That was the second time somebody had used that expression about Farrell. But the somebody he wanted to kill was Pettifer, and Pettifer was still alive.
No, at the price, my information was no bargain. Onward, Dorothy.
7
THORPE AND SMYTHE occupied an ugly, modern building on the High Street, next to the Tudor black-and-white that housed a number of offices, including William Farrell’s. In my hurry to get past the ogre’s den, I nearly missed the estate agency; the only noticeable thing about it was the window display of house pictures with descriptions and breathtaking prices. I opened the door, a bored clerk pointed me in the direction of Thorpe’s office, and I knocked and went in.
John Thorpe was a stocky man who looked a lot like Michael Caine, and talked like him, too, his nasal accent grating on the ear. His suit, though impeccably cut and obviously expensive, was just a shade too blue; so were his eyes. I tried not to wince when he shook my hand with a bone-crushing grip. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Martin. And how may I be of service to your good self?”
“Well—” I launched into the almost true story about my waning lease and the planning permission delays. “And I thought it would be just as well to look at some other houses, because I really don’t know when the Planning Committee’s going to get its mind off the Town Hall long enough to consider my house.”
If I hoped that would give me a lead-in to my real agenda, I was wrong. John Thorpe hadn’t gotten to be a highly successful businessman by going off on tangents. “Quite right, madam. I can see you’re as astute as you are charming!” A good many very white teeth flashed in a very sincere smile. “Now, I happen to have an especially fine property on my books at the moment, made for you, I assure you. Only two years old, in perfect condition, no need to worry about any repairs for years to come—and no fuss with the regulations when repairs do enter the picture!”
He showed me a picture of the ghastly place, all pebble-dashed concrete and shiny new brick, and followed with several others almost as awful. I finally stemmed the flow.
“These are all lovely, Mr. Thorpe, but I really prefer old houses. I know they’re a lot of trouble, but—oh, what I really want is to stay where I am. After the meeting last night, do you have any idea when the Town Hall question might be settled?”
“Well, as to that, we all thought it was settled, didn’t we, until—however. If you were at the meeting, you do understand I can take no sides, no sides at all. John Farrell has a good case, a very good case indeed.”
“He seemed to be an angry sort of man. Someone told me he had a fight with Mr. Pettifer?”
Thorpe spread his hands deprecatingly. “Bit of a slanging match, that’s all. Farrell has a temper, right enough, but no stomach for a good fight. Oh, there were words, words I couldn’t repeat to a lady, I don’t mind saying. But Farrell’s got no stamina for the long pull, y’see. Got to be ready to get your teeth in and hold on, in this business.” He laughed heartily at his mixed metaphors, his own excellent teeth showing to full advantage.
“Oh, my, it sounds—exhausting.”
“No, no, just business. A lady like you wouldn’t understand, of course. And no need!” He patted my shoulder.
I hoped he didn’t hear my teeth gritting. When I could unclench my jaw, I opened it to ask more questions, but Thorpe suddenly realized we had strayed far from my ostensible purpose. “But enough of unpleasantness. Now, about your house—”
My supply of insincerities exhausted, I stood. “Unfortunately I have an appointment, Mr. Thorpe. I wish you’d keep me in mind, though, if a nice old house in good condition comes on the market.” I gave him my address and telephone number, and turned to go. “Oh, there is one thing you might be able to do for me.”
“Anything at all, of course.” He expanded visibly.
Mavis Underwood had been suspicious, and Thorpe certainly knew just as well as she did when I’d last been in the Town Hall, but it was worth a try. “You see, what with the—unpleasantness—the other day, I managed to lose an earring in the Town Hall. I haven’t liked to ask the police about it—such a little thing—anyway, would it be too much trouble for you to lend me your key so I could look for it? It’s a pair I particularly like.” I smiled winningly, my head to one side in a nauseating Shirley Temple imitation.
Which didn’t work. Thorpe’s smile froze into place.
“Ah, well now, what a pity. I regard that key as a solemn trust, Mrs. Martin. I never let it out of my possession. Never. Of course, I shall be more than happy to search for your earring the next time I am in the building. Though I should have thought the police would have found it. I’d report it if I were you.” He shook my hand, and showed me out the door with more enthusiasm over my departure than he had displayed a few moments before.
Excellent advice, I thought as I walked slowly down the street, if my ridiculous story were true. Not that either Mavis or John Thorpe had believed a word of it. Oh, well. At least I’d confirmed that Thorpe had a key, too. Or said he still had it. And that he doubted Farrell had enough backbone to murder anyone. And he had, I was afraid, begun to develop some suspicions about me.
Did that matter? Perhaps not, unless he was the murderer. Then it might matter very much indeed. Alan would not be pleased if I got myself into a dangerous situation he then had to get me out of.
I shook my head impatiently. I could take care of myself. I’d just have to be a little more subtle from now on, that was all. At any rate Thorpe obviously thought me a “lady,” and therefore negligible. Much as his attitude grated, it was useful under the circumstances. Dismissing him and Alan from my mind, I went on to the next thing.
It was time I met Mr. Farrell.
By this time I had walked to the end of the High Street. I stopped and stood for a few minutes staring sightlessly into a window displaying orthopedic appliances. There was plenty of afternoon left, and it had turned into a beautiful day. There wasn’t the slightest reason why I shouldn’t call on Farrell.
Except that I was scared.
And why? I demanded of myself. Just because he looks like every movie monster you’ve ever seen? Be your age.
I sighed rebelliously. Why does being one’s age always involve doing things one doesn’t want to do? Surely I’d earned the right to be irrationally scared if I wanted to. And why was I involving myself in something that was none of my business anyway? I could go have a lovely cup of tea and some sinful pastries somewhere and forget all about murders.
And call myself a coward for the rest of my life.
I turned around and walked back to the gorgeous black-and-white.
It was one of Sherebury’s finest buildings, pure Elizabethan, with both beams and plaster carved wherever decoration could be applied. I’d wanted to see the inside of it for a long time.
WILLIAM FARRELL, BUILDER, was listed with a room number on a sign by the massive front door. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open with a dentist’s-office feeling in my stomach.
The English don’t use a standardized numbering system by floor, the way American buildings do, so room seven could be anywhere. As I stood in the dim hallway, delaying, I drank in the linenfold paneling, the heavily carved plaster rose on the ceiling with its accompanying crystal chandelier—much later period, that, but it fit—the gorgeous brass hardware on the heavy oak doors—
“May I help you, madam?”
I turned so suddenly I nearly lost my balance. He’d approached silently, on rubber-soled shoes, and stood towering over me, looking annoyed and bored.
Boris Karloff, in person.
I gulped and tried to get my breathing back in order. “No, thank you—well, actually—yes, I was looking for you.”
“Yes?”
Never had the monosyllable been more intimidating. I took a deep breath, and some guardian angel supplied my barren brain with an idea. “Yes,” I said firmly. “To talk to you about my house. Do you suppose we could go to your office? I’m getting a crick in my neck
, looking up at you.”
The atmosphere lightened a little. The jutting jaws moved slightly in what might have been meant for a smile as he gestured wordlessly toward the door to the right.
He seated me in the visitor’s chair, sat down himself, and raised formidable eyebrows. I took a moment to study him and collect myself.
I hadn’t been mistaken about the Frankenstein’s monster face: cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, with great hollows underneath, incredible shoulders, great awkward red hands dangling from too short coat sleeves. A man of about forty, he wasn’t ugly, really, just craggy and very, very determined-looking.
He cleared his throat, but I didn’t let him remind me what a busy man he was.
“Mr. Farrell, what was this building originally?” I wanted to get him talking.
To my great surprise, when he relaxed his face fell into lines more reminiscent of Gregory Peck—still craggy, but without the menace. “It was built to be a wool merchant’s house, in 1562. His name was Thomas Lynley, and he was probably the wealthiest man in Sherebury at the time. There are records that the house cost one thousand pounds, which was an enormous sum then; the average workman earned about six shillings a week, if he was lucky.”
He leaned forward as he spoke, his huge, ugly hands waving with enthusiasm.
“Was that the Lynley who endowed the hospital?”
“His son. You know some local history, then? You are Mrs. Martin, aren’t you—the American lady?”
“Oh, dear, I’m always forgetting to introduce myself. Yes, I’m Dorothy Martin, and no, I don’t know much Sherebury history, really, but Lynley’s Hospital is one of the sights. You certainly have it all down pat; are you a Sherebury native?”
“No, I’ve settled here only in the past year, but there’s been the odd job in the area now and again, and architectural history interests me. A hospital back then, you know, was an almshouse, a place of shelter, for the old or needy rather than the sick. Lynley’s Hospital was endowed to provide a place for twenty old, indigent men to live out their days in comfort and decency. Their clothing was provided, as well as food and a daily ration of ale, and even a tiny income, enough to give them some self-respect.”
“And it’s still functioning, isn’t it?”
“Not only functioning, but thriving—and on the original endowment, at that! That money has grown to a trust so formidable that additional charities have had to be added in order to try to fulfill the donor’s original intent. A corresponding institution for old women was built in the eighteenth century, and early in the nineteen hundreds the whole lot were modernized, electricity and plumbing and so on.”
“Oh, dear! They haven’t spoiled it, I hope?”
“My dear madam,” he said impatiently, “if ancient buildings are to be used, they must be made to meet modern needs—if it can be done. This building, admittedly lovely, is badly suited for offices.”
“I admit I was surprised to see you in this setting. From what you said at the meeting the other night, I’d have thought you’d prefer something starkly modern.”
“I should, if something suitable were available.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Now, Mrs. Martin, what can I do for you?”
“I shouldn’t have come without an appointment, I know, and I’ve been wasting your time. But I was hoping you might be able to help me with my house.” I gave him a brief version of my housing woes. “I know historic work isn’t your specialty, but I’d hoped you might make an exception.”
Boris Karloff returned, forcefully. “Even though you’ve hired Herbert Benson to do your roof. And you thought I despised old buildings.”
I should have known—the Sherebury grapevine at work again. “I haven’t hired him!” I said, stung. “He hasn’t even looked at it yet. And I—I’ve tried everyone who—”
“Mrs. Martin, why are you here?” His voice could have etched glass, and it scared the truth out of me.
“I wanted to meet you.”
The eyebrows looked incredulous. I floundered on.
“I was next door, talking to Mr. Thorpe, and thought I’d see if you were in. I’m snooping, if you really want to know. It’s about the Town Hall, you see.”
His jaw muscles tightened, and so did my nerves. I swallowed hard. “You can throw me out if you want to. You’d have a perfect right. But I think I have a right to ask questions, too. Not only did I find the body, but I’m worried about Clarice Pettifer. She’s a friend, and she’s extremely upset over the Town Hall murder. Do you think her husband had anything to do with it?”
He looked down at his desk for a very long moment, those big hands clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough, but taut. “I’m not the right person to ask about Archibald Pettifer, Mrs. Martin. If you’ve been speaking to Thorpe, you know I’ve no time for Pettifer, nor he for me. I’d be sorry to learn he was a murderer, but not entirely surprised. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am late for a meeting.”
He stood and opened the door, and if his tone was just short of rude, I could hardly blame him.
I made one last, feeble try.
“I don’t suppose you’d have time to let me in the Town Hall on your way? I’ve lost an earring, and—”
“No.” The monosyllable was unequivocal, and uninformative. He nodded curtly as he showed me out the door and shut it firmly behind me.
And I’d learned nothing about a key, nothing about a motive. All the same, it hadn’t been a total waste of time.
Those hands of his, those frightening hands, didn’t quite match. The right one was bruised and swollen and scratched, all across the knuckles.
THE MINUTE I got home, I put in a call to Alan.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin,” said his pleasant-voiced secretary. “Mr. Nesbitt is in London today, and I don’t expect him back until quite late. May I give him a message?”
“No, that’s all right. Or—you might just ask him to call me when he gets a chance. Nothing important.”
I felt as if my lollipop had been snatched away. Here I was with all sorts of lovely new ideas and no one to tell.
As I mulled over my information, though, it seemed to lose a lot of its vitality. Pettifer and Farrell had quarreled bitterly on the night of the death. Everyone at the Lord Mayor’s meeting apparently possessed a key to the Town Hall, or had at one time (though Barbara Dean was still an unknown quantity). And Farrell’s right hand was a bloody mess.
I grinned as I imagined Alan’s response to that still (in England) very improper adjective. It was true enough, though, and my best piece of news—if the police didn’t already know about it. Did I dare call Inspector Morrison and ask? Probably not. My unofficial position was too precarious. No, until Alan got back there was really nothing to do but mind my own business.
You could call on the Lord Mayor. Or how about your friend Mr. Pettfer? Since you’re so determined to play girl detective.
If I must keep telling myself what to do, I thought bitterly, I do wish I could manage to keep from being so blasted sarcastic about it.
WHEN I WOKE up Thursday morning, I lay wondering why I felt pleased, and then remembered. My roof! Mr. Benson was coming to fix my roof! And maybe we could start on plans for the rest of the alterations.
“Well, girls,” I said to the cats after I finished breakfast, “we may actually know, soon, whether we’re going to keep on living here. You don’t want to move, do you?”
They lay blinking at me sleepily, each in her own patch of the sunshine that streamed in the windows. Summer was once more acting like summer, the sky a gorgeous blue with decorative little puffy clouds. Samantha was stretched out full-length on the window seat whose blue cushion went so well with her blue eyes. Esmeralda’s green ones were mere slits that closed again as she snuggled luxuriously into the corner of the couch. No, they didn’t want to move. Cats are territorial animals. And so am I.
I couldn’t settle to anything with Mr. Benson coming. He hadn’t said when he’
d be there, and it was a perfect day for gardening, but the minute I got good and muddy, he’d turn up. I’d spent the preceding afternoon in a self-righteous fit of housecleaning, so the house was spic and span, and I’d promised myself no more sleuthing until I could consult Alan. So I fidgeted around, annoyed the cats, picked up a couple of books and put them down, and wrote two entirely unnecessary letters, growing more and more impatient.
Part of my agitation was due to a change in barometric pressure, I realized as I looked out the front window for the twentieth time. England’s weather can change between breaths; those puffy little clouds I’d admired earlier were beginning to mass and build, and the temperature was dropping. A thunderstorm was coming before the day was out, and there would go a little more of my roof.
Mr. Benson and the rain arrived at almost the same moment, in midafternoon. A large, cheerful-looking man with a ruddy face that spoke of long hours in pubs, he was at the moment somewhat bedraggled. The rain was the cold, mean-spirited sort that veered with the wind from moment to moment, now flinging itself at the parlor windows, now beating against the front door and soaking the poor man thoroughly. As I let him in, a thunderclap followed a lightning flash so quickly that we both jumped, and Sam and Emmy streaked up the stairs.
“What the—?”
“Oh, sorry, just my cats. They’re terrified of thunder. I’m very grateful to you for coming out in this weather, but goodness, you’re wet! Would you like a towel?”
He peeled off his raincoat and dropped his umbrella into the stand. “No, no, not to worry. Not sweet enough to melt, am I, now?” A massive hand squeezed mine; I tried not to wince from the pressure of his rings. “Herbert Benson, at your service.” He smiled genially, patting his bright brown hair. Nature never made it that color, I thought with amusement. He was probably afraid the dye would rub off.
“Come and have some tea, then. The roof can wait a few more minutes, and I’ve laid a fire in the parlor.”
The storm increased in fury as we sat over cinnamon toast and tea (Mr. Benson’s laced with a little bourbon to keep out the cold). He had excellent opportunity to observe the drafts eddying through my house. As the fire leapt and danced to the caprices of the wind, he waved a bit of toast toward the curtains rippling gaily at the closed windows.
Trouble in the Town Hall Page 8