Trouble in the Town Hall Read online

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Farrell,” said the Lord Mayor. “Would you like to try again?”

  “What I’ve got to say is soon said. There’s no need for all this talk. I’ve had a proposal on the table for nearly a year now to build a proper mall, with proper parking and access, at the old hop farm on the A28. There’s your new clientele, Mavis. There’s your traffic; you all know how much traffic the A28 carries every day of the week. No need to put the Town Hall to a silly use that was never intended. Preserve it; take the shopping out of town, where people want it nowadays. Everyone’s pleased.”

  Mr. Pettifer didn’t look pleased at all, and jumped up to reply, but the Lord Mayor motioned to him with a frown, and he sat down, folding his arms across his chest, the alarming color rising again in his face.

  There was a stirring in the group of workmen and then a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair, evidently chosen as their spokesman, forced his way out of a tightly packed row of seats and moved to the microphone.

  “I’m Jem ’Iggins, Yer Worship,” he said, grasping the mike stand uneasily in gnarled hands. “And like a lot of us ’ere tonight, I’m out of work. And what me mates and me got ter say is, we don’t none of us care where they builds whatever they’re goin’ to build, so long as we ’as a part in it. But it ’pears to us as if the work would be double, like, if they was to do them repairs to the Town Hall and build their shoppin’ mall someplace else. And it stands to reason, don’t it, that if we ’as more money, we’ll spend more money, and that’s good for trade, too. And—that’s all.”

  He turned away abruptly to an approving chorus from his mates, and now everyone was eager to speak. A few malcontents grumbled about various aspects of the problem, and a few more wandered far from the issue at hand, arguing about everything from civic government in general to environmental issues to animal rights, but most of the comments reiterated support for Mrs. Dean’s preservation efforts, and the audience grew restive,

  I stopped listening and concentrated on watching Pettifer. His color had returned to its normal hue, but his expression had set in a hard half smile. He had lost this battle, and he knew it, but he hadn’t given up the war. Too good a politician to try to sway a crowd that had so obviously turned against him, he nevertheless sat erect in his chair, looking each speaker defiantly in the eye. Some of them faltered in mid-speech, and Pettifer looked grimly satisfied each time.

  Finally the Lord Mayor decided to call a halt. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I think we have been able to air this matter thoroughly, and I thank you for your time and patience, and for your courtesy in listening to other points of view. You understand, of course, that as the Town Hall is a Grade I listed building, the Secretary of State will make the ultimate decision about its fate, but you may be sure he will have a report of this meeting. I notice, Mr. Thorpe, that you have made no contribution, and wonder if there is anything you would like to say to close the meeting.”

  A bulky sort of man got up and moved back a row or two to the nearest mike, a used-car salesman smile on his face. “I have nothing to add, Lord Mayor. My name, for the record, is John Thorpe, and I am an estate agent.” He said it as John Gielgud might have said “I am an actor.”

  “I feel it would be inappropriate for me to comment, since I am likely to be an interested party in dealing with leases for any new mall. I’m sure that all plans put forward today have merit, and simply wish to say, may the best man—or woman—” he sketched a little bow to Mrs. Dean “—win!” He turned away without looking at Pettifer, who was glaring balefully.

  “Very well, then, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all again and declare this meeting adjourned.”

  I creaked to my feet, stumbling a little. A steadying hand caught my elbow.

  “Alan! Bless you, I thought my joints were going to give out on me altogether. My bones do not appreciate two hours of this kind of chair. What are you doing here? I didn’t see you when I came in.”

  “No, I drifted in late. I like to keep my finger on the community pulse, you know, especially when it’s getting a trifle feverish—to mix a metaphor. What did you think of the meeting?”

  I shivered a little. “It’s very different from this sort of thing in America, of course. We’d have everybody yelling at each other. This was all very polite, but it was that terrible English politeness that can feel like being slammed into a meat locker. To tell the truth, it scared me a little. I can see why you’re worried. Those workmen were ready to do something drastic, if Barbara Dean hadn’t handled them so well—did you get here in time for that?”

  Alan nodded. “Played them like a violin, didn’t she? Stirring them up to a nice crescendo and then calming them down. A remarkable lady, our Barbara.”

  I shivered again. “And that Mr. Farrell scares me.”

  Alan hugged my shoulders. “You’ve been watching too many old horror videos, is your trouble. How about a drink to take the bogeyman away?”

  “And a sandwich—I feel in need of sustenance. Alan, Mr. Pettifer isn’t going to take this sitting down, I could tell. He was ready to kill that man Thorpe.”

  Alan just looked at me and I grimaced.

  “Sorry—poor choice of words. But honestly, if looks could kill, I should think you’d have another corpse on your hands. I suppose Thorpe’s been in Pettifer’s camp and now Pettifer thinks he’s a Judas.”

  “Probably. Where’s your car? I didn’t ask my driver to wait.”

  “Then we’re out of luck. I walked. For the exercise,” I added defiantly.

  “One of these days I’m going to make you a present of driving lessons,” said Alan cheerfully, looking around. “Ah, constable!”

  The uniformed man just leaving the hall stopped in his tracks, trotted over, and saluted smartly, looking anxious. “Yes, sir!”

  “It’s all right, Wilkins,” Alan said, reading the name tag without missing a beat. “I simply need a favor, if you have your car.”

  Wilkins nodded, mute in the presence of his Big Boss.

  “The lady and I need a ride over to the Cathedral Close, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Yes, sir. That is, no, sir, no trouble at all, sir. This way, sir—madam.”

  So we ended the evening peaceably at the Rose and Crown discussing leaky roofs and other domestic disasters, with not a word about murders or civic passions.

  OVER BREAKFAST THE next day my mind reverted to the meeting of the night before. I wished I understood a little more about all the crosscurrents. Why, for example, had Thorpe done what looked like such an abrupt about-face? Why hadn’t Farrell’s proposal—which sounded so reasonable—gained approval, or even discussion, over the past year?

  And most of all, what had gone on at that meeting the Lord Mayor had held Sunday night? The tensions at the public meeting had been only thinly veiled; I could well believe in those heated private exchanges Barbara Dean had hinted at.

  I considered my sources of information. Jane, of course, but Jane wasn’t available at the moment; she volunteered at the animal shelter on Wednesdays. Margaret Allenby, wife of the dean of the cathedral, could sometimes be persuaded to talk about personalities in ecclesiastical circles, and Jeremy Sayers, the organist, was always open to gossip, the bitchier the better—but this wasn’t a church matter. It wasn’t a university matter, either, which left out dear old Dr. Temple, who knew everything about everyone academic, but wasn’t interested in general gossip.

  That just about exhausted the possibilities in my limited group of friends, which meant I’d have to wait till Jane got home. Meanwhile, there were other worries to deal with, the foremost being Clarice. Archie couldn’t have been feeling very pleasant when he got home last night after the meeting. In her present jellylike state, was Clarice in any condition to cope with him?

  I groaned aloud and Samantha, in the corner of the kitchen by the Aga, interrupted her ablutions to stare at me through her huge blue eyes.

  “It’s all very well for you,” I said
glumly. “You can sit there by a nice, warm stove. I’ve got to go out in the rain. Aren’t you glad you’re a cat?”

  Sam yawned; of course she was glad. No cat would even consider the infinitely inferior status of human.

  So I emptied the buckets in the upstairs hall—they were filling faster today, I noted with a mental curse for my landlord—and headed for the Pettifers’ new, watertight, sterile house.

  I drove. The long walk in the rain last night had caused arthritic twinges in several joints I’d never noticed before, and I was also smarting from Alan’s crack about driving lessons. I got insignificantly lost twice and, in desperation, drove the wrong way down a deserted one-way street to get to where I needed to be, but on the whole I thought I did rather well, though my knees were shaking as I got out of the car.

  They shook even more on the front step as I considered the awful possibility that Archie might be home, but I was in luck. The door opened promptly to my ring and there, sturdy and blessedly sane and normal, was Mrs. Finch.

  “’Ere, now, ’ere’s a treat for you, luv,” she called in to the hall. “’Ere’s Mrs. Martin come to see you.”

  She stage-whispered at me behind her hand. “Wobbly on ’er pins still, she is, but comin’ along. Company’ll do ’er no end o’ good.”

  “I’m glad you’re still here, Mrs. Finch,” I whispered back as I followed her into the kitchen, marveling a little. Here was a woman who had found a body, ministering calmly to the vapors of one who had only heard about it. Truly the Cockney is a rare and precious breed.

  Clarice was looking better. What color she ever had was back in her cheeks and her soft, fair hair was neatly combed, if a bit discouraged-looking. She was sitting at the breakfast table in a becoming pink-flowered housecoat, with a teacup in front of her.

  “Oh, Dorothy, I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice was almost back to normal, too. “Won’t you have some tea? Ada makes the most lovely tea, and frightfully good biscuits.”

  She sounded like a little girl inviting me to a dolls’ tea party. I sat, and Mrs. Finch happily assumed her role of nanny, seizing the tea tray and making for the stove.

  “I can’t imagine what you must be thinking of me, Dorothy,” Clarice went on shyly. “So silly of me to go to pieces like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You had a shock.”

  “But I do wish I were more like you. You never turn a hair at frightful things, and nor does Ada.”

  I thought of Mrs. Finch’s hysterics, but I didn’t want to mention the murder scene. “It’s easier for me. I’m still an outlander here, so terrible things aren’t so—immediate, I guess. Besides, I’ve gotten good at hiding my feelings. Don’t forget, I’ve got more than twenty years on you. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling more like yourself.”

  “You’re very kind, Dorothy.” There was a tear on her cheek; she brushed it away and pulled herself together. “But I mustn’t be cosseted when I’m being foolish. I was afraid that Archie would be in trouble, you see, since it was the Town Hall. But the police have had the sense to realize he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, so it’s quite all right.”

  What a fragile bubble of hope! From what Alan had told me, neither Archie nor anyone else was out of the running at the moment. But let Clarice play with her pretty bubble while she could.

  Mrs. Finch set a tray in front of us and waited, hands on hips, for applause. She certainly deserved it. The tray was beautifully arranged with a lace cloth, flowered china, and a mouthwatering plateful of scones and homemade cookies. I took a bite of one and rolled my eyes skyward, grateful not only for the goodies but for a reason not to reply to Clarice.

  “This is sublime, Mrs. Finch. Do you ever give people your recipes?”

  “We-ell. That almond biscuit’s me granny’s own receipt, and I said I’d never part with it but to me own flesh and blood. But seein’ as ’ow me son ain’t got ’imself a wife no more, nor yet no children—”

  I caught my breath. “No children” was a phrase to be avoided around Clarice. One of our bonds was our childlessness, but whereas I’d learned over the years to deal with the pain, for Clarice it was fresh and new every single month, as her hopes were dashed again. I’ve seen her cry helplessly during a baptism at the cathedral.

  This morning, thank goodness, her thoughts were otherwise occupied. “Ada’s been telling me about the meeting last night,” she said. “Do sit down and go on, Ada.”

  I breathed again. “Oh, were you there, Mrs. Finch? I didn’t see you.”

  “I didn’t like to leave ’ere, but me son went, an’ come an’ told me about it after. I was just sayin’ as ’ow it don’t look too good for Mr. Pettifer bein’ allowed to build ’is mall.”

  “Yes, but Ada,” Clarice said eagerly, “last night was only a public discussion. Archie will talk them round, the Council and the people who matter. He’s such a powerful speaker. And the important thing is that no one said a word about him being accused—involved in the—accident. I’m sure it was an accident, it must have been. Don’t you think so, Dorothy?”

  I was very glad I had a mouthful of biscuit, even if I nearly choked. “Certainly the police haven’t made up their minds yet about the circumstances,” I said after I’d taken as long as possible to chew and swallow. “At least according to the little I know. Could I have a little more tea? And Clarice, not to change the subject, but when do you think you might be able to get back to work? Mrs. Williamson really needs you.”

  It was rude, but it worked; Clarice is easily led. We talked about the bookshop for a few minutes, and then Clarice excused herself. “I’m having my hair done,” she confided. “Ada thought it would brace me up.”

  “Good for you. Make sure they really pamper you.”

  I lingered in the hall after she had gone upstairs to dress. “What did your son really think of the meeting? I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Clarice.”

  Mrs. Finch snickered. “’Ee said it were a tea party compared to the one on Sunday.”

  “You mean the Lord Mayor’s meeting?” I was all ears. “How does he know about that?”

  “’Ee didn’t. I told ’im.”

  She looked at me, a cheeky grin on her weather-beaten face.

  “All right, all right! How did you know, then? You know perfectly well I’m dying to hear all about it.”

  She sat down on the elegant Directoire chaise longue in the hall, an incongruous figure in a too tight nylon housedress, work boots, and white socks, and told me.

  “See, the meetin’, it was at the private room in the Feathers, seein’ as ’ow the Mayor’s Parlor is bein’ done up. You know the Feathers?”

  I nodded. It was the biggest pub in the High Street, a good place for food and drink.

  “Well, Tom ’Arris, ’im as keeps the Feathers, is by way o’ bein’ a friend of mine.” She looked up coyly, and I nodded and obliged with the wink that seemed to be expected. “So when we was ’avin’ a friendly drop o’ gin, like, ’ee told me all about it. There was just the six of ’em: ’is Worship, an’ Mr. Pettifer, ’an Mrs. Dean as runs everything, an’ then them as spoke at the big meetin’. That John Thorpe—” She sniffed disdainfully. “An’ Mr. Farrell and Mavis Underwood, ’oo ’as got entirely above ’erself. An’ the mayor thought ’ee could keep it all civilized, like.” She affected a genteel accent. “‘See if we carn’t all come to a meetin’ of minds,’ ’ee said. Wanted to see which way the cat would jump, if you arsk me, so’s ’ee’d know which side to come down on ’imself.

  “So for a bit it was all la-di-da and properlike. Then after dinner, when they’d all ’ad one or two, Mr. Pettifer started in. Talkin’ big, like it was all settled, and lordin’ it over Mr. Farrell.

  “Well, Mr. Farrell, ’ee just blew up. The language, Tom said—such as you wouldn’t ’ardly believe. A right down shindy, it were! An’ Tom said Mr. Farrell just crashed out of there, like to took the door off the ’inges—an’ ’ee said ’ee’d stop Arch
ie if it was the last thing ’ee did, an’ left lookin’ fit to kill somebody!”

  6

  WHEN I GOT home, self and car amazingly still in one piece, I picked up the nearest cat and sat down on the couch to mull over Mrs. Finch’s news.

  Her sensational style made the most of the story, of course. When you got right down to it, all it amounted to was that the Lord Mayor’s meeting had been less than cordial, and I’d already known that. Still, I now had the full personnel list and information about one specific run-in. What I didn’t know was whether any of it was relevant.

  I stretched to reach the end table (Emmy, who had purred herself almost to sleep on my lap, commented crossly) and got a pad and pen. Time to make some lists.

  First I listed everyone who had been at the meeting Sunday night. Of course, there was no assurance that one of them was the murderer. But when six people get together and quarrel fiercely, and shortly thereafter a murder is committed that affects them all, in a site close to the meeting, my common sense refuses to dismiss the possibility of a connection. Very well:

  Daniel Clarke, the Lord Mayor

  Archibald Pettifer

  Barbara Dean

  John Thorpe

  Mavis Underwood

  William Farrell

  Now, one of the first principles of criminal investigation, at least as practiced in my favorite form of fiction, is to establish who benefits. Or, as Hercule Poirot used to put it, to see what the real effect of the crime is and then determine who is better off because of it. And the most important result of this crime, to my mind, was that Pettifer’s plans for the Town Hall were at least deferred, if not doomed. I studied my list of names. I’d lived in Sherebury long enough to know a little about most of them. Who was a likely murderer?