Sins Out of School (9 page)

I took the hint and got straight to the point.

“Mrs. Beecham, we don't really know each other, but I'm going to trust you with something important. As far as I can see, you really are the only friend Mrs. Doyle has. I hope you'll believe that I want to be her friend, too. And I hope you'll understand my motives when I ask you if you've noticed something very odd about her attitude toward Miriam.”

Mrs. Beecham, who had been fidgeting with pad and pencil, became suddenly still. “Odd how?”

“So you
have
seen it. You think, don't you, that she suspects Miriam of killing Mr. Doyle?”

After a pause she said, “You're very—direct, aren't you?”

“When polite fictions are inappropriate, yes, I am. I believe you're the same.”

“Sometimes.” She stood up suddenly. “Would you like some tea? I've just given up cigarettes, and I'm dying for one. Tea would help.”

Seated again with a pot steeping on the table, she opened up. “Yes, you're right. I don't know how you saw it, not knowing Amanda, but I could tell right away that something was wrong, and when I saw the way she looked at Miriam—”

“That's it, you see. The look. I wouldn't have noticed anything if it hadn't been for that look. Of course it came after Miriam had said some extraordinary things about her father, how wicked he was, and that he had deserved to be killed.”

“She didn't do it!”

“We don't know that, do we? Even her mother thinks she did, or might have.”

Mrs. Beecham put down her teacup and looked at me, hard, for about five seconds—which is a long time to be under scrutiny. “I've been talking to people about you,” she said slowly. “You've rather made murder your hobby, haven't you? And you're Alan Nesbitt's wife.”

“A few crimes have come my way, yes,” I said in a voice I had to work hard to keep steady. “And yes, I am married to a retired policeman. I don't know that I would call murder my hobby, precisely. And you might be interested to know that I have told neither my husband nor anyone else what I believe Mrs. Doyle suspects. I came here hoping we could talk about what's best to do for both Mrs. Doyle and Miriam. If you don't want to trust me, I'll go away and we'll both forget this conversation ever took place. But I'd much rather have your help.”

Our eyes met and held for a long beat. Then she shrugged. “Very well. I suppose it can't do any harm. If Amanda keeps on shying like a startled colt every time Miriam makes remarks, the police will catch on soon, anyway.”

“Exactly! Just what I thought. Now, look, Mrs. Beecham—”

“If we're to be conspirators, or accessories after the fact, or whatever, you might as well call me Ruth,” she said with the ghost of a smile.

“Good. And I'm Dorothy. What I was going to say was, what are the chances of Miriam going away for a while? It would calm Mrs. Doyle down and defuse the situation. Surely there must be
some
family she could go to, somewhere.”

“I suppose there must, except Amanda never talks about them. Let me think, though. She mentioned a sister once, in—Canterbury, was it? If I remember properly, the sister wasn't quite as off-putting as the rest of her people.”

“I don't suppose you remember her name?”

“Lord, no. I may even be wrong about the whole thing.”

“Would Mrs. Doyle tell you?”

“You might as well stick to Amanda. She hates being called Doyle. I think she's planning to go back to her maiden name. As for telling me the name of the sister—I don't know. She's stubborn, you know.”

“She's also extremely frightened, for her daughter and perhaps for herself as well. Could you convince her that Miriam would be much better off away from her for a while?”

Ruth groaned. “I don't even know if Miriam could be persuaded to go. They've always been close, she and her mother, but now! They cling. Miriam isn't going to school, even. That'll come to a screeching halt soon; the authorities will see to it.”

“That reminds me. Did you know that Miriam had been enrolled at St. Stephen's as of the beginning of next term? I heard Amanda talking about it to the school secretary.”

“She told me. Quite calmly, too, as if she hadn't had major battles with John for years about that chapel school. Then one day she just coolly puts Miriam down for St. Stephen's. I don't know how she got the nerve.”

I sighed. “That doesn't look good, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“She defies her husband's wishes, which she's never had the courage to do before. A day or two later he's dead. It doesn't take too much imagination to believe that she knew he was going to be dead.”

Ruth winced. “You're a frightening person, Dorothy Martin. God, I wish I had a cigarette!”

I picked up my purse and rummaged in it. “Here, have a chocolate bar instead. Chocolate makes you produce a lot of that feel-good stuff, what do they call it? Endorphins, that's it.”

“And puts on pounds and pounds.” She reached out a hand.

“But to return to the subject—I do believe that somehow we've got to get Miriam out of town. I can try to approach Amanda, but you'd be much more likely to get results. Tell her we know what she suspects, if you have to. If that won't scare her into action, I don't know what will.”

Ruth swallowed a large bite of chocolate. “Okay, I'll try. If I can't manage it by myself, I'll call you in for reinforcement. You can be a very persuasive lady.” Her eyes strayed for a moment to her shopping list.

“All right. I said half an hour and I've been here an hour
and
given you extra work to do. I'll let you get on with your day if you'll tell me one more thing. Did Amanda ever tell you why she didn't show up to teach that day?”

“Not a word. I tried and tried to get it out of her, but she just kept on saying it was necessary and she was sorry to have been a nuisance.”

“All right, once you've worked on her about Miriam, I'll tackle her about her absence without leave. I was the injured party, after all. Maybe I can play on her guilt.”

I left then, but as I drove off I wished I hadn't used that particular word.

I also wished I had thought to ask where Amanda had been married. The record of that marriage would give her maiden name. That would be useful in tracing her family if she proved obdurate with Ruth.

Or perhaps—of course! How could I have forgotten? The very best source for information of any kind about anyone in town lived next door to me. I'd go and talk to Jane!

I went home, made lunch for Alan (whose mind, perhaps fortunately, was still on his book), petted two sleepy cats, and then set out across the backyard. Jane and I have been on a drop-in basis for years now.

Jane was washing her luncheon dishes, and her dogs, fortunately, were sleeping off their midday meal. Jane adores her bulldogs, whom she rather resembles, and spoils them. They're nice enough beasts, but there are a good many of them and they're pretty boisterous. Their welcomes can be overwhelming, especially to someone used to the restrained affection of cats.

Jane greeted me with raised eyebrows and a proffered coffeepot. “No, thanks,” I said, and sat down. I've often wondered why Jane uses words as though there were a tax on every one she utters. But that's Jane, and I've gotten used to her style by now.

She poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. “Doyle?”

“Doyle. I seem to have gotten myself embroiled in the affair.”

“Never thought you'd leave it alone. Here to pick my brains?”

“Something like that. What do you know about him, for a start?”

She snorted. It was eloquent, expressing every derogatory adjective in the thesaurus in one explosive sound.

“Well, I'd gotten that impression from other people, but can you give me any specifics?”

Forced into speech, Jane amplified. “Self-righteous prig. Bible-thumper. Killjoy. All-round troublemaker.”

“I've heard he made some enemies along the way.”

She snorted again. “Everyone he met, except those masterpieces at the chapel. All cut from the same cloth, that lot.”

“But, Jane, it's one thing to be universally hated, and it's another to have enemies, real enemies. Did he make anyone mad enough to kill him?”

“Wouldn't be surprised. Small feuds everywhere. Reported another clerk at the bank because he was a pound short at the end of the day, twice in a row. Boy lost his job because Doyle made such a fuss about it.”

“For
two pounds?
You've got to be kidding.”

“Would've been overlooked if Doyle hadn't made such a stink about no smoke without fire, that sort of thing. Made it look as if the boy'd taken a lot over time. Only a kid, not even twenty.”

“You knew him.”

Jane nodded. “Son of a pupil of mine. She—the mother—came to me. Nothing I could do. Sure you won't have coffee?”

“I think I need some to take the taste of that story out of my mouth.”

“Worse to come.” Jane put the kettle on and spooned coffee into the French
cafetière
. “Heard about the neighbor he turned over to the police?”

“Drug dealing or something, wasn't it?”

“Just the point. It wasn't.”

I raised my eyebrows. Two can play the game.

“Young man. Long hair, low-slung jeans, nose rings. Played in a band. Lived next to the Doyles. Not thought to be respectable.” The snort again. “Set great store by respectability, Doyle did. So he took to watching the boy.”

“How old was he? The young man, I mean.”

A shrug. “Eighteen, nineteen. Young wife, baby. Not much money. One night, some shady business. Parked cars, something changing hands. Doyle called police. Found money and marijuana in one of the cars, arrested everybody.”

The coffee was ready. Jane poured out cups for both of us before she went on.

“Boy'd been in trouble with the police before. Kept at the station for quite a while. Had just landed a job. Doyle told the boss he'd been arrested. Lost the job.” She sipped her coffee and continued, her voice no longer quite steady.

“Wife talked to me, weeks later. Said he'd been buying her a diamond ring that night. Never been able to afford it before. Thought it was maybe stolen, needed to be under the table. Marijuana belonged to other man.”

“But surely the boy was cleared of any drug charges?”

“He was. Too late. When he was sacked, went home and stuck his head in the oven.”

I
T
was a long time before I could ask any more questions, but there were questions to be asked. I blew my nose and cleared my throat. “Did Doyle ever apologize?”

“Not he. Seemed to feel he'd done the right thing, and the boy was to blame for being so wicked as to take his own life.”

I shuddered. “And the girl, and the baby?” There was a murder motive with bells on, I was thinking, for her or her family.

“Don't know. Left town. Went back to her parents, maybe. She was from the north somewhere.”

I sipped at the fresh coffee Jane had provided, a little brandy in it this time, and pondered how often murder victims seemed to earn their fate. If I had had any doubt before, I had now come around fully to Miriam's opinion. Her father
had
deserved to die.

Then I shook my head. Maybe he had, but that was not a decision for any individual to make. Murder is never justified, as unattractive, as downright villainous even, as the victim may be. Killing in self-defense, yes. Killing in combat, maybe. Execution? Well—maybe, sometimes, in cases of particularly heinous crimes when there is no doubt about the criminal's guilt.

But murder, never. So no matter how glad I was that John Doyle was dead, I felt I had to go on hunting for his murderer.

“So is that the worst?”

“That I know of,” said Jane.

“Did
anybody
like the man?”

“Big man at the chapel. Well respected there. Says something for the rest.”

“Indeed. I've met one of the denizens, the pastor's wife, and I must say I didn't care for her. But I think I need to talk to some more of them, little as the idea appeals to me. Do you know when they hold their services on a Sunday?”

“Never wanted to know.” Jane lowered her head and looked at me over the tops of her glasses. “In your place, I'd stay away. Those people are dangerous. Not just crazy. Dangerous.”

I was more shaken by her grammar than her words. When Jane uses a complete sentence, she is very serious indeed.

Nevertheless, the next morning I rose early and went to the first service at the Cathedral. I felt I needed some spiritual sustenance for my next chore of the day.

The early service has always been very moving for me. There is no music save the music of the lovely old words of the Eucharist. There are few tourists, few communicants at all, if it comes to that. The Cathedral is quiet and, in November, dim. One is free to give oneself up to the age-old words of faith and comfort.