7 - Death of a Dean

by Hazel Holt

  “Look,” she said, “come in and sit down for a moment.”

  She led the way through a tiny hall into a small, low-ceilinged sitting room, pleasantly cool after the heat of the day outside.

  “Do sit down,” she said, “and I’ll get you a glass of water.” I put my collecting tin and tray on the floor and sat down obediently on the sofa, feeling rather guilty in the face of this kindness, when my eye was caught by a photograph on the small table beside the sofa. It was a framed snapshot of a smiling group—the woman, the child and Adrian Beaumont.

  With an increasing sense of unreality I picked up the photograph and was staring at it in amazement when the woman came back into the room. She stopped short in the doorway when she saw me with the photograph in my hand. She put down the glass of water she was carrying and said brusquely, “What are you doing?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it must seem very rude of me, but—well, it’s the most extraordinary coincidence. My name is Sheila Malory, I’m a friend of the Beaumonts, you see.”

  “I see.”

  As if sensing the feeling of tension in the air, the child began to cry.

  “It’s all right, Robbie,” she said soothingly, “it’s all right.”

  She sat down in the chair opposite to me and cuddled him on her lap until he was quiet again. Now as I looked at the child more closely I realized that he was hardly more than a baby, scarcely a year old. Yet her liaison with Francis had ended three years ago. And then there was the photograph. An incredible idea began to take shape in my mind as I sat in silence watching the woman rocking her child.

  After a while she spoke. “You said you were a friend of the Beaumonts.”

  “Yes. I’ve known Francis and David all my life and I’m devoted to David—but, well, Francis and I never got along. I’m very fond of Joan, though, and Mary and Adrian ...” My voice trailed away, my gaze strayed once more to the photograph and I found myself asking, “Is that Adrian’s child?”

  “Yes, Robert is Adrian’s son.”

  “I was confused for a moment,” I said, “because he looks so very like Francis.”

  “Yes.”

  Again we sat in silence and then I said, “Do you mind if I have that glass of water? I really do feel a little peculiar.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said politely, as if this was an ordinary social visit.

  I drank a little of the water and began to feel more myself.

  “Look,” I said suddenly, “you must think I’m just being nosy and gossipy, but I’ve been so involved with the family since Francis’s murder—David and I were there the day it happened, you see, and David’s staying with me—as I said, we’re old friends. I’ve been trying to do what I can to help Joan and Mary, and, well, we’ve all been dreadfully worried about Adrian ... If you could help us with him in any way we’d all be so grateful.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since his father died,” she said, “and he won’t speak to me on the phone. I don’t know what to do.”

  “We none of us knew about you,” I said helplessly, “we had no idea—about the baby and everything. In fact, Mary thought ...” I caught myself up quickly, but not quickly enough.

  “She thought that I was having an affair with her father?”

  “Well, yes, yes, she did. She found a letter.”

  “And that is why you’re here today?”

  I felt the blood rush into my face. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  She smiled. “It was very enterprising of you.”

  “I just wanted to find out more about Francis—because of the murder, you see. I mean, the police suspect David, which is ridiculous ...”

  “So you thought you’d see if you could find another suspect?”

  “Well, not exactly ... perhaps.”

  “In that case, I’d better tell you all about it from the beginning.”

  The little boy was asleep now and she got up gently and put him down on the quilt in a playpen in the corner of the room. “I’ll make a cup of tea,” she said. “That’s always supposed to be the suitable thing to do on every occasion, isn’t it?”

  “My name is Judy Fletcher,” she said, when she had poured the tea and we were sitting, almost cozily, together, “but I expect you already know that.” She looked at me inquiringly and I nodded.

  “And, yes, I did have an affair with Francis Beaumont. I’m a computer programmer and he wanted some work done—to do with the cathedral finances—and someone recommended me. I work from home and he used to come here quite often to check the progress of the programs or to amend them. He was, oh I don’t know, different, I suppose, from anyone else I’d ever met. That absolute certainty about everything! I’d just divorced my husband—he was weak and useless, in practically every way, feeble! It was the usual story. He found someone who wasn’t pushing and organizing him all the time and went off and left me. It was a relief when he’d gone, actually, and when Francis appeared—everything that Clive (that’s my husband) was not—well! I fell for him quite heavily.”

  She reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced some cigarettes. “Do you?” I shook my head. “Do you mind if I do? I know I shouldn’t with Robert around, but there are times ...”

  I smiled sympathetically and she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Where was I? Oh yes, Francis. He could be very charming when he wanted. I was flattered, of course, and I think he found it good for his self-esteem to know that someone so much younger found him attractive.”

  “I can imagine,” I said drily.

  “It lasted for about six months,” Judy said. “On his side, at least. When he said it was all over I wouldn’t accept it—I made scenes, threatened to tell his wife, all that sort of thing.”

  “How did he cope with that?” I asked curiously.

  She laughed. “He offered me money. That was Francis’s solution to every problem.”

  I put my empty cup on the tray. “So what did you do?” She shrugged. “I came to my senses. The very fact that he thought he could buy me off opened my eyes to what sort of person he was. So I thought, yes, all right, I’ll take your money, I’ll get something out of it.”

  “Good for you!” I said approvingly.

  “That’s how I met Adrian. Francis couldn’t just write a check, not for any substantial sum of money. There’d have been problems with various accounts—I don’t understand the details. Anyway, it was arranged that Adrian should bring me installments of cash, every month. He didn’t know about his father and me, he was supposed to think it was payment for computer work I’d done.”

  “Neat,” I said.

  “Oh yes, Francis was devious, all right.”

  “So how did it happen? You and Adrian?”

  She smiled. “Poor lamb, I felt sorry for him the moment I saw him. I knew at once what sort of person he was. Not weak and blustering like Clive, but weak and helpless, a sweet-natured person who’d never been given any sort of affection. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Joan, his mother, did try, but Francis always accused her of making him soft, as he said, and Joan was completely under his thumb!”

  “Adrian was too. So I decided, that was my first instinct, that I was going to undermine that domination. Afterward, of course, I grew fond of Adrian for himself, but my first impulse was to revenge myself on Francis by destroying his influence with his son.” She stubbed out her cigarette with some violence. “I began by telling him about my affair with Francis. That shook him, I can tell you. And then I told him how his father had dropped me and then paid me off. He was very upset. By then, he’d been coming to see me quite frequently, not just to bring the money. I’d made him welcome, tried to build up his confidence in himself, given him some sort of affection. He fell in love with me, bless him. He’d never been in love with anyone before. It was very touching, and I grew very fond of him. No, I’m not in love with him, but I do love him dearly.”

  Her expression soften
ed and she glanced toward the playpen and the sleeping child.

  “And the baby?” I asked.

  “Clive and I never had any children—he couldn’t—I suppose I might have tried to make something of the marriage if we had. And a child, of course, was the last thing Francis would have wanted, but I ... I suddenly realized that I wanted a child. I was nearly forty years old and it was my last chance. I suppose you could say I used Adrian. Used him to get my revenge on Francis, used him to father a child.”

  “How did Adrian feel about it? The baby, I mean?”

  “Oh, he was so thrilled!” She picked up the photograph of them all together and smiled lovingly.

  “So why did you both keep all this a secret?” I asked.

  “You know Adrian. You know how frightened he is of his father, how he could never make a move without his approval. He’d been stressed enough about our being together, and I knew that if I tried to push him into acknowledging our relationship, then he’d be right over the edge, and I couldn’t do that to him.”

  “Yes, I see. But what I don’t see,” I went on, “is why, now that Francis is dead, Adrian is behaving in this extraordinary way. I mean, you’d think he’d be delighted to come out into the open ...”

  “I’m really worried about him. I honestly don’t know what to do.” She took another cigarette from the packet and lit it. “Have you seen him since his father died?”

  “No, I haven’t. When I went to the deanery just after—you know—Adrian was in his room and, according to Joan, he wouldn’t come out for several days. He was in a pretty bad state. I think he must be a little better now, I believe he’s back at work. But I did see him just before his father died and I thought he looked rather ill then.”

  “Yes, he’s been in a strange sort of state for several months now. When he came here he was terribly tense and anxious, and then, gradually, he’d relax and seem to enjoy being with us, just like he used to. But, when he had to go, the tension would come back. He wouldn’t tell me what was upsetting him, but I knew there was something. I did try to take his mind off things. I got a sitter and we went out to the pub a couple of times. But he was always nervous and jumpy if we were out together, afraid that someone might see us together.”

  “I can imagine.”

  We sat quietly for a while and then I asked, “Would you marry Adrian, now that it would be possible?”

  She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Not even for Robert?”

  “No. I’m so much older than he is—though that’s not the reason. I don’t particularly want to be married. I’ve got what I want. I’ve got Robert. Of course, I’d always let Adrian be involved, if that’s what he wanted, but Robert is my child. I made that quite clear from the beginning. I support him myself from what I earn—I’ve never taken any money from Adrian, for Robert or for me, and I never would.”

  There was a small cry from the child in the playpen and she went over and picked him up.

  “He’s hungry,” she said.

  Robert, now awake, regarded me over his mother’s shoulder with wide eyes.

  “He’s beautiful,” I said, smiling at him. “He’s going to look exactly like Francis used to look when he was a child. It’s funny, one never saw how like his father Adrian looked—I suppose it’s because he was always in Francis’s shadow and one never noticed. But,” I said, picking up the photograph again, “the resemblance here is very strong.” I turned again to look at Judy. “Please forgive me for coming like this. As you must know, it’s all a bit difficult at the moment. The police haven’t actually accused anyone of Francis’s murder but it’s obvious they are concentrating on David, who, I must admit, did have a motive to wish his brother dead. But I’ve known David for years and there’s no way he could kill anyone.”

  “So who do you think did it?” Judy asked.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “It could have been me,” she said, “several years ago. When he rejected me and I hated him. But now ... I won’t say I’m sorry Francis is dead, not after the way he treated me and the way he’s ruined Adrian’s life, but I didn’t kill him.” She looked directly at me. “Do you believe me?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “I believe you.” I picked up my tray and collecting tin. “I must go, I’m sorry ...”

  “No. It’s been a relief, in a way, to be able to talk to someone.” She put the child down, holding onto his hand. “Look, could you do something for me?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Could you try and see Adrian? Could you, please, ask him to come and see me? Or even telephone. Anything. Please let him know how worried I am. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” I said, “yes, I will.”

  “And you’ll let me know how he is?”

  “Of course.” I bent down to the child. “Good-bye, Robert.”

  In a sudden access of shyness, the child buried his face in his mother’s skirt. She smiled.

  “Good-bye. Come and see us again, if you’re ever this way.”

  At the gate I turned to wave and they both waved back, Judy waving Robert’s hand for him and Robert laughing.

  As I got into the car, now hotter than ever from standing in the blazing sun, I thought that although I was quite sure that Judy hadn’t murdered Francis, I was equally certain that she and Robert had provided Adrian with a very good motive for doing so.

  Chapter 18

  Darling, you look absolutely terrible. What have you been doing?”

  David’s expression of concern, when I got home, indicated that I looked as exhausted as I felt.

  “It has been a bit of a day!” I said, flopping down in a chair.

  “Would you like a delicious cup of tea, or do you think something more stimulating is in order? The sun is, to all intents and purposes, over the yardarm.”

  “Oh, yes. Just a little gin and a great deal of tonic please, and have one yourself else I’ll feel guilty!”

  While David poured the drinks I told him about my afternoon with Judy.

  “It was a bit of a brass neck calling on her like that,” he said. “I do think enterprise like that deserves some reward, but one could hardly have hoped for such riches!”

  “I know. I was absolutely staggered. Adrian, of all people!

  Still, you do see, it does give him a very strong motive for killing his father. I mean, not just being terrified that Francis would find out about Judy and the baby—and you can imagine what hell he’d have made life for all of them!—but also anger about the way Judy had been treated.”

  “Mm. Poor lad. I must say I’m so sorry for him, he was used by everyone. Taken over by his father, used by this Judy female ...”

  “But,” I said quickly, “she’s also given him the only real happiness he’s ever known.”

  “I suppose. So, what are you going to do?”

  “Oh dear,” I sighed, “it’s very difficult. I promised I’d see Adrian so I must try. But, you see, if he did kill Francis that would explain his extraordinary behavior. He loves Judy and the child so much that he’d want to keep right away from them in case they might be suspected or involved in any way.”

  “Not to mention,” David said, “providing a motive.”

  “Exactly. And I was so touched by that little family—you should have seen that photo, it was really sweet—I’d hate to see it all destroyed.”

  “Such a complicated family tangle,” David mused, “like an early play by Anouilh. Quite extraordinary!”

  “What’s extraordinary?” Michael asked, coming into the sitting room. “Hullo, are you two at the gin already!”

  “Oh goodness,” I exclaimed, “you’re home early! I haven’t started supper yet!”

  “I had to go and see an old gent in West Lodge, about his will,” Michael said defensively, “and it didn’t seem worth going back to the office.”

  I got to my feet. “You have a drink with David and he’ll tell you all about what I’ve found out,
and I’ll start cooking!”

  All through supper we talked around and around the discoveries I’d made, about Adrian and Judy and about Mary and her plans for the stables.

  “Well,” Michael said, “it could be either of them. Assuming, of course, that Adrian was around that lunchtime and able to slip the dope into his father’s medicine.”

  “Or,” I reminded him, “he could have gone into Francis’s room in the cathedral while Monica was away sorting out the flower problem.”

  “Anyway,” David asked, “how are you going to get to see him? He’s been very elusive up to now.”

  “I don’t know, I’ll see how things go ...”

  “My money’s on Mary,” Michael said. “She sounds much more efficient than the wretched Adrian.”

  “Yes, but I get the feeling that Adrian was more desperate.” I poured myself a glass of water. “Now can we stop talking about it? I do feel I’ve had quite enough of all this for one day!”

  “What you need is a nice restful day in the sun,” Michael said. “I’ve got a day’s leave and I was going to take it tomorrow to go to the cricket. Come with me—you know you enjoy it.”

  “Oh, darling, tomorrow? I’m sure I was supposed to be doing something ...”

  “Then don’t. How about you, David? Will you come too?”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Michael, but I’m not, actually, into cricket. I love Wimbledon—well, the idea of Wimbledon, though I usually go to sleep when I watch it on the telly—but I’m not really sportif.”

  “I thought there was a very strong link between the theater and cricket,” I said. “Think of those charity matches they always seem to be playing. Oh, and what about Frank Benson and his famous cricket team?”

  “Frank Benson?” Michael inquired.

  “A famous Edwardian actor-manager, you ignorant child, based at Stratford. There’s that heavenly painting of him, you know the one, David, all noble Roman profile and wearing shorts and a blazer!”

  “It was Benson,” David said, “who advertised for ‘a personable young man to play Laertes, must be a good medium-paced bowler.’ ”