Trouble in the Town Hall (18 page)

Oh, dear. I couldn't go over there without an offering of some sort. Jane might snort over whatever I brought and say it was all nonsense, one didn't have birthdays at her age, I should have had better sense—but she would be deeply hurt if I forgot. I picked up my purse and headed out again.

Almost without conscious volition, I found myself walking into Underwood's. A silly choice of shops, really; I'd never seen anything in Mavis's emporium to appeal to Jane's practical, earthy taste, and I knew from past experience that I'd almost certainly end up buying something. Perhaps my subconscious wanted to see how Mavis was doing.

Once I had seen, I had plenty of material for thought.

For Mavis was doing very well indeed. The shop, deserted the last time I'd been in, had five or six customers. A pretty young assistant was manning the cash register, while Mavis was showing the brass bedstead to a couple that looked likely to buy it.

I lurked in the back of the shop, fiddling with a pile of hearth rugs until Mavis had triumphantly negotiated the sale and noticed me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Martin,” she trilled. “Lovely morning after the storm, isn't it?”

“A good day for cleaning up, and there's a lot of it to do. At least you have electricity, which is more than I can say. Did you have any damage at home?”

“I hadn't the time to notice, did I? Rushed myself off just to look in at the other shops before I fetched up here.”

“You seem to be very busy today.”

“My dear! I haven't had a moment to so much as sneeze these past few days. It's quite incredible.”

The color in her cheeks today looked natural, and her hair had been toned up to an even brighter auburn. She glowed.

“It looks as though murder's been good for business, then, doesn't it? One can't always rely on how the public will react, I suppose.”

Her eyes hardened. “I can't imagine what you mean, dear. Were you interested in those rugs? Lovely and thick, you see, they'll wear forever.”

They weren't actually impossible. The roses were a trifle too large and a trifle too pink, but for keeping sparks off the carpet, they'd do. I picked one up, paid the exorbitant price, and walked out wondering with half my mind what on earth Jane was going to do with it, while the other half was busy considering the benefit Mavis had, unexpectedly, derived from the death of a twenty-three-year-old boy.

I found a ribbon in a crowded drawer in my kitchen, tied it around the rug, and marched next door, avoiding the workmen who were cautiously dealing with live wires in my erstwhile flower beds.

“Happy birthday,” I said, thrusting the rug into Jane's arms as I stepped around a rush of eager, curious dogs. “If you hate it, take it to the next jumble sale or use it on the floor of one of the kennels. And for pity's sake, make me a cup of tea and let me talk to you.”

Jane, being Jane, accepted that ungracious speech with no more than a raised eyebrow and established me at the kitchen table with tea and biscuits before she even untied the ribbon. Then she growled an utterly characteristic, deprecating thanks and sat down opposite me, head cocked inquiringly. “Problems?”

“Oh, I don't know! It's just—that was a really bad storm; it scared me. And I'm being snubbed by Barbara Dean—though that's hardly news—and Alan doesn't have time for me and some friends I wanted to visit are going away. In short, I'm feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. And I'm not getting anywhere with the murder, either.”

Jane's eyes were calm, searching. “Why do you have to?”

“Well, of all the—do you want a murderer to go free? I thought the English cared more about justice than that!” My voice had risen; my hands waved in the air, and the nearest dog growled a small warning.

Jane's voice remained level. “We do. Why you?”

“What—oh.” I felt suddenly very warm. “Sorry. I get carried away. It's a reasonable question, and I don't really know the answer. Except that this whole business seems to be connected with the question of preserving old buildings and—and good workmanship in general—and those are things I care about. And Alan is so busy—oh, I know he doesn't really have anything to do with day-to-day police work, but his men are all tied up with the royal visit, too, and they just don't seem to be doing anything. And besides—you didn't see him, Jane. That young kid, spread out there on the floor. I can't forget how pathetic he looked.”

Jane looked at me searchingly over her teacup. “Can't leave well enough alone, can you?”

“I could,” I retorted. “If anything were well enough. It isn't.”

“Ah, well. You have a talent for landing on your feet. And as for Alan—he'll come round.” She looked out the kitchen window. “Phone's probably working now—they've done with the wires.”

I put my cup down. “Oh, then I'll get out of your way. I have a phone call to make.”

I couldn't help it if she thought I was about to phone Alan.

In fact, he was not even on my list for today. I was definitely annoyed with Alan Nesbitt. If he wasn't interested in what I had to say, fine. No doubt he could get along perfectly well without my help, and I had no wish to intrude where I wasn't wanted. He obviously had better things to do with his precious time.

Which just goes to show how silly and spiteful a middle-aged woman can be.

My phone call was to Sheffield, or it was intended to be. I couldn't get through. Even though my phone was working fine, lines were evidently down all over the place, and circuits weren't available.

Well, I wasn't going to let that stop me. Probably the Davises were already on their way to Portugal, anyway. If I wanted more details about that building scandal that had begun to intrigue me, I'd have to look closer to home.

In the year I had lived in Sherebury, I'd become well acquainted with its excellent public library. I wasn't quite sure how to go about looking up an old news story, when I didn't know the date or the papers that might have covered it, but assuming the lights were on and the library open, someone, I was confident, would help me.

It was the reference librarian who showed me the microfilm machines and gave me a whole drawer full of the
Times
, as well as an index. I'd have to rely on the national papers; Sherebury, in the southeast, wasn't particularly interested in the affairs of a big city far to the northwest of it, and the library didn't carry their regional publication.

The search was less tedious than I'd supposed. In less than an hour I had my information, but I wasn't sure I knew much more than I had before. The fire that had destroyed a Sherebury apartment complex (a “block of flats”), built to house the elderly, had happened over three years ago, in March. It had been a late-breaking story; names of the victims were withheld pending notification of their families. The
Times
said there would be an investigation into the possibility that faulty wiring was to blame, but I couldn't find a follow-up article on the results of the investigation, nor did I see the names of the victims, presumably published later. The only other mention of the affair at all was a very brief news item a couple of years earlier, about the proposed project to be built by the firm of Mr. George Crenshawe & Co., which was arousing some opposition on the part of preservationists who felt the Victorian terrace and redundant church on the site should not be demolished. No members of the opposition were named. There was a picture of Mr. Crenshawe and a member of the county council, shaking hands and beaming.

I sighed. Really there seemed to be no connection with Sherebury at all. Peering again at the picture, squinting through the bottom of my bifocals, I could see that Mr. Crenshawe was a man, had the usual number of arms, legs, and eyes, and was bald. The photograph had never been especially good; microfilm reproduction hadn't improved it.

I decided to be thorough about the search while I was at it. Knowing the dates helped. I worked my way through the
Telegraph
, the
Guardian
, and the
Evening Standard
before deciding enough was enough. My neck had what felt like a permanent crick in it from the angle required to read a screen through bifocals, and I'd learned nothing really relevant. The
Standard,
given the benefit of a later deadline, did give the names and ages of those killed in the fire, and I dutifully copied them down. Miss Hattie Bulstrode, 83, Mrs. Janet MacLeod, a mere 76, and Mr. James Wyatt, 99. The last was particularly pathetic, since Mr. Wyatt's 100th birthday would have been in three days, and he was said to have been vigorous, active, and looking forward to the celebration.

Well, the
Standard
would have said that even if he'd been a feeble old man with little mind left. All girls are pretty in newspapers, all women at least striking, all victims pitiable. It makes better copy. Still, I left the library full of fury.

If I ever encountered Mr. George Crenshawe, he'd better watch out.

I spent the afternoon trying to help Bob restore some order to my desolate wreck of a garden. Working on my knees, getting mud on my hands and very nearly everywhere else, had the usual effect of restoring balance to my mind. Gardening is a steadying occupation; it's so very real.

So, after I'd scrubbed off the worst of the mud, I decided to relent and try to call Alan. I had no idea whether the pitiful little bits of information I'd gathered would be of interest, but he deserved to have them. It was simply silly to carry a pique, like a teenager.

He was, as I expected, at the office, and my high-minded mood didn't last long.

“Hello, Dorothy, I'm up to—hold on a moment.” I could hear a brief, muted conversation at the other end of the line before he turned his attention back to me. “Sorry. As I started to say, things are a trifle frantic here. What can I do for you?”

“Well, there are some things I wanted to talk to you about, and I was hoping you might have time for a quick meal, but I don't suppose . . .” I trailed off disconsolately, but Alan, usually sensitive to my moods, didn't pick up on my tone of voice.

“Sorry, it's sandwiches from the canteen for me this evening. What's on your mind?”

His impatience was fully justified. He was plainly juggling a great many problems at once and didn't have time to deal with a dithering female.

Which didn't make me feel one bit better.

“It's nothing I can talk about on the phone. And probably not important, anyway. You're busy; I'll let you go.”

This time he did catch it. “Dorothy, I—”

I hung up, gently.

T
HE TROUBLE WITH
assertions of independence is that they often feel fine at the time, but the warm self-righteousness cools all too soon to a hard lump of misery. I spent the rest of the evening wishing I hadn't hung up on Alan, or hadn't called him at all, and forcing myself not to call again, and went to bed missing Frank so fiercely I cried myself to sleep. For once, two warm, friendly cats were no help at all.

Weary, red-eyed, and late, I dragged myself out of bed in the morning and decided to go to the bookshop. Wednesday isn't one of my regular days, but they might be deluged with tourists after being closed for a day, and I felt I needed something productive to do. My moods were becoming entirely too dependent on one Alan Nesbitt.

When I got there I found everyone as edgy as I was. It was another British Tourist Authority kind of day, warm and sunny, so the place was full of customers clamoring for service, and Mrs. Williamson—I
had
to remember to call her Willie—and Barbara Dean were trying to cope by themselves with a busload of camera-laden Japanese and another of earnest-looking Germans. I hurled myself into the fray, wishing I had some proficiency in some language other than English (or, as the English would insist, American).

“Where's Clarice?” I hissed at Willie as I rang up seventeen postcards and she finished explaining that she really could not take traveler's checks written in yen, they'd have to be changed at a bank. “We need her.”

“Don't know,” she said, pawing frantically through a pile of illustrated cathedral guidebooks for the German-language version. “Home, I suppose. She hasn't phoned and I haven't had a moment to ring her or talk to Barbara. She might know, if you can catch her; it was late Monday afternoon, after you left, when Clarice collapsed again and had to be taken home. Here you are, sir, that's one pound fifty.”

“
Bitte
?” said the elderly man, studying his handful of heavy English coins with a puzzled frown.

Willie managed a smile, though it was a little frayed around the edges, and began to sort through the coins for the ones she needed. “See, this thick one is a pound, and this is ten pence . . .”

But Clarice had been in such a good mood Monday! I didn't understand at all, but there was no time to think about it until a lull hit a couple of hours later, and I made a pot of tea. Barbara Dean came into the staff room to join me, looking more human than I'd ever seen her. Her hair wasn't perfect and there was actually a smudge on her lapel. She sat down heavily in the squashy old armchair and accepted a cup of tea with murmured thanks.

“You look tired, Barbara,” I ventured, settling gingerly on the couch, which was easier to get into than out of.

She sighed, and then pulled herself together. “So do you,” she said, “and we've both earned it. We should all have been a great deal better off this morning with more help.”

That gave me my opening. “Yes, what's the matter with Clarice, do you know? Mrs.—Willie said she caved in again on Monday.”

“I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea,” Barbara said crisply. “We were simply talking when she turned white as paper and crumpled. Canon Richards took her home.”

“Good heavens. Was it something about the murder again, do you think? She's awfully sensitive about that, for some reason. I think she's still worried that her husband might be—suspected.”