Trouble in the Town Hall (24 page)

I surfaced for the benediction, and accepted it gratefully, but as I walked home through the brilliant sunshine of a July evening my mind was wholly occupied with my new theory. I thought about it as I made myself supper of toast and tea, with a little whiskey thrown in. I thought about it as I curled up on the couch with two contented cats.

I was still thinking about it when the doorbell rang, a little after eleven. I sat up in alarm, and the cats scattered. What new, terrible thing, at this hour—?

“Dorothy, it's me.”

The voice came through the open window, deep and low. I was at the door in two seconds, and in Alan's arms, crying in sheer relief.

Bless the man, he let me cry, holding me and making soothing, meaningless noises. And when I'd slowed down a little, he handed me a box of tissues and sat me down on the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen. The marvelous smell of coffee floated into the parlor. When Alan came back, he was carrying a tray with steaming cups and a large plate of cookies.

“Where on earth did you find those?” I said with a last, shaky sniffle. “I would have sworn the cupboard was as bare as Mother Hubbard's.”

“Fortnum's best biscuits. I bought them as a peace offering.” He put the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside me. “Just as well I did. You need some sugar, woman. Eat.”

I ate, and drank. Alan makes marvelous coffee, much better than mine, and the cookies were rich and delicious.

“I'm sorry I made such a fool of myself,” I said finally.

“Not to worry. You've had rather a trying day.”

That made me giggle, as perhaps he had intended. Talk about the English gift for understatement! But I sobered quickly. He'd obviously talked to Morrison.

“Alan, it isn't true. I'm sure it isn't, but I'm not sure what's wrong with it. They're both telling the truth, but there are too many things that don't fit.”

He nodded. “I've had a quick briefing from Morrison, and he agrees. We've had to charge Clarice, of course; she's confessed to manslaughter. But—” He spread his hands wearily. “She'll be out on bail tomorrow, I expect.”

“Oh, Alan, that's wonderful! I'd forgotten about bail. I was picturing her—” I had to reach for the tissues again, but I mopped up hastily. “No, I'm all right. I'm not going to come apart on you again. Alan, I'm so glad you're here.”

“I must leave soon. Tomorrow is a frantic day, and, of course, Sunday will be even worse. Then it'll be over.”

“Over? How can you be so sure—oh, yes, the royal visit. I'd forgotten.”

He gave a great guffaw. “Here I've been working myself to a shadow over nothing else, and you've forgotten that the Prince of Wales is coming to town.”

“Well, I hadn't actually forgotten. I mean, that's why you've been away so much. But compared to what happened this morning, it just didn't seem very important, somehow, and it slipped my mind. I'm so worried about the Pettifers, Alan.

He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me close. “You have a greater capacity for worrying about people you don't even care for than anyone else I know. I think that's one reason I love you so much.”

He turned my face toward his, and this time the kiss was not on the cheek. It went on a long time, and when he stood up to leave, we were both a little shaky.

“Good night, my dear. Get some sleep. I'll ring you tomorrow.”

O
NE OF LIFE
'
S
great blessings is that death and tragedy are never allowed to take full possession. Life goes on. People say it bitterly, as if one ought to be occupied solely with the current disaster. In fact we couldn't cope if, in the midst of crisis, people didn't eat and drink and relax a bit and comfort one another.

Alan had comforted me. I slept very late the next morning, waking only at the insistence of the cats (who also make sure I take a balanced view of life's problems—their needs coming high on the list). After coffee I felt ready to deal rationally with serious problems. What was left of Saturday morning was spent waiting for Alan to call, and making lists of what I knew (or felt I could safely conjecture), and what I wanted to know.

K
NOWN

1. Jack Jenkins was blackmailing Archie, and tried to blackmail Clarice.

2. If he recognized George Crenshawe under some other name in Sherebury, Jack would probably have tried to blackmail him, too.

3. Barbara Dean might also have recognized Crenshawe.

4. Jack's jaw was broken. Not by Clarice or Archie.

5. Somebody took Archie's key from Jack, or from his body.

N
EED TO KNOW

1. Where's the key?

2. Who hit Jack hard enough to break his jaw, and when?

3. Is Crenshawe in Sherebury, and if so, WHO IS HE?

4. Who killed Barbara?

A meager harvest, but concentrating on the puzzle kept me from thinking, over and over, about yesterday's horrors. I studied the piece of paper and then added a sixth point to the first list.

6. Crenshawe is bald in the newspaper picture.

The point that interested me the most, of course, was the identity of Crenshawe. If I was right, he was at the center of these crimes, which would seem to take Mavis Underwood, the Lord Mayor, and John Thorpe right out of the picture. None of them, by the remotest stretch of the imagination, could be Crenshawe. Only Farrell seemed to fit the bill, and he was emphatically not bald.

But the others could have some connection with Crenshawe.

My mind had just dredged up that unhelpful suggestion when the phone rang.

“Morning, love. I have exactly five minutes before I must meet the Prince's advance guard.”

“I thought he didn't get to town until tomorrow.”

“Nor does he. His people arrive today. Now don't interrupt; there isn't time. I called, first, to tell you that Clarice is home, still insisting she's a killer. Second, how are you holding up?”

I hadn't thought about it. “I'm fine. How's Clarice feeling?”

“Bloody, I gather from Morrison. Look, my time is fully occupied until about nine tomorrow evening, when we thankfully pack His Royal Highness back to Kensington Palace. I can't go to the concert with you—I've got to do the official—but after the reception is over and he's gone, we're going on a carouse, just the two of us, and I shall brook no interference. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said demurely. “Orders received and understood, sir.”

He chuckled. “Carry on, Lieutenant!” He pronounced it “leftenant,” and I saluted smartly as I hung up the phone.

Amazing how a few words on the phone could make the sky brighter, the air sweeter. I thought I'd outgrown that sort of thing years ago.

How nice that I hadn't!

Abandoning for the moment my unproductive speculations, I ate a few of Alan's biscuits as a stand-in for lunch and decided to go to the bookshop. Although I dreaded questions about the Pettifers, work was good therapy. Perhaps it would jump-start my stalled mind.

Fortunately, the cathedral grapevine had been operating at full roar, with the result that every detail of the Pettifer drama was already known by the time I showed up. Willie, bless her heart, had the sense to see I didn't want to talk about it, and the two rather scared new volunteers who were trying to take the place of Barbara and Clarice treated me like a leper. I wanted to tell them tragedy wasn't catching, but after all, I was just as pleased to be left alone to do my job.

The work did keep my mind from dwelling on the two women who should have been there, but by late afternoon I still hadn't made any mental connections that would help Clarice. This one, I thought grimly, is going to take a miracle.

One was waiting in the wings.

I volunteered to straighten up the shop after closing time. The others had worked all day, and were eager to get home; with Alan occupied, I had nothing to do for the evening but go to the supermarket, a chore I can put off indefinitely. And I felt I wanted to be alone there, anyway. Perhaps, with half the shop lights out and no one else around, I'd have the chance to tell Barbara Dean I was sorry.

A person gets odd notions in a medieval cathedral.

Or maybe not so odd, after all. For as I worked my way down the shelves, tidying, I found myself drawn to the poetry section, where no work needed to be done. And I'll swear to my dying day that it was Barbara Dean who made me take that volume of George Herbert from the shelf again and stare at it.

The cover design was rather ornate, suitable for a poet who died in 1633. A little typographical ornament separated the words George and Herbert, and as I looked at it in the half-light, slightly out of focus, it transformed itself into an equals sign.

George = Herbert.

George Crenshawe equals Herbert Benson.

That was what Barbara had seen. It was all so obvious once I saw it myself that I sagged, openmouthed, against the bookshelves. That bright-brown hair—not a dye job, a wig. And all those rings would have made a perfectly acceptable substitute for brass knuckles. And—I slapped myself on the forehead—surely he was from Sheffield! He'd as much as said so: “Archie and I are good friends, old friends.”

Now that, I thought, was an exaggeration. He was a good deal younger than Archie. He probably knew him slightly, being in the same trade. But it certainly seemed to put him in Sheffield many years ago, when Archie lived there. So why not three years ago, when a building burned down?

But wait a minute. Bob Finch had said Benson had been drinking alone all that Sunday night, when Jack was killed. I stood up straight and walked back to the staff room. Forget tidying up, I needed to sit and think about this.

He hadn't said quite that, had he? I collapsed in the armchair and played back Bob's words. He'd said Benson had come in a little after he, Bob, had. And then he was drinking alone until—until—yes! Until he went up to his room for half an hour!

How did Bob know where Benson went when he left the bar? Even if he saw him start up the stairs—and you could see the main stairs from one corner of the bar—there were back stairs.

Now, exactly what might have happened? Suppose Jack had recognized Benson/Crenshawe, maybe a day or two before, and decided to try another spot of blackmail while he was at it. Very well. He already had an appointment with his father in the Town Hall, and he'd wangled the key out of him. He could have made an earlier appointment with Benson.

All right. So Sunday night comes. Clarice—oh, yes, this was working out perfectly! Clarice goes to spy on Archie and finds Jack instead. He upsets her so much she pushes him down the stairs and runs away, terrified because she hears a noise!

And that noise is Benson. He's sneaked away from the King's Head to keep his appointment. He must have already had some idea of murder in his mind, or he wouldn't have been so careful to cover his tracks. Anyway, he finds Clarice there and hides until she leaves, and then sees Jack, who's staggered up the stairs, just beginning to recover. It's too good an opportunity to waste. He pastes him one on the jaw hard enough to break the jawbone, hard enough to crush Jack's head against the cruel carved oak. He satisfies himself that Jack is dead, takes everything out of his pockets, and is about to get out of there, locking the door behind him with the key he found, when the third of Jack's victims enters the scene. Benson sneaks out through the open door, leaving Archie to his terrible discovery, and goes back to the pub, where he checks to make sure there's no blood on his clothes and “comes back down from his room.” And drinks enough to float a battleship, according to Bob.

The very thought made my mouth dry, and I got up to make a pot of tea. That all seemed to make sense, I thought as I sank into the chair again, the tray beside me on the rickety table. Benson could drink quite a lot, as I was in a position to know. He'd drunk himself nearly blotto the night I'd been forced to have dinner with him.

The night—oh, dear God! I spilled my tea before I carefully released the cup from my suddenly shaking hand.

He'd been drinking hard that night for the same reason he'd been drinking hard the night Bob saw him. He'd just committed murder. While we were sitting at the table, Barbara Dean was floating in the river a few yards away. I had dined with a murderer, his victim barely cold.

I made it to the sink before I was sick.

I cleaned up the mess myself, too. Fortunately I'd eaten very little all day. My mind kept repeating that phrase: Fortunately I've eaten very little . . . I went into the kind of autopilot that serves us so well in shock, doing what needs to be done, thinking of trivial practicalities. Let's see, I'd better shut up the shop properly and then have someone walk me home, I'm pretty shaky.

After I'd carefully checked the till—empty—and the tea-kettle and lights—off—one of the vergers was happy to see me to my door. They were all working frantically to cope with tonight's festival concert, and then get the cathedral brushed and polished for the Prince, who was to attend the concert tomorrow night, after he'd dedicated the hospital. My man was ready for a little break, but very excited about the royal visit; he talked nonstop for the short walk across the Close to my house. I responded politely and thanked him at my door, and then walked the few more steps to Jane's house.

“No, I won't come in, thanks. I'm not feeling very well. I think reaction's set in, from yesterday. But I need to eat something, and I've absolutely no food in the house. Could I borrow some bread and eggs, or maybe something frozen? No, really, it's very kind of you, but I'd rather be alone.”

I didn't dare be with Jane. I'd talk if I were with Jane, and the coldly rational part of my brain, the only part functioning, told me silence was much safer.

For there was absolutely nothing I could do with my new information. Indeed, it wasn't information at all, but guesswork. I refused to go over it all again, but I knew there wasn't one single verifiable piece of evidence in the whole scenario. Everything needed to be checked, confirmed, nailed down by the police before there was any kind of case.