Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (25 page)

I started to dress. He sat down on the bed. ‘Do you really mind so much that I want you to be safe?’

I sat down next to him. ‘I love it that you want me to be safe. I love being cared for and cherished. And I love you. It’s just that I want – I
need
– to make my own decisions. I’m old enough to know a thing or two, and smart enough to assess dangers.’

‘I grant you all that. You are intelligent and you do have good judgement. Most of the time. But you sometimes get swept away by impulse, and then your judgement may fail you badly. It is that fear that I carry with me, every time you go off on your own tangent.’

He took my hand. ‘Dorothy, I don’t want to lose you. And you’re so fearless, so sure of your own ability to get yourself out of a dicey situation … I don’t want to limit your freedom, but I do so want to keep you safe.’

‘I know. And I understand. But …’

We sat there for a moment or two, at an impasse. Finally I spoke. ‘Alan, it must surely have been like this when your daughter was growing up. Frank and I never had children, so I don’t know for myself, but there must have come a time when Elizabeth’s need to cut the apron strings conflicted with your and Helen’s need to protect her. How did you resolve that?’

He thought for what seemed a long time. ‘It wasn’t a question of one time, a clean dividing line between childhood and adulthood. The decision came every time she wanted to do something new. An overnight at a friend’s house. A journey out of town with a friend’s family, and later, alone. Dating. University. Marriage. Every time it was as if my heart was being torn in two. I knew we had to let her grow up, and I rejoiced in her growing self-confidence, but I knew how dangerous the world could be, and part of me – part of us – wanted to keep her in cotton wool for ever.’

‘And how did you resolve the impasse?’

‘We talked it out, the three of us. We explained our doubts and fears, and she explained the reasons she wanted to do whatever it was, and we came to an agreement, negotiated limitations. Where she had to be, when she had to be home, that sort of thing. Everything was a compromise, and I remember many a sleepless night wondering if we’d done the right thing, if she were all right.’

‘But obviously it worked. She stayed safe, she grew up to be a responsible, sensible adult, and, from what I’ve seen, she’s raising her own children along similar lines. So, Alan, let’s do the same. Let’s talk this over like two rational adults and work out what compromises we can both accept.’

It was, I knew, a vital moment in our marriage. We’d had this discussion before, often, but we’d never resolved the issue. Now we’d reached a point when it had to be resolved.

‘Well.’ He ran a hand down the back of his head. ‘For a start, I’d like to know where you are, all the time.’

‘I’m not sure that’s practical. I’ll be going to various places: people’s homes, the church, who knows where. It wouldn’t always be convenient, or courteous, to pull out my phone in each place. Suppose I call you, say, twice a day, and tell you where I plan to go and approximately when.’

‘And if I feel that’s a place where you will face great danger, and I ask you not to go?’

‘Then we’ll talk it out, and if in the end you’re really disturbed by what I plan to do, I won’t do it.’

‘Or I might ask you to take someone with you, someone we both trust.’

‘I don’t know how many people we know and trust in Chelton and environs, but if we can come up with someone, I can’t imagine that would be a problem. And how about this? We could set a time for the calls. Then if I don’t call at the prescribed time, you could push the panic button and start trying to find me.’

‘I devoutly hope that doesn’t happen.’

‘Me, too. But it would be a sort of alarm system. Only, it works both ways. If I call and you don’t answer, then I start trying to move heaven and earth to find you.’

‘Dorothy, really! I can take care of myself!’

‘Gotcha!’

He stared at me.

‘I wanted you to know how it felt, this protectiveness. Irritating, isn’t it?’

He simply sat there for a moment, and then he began to laugh. His laugh is irresistible. I joined in. He clasped me in a bear hug, I kissed him, and … we were a bit late for breakfast.

There was a flurry of travel arrangements to be made after we’d eaten a hasty meal. I booked the same B and B where we’d stayed before; the others decided to take their chances. Alan was going to take our car to Upper Longwood, since I’m still not entirely at ease driving in England, and the train service to Chelton was fairly good. Jonathan and Walter were both headed back to London to pack what they would need for perhaps a week, then Jonathan would drive to the school at Stony Estcott. Jonathan supplied funds to Walter so he could rent a car to Godwick, a village with no train service at all. He was reluctant to take the money.

‘I do have some money, you know. And there’s no reason you should pay for this, when it’s something the police should be doing.’

‘But they don’t seem to be getting very far,’ I put in. ‘Remember, we agreed we could do it better anyway, just because we’re not the police, and people will be more willing to talk to us. And you must save your money. You’re going to be married soon, and you’ll need it.’ I gave him a friendly pat.

‘We’re both going to have good jobs.’

‘Ah, but wait until you have a family,’ said Alan. ‘Then Sue may well want to stay home with the baby, and trust me, my boy, children eat up money faster than they grow. You need to save every penny you can just now.’

‘You can pay me later if you insist,’ said Jonathan. ‘And I want an accounting, mind!’

As soon as they were both gone, I packed rapidly for both of us and said goodbye to Sam and Emmy and Watson. They had all known what was happening as soon as they saw the suitcases come out, and Watson was terribly disappointed when we told him he couldn’t come this time.

‘You’ll be spoiled by Jane,’ I told him. He whined mournfully.

Then we both hopped in the car, Alan drove me to the station, and I kissed him goodbye. ‘Alan, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m going to an English cathedral city, for Pete’s sake.’

‘Where a man was killed. Of course I’ll worry, but I’ll try to keep it in reasonable bounds. And you’ll call me … when?’

‘Better make it three. I should be there and settled by then, and have some idea of my plan of action. But I’ll call you, even if the trains are dreadful and I’m still in Upper Podunk.’

We kissed again, and then he was gone and I climbed aboard my train.

I seldom travel alone, and I’d forgotten how much I depended on Alan to make the process go smoothly. He it is who always buys the tickets, manages the luggage, finds the taxi stand, knows which station the next train leaves from – all the bothersome details. Fortunately, the guard on my train to London was very helpful about train schedules, and told me I needed to go from Victoria Station to Paddington. He told me where to find a taxi, too, and though I know Victoria well enough to remember that part, I thanked him for his kindness. While I was dithering over whether to give him a tip, he was gone. That, too, is the kind of thing Alan manages when we travel. Without him, I began to feel very much like an ignorant American.

I coped, however, and it wasn’t until the stop just before Chelton that I began to wonder how I was going to get to the B and B. It was at the very edge of town, much too far to walk, especially with luggage. Alan and I had both forgotten that detail when we made our hasty plans.

I sighed, gathered up my luggage, and stepped down on to the platform at Chelton.

One of the delightful things about England that I had forgotten since I married Alan was the extent to which strangers can be helpful. I must have looked as I felt – a bit stranded – because a young man who had got off the train with me asked if he could help.

‘I’ve done a stupid thing,’ I told him. ‘Booked a B and B on the edge of town, with no car to get there. Would there be a taxi, do you think?’

‘Where is it you’re going?’

‘The house is called Lynncroft.’

‘Oh, Mrs Stevens. If you’d like, I can drive you there. But how are you going to get about, once you’re there?’

‘Well, I hadn’t thought about that, either, to tell the truth. I’m afraid I’m sadly disorganized.’

‘You’re American, aren’t you?’

I admitted it.

‘Do you drive over here?’

‘Actually, I’ve lived in England for several years, and yes, I can drive on the left. I don’t enjoy it on the motorways, though, and roundabouts terrify me.’

My new friend laughed. ‘My wife doesn’t like motorways, either. Look, would you like to hire a car? I can take you to a hire garage.’

I sighed. ‘Thank you. I really do hate to impose …’

‘No imposition. I’m just through here, in the car park.’

He cheerfully picked up my bags, stowed them in the boot of his very small car, and held the door for me while I shoehorned myself into the front seat.

‘My name’s Simon, by the way, Simon Grey.’ He shot out of the car park with an insouciance that took my breath away. When I’d regained it, I said, ‘Dorothy Martin. I live in Sherebury.’

‘Long way from home, aren’t you? What brings you to Chelton?’

I didn’t have my cover story worked out yet, and I panicked for a moment. I could hardly tell him I was looking for a murderer. Maybe part of the truth?

I coughed. ‘Sorry. Frog in my throat. It has to do with the cathedral. We … I wanted to learn a bit more about the late dean. Sherebury is a cathedral city, too, of course, but our Cathedral is also a parish church, and we want to have a piece about Dean Brading in the parish magazine. No one in Sherebury seems to know much about him, and I used to do a little writing, so I’ve come to talk to people about him.’ My fingers were crossed, but it wasn’t actually a lie. There would certainly be something about his death in the next parish magazine, and I’ve written lists all my life, and lesson plans back when I was teaching.

Simon frowned. ‘I don’t know that anyone knew him very well here, either. I’m not a churchgoer, but he seemed a chilly sort of chap, the few times I saw him. Speeches, dedications, that kind of thing. I don’t mean to be rude about clergy, but, honestly, he was a sanctimonious bloke. Wasn’t he … do I remember reading that he was going to be the next bishop in – yes! In Sherebury! How did you come to pick him?’

‘He wasn’t the final choice. That is, he was one of the four on the shortlist, but the Appointments Commission was due to meet after various interviews and so on, to narrow the list down to two. It’s a complicated process, appointing a new bishop.’

‘Well,
de mortuis
and all that, but I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’

‘I’m beginning to think so, too.’

I
had mapped out a plan of action, and as soon as I was settled at Lynncroft, and had called Alan to reassure him that I was alive and well, I got back in the car and headed for the cathedral. I looked first for a café where I could get myself some lunch, and found one not far from a car park. I was hungry enough to eat the limp prawn salad (three prawns of a size that in America would have been called ‘shrimp’) and even the apple tart tasting mostly of cardboard, which apparently comprised the crust. I wondered fleetingly if any establishment in this town served edible food, but forgot about it as I walked back to the cathedral.

My goal was the office. It was in a building adjacent to the church itself, and was staffed by a business-like middle-aged woman and a young assistant.

I had my story straight now. I introduced myself to the woman in charge and said, ‘I asked a guest to tea the last time my husband and I were in Chelton, but we had to leave for an emergency that came up suddenly. Unfortunately, I’ve lost her phone number, but she’s one of your parishioners, and I’d really like to get in touch with her, since I’m in town for a few days. Would you have a number for Mrs Rudge? I’m sorry, I don’t know her first name.’

I had summoned up the most American accent I could manage. I’ve found that the accent often causes people to decide I’m none too bright, and therefore not a threat. Mrs Strictly Business said, ‘Well, we don’t usually supply phone numbers unless we know the person requesting them, but in this case …’ She went to her computer, punched a few keys, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to me. ‘Here you are. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

There are friendly ways of saying that, and then there is the tone of voice that makes it less a question than a clear message: ‘Please leave.’

I thanked her profusely and obeyed.

On impulse, instead of going back to my car, I walked over to the church. Most English cathedrals, and other big churches, are open every day. Without a dean, though, I wasn’t sure if this one would be.

I was in luck. I slipped in through the south porch and walked around a bit. The cathedral was full of nooks and crannies. I explored every inch of it, hearing my own footsteps echo off the stone floor. Nave. Aisles. Chancel. Choir stalls. Organ and surroundings. Vestry. Side chapels.

There was not another living soul in the church, unless one counted a spider that scuttled away when I approached a window. (And a good thing it did, for both our sakes.)

As soon as I got back to Lynncroft, I hunted up Mrs Stevens. She was in the kitchen.

‘Mrs Stevens, I need some advice. I want to take a new friend to tea, someone I met when I was here before, but I don’t know where to go. I’ve been in a couple of cafés in town, and they were both pretty dire.’

‘Have her come here, of course! Unless you’d rather go to a tea room, but I don’t know one I could recommend for a really slap-up tea, except the Chelton Arms, and it’s quite pricey.’

‘Oh, I was hoping you’d say that! If it’s a bother, though—’

‘Nonsense. I love cooking for people, and, as it happens, I’ve a cake I made just because I wanted to, so if that and sandwiches will do – oh, and scones, of course – I’ve still some strawberry jam left from last year—’

I held up a hand and laughed. ‘That sounds like the best tea I could possibly imagine. I’ll phone Mrs Rudge and ask—’