Trouble in the Town Hall Page 4

  “At any rate, he’ll be released presently, I suspect in rather a foul mood. I gather we haven’t treated him with quite the deference he seems to feel is his due.” Alan’s voice held a hint of a chuckle.

  I was not amused. “Oh, fine, an irate husband is just what Clarice needs. That man mustn’t be allowed to bully her when he gets home, and I certainly can’t referee between them. He and I get along like two strange cats; I’d be worse than no help at all.”

  I heard a faint sigh. Alan needed to get back to his own affairs, but his manners held. “What about Mrs. Finch?”

  “What about her?”

  “Why don’t you ring her up? She strikes me as the motherly type when she’s not having hysterics. Would she, perhaps, enjoy ministering to Clarice?”

  “Alan, you’re a genius! Ada Finch is the very person. Pettifer’s used to having her around, and she’ll adore being in the middle of things. I’ll call her right now, and you can get back to worrying about the Prince.”

  After three tries I hit the right Mrs. Finch, and she was there in ten minutes, talking a blue streak. We went upstairs to find Clarice still awake and fretting.

  “Clarice, do you know Mrs. Finch? She works for the city and knows Mr. Pettifer, and she’s come to stay with you for a while, at least until he gets home. I wasn’t able to speak to him, but I gather he’ll be out for a bit longer, and I didn’t like to leave you alone.” I was rather pleased with my little speech and its careful omissions, but Mrs. Finch opened her mouth and nearly spoiled everything.

  “And ’oo better than me to look after you, as can understand wot you’re goin’ through, me ’avin’ a ’usband as was never ’ome when I needed ’im, though with ’im it was the drink, not bein’ mixed up with—”

  I shook my head frantically and Mrs. Finch went on without missing a beat, “—with important affairs like your man. But there, a man’s a man when all’s said an’ done and the best of ’em can’t ’old a candle to a woman when things ’as come crashin’ down about our ’eads. Now, dearie, just you stay right there an’ ’ave yourself a nice lie down. It’ll do you a power o’ good, an’ you’re not to worry about a thing, I’ll see to it all.”

  The tide of words flowed over Clarice like syrup, completing the work the pill had begun. She relaxed back into her pillows with a little sigh, like a child. Probably, I thought, she’d had a nanny just like Mrs. Finch.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Finch.” Her voice was weak, but she almost smiled. “I’m quite all right, really, but it’s very kind of you to stay if you can spare the time. It was clever of you to think of this, Dorothy.”

  I would pass on the thanks; now was not the time to give credit where credit was due. Clarice’s eyes were closing; her hands lay trustingly half open. She looked very young; for the first time I wondered just how much older her husband was. Mrs. Finch put a finger to her lips and, tiptoeing heavily, drew me out of the room.

  It was getting on toward suppertime, but if I wanted to talk to Mrs. Finch, I knew I was doomed to a nice cup of tea. We headed for the kitchen, where she put the kettle on and found another teapot while I sat and appraised the room.

  Mr. Pettifer had certainly done well for himself. After all the window-shopping I’d been slogging through, planning the improvements I wanted to make to my own house, I had a pretty good idea just how many thousands of pounds a kitchen like this would cost. Everything was the very best, though the decor was peculiarly mixed. White cabinets, white tile countertops, white appliances made for a hospital-like sterility, but the bright curtains and canisters, the hooked rugs, the lovely old Welsh dresser with flowery china displayed on its shelves looked like a very different personality at work. Perhaps Clarice did have some say in her household, after all.

  “Naow, then!” Mrs. Finch plunked the tea tray in the middle of the kitchen table, sat down, and got right to the point. “’Oo do you think done it?”

  I recalled my thoughts abruptly. “Well, actually, I—”

  “I think it was ’im.” Her eyes rolled upward, presumably to the bedroom above. “’Er ’usband. Mr. Bleedin’ Muckety-Muck.”

  “He has an alibi,” I said before I remembered that the information was probably confidential.

  Mrs. Finch shrugged away an alibi with fine disdain. “’Ee would ’ave, wouldn’t ’ee? They always do.”

  I realized I was dealing with a fellow lover of detective fiction. “Well, there is that,” I admitted. “But, Mrs. Finch, why do you think he did it? I mean, not just why do you think so, but what motive would he have had? We don’t even know who the victim is, yet.”

  “So ’ow would I know why ’ee done it?” She waved her hand airily. “’Ee got in ’is way.”

  The pronouns were a little ambiguous, but I understood that she meant the victim somehow inconvenienced Pettifer.

  “But wot I mean to say is, ’oo else would it be? ’Ee was in and out o’ the place every time you turned around, doin’ ’oo knows wot. And ’ee still had a key, and wot for, I’d like to know?”

  “You know, I wondered that myself. Was he planning his new project, measuring and so on?” It sounded thin, even to me, and Mrs. Finch gave me her best pitying look.

  “’Ee don’t do that ’imself, dearie,” she said, as to a not too bright child. “’Ee’s got architects and ’oo knows wot to do all the work. And they’ve been traipsin’ through as well, trackin’ mud all over me clean floors and talkin’ about ’ow they was gonner pull down this and build over that till I could’ve ’it ’em over the ’ead wiv me mop.

  “Wot I think,” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing once more toward the ceiling, “I think ’ee was meetin’ some woman there. And the more shame to ’im, with ’is pore wife sittin’ at ’ome, cryin’ ’er ’eart out—”

  “You don’t have to whisper; I gave Mrs. Pettifer a sleeping pill and I think she’s out for the count. But, Mrs. Finch, think what you’re saying! Not that I’d put it past him, but in the Town Hall? There’s not a stick of furniture in the place. Where would they—I mean—?”

  She laughed richly. “It don’t want thinkin’ about, do it? Ah, well, there you ’as me. But this I do know, an’ I’ll ’old to, as ’ee was plottin’ somethin’, wot I don’t know, sneakin’ about an’ jumpin’ a foot if I comes near. Asks me wot I was doin’ there. Wot I was doin’ there, if you please, when I was only doin’ me job wot I get paid for, same as I’ve always done, and no thanks for it, neither. Wot was ’ee doin’ there, I’d like to know?”

  That seemed to get us back to where we’d started. “What I’d like to know, Mrs. Finch—” I began, when she put her finger to her lips with an exaggerated gesture. A car door slammed. A key turned in the front door.

  With a conspiratorial grin, Mrs. Finch gestured frantically toward the back door.

  “I’ll call you!” I mouthed, gathered up my belongings, and got out before my dignity got caught in the door.

  THE FIRST ORDER of business, when I’d managed the long walk home, was, of course, to feed the cats—cats have a way of making sure they always come first. Once they’d settled down happily to a dish of liver and bacon, I was free to think about my own belated meal.

  The knock at the back door came while I was still standing in front of the open refrigerator.

  “Come in, Jane.” I closed the fridge and opened the cupboard. “I’m just trying to find something to eat in this house. All I seem to have is cat food and noodles, and I’m not sure a Seafood Treat casserole sounds appealing.”

  “Thought you’d be in no mood to cook, after the day you’ve had. Does cold roast beef sound good?”

  “Heavenly! You’re a lifesaver. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

  I didn’t question how she knew about my day. It had taken me only a few weeks of living in Sherebury to understand that there is very little privacy in a cathedral town. Some mysterious equivalent of jungle drums ensures that everyone will know everyone else’s business, at least within cat
hedral circles. Jane, a retired teacher with friends all over town, knows everything that happens in Sherebury, including what is likely to happen and what is reputed to have happened but didn’t. It makes her a marvelous source of information for an outsider like me.

  I trailed happily after her across the backyard.

  She waited with commendable patience until we were established in her kitchen with lovely thin slices of rare beef, fragrant crusty bread, and a horseradish sauce guaranteed to clear up any sinus condition. Along with mugs of beer, mine frosty-cold for my peculiar American taste. Jane is truly a paragon.

  “Tell me about Clarice Pettifer,” I said finally, after I’d taken a couple of bites of my superb sandwich and shooed away three amiably slobbering bulldogs whose eyes were alight with hope.

  “Worm,” said Jane. “Spineless. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Not,” she added, “that I’ve ever known what good it would do a person to say boo to a goose. However. Lived in Sherebury all her life, pretty when she was young, chocolate-box type. Enough, dogs! Go!”

  They retreated a few inches and I pursued the subject. “Really! I would never have guessed. I can see it now that you mention it, though, the fair skin and china-blue eyes and so on. I suppose that’s what attracted Pettifer.”

  Jane snorted and went on with her story. “Father well-off, owned ironmongers’ shops all over the county. Started converting them to DIY shops just before the craze for do-it-yourself set in, made a fortune.”

  “Oh, she isn’t from a—an old family—that is . . .” I floundered.

  Jane barked one of her disconcerting laughs. “What you mean is, is she upper class? Never know why Americans get so embarrassed about it. No, she isn’t. Common as good English dirt, her family was, and not ashamed of it. She’d have turned out sensible if they’d lived.”

  “What happened?”

  “Killed in an accident when Clarice was only seventeen, both her father and mother. She was left a rich orphan.”

  “Oh, dear. And Pettifer?” I asked, guessing the rest of the scenario.

  “He was working for her father, or with him. Twelve years older than she is, you know. Involved in building the new shops. Saw a chance to rake in a fortune and a pretty wife at one go. Swept her off her feet.” Jane’s tone was dry enough to dehumidify a swamp. “They married when she was eighteen.”

  “So the money in the family is hers.”

  “Not all of it. Give the devil his due, he’s worked hard, made a fortune of his own. Best builder in town.”

  “You keep surprising me. I thought he was just a developer, a—a monument-gobbling monster.”

  “Now, perhaps. Not back then, before he fell in love with money and power.”

  There was a dismal little silence.

  “What a depressing story,” I said finally, finishing my beer. “So that was how long ago, when they were married, I mean? Thirty years or so?”

  “Twenty, more like.” At the look on my face, Jane laughed, without amusement. “They’re both younger than they look. He cultivates the pompous role. That’s why you thought she was a nob. He’s bullied her into the proper accent and the proper clothes and the proper charities till she’s washed out and dried up before her time. Bloody bastard.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Jane is plainspoken, but seldom coarse. A horrid thought crossed my mind.

  “Is he—you don’t think he actually beats her? I’ve never seen any bruises, but . . .”

  “Not that kind of bastard. Browbeats her, ignores her, sucks all the life out of her and then despises her for being dull and dead. More beer?”

  “Thanks.” I held out my pewter mug. “You know, though, I’ve always thought that people who act like doormats positively invite other people to walk on them.’”

  “Something in that,” Jane acknowledged. “Adoration brings out the worst in some men. No excuse, though.”

  “No.” I laughed, a little bitterly. “I thought, today, that she responded so well to Mrs. Finch because she’d had a nanny like her. And all the time—”

  “She is Mrs. Finch, that’s the answer. Only without the sense. Now, Dorothy, tell me. All I know is, Ada Finch found a murdered man.”

  “Well—a body anyway,” I said, and proceeded to tell her all I knew. “And I was just getting around to asking Mrs. Finch exactly what she’d seen this morning, when Pettifer—I cannot bring myself to call that man ‘Archie’—came home and I beat it out of there. Do you suppose she’s right about him being a womanizer?”

  “There are rumors,” Jane said. “But not at the Town Hall, not even for a meeting place.”

  “No,” I agreed with a yawn. “Too cautious.” I yawned again and put my plate on the floor to be snuffled over by the dogs, who had crept back to the table. “So if I want to soothe Clarice’s fears, what do you think I ought to do next?”

  “Go home to bed,” said Jane promptly. “You were up with the lark. Tomorrow’s soon enough to start asking awkward questions. And Alan will have some ideas of his own.”

  “He’s going to be too busy with the royal visit to do much about this one, I think. Which is fine with me—it means I can poke around with no interference.”

  “Except possibly from the murderer,” said Jane.

  4

  THAT EVENTFUL DAY was a Monday. The next day, Tuesday, normal English summer weather reasserted itself. The soothing, steady patter of rain on my roof kept me in bed until the cats decided breakfast had been delayed long enough.

  I’m ashamed to say that, when my bare foot encountered a puddle on my way to the bathroom, my first reaction was to glare at the cats, who were twining themselves eagerly around my ankles. “All right, which of you was it?” They looked offended (an expression that comes naturally to any cat), and then I felt the drop of water on my head. Outside wasn’t the only place it was raining.

  So that, by the time I had fed my tyrants and myself, dressed in proper summer clothing (wool sweater and skirt), and put a bucket under the leak, I was in no sweet mood. I’d called my landlord’s answering machine with little hope of a prompt response. Though keeping the roof in repair was clearly his responsibility, he’d been dodging my calls for some time, hoping I’d take the house off his hands soon. Well, I was doing all I could, dammit! Muttering to myself, I splashed across the Close to the bookshop.

  Mrs. Williamson was puttering about the shop, replacing stock, dusting a shelf of poetry that was seldom touched. “Good morning, Dorothy. Frightful morning, actually, isn’t it? We shan’t have many customers today, I shouldn’t think. Now tell me, how is poor Clarice? I couldn’t quite make out just what sent her into such a tizz.”

  “I’m not sure myself, but I think she was afraid her husband was going to get into trouble. I left her in Mrs. Finch’s capable hands—d’you know Mrs. Finch?” She nodded. “Anyway, Clarice was very shaky when I last saw her. Have you heard from her this morning?”

  “Mr. Pettifer rang up last evening to say she wouldn’t be in, so I arranged for a substitute, though with the weather what it is, I doubt she’ll be needed.”

  “Well, I’d better hang these things up before I drip all over the stock, and then we’ll see what there is to do.”

  As I put my yellow slicker and hat on the peg in the staff room, Barbara Dean sailed in and my heart sank.

  I don’t know if Mrs. Dean (she’s another one I don’t dare call by her first name) set out deliberately to imitate Margaret Thatcher, or if they’re just naturally sisters under the skin, but I do know that if Lady Thatcher ever wants a double she need look no farther than Sherebury. The resemblance extends far beyond the helmet of gray-blond hair, the rigid carriage, the steely eye; I haven’t the slightest doubt Barbara Dean could run the country quite as efficiently as she runs the Sherebury Preservation Society and several other worthy organizations. She can be utterly charming when she wants to, but her ruthless capability reduces me to quivering jelly.

  “Good gracious, Mrs. Martin, you are wet, aren�
�t you?” She looked pointedly at the puddle forming under my slicker.

  “Oh, dear, I suppose I should mop that up.” And why couldn’t I say that being wet is a normal consequence of being out in the rain? Perhaps it was because she appeared to be only a bit damp around the edges. Typical.

  “And how is your planning application coming along?” she inquired, shooting her perfectly furled umbrella into the stand. “I assume you are nearly ready to submit it?” She sits on the City Council, naturally, and its Planning Committee.

  “Well, no, actually, I can’t seem to get anyone to come and talk about what I want to do. And now the roof is leaking, and—”

  “Oh, but that can’t be allowed.” I knew she’d blame me. “You must deal with that at once, mustn’t you, or there will be structural damage.” It was her best headmistress tone.

  “Yes, but I can’t deal with it.” Frustration bubbled over and I dared argue. “I don’t own the house yet, so it’s still the landlord’s responsibility—and he’s avoiding me because he hopes I’ll be taking over soon. But until I get planning permission—and listed building permission—”

  “No, no.” She waved her hands impatiently. “Simply to repair a roof you need neither, so long as the appearance isn’t altered, of course. And you needn’t consider your landlord. He is obliged to maintain a listed building; if he avoids his obligations, he can be made to comply. No, your real difficulty lies with the contractors, apparently, who refuse to provide you with plans and an estimate.”

  “Well, it isn’t exactly that they refuse, they just haven’t gotten around to—”

  “Quite. Obviously you must find someone else.”

  “There isn’t anyone else. I’ve checked with every—”

  “Nonsense. There’s always someone, if one looks in the right place. I shall ask the secretary of Planning Aid to phone you this afternoon; I’m sure she’ll be of help.”