“So. What’s going on at the university these days?” Dr. Temple kept up with the gossip, though he’d held emeritus status for years.
“Well, we’ve lost a good teacher. But you’d know all about that.”
“I would?”
“Canon Billings, my dear. You did know he taught a philosophy seminar, didn’t you?”
“I had no idea. I didn’t know the man at all, except to speak to. Was he really a good teacher? I wouldn’t have thought . . .”
“In the sense that he was a first-rate scholar and lecturer, yes, he was. Not popular, of course, too sarcastic and superior for the students to like him, but they respected him.”
“What about the rest of the staff? What did they think of him?”
“Not trying to do a little prying, are you, my dear? See yourself as an amateur sleuth?” The blue eyes were keen.
“Of course not,” I said. Too quickly? “I’m curious, that’s all. I do have a personal interest, after all.”
“Of course.” But the eyes stayed alert. “Actually most of the staff saw very little of him. The seminar was held evenings, naturally, since the canon had his duties during the day. I know old Pebmarsh thought a great deal of his abilities.”
Dr. Pebmarsh, head of the philosophy department, was at least fifteen years Dr. Temple’s junior. The use of “old,” then, told me something, as did the rest of the cautious wording. As much as he loved gossip, the dear old professor hated to say anything bad about anyone. The fact that he hadn’t been able to say anything really good . . .
“Have you seen George Chambers lately?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Christmas Eve, just for a moment, but not really to talk to. How’s he getting along?”
“Not so very well, as I understand it. His lectures aren’t well attended, I’m told. Of course George always was a bit pompous, and students don’t like pomposity—excepting their own.”
I laughed at that, and we discussed student politics over the last of the cookies. When imperious yowls indicated that the Siamese wanted in, I took the opportunity to slip away before Dr. Temple could work up to offering me lunch. I needed a good long walk to deal with all that butter and sugar.
The sun was still shining brightly, but there was a softer feeling to the air and a slight haze that told me rain might be on the way. Better enjoy Sherebury while the sun shone.
When Frank and I first visited England we got a little claustrophobic about all those houses with touching walls, opening directly onto the sidewalk. The place looked so different from the shady streets of Hillsburg, Indiana, our hometown. We longed for soft green front lawns with untidy rambler roses climbing over the railings of front porches hospitably furnished with swings and rockers. And maple trees that dropped bushels full of leaves to clean up in the fall, all the neighbors out at the same time, helping each other, and the lovely smell of burning leaves. And elms growing into graceful Gothic arches over the street. . . .
But Hillsburg’s elm trees are all gone now, fallen to disease. Leaf burning is against the law, and neighborliness is disappearing, too, a victim of hurry and stress and fear. The big lawns that seemed so friendly when we were young serve to isolate people now; they’ve built high fences, and no one sits on the front porches. Small-town America isn’t what it used to be.
Probably small-town England isn’t either, but I didn’t know it way back when, and there’s a lot to be said for the way it is now. As I walked I watched the passing parade of humanity with appreciation. People greeted each other, smiling, asking about the health of mothers and spouses and offspring as if they really wanted to know. There seemed, in England, still to be a network of neighbors caring about each other. If only I could belong to that network . . . but even if I never did, quite, I was glad it existed. Maybe there was nothing momentous about being told what a beautiful day it was or asked how one was feeling, but small courtesies grease the machinery of life. In their own way, they’re important.
Deep in thought, I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into a fellow pedestrian.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, it was my fault—oh, it’s you, George. Dear me, did I do any damage?”
“No, no. Actually, I’m glad I—er—ran into you, Dorothy. I wanted to ask—” he looked around and lowered his voice “—how you’re getting on. Unpleasant experience, discovering a body.”
So George knew all about my involvement. So had Dr. Temple. I suppose by now everyone in town knew. No space-age communications network can compete with the one English cathedral towns have relied on from time immemorial.
Was there an answer to George’s remarkable understatement? It didn’t matter; he wasn’t listening anyway.
“We thought—Alice and I—you might like to come to tea. If you’ve nothing planned, that is. Get away from it all for a bit, don’t you know. Alice makes jolly good Christmas cake,” he added enticingly.
I had to swallow a grin. Tea! The panacea for everything from weariness to a cold to murder. Some things about England never change, which is why I love it so much.
I considered. Poor old George was a bit of a bore, but he and his wife were kind to us in the old days. George, even though he was history and Frank was biology, had made a point of welcoming Frank at the university. And it was true that Alice made the best Christmas cake I’d ever tasted. Besides, if they were beginning to recognize my continued existence, for the first time, really, since Frank—well, I’d be stupid and ungrateful to turn down the invitation.
“Thank you, George, that’s very kind of you. I’d love to come to tea. Five o’clock or so? I’ll see you then.”
I WAS GETTING fairly good at reading English weather. By the time I was ready to set out for tea the softness had turned, not yet to rain, but to an insidious fog that wrapped its clammy fingers around the town. Emmy had come in with several remarks about the damp and plumped herself down where she could dry her fur in front of the “electric fire,” as the ugly little heater is euphemistically called. As I wrapped myself in various layers against the elements she looked up and uttered a brief but pungent comment.
“You’re quite right. I’m an idiot, but I’ve said I’ll go, so I have to. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can decently get away. You leave the tree alone, now.” I gave one last longing look at the heater and let myself out into the raw dampness.
Familiar streets had turned strangely forbidding as the fog closed in, and I stumbled, trying to hurry, on obstacles that seemed to pop out of the pavement as I approached. It was a fair piece of a walk. George and Alice lived on the edge of town, close to the university, which is really outside Sherebury proper. Their house, a new one built at the end of an old street, is in the style that used to be called “stockbroker Tudor.” To me it has always looked as out of place in its setting as a chorus girl among duchesses. It is undoubtedly bigger, more convenient, and easier to maintain than my own, which makes it even more unforgivable.
And you should be ashamed, Dorothy, I scolded myself. Here are nice people who’ve invited you over for the proverbial tea and sympathy, and you’re criticizing their taste. All the same, as I knocked at their door I couldn’t help smiling. The large, well-polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth was so deliciously inappropriate for George’s house.
Alice greeted me with such resolute charm and grace that I instantly wondered if the invitation had been her idea. Surely it would never have occurred to George that I might need some comfort.
Ensconced in an overstuffed chair while Alice went to cope with tea, I studied the room, redecorated since I had seen it last. I remembered the rumors that Alice had money. Somebody certainly had; George’s job couldn’t support them in this style. It looked straight out of Architectural Digest and made me profoundly uneasy, especially the white furniture, though blissfully comfortable. In this house stray cat hairs would not be looked upon with favor, and my dark slacks were, as usual, covered with gray fuzz.
Befo
re I could tear apart the rest of the room, Alice and the cake entered to a silent fanfare of trumpets, followed by George with a heavily laden tea tray. His rather pink nose seemed to twitch slightly, and suddenly his graying fair hair, neat military mustache, and little academic potbelly reminded me irresistibly of the White Rabbit.
“Now that’s what I like to see, a nice smile! Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. Delighted you could come. But would you rather have a drop of something, eh? Mulled wine, whiskey?”
“No, no, tea is just right on a day like this, thank you.” That sounded as if George was in charge of this meeting. Curiouser and curiouser. I furtively pulled an extra-large gray clump from the chair cushion and settled myself with my cup of tea and a sandwich or two.
“Now then, my dear, cheers, and the very best wishes of the season!” He lifted his teacup in salute. “And what on earth is all this nonsense about murder, eh?”
So that was it. Not compassion, curiosity. He wanted to hear all the gory details. Well, he was going to be disappointed. My resolve to be practical and positive about this murder didn’t mean I had to wallow in gore for George’s entertainment.
Alice was obviously horrified at George’s idea of teatime conversation. She gave him a kick on the ankle that I wasn’t supposed to see and changed the subject.
“I do hope you had a lovely Christmas, Dorothy. We’re not doing you very well in the way of weather, are we? This foggy frost is so frightfully depressing, I always think.”
Not very original, but I was happy to go along. “Oh, it is. Just like A Christmas Carol, at the beginning, you know, the part about ‘foggier still, and colder.’ I feel definitely cheated about snow. But yes, Christmas was very agreeable, thank you. I had people over for dinner, the Andersons, you remember them, don’t you? And Jane Langland.” I was prepared to regale them with a full description of the dinner menu, or anything else so long as it didn’t have to do with bodies, but George was not to be diverted.
“Ah, yes, how did dear old Jane take it? The murder, I mean.”
“Really, George!” But Alice sighed and picked up her teacup, recognizing defeat. When George climbs on a subject, I remembered from the old days, he rides it to death, and the quickest way to get it over with is to go along for the ride.
He was waiting for an answer. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I responded shortly. “I haven’t see her since I heard that it was murder. She didn’t seem particularly devastated by his death, if that’s what you mean. But why on earth should Jane ‘take it’ in any particular way? I didn’t get the impression she was a particular friend of the canon.”
“No, no, but I should have thought—that is, what with all those students hanging about—at least—”
“What are you talking about, George?” asked Alice, very crisply indeed. One well-shod toe beat a tattoo against the carpet.
The White Rabbit’s nose twitched again, and he cleared his throat self-importantly. “Jane’s protégés, that’s what. Surely it’s occurred to you that Nigel Evans is one of the prime suspects, if Billings really was murdered?”
He sat back and sipped his tea, watching smugly for our reactions. Mine must have disappointed him: blank incomprehension.
“George, Nigel is only a name to me, and I don’t have a clue as to what you mean. And he isn’t one of Jane’s ‘protégés,’ as you put it. I did ask her about him yesterday—no, not as a murder suspect, don’t be silly,” as his ears perked up. “I was interested because I saw him at the cathedral and he has such a striking face. She told me a little about him, but said she didn’t know him very well. What on earth makes you think he could have—done something like that?” The words “kill” and “murder” were too embarrassing; they sounded like cheap melodrama, especially in Alice’s highly refined room.
“Oh, I don’t say he did. But he had reason. I suppose Jane told you, at least, that he worked for Billings?”
I nodded. “In the cathedral library.”
“And did she tell you they had a blazing row the very day the good canon—died?”
Alice and I fastened our eyes on George with an attention that seemed to please him. He cleared his throat again.
“I presume you do know Evans is a student.” He was going to make us wait for it.
“Jane told me he’s at the university. She didn’t say what he’s studying.”
“Reading history. Thinks he’s God’s gift to scholarship. Entirely above himself, that lad. If you ask me, he needs a good kick in the pants, which is just what he would have got if Billings hadn’t died just now. He was about to be sent down.”
“Sent down! Expelled, you mean? But surely not! Jane called him ‘brilliant.’”
“That’s as may be.” George was getting worked up; his face was an alarming shade of purple. “He’s bright enough, when he wants to be. He’s also belligerent, rude, and too cocky by half.”
“He’s one of your students.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not mine, really. Worked with me from time to time, that’s all, helped proofread my book for a little spare cash. Oh, I won’t deny he’s been a good student. Keen. But he’d got to the point where he knew a little about this and that, and thought he knew it all. Actually argued with me over some points in my book. He’s twenty years old! I was reading history before he was born or thought of.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, rudeness is annoying, certainly, but the young are sure of themselves.” And, I didn’t say aloud, being rude to you is almost irresistible. “I can’t believe that’s enough to get him thrown out of school! He’s not the first young man in a university to be rude.”
“Of course that’s not all of it,” said George irritably. “I told you he had a row with Billings. Flinging accusations all over the shop, and the language! There would have been no choice but to report his shameful behavior to the university authorities, and what would they have done about it, I ask you?”
I was beginning not to like the smell of this. “What was the quarrel about, George?”
“Don’t know,” he admitted with some reluctance. “I was in the library at the time, in the stacks. Apparently they didn’t see me. I couldn’t actually hear what they said until they started shouting, and by that time it was all name-calling, or worse, and I wanted no part of it. But before I left I heard Evans threaten him. ‘You’ll regret it if you do, I promise you that.’”
“If everyone who made threats carried them out, the undertakers couldn’t keep up,” I retorted. “Personally, I don’t think the canon was murdered at all. It had to have been some sort of accident.”
“Ah, yes, I wondered what you thought of it all,” said George. “You know more than any of us, of course.”
“I don’t know a thing, except what I saw, and I don’t want to talk about that.” I felt I had made sufficient payment for my tea. “I don’t even want to think about it. I simply can’t believe anyone would kill a clergyman in his own church.”
“It has been done,” murmured Alice. “And Canon Billings was a much less popular man than Thomas à Becket. But Dorothy, you haven’t had any Christmas cake. Do let me cut you some.”
George opened his mouth but was quelled by a look that would have frozen warm Jell-O. Alice had had more than enough, and this time she intended to exercise her authority.
I was delighted to drop the subject and settle down to some cake, myself. English tea pastries are always wonderful, but at Christmastime they surpass themselves. You get miniature mince pies, extremely flaky and rich, and Christmas cake, which has no American equivalent. Alice’s was especially noteworthy: dark, heady fruitcake; homemade marzipan encasing the cake on top and sides with melting richness; sparkling white frosting whipped up into drifts as a foundation for the little Christmas landscape of candy trees with a tiny china reindeer. It was rich and sugary and wonderful; I downed two pieces without the least trouble.
“Tell me, George,” I asked, hoping to distract attention from the speed o
f my fork, “how is your book coming?” George’s book was something of a joke in university circles. He’d been writing it forever on some abysmally dull subject. Introducing the topic was risky; it could have kept George going for half an hour at least.
This time he didn’t get a chance to get started; Alice, beaming, got in first. “Oh, Dorothy, it’s nearly finished, and you haven’t heard the real news. We’re rather pleased, actually—it’s to be published by Oxford University Press! Buried here at Sherebury, George has been rather left out of things, but this may make a difference. Just between us, it will make him a very strong candidate for the Clarendon Chair.”
It was my day for inadequate responses. “Er—the Clarendon Chair?”
George condescended to explain. “Of course you’ve forgotten, Dorothy, you’ve left the academic world. The Clarendon Chair of History of Holy Scripture, at St. Swithin’s College, Oxford. It’s vacant just now, and I admit it’s rather a plum. I was up for it a good many years ago, but it usually goes to a clergyman. As Alice says, they may make an exception this time. But you know, Alice, we said we wouldn’t talk about it yet.”
“No, but Dorothy won’t tell anyone, I’m sure. She doesn’t really know anyone . . .” Alice turned slightly pink and stopped talking.
I was suddenly not hungry anymore. The fact that Alice hadn’t intended the slap in the face didn’t make it feel any better. George, with his usual tactlessness, had said it baldly: I’d left the academic world. I was a nonperson, in fact. Frank had provided my identity, and now that he was gone . . . I put down my plate and stood up.
“You must forgive me, I have the most terrific headache. Thank you so much for tea, and that sublime cake, Alice, but I must get home. No, George, it’s kind of you to offer, but the walk will do me good, I think.” George’s standard of driving matched his minimal knowledge of cars, and in any case, if I spent any more time with him I was going to break something. “Enjoy the rest of the holidays, and good night.”
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