Sins Out of School (26 page)

“Of course not. I wouldn't expect you to. The police will be asking, anyway, and I don't need to know. It was about the chapel, though? I should tell you that the police have discovered the irregularities for themselves, and have taken the chapel authorities in for questioning.”

“In that case, I can say that yes, it was about the chapel. I will not tell you what advice I gave him.”

“No. Can you tell me what he did after he left you? I wondered if he perhaps visited Mr. Blake.”

“Since that does not fall within the sphere of my professional relationship with Mr. Doyle, I can say that I believe such was his intent. I have no idea whether he was successful. Mr. Blake is a very busy man and was, that day, preparing an important position paper. You may have seen him discussing it on television a night or two later. He had very little time to spare.”

“I see. I don't suppose there's the slightest chance I could talk to Mr. Blake for just a moment and ask him.”

“Not the slightest, I'm afraid. As there are no important divisions expected in the House in the next few days, he has been in Edinburgh since Sunday, and then he travels to Washington to confer with some of your more prominent conservative leaders.”

She'd even identified my accent under the English accretions of the last few years. A formidable woman, indeed. “Actually, I'm English now, by virtue of marriage. I understand I may one day have the pleasure of voting for Mr. Blake as prime minister?”

“No, Mrs. Martin. You're confusing English elections with American ones. Here we do not vote for prime ministers. We vote in a general election for members of Parliament, and the majority party then selects its leader, who becomes prime minister. It is certainly possible, one day, that … but I mustn't speculate.”

Well, I was allowed one slight pretence of ignorance, wasn't I? I find it never hurts to have one's intelligence underestimated. And people do so enjoy explaining things to ignorant foreigners.

“Yes, of course. I had forgotten.”

She looked at her watch and pulled a slim appointment book from a side pocket of her slim designer handbag, dislodging a few pieces of paper as she did so. I helped her retrieve them. “Thank you. I loathe carrying large bags, but I'm afraid this one never has quite enough room for all the impedimenta one collects.”

“Mine either. I clean out my purse every day or two, and it's amazing the amount of junk I find.”

She consulted the book. “I'm afraid, Mrs. Martin, that I have an appointment.”

I stood. “I asked you for five minutes, Ms. Thompson, and you've given me seven. You've been very gracious, and I thank you. And I wish you the best in your own political career.”

She simply smiled. I suppose she was as used to that assumption as to comments about her beauty.

I thought about taking the Underground back to Victoria. The nearest tube station wasn't far away, just across Parliament Square, right where Big Ben could look down on it. But the chill rain that had threatened for some time was now falling, and I'd left home in too much of a hurry to remember my umbrella. I hailed a taxi. It took longer, with rush-hour traffic building by the minute, but I was in no hurry. I didn't even mind missing a train by five minutes. Victoria Station is well equipped with shops and restaurants. I sat sipping cappuccino and eating an almond croissant that I didn't in the least need, and watching the world go by.

I hadn't, I mused as my train finally pulled out of the station and began humming and clicking its way back home, actually learned very much. I had confirmed part of what I suspected, that was all. I had also prepared Ms. Thompson for the arrival of the police, which they might not appreciate, but she was not a person who would be easy to catch off guard in any case. It might be useful to Derek to know where Anthony Blake was, though. Derek and his minions would certainly want to talk to the man.

I had completely forgotten that my cell phone was turned on, so it was startling to hear my purse buzz. I found the phone, right at the bottom, and answered it just in time. It was Alan, of course, the only person who knew the number.

“Where are you, Dorothy?”

“You sound upset. I'm on my way home—are you still there?”

The train had gone through a tunnel and severed the connection. I waited and the phone buzzed again.

“I'm on the train,” I said hastily before another tunnel interfered. “About half an hour away.”

“Good, because there's been a development. Rather a serious one, I'm afraid. The Doyles have been involved in …”

The signal broke up and disappeared again. I waited, and then tried to call Alan, but nothing happened. I looked at the phone closely then and realized the battery had died.

So I had to wait until I reached home to learn that Amanda and Miriam, and Gillian, too, had been in an automobile accident.

“Where? How? How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. Gillian was driving, and she's not so badly hurt. A few broken bones, a good deal of pain, but nothing that won't heal given time. Amanda has a concussion and is still unconscious, and Miriam—”

Alan hesitated.

“Alan, no!”

“She's alive, Dorothy. Only just. Injuries to the head, the spinal cord, multiple internal injuries. They can't even assess all the damage until she's stabilized. If she survives, she may be brain damaged, or paralyzed. Sit down, love. Here.”

He handed me a cup of tea. “I don't want it.”

“Drink it.”

I took an unwilling sip. It was very strong and very sweet and laced with brandy or whiskey or something. “But how did it happen? And where were they?”

“Brentford, near Kew. Drink your tea.”

“So they'd gone to stay with Gillian after all.”

“Perhaps. More likely with a friend who could be counted on not to talk. Derek will ask Gillian, of course, as soon as the doctors will let her be talked to. As to what happened—” Alan held up both hands. “Anybody's guess. Gillian lost control of the car, somehow, on a busy double roundabout at the edge of Brentford. It happened just an hour or so ago, so the traffic was heavy. By some miracle no one else was hurt. She ran the car, at high speed, into the wall of an abandoned brewery by the side of the road. Accident, suicide attempt—”

“No. Not suicide. She isn't the type, and anyway, she'd never, never endanger Amanda and Miriam.”

“I meant,” he said gently, “suicide on Amanda's part. It's easy for a passenger to snatch a steering wheel, and at the speed Gillian drives …”

I shook my head. “Not with Miriam in the car.”

“What sort of life do you think Miriam would have with her mother in prison for murdering her father? And don't you suppose Amanda might have thought of that?”

I put down the tea. “She didn't do it, Alan. She didn't murder John, and she didn't cause this accident. It was probably just that, an accident. Weren't there witnesses?”

“Well … there were lots of other people there, but you know what roundabouts are, especially at rush hour. No one's paying attention to anything but getting through the thing as fast as possible. Once they heard the crash, it was too late to see what caused it. And face it, Dorothy. Human nature being what it is, most of them would simply drive on anyway.”

“Except,” I said, feeling ill, “for the ones who would stop and stare at the carnage.”

“As you say.” He sighed heavily. “Derek's people are busy interviewing the drivers who did stop, and a few passers-by. They'll get about as much out of it as they usually do. A mass of vague, contradictory reports that will have to be sifted through as carefully as though every one of them contained nuggets of gold. And at the end of the day, who knows? Maybe something, maybe nothing at all.”

“But Gillian isn't badly hurt. She'll be able to say what happened.”

“You know better than that, Dorothy. She may remember a bit, but even then, her evidence isn't to be relied upon. Were you ever involved in an accident?”

“Once, when I was very young, twenty-one or so. It was a one-car accident, like this one, only fortunately not serious. I was visiting my California sister and lost control of the car on a freeway.”

“Did you remember afterward exactly what had happened?”

“Not very clearly,” I admitted. “I remember thinking someone was going to sideswipe me, and the next thing I knew I was stopped up against the median railing, headed in the wrong direction.”

“So you see.”

We were silent for a moment; then I began to cry. “Alan, she has to be all right. She has to be!”

He didn't ask who I meant. He just stood next to my chair and held my hand.

W
E
waited all that evening for word. We watched the news on television, both early and late. The reports gave fewer details than we already knew, along with pictures we turned away from as soon as they appeared on the screen.

On both broadcasts, the accident gave way to yet another sound bite by Anthony Blake against the familiar Big Ben background. I lost my temper.

“Alan, how
can
he! Here are both his daughters in the hospital, and his only grandchild fighting for her life, and he stands there and makes an inane political speech! He's the most egotistical, cold-hearted, self-righteous …” I ran out of adjectives.

“Bloody bastard,” Alan finished for me. Neither of us uses that kind of language much. It seemed appropriate to me.

We stayed up late, both hoping and fearing that the phone would ring. When it did, around midnight, Derek could report only negatives. No useful information from Gillian, no change in the condition of Amanda or Miriam. “That's good news in a way,” he said. He sounded exhausted. “The doctors half expected a rapid deterioration, especially in the case of the little girl. The fact that she's holding her own raises some hope.”

But not much. He didn't say it, but it was there in his voice. We thanked him and dragged ourselves up to bed.

“Alan, I've got to go see them,” I said, sitting on the bed and kicking off my shoes.

“First thing in the morning, I'll find out which hospital. I'll go with you; you won't want to face it alone. You do realize they probably won't let you actually see anyone but Gillian, not unless the other two are greatly improved.”

“I know.” Neither of us felt like speculating on the possibility of that near miracle.

I fell asleep, finally, curled up close to Alan's warm bulk. It wasn't quite as comforting as usual, but it helped.

I would gladly have caught the first train in the morning, but there was no sense in it. Visiting hours in English hospitals are, as a rule, strictly limited, and what would we do, hanging around London, waiting to be allowed in? So we slept, albeit fitfully, as long as we could, and then took our time over a breakfast neither of us felt much like eating.

“Derek will call if there's any change?” I asked.

“He promised he would.”

But there was no change by the time we had to leave for the station.

The train was late, of course, but no later than we had come to expect. “I wish I'd thought to stop by Amanda's house and pick up one of Miriam's toys,” I said when we were finally under way. I always think of these things when it's too late.

“My dear, you wouldn't have been able to get in. And I was rather under the impression that toys were frowned upon in that household. In any case, Miriam …”

He trailed off. There seemed to be a lot we didn't especially want to say. Why, I wondered bitterly, did we feel that not talking about Miriam's condition would make it any better?

We took a taxi to the hospital. It was a long ride from central London, nearly to Kew Gardens. I had expected a dark, dreary Victorian edifice, but the hospital was relatively modern. Sixties vintage concrete, now looking streaked and dirty and infinitely depressing, especially on a gray December day.

At least it was brighter inside than out. We sought a source of information. When we found it, what we learned wasn't good. No one's condition had changed materially. We would not be allowed to visit either Amanda or Miriam. “But how is she? Miriam? That poor little girl. Can't we even
see
her, if we promise not to talk or anything?”

But my passionate pleading had no effect on the adamant heart of the nursing sister. “Family only, I'm afraid, and that only for a few minutes. Of course we allowed her grandfather in this morning.”

“Her grandfather?” My mind wasn't working very well.

“Yes, he's Anthony Blake, you know. Ever such a nice man, for all he's so important. Not a bit condescending.”

“Anthony Blake came to visit Miriam?” I still couldn't twist my brain around the fact.

“And his daughters, of course. He was in a state, poor man, all of them being so badly hurt that way.”

“But I thought he was in Edinburgh, and going on to America after that.”