a vacant table or two. We got our tea from the serving line and then settled ourselves and our purchases and unbuttoned our coats.

“That’s a smashing hat,” said Inga in an admirable attempt at lightness. “It looks like something from a Carole Lombard flick.”

I tilted the burgundy soup-plate concoction a little farther over one eyebrow. “It’s old enough,” I said. “It belonged to my mother. I couldn’t bear to throw it out. Wearing it always lifts my spirits, and they needed it today.” I gave up the pretense. “Inga, how is Nigel?”

“He’s not in jail yet,” she said a little shakily. “I reckon that’s something to be grateful for, anyway. He was raked over the coals pretty thoroughly yesterday, but they sent him home in the end. Dorothy, I’m scared!”

“So am I, my dear,” I said, glad to be “Dorothy” again. “But we’ll just have to keep up our courage. We know Nigel is innocent, and . . . what?” For a hint of a smile had appeared on her face.

“Oh, nothing, really. I just suddenly thought how much he would hate being called ‘innocent.’”

I thought of those wicked blue eyes. “Yes, well, I guess it’s not quite the word, is it? Really, you know, we should have more confidence in his ability to get himself out of trouble. He’s had a lot of practice.”

Somehow I’d managed for once to say the right things. We finished our tea in companionable silence. The air was clear again; Inga’s color had returned, and along with it her composure.

“So what are you wearing to the party tonight?” I asked when we were back in the marketplace. “You are going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mum and Dad said they could manage without me for one New Year’s Eve. We’re booked up, of course, but a set meal is easier to serve. And I’ve the most smashing new frock—oh,
Lord
, look, there he goes!”

I turned and saw only a small crowd of people gathered round a stocky, red-faced, bull-necked man I didn’t recognize. “There who goes?”

“That’s Mr. Pettifer, you know, the councillor. I’ll bet he’s making a speech. Well, it’s a safe bet, really, he always is.”

“Come on, then, I want to know what’s going on.” I moved closer, but apparently it was a private speech, because the stocky man gave me an irritated look, turned his head away, and lowered his voice slightly.

“. . . need to develop . . . increase traffic by at least forty percent . . . younger buyers . . . sentimental nonsense . . . no more trouble about permission . . .”

The snatches that reached us, along with his gestures at the building in front of the little group, told the story. I turned to Inga in dismay. “Oh,
no
! He’s going to turn that gorgeous old building into a shopping mall! What is it, really?”

“The Town Hall, but it’s going to be vacant soon. They’re putting the city offices in the new Civic Centre out near the university. I don’t know why they keep moving everything farther away. This was really convenient for official business, and it’s beautiful inside, too, all linenfold paneling and beamed ceilings. And what are they going to do about the Hall? It’s been the meeting place for town activities for centuries. It’s a
frightful
pity to cut it about into tacky little shops!”

“It hasn’t happened yet,” I snapped.

“It will,” she said with a sigh.

“Who are those people he’s talking to?”

“I don’t know all of them, but the bald one is on the council, and that woman in the frightful tartan coat owns a chain of gift shops, and I think the man who looks sort of Michael Caineish is John Thorpe, the estate agent. He’s gathering all the forces together, you see. I do wish progress didn’t always seem to mean pulling something down, or messing it about.”