“Perhaps. At any rate, yes, we’d like a little chat with Mr. Benson. If you’re even close to the right interpretation, he has some explaining to do. Why didn’t he come to us with all this?”
“He said he didn’t like the police. He seems to be something of a—free spirit, wants to be unfettered by the law—that sort of thing.”
“There are fetters,” said the inspector darkly, “and then there are fetters. He’d best go carefully, or he may get a taste of the real thing. But go on.”
“That really is all, I think, Inspector. I’m sorry if it turns out to be nothing, but I thought someone should know. I’m really concerned about Barbara Dean.”
“I’ll see to it that someone lets you know as soon as we learn anything, Mrs. Martin, and thank you.”
I fell into a troubled nap that afternoon, full of the kind of dream you’d rather not remember when you wake. This time I was driving my car down a steep hill into the river, over and over, jerking partly awake just as the water threatened to close over my face, and then starting the whole terrifying sequence over again. It was a relief when the phone by the bed roused me.
“Mrs. Martin? Morrison here. I’ve only negative news, I’m afraid, but I thought you’d want to know. We searched Mrs. Dean’s house—a neighbor had a key—and there’s no sign of her, nor clue to her whereabouts. Her handbag is gone, but her clothing and luggage seem to be in place, so far as we can tell. There’s no convenient telephone number scribbled on a pad, no lovely railway guide left open to a particular page—nothing. It seems she simply left on a normal errand—though how, with her car in the garage?—and didn’t return. We’re trying to trace her earlier movements, where her car was seen, that sort of thing.”
I absorbed that for a moment. “You might check with Mrs. Williamson at the bookshop,” I offered. “I didn’t see her speak to Barbara when she left so abruptly yesterday, but I suppose they might have talked earlier in the morning about Barbara’s plans for the rest of the day.” Actually, I doubted it; Barbara wasn’t the type to confide in anyone else. But I was trying desperately to be useful.
“That’s certainly a possibility,” said the inspector politely. He didn’t think much of the idea, either. “At any rate, it’s a place to start. We’ll be in touch.”
So much for being useful. I went downstairs in search of friendly, purry company, but the cats led me straight to the door and stood there expectantly, tails erect. The mist had cleared.
I let them out, wandered miserably into my parlor, and sank down on the couch, wishing my own fog would clear. I felt dragged out and depressed, and my headache had returned. I couldn’t seem to think. My mind was stuck on a treadmill, repeating itself over and over, like my dream.
Where was Barbara Dean? Her car was in the garage, where was she? She’d gone out and not come back, where was she? If she’d left town, she would have packed a bag. She would have canceled her engagements. She would have told someone. And if she hadn’t left town, WHERE WAS SHE?
I presume I fed the cats and myself and read or something until it was time to go to bed. I know I tossed and turned for hours, finally falling into a fitful doze shortly before dawn, only to be jolted out of it by the phone. I picked it up, my blood racing fast enough to make my aching head much worse.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Martin, Morrison here. I do apologize for ringing you so early, but I’ve been on the blower with the chief in London, and he was sure you’d want to know. He said to tell you he’d try to phone later.” He cleared his throat, sounding as weary as I felt. “I’m afraid it’s bad news. We’ve found Mrs. Dean.”
I lay silent. His words could mean only one thing.
“Where?” I said at last.
“In the river. She’d been there for at least twenty-four hours, but she didn’t drown—no water in the lungs. I’m afraid it’s unquestionably murder.”
17
“I SEE.” It was no surprise, but the confirmation was still a terrible shock. I’d hoped I was wrong. There were so many questions, but I was numb. The inspector cleared his throat.
“The chief asked me to stress what I would have said in any case. You must be very careful, Mrs. Martin. Not all the connections between this murder and the Town Hall case are yet apparent, but it seems evident that they exist. We think, and this is conjecture at this point, and confidential, that Mrs. Dean was killed because she knew something in connection with the Town Hall murder. Our villain could very well decide you know too much, as well.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said bitterly.
“You inferred a connection between Mrs. Dean and an old scandal. And now Mrs. Dean is dead. If the murderer thinks you know more than you do . . . well, the chief specifically said I was not to forbid you to look into matters, but he and I would both appreciate your—er—discretion. To be quite candid, I don’t need any more on my plate at the moment, especially not the murder of my chief’s—er—”
My mind was sluggishly coming to life. “Why the river? I mean, why did you look there?”
There was the faint hint of a sigh on the line. “The last place we were able to trace Mrs. Dean’s car to was a car park hard by Lanterngate bridge. There is an attendant who patrols several car parks to make sure the cars are displaying the slips that show they’ve paid. Hers was the only car there shortly after five, and it was gone—in fact, the car park was empty—the next time the attendant came round, about seven. We don’t know when it arrived back at her garage, or who drove it there. Except that it was quite evidently not Mrs. Dean.”
“Evidently. Look, Inspector, there’s a lot more I want to know, but you sound dead on your feet. I’ll call you later. And please don’t worry about me. I promise I’ll look after myself.”
In fact all I wanted to do was turn over and sleep and sleep. But even in the face of sudden death, cats want to be fed. I went about the chore mechanically, and of course they noticed. My cats are very fond of their housekeeper/cook, and when something is wrong with me, they know. I dragged back up to bed after they’d had their breakfast, and they trotted right after me, Emmy settling on my chest and Sam on my feet, and purred themselves to sleep. Their presence was so comforting I actually slept myself, and for nearly two hours enjoyed the blessing of dreamless oblivion.
When I woke for good I was in fighting trim—rested, angry, and ready to do battle.
And the first battle was with the Pettifers.
It was time Clarice answered some questions, and Archie as well. I was through with fencing. Barbara Dean was dead. I’d wished ever since I met her that I could really get to know that cool, detached woman. I admired her executive ability and agreed with her about many things, and lately she’d unbent enough to let me hope that someday we could become friends.
Now that could never happen. Someone had taken the chance away from us, and I couldn’t help blaming myself. If I had just been quicker on the uptake, I might have learned what Barbara knew, and the two of us . . .
The two of you might have been killed together, said a voice in my head that sounded remarkably like Alan’s.
Well, at any rate, what was past was past and I couldn’t undo it, but I could take some action now. I heaved myself out of bed and headed for the shower.
Bob Finch was hard at work when I was ready to leave.
“I suppose you’ve heard about Mrs. Dean?” I called out the back door.
“Wot abaht ’er?”
“Oh, dear.” I went out and lowered my voice. “I thought you would have heard, or I wouldn’t have brought it up. She’s dead. She was found in the river, murdered.”
It takes a lot to shock a Cockney. Bob processed the information stolidly as he plied his spade.
“Pore lady,” he said finally. “Nice enough, under all ’er lah-di-dah ways. I ’ope as ’ow Mr. Archibald Bleedin’ Pettifer ’as ’imself a better alibi for this one than ’ee ’as for the first.”
“Bob!” I raised my voice, and he looked up
at me in mild surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. But what do you know about Mr. Pettifer’s alibi for the first murder?”
“’Ee ’asn’t got one, that’s wot.” He resumed his digging. “I never said nothin’, not wantin’ to get a man in trouble. But if ’ee’s done for a lady . . . madam, ’ee was never with that Benson, that night. I was in the King’s ’Ead the ’ole time, and Benson, ’ee were drinkin’ by ’isself.”
My heart was beating very uncomfortably, but I had to be sure. “But Bob, if you were drinking yourself, were you—I mean, could you—”
“I weren’t pissed,” he said with dignity. “Not that night. Just mellowlike. An’ I saw Benson come in, just after me, an’ I saw ’im go up to ’is room abaht nine-thirty, lookin’ like ’ee weren’t feelin’ so good. An’ ’ee come back down in ’arf an hour an’ drank ’isself silly. Wine, ’ee were drinkin’. ’Ee were still at it come closin’ time, ’im bein’ a resident in the pub and not ’avin’ to observe licensin’ hours. An’ ’ee were alone the ’ole evenin’.”
He turned his back decisively and I went back into the kitchen, stunned.
That seemed to settle it. Pettifer had no alibi, and had been lying about it. I hadn’t been eager to believe Benson, but I trusted Bob.
I stalked to the garage for my car.
I’d forgotten how early it still was. Archie answered the door in his pajamas and bathrobe, red-faced and plainly furious. “And may I ask to what I owe this intrusion? Is a man to have no peace in his own home?” He stood in the doorway, his hand on the door, ready to slam it in my face.
“I must come in, Mr. Pettifer. You don’t want to discuss this on your doorstep.”
“I’ve nothing whatever to discuss with you, Mrs. Martin, whether on my doorstep or elsewhere.”
“I see.” I was as angry as he. “I suppose you’d rather I went to the police to talk about where you were the night Jack Jenkins was murdered.”
He took a step backwards and his face paled. “I was at the King’s Head. The police know that.”
“No, you weren’t. May I come in, or do you really want to have this conversation in front of your neighbors?”
He might have bluffed it out, even then, but a weak, frightened voice came from the stairway. “What is it, Archie? What’s the matter? Who are you shouting at?”
Archie raised his hands in exasperation and turned his back, leaving me to walk in and close the door behind me. Clarice, clutching a filmy peignoir with one hand and the stair rail with the other, did not look glad to see me.
I would have preferred to talk to Archie alone, but there was no backing out now. “I’m sorry, but I think we’d better sit down, all three of us. Are you all right, Clarice? Do you need help?” The shadows under her eyes looked like bruises, and her skin and hair were dull and not very clean. She looked very ill indeed, but she shrank away from my touch and clung to Archie, who deposited her on an overstuffed white sofa in the front room and stood guard over her.
“Very well, Mrs. Martin. You’ve succeeded in invading our home and frightening my wife. Now state your business and go.”
Clarice made a little squeak, of nerves or protest.
“It isn’t quite that simple,” I said, sitting without invitation in the nearest chair. “I need some answers, and I intend to get them or turn the questions over to the police. You see, I’ve been talking to Bob Finch. I believe him to be a reliable witness, at least as long as he’s sober, which he says he was, more or less, on the Sunday night when Jack Jenkins was killed.”
Clarice sobbed and buried her head against Archie’s chest; he reached a protective arm around her but never moved his gaze from my face.
“He says, Mr. Pettifer, that Herbert Benson was drinking alone all that evening, except for a little time when he went up to his room. He says you were never with him, nor was anyone else.
“Now that, of course, was presumably the time Jenkins was killed. And if—” I faltered, looking at Clarice, but I had to go on with it. “If what I’ve heard is true, that you—knew Jack very well—you might have had reason to kill him. I’ve told the police some of this, but not all of it, not what Bob said. I thought it would be only fair to see if you had some explanation before I went to them.”
Archie sat down heavily next to Clarice and put his head in his hands. Clarice sobbed quietly. The only other sound in the room was the ticking of the clock.
“Yes,” he finally said, raising his head and taking one of Clarice’s hands firmly in his. His bluster was gone, replaced by a kind of desperate dignity. “Yes, you’re quite right. I’m sorry this had to come up in front of you, my dear,” he said to Clarice, “but the truth is, I killed Jack. He was my son, you see. There was a barmaid, years ago—at any rate, he’d come to town to make a scandal just when the Town Hall deal was at a critical point. I’d paid support for him, all the years when he was growing up and turning into a young lout, and worse. But now that wasn’t enough; he wanted more. He planned to tell lies about how badly I’d treated him unless I paid him a great deal of money.
“I didn’t intend to kill him. I went to the Town Hall after the Lord Mayor’s meeting; we’d agreed on that spot as private. He—he taunted me and I pushed him, and—”
He couldn’t go on. He shook his head and made a repudiating, pushing-away movement of his hands, and then turned to gather Clarice into his arms, but she struggled free.
“No.” Tears were streaming down her face, but she struggled to control her sobs. “No, I won’t let you. It was me, Dorothy. It was me, all the time.”
“My dear—”
“No, Archie, I have to tell it. Don’t look at me like that. Go away, over there—” she pointed to the other side of the room “—and don’t look at me at all. Then maybe I can say it.”
She drew a shuddering breath, gathered herself together with a kind of threadbare courage, and fixed her eyes on me. “I thought Archie was meeting a woman, you see. He’d been so—odd, lately. Angry, and wouldn’t talk to me. I know now he was worried about—that boy—but I thought—anyway, I decided they’d meet at the Town Hall after Archie had finished with his dinner meeting, and I went there to wait for them. You do see, don’t you?”
Archie started to speak, but I turned so fierce a glare on him that he stopped and looked away.
“I went to the side door, of course. I was sure I was too early—I knew the meeting would go on for hours and it was only about nine—but after a bit, when nothing happened, I began to think they were already inside, and I couldn’t bear it. So I tried the door and it was unlocked. I crept inside, trying not to make any noise, and he nearly frightened me to death.”
“Archie?”
“No—that—that boy. It wasn’t dark outside yet, of course, but it was like midnight in that back hall. And he laughed, out of the darkness, and then switched a torch on my face. I was blinded, and so frightened, but he only laughed some more. And then he switched the torch off, and he said, ‘So this must be the little wifey. Well, well. Let’s go someplace where we can get to know each other.’ And he grabbed my arm—I nearly screamed, then, but my throat was all closed up and I couldn’t—and he held the torch to the floor and pulled me through the front of the building to some frightful sort of cupboard and shut the door and turned on the light.”
“And told you who he was?”
“Yes, presently, but he didn’t have to. I knew. He looked so like Archie when he was younger. Of course, Archie never dressed like that—he cares about his appearance, and he’s always clean. But—oh, I can’t explain, the eyes, the cheekbones—I knew.
“And then he started saying how much he needed money, and how upset Archie would be if he thought I knew about him, and perhaps we could work something out—oh, I can’t remember everything he said, because I was so frightened, and I kept thinking about the son I’d always wanted to have and never could, and here was this—this—hooligan claiming to be
Archie’s son, and I didn’t wan
t it to be true, but I knew it was. And I tried to get away, but he ran after me out into the hallway and grabbed my arm, and I turned around and pushed as hard as I could—but we were standing next to the stairs, and he fell, and—and then he just lay there, so still, on the landing, and I thought I heard something, and I turned and ran, and ran . . .”
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
I cleared my throat. “Clarice, dear, don’t you think you’d better—”
“No. I have to finish it. I went home and waited for hours, but when Archie finally came home I couldn’t talk to him after all. I pretended to be asleep. I thought we could talk later, when I wasn’t so upset. I—I didn’t know the boy was dead, you see. And then when you found the body, I nearly lost my mind, but I realized they might blame Archie, and I would have to be clever. If I just kept on saying nothing about it, with a bit of luck no one would connect the dead boy with us. And when things seemed to calm down, I thought it would be all right. But you wouldn’t leave it alone.”
“I couldn’t—I didn’t know—”
“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. And I think I’m glad you know, now. I couldn’t let Archie take the blame for what I did. I’m tired, Archie.”
She looked up at him and he strode across the room to her, and the doorbell rang.
I knew it would be Inspector Morrison even before I looked out the window and saw the police car. I walked to the door and opened it; Archie and Clarice were oblivious, lost in their own world of sorrow and grief.
“I think you’d better come in, Inspector.” I had to clear my throat before I could go on. “There’s been—Clarice has confessed to the murder. But give them a moment, if you can. They need to forgive each other before the law steps in.”
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Trouble in the Town Hall Page 17