“Don’t you think it’s strange that she’s here?” Miss Dickce asked in an undertone, obviously as taken aback as I was.
“Yes, I do,” I said. “Maybe it’s her way of coping with her grief. Some people can’t stand being alone, no matter what.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Miss Dickce replied. “I still think it’s peculiar of her.” She frowned, and I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. Irene Warriner still appeared to be absorbed in whatever she was reading or looking at on her phone. I hoped she hadn’t been able to make out any of our conversation.
Time to change the subject in case she could understand what we were saying.
“Did you bring a notebook?” I asked Miss Dickce.
She tapped her large handbag. “I have one in here. I don’t take a lot of notes. I only jot down things I want to follow up on, on my own.”
“That’s probably what I should do,” I replied, “rather than wearing my hand out trying to write down everything. After all, I’m not an undergrad who needs to take a test these days.”
Miss Dickce giggled. “Neither am I.” She leaned closer to whisper. “Don’t you dare let the professor know, but my bachelor’s degree was in music performance.”
“Really? I had no idea. What was your instrument?” I had never heard Miss Dickce speak about her degree.
“Voice,” Miss Dickce said, somewhat wistfully. “I wanted to be another Maria Callas.” She giggled again. “We heard her at the Met in New York when I was a teenager, and I thought she was the most amazing singer. I was good, but not in that league, sadly.”
“Do you still sing?” I asked.
“In the choir at our church,” she said. “I can still hold a long note, and on pitch,” she added proudly.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I don’t have much of a singing voice myself.”
We lapsed into silence as other students began to appear and found seats around us. I continued to think about Irene Warriner’s presence in the room. I supposed it stemmed from her wanting to know more about music for background in a book she was working on. Perhaps focusing on writing was her way of coping with the death of her husband. That was probably it, I decided.
I realized that my sense of propriety had been somewhat offended by seeing her here, out in public as it were, so soon after the murder. Presumptuous on my part, I thought ruefully, but given my Southern upbringing, not an unnatural reaction.
Armand d’Arcy entered the classroom, and slowly the chatter around Miss Dickce and me trailed off. A bell rang, and d’Arcy surveyed the now-quiet group. “Good morning, mesdames et messieurs. Today we will discuss early medieval liturgical, or sacred, music. The music of the church, and perhaps the best-known form of this music today, is what is called the Gregorian chant. These chants were sung during the Mass.” He paused, then nodded to a young man seated several rows below Miss Dickce and me who had raised his hand. “Yes, you have a question?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said, his voice hesitant. “When you talk about the church, are you talking about the Catholic church?” When amused tittering from other students greeted his question, he seemed to shrink into his seat.
D’Arcy frowned. “There is no need for amusement among you. You may ask any question and need not fear ridicule from me.” He paused again, and I could almost feel the embarrassment in the room. “To answer your question, sir, yes, it is the Catholic church.” He smiled suddenly. “It was the only game in town in the early Middle Ages, other than Judaism and, of course, Islam.”
“Thank you,” the young man said.
“Catholicism, synonymous with Christianity in this period, was older than Islam, the beginnings of which are said to lie in the early seventh century of the Common Era. Judaism is older than either. This course focuses mainly on the Western music tradition. One of my colleagues who is an expert on Eastern music offers a course for those who are interested.
“Now, let us go back to Gregorian chant, which, as I said, was sung during the Mass.” He walked over to a console on one side of the room. “First, we will listen to some chant.” He pressed buttons, and a few seconds later, music issued from the speaker system.
We listened to several different chants during the ensuing ten minutes. I had always found Gregorian chant almost hypnotic in its cadences, and when I closed my eyes, I imagined I was in the choir with the monks as they sang. I could see Brother Cadfael, the monk-detective in Ellis Peters’s wonderful medieval mysteries, as he joined his brethren in song.
When d’Arcy cut off the music, he dimmed the lights at the front of the room and turned on the large screen on the wall. He opened his presentation, and for the next quarter hour he told us about early musical notation and went into considerable technical detail. I had pulled out my own notebook and jotted down a few things. So far Miss Dickce seemed not to have heard anything she didn’t already know, because the page of her notebook remained blank.
D’Arcy was a capable lecturer. He did not have the flair of delivery of the late Carey Warriner, but his passion for his subject was obvious. From the monophonic chants we moved on to other forms of early medieval music, such as secular songs, and more technical detail about the development of polyphonic music and notation. By the time the bell rang at 11:10 to end the class, I felt overwhelmed by the amount of information packed into the class period. If every meeting contained this much detail, I was happy that I wasn’t taking this course for a grade. All this aside, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture, so much so that I nearly forgot my original purpose in signing up for the course.
Miss Dickce and I waited until most of the students had trickled out of the room. D’Arcy stood at the console, doing something with the controls. When Miss Dickce and I made our way to him, he had apparently finished. He glanced at us and smiled briefly.
“That was so interesting, Professor d’Arcy,” Miss Dickce said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Gregorian chant explained so thoroughly. It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, it certainly is,” I said. “I have a new appreciation for it now that I have learned so much more about it.”
“I take it that you will both continue to attend my lectures?” d’Arcy said, one eyebrow slightly raised.
“I will do my best,” Miss Dickce said. “I may have to rearrange my schedule a few times, but I most definitely don’t want to miss a word.”
D’Arcy inclined his head. “That is truly flattering, Miss Ducote. I imagine that you are a very busy lady.” He glanced past us, his eyes glowing briefly at whoever had come up behind us. “You must excuse me now, I must talk to my colleague.”
“Of course,” I said, and Miss Dickce and I turned to withdraw.
Irene Warriner stood a few steps behind us, her eyes downcast. As we moved by, she looked up, and this time recognition dawned. Her expression grave, she said, “Good morning, Miss Ducote, Mr. Harris. I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier who you were when you first came in.”
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” Miss Dickce said, her tone full of sympathy. “My sister and I want to offer our deepest sympathies on the death of your husband. He was such a vital, talented young man with so many more successes ahead of him.”
“Thank you,” Irene whispered, suddenly overcome with emotion, it seemed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When her eyes opened again, she said, “This is such a nightmare. I can’t really believe it happened.”
Armand d’Arcy moved quickly to her side and slid his arm around her in a gesture of comfort. “Ma chère Irène,” he murmured. “Do not upset yourself so.”
I found his use of the French version of her name oddly intimate, and I shifted uneasily.
“Thank you, Armand,” she said, her body stiff in his embrace. “I’m all right.”
D’Arcy frowned and let his arm fall away from her. He did not step away, but Irene Wa
rriner moved uneasily aside.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said to cover the awkward pause that ensued. “I had signed up for your husband’s course, and I thought he was truly a gifted speaker.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, and I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes.
“We mustn’t keep you any longer,” Miss Dickce said, kindly but firmly. She addressed d’Arcy. “We will see you again on Thursday.” With that she headed briskly out of the room, leaving me to trail along in her wake.
Miss Dickce came to a halt a few yards down the hall. I almost stumbled into her but I caught myself in time. She appeared not to notice.
“Well, what did you think?” she asked, her voice low.
“About what?” I responded, slightly puzzled.
“Irene Warriner and d’Arcy,” Miss Dickce said. “Are they madly in love with each other?”
“I’d say he definitely has tender feelings for her,” I said. “She seemed uneasy with the close contact, though. She also seemed to be grieving her husband, unless she was putting on an act for our benefit.”
“He’s in love with her, I’d say.” Miss Dickce nodded. “The tone of voice in which he called her his dear Irene left me in no doubt.” Her expression clouded. “I’m less sure of her, though. She did shy away from him, but I’m not entirely convinced that his embrace was unwelcome.” She paused for a moment. “I wonder if she only wanted us to think it was.”
“You don’t think her appearance of grief was authentic?”
Miss Dickce shrugged. “I’m just not sure. I can’t put my finger on the reason.” She sighed. “I’m probably only imagining it, but I thought she might be putting it on for our benefit.”
“I see.” I had found Irene Warriner’s display convincing. What had I missed that Miss Dickce had picked up on? I would have to think more about it later. I checked my watch. I had plenty of time to get to the Farrington House restaurant for my next task for the day.
“Miss Dickce,” I said, struck by sudden inspiration, “do you have any plans for lunch today?”
She wrinkled her nose. “A garden club meeting. The board is lunching together.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“Do you have a better offer?” Miss Dickce smiled. “I could be tempted.”
I laughed. “Yes, how would you like to join me at the Farrington House restaurant for a little more sleuthing?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Of course. I’ll text An’gel and tell her that something has come up, and she’ll have to go without me.” She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out her phone.
I waited while she sent Miss An’gel her message. Moments later her phone rang. Miss Dickce rolled her eyes. “I told her not to call.” She answered. “Yes, Sister, what is it?” she said in tones of deep resignation.
She listened for a moment. “I’ll explain later. I’m with Charlie Harris. We’re going to have lunch. You’ll just have to go to the board lunch without me.” She ended the call and stuck the phone back in her handbag. She linked her arm through mine and said, “Let’s go. Now tell me all about it.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I escorted Miss Dickce to her car and waited until she had driven off. Then I made my way back to my car and headed to the Farrington House hotel on the square. We met in the bar, as arranged. We had time for a drink before we needed to find our table. I found Miss Dickce ensconced in a booth, and I slid into it opposite her.
“What would you like to drink?” Miss Dickce shot me a roguish look. “How about Long Island iced tea?”
I chuckled. “That’s a bit strong for me, usually, but if you’re having one, I will, too.”
Miss Dickce giggled as the waiter approached. She gave him our order, and he went to the bar to place it.
“Tell me more about the purpose of this lunch,” Miss Dickce said.
“Melba has invited two of her friends to lunch here, and we’re going to be sitting in the next alcove while she tries to get them to talk about their departments,” I said. “One of them is the administrator in the history department, the other in English.”
Miss Dickce nodded her approval. “Excellent idea. If there’s anything to find out, Melba will get it out of them. And I’d be willing to bet good money that they will know something useful.” She giggled again. “Some of the departments here are hotbeds of scandal. I could certainly tell you a few tales that would shock you. But I can’t. All confidential board business.” She looked sad.
“It’s okay,” I hastened to assure her. “I’d just as soon not know, frankly. I remember a few things that happened when I was an undergrad.” I shook my head. “Like the time one of the coaches of the basketball team ran off with a physics professor’s college-freshman daughter.”
“Oh my, yes, that was quite a scandal,” Miss Dickce said. “At least they ended up married. Still are, as far as I know, with several children.” She thought for a moment. “Goodness, the oldest must be around thirty by now.”
“Probably so,” I said, not wanting to think about how long ago I’d been a student at Athena. Some days it felt far longer ago than thirty-odd years; other days it was like yesterday.
The waiter appeared with our drinks and set them down with a flourish. “Would you like anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Miss Dickce said.
He nodded and withdrew.
We both sipped at our drinks, and I winced slightly at the strength of the alcoholic mixture. I’d have to eat something pretty soon, or I’d be light-headed from the alcohol.
“Tell me,” I said, setting down my drink, “why do you think Irene Warriner might have been insincere in her grief?”
Miss Dickce sipped at her drink before she replied. “I really can’t tell you,” she said slowly. “Simply a feeling I had. If I think about it more later, I might be able to put my finger on it.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you do figure it out, please let me know. I’ll be doing the same thing.”
As if in silent agreement we chatted for the next quarter hour about matters totally unrelated to the murders. Miss Dickce regaled me with some humorous tales from garden club meetings, and I sipped discreetly—and slowly—from my Long Island iced tea. I could definitely feel the alcohol beginning to have an effect.
Miss Dickce seemed completely the same, despite the fact that she had already consumed at least half of her drink. I had to admire her head for alcohol.
I checked my watch and had to blink a few times to bring the time into focus. “Time for us to head to our table, I think.”
Miss Dickce drained her drink, set the glass on the table, and slid out of the booth. “I’ll settle up at the bar,” she said, leaving me to extricate myself from the booth—a task that suddenly seemed more difficult than usual.
When I managed to get out and stand up, I put my hand on the back of the booth to steady myself. I shook my head several times in an attempt to clear it. A few deep breaths later, I felt steady enough to walk from the bar into the restaurant. Miss Dickce rejoined me, taking my arm and leading me purposefully out of the bar.
While we waited for the hostess, I glanced around the dining room. About half the tables were occupied. I knew the restaurant here was a popular choice for business lunches, and today seemed no exception, to judge by the number of men and women in business attire.
The hostess appeared in front of us. “Miss Dickce,” she said with a broad smile. “What a great surprise.” She glanced at me. “Are you okay, sir?”
I nodded, hoping that the room wouldn’t suddenly move. I must have had more of that Long Island iced tea than I realized. Or it was far more potent, one or the other.
“Marlene, my dear friend Charlie invited me to join him for lunch,” Miss Dickce said. “How are the little ones?”
From the ensuing conversation I gathered th
at Marlene had a small menagerie of dogs and cats, and she happily gave a report on their well-being to Miss Dickce, who listened with evident interest.
Finally Marlene broke off and looked at me again. “I think I know you. Charlie Harris, right? Melba’s friend.”
“Yes, guilty as charged,” I said.
Marlene grinned. “Then y’all come with me. Your table is ready.” She led us to the last booth along the wall, and the top of the divider between it and the next booth contained a thick cluster of plants. Perfect.
I assisted Miss Dickce—or more likely I held on to her so as not to lose my balance—and she took her place. I managed to get into the booth, my back to the next booth so I could hear what went on. My head was beginning to clear a bit. I told myself that the next time I dined anywhere with Miss Dickce, I would not be drinking any Long Island iced tea with her.
“Your server will be with you in a moment,” Marlene said. “In the meantime I’ll bring your water.” She laid a menu on the table in front of each of us.
“I think you’d better get some black coffee for Charlie,” Miss Dickce said, her tone wry.
“Will do,” Marlene said, and disappeared. She came quickly back with water and coffee for me.
Ordinarily I don’t like black coffee, preferring it with cream and sugar, but I managed to drink about half the cup. Thankfully for my mouth and tongue, it wasn’t hot, just warm enough.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Miss Dickce said with a grin.
“Thank you,” I replied. “Normally about the most I ever have is a glass or two of wine. That stuff is lethal.” I began to feel a bit steadier.
Miss Dickce waved that away. “You drank it on an empty stomach. Of course it affected you.”
“It didn’t seem to affect you,” I said, trying not to sound censorious.
She giggled. “I’ve got nearly thirty years’ experience on you. Not that I’m a heavy drinker, but I do like a good stiff drink on occasion.”
The Pawful Truth Page 17