Trouble in the Town Hall (19 page)

“If that is the case, she ought to have been reassured. Yes, we were discussing the matter, but quite calmly. I told her I was quite certain that the roots of the matter lay with the boy's background, in Sheffield. And she fainted dead away.”

“But that makes no sense at all. Do you think she's ill?”

Barbara shrugged, and I took a different tack.

“I'm curious, though. There was a building scandal in Sheffield not too long ago—well, you probably know all about it. Do you think it could possibly have anything to do with our murder?”

“I'm afraid I prefer not to talk about Sheffield. There are some rather painful memories . . .” There was a surge of noise, and Barbara put down her teacup and stood up. “There seems to be quite a crowd coming in again. Perhaps we should get back to work.”

Well, that was a clear “No Trespassing” sign. But she'd talked about Sheffield to Clarice. Was it because I was a foreigner, or had I said something wrong somehow? I was going to have to be very careful with future questions, at any rate. Not sure of an approach, I wasn't really sorry I had no more chance to speak to Barbara until the end of the morning, which was when the really odd thing happened.

Lunchtime had thinned out the crowd, and all three of us, Barbara, Willie, and I, had seized the chance to tidy up. Barbara and I were working together at a shelf of poetry that had been wildly disarranged, and I was making conversation, trying to work my way back to Sheffield, when she suddenly stood stock-still, staring at the book in her hand. I had never seen such a look on anyone's face. She might have been a Greek goddess, or one of the Fates—cold, implacable marble.

“Barbara, is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“What?” Her voice came from a great distance. “Oh. Yes. Please excuse me.” And she put the book on the shelf, precisely where it belonged, and walked out of the shop, stopping only to pick up her handbag.

I stared after her, and then picked up the book she had been holding.

What on earth was there about the poems of George Herbert to turn anyone to stone?

I
STAYED MOST
of the afternoon. Even with the two women of the afternoon shift, we were frantically busy until after four, when the weather changed and the flood of tourists diminished to a trickle, and Willie shooed me out. “You've done a yeoman's job, and I'm truly grateful, but it's time you put your feet up. You look tired.”

I was, in fact, exhausted after a restless night and hours of standing, and nothing sounded better than putting my feet up and having a cup of tea. Or perhaps something stronger. However, duty called, and resentfully I listened. I should stop at Clarice's to see how she was. The woman could be infuriating, but she was a friend, and friendship shouldn't be taken lightly.

The gray sky and gentle sound of the rain were most conducive to a nap. I knew if I once relaxed, I was out for the count. So I hurried home, getting wet in the process, greeted the cats, had a cup of tea, and climbed into the car. Maybe I could find out what was bothering the wretched woman, anyway.

Once I got to her house, with no more than the usual number of wrong turns, I thought I might have saved myself the trouble. Clarice wasn't talking and didn't appreciate my solicitude. She let me in with a reluctance that was downright insulting, though she tried to disguise it, and sat nervously on the very edge of one of the blocky modern couches in the living room.

“It's very good of you to come, I'm sure, but Archie will be home in a moment and I really must—”

She tried to think what she really must do while I assessed her. Her hair was in strings, her face, blotchy from crying, was innocent of makeup, and her frilly blue blouse and brown-and-orange tweed skirt didn't go together. Balled up in one hand was a damp handkerchief which the other hand picked at.

“You're very kind, but I—I have a bit of a headache, and—”

I could stand it no longer. “Clarice, I can well believe you have a headache, but there's a lot more to it than that. You're a wreck. I've never seen you like this. Is it Archie?”

She looked terrified. “No! No, of course not! There's nothing wrong with Archie—he—I have a headache, that's all.”

“You're on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” I said flatly. I had lost my patience. “When will your husband be home?”

“Soon. You mustn't—”

“I intend to see to it that you're looked after, since he doesn't seem to be doing a very good job. Clarice, you must see that you need help. You've been falling apart ever since that wretched murder—”

She went even whiter than before and slid off the couch to the floor as Mr. Pettifer walked into the room.

“May I ask,” he said with cold fury, “precisely why you are bullying my wife?”

“Bullying! I'm trying to—we can't stand here arguing, she's fainted, she needs—”

“I believe I am the best judge of what she needs. You will have the goodness to leave my house, Mrs. Martin!” He turned his back on me, picked up Clarice with a strength I hadn't known he possessed, laid her on the couch, and began chafing her wrists.

“But—she needs a doctor, I could—”

“Get out!” It was a stage whisper, with the effect of a roar.

I got out.

And just what, I thought as I drove slowly down the wrong side of the fortunately deserted street, was that all about? Was she afraid of Archie? Did he beat her, after all? If so, he was careful to make sure it didn't show; her face was a mess, but it wasn't bruised. He certainly had a temper, but he had treated her gently when he'd picked her up, and only two days ago she had acted—well, to tell the truth, she'd acted like a teenager in love, mooning about Archie, making excuses to bring his name into the conversation.

Was she afraid
for
him? I was sure she'd had suspicions all along that he was involved in the Town Hall murder. That could explain her behavior. Suppose Archie had managed somehow to convince her that he was in the clear, and then—yes! And then Barbara Dean said something to her that awakened her suspicions with more force than ever! Hence her collapse. It would have to be something to do with Sheffield. Was Archie the crooked contractor after all? And why wouldn't Barbara talk to me about Sheffield?

The blare of a horn shocked me back onto my side of the road, where I promptly stalled the engine and sat for a moment, quivering. When my mind began to function again, I realized the Archie-as-criminal-contractor theory wouldn't fly. He'd left Sheffield far too long ago. But logically, Barbara Dean must have said
something
to send Clarice into a tailspin. Well, why not ask her again?

I peered out the car windows; I'd been driving more or less aimlessly for a few minutes while my thoughts were racing after an explanation. Sherebury isn't a big town, but it can be confusing, and I wasn't sure quite where I was. The Pettifers live in an exclusive development, all cul-de-sacs and curves, which adjoins a lovely old neighborhood with even more narrow, curvy streets and complicated hills.

There was something familiar about the area, though. Surely I'd been here before? These houses looked familiar. The big stone one, especially—

The big stone one was Barbara Dean's house. I'd been there only once, to a genteel sort of tea party for the bookshop volunteers, but I was certain.

Almost certain, at least. I got out of the car. There was no harm in ringing the bell. If it was the wrong house, I could apologize, go home, and phone the blasted woman. If I was right, she could hardly refuse to let me in, and it was just possible I could extract some information.

I rang.

And rang once more.

And waited.

The rain was setting in hard now, and obviously no one was home. Of course, Barbara was a widow and lived alone. If this was even her house. I gave up, splashed back to my car, and drove off, peering anxiously past the monotonous swish of the windshield wipers. After three random turns, I had no idea at all where I was. It wasn't yet six, but the clouds were so dark and the rain so heavy I could see very little. There wouldn't be a soul on the street in this downpour; asking directions was out.

Maybe if I tried to head downhill? That at least would bring me to the main body of the town, and with luck to a street I recognized. How lost could one get, for heaven's sake, in a town the size of Sherebury?

Very lost.

The last straw was when I slithered down a steep, nasty little cobbled lane, took the sharp turn at the bottom too fast, and came to a shuddering stop a couple of feet from the edge of the riverbank.

That scared some sense into me. There was no point in my continuing to drive aimlessly in this weather. If I had to, I could walk home. At least I knew where the river was, though I wasn't familiar with this part of it. I must be on the very edge of town, even if I wasn't certain whether it was the east or the west edge. I abandoned the car to its wildly unsuitable and probably illegal parking spot and set out, umbrella-less, to seek help.

And there, looming out of the rain and put there by all the saints, was a pub, a large, well-known riverside pub that was supposed to have good food. Then this was the Lanterngate area, to the west, and only five minutes from the High Street. Well, no matter that I now knew where I was and where home was; I was tired and wet and hungry, and I made for the sign of the King's Head like a homing pigeon.

“'Struth, madam, been out for a dip in the river, have you, then?”

I dripped copiously on the flagstone floor as I walked into the bar and cast bitter glances at the stone-cold hearth. “No,” I answered the barman through chattering teeth. “Just a dip in your lovely English climate. Is there someplace where I could dry off a bit, do you think?”

“Sarah!” he bellowed through a doorway, and a comfortable-looking woman bustled in, a white apron around her ample waist. “Sarah, love, take the lady upstairs and get her dry. Here you are, dear.” This was to me, as he handed me a balloon glass with something amber in it. “Keep the cold out. On the house.”

“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” murmured Sarah. “You look like a drowned kitten, you poor thing. You come right through with me.”

The King's Head, it seemed, was an inn as well. Sarah, presumably the innkeeper's wife, led me up steep, narrow stairs to a small room with a sloping floor and chintz curtains, and switched on the electric space heater that stood forlornly in a large fireplace.

“Now just you get out of those wet things, dear, and here are towels and a bathrobe. I'll have to bring you something of my own to wear whilst we dry your clothes in the kitchen.”

“But—I'm not spending the night, you know. I just came in for a meal—”

“That'll be all right, dear. Don't worry. You're American, aren't you?”

I admitted it.

“Well, we can't have a visitor getting pneumonia, can we? Whatever would you think of us? Now you just drink your brandy and warm yourself at that nice electric fire and I'll be back in a tick.”

“No, I do appreciate this, but I actually live in town, just at the other end, near the Cathedral. I should go home, really, I can't—”

Sarah put her hands on her hips and studied me. “Of course, dear! You're Mrs. Martin, aren't you? I didn't recognize you, with your hair all streaming. Now, you're not getting any younger, dear, if you don't mind my saying so. I couldn't rest easy, letting you go back out in the wet, cold through as you are. You'll have a nice meal, won't you, and your own things will dry and you'll go home feeling much better. You just leave things to me.”

I gave in gratefully, Sarah bustled out, and I was glad to strip to my underwear, dry myself on the rough towels, and slip into the thick terry-cloth robe. I was warming my hands in front of the heater when she came back with an armful of clothes.

“Here you are, dear. The dress'll be big on you, but it has a belt, and I've brought you a nice cardi to keep you warm.”

I slipped into the navy blue dress and white cardigan sweater.

“There now!” said my rescuer delightedly. “That isn't so bad, after all!”

“It's wonderful,” I said sincerely. “This is so very kind of you, and I don't even know your name—except Sarah.”

“Sarah Hawkins. My husband and I own this place; he's Derek, down in the bar.” She shook hands, the formal gesture seeming a little odd from someone who had seen me in my skivvies a moment before.

“Well, Mrs. Hawkins, I certainly owe you a great favor. Now about that meal—do you really have room for one more for dinner? I'm sure you're busy.”

“We are that,” she said with satisfaction. “If you wouldn't mind sharing a table? There's one of our residents dining alone, and he never minds a bit of company. You'll find him a very pleasant gentleman, friendly, but not—you know.” She cocked her eyebrows to indicate that I was safe from molestation, and I grinned.

“Sounds fine to me.”

I was settled at a table for two, my brandy had been topped up, and I had ordered a substantial meal before I had cause to change my mind. I was scrabbling in my purse for a tissue when a familiar voice made me look up.

“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise! Our good hostess told me I was to have a dinner companion, but she didn't mention your name. Doing well, are you, Mrs. Martin, eh?”

Herbert Benson clapped me on the shoulder with a heavy, ringed hand, scraped back his chair, put down his large glass of gin, and sat down, beaming all the way to the edge of his bright-brown hair.

T
HERE WAS NO
help for it. Mr. Benson might not be my favorite person, but I could scarcely stalk out of the King's Head in a downpour, wearing someone else's clothes. I was stuck.

“Why, Mr. Benson,” I said with as much charm as I could muster, “I had no idea you were staying here. I would have thought you'd have found a house. How long have you been living in Sherebury, then?”