Sins Out of School (7 page)

Mrs. Doyle looked down at Miriam, but not before I got a good look at the mother's face. All the blood seemed to have drained from it, and her eyes held the hunted look of sheer, stark terror.

I
MUTTERED
something about being sorry I had intruded and got out of there as fast as I could. Driving heedlessly, my knuckles white on the wheel, my mind racing, I found myself presently in a cul-de-sac somewhere in some development. I pulled up to a curb, turned off the ignition, and sat there shaking for a while.

I could not accept what I had seen back there in the Doyles' kitchen. It was impossible. Surely I was mistaken.

Did Mrs. Doyle really think Miriam had killed her father?

Think? Or know?

Miriam. Polite little Miriam, product of a strict Christian home and a strict Christian school. Miriam who thought cats were dirty and anything pretty was “vanity.” Miriam who rejected her father but appeared to embrace his cold, harsh religion. Miriam who hated her father and thought him so wicked he deserved to die.

Could that child have killed that man?

Well, of course she could. Children did kill, sometimes spectacularly. There had been a famous case in England not so long ago, two boys who had killed a girl, apparently simply for kicks. As I recalled, they hadn't been much older than Miriam.

But those children were mentally and emotionally disturbed.

It was easy to see that after the fact, wasn't it? And who was to say that Miriam wasn't disturbed? She'd certainly been brought up oddly enough to disturb the balance of anyone's mind.

Could she have stabbed a full-grown man? I wondered how sharp the knife was, and then was struck with horror that I would even think about it. Anyway, Doyle had, perhaps, not been killed with the knife. It would be easy enough, one would think, for someone to stab a dead or dying man. It wouldn't take much strength. Even a child …

Nauseated, I pushed the picture out of my mind.

However sickening the image, though, I forced myself to consider the idea. Not the details, but the broad outline.

Doyle has been to a meeting at the church. What sort of meeting? Would that be what they called their services? Well, no. A worship service would hardly go on until after midnight, would it? Or would it?

Well, let it pass for now. He's been to a meeting. He comes home and lets himself in with his key. Maybe he's in a bad mood—not an unlikely supposition. He doesn't bother to be quiet, and he wakes Miriam, who is a light sleeper, according to her mother.

Then what? They quarrel? He scolds her for something, probably for being up at that hour, even though it's his fault. He rouses such childish rage and resentment that she takes a knife and …

No. He was probably killed some other way, remember. And it's hard to imagine Miriam, such a controlled child, in a rage. No, she takes everything he has to dish out, all the cold verbal abuse, all the sadistic torture a harsh parent can inflict on a helpless child. But this child has decided she isn't helpless. She makes him some tea and puts in some …

Some what? What does a child know of poisons?

A child with intelligent parents knows a lot about them. There's poison aplenty in every household, and children must be taught caution. Something common, more or less tasteless—anyway, she finds something and puts it in his tea, and waits.

It would have to be something without violent symptoms, no vomiting or … no, I don't know that, do I? Mama cleaned up the kitchen the next morning, don't forget. Still, it would be hard to clean all traces of vomit off the victim's clothing, and the police didn't mention finding any.

At any rate, she waits. When her father is dead, she arranges him nicely on the floor and stabs him.

And then goes quietly off to bed to leave her mother to discover him in the morning?

The fact was, I thought, sitting back with a sigh, that I didn't know one single thing about what had gone on. The mother could have been in on it, but then why that look of horror on her face? Well, let that go for the moment. Suppose she was involved. Together they could have cleaned up the scene and waited for morning to call the police. Everything Mrs. Doyle said could have been a lie. And as for Miriam, a child suffering under harsh, unreasonable discipline often learns to lie almost as a matter of course.

Miriam hadn't actually said much, had she? Silence can be the most effective lie of all, if one has the poise to carry it off. And Miriam had plenty of poise, and plenty of intelligence.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh. I was constructing an elaborate hypothesis on the basis of nothing more than a few words and a terrified expression on a face. But I was ready to swear that Amanda Doyle believed her daughter guilty of murder.

What was I going to do about it?

I started the car and slowly picked my way through the maze of streets, heading uphill whenever I had a choice, until I came to an overlook where I could see the city spread out at my feet. Then it was easy enough to use the Cathedral spire as a homing beacon.

I didn't go home, though. Not just yet. I drove down the hill, found a space in a car park near the Cathedral, and walked across the Close. I needed more time to think, and I can think better in the Cathedral than anyplace else.

The chimes in the tower struck a quarter to three as I entered the church by the south door. The late November afternoon was wearing on, and clouds were gathering. The more remote areas of the Cathedral were dim, though the choir stalls were lit; Evensong was about to begin. I heard a murmur of voices as the choir and clergy assembled. I didn't join them. Just now I wanted to deal with my anxiety in my own way. I dropped into a pew toward the back of the nave, behind a pillar where the vergers wouldn't easily spot me, and thought it out.

I had three options, I realized when my emotions had calmed enough that my reason could operate. I could do nothing at all. I could take my suspicions to the police and let them deal with the horrible possibilities. Or I could keep quiet and look into the matter myself.

I hated all three options.

How could I leave it alone? That clichéd idea about evil prevailing when “good men do nothing”—well, it got to be a cliché because it's so true. I've never been the “I don't want to get involved” sort.

The police. If I talked to them, they would take me seriously. I was, after all, the wife of the former chief constable. They would talk to Miriam, perhaps bring her in for questioning. They would take her fingerprints and ask her if she wanted legal representation. They would do it all with exquisite courtesy and the utmost regard for her tender age, and it would all be pure hell for her.

And if they found likelihood of her guilt, there would be a hearing and a trial and then—then, what? What did they do with juvenile murderers in England? Prison of some sort? An “approved school”?

And if she were not guilty, what then? What of the suspicion that would cling forever? What of the nightmare memories?

How could I set in motion such a juggernaut train of action?

Up beyond the choir screen, the boys' voices soared in that angelic sound that is the epitome of English church music. I couldn't hear the words and didn't know the tune. They were just children singing.

Did Miriam sing? Would she ever sing again?

I often found peace in the Cathedral, but this time it eluded me. I slipped out before Evensong was over and made my way drearily back to my car with a sense of duty hanging heavy over my head.

Almost four o'clock. Ruth Beecham would probably have left school. She might be at home, unless she had gone over to comfort the Doyles. Of course I didn't have her address. I drove to St. Stephen's, caught the secretary just as she was leaving, and persuaded her to go back inside and get me Mrs. Beecham's address. She was snippy about it, as she had every right to be. This seemed to be my day for offending people.

This time I found the house with no trouble. Mrs. Beecham lived at one end of the High Street in a charming Georgian house. She, too, was just coming out the door when I pulled up in front.

“Oh! It's you. I'm sorry, I'm just going to pop over to Amanda's and see what I can do for her.”

“I just left there. Well, a little while ago. She told me she didn't need any help, but of course she doesn't know me.”

“No, and she values her privacy. I'm sure you can understand, especially at a time like this.”

“Yes, and I'm afraid I was a little pushy. I can't blame her for being annoyed with me. But I do know she needs milk, and her neighbors didn't seem to be exactly rallying 'round.”

“No, they wouldn't. I do want to push off, so—”

“Yes, but can you tell me one thing, first? What family does Mrs. Doyle have?”

“None, for all practical purposes. They don't like her, or they didn't like him, or something. She didn't talk about it much, just said there were no ties anymore.” She opened the door of a car at the curb.

“One more thing, then. What's the name of the church Mr. Doyle attended?”

“Oh, Lord, something outlandish. Let me think. No, the name's gone, but I know where the place is. A horrid, dingy pile of brown brick near the university. Left at the big roundabout and then the second right; Thomas Street, it is.”

“Thank you, I'll find it. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

But she stood there, car keys in hand. “Why d'you want to know?”

I might have known she'd ask. Fortunately I had a reasonable answer. “I want to give them a piece of my mind for not doing anything to help the Doyles at a time like this!”

“Now there's a thought! Give them a piece of mine while you're there.” She waved, got in the car, and drove off.

By this time it was nearly five. I wondered what sort of hours a nonconformist church secretary kept. In fact, I wondered if they even had a secretary. I really knew nothing about any churches in Sherebury except the Anglican ones (or Episcopal, as we would say in America). Some were large and prosperous and stayed open all day, with staff in evidence. Some were tiny and poor and were kept locked, with no one in evidence except during services.

Well, in America the fundamentalist sects were the same way; some small, some big and very rich. I supposed it might be the same here. At any rate it wouldn't hurt to try, and I thought I could get there without too many wrong turns.

I spotted the building, in fact, halfway down the street. It was easily the biggest one around, and the ugliest. It looked like 1920s vintage, and not a good year. I can't imagine what its original purpose was, but it was now clearly, indeed gaudily, identified as the
CHAPEL OF THE ONE TRUE GOD
. Two large, lighted signs, one on the roof and one over the front door, informed the world of the name, incidentally implying that if they worshiped elsewhere, they were misguided.

There was, of course, no place to park, but I squeezed the car into a half space at the front of a row, only partially on the double yellow line that indicated no parking. I probably wouldn't be long, and surely the police had better things to do than seek out parking misdemeanors.

I wasn't sure why I had felt obliged to come here. I wouldn't like these people, and they certainly wouldn't like me. And what might they have to tell me that could possibly advance my unpleasant quest?

Maybe nothing, but if all else failed, I could do as I'd told Mrs. Beecham I would. That at least would be satisfying.

The front door was unlocked. Trying to look braver than I felt, I pushed it open and went inside.

I
NSIDE,
the place fully justified my expectations. Whoever had planned and executed the interior design had subscribed zealously to the creed that beauty was sinful. There was a small entrance hall, paneled in dark, narrow boards that made the space seem even smaller. A dangling lightbulb emitted about fifteen watts of illumination. There was no sound of human occupancy, but a coat hung from one of the bent, rusty hooks that, together with a tract rack, were the sole adornments of the walls. Maybe somebody was around, after all.