My nerves tightened another notch, but Mr. Nesbitt let that drop for the moment and addressed the dean.
“Now, Kenneth, if I might just ask about the door to the cloisters. Isn’t it usually kept unlocked?”
“Usually, but not lately,” the dean answered promptly, as I registered the first-name basis, concentrating on the apparent social standing of chief constables to avoid more uncomfortable thoughts. “With the electrical work they’re doing in that transept, it’s so dark we didn’t think it safe for the public at night. Of course all the doors, the public ones at any rate, have new locks so that they can always be opened from inside. In case of fire, you know. I must say I wasn’t sorry to abandon the old keys, great medieval things a foot long that weighed pounds! We kept them, naturally; they’re in a display case in the library. I’m so sorry, Alan,” he added, catching Mr. Nesbitt’s eye. “You’re not interested in my keys.”
“Well, not the old ones, actually, but I do need to know who has a key—a new key—to that door.”
“Yes. I have a complete set, naturally. The rest of the clergy and staff have only the ones they need. To tell the truth I’m not really sure exactly who has what; there are so many people involved and the head verger looks after that side of things. I know Canon Billings often used the cloister door, since his house is on that side of the Close, so he probably had a key. Mr. Swansworthy will know.”
I rather doubted that. The head verger was nearly eighty and definitely past most of his duties, but he stubbornly refused to retire and the dean was too softhearted to insist. It seemed to me most unlikely that he kept close track of the keys. However, it was none of my business, and I was far too tired to bring up anything that might keep me there any longer than necessary.
The dean went on. “I do see, of course, what you’re getting at. This is certainly more your province than mine, but I should imagine the canon let himself in that door and then stumbled over something in the dark and hit his head. I blame myself very much for not organizing a small light—”
His wife interrupted. “Now, Kenneth, you know perfectly well it’s not your fault. If Jonathan Billings had been where he was supposed to be, getting ready for the service . . .” Her tone left no doubt about her opinion of the unfortunate canon, and the dean sighed.
“But, my dear, we don’t know when he came in. When we missed him, just before midnight Mass, nobody remembered seeing him for hours. And darkness comes early at this time of year. He might have been on his way out, after the children’s service, for a cup of tea.”
Mr. Nesbitt nodded. “In fact, I think he has been dead for some time. The medical examiner will be able to tell us more definitely, but I should say five or six hours at least. So you may be quite right, although if that’s the case, I do rather wonder why he wasn’t found earlier. Did you look for him yourself?”
“I had a quick look round, but of course I had to prepare for the service. I believe the vergers did rather a thorough search, at least so far as it’s possible to search a place like this in a hurry and in the dark. No one knew what to think when he turned up missing; it was completely unlike him to be irresponsible.” So that’s what the vergers had been up to when I was trying to find a seat. All except for the officious Mr. Wallingford, who found dripping candles more important than a missing canon.
“Well,” said Mr. Nesbitt with the hint of a sigh, “we’ll have to go a bit further into the search, as well as the matter of when he was last seen alive, but I think morning will do for those things.”
The dean looked startled. “Not this morning, surely. That is—Christmas Day?”
“We’ll make it as brief as possible, I promise, and as discreet. I’m sure you realize we must collect as much data as possible while memories are still fresh. We’ll save everything we can for Saturday and push on with other things, meanwhile.” He hesitated for a moment. “I’m truly sorry, Kenneth. I know it seems unnecessarily intrusive, but rules are rules; we do have to try to establish the cause of death. You can trust me to make sure my men don’t make more of a nuisance of themselves than they have to.”
He took a deep breath, turning back to me, and I saw how tired he looked. “Mrs. Martin, I know this may be difficult for you, but may I ask if you touched or moved the body at all?”
I had to swallow hard before I could deal with that one. “Well, I certainly touched it. I—I kicked it. That is, I stumbled over the cassock, in the dark. That’s how I found it—him.” I willed my hands to stop shaking while I sipped a little more brandy, spilling only a drop or two. “Thank God I didn’t fall on top of him! I don’t think I disturbed anything much, but I really can’t tell you. It was pitch dark and then, later, I was—upset.” There was a nice English understatement for them.
“I understand; try not to worry about it.” He flexed his broad shoulders a little and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I should think that’s nearly all for now, then, if you can just show me where you found the candlestick.”
I tried, unsuccessfully, not to remember the way Canon Billings had looked. “Is he still there? I mean—do I have to—”
“He’s decently covered now, dear,” said Mrs. Allenby. “She won’t need to see him, will she, Alan?”
“Certainly not. Now, if you’re feeling well enough?”
I rose, a bit unsteadily, I fear, brushing my skirt into place. “Yes. Well. Let’s get it over with.”
We trooped back down the dark, echoing corridor, past tombs and monuments that cast oddly shaped shadows, to the ancient transept.
In the brief time we had been away the area had been transformed. Bright, harsh lights stood on tall stands, their long cables snaking away to wherever they could connect with live electricity. Yellow plastic tape draped around portable stanchions turned the little jewel of a chapel into a “Crime Scene Do Not Enter,” and a burly constable stood impassively enforcing the regulation—against no one, apparently; the transept was deserted, save for two other uniformed men.
“Crime scene?” I said uncertainly. “But surely . . .”
“It comes printed that way,” said Mr. Nesbitt. “A trifle sensational, I agree, but the easiest, quickest way to isolate the area. Now if we could just . . .”
Canon Billings lay spotlighted where I had found him, but mercifully covered with a piece of cloth—a funeral pall, I saw as I moved closer. Appropriate.
“The candlestick was about here, I think, Mr. Nesbitt.” I pointed to a spot on the floor about a foot from the body, just outside the doorway in the lacy screen that separated the chapel from the transept. “It really is hard to say. It was very dark, and I only had my flashlight. I wonder where my flashlight is, by the way. It must have rolled over there . . .” I peered into the shadows.
“We found the torch, Mrs. Martin. It’s broken, I’m afraid. I shall be glad to have it repaired for you and return it. About here, you say?”
The constable marked it with chalk at my nod.
Mr. Nesbitt hadn’t forgotten the fingerprints. One of the other uniformed men took me aside, and then Mrs. Allenby, and rolled our fingers on an inked pad and then on a card. He was extremely polite, offering a solvent-soaked rag to clean our fingers—which didn’t make me feel a bit better.
The chief constable was apologetic when I came back to the little group.
“That’s all I need, then, Mrs. Martin. I must apologize for keeping you here so long. I’m afraid this has all been very trying for you. I may need some more information a bit later, if there are any complications, but it seems straightforward enough.” He surveyed the scene once more and then smiled wearily at us all. “Now I think we can all go home.”
The dean’s sense of duty kept him at the scene with the unhappy constable until the canon’s body could be taken away, and Mrs. Allenby’s loyalty kept her by his side. So only the chief constable and I, finally, stepped out through the cloister doorway into the night.
The rain had stopped, along with the wind, but a nip o
f frost sharpened the still air. I found myself grateful for the Burberry Mr. Nesbitt had retrieved and somehow held on to through all the confusion. The quiet was desolate; I shivered.
“You need your hat,” he said, holding it out. “It fell off when—earlier.”
I took it, jammed it on backward, and cleared my throat. “I’m not sure it’s the sort of hat a person could be said to ‘need,’ but thank you.” The bit of frivolous nonsense had become woefully inappropriate.
We walked wordlessly past the ancient cemetery that dominated this part of the Close. The silence loomed. I was conscious of the squeak in one of my shoes.
I cleared my throat again. “Look, Mr. Nesbitt. I’m very grateful for your courtesy, but I don’t need to be seen home. I can see my house from here. It’s terribly late, actually Christmas day, and your family . . .”
“I live alone.” His tone was almost curt. “My wife died some years ago and my children have left home.”
“Oh, I see,” I answered lamely. We plodded on in silence.
My house sits just beyond the wall of the Close, through a small gate. As we entered the little porch with its cushioned benches on each side, a big gray cat jumped down with loud, indignant cries. A fine time of night to be coming home, she scolded in mews as plain as English. Let a cat catch her death of cold in the rain. What’s more, she hadn’t been fed for a fortnight.
“I’m not impressed, Esmeralda,” I said as I unlocked the door, grateful for the diversion. “It’s what you get for not coming when I called you. Anyway I’ll bet you’ve been asleep right here the whole time. And if you want to convince anyone you’re starving, you’re really going to have to lose some weight.” I scooped her up, and she squeezed her huge green eyes shut, nestled against my chin, and purred in a comforting way.
Mr. Nesbitt smiled. “I see you have a most solicitous friend. You’ll be all right, will you?”
“I’ll be fine. I—Mr. Nesbitt, I didn’t mean to be rude, or to pry into your personal affairs. You’ve been very kind, and I do thank you.” I shifted Emmy and held out my hand.
“Not at all,” he murmured, shaking my proffered hand. “You—that is, I hope you have some plans for tomorrow? Today, that is? I shouldn’t like to think—”
“Yes, indeed,” I said quickly. “I have some friends coming for dinner. In—” I looked at my watch “—oh, goodness, in less than twelve hours!”
Once more it was the wrong thing to say. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry. Mr. Nesbitt shook hands again.
“I must be getting home. I hope you can forget this unpleasantness quickly. Oh, here’s your umbrella. Good night.”
He turned away.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to come to Christmas dinner?” It came out before I knew I was going to say it. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans? I always cook way too much food.”
His smile was warmly genuine; the chief constable submerged once more beneath the human being. “Thank you so much. I’ll be spending the day with my married daughter, but it’s kind of you to think of me. Get some sleep, won’t you?” And he walked back into the Close, his footsteps ringing on the paving stones.
I stood at the door watching him until Emmy reminded me that it was late, and she was cold, hungry, and tired of being held. When at last I shut the door, she wriggled out of my arms and gave me one quizzical look before marching purposefully to the kitchen.
I gave her a little leftover ham just to keep the peace, and dropped into a kitchen chair. I ought to go to bed, I thought. I ought to do a dozen small chores before I go to bed. I sat.
At least it was almost warm. Through the centuries of additions and alterations to my rented Jacobean house, no one has seen fit to put in central heating. They simply added on electrical gadgets whose cost threatens to send me back to America. So the only place in the house I can afford to heat is the kitchen, where a large coal-burning Aga stove holds sway in the huge old fireplace. It has me thoroughly cowed. I don’t always stoke it properly, and I’m far too timid to cook anything complicated on it, so I’ve established a borrowed electric stove in a corner. But as long as the Aga’s purring away, there’s a tank full of hot water for tea, a place to dry the dish towels, and a gentle warmth in my kitchen.
My head nodded forward, and I caught myself with a jerk. Those chores could wait. Emmy thought so too. She led the way as I dragged myself up the steep, narrow steps to bed, and then settled in purring at my feet the moment I pulled up the covers. I thought I was too tired to sleep at all. In fact I dropped at once fathoms deep into a place where dead men walked in monks’ cowls and lay on the cold stones with cats licking their faces.
3
ONE OF THE cats became more and more insistent and turned into Esmeralda, lying on my chest purring loudly and cleaning my chin with her sandpaper tongue. When I tried to push her away she became even heavier and entirely immovable.
I opened my eyes with the greatest reluctance. It was still quite dark, but morning comes late to northern countries in December. I knew Emmy was right. Her breakfast was long overdue, and other duties awaited me as well. It was Christmas.
I groaned and turned over, spilling the cat from my chest as I buried my face in the pillow. I had been dreading this day. Holidays are the hardest times, and Christmas, with its load of happy associations, seemed likely to be the worst of all. Knowing I didn’t dare let myself think too much, I had deliberately planned a busy day. Preparing an elaborate meal in an unfamiliar kitchen ought to be enough of a challenge to occupy my mind, I had thought.
I hadn’t counted on a horrible experience the night before, nor on a drastically shortened night’s sleep. I wanted desperately to go back to sleep with the covers over my head and wake up when Christmas was over.
Emmy, more practical, jumped on the bed again with enough force to set the springs creaking, and swatted my hair energetically. There was no help for it. I pushed myself up and found my glasses.
“Mrraow!” Emmy urged, heading for the door.
“Yes, well, Merry Christmas to you, too,” I said sourly, and reached for my robe and slippers.
The bedroom was freezing. It must have turned much colder in the night. In no mood to consider economy, I turned on every electric heater I passed on my way downstairs and hoped I wouldn’t blow a fuse or burn the house down.
Thank God for the Aga, anyway, and its warmth and hot water for the kettle. By the time I’d fed the frantic cat, the water was boiling, and with tea and toast inside me I began to feel almost human. A nice hot bath would complete the process, and surely the water heater I’d switched on upstairs must have done its job by now.
It had, and the bath was certainly warming, but it was a mistake all the same. Leisurely baths allow far too much thinking time. As hard as I tried to turn my thoughts to pleasant channels, they kept slipping from my grasp and returning to the two subjects I most wanted to forget. Last Christmas. And last night. A tear slipped down my cheek, and another, and several more. . . .
The phone rang.
I gripped my towel and sprinted, and tried to clear the tears out of my voice. “Hello?”
“Good morning, my dear. I hope I didn’t ring up at an awkward time, or get you out of bed?”
“Dr. Temple! How lovely to hear from you! No, I was just getting out of the tub.” Well, I should have been, anyway. I blotted with one hand, ineffectually.
“Ah. I shan’t keep you, then. I just rang you up to wish you a very Merry Christmas indeed, and ask you to come round when you can, tomorrow or next week; I’ve a tiny gift for you.”
“That’s—very kind of you.” I was still having a little trouble with my voice. “I’ll do that. And Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Well! That was unexpectedly pleasant. Dr. Temple was a darling, one of the people who had made our first long stay in Sherebury so agreeable. Frank had been on sabbatical from Randolph, the Midwestern university where he taught biology, and we’d come to England for his resea
rch. It happened that the University of Sherebury had just the resources he needed. Although one of the so-called “red-brick universities”—as opposed to “Oxbridge”—it was a well-respected institution, its architecture a mixture of pleasant Victorian extravagance and blocky modern practicality, with very few red bricks in evidence. Dr. Temple, the head of an excellent biology department, had shown Frank the ropes and introduced us to eveiyone in town. In his eighties now and slowing down a bit, he still kept an avuncular eye on me. He was the only one from the university, really, who still treated me like a person now that Frank was gone.
He was, in fact, a real friend. That made two, with Jane. Beyond that—no, it was foolish to think about friends just now. Or the lack of them. The phone call had cheered me up, and I’d better just accept the blessing and get on with what I had to do.
Which was suddenly far too much; I was way behind schedule. Dinner was set for two o’clock, and even for only three guests—Jane and two American friends who live in London—I was cooking enough for an army. Habit. At home there had always been lots of people—friends, relatives, students. . . .
Stop that, now, I scolded myself, and go stuff the blasted turkey.
When I was done in the kitchen I had to hang the wreath on the door and put a few more ornaments on the tree, the cherished old baubles Frank and I had collected . . . don’t think about that, either; stay cheerful.
I’m not sure when the bells began to ring. Living so close to the cathedral I had become accustomed to them, although they used to startle me enormously. But today they overpowered the clamor of my thoughts. They were ringing the Christmas peal, and that took my mind back to last night’s bells. It had been a beautiful service, really. I remembered, dreamily, the look of the vast church lit only by candles, and the sound of the choir and that magnificent organ, and the silly pomposity of the bishop on his throne. . . .
I giggled aloud and Emmy, who had been watching my mood, took the laugh as an invitation to play. I was trying by that time to lay a fire, a proper wood fire, in what I prefer to call my parlor. Emmy loved the idea of the fire, or rather she liked the lovely rustle of the newspaper as I crinkled it up. She kept leaping into the grate to capture what she was convinced were cat toys and streak off with them. “Emmy, you fiend! Bring that back here!” I tore after her as she leaped onto the hall rug, prize firmly clenched between her teeth, and stopped dead, four legs stiffly extended. The rug, however, kept going on the polished boards, and Emmy, rug, and newspaper careered into the umbrella stand, which fell over with a clatter that sent Emmy up the stairs. I cleared up the mess, still laughing, and blessed the day that a furry comedian had come into my life.
Body in the Transept Page 3