Trouble in the Town Hall Page 2

  “You got a close look?” I asked, lowering my voice in the hope that she would do the same, though the lunchtime crowd probably drowned us out.

  “Well—not to say look. But ’is clothes and all . . .”

  I understood. Mrs. Finch had barely glanced at the body before dissolving into hysterics, but she found comfort in the thought that the human being who had once inhabited that body was a stranger and a useless sort of person.

  I was not so easily comforted. No matter who the dead man was or what his life had been, his end was pitiable. Mrs. Finch was certainly right about one thing, though: There was a great deal of trouble ahead for everyone concerned.

  “Have you finished your tea? Do you think you’re well enough to go talk to the police?”

  “Go ’ome and ’ave meself a drop o’ gin, is wot I’d like to do,” she said wistfully. “Wot a ’ope! They’ll be asking their questions till the cows come ’ome. Well, no ’elp for it.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Thanks for me tea. Went down a treat; I’m meself again. Sure you won’t ’ave any? There’s a cup left in the pot.”

  I shuddered. I probably needed sustenance, and my nice lunch with Alan wasn’t going to happen, but I was a little more upset than I liked to admit, and my stomach was in no state to deal with stewed tea. “I’m fine. Shall we go get it over with?”

  The police had arrived in the few minutes since I had phoned. A crowd had gathered, but Mrs. Finch sturdily shouldered aside all would-be obstacles. When the constable at the Town Hall door barred our way, she stared him down, hands on formidable hips.

  “’Ere, ducks, I’m the one wot found the body, and they want to talk to me. And this ’ere is Mrs. Martin, and she was with me. So just you get out of the doorway an’ let us pass.” Fortified by tea, she was beginning to enjoy her importance.

  The scene of crime team was already busy inside the building, and just inside the front door Pettifer was arguing with a uniformed policeman. He apparently wanted to talk to the officer in charge, whose whole attention was taken up with directing his men.

  Our constable escorted us to the officer in question and murmured something to him.

  “Yes?” He looked us over. “I’m Inspector Morrison. I understand one of you ladies discovered the body?”

  He was a man of about fifty, inconspicuous-looking save for a very sharp eye and a quick manner that stopped just short of impatience. He gestured us toward the stairs, the only place to sit, and was following when Pettifer accosted him.

  “Look here, sir! Am I to be kept waiting about all day? I’ve told my story twice, what there was to tell, and I’ve pressing business to attend to. That ass over there said you wanted to talk to me. Well, here I am!” His face was red and his hands were clenched and shaking; I had a fleeting moment of worry about his blood pressure. I may dislike Archibald Pettifer and all his works, but I didn’t want him to have a heart attack on the spot.

  “Presently, sir. Rest assured we’ll not keep you any longer than necessary. If you’d care to wait over there?” The inspector pointed to a spot well out of earshot. Pettifer scowled at all of us and stomped off.

  “Now then, ladies?”

  We sat down on the hard oak steps, and the inspector turned his attention to me. “You are . . .?”

  “Dorothy Martin. My address is Monks well Lodge.”

  His attitude sharpened slightly. “Ah, yes, the American lady. Involved in the cathedral murders, weren’t you?”

  “Involved is not exactly the word I would choose.”

  He smothered a smile. “No, perhaps not. Now, what can you tell me about this incident?” The uniformed man by his side began to take notes.

  “Very little, I’m afraid. It’s Mrs. Finch’s story, really.” I related how I happened to be in the building and what I’d seen, trying to remember exact times and failing, and feeling very silly about the whole thing, and then it was Mrs. Finch’s turn.

  She was asked in excruciating detail about every movement she had made since arriving at the Town Hall, and she was pleased to oblige, proudly describing her dusting and polishing of almost every surface that might have been expected to yield evidence. If the inspector winced he tried not to show it; the woman was simply doing her job and couldn’t be expected to know what was lurking in the broom closet. It wasn’t until she began to add anecdotes about how she had felt in her bones all morning that something was wrong that his fingers began to drum very quietly on the beautifully polished banister.

  “Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Finch. I think that’ll be all—or, no, just one more thing. How did you get into the building this morning?”

  She bristled at that. “With me key, ’ow do you think?”

  “Of course,” Morrison said soothingly. “I actually meant, by which door?”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Finch colored, ducked her head, and gave him a sideways grin. “Sorry, luv. I’m that upset—you mustn’t take no notice. Come in the side door, same as always. Off Cat Lane?”

  The inspector nodded. “And was the door locked?” he went on.

  Mrs. Finch looked at him with pity in her blue eyes, her head to one side like an elderly robin’s. “Naow. I always wastes me time unlockin’ doors as is unlocked already. O’ course it was locked!”

  “And when you leave—you lock it up again with the key?”

  That did it. Mrs. Finch stood up and transfixed the inspector with a look that might have cut through the solid oak paneling. “I’ll ’ave you know, Mr. Fancy P’liceman, as Ada Finch ’as never gone off and left a door open in this ’ere ancient monument! Time was I ’ad the keys to every door in this place, leavin’ out the big front door, as is barred. And all the keys was different, and big as ’orses. Now the pore old place is left to itself I only ’as the one, and I guards it with me life! ’Ere, see for yourself!”

  She fished in her pocket, brought forth a large old-fashioned key all by itself on a ring with a big brass hotel-style tag, and waved it an inch in front of his face. “I put that tag on so’s I’d ’ear it fall if I dropped it, and I could find it easy. An’ I locks the door every time I leaves, or I’ll eat me key, tag an’ all, with ’orseradish sauce!”

  She folded her arms, her lower lip protruding ominously, and while the inspector soothed and placated and assured her he didn’t doubt her word, I pondered the point about the key. If the place was securely locked up, how had the dead man gotten in? And more to the point, how had the murderer gotten out, leaving a dead bolt locked behind him? Someone inside, presumably the murderer, could have unbarred the ancient front door to let the victim in, but you can’t leave by a barred door.

  The inspector was winding up with the disgruntled Mrs. Finch. “You’ve been very helpful, and I’m truly sorry to have kept you here so long. We’ll have your statement typed and ask you to come down to the station to sign it, but there is just one more point. Did you, in the course of your work, see or move anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Dirt an’ rubbish was wot I moved,” she snapped. “Look in the dustbin if you like.”

  I had no doubt he or his men would do just that. I had every doubt they’d find anything of interest.

  “I know you must be longing for a bit of rest, Mrs. Finch. We’ll let you know when you can resume your work here—soon, of course,” he added hastily, seeing her face grow even grimmer. “We must seal the building as a crime scene for now, and I shall have to keep your key for a day or two.” He tried a conciliatory smile.

  Mrs. Finch was having none of his peacemaking; her honor had been impugned. “And ’oo’s goin’ to clean up the place, then?” she demanded, hands on hips. “Dustin’ for fingerprints, they calls it; I calls it makin’ a ruddy great mess! As if I didn’t ’ave enough to do, trying to keep this place from goin’ to rack and ruin while the muckety-mucks decide what’s to be done with it, pore old place, left all any’ow so as they could go and ’ave their fine new offices in that fine new pile o’ concrete as’ll fall down about their ears in a
year or so, I shouldn’t wonder, and serve ’em right, too, makin’ us common folks traipse out miles from anywhere to fill out their ruddy forms an’ all, and bus fares bein’ wot they are, too . . .” She grumbled her way out the door, heading for her drop of gin and a glorious gossip with the neighbors.

  Inspector Morrison raised an eyebrow and smiled a little at her retreating back, shaking his head. “A vanishing breed, God bless her. Salt of the earth, but infuriating at times.” He shook his head again, dismissed Mrs. Finch from his mind, and turned the full force of those disconcerting gray eyes on me. “Can you tell me, Mrs. Martin, your impression of Mrs. Finch when she found the body? Was she truly surprised, or . . .?”

  “If she wasn’t flabbergasted and terrified, you can tell the Queen to hand her a knighthood, or a dameship, or whatever it is, for being the finest actress in the United Kingdom. I never saw a more genuine fit of hysteria. Anyway, you only have to look at her to know she’s honest.”

  “Right.” The monosyllable accepted what I’d said, without necessarily agreeing. “Of course, the one who finds the body is so often—however. Now, if we can go once more over—”

  “Dorothy! There you are! Morning, Morrison, this one fell to you, eh? Bad luck on such a glorious day!”

  Alan, a big man who looks like Alistair Cooke, made an impressive entrance. I was so glad to see him I looked up with what must have been a Perils of Pauline sort of expression; he smiled back affably and spoke again to the inspector.

  “You haven’t met Mrs. Martin, have you, Derek—except officially, I mean? Pity you had to meet over a corpse, but we may yet be thankful she was here. You’ll find her a good witness, I believe.”

  “I had already drawn that conclusion, sir.” His eyes softened. “I was just about to take her through it all again, but it’s probably pointless; she was thorough and concise the first time. If you’d like . . .” He sketched an “after you” in Alan’s direction.

  There was something about his gesture that suggested he was deferring not only to his superior officer, but to an important friend of the witness. Ah, well, Sherebury is a small town, after all. So he’d known all along I was Alan’s—what? Perhaps this was not the moment to try to define the relationship.

  “No, indeed, I shan’t interfere. But if you’ve actually finished, I’d like to give the lady some lunch. Dorothy? Do you need to brush yourself down?”

  “No, Mrs. Finch keeps the place spotless. I’m just stiff. Is my hat all right?”

  “Very nice indeed,” he said with the almost hidden smile he addresses to all my hats, and offered me his arm.

  I was glad enough to take it; reaction had set in. “Alan, I don’t know if I can manage Indian food, after all. My insides are acting a little peculiar.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder, but you do need to eat. How long ago was breakfast?”

  “It feels like years.”

  “Right, then what about something simple and sustaining at Alderney’s?”

  Alderney’s is the tea shop in the Cathedral Close and one of my favorite places in Sherebury. “Perfect. They have wonderful comfort food.” He started to move toward the door, but I pulled at his arm.

  “Alan, I have to know what they’ve found out. Did you have a chance to talk to anyone? Who is—he?” I jerked my head toward the broom closet. “Does this have anything to do with the preservationist battle over the Town Hall?”

  “No idea. I did have a word with the men before I talked to you, but they don’t know much yet. How in the name of all that’s holy did you get mixed up in this, by the way?” His voice was quiet, but the concern he wouldn’t display in front of Inspector Morrison was apparent.

  “Pure accident, and I’m not ‘mixed up’ in it. I just had the bad luck to be here.” I summarized what had happened. “Who is he?” I repeated.

  “There was no identification on the body. Young, early twenties probably; you will have gathered that. I don’t suppose he was at all familiar to you?”

  “I didn’t look properly. I could check now, I suppose.”

  Alan put his hand over mine, still clinging to his arm. “Only if you want to. There’s little likelihood you would know him, after all.”

  “No, it’s all right. You’re a very reassuring person, you know.”

  “If you’re certain.” He took me to the door of the closet and said something to the policemen still working there, who moved aside.

  The man lay on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled, filling the floor of the small room. He was dressed in a dirty black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, frayed at the knees and not, I thought, on purpose. He looked very young indeed. A scrabble of beard failed to hide a pasty, acne-scarred face. His hair, worn longer than my taste preferred, was of a color hard to determine, so greasy were the locks scattered against the floorboards. His eyes were shut.

  “No,” I said in a not very steady voice after a long look. I was shaken with pity for a young life ended, and perhaps, from his appearance, unhappy, meaningless even before the final blow of fate. “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

  We were on our way out of the building before I spoke again. “Alan, would they—the police, I mean—would they have moved the body?”

  “Not at this stage; they haven’t finished with photographs. Why?” He was all Chief Constable Nesbitt again.

  “Because it’s been moved. His arms were down at his sides when I saw him. I didn’t see much, but I saw that. And—” I tried to control a shudder “—his eyes were open.”

  2

  AFTER THAT, of course, Alan stayed to talk to Inspector Morrison and his men for a few minutes, with the result that we hit Alderney’s at the height of the lunchtime rush. Alan managed to get us a table. He usually does; I’ve never been sure whether it’s those devastating blue eyes or the fact that a chief constable is an important person, rather like a medieval lord sheriff. It was definitely the eyes, though, that got a pot of tea on the table almost instantly. He poured me a cup and made me add a lot of sugar. He also poured a little brandy in it.

  “Alan, you never cease to amaze me! Do you always carry a flask? I’ve never noticed it.”

  “Emergency stores only. I bring it when I feel I may be called upon to rescue a swooning lady. Drink that down.”

  I’d have disputed “swooning lady” if it hadn’t been so close to accurate. As it was, I obediently drank my tea, relaxed, and suddenly recovered my senses.

  “Alan, the bookshop! My job! What time is it? I have to go—”

  “Sit still. I’ll ring them up.” He untangled his long legs from the maze of table and chairs, spoke to the hostess, and picked up her telephone at the desk.

  “What did you say?” I demanded when he got back. “I wouldn’t want Mrs. Williamson upset—”

  “That you were being detained by the police to assist us with our inquiries.”

  “Alan, you didn’t! She’ll have a heart attack!”

  “No, I didn’t, actually. I said you’d been unavoidably delayed and would be there as soon as possible. I did identify myself.”

  I sighed. “She’ll worry herself into a stew, poor dear. I’d better hurry, so I can explain for myself.”

  “You’d do better to go home after you’ve had a spot of lunch. You’re still quite white, you know.”

  “Oh. Well, no, I didn’t, but really I’m fine, Alan, or I will be when I’ve eaten something. I have to get to the bookshop, Mrs. Williamson’s counting on me. Anyway, work keeps me from thinking, and the cathedral is such an oasis of calm, I’ll feel much better. I’m sure.”

  I was protesting too much, but Alan let it go and simply said, “Why on earth don’t you call the woman by her first name? The English aren’t all that formal, you know.”

  “Her first name is Ariadne.”

  “Oh, dear. Yes, I do see. What do the others call her?”

  “Willie. Somehow I can’t . . .”

  “Quite.” He looked at the menu. “How about chicken rolls a
nd rice pudding for both of us? Nursery food.”

  “Sounds good.” And when the sandwiches arrived, crusty rolls with lots of white meat and lettuce, I attacked mine like a starving woman.

  “So how,” I said when I could speak, “are plans for the royal visit coming along?” I wanted a respite from murder, and I figured Alan was good for several minutes on his chief headache of the moment, the impending visit of Prince Charles to open the new wing of the hospital.

  Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck. “As smoothly as these things ever go, I suppose, actually. It’s just that the Palace has got the wind up, rather. And so have I, much as I hate to admit it.”

  “About what—hecklers about the Diana situation?”

  “Not so much that as these damned anarchists.” He glanced casually around the room, which was beginning to thin out as those on limited lunch hours hurried off. The table next to ours was empty, but Alan lowered his voice all the same. “I can’t be specific, but a recent episode is seen as a direct threat to Prince Charles. They managed to keep it out of the press, but—” He raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

  “The Prince’s people think there’ll be a next time?”

  “There will be, undoubtedly. The question I must deal with is, Will it be in Sherebury? That’s what I want to know from M15 and the rest of the security lot, what sort of threat I might have to contend with, and so far they’ve not been able to tell me.”

  “I can’t get over being amazed at the idea of anarchists.” I glanced at my plate, surprised to find it empty. Alan’s prescription had been admirable. “It all sounds so quaint and dated, straight out of the twenties.”

  “Doesn’t it? Unfortunately the current lot are not at all dated. They organize their little games over the Internet.”