I hadn’t thought about it. “I’m fine. How’s Clarice feeling?”
“Bloody, I gather from Morrison. Look, my time is fully occupied until about nine tomorrow evening, when we thankfully pack His Royal Highness back to Kensington Palace. I can’t go to the concert with you—I’ve got to do the official—but after the reception is over and he’s gone, we’re going on a carouse, just the two of us, and I shall brook no interference. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I said demurely. “Orders received and understood, sir.”
He chuckled. “Carry on, Lieutenant!” He pronounced it “leftenant,” and I saluted smartly as I hung up the phone.
Amazing how a few words on the phone could make the sky brighter, the air sweeter. I thought I’d outgrown that sort of thing years ago.
How nice that I hadn’t!
Abandoning for the moment my unproductive speculations, I ate a few of Alan’s biscuits as a stand-in for lunch and decided to go to the bookshop. Although I dreaded questions about the Pettifers, work was good therapy. Perhaps it would jump-start my stalled mind.
Fortunately, the cathedral grapevine had been operating at full roar, with the result that every detail of the Pettifer drama was already known by the time I showed up. Willie, bless her heart, had the sense to see I didn’t want to talk about it, and the two rather scared new volunteers who were trying to take the place of Barbara and Clarice treated me like a leper. I wanted to tell them tragedy wasn’t catching, but after all, I was just as pleased to be left alone to do my job.
The work did keep my mind from dwelling on the two women who should have been there, but by late afternoon I still hadn’t made any mental connections that would help Clarice. This one, I thought grimly, is going to take a miracle.
One was waiting in the wings.
I volunteered to straighten up the shop after closing time. The others had worked all day, and were eager to get home; with Alan occupied, I had nothing to do for the evening but go to the supermarket, a chore I can put off indefinitely. And I felt I wanted to be alone there, anyway. Perhaps, with half the shop lights out and no one else around, I’d have the chance to tell Barbara Dean I was sorry.
A person gets odd notions in a medieval cathedral.
Or maybe not so odd, after all. For as I worked my way down the shelves, tidying, I found myself drawn to the poetry section, where no work needed to be done. And I’ll swear to my dying day that it was Barbara Dean who made me take that volume of George Herbert from the shelf again and stare at it.
The cover design was rather ornate, suitable for a poet who died in 1633. A little typographical ornament separated the words George and Herbert, and as I looked at it in the half-light, slightly out of focus, it transformed itself into an equals sign.
George = Herbert.
George Crenshawe equals Herbert Benson.
That was what Barbara had seen. It was all so obvious once I saw it myself that I sagged, openmouthed, against the bookshelves. That bright-brown hair—not a dye job, a wig. And all those rings would have made a perfectly acceptable substitute for brass knuckles. And—I slapped myself on the forehead—surely he was from Sheffield! He’d as much as said so: “Archie and I are good friends, old friends.”
Now that, I thought, was an exaggeration. He was a good deal younger than Archie. He probably knew him slightly, being in the same trade. But it certainly seemed to put him in Sheffield many years ago, when Archie lived there. So why not three years ago, when a building burned down?
But wait a minute. Bob Finch had said Benson had been drinking alone all that Sunday night, when Jack was killed. I stood up straight and walked back to the staff room. Forget tidying up, I needed to sit and think about this.
He hadn’t said quite that, had he? I collapsed in the armchair and played back Bob’s words. He’d said Benson had come in a little after he, Bob, had. And then he was drinking alone until—until—yes! Until he went up to his room for half an hour!
How did Bob know where Benson went when he left the bar? Even if he saw him start up the stairs—and you could see the main stairs from one corner of the bar—there were back stairs.
Now, exactly what might have happened? Suppose Jack had recognized Benson/Crenshawe, maybe a day or two before, and decided to try another spot of blackmail while he was at it. Very well. He already had an appointment with his father in the Town Hall, and he’d wangled the key out of him. He could have made an earlier appointment with Benson.
All right. So Sunday night comes. Clarice—oh, yes, this was working out perfectly! Clarice goes to spy on Archie and finds Jack instead. He upsets her so much she pushes him down the stairs and runs away, terrified because she hears a noise!
And that noise is Benson. He’s sneaked away from the King’s Head to keep his appointment. He must have already had some idea of murder in his mind, or he wouldn’t have been so careful to cover his tracks. Anyway, he finds Clarice there and hides until she leaves, and then sees Jack, who’s staggered up the stairs, just beginning to recover. It’s too good an opportunity to waste. He pastes him one on the jaw hard enough to break the jawbone, hard enough to crush Jack’s head against the cruel carved oak. He satisfies himself that Jack is dead, takes everything out of his pockets, and is about to get out of there, locking the door behind him with the key he found, when the third of Jack’s victims enters the scene. Benson sneaks out through the open door, leaving Archie to his terrible discovery, and goes back to the pub, where he checks to make sure there’s no blood on his clothes and “comes back down from his room.” And drinks enough to float a battleship, according to Bob.
The very thought made my mouth dry, and I got up to make a pot of tea. That all seemed to make sense, I thought as I sank into the chair again, the tray beside me on the rickety table. Benson could drink quite a lot, as I was in a position to know. He’d drunk himself nearly blotto the night I’d been forced to have dinner with him.
The night—oh, dear God! I spilled my tea before I carefully released the cup from my suddenly shaking hand.
He’d been drinking hard that night for the same reason he’d been drinking hard the night Bob saw him. He’d just committed murder. While we were sitting at the table, Barbara Dean was floating in the river a few yards away. I had dined with a murderer, his victim barely cold.
I made it to the sink before I was sick.
I cleaned up the mess myself, too. Fortunately I’d eaten very little all day. My mind kept repeating that phrase: Fortunately I’ve eaten very little . . . I went into the kind of autopilot that serves us so well in shock, doing what needs to be done, thinking of trivial practicalities. Let’s see, I’d better shut up the shop properly and then have someone walk me home, I’m pretty shaky.
After I’d carefully checked the till—empty—and the tea-kettle and lights—off—one of the vergers was happy to see me to my door. They were all working frantically to cope with tonight’s festival concert, and then get the cathedral brushed and polished for the Prince, who was to attend the concert tomorrow night, after he’d dedicated the hospital. My man was ready for a little break, but very excited about the royal visit; he talked nonstop for the short walk across the Close to my house. I responded politely and thanked him at my door, and then walked the few more steps to Jane’s house.
“No, I won’t come in, thanks. I’m not feeling very well. I think reaction’s set in, from yesterday. But I need to eat something, and I’ve absolutely no food in the house. Could I borrow some bread and eggs, or maybe something frozen? No, really, it’s very kind of you, but I’d rather be alone.”
I didn’t dare be with Jane. I’d talk if I were with Jane, and the coldly rational part of my brain, the only part functioning, told me silence was much safer.
For there was absolutely nothing I could do with my new information. Indeed, it wasn’t information at all, but guesswork. I refused to go over it all again, but I knew there wasn’t one single verifiable piece of evidence in the whole scenario. Ever
ything needed to be checked, confirmed, nailed down by the police before there was any kind of case.
And every senior policeman who could deal properly with it was occupied for the next twenty-seven hours with His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.
I’ll never know how I managed to stay inside my skin for those next few hours. I ate something Jane supplied, without tasting it, and then sat with a book in my lap and the TV turned on, paying attention to neither, until it was time to go to bed.
That was possibly the worst part. I’d never been afraid of the dark, and after sleeping alone for over a year, I’d gotten over jumpiness. Now, every slight creak of the old house, every tap of tree branch against window, brought me wide awake, muscles tense, heart pounding. About two o’clock, I began to wonder whether I had really locked all the doors and windows downstairs. I was afraid to get up and check, and afraid not to. I finally tiptoed downstairs in the dark and checked everything—locked, of course—and scurried back up to bed with my heart beating so painfully fast I lay and worried about having a heart attack. I’d just made myself relax a little when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
I very nearly did have a heart attack before I realized the intruder was Emmy.
That did it; enough was enough. I rummaged in my medicine cabinet and found two antihistamine tablets, which always knock me out. I woke only when church bells roused me, dry-mouthed from the cold tablets but in my right mind.
I was in no danger. I never had been. Benson—it was easier to go on thinking of him as Benson—had no idea I suspected anything. And this was Sunday, a beautiful summer Sunday in the most civilized, law-abiding country on earth. As long as I acted normal, pursued my usual activities and kept my mouth shut, I would come to no harm. And in a few hours—I glanced at my watch—in thirteen hours or so, I could turn the whole terrible business over to Alan and retire from the field.
The amateur sleuths who got into trouble, I reminded myself, were the ones who went off on their own, performing silly heroics. Obviously, an intelligent person who minded her own business was perfectly safe.
I had reckoned without the influence of the Church.
Since I would normally attend Matins and the Eucharist on a Sunday morning, I fed the cats, got dressed, and made my way across the Close. I did try to be a little late, so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Then I would leave early, for the same reason, stick close to home until time for the concert, and tell Alan my whole story as soon as I possibly could.
All went according to plan until we got to the psalm appointed for the day. I was enjoying the harmonies of the male choir until the words began to get through to me. “. . . It is God that girdeth me with strength . . . He teacheth mine hands to fight . . . I will follow upon mine enemies and overtake them; neither will I turn again till I have destroyed them . . . .”
The rest of the lessons were a call to action, as well, the sermon followed suit, and to top it off, the final hymn was “Onward, Christian Soldiers!”
Now, I’m not the superstitious type. I don’t try to solve problems by opening the Bible at random and reading a verse, and I think it’s downright presumptuous to go around asking for a sign from above.
On the other hand, when I’m bombarded with messages all saying the same thing, I do begin to wonder.
Jane caught up with me as I hurried home. “No coffee this morning, Dorothy?” She was panting; my legs are longer than hers.
“Not this morning,” I said, smiling but not slacking my pace. “I’ll talk to you later; there’s something I have to do.”
If only I were sure what!
There was no point in pretending, I thought to myself over coffee in the kitchen, that I was fired solely by zeal to do what might possibly be my Christian duty. The truth was, inaction had never suited me. Common sense be damned; I wanted to charge off in some direction or other. My problem, as usual, was to decide which direction.
Very well. I dug in a drawer for my lists and consulted them. They were no help at all. I now knew the answers to all my questions. The trouble was proving the story, and that was police work.
Yes, but was it?
The police couldn’t take action for several hours yet, and meanwhile, what was Benson up to? Mrs. Hawkins had said he was away for the weekend. What if he was escaping at this very moment? What if someone else knew too much, and he was busy disposing of another body? What if . . .?
What if I could uncover some proof of Benson’s guilt while he was away? That would force the police, busy as they were, to take action—to find him, arrest him.
But where to look? He would have thrown the key to the Town Hall in the river long ago, surely. And the Hall itself could hold no clue; the police had searched it thoroughly, and they simply don’t miss anything these days, even the most microscopic evidence.
But they hadn’t, so far as I knew, searched Benson’s room at the King’s Head. Why would they? They had no reason to suspect him.
But I had.
20
THERE’S VIRTUALLY NO traffic in Sherebury on a Sunday morning, so I drove to the King’s Head unscathed, parked my car, and went in to find Mrs. Hawkins busy setting tables for the lunchtime rush that would arrive in about an hour. I was the only customer in the place, and she served me my coffee with a preoccupied smile and immediately went back to her work. Good.
I paid my bill and drank two cups of excellent coffee as fast as I could, to provide myself with an excuse to go upstairs to the ladies’ loo. I needn’t have bothered; no one was paying the slightest attention.
After a genuinely necessary stop at the facilities, I turned the other way, toward the guest rooms. I didn’t know which one was Benson’s, of course, but for a long-term guest it would probably be one of the biggest and best the house had to offer. And in an old inn like this, that would mean a center room, looking out over either the river or the garden. With a guilty glance over my shoulder, I chose a likely door, knocked twice, and then took out my Swiss Army knife.
I’ve been teased about my extra-large, all-inclusive Swiss Army knife, lying heavily at the bottom of my purse at all times. The fact remains that nothing comes in quite so handy in quite so many situations. I had even used mine for a spot or two of burglary before, but in every case on doors for which I possessed a legitimate key, somewhere. This door, loose-fitting, with an old lock, would have been easy if my hands hadn’t been shaking and slippery with sweat. I dropped the knife with a clatter that sounded like the entire percussion section of a brass band—but no one came, and I doggedly carried on until the bolt slipped back and I was in.
It was a pleasant room with a little balcony. More to the point, it was the right one. I could see that at a glance. Even if I hadn’t recognized the sport coat hanging over the back of a chair, the room bore signs of long occupancy—a half-empty box of cigars, a pile of well-thumbed magazines, no luggage in sight.
Very well. I was here. Now what?
It would have been easier if I’d known what I was looking for, but I was determined to be as thorough as possible, under the circumstances. I knew Alan would have my head if I disturbed evidence for the police, but I could look, so long as I was careful. I locked the door behind me and began.
A search of the clothes hanging in the wardrobe revealed nothing. Nothing in the pockets except what one would expect—train tickets, dirty handkerchiefs, shreds of tobacco. No stains I could see on any article of clothing.
The drawers were no more helpful. Besides the usual underwear and socks there was only a pornographic novel, lying offensively in the bedside drawer on top of the Gideon Bible. It was certainly nasty, but probably not illegal, and if there was anything hidden in it, I wasn’t going to find it. I couldn’t bring myself to pick the thing up, even with a tissue over my hand.
It was as I was about to check the bathroom that I heard footsteps. The wide old floorboards creaked as the steps drew nearer, and for a moment I couldn’t think at all. The balcony? Too small, no place
to hide. The bathroom? I’d be discovered at once. In total panic I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed.
Of course the steps went on past. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” I lay and listened while whoever it was stopped at the end of the hall and a door opened and closed. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears I had trouble hearing further movement, but when a toilet flushed, I was pretty sure I had heard a resident of the hotel, not an employee who might enter other rooms in turn. I could get up.
Sure, I could. Getting into that tight space with adrenaline pushing me all the way had been one thing. Forcing arthritic joints to get me out was another. I wiggled and grunted, and finally hooked my fingers into the bedsprings to give me some leverage.
But my left hand couldn’t find a purchase. There was something in the way—not a bed slat, but something smooth that, as my fingers poked blindly at it, gave way and dropped onto my stomach.
Fingers and toes shoving against the springs, I managed finally to wriggle out from under, sit up, and look at my find.
It was a wallet, or at least a small black leather folder intended to carry papers of some sort. It bulged slightly in the middle.
It held two things. One was a ring, a heavily carved man’s ring with small gold prongs bent slightly back where the stone had been.
The other was a key.
I managed to stand up, every joint protesting, and then sneezed six times in a row. The standard of housekeeping was very high at the King’s Head, but even they did not dust the underside of the bedsprings very often.
Which created a dilemma. I had done exactly what I had warned myself not to do—tampered with evidence. I held in my hands the missing key to the Town Hall, and one of the rings Benson had been wearing when he had delivered a deathblow to Jack Jenkins.
They should have been left exactly where they were, with the dust on the springs but not on the wallet showing that they hadn’t been there very long. But there was no point in putting them back now, not with my fingerprints all over them. Besides, Benson might realize they’d been disturbed and throw them out.
Trouble in the Town Hall Page 19