Sins Out of School (12 page)

“Dorothy. Do you remember the size of Arborfield Common?”

I did. It wasn't more than a hamlet, really. Perhaps fifty families lived there. It was stretching coincidence pretty thin to imagine that two unrelated families named Blake might live there. “An uncle, then, maybe? Even so, you'd hardly think Amanda would pretend they didn't exist. For one thing, they're very well-to-do, aren't they?”

“Rolling. One of the wealthiest families in the county, or so local gossip had it. The liberal press is forever bringing it up, as well. There must have been a quarrel between Amanda and her family for her to cut off all ties in that extraordinary way.”

“Let's see. They were married in April of—uh-oh! Alan, look at this.” I pointed to the date on the screen. “They were married about nine and a half years ago. And Miriam's nine years old. I don't know when her birthday is, but she's enrolling in St. Stephen's with the current crop of nine-year-olds, so she couldn't be just barely nine. So—”

Alan looked at me and pulled a wry face. “The old story, eh? The first baby can come any time, as the saying goes, though the rest require nine months. Well, so Miriam was conceived a little early. That's somewhat unfortunate, but hardly a reason, nowadays, for a father to cast his daughter into outer darkness. Unless … wait, I'm trying to remember … yes. Yes, I think so. Oh, Lord, that could be it.”

“What could be what?”

Alan sighed heavily. “Blake, my dear political ignoramus, rather goes in for causes, highly visible ones, you know. He campaigns on the hot issues of the day, the ones that can be guaranteed to generate more heat than light.”

“Yes, dear, and neither of us cares much for that sort of politics, but what does that have to do with—”

“Wait. A few years ago, and I'd have to do some digging to find out exactly how long, one of the hot issues was teenage pregnancy. Anthony Blake was loud and fervent in his insistence that sex education, and the distribution of condoms, and abortion, and so on, were anathema. Abstinence was the only doctrine to be preached, the only way to solve the problem. Furthermore, parents were to be held squarely responsible for the actions of their youngsters. Teenage pregnancy was, he said, and I think this is almost a quote, ‘a most flagrant example of the failure of parents to teach their children the proper standards.'”

“Oh, Lord,” I echoed Alan. “And if this was about the time Amanda got pregnant …”

“I'm almost sure it was. There was an election 'round then, if you recall.”

“I wasn't living in England then, but I'll take your word for it. So that's it, then.”

“Yes, I would say that was a pretty powerful reason for an ambitious politician to want his daughter's activities hushed up. Marry her off in a hurry and send her off to another part of the country.”

I nodded, but that wasn't what I was thinking, or not all of it.

It was also, I thought unwillingly, a pretty powerful weapon for John Doyle to use on Amanda, especially if he was not the father of the child—and I was willing to bet he wasn't. They'd had no more children, after all. They didn't, in fact, sleep together. That wasn't proof of anything, of course, but for the moment assume he wasn't Miriam's father. He had, however, married Amanda, for some reason. Maybe Daddy had sweetened the deal somehow. Anyway, he'd married her. And then, every time some disagreement had come up, it could easily have been “Do as I say, or I'll not only let the whole world know that you are an immoral woman”—yes, Doyle would have thought of it that way—”and probably an unfit mother, but I'll reveal who your father is and bring his success crashing down around his ears. And never forget it will be your fault!”

Alan, sometimes unfortunately, can often read my mind. It's that mobile face of mine, I suppose. “Dorothy,” he said gently, “you do realize I must tell Derek about this? Of course, he may already know. They'd do a background check as a matter of routine. He may have believed her when she said she had no family, so this information may not yet be in police hands, but it will be sooner or later. Sooner is better.”

“Why? What does it matter to the police who her father is? I only wanted to know to trace her sister, to know if there was a place Miriam could go to be out of all this.”

“It matters, as you very well know, because it provides further motive for Amanda Doyle to kill the man who knew about Miriam's illegitimacy.”

“Well, but—no, look, there could be another explanation. Miriam could be adopted! Maybe—maybe Amanda knew, for some reason, that she could never have children, and she wanted a baby right away—well, it
could
be,” I finished defensively. I was grasping at straws, and both of us knew it.

In reply Alan clicked the mouse a few more times, and the information appeared on the screen: Miriam Janet Doyle, born to Amanda Doyle (née Blake). The birth date was in July of the year the Doyles had been married. In April.

I sat back, defeated.

“Take heart, love. We're still a long way—that is, Derek is still a long way from accusing Amanda of murder. So far as I know, Derek hasn't traced the source of the digitalis. I don't know if he's been able to get at the man's medical records, even. The weekend makes things more difficult. But I agree that Miriam needs to be sent away, if at all possible, no matter what happens. Shall we look for the sister?”

That was reasonably easy. Alan found the page listing the birth dates of all the Blake children. In addition to Amanda, there was one brother and one sister, Gillian. She was two years older than Amanda. Next he checked for a marriage record for Gillian Blake. Knowing the county made it easier. He could find no record that she had ever married.

“So presumably there is a Gillian Blake living somewhere in England. That's a fairly easy search to do, in fact. Pity Blake is a common name, but Gillian isn't. Do we have an idea where?”

“Ruth Beecham said Canterbury, but she wasn't too sure.”

We tried Canterbury without success and then opened the search to any locality. We got lucky. There was only one Gillian Blake, at least only one that the search engine could find, and she lived in London. The screen obligingly provided her telephone number.

“Do you think, after all this trouble,” Alan asked, “that the sister will be of any help?”

“I have no idea,” I said drearily. “I'll call Ruth and see what she thinks. I just hope we can talk Amanda into the idea of sending Miriam away. That's at least half the problem. I can see why Amanda might not want Miriam to go to her parents, but maybe the sister would be all right.”

Alan stood. “Then you don't need me anymore. You mastered the telephone quite some time ago. But, love”—he hesitated—“you don't have to do this, you know. It's upsetting you, and you have no real connection with Miriam and her mother.”

“Just call it my penance.”

“For what?”

“All those uncharitable thoughts about John Doyle and his chapel buddies.” I gave him a peck on the cheek and picked up the phone.

Ruth wasn't home. I gave a passing thought to calling Amanda, but discarded the idea. She probably wouldn't answer the phone. Ruth had given me the impression that Amanda had barricaded herself away from all comers.

No, I was, I thought, justified in taking direct action.

Sunday evening. Usually a good time to catch people at home. Before I could think about it too much and lose my nerve, I dialed the number and waited.

She answered on the fifth ring, and she sounded cross. “Yes?”

“Um—is this Gillian Blake?”

“Oh, for God's sake! Not on a Sunday night!”

“I beg your pardon? I'm trying to reach Gillian Blake, but if I have the wrong number—”

“Look, whatever you're selling, I'm not interested and I'm busy!”

“
Wait!
Don't hang up! It's about your sister.”

There was a long pause. I could hear the snick of a lighter and a long drag on a cigarette. Finally, “Who is this and what do you want?”

“You don't know me. I live in Sherebury and I know your sister, Amanda Doyle. My name is Dorothy Martin, and I'm trying to help her.”

“Do you belong to that so-called church?”

“No. Look, Ms. Blake, you may have read in the papers about the trouble your sister is in.”

“I don't read the papers. What kind of trouble?”

I decided the only way to get through to her was to hit her between the eyes. “She's likely, very soon, to be accused of murder.”

A
NOTHER
pause. Another long inhalation. When Gillian Blake spoke again, her voice had changed. “Well, well, well. So she's finally had the guts to do it, has she?”

I said nothing.

“Listen, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are. You are telling me Amanda's murdered that bastard she married, aren't you?”

“I'm telling you no such thing. Yes, Mr. Doyle has been murdered, but not by Amanda. I'm convinced of that, but the police may have other ideas. I'd very much like to talk to you about the whole situation.”

“Who
are
you, anyway? You don't sound English. You're not a solicitor or something?”

“Certainly not! I'm American by birth, and I'm simply a friend—well, an acquaintance—of your sister. She
is
your sister, I take it?”

“She is. But why are my sister's affairs any of your business?”

“Strictly speaking, I suppose they're not,” I snapped, stung. “I suppose it's none of my business if a man gets murdered and his widow is totally unable to cope. I suppose it's none of my business if a child is foundering in a sea of misery and confusion. I suppose I ought to pass by on the other side and forget about the whole thing and get on with my life. Certainly Amanda has made it quite clear that she doesn't want my assistance. I'd have thought you might consider her problems your business, since she's your sister, but obviously I was mistaken.”

The temperature of my voice had been dropping steadily. For once, losing my temper seemed to help, because Ms. Blake's attitude changed.

“Okay, sorry, sorry. Look, I was busy when the phone rang, and I thought you were a telemarketer. We got off to a bad start. Let's begin again. Explain everything, including how you got into this and exactly what you think I can do about it.”

Explaining everything took some little time, even omitting Amanda's suspicion of Miriam. I told Gillian about Amanda's uncharacteristic behavior both before and after the murder, the manner of Doyle's death, and, finally, Miriam. “She's acting very oddly, I think. She didn't like her father much, I gather, but even so, a murder in the family must be a terrible shock, and she seems much too controlled, too—oh, I don't know. I don't really know her, of course. You'd be a better judge than I.”

“I have seen Miriam exactly once, Mrs.—Martin, is it? Amanda had to bring her to London for something, I forget what, dentist or school uniform or something. That was four or five years ago, and they popped in at the flat. They stayed for perhaps fifteen minutes. That is the sum total of the time I have spent with my only sister in the last nine years.”

“I see.” I sagged into my chair with the disappointment of it. “Then you wouldn't be interested in looking after Miriam for a while. I'm sorry I bothered you, but—”

“I didn't say that.” I heard another cigarette being lit and inhaled greedily. “My sister is the world's biggest fool, but she
is
my sister. P'raps it's time to show a little family solidarity. Are there decent roads to that godforsaken place?”

I resented the description of Sherebury, which I consider one of England's loveliest little towns. However, this probably wasn't the time to say so. “The roads are very good, actually. You take the A twenty-one out of London, and then—”

“Never mind. I can find it. Where do you live?”

“In Monkswell Street, the house at the end, right up against the wall of the Close. You can't miss it; it's Jacobean and all the rest are Georgian.”

“Sounds like something out of Trollope. Anthony or Joanna, take your pick. God help us! I'll be there in an hour.”

“But, Ms. Blake, it's after nine. It can wait until tomorrow—” I broke off. I was talking to a buzz.

I sighed and went upstairs to clear the junk out of my tiny spare bedroom.

There was a lot of junk. I had barely finished making the room habitable, and had gone downstairs to tell Alan we were expecting a visitor, when the doorbell rang.

“Good grief, she must have flown all the way from London!” The bell rang twice more on my way to the door.

I don't know exactly what I expected, but the woman who stood on my little porch, her finger extended to press the bell once again, wasn't it.

She wasn't actually tall, but she gave that impression, being so thin. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes deep sunk, and the black poncho she wore didn't do much to hide her long, skeletal, black-clad arms and legs. Her spiky black hair completed the impression of something between Cher and a rather elegant spider. The inevitable cigarette dangled from her lips, which now curved into a half smile.