Body in the Transept (21 page)

I was as embarrassed as he. “Well, at any rate, now that I
have
interrupted, do you suppose you’d have time to talk to me? Just for a little while—in your office, if it’s all right,” I added firmly. “I’ve walked a long way and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

He had little recourse but to consent, however ungraciously, and lead me to the cramped room in one of the older buildings that served as his office.

It was not only cramped, it was stuffy on this warm day, and a terrible mess. “Gracious, George, you’ve been neglecting your housekeeping,” I said as I picked up a pile of papers from the only visitor’s chair. “Is this your book? Where shall I put it?”

He grunted something and shoved a dented brass planter away from the corner of his desk. I put the papers in its place, hoping they wouldn’t cascade onto the floor. “That plant of yours could use some water,” I commented idly.

He glanced at it, irritably. “Needs repotting. Haven’t had time. Now, what was it you wanted, Dorothy? I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”

I sat down, fiddling with the plant while I considered an approach. “What it needs is a new pot. This one’s had it. But I think the plant’s dead, anyway.”

Might as well go ahead and ask, now that I was here. “George, I won’t be long, I promise. But I was glad to find you, because I did want to ask you about Canon Billings’s book. I’ve been trying to find out what he was working on. No one seems to know anything except that it was about St. Paul. I thought, since that’s more or less your field, too, he might have talked to you. Do you have any idea?”

George had taken his pipe from his pocket and was taking forever to light it, using his gadgety pipe lighter and sending small abortive puffs of sickeningly sweet smoke into the already airless room.

“What makes you think,” puff, puff, “it was about,” dig, wheeze, puff, “St. Paul?”

“I’m not sure, really—oh, yes, something the dean said. But he didn’t know, he was just guessing.”

The pipe seemed now to be going properly, to my regret. “I think he’s wrong. Billings never said anything definite to me, but I got the distinct idea it had to do with Nero.”

I blinked away the smoke. “Nero! Why on earth would he be interested in Nero?”

“Nero’s connection with Corinth, you know. The canal he engineered across the peninsula. Didn’t actually get built until this century.” He puffed energetically, beginning to disappear in a blue haze. “Was there anything else? I am rather busy . . .”

I swallowed a cough. “No, thank you, George, sorry to bother you. If you do get any firmer lead on what he might have been doing . . .”

“Not likely to, but I’ll keep it in mind. Enjoy the lovely day, Dorothy.”

I escaped, had a coughing fit in the corridor, and found my way outside, where I stood actively enjoying the pleasure of breathing.

T
HE MOMENT
I got back I wanted to talk to Jane, but she wasn’t home. It took some courage to go to the phone.

I succeeded on the third try.

“Chief Constable Nesbitt here.”

He sounded so official I suddenly felt about ten years old. “Um—are you terribly busy? This is Dorothy Martin, and I have something to tell you, but if you’re—”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin.” His voice warmed slightly, but apparently we were going to be formal. “I’m sorry, I
am
late for a meeting; my driver is waiting. May I ring you up later, about seven perhaps?”

“Yes, of course, it’s nothing urgent. Good-bye.”

When the telephone rang a few minutes later I was sure his meeting had been canceled and he was on his way over. “Hello?” I said eagerly.

“Dorothy! My dear! We just got back, we’ve been in Paris, and we read all about the fire and
another
murder. Are you all right? Do you need any help? What can we do?”

“Lynn! You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear from you. Actually, my urgent need right now is to talk to somebody, and you’re exactly the person.”

“That’s why we called.” Tom’s voice came on the line. “Lynn and I thought you might like to get out of that idyllic little village of yours, with all that boring peace and quiet, and there’s a pub outside Maidstone we’ve been wanting you to see, anyway. Have you mastered the wrong side of the road yet, or shall we meet you at the train in Maidstone?”

I gulped. I had, in fact, learned to drive on the left, but the thought of doing so still left me weak-kneed. And those awful traffic circles they call roundabouts, with buses and trucks bearing down on you from the wrong direction . . . “Yes, of course, I’m all right as long as there isn’t too much traffic,” I lied staunchly. “I need really good directions, though, Tom. Every single roundabout I come to is going to have five ways out of it, to Little Puddleby, and Upper Slaughter, and Something Parva, and heaven knows what, and not one word about Maidstone, and I’ll just keep driving round and round in circles . . .”

“Relax, kid. You know how to get from your house to the motorway, don’t you? Toward London?”

“Certainly.” I put on my dignity.

“Okay, then here’s what you do . . .”

He made me write down every step of it.

“It sounds simple enough,” I said dubiously.

“It’s an easy hour from your house. If you haven’t found us in an hour and a half, say by four-thirty, get to the nearest phone booth and call the Wicked Lady, and we’ll come and find you.” He gave me the number. “You still driving that beat-up old Beetle?”

“I’ll have you know my VW is a perfectly reliable car. It does get a little cold in winter, I admit, but today’s nice and warm. Besides, it’s all that’ll fit in my little afterthought of a garage.”

“Hah! You just like it because the steering wheel’s on the left, American style. Okay, we’ll see you by four-thirty, right?”

“Right.”

Halfway out the door I realized I wouldn’t be home for Alan’s call. Should I leave a message? I decided I should, but I kept it brief and formal. Mrs. Martin would be out for the evening but would try to reach Chief Constable Nesbitt in the morning. Thank you very much. I called for Emmy, but she had disappeared; very well, she could stay out until I got home. Serve her right. I was off.

I made two wrong turns and had one close encounter with a tow truck, but I made it. When I walked into the pub a little over an hour later, Tom and Lynn were waiting for me with a Jack Daniel’s already poured.

“Ah, thank you, I need a little stiffening. But I daren’t drink much. There’s still the drive home.”

“Don’t worry.” Tom patted my knee. “I’m having a pint and then switching to tonic so I can drive when we go eat. By the time you get behind the wheel again you’ll be fine, with dinner and all.”

“But Dorothy, what do you think of this place? We found it all by ourselves, we’re so proud!” Lynn beamed. “And isn’t the name luscious?”

“Delightful—the place and the name. There must be a story behind it.”

“Oh, that’s the best part. She really was a wicked lady. . . .”

Lynn and Tom told the story, interrupting each other and quarreling happily over the details. It was an unlikely tale of a lusty seventeenth-century matron-turned-highwayman, lady of the manor by day and, disguised as a man, robber by night. Some said she had died in this very pub, and within these walls it was easy to believe, easy to hear hoofbeats and the heavy rattle of coach wheels over cobblestones, with the wind echoing, “Stand and deliver!”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said with a luxurious sigh when they had finished. “And as Winston Churchill said about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, it is all true, or it ought to be.”

“Exactly!” said Lynn delightedly. “I believe every word of it, myself.”

“All right, now, D., we brought you here to talk, and my lovely wife hasn’t let you get a word in edgewise.”

“Hah!” said Lynn. “Look who’s calling the kettle black. But we’re
dying
to hear all about it! First of all,
are
you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine. At least, nobody’s after me, if that’s what you mean. But as a Sherlock Holmes, I’m beginning to think that I make a wonderful Watson.”

“I knew it,” said Lynn dramatically, pressing her hands together and rolling her eyes skyward. “I knew you were getting yourself mixed up in all this, I could feel it in my bones. What do you mean, Watson? You’re a
perfect
Mrs. Pollifax.”

“Maybe I look the part. I realize I’m the only nonroyal woman in England who still wears hats. But I’m getting the clues all wrong. The most recent victim was my prime suspect.”

“Yeah, well, that would create a little problem, wouldn’t it?” said Tom, rubbing one ear. “Tell us about it.”

I related my progress, or lack of it. It took me through another drink. “So now,” I concluded, “I’m left with two suspects, neither of them with a very good motive, really. And they both have an alibi for the second murder, anyway. I suppose the police are looking into that. I’m going to talk to Alan about it tomorrow, I hope.”

“Alan?” Lynn arched her eyebrows.

“The chief constable. We’ve gotten to be friends, so he’s letting me in on some of what’s going on. Now don’t look at me like that. He’s a friend, and that’s all there is to it. And that’s all I want right now.”

One of the nicest things about Tom and Lynn is that they never carry a joke too far. Their agreement to drop the subject didn’t even require an exchange of glances.

“So you’re down to two suspects, huh? Sounds like everybody in town wanted to do the guy in; there must be more than two.”

“There is one more, actually. As of today. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s really very—distressing. You see, it’s George Chambers.”

“George!” Lynn’s eyes widened, and Tom gave a long, low whistle.

“I know. I wouldn’t have thought the White Rabbit would ever have the nerve, but—”

Tom choked on his tonic. “The
what
?”

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to say that. And don’t you go repeating it, it’s private. It’s just something about his hair—and his nose—”

“Don’t. Stop,” Tom wheezed. “You’ll have us thrown out of here if I laugh any more. Oh, Lord, I’ll never see him again without . . .” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

“One day,” said Lynn when she could speak, “I will get even with you for that. Now tell, we are
panting
to know why you think the White Rabbit could possibly have had the backbone to murder anyone.”

“It isn’t very funny, really, except it’s all rumor, and my imagination. Well, not quite all. I don’t suppose, living way up there in your tight little London world, you’ve ever heard any stories about George playing around?”

“Good grief, D., that’s not news!” said Tom. “Have you just caught on?”

“Alan says I’m naive,” I admitted. “Or he said I was a nice woman, which amounts to the same thing. But when I went over to the university to talk to George today, I caught him with a coed. They were just walking along, talking, but they both looked awfully guilty when they saw me.”

“And how does the occasional spot of adultery turn the poor old White Rabbit into a murderer?”

“That’s where my imagination comes in. I thought, if Alice doesn’t know about it—and Billings knew—and he threatened to tell Alice—”

“And Alice,” Lynn concluded triumphantly, “would take the money and run. George wouldn’t be at all happy about that; he enjoys the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed. Tacky as it is. Dorothy, you’ve been underestimating yourself. I think you’ve
definitely
got something there.”

“Yeah,” said Tom. He didn’t sound happy about it. “An awful lot of guesswork, but you could be right. And what do you do about it, my dear dimwit? You go trotting over and ask him if he’s a murderer!”

“Oh, come on, now. I’m not
quite
that stupid. I didn’t say a word about it. I just asked him what Billings was working on when he died. I don’t know why, but I’m really curious about that, and I thought George might know. He didn’t, though. Or at least, he had a theory, but it sounded awfully unlikely to me.”

“Anyway, you’d better let that policeman pal of yours know all about this right away. If you’re right, the sooner George knows that somebody else knows, the safer you are. You done with that?” He gestured to my glass. “Come on, doll, let’s go to dinner.”

“We’re going somewhere else? The food here looks very good.”

“It is, Dorothy, but we’ve made a
real
find, a tiny place that’s three-star quality. The Old Bakehouse, over in Rabbit’s Cross.”

“Appropriate,” I murmured.

I probably would have behaved myself the rest of the evening if the menu hadn’t offered rabbit—well, lapin à la something-or-other. When I saw it I started to giggle, and then Tom realized why I was laughing and guffawed himself, and I ended up with hiccups and suffered the well-meaning suggestions of sure cures from everyone in the place.

All in all we had a hilarious evening, exactly what I needed. One never realizes quite how tight the strings are drawn until they are relaxed. As I drove home I felt better than I had in months, singing as I drove and negotiating the roundabouts with aplomb.

It was late, though, and I was so tired when I pulled the car into the garage that I nearly hit Emmy.

She was crouching in the middle of the concrete, lapping at something spilled on the floor. I left the car idling and got out to scold her and move her out of the way.

“What are you drinking, you little nuisance? Here, get away from that and let me see.”

It was a greenish fluid that didn’t look at all edible. I put a finger to it, smelled, hesitantly tasted. It had a slightly sweetish taste. Emmy struggled in my arms to get back at it, but I held her tightly and looked around, puzzled. I was sure I hadn’t spilled anything out here, and it wasn’t motor oil. Anyway the Beetle, old though it was, didn’t leak oil.

And then I saw the can, tossed carelessly into a corner. I picked it up, smelled it, and was in the house in ten seconds and at the phone, an indignant cat still clutched in my arms.

Pray God the vet was there. He worked out of his home, so surely, at nearly midnight . . . he answered, his Scottish burr strongly in evidence.