And it was not, I emphatically reminded myself, any business of mine anyway. Mr Abercrombie had not been murdered. He had met with an unfortunate accident. The fact that a number of people on the island had hated him was neither here nor there. Those innocent tourists could leave whenever they liked.
I looked up and saw a half-smile on Alan’s face. ‘Oh, hush!’ I said crossly, and asked for another cup of coffee. He hadn’t said a word, but sometimes it can be very annoying to have one’s mind read so consistently.
The fog had gone by the time we finished eating, and the sun was shining for all it was worth. We made a pot of tea and took it and our books out into the lovely little garden behind the B & B. The sun warmed the small walled space so much that I didn’t need my sweater, though we sat in the shade of a large fuchsia bush. This, I thought, was more like it. This was a holiday. Sitting in a garden, doing nothing, listening to the hum of bees and the liquid song of a blackbird, so unlike the harsh cries of blackbirds back in Indiana.
That mellow mood lasted for about ten minutes. I picked up a book, read a few paragraphs, put it aside. Picked up another one. Didn’t get past the cover illustration.
I stood up. ‘Alan, I can’t stand it.’
‘I didn’t imagine you would,’ he said, never looking up from his book. ‘Did you bring a notebook?’
‘No, I took everything out of my purse that I could, because of the weight restrictions.’
‘You’d better go buy one. And a pen or two.’ He looked up then.
‘You look exactly like the cat that swallowed the canary!’
‘Yes, dear. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, I need a little time to get over being transparent.’
He chuckled and returned to the book.
TEN
I love my husband dearly. I do. There are times, though, when I wish he understood me a little less obviously. A woman likes to think she has a little aura of mystery, even when she’s nearing the end of her seventh decade.
It didn’t take me long to find a notebook. There was a kind of general store just a few steps from our B & B. It sold almost everything, from shampoo to dog food to greeting cards to – aha! – notebooks. I had to buy a packet of ten of them, but no matter. I’d ship them back home along with our books, and I’d certainly use them. I didn’t need pens. I had at least three in my purse; I carry several because I’m forever losing them.
I had stopped being irritated by the time I got back to the little garden. It was too beautiful a day to cherish a snit. ‘All right, love, I’m properly equipped now. All ready to make lists. Where shall we start?’
Alan had evidently been giving the matter some thought. ‘Suppose we list everyone we’ve talked to about Abercrombie, and what they think of him.’
‘Or what they told us they think of him,’ I amended.
‘Indeed. There might be a difference. Very well. I think the first name ought to be Constable Partridge.’
‘But he’s a Methodist. He didn’t really know the man. At least, he didn’t tell us anything about him except the basic facts.’
‘Didn’t he?’
‘Oh. You mean his unspoken belief that there was more to Mr A.’s death than met the eye. You don’t think we’re wrong about that, do you? I mean, wrong about what the good constable believes.’
‘He’s a good policeman, Dorothy. He doesn’t know us, doesn’t know anything about us except what we told him. By now I’m sure he’s done his homework and knows my credentials check out. He also knows the difference between evidence and speculation. And he has a very small force here. He can’t afford to go chasing after faint possibilities.’
‘Okay, but that doesn’t really answer my question.’
‘I think he has recognized in us a couple of unofficial deputies. He has let us see what he thinks without ever speaking a word that could be held against him. So yes, I think he believes there’s reason for doubt about the way Abercrombie died.’
I wrote that down: Partridge, has doubts. ‘And there’s something else, too. I’ll bet he knows more about the man than he let on, even if he doesn’t attend St Anne’s. How could he help it? It’s a small island, and the guy was making himself conspicuous. A finger in every pie at the church, spending money like mad, talking about buying a house – of course he’d be well known.’
‘I’d wondered about that myself. But it never hurts to pretend ignorance.’
I grinned. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest, we’d say in America. In some circles.’
‘But not the ones you moved in, I’m sure. Who’s next? Robin?’
‘No, I’d say definitely Alice. We know the most about her.’
Alan nodded, sighing. ‘I’d far sooner not have heard any of that story. Not only is it horrific, but it leads one to suspicions of Alice I don’t want to entertain.’
‘Neither do I, but we can’t just ignore the story, can we?’ I made a note. ‘Then there’s Robin. He’s sort of like the good constable, in a way. He’s told us quite a lot, but not in words.’
‘He’s a reserved sort of chap. I don’t think he likes speaking ill of anyone. And then, as he’s not a native islander, he might feel a bit – what shall I say? – diffident, about making judgements.’
‘Abercrombie wasn’t an islander, either. Worse, he wasn’t even English. And I say there’s no doubt Robin didn’t like him. I wish we knew why. I think that’s something we’re going to have to find out.’ I made another note.
‘So we come to the church contingent.’
‘But we can’t lump them all together,’ I objected. ‘Yes, they’re all on Abercrombie’s side, but there are nuances. I’m willing to bet that if we could talk to them separately, we might hear some slightly different stories. Sylvia’s a strong-willed woman, and I think most of the others wouldn’t dare disagree with her. I’d like to see if I couldn’t get that grandmother-type off by herself. She never told us her name, but she thought I was a detective. I think she’d talk my head off if I let her.’
‘She’s very much in the Saint William camp.’
‘I know, but she could be useful all the same. For one thing, she might have a clue about why Robin didn’t like the man. All of them might, for that matter. Help me remember their names, Alan.’
‘Sylvia Whiting.’ He counted them off on his fingers as I wrote them down. ‘Rebecca Smith. Three who didn’t give us their names. The priest, Mr Lewison. And then there’s “Lucille”, who took umbrage when Abercrombie stole her jumble sale job.’
‘Yes, I imagine we’ll have to find her, too. How? How are we going to find any of them? We can hardly call on Mr Lewison and ask for their addresses.’
‘I have two suggestions. No, three.’ Alan started counting on his fingers again. ‘The first is Victoria Street. I’m sure you remember the old saying that if you sat in Paris at the Café de la Paix long enough, everyone you knew would pass by. The world has changed too much for that to be true now, if it ever was, but certainly everyone in Alderney traverses Victoria Street. All we’d have to do is look as if we’re shopping and walk slowly, and I’m sure we’ll become involved in conversations.’
‘We?’
‘Separately. We can cast the net further that way.’
‘Okay, I’ll buy that one. And your other two suggestions?’
‘The first is Jack’s. It seems to be a popular spot for the churchgoers. If we go there for morning coffee, for lunch, for tea, we ought to run across a fair sampling of the people we want. And the other, a long shot, is the Georgian House. It seems more of a haunt for the imbibers of alcohol, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find Robin there, and perhaps some of the others as well.’
I could find nothing wrong with any of his ideas, except – ‘I do hope Jack’s and the Georgian House have good loos. If we’re going to be practically living there, I’ll need them.’
It was nearly lunchtime, and although I would have been happy to eat in our room, I saw the wisdo
m of Alan’s plan. ‘Jack’s?’ I stood.
‘It’s a bit early yet. Let’s stroll Victoria Street for a few minutes. We might find someone we could ask to join us.’
‘Okay. You go up and I’ll go down. Let’s meet at Jack’s in – what? – half an hour, with or without other members of the party.’
It was a beautiful day for a stroll, if I hadn’t been preoccupied. I prefer a somewhat brisk walking pace, but a stroll was all I could manage at midday in Alderney. Busy shoppers were everywhere. The post office van was making its leisurely way up the street, stopping at every address, squeezing past the scaffolding at the construction site. The driver had pulled in his side mirrors, but even so pedestrians had to wait for him to get by, or huddle in shop entrances, and of course no car could get past. Everyone seemed to accept the inconvenience with great good humour.
One little knot of women, chatting on a corner, backed away from the van without noticing that I was behind them. I was pushed into the doorway of the fishmonger’s and barely avoided stepping on the toes of someone coming out.
We offered mutual apologies. ‘It’s rather a crush, isn’t it?’ said the woman, and then took a closer look at me. ‘Why, it’s Mrs Martin, isn’t it? I’m not sure I ever introduced myself. Martha Duckett. We met at the church.’
The grandmother. This was a piece of luck! ‘Of course I remember you. How wonderful that you remember my name. I’m hopeless with names, myself. And I’m so glad I ran into you. Sorry it was literally so, though! I’m just going down to meet Alan at Jack’s for a bite of lunch. Could I persuade you to join us? We do enjoy having company for a meal.’
‘Oh, I really should go home. I’ve my lunch here.’ She held up a small parcel wrapped in white paper.
‘Oh, do come. I’m sure Mr McAllister would be happy to put your fish back on ice for you, and you can have it for supper.’
I held my breath. Of everyone we’d met so far, she was the one I most wanted to talk to. I’d been sure that she wanted to talk to us, too …
‘Well … it is lonely eating alone …’
‘Splendid.’
‘I’ll just pop back in the shop and explain to Mr McAllister. I’ll come down in a tick.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind waiting.’ I was not about to let her go, now that she was hooked. I was pleased to see that there was a queue in the shop; it would take a few minutes for her to get to the counter to return her fish, and that would give Alan more time to get to Jack’s. I hoped he would be alone. Another person might make Martha less willing to open up.
My luck held. Martha and I met Alan – alone – just as he was going into the brasserie. ‘Look who I persuaded to have lunch with us, love!’ I introduced her, and Alan played up beautifully.
‘This is a real pleasure,’ he said in his warmest manner. ‘We were hoping to get to know you better. Shall we sit inside or out?’
‘Oh, outside, don’t you think? It’s such a fine day, it would be a pity to waste it.’
We settled ourselves at one of the sunny tables, and while I was trying to work out whether this was the sort of place where one ordered at the bar, a waitress appeared with two menus, which she handed to Alan and me.
‘I’ll have a pint of bitter to start,’ said Alan. ‘Dorothy? Mrs Duckett?’
‘Oh, please, it’s Miss, but do call me Martha. I’d like a half, please.’
‘Me, too,’ I said. ‘By the way, Martha, this is our treat. No, we insist. Everyone on this island has been so kind to us; this is a small chance to repay. Now, what’s good to eat?’
Martha was obviously well-known here and needed no menu. ‘Oh, everything’s good. I do like their Caesar salads, but my very favourite is the crab sandwich. It’s the best I’ve ever eaten.’
‘Done,’ said Alan and I with one voice. Our beer arrived in a few moments, and Alan proposed a toast. ‘To friends, old and new.’
We chatted while waiting for our food. Our impressions of Alderney, the beautiful weather – the small talk one uses to fill time. When we got our sandwiches, they looked so good we dived right in and couldn’t say much for a few minutes.
Martha was the first to push away her plate, with her sandwich only half finished. ‘I’ll take the rest home,’ she said. ‘It’s so good, but they give one such a lot to eat here.’ She was such a small lady, it surprised me that she’d been able to put away as much as she did.
She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, then looked around the patio. It had filled up with customers. No one was paying the slightest attention to us, but when she began to speak, it was very quietly.
‘I hope you won’t mind, but I did want to talk to you about Mr Abercrombie. I could see that you were confused by what other people had to say about him. I was so happy to bump into you in the shop, because I didn’t know where you were staying, and I wanted to see you.’ She paused for a sip of her beer, which she had scarcely touched. ‘You see, he was such a dear man that I just cannot bear to think you might take away a wrong impression of him.’
‘He does seem to have inspired strong feelings, one way or the other,’ I said cautiously.
‘And that’s why some people started imagining things that weren’t true.’ She leaned over her plate in earnest pleading. I moved it out of the way just before the bow on her blouse touched the mayonnaise. She didn’t notice.
‘Jealousy is a dreadful thing, Mrs Martin,’ she went on. ‘It can turn the nicest people into monsters. Ladies, and some men, too, who have been stalwart workers at the church for years, well, some of them took offense at how Mr Abercrombie won people’s hearts, and how well he did the little tasks he took on.’
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ I said. ‘What could have given them reason to be jealous?’ I knew perfectly well what she meant, but I was hoping she would be more specific.
‘Well, take one of the men, for example. I won’t name him, but he’s been a great help, even though he hasn’t lived on the island all that long. He sings in the choir, very reliable, never misses a practice or a Sunday service, and as the vicar is the only other bass, that’s been most welcome.’
Aha! I didn’t dare look at Alan.
‘Rob— this man seemed to get on quite well with Mr Abercrombie when he first came. I think they lunched together once or twice. Robin likes Americans. But then something happened, and the two men became very cool with one another. Why, Robin would walk right past Mr Abercrombie without a word, as if he didn’t even see him. It was most embarrassing. I can only think it had to do with the new choir folders.’
‘Choir folders?’ said Alan with a questioning frown.
‘Yes, you see the old ones are getting terribly shabby. Our choir isn’t professional, of course, like the big cathedral choirs, but still we like to see them well turned-out. I don’t sing in the choir anymore – I’m far too old, my dear – but I hated to see them having to use those old folders on Sunday morning. Music actually fell out more than once, and it was quite distracting when it sailed across the chancel. So Mr Abercrombie noticed, of course, and volunteered to help pay for new ones, lovely leather ones. We’re a small parish, and as you can imagine, we have very little money to spare.’
‘And the other man objected?’ Alan carefully didn’t use his name, but he sounded incredulous. I thought about what Sylvia had said about something that was ‘too petty, for either man’, and wondered.
‘Oh, he said he thought it was an unnecessary expense, when the church, and the community, had so many other needs. I think he just wished he had thought of it first. But most of the choir, and most of the congregation, agreed with Mr Abercrombie, so he went to a great deal of trouble to find out the cost of new ones, and showed everyone in the choir several styles to choose from. They’re blue leather, with a gold edging, and they’ll have the name of the church stamped in gold on the front. He said he’d take contributions from anyone who cared to give, but he would make up the difference himself. He ordered them a few weeks ago, and we were
so looking forward to having them for our festival in July. Now with him gone, I don’t know what will happen to the order.’
‘I imagine it was paid in advance, so it will arrive in time,’ I soothed. ‘This would be the festival of Saint Anne? When is that, exactly?’
‘The Sunday closest to July 26. It isn’t as glorious as it was in the old days. We’re not very High Church now. But we still celebrate, and the new folders will mark the occasion, and serve as a memorial to a man very dear to our hearts, even though he was here for such a short time.’
ELEVEN
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked Alan as we trudged back to our room.
‘Probably. That dear sweet woman rather missed the point about the folder issue, didn’t she?’
‘Alan, did you follow the Watergate scandal at all? Nixon and the burglars and all that?’
‘Vaguely.’ He gave me an odd look.
‘No, my mind isn’t wandering. This really is to the point. You probably remember that there was a mysterious informant they called Deep Throat, who gave Bob Woodward lots of information. One of the things this guy said was “Follow the money”.’
Alan smiled. ‘Ah. Indeed. Here we have another little situation where Abercrombie could have made off with a bit of cash.’
‘And all in the name of charity, which makes it even more infuriating. Alan, what would you like to bet that those folders were never ordered?’
He spread his hands. ‘I’m not a gambling man, Dorothy, and in any case I would never bet on a sure thing. It isn’t sporting.’
‘We’re taking sides again. You know, it’s entirely possible that the man really was as delightful as some people thought.’
‘Anything’s possible. But you haven’t forgotten Alice, have you?’
‘No, as hard as I’ve tried, I haven’t forgotten her horror story. But look, Alan.’ I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, causing people to detour around me with the usual courtesy and lack of impatience I’d come to expect here. They apologized for almost running into me.
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