Body in the Transept

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “I’ll have you know my VW is a perfectly reliable car. It does get a little cold in winter, I admit, but today’s nice and warm. Besides, it’s all that’ll fit in my little afterthought of a garage.”

  “Hah! You just like it because the steering wheel’s on the left, American style. Okay, we’ll see you by four-thirty, right?”

  “Right.”

  Halfway out the door I realized I wouldn’t be home for Alan’s call. Should I leave a message? I decided I should, but I kept it brief and formal. Mrs. Martin would be out for the evening but would try to reach Chief Constable Nesbitt in the morning. Thank you very much. I called for Emmy, but she had disappeared; very well, she could stay out until I got home. Serve her right. I was off.

  I made two wrong turns and had one close encounter with a tow truck, but I made it. When I walked into the pub a little over an hour later, Tom and Lynn were waiting for me with a Jack Daniel’s already poured.

  “Ah, thank you, I need a little stiffening. But I daren’t drink much. There’s still the drive home.”

  “Don’t worry.” Tom patted my knee. “I’m having a pint and then switching to tonic so I can drive when we go eat. By the time you get behind the wheel again you’ll be fine, with dinner and all.”

  “But Dorothy, what do you think of this place? We found it all by ourselves, we’re so proud!” Lynn beamed. “And isn’t the name luscious?”

  “Delightful—the place and the name. There must be a story behind it.”

  “Oh, that’s the best part. She really was a wicked lady. . . .”

  Lynn and Tom told the story, interrupting each other and quarreling happily over the details. It was an unlikely tale of a lusty seventeenth-century matron-turned-highwayman, lady of the manor by day and, disguised as a man, robber by night. Some said she had died in this very pub, and within these walls it was easy to believe, easy to hear hoofbeats and the heavy rattle of coach wheels over cobblestones, with the wind echoing, “Stand and deliver!”

  “Oh, that’s perfect,” I said with a luxurious sigh when they had finished. “And as Winston Churchill said about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, it is all true, or it ought to be.”

  “Exactly!” said Lynn delightedly. “I believe every word of it, myself.”

  “All right, now, D., we brought you here to talk, and my lovely wife hasn’t let you get a word in edgewise.”

  “Hah!” said Lynn. “Look who’s calling the kettle black. But we’re dying to hear all about it! First of all, are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. At least, nobody’s after me, if that’s what you mean. But as a Sherlock Holmes, I’m beginning to think that I make a wonderful Watson.”

  “I knew it,” said Lynn dramatically, pressing her hands together and rolling her eyes skyward. “I knew you were getting yourself mixed up in all this, I could feel it in my bones. What do you mean, Watson? You’re a perfect Mrs. Pollifax.”

  “Maybe I look the part. I realize I’m the only nonroyal woman in England who still wears hats. But I’m getting the clues all wrong. The most recent victim was my prime suspect.”

  “Yeah, well, that would create a little problem, wouldn’t it?” said Tom, rubbing one ear. “Tell us about it.”

  I related my progress, or lack of it. It took me through another drink. “So now,” I concluded, “I’m left with two suspects, neither of them with a very good motive, really. And they both have an alibi for the second murder, anyway. I suppose the police are looking into that. I’m going to talk to Alan about it tomorrow, I hope.”

  “Alan?” Lynn arched her eyebrows.

  “The chief constable. We’ve gotten to be friends, so he’s letting me in on some of what’s going on. Now don’t look at me like that. He’s a friend, and that’s all there is to it. And that’s all I want right now.”

  One of the nicest things about Tom and Lynn is that they never carry a joke too far. Their agreement to drop the subject didn’t even require an exchange of glances.

  “So you’re down to two suspects, huh? Sounds like everybody in town wanted to do the guy in; there must be more than two.”

  “There is one more, actually. As of today. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s really very—distressing. You see, it’s George Chambers.”

  “George!” Lynn’s eyes widened, and Tom gave a long, low whistle.

  “I know. I wouldn’t have thought the White Rabbit would ever have the nerve, but—”

  Tom choked on his tonic. “The what?”

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to say that. And don’t you go repeating it, it’s private. It’s just something about his hair—and his nose—”

  “Don’t. Stop,” Tom wheezed. “You’ll have us thrown out of here if I laugh any more. Oh, Lord, I’ll never see him again without . . .” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

  “One day,” said Lynn when she could speak, “I will get even with you for that. Now tell, we are panting to know why you think the White Rabbit could possibly have had the backbone to murder anyone.”

  “It isn’t very funny, really, except it’s all rumor, and my imagination. Well, not quite all. I don’t suppose, living way up there in your tight little London world, you’ve ever heard any stories about George playing around?”

  “Good grief, D., that’s not news!” said Tom. “Have you just caught on?”

  “Alan says I’m naive,” I admitted. “Or he said I was a nice woman, which amounts to the same thing. But when I went over to the university to talk to George today, I caught him with a coed. They were just walking along, talking, but they both looked awfully guilty when they saw me.”

  “And how does the occasional spot of adultery turn the poor old White Rabbit into a murderer?”

  “That’s where my imagination comes in. I thought, if Alice doesn’t know about it—and Billings knew—and he threatened to tell Alice—”

  “And Alice,” Lynn concluded triumphantly, “would take the money and run. George wouldn’t be at all happy about that; he enjoys the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed. Tacky as it is. Dorothy, you’ve been underestimating yourself. I think you’ve definitely got something there.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. He didn’t sound happy about it. “An awful lot of guesswork, but you could be right. And what do you do about it, my dear dimwit? You go trotting over and ask him if he’s a murderer!”

  “Oh, come on, now. I’m not quite that stupid. I didn’t say a word about it. I just asked him what Billings was working on when he died. I don’t know why, but I’m really curious about that, and I thought George might know. He didn’t, though. Or at least, he had a theory, but it sounded awfully unlikely to me.”

  “Anyway, you’d better let that policeman pal of yours know all about this right away. If you’re right, the sooner George knows that somebody else knows, the safer you are. You done with that?” He gestured to my glass. “Come on, doll, let’s go to dinner.”

  “We’re going somewhere else? The food here looks very good.”

  “It is, Dorothy, but we’ve made a real find, a tiny place that’s three-star quality. The Old Bakehouse, over in Rabbit’s Cross.”

  “Appropriate,” I murmured.

  I probably would have behaved myself the rest of the evening if the menu hadn’t offered rabbit—well, lapin à la something-or-other. When I saw it I started to giggle, and then Tom realized why I was laughing and guffawed himself, and I ended up with hiccups and suffered the well-meaning suggestions of sure cures from everyone in the place.

  All in all we had a hilarious evening, exactly what I needed. One never realizes quite how tight the strings are drawn until they are relaxed. As I drove home I felt better than I had in months, singing as I drove and negotiating the roundabouts with aplomb.

  It was late, though, and I was so tired when I pulled the car into the garage that I nearly hit Emmy.

  She was crouching in the middle of the concrete, lapping at something spilled on the floor.
I left the car idling and got out to scold her and move her out of the way.

  “What are you drinking, you little nuisance? Here, get away from that and let me see.”

  It was a greenish fluid that didn’t look at all edible. I put a finger to it, smelled, hesitantly tasted. It had a slightly sweetish taste. Emmy struggled in my arms to get back at it, but I held her tightly and looked around, puzzled. I was sure I hadn’t spilled anything out here, and it wasn’t motor oil. Anyway the Beetle, old though it was, didn’t leak oil.

  And then I saw the can, tossed carelessly into a corner. I picked it up, smelled it, and was in the house in ten seconds and at the phone, an indignant cat still clutched in my arms.

  Pray God the vet was there. He worked out of his home, so surely, at nearly midnight . . . he answered, his Scottish burr strongly in evidence.

  “Two-seven-eight-two-four-r-r.”

  “Mr. Douglas? Thank God. I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but—oh, this is Dorothy Martin.”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “It’s Emmy. She’s been drinking antifreeze, and I know it’s supposed to be terribly poisonous—”

  “How long ago?” His voice had changed from irritation to sharp anxiety.

  “Just now. I came home and caught her at it. And I don’t know how—”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Get her here, now!”

  17

  NOTHING IN SHEREBURY is very far from anything else. That night the three-minute drive to the vet’s seemed to take an hour, Emmy howling in her carrier the whole way.

  He met me at the door to his surgery. “I’m beginning to feel embarrassed about this, Mr. Douglas,” I said as I tried to entice Emmy out of the box. She was growling, hissing, and employing all the weapons at her command—in short, acting completely normal. “She seems perfectly all right. Maybe she didn’t get much, after all.”

  “Symptoms develop slowly. It’s verra lucky ye saw her drinking it, ye ken; by the time the animal looks sick it’s too late to save it. Ye’re sure it was antifreeze?”

  “I soaked it up with a sponge and brought it with me, just in case.”

  “Right.”

  That was the first faint sign of approval I’d gotten from him. I started to explain. “I can’t imagine how she got into it. I never—”

  “She’s clever,” he said brusquely. “This isn’t going to be so verra pleasant. Perhaps ye’d best wait ootside.”

  He set down the soaked sponge and wrapped a thick towel firmly around the furiously angry cat, managing somehow to avoid teeth and claws. “Noo, then, Esmeralda, ye’ll no’ care much for this, puir beastie.” His voice was soft and caressing and melodious with the lilt of northern hills. Neither of them noticed when I left the room.

  Tired as I was, I sat listlessly turning the pages of ancient magazines in the waiting room. Neither the wails coming from the next room nor my thoughts were conducive to sleep. Emmy was the healthiest-sounding sick cat I’d ever heard. Gradually the shrieks diminished, however, and I gathered Mr. Douglas had given her a sedative. The sounds that followed indicated various distressing occurrences. Emmy was evidently being purged of the poison.

  Think about something else. Think about how in the world this could have happened.

  Mr. Douglas hadn’t let me talk about it. But then he didn’t like a lot of talk. He was a Scot, and as dour and bleak as his native heath when he was with people. With animals he was kind and gentle and infinitely patient, perhaps because they didn’t talk. Emmy loved him when they met socially, although at his office she felt she had to uphold the honor of her ancient race by vehement protests.

  All the same, Mr. Douglas clearly thought my carelessness to blame for her present condition. The things he had so pointedly left unsaid were silent indictments. But the things I had tried to tell him exonerated me.

  The point was, I didn’t have any antifreeze. My beat-up old VW had an air-cooled engine. That’s why the heater didn’t work worth a hoot, and I froze in winter, but I didn’t have to worry about the radiator doing the same. There wasn’t one.

  And even if I had a water-cooled car, I wasn’t the mechanical type. I had my car serviced at a garage, where they fed it whatever mysterious fluids it required. Back home, Frank used to keep a little oil and antifreeze and whatever around the house to top things up, but I knew so little about the innards of a car that I never bothered.

  Of course, my house was rented. Could there have been a can of antifreeze left in the garage, overlooked?

  That occupied me for another half hour, as I tried to remember, and to shut out the sounds from the surgery, but finally I shook my head. The house and garage had been so clean when I moved in that I had been thoroughly intimidated, knowing I could never keep things up to that standard. I was quite sure there had been nothing at all in the garage except a few gardening tools, spotlessly clean and neatly hung from their proper hooks. No mess.

  No antifreeze.

  The surgery door opened, and Mr. Douglas beckoned.

  “She’ll do now,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve got the stuff out of her and started her on an IV of ethanol.”

  “An IV of what?”

  “Ethyl alcohol. Dr-r-rink.” The rolled “r” made it sound like an exotic potation. I must have looked doubtful, for he launched into his lecturing mode, the only time he ever uttered more than a few words.

  “Antifreeze, ye’ll understand, is ethylene glycol, a form of alcohol. The body turns it to formaldehyde, and it pickles the internal organs and kills the wee beast. So we cast it oot and give the patient charcoal to absorb the rest. But even a bit left in the system is dangerous, so we make the puir beastie drunk on ethanol. That drives oot the other, ye see, and keeps it from doing its damage. We’ll need to keep her here twa, three days, until it’s all oot of her system. She’ll have a fierce hangover at the end of it all, puir wee moggie. She’ll no’ like it, but she’ll do.”

  He fixed me with a bleak gray eye. “Ye understand, do ye, she’d have died if ye’d no’ seen her drinking the stuff? It’s extremely dangerous, and I’ll ask ye to be more careful in future about leaving it about.”

  I couldn’t let that pass. “Mr. Douglas, I’m more grateful than I can say. Emmy is terribly important to me, and I don’t know what I’d have done if . . . but you must understand. I didn’t leave antifreeze where she could get into it. There’s never been any at the house. I couldn’t think about anything else, the whole time you’ve been with Emmy. I’ve been over it and over it, and there was no antifreeze in that garage.”

  “Yon sponge was full of it,” he retorted. “What are ye telling me, then?”

  “I’m telling you someone put it there. You can think I’m crazy if you want to, but someone tried to poison Emmy.”

  His eyes grew even chillier. “And why would they do that?” Was the menace underlying his voice directed at me or an ostensible poisoner?

  “How should I know how a poisoner’s mind works?” I had an extremely good idea, but now was not the time to go into it. “Can I see Emmy now?”

  “She’s unconscious, but ye can see her.”

  She looked so small, stretched out on her side on the steel table. A section of her lovely thick fur had been shaved away for the IV needle, and the pale patch of skin looked cold. I stroked her head; there was no response.

  “She—you’re sure she’ll be all right?” I swallowed and cleared my throat.

  “Yon wee beastie’s a fighter,” he said, his accent broadening still further. “Ye’ll no’ need to worry. I’ve only had to sedate her because she wouldna let me treat her awake. Go home, noo. Rest. I’ll ring ye in the morning. Not too airly.” His voice had softened, and the hand on my shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and apology, told me he accepted my story. “And mind—I’d keep the door locked.”

  I did as I was told.

  THE PHONE ROUSED me out of a deep but troubled sleep. I ran down the stairs, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. “Yes? Mr. Dou
glas?”

  “Is that seven-three-two-double-four? Mrs. Dorothy Martin?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice; it must be his nurse. “Yes, this is Mrs. Martin.”

  “One moment, please, for Chief Constable Nesbitt.”

  I let out the breath I had been holding, and Alan, who came on the line immediately, heard me. “Did I catch you at a bad time, Dorothy? Should I ring up later?”

  “No, I just thought you were someone else. I’m glad you called; I was going to call you. What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty. I didn’t wake you, did I? I thought you’d just be home from church.”

  “Oh, Lord, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? No, I didn’t make it. I had—rather a bad night. Alan, I need to talk to you. You surely don’t have meetings today, do you?”

  “I’ll be there immediately.”

  “Immediately” gave me just enough time to dress hastily and make a pot of coffee. Automatically I got out the cat food and looked around for Emmy. I was putting it back in the cupboard, with tears in my eyes, when the doorbell rang.

  He noticed, of course; he’s a good, observant policeman. “Dorothy, what’s wrong?”

  I gulped and tried to smile. “Nothing, really, I’m just being silly. She’s going to be fine, but, oh, Alan, last night someone tried to poison Emmy!” My voice got a bit tight and I had to turn my head. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it.”

  He was understanding enough not to follow me into the kitchen, and by the time I got back with two cups I had myself under control.

  “Right. Tell me about it.”

  I told him, careful to keep to the facts, while he drank his coffee. “And they have to keep her full of the ethanol for a while, but she should be all right,” I concluded.

  “Good.” He tented his fingers. “You’re quite sure you had no antifreeze about?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “And I gather you think you know who was responsible.”

  “I’m practically sure it was George Chambers.” I laid down my line of reasoning about George and the canon once more. “I know it sounds awfully thin and iffy. But the fact is, I went to see George and caught him with a girl—and then Emmy was poisoned. Why would anybody do that, except to upset me and get me to shut up and quiet down for a while? George knows how much I love that cat; he’d know how devastated I would be if she died. He meant her to die, Alan. But the final touch is that anybody who knew about cars would know a VW Beetle doesn’t use antifreeze, and George isn’t mechanical. I think it makes sense.”