Sins Out of School (31 page)

I
WAS,
I realized as the train pulled into Sherebury station, right back where I'd started. How could I prove any of this?

Oh, there was undoubtedly evidence out there. Some phone calls to the right people at the right TV stations might elicit the information that those Blake tapes had been supplied by Blake, not the station cameramen. Very sophisticated analysis of fibers and so on collected at the murder scene might match up with clothing, or hair, or whatever. There was always DNA, too. Blake would not, of course, have left any fingerprints. Unlike his repressed daughter, he lived in the real world and understood about forensics. He would have worn gloves. On a late November night, it was a normal thing to do.

He would have left something behind, and taken something away with him. That's the first rule of forensics, that a person cannot go to a place without leaving something—a hair, say, or a few flakes of dead skin, or a trace of shoe polish—and removing something, perhaps carpet fibers or a little dirt from a muddy patch on a path.

The evidence could be obtained, all right, but first the police had to look for it, and match it up. And there was the problem.

English police are, I believe, as incorruptible as any in the world. But that doesn't mean that they are not influenced by politics. Of course they are. When the government pays your wages and sets all the rules by which you operate, of course you're careful not to upset whoever represents “the government” in your particular bailiwick.

Anthony Blake was, of course, not the MP for Sherebury. But he was a powerful man, the leading Tory in Parliament.

How many policemen were willing to stick their necks out far enough to offend Anthony Blake? Oh, if they were certain he was guilty, most of them. I'd give them that. They wouldn't shield the guilty, not even if the guilty was a Royal. But launch an investigation on the strength of some unsupported allegations by an elderly American woman?

I didn't think so.

I took a taxi home, still pondering.

Alan greeted me with a kiss and made me a sandwich when I said I'd missed lunch again. After I'd changed into dry clothes, I settled down at the kitchen table to eat, while Alan had some coffee to keep me company.

“Was it worth it?” he asked.

“Well, I learned some things.” I detailed Gillian's information. “Oh, by the way, I was able to talk to Amanda for a few minutes, and I was right about the note. Amanda's part in it, I mean. You should have heard her tone of voice when she said she supposed she should have given it to the police.”

Alan groaned.

“Miriam's still not quite conscious, but she's getting there. According to Gillian, the doctors are pretty optimistic now.”

Alan made suitable noises.

I nibbled at my sandwich and then put it down, suddenly no longer hungry. “Alan, what am I going to do?”

He might have said, “About what?” He might have said, “Why do you have to do anything? Leave it to the police.”

Bless his heart, he simply shook his head.

“What's happening with the Rookwoods?” I asked after a while. “Has Derek told you anything?” I was hoping that, perhaps, after all …

He shook his head again and waved a dismissive hand. “They're in a good deal of trouble, of course. They kept two sets of books for the chapel, and one shows quite clearly how much money they'd been stealing over the years. They'll be charged with various kinds of fraud and so on, but not murder. They both have alibis for that Wednesday night. And before you start your speech about alibis being suspect, let me say that these are vouched for by their congregation for the early part of the evening, and later on by the staff of that dreary mission down by the river. It seems the Rookwoods went there directly after the prayer meeting and stayed until well after midnight, supposedly to minister to the homeless but really, the director says, to harangue them about their evil ways. They were most unpopular, and quite irrefutably there.

“They didn't do it, Dorothy. Much as I'd like to see them behind bars, they didn't commit murder, at least not the murder of John Doyle.”

“No.” I had already been sure, but it was so much the easier, less painful solution, and hope is not easily defeated.

“He mustn't get away with it, Alan!” I burst out after another moody silence. “A man like that in high office—the damage he could do—”

“Yes. Something must be done.”

His tone jolted me out of my frustration. I stared at him.

“You won't like it,” he went on.

“Try me. I'll do anything.”

“It doesn't involve you. That's one reason that you won't like it.”

“For heaven's sake, Alan!”

“Very well. It's the old trick. I ring him up, tell him I know what he did, imply blackmail, arrange a meeting. I carry a microphone or a tape recorder. When he has incriminated himself, the police close in.”

Alan was right. I didn't like it, not one bit. Blake was a dangerous man, and I didn't want Alan in danger. If it was the only way, I argued, I wanted to be in on it. I wanted to be there to make sure Alan would be all right. “Besides, I want to see that smarmy smile wiped off his face. I admit it.”

“Dorothy,” said Alan wearily, “if the positions were reversed, what would you say? How much do you like it when I try to keep you from walking into danger?”

“Oh.”

There were a lot of angry answers to that: But this is completely different, I've never put myself in real danger, that isn't the only reason I want to be there. Et cetera.

There was only one honest answer. “I don't like it at all. And it's been a long time since you've done that, even though I know you've wanted to. So I won't try to stop you, and I won't pretend I'd be of any use in protecting you. Who am I kidding? At my age, in my sort of shape, with arthritis and too much weight—no, I couldn't exactly be Superwoman to the rescue.”

He smiled and took my hand.

“But.”

He stopped smiling.

“I still want to be there, for another reason. I think I should be the one to make the phone call, and therefore I should be the one he sees first when he comes to wherever we meet. He knows me, Alan, and he knows I've been poking around in this. I'm the logical one to have found out something. He doesn't know you, except as my husband. Let me make the call. Then you can come with me, and I can say you insisted. I'll fade into the woodwork whenever you say the word, but I should be there.”

We argued about it, of course. I had to admit that I had ulterior motives as well. I'd been in on this from the beginning; I wanted to see it through. I also had the nasty longing to see Blake toppled from his pedestal. I even admitted my worry about Alan and my desire to be wherever he might possibly get into trouble.

He conceded, finally. “
If
Derek agrees, Dorothy.
And
the chief. This is a highly irregular procedure we're proposing, and it has to have everyone's approval from the top down, or we may find ourselves without a case to take to court. And you must do exactly as you're told when the time comes. You have to remember that we are trained to meet dangerous situations and you are not.”

I promised. I would have promised to stand on my head if he'd asked, now that I had won my point.

Alan began the process with a long phone call to Derek, to which I was not privy. I imagined them exchanging male commiseration about stubborn women. I didn't care what they said, as long as Derek agreed in the end.

He did, of course. Alan had been his boss for a long time. Derek also, somehow, managed to gain the approval of his bosses all the way up to the chief constable.

It all took time. It would have taken more time but for Alan's quiet insistence on all possible speed. Both of us seemed infected by a curious notion that events were moving fast, that delay could be disastrous. “He's killed once and tried to kill again,” I kept thinking, and often saying out loud. I didn't know what was coming next, only that it had to be averted.

It was evening, and we had eaten a sketchy supper, when the call finally came. I beat Alan to the phone, but turned on the speaker so Alan could hear, too.

“Derek here, Dorothy. It's been arranged. I had rather a tough time with the chief, but seeing as it's you and Alan, he finally agreed. To tell the truth, he doesn't believe a word of the accusation, but he's authorized the use of the microphone, and allowed me one man.”

“One man! But—”

“Besides me, that is. I'm on my own time, and a few other officers who know enough about you to believe in your story are willing to join me. Don't worry about that part of it. There will be enough of us. All concerned made one point, however, and it's this. When you ring the bloke to arrange the meeting, make it as soon as possible. We want to give him very little time to make any little arrangements of his own.”

“Yes, I can see that. Alan and I have been talking about where to meet. Do you have any ideas about that?”

“Yes. You want a place that seems private but actually affords hiding places for our men. The Cathedral Close comes to mind. Spacious, open, but surrounded by buildings. After dark it has all the privacy anyone could want, but we'll be watching from the shops, and houses, and of course the Cathedral itself, and remember that we'll hear every word you say, just as long as you stay inside the Close. The equipment has the range for that, but not a lot more.”

“What if he wants to meet some other place?”

“You'll insist, and you'll have the upper hand. He'll think you're trying to blackmail him, remember. He'll know you can always simply not show up if it doesn't suit you. He'll try to negotiate, of course, but stand your ground.”

“I can do that. Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, call him in late afternoon, as late as you think you can still reach him, and make it for, say, seven o'clock. It'll be good and dark by then, and there won't be many people about. And let us know as soon as you're set.”

With a distinctly fluttery feeling somewhere inside, I agreed and hung up.

I
WAS
very nervous as I walked out of my door and through the gate into the Close at seven o'clock the next evening. The Cathedral clock was chiming the hour in reassuring fashion, and Alan was only a step or two behind me, but still I was nervous.

No. I was scared.

The phone call to Blake, that afternoon, had been simpler than I'd feared it would be. English MPs are more accessible than their American Congressional counterparts. They don't have a huge staff, and they have a tradition of responsibility to their constituency.

I'd felt wildly melodramatic speaking my piece, once I'd reached him. I tried not to let my voice shake as I said, “I know what you did, and I'll tell the police unless you make it worth my while.”

There was a pause. Then, “I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, but perhaps we'd best sort it out. What do you want?”

“Oh, no. Not on the phone. Meet me tonight.”

We'd set the time and place. He'd protested, as expected, but I played tough and he finally agreed. Derek had already been to the house to wire me for sound.

“Are you sure this thing is working?” I asked Alan now in an anxious undertone.

“Thoroughly checked out this afternoon,” he murmured. “Fresh batteries and all. But if you want to be absolutely certain, just ask Derek to step outside for a moment. He's in the Rose and Crown.”

“Derek,” I whispered, “could you come out? There's no problem, I'm just—uh—testing the equipment.”

On the opposite side of the Close, the door of the pub opened, spilling light out onto the cobblestoned pathway. A man stepped out, looked at his watch, looked to left and right, made an annoyed little gesture and stepped back in again.

“Picture of a man who's been stood up,” said Alan next to my ear. “Derek has always been good at amateur theatricals.”

“Very reassuring,” I whispered back, and then we were too near our meeting place to talk anymore.

I had chosen a stone bench very near the center of the Close. It was right out in the open, with no shrubbery or trees or buildings anywhere near. I would ordinarily not have chosen to spend any time in such a spot on a damp, chilly December evening, but it had all the privacy Anthony Blake's heart could desire. He wasn't there yet, however, so Alan and I sat down to wait.

The stone was very cold. I could feel the cold seeping right through my coat and my slacks, into my flesh, to my very bones. It met the cold fear that lay deep inside me. Maybe I would freeze there into an ice statue and never move again. I would become a monument, a statue of a martyr, and they would put up a bronze plaque, and after a year no one would remember who I was or what I'd done …

“He's late,” said Alan, quietly cross.