Trouble in the Town Hall (11 page)

“I shouldn't have come without an appointment, I know, and I've been wasting your time. But I was hoping you might be able to help me with my house.” I gave him a brief version of my housing woes. “I know historic work isn't your specialty, but I'd hoped you might make an exception.”

Boris Karloff returned, forcefully. “Even though you've hired Herbert Benson to do your roof. And you thought I despised old buildings.”

I should have known—the Sherebury grapevine at work again. “I haven't hired him!” I said, stung. “He hasn't even looked at it yet. And I—I've tried everyone who—”

“Mrs. Martin, why are you here?” His voice could have etched glass, and it scared the truth out of me.

“I wanted to meet you.”

The eyebrows looked incredulous. I floundered on.

“I was next door, talking to Mr. Thorpe, and thought I'd see if you were in. I'm snooping, if you really want to know. It's about the Town Hall, you see.”

His jaw muscles tightened, and so did my nerves. I swallowed hard. “You can throw me out if you want to. You'd have a perfect right. But I think I have a right to ask questions, too. Not only did I find the body, but I'm worried about Clarice Pettifer. She's a friend, and she's extremely upset over the Town Hall murder. Do you think her husband had anything to do with it?”

He looked down at his desk for a very long moment, those big hands clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough, but taut. “I'm not the right person to ask about Archibald Pettifer, Mrs. Martin. If you've been speaking to Thorpe, you know I've no time for Pettifer, nor he for me. I'd be sorry to learn he was a murderer, but not entirely surprised. And now, if you'll excuse me, I am late for a meeting.”

He stood and opened the door, and if his tone was just short of rude, I could hardly blame him.

I made one last, feeble try.

“I don't suppose you'd have time to let me in the Town Hall on your way? I've lost an earring, and—”

“No.” The monosyllable was unequivocal, and uninformative. He nodded curtly as he showed me out the door and shut it firmly behind me.

And I'd learned nothing about a key, nothing about a motive. All the same, it hadn't been a total waste of time.

Those hands of his, those frightening hands, didn't quite match. The right one was bruised and swollen and scratched, all across the knuckles.

T
HE MINUTE I
got home, I put in a call to Alan.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Martin,” said his pleasant-voiced secretary. “Mr. Nesbitt is in London today, and I don't expect him back until quite late. May I give him a message?”

“No, that's all right. Or—you might just ask him to call me when he gets a chance. Nothing important.”

I felt as if my lollipop had been snatched away. Here I was with all sorts of lovely new ideas and no one to tell.

As I mulled over my information, though, it seemed to lose a lot of its vitality. Pettifer and Farrell had quarreled bitterly on the night of the death. Everyone at the Lord Mayor's meeting apparently possessed a key to the Town Hall, or had at one time (though Barbara Dean was still an unknown quantity). And Farrell's right hand was a bloody mess.

I grinned as I imagined Alan's response to that still (in England) very improper adjective. It was true enough, though, and my best piece of news—if the police didn't already know about it. Did I dare call Inspector Morrison and ask? Probably not. My unofficial position was too precarious. No, until Alan got back there was really nothing to do but mind my own business.

You could call on the Lord Mayor. Or how about your friend Mr. Pettfer? Since you're so determined to play girl detective.

If I must keep telling myself what to do, I thought bitterly, I do wish I could manage to keep from being so blasted sarcastic about it.

W
HEN I WOKE
up Thursday morning, I lay wondering why I felt pleased, and then remembered. My roof! Mr. Benson was coming to fix my roof! And maybe we could start on plans for the rest of the alterations.

“Well, girls,” I said to the cats after I finished breakfast, “we may actually know, soon, whether we're going to keep on living here. You don't want to move, do you?”

They lay blinking at me sleepily, each in her own patch of the sunshine that streamed in the windows. Summer was once more acting like summer, the sky a gorgeous blue with decorative little puffy clouds. Samantha was stretched out full-length on the window seat whose blue cushion went so well with her blue eyes. Esmeralda's green ones were mere slits that closed again as she snuggled luxuriously into the corner of the couch. No, they didn't want to move. Cats are territorial animals. And so am I.

I couldn't settle to anything with Mr. Benson coming. He hadn't said when he'd be there, and it was a perfect day for gardening, but the minute I got good and muddy, he'd turn up. I'd spent the preceding afternoon in a self-righteous fit of housecleaning, so the house was spic and span, and I'd promised myself no more sleuthing until I could consult Alan. So I fidgeted around, annoyed the cats, picked up a couple of books and put them down, and wrote two entirely unnecessary letters, growing more and more impatient.

Part of my agitation was due to a change in barometric pressure, I realized as I looked out the front window for the twentieth time. England's weather can change between breaths; those puffy little clouds I'd admired earlier were beginning to mass and build, and the temperature was dropping. A thunderstorm was coming before the day was out, and there would go a little more of my roof.

Mr. Benson and the rain arrived at almost the same moment, in midafternoon. A large, cheerful-looking man with a ruddy face that spoke of long hours in pubs, he was at the moment somewhat bedraggled. The rain was the cold, mean-spirited sort that veered with the wind from moment to moment, now flinging itself at the parlor windows, now beating against the front door and soaking the poor man thoroughly. As I let him in, a thunderclap followed a lightning flash so quickly that we both jumped, and Sam and Emmy streaked up the stairs.

“What the—?”

“Oh, sorry, just my cats. They're terrified of thunder. I'm
very
grateful to you for coming out in this weather, but goodness, you're wet! Would you like a towel?”

He peeled off his raincoat and dropped his umbrella into the stand. “No, no, not to worry. Not sweet enough to melt, am I, now?” A massive hand squeezed mine; I tried not to wince from the pressure of his rings. “Herbert Benson, at your service.” He smiled genially, patting his bright brown hair. Nature never made it that color, I thought with amusement. He was probably afraid the dye would rub off.

“Come and have some tea, then. The roof can wait a few more minutes, and I've laid a fire in the parlor.”

The storm increased in fury as we sat over cinnamon toast and tea (Mr. Benson's laced with a little bourbon to keep out the cold). He had excellent opportunity to observe the drafts eddying through my house. As the fire leapt and danced to the caprices of the wind, he waved a bit of toast toward the curtains rippling gaily at the closed windows.

“You could do with new windows, couldn't you?”

“I certainly could. Much as I love those tiny old diamond panes, they don't keep the weather out anymore. But new ones would have to look just like the old ones. This is a listed building, you see.”

He rolled his eyes skyward. “Oh, yes, endless regulations, and a positive prejudice against nice, weathertight, plastic windows. Can't be helped, but it's a pity, all the same. However. Shall we see if there's anything left of that roof of yours, eh?”

I led him to the upstairs hall, where generous new leaks had appeared. We spent a few minutes racing between kitchen and landing with most of my collection of pots and pans, the extent of my problem having made itself dramatically apparent.

When we'd taken care of the immediate emergency, Mr. Benson asked me to show him the attic access, and disappeared. I listened apprehensively to bumps and thumps for a good half hour before he climbed down, as dirty as a chimney sweep and almost as wet as if he'd been outside.

Once he'd cleaned up a bit and settled back in the parlor, Mr. Benson shook his head mournfully.

“Bad news, I'm afraid. You need a new roof, from the timbers out. Oh, ta, don't mind if I do—no, no, that's quite enough. There's no point in repairing it, the whole lot is going to go soon. Now, I can put down a tarpaulin for you as soon as the rain stops, and order in the tiles—”

“Slates,” I said. “You may not have had the chance to look when you came in—the rain started just then. But it's a slate roof. And of course—”

“—it must remain slate to please the nosy-parker authorities,” he finished, and sighed. “Cost you a packet, that will, take longer, too. Blasted nuisance, these regulations. But I'll keep a sharp eye on costs for you, Mrs. Martin. You may trust me for that.” He rose.

“Actually, it's my landlord who'll be paying for it, but I'm sure he'll appreciate your care. How soon do you think you could get me an estimate?”

“Now, don't you worry about a thing, my dear,” he said expansively. “I'll have it for you just as soon as the rain stops and I can get my men up top to measure. We'll do you a good job. And then we can take a look at those windows.”

“Yes, and the other things I want done as well. Mr. Benson, you've taken a load off my mind.”

We shook hands on it (carefully, on my part), and I spent the evening happily planning the details of my kitchen.

A
LAN CALLED JUST
as I was ready for bed.

“Sorry, did I wake you? I've been in town all day, but I've only just got back to the office and found your message, and I'm off again tomorrow for the next few days.”

“No, I'm glad you called, though it wasn't all that important.” The rain pattered against the windows cozily, and plinked into various pots and buckets, not so cozily. “I do have some news, though. I've found someone to work on my roof! And maybe draw up plans for the rest of the work as well.”

“That
is
good news, indeed!” His weary voice relaxed into warmth. “What shall we do to celebrate?”

“Come for dinner,” I said promptly. “We can roam all over the house and gloat about how nice it's going to be. When will you be back?”

“Late Sunday. Would Monday be convenient for you?”

“Fine. Sevenish—or whenever you can make it.”

“I'll put you on the schedule for seven on the dot as an unbreakable obligation,” he said firmly. “Rank ought to carry
some
privileges.”

I fell into a peaceful sleep despite the ragged percussion section still operating in the upstairs hall.

The next couple of days, however, were disappointing. On Friday I awoke to brilliant sunshine and went off to the bookshop confidently expecting to see a tarp on my roof when I got home. All morning I glanced out the window whenever I got a chance, which wasn't often. Clarice still wasn't back, and this time Mrs. Williamson hadn't been able to find a replacement, so I was left to cope alone with the crowds of tourists brought out by the beautiful weather.

There was still no tarp when I got home, so I called Benson and got his answering machine. It was nearly six when he called back, sounding harried.

“
So
sorry, Mrs. Martin. Three of my men didn't turn up for work today, and I was hard put to finish a job we had in hand. They're an unreliable lot, some of these local lads. But the weather is expected to hold fine now for a few days, and we'll be out straightaway on Monday morning. And I promise you, if it rains, I'll lay your tarpaulin myself!”

I had to be satisfied with that, and it was true that the weather stayed beautiful—which actually added to my troubles, since my weeds reacted to sun and warmth by growing several inches a day. The cats, for whatever reason, had a two-day attack of the crazies, that unexplainable burst of hyperactivity known and feared by cat owners everywhere. And to top it all off, Jane, who would have commiserated with me, was down with a summer cold.

So I made chicken soup, left it (by gruff command) on her back doorstep, and fretted alone. By Sunday I was more than ready for the calming influence of the Church.

Sherebury Cathedral is a marvel of late-medieval architecture, designed in the fifteenth century for but one purpose: to lift the spirit to God. Five hundred years later it still works its miracles. Even my worst moods can't stand up to the soaring arches of carved stone, the brilliant stained glass, the quiet but intense drama of the Eucharist, and some of the finest liturgical music in England. At the end of the service, feeling exalted, I joined the line for coffee and buns in the parish hall, still humming the last hymn under my breath.

“You sound cheerful, Dorothy.” Margaret Allenby, the dean's wife, stood at my elbow.

“I am—now. It hasn't been a very good week, but the service this morning was a great restorative.”

“I'll tell Kenneth, he'll be pleased. Are you really feeling yourself again, after such a frightful shock?”

Jungle drums again. “Oh, I'm fine. The one who worries me is Clarice Pettifer. I saw they were both in church this morning, but she looked like death—did you notice? White and shaking, and her eyes all red. She hasn't been to work at the bookshop since it happened, you know. I wonder if the dean should have someone call on her?”

“Call on whom?” The dean came up to us, beaming, a tray in his hands. “I saw you two languishing back there and fetched us all some sustenance. Shall we try to find a place to sit?”

The parish hall has been adapted from the old scriptorium, the lone survivor, besides the church itself and the chapter house, of the medieval monastery that flourished on the site until the days of Henry VIII. The building, filled with the light the monks needed for their exacting work of copying and illuminating sacred texts, is otherwise ill-adapted to the needs of a large and busy twentieth-century parish, being full of stone pillars that obstruct traffic and interfere with furniture arrangement. We squeezed with difficulty into a corner, negotiating treacherous folding chairs, and the dean warily set the tray of coffee and buns down on the tippy table.