by Marni Graff
“Not at all, it’s a lovely tribute,” Nora reassured her.
“Bryn wouldn’t have wanted it to go to Oxfam if you liked it, Janet,” Simon threw in.
“I hope you cleaned it out. Bryn could really pack stuff in those tiny things,” Val said as their coffees were placed in front of them.
They stirred as Janet answered. “Actually, there wasn’t much at all, just some hard candy, a few pence, and three ticket stubs from the movie Notting Hill.”
“We really loved that one,” Val said, “especially the funny bits and the lovely plaque on the garden bench in the end. And that flatmate was such a scream!”
“Who else went with you, Val?” Nora asked, taking out her notebook and adding “disconnect headboard” to her chore list.
“Lottie. We went together one night after work, Bryn’s treat. And that reminds me,” Val directed her question to Nora. “Did Simon tell you about possibly going out on a canal boat ride with Lottie tomorrow?”
“No, but that sounds lovely. We’ll pop around the co-op later and tell Lottie to set it up.”
“Maybe May will let Lou come with us. Safety in numbers.” Val sipped her coffee. “The co-op’s closing at noon for inventory, but Lottie will be there until 5 or so.”
Outside the coffee shop window Miles Belcher disengaged himself from a reporter.
Janet clutched Val’s arm. “Miles Belcher—I never liked that man, and I only met him once. He’s lecherous.”
“That’s part of his act, Janet,” Val said. “He’s as hetero as Simon—it makes some models feel comfortable to think he’s gay and not a threat. He’s just flamboyant.” Nora flipped a page in her notebook. “Not another list, Yankee!” Val grabbed the notebook from Nora, who lunged for it.
“Just things left to do,” Nora insisted, holding her hand out.
“Not so fast, dear pal.” Val held the notebook out of Nora’s reach. “You know our Nora is a bit compulsive with her lists, Janet. We have to keep her honest. Let’s see … Davey, Miles, Lottie, Ted Wheeler.” She glanced at Nora. “Some to-do list here.” Her eyebrows rose in question.
“Oh, that’s just Nora’s list of people she’s investigating,” Simon chimed in heartily. “She’s been going at it without me, and it seems to have backfired on her.” He proceeded to fill Val and Janet in on Nora’s unexpected find last evening.
“Another death!” Janet said with dismay.
“Ted Wheeler, huh?” Val mused. “I wonder how he got mixed up in this.” With a flourish, Val ripped out the page and handed Nora her notebook. “You, dear friend, have enough on your plate without going out on dangerous assignments.” Val stuffed the page into the pocket of her jacket. “I will not have you crusading all over Oxford tracking down dangerous criminals on my behalf. Jeff Nichols assured me as of today I have nothing to worry about. The ‘bloody’ spots on my shirt were fabric dye.” She pointed at Nora’s belly. “You worry about the wee one.”
Nora bit her lip.
Simon laughed out loud. “We seem to have ganged up on her in this department, Val. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nora speechless!”
Nora shook her head at their teasing. Only Janet didn’t laugh.
Instead, she put her hand on Val’s arm. “I need a favor, dear.” Janet had a steely look.
“Anything, Janet,” Val replied, exchanging a look with Nora.
“Take me to see DI Barnes.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
“When Lady Ann Sercomb married George Smiley towards the end of the war she described him to her astonished Mayfair friends as breathtakingly ordinary.”
— John le Carré, Call for the Dead
11:15 AM
Declan stood in the murder room reviewing notes from last night’s crime scene. Three large white boards ringed the room, one for each of the recent murder victims. His nostrils flared from the stink of whiteboard marker as he scanned each board for something that would leap out and link the murders. He was certain the same person had not committed all three—the methodologies were too different—but they shared an aspect of rage or passion. The window of opportunity for catching the murderers was constricting, leaving Declan frustrated and discouraged, exactly the kind of attitude he hoped to avoid in his team.
He had tried to understand Bryn Wallace, absorbing the aura in her flat, exploring the details that had defined her life. He had talked at length to her mother, her partner, her boss. Other team members had talked to people on the fringes of her life. He was still working with few hard facts. The definitive evidence included Val Rogan’s argument with Bryn shortly before her death, Cameron Wilson’s and Ted Wheeler’s notes, Tommy Clay’s death, and a probable attempt to kill Wheeler. Edward Vance’s background checks had not revealed any reason for him to be murdered. Declan decided to sift through the statements given by Wheeler’s colleagues and had just lifted the folder when Watkins appeared in the doorway.
“Guv!” Watkins was uncharacteristically excited. “The Magic Cafe’s got two employees putting Cameron Wilson on Magdalen Road with Tommy Clay just before he was murdered!”
“Hal-lo! Now we’re going somewhere,” Declan answered, his mood on the rise. “Let’s visit Mr. Wilson at home, shall we?”
They were headed down the staircase when McAfee met them halfway up.
“Sir—Val Rogan’s downstairs with Janet Wallace, insisting on seeing you. She says it’s important.”
Declan hesitated, then continued down. As he approached the lobby, he saw Janet Wallace pacing.
She turned to him with an anguished appeal. “I need to speak with you.”
Declan analyzed the entreating look on her face and turned to Watkins. “Take McAfee and pick up Wilson; bring him in for questioning.” As they left, he turned to the two women. “Come upstairs to my office.”
After they were seated Declan asked, “What’s this all about then?”
“I can’t go home not knowing who took my daughter’s life.” Janet was straightforward. “I feel like Bryn’s father is somehow mixed up in this.”
Declan stifled an audible sigh. This was not what he had hoped for; it would do nothing to help him solve either Bryn’s murder or the others. “In addition to computer searches, I had a London colleague assist me in trying to locate any history on the man. He seems to have vanished after leaving Chipping Norton.” He sat back in his chair. “You didn’t find anything in Bryn’s papers, correct?”
“Nothing.” Janet looked crestfallen.
“You told me her father didn’t have any relatives in your area,” Declan said.
“No, Allen wasn’t from Chippy. He came for a summer job before starting University. We met at the pub.”
“But he was from London?” Declan asked.
“He was always vague … ‘Down South,’ he would say, spoke of Greenwich and London, but no family to speak of.”
“Do you know which University he was to go to?”
“He told me Birmingham, and after he left it was one of the first places I checked, but he wasn’t enrolled there.” Janet shifted in her seat. Val patted her arm.
Following a sudden impulse, Declan leafed through the murder book on his desk and brought out one of the photographs of Ted Wheeler. “Is there any chance this could be Allen Wesley?”
Janet scrutinized the picture. Val leaned over her shoulder to look. “I don’t know. He’s the same height, but Allen was thinner, almost gaunt. And he had such a full head of hair—” Janet looked up. “I just don’t know. It’s been twenty-eight years since I saw him, and we were both so young.”
Glumly, Janet handed the photo back.
“I’m sorry not to be of more help,” Declan said kindly. “I expect you were relieved not to have to testify today, Miss R
ogan?”
“I hope to be able to testify when you catch Bryn’s murderer.” Val was firm in her response.
“Nora has some ideas,” Janet said with a pointed rise in her chin.
“And what would those be?”
“She has a list,” Janet answered. “Show him, dear,” she instructed Val, who withdrew Nora’s crumpled page from her pocket, smoothing it out.
“It’s not really a list, Janet, just some circles around Bryn’s name,” Val explained, handing the paper over to Declan.
Declan scanned the sheet, noting Ted Wheeler’s name was underlined. Across the top of the page Nora had jotted Notting Hill. He frowned. “What’s this reference to Notting Hill?”
“Not the place, the movie,” Val explained. “We went to see it together.”
“Who do you mean?” Declan’s internal alarm sounded. His frown deepened as he shifted papers on his desk, searching for a file.
“Bryn and me and Lottie Weber,” she answered. “We all loved it.”
Declan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I see.” Thinking back to the night Bryn Wallace was murdered, the detective’s pulse quickened. He stood to indicate the interview was over. “I’m sorry not to have been more helpful.”
Janet rose, taking his offered hand. She appeared to have lost her spirit. “Please excuse me for taking up your valuable time.”
“I understand totally, Mrs. Wallace. This has been a difficult time.”
Janet nodded and left the office with Val, who met Declan’s eyes with a hard glare he read as her personal challenge: Find the real murderer.
“I hope I’m about to do that, Val Rogan,” Declan whispered to the closed door. Watkins and McAfee would be back soon enough, and he was already warming to the task of breaking Cam Wilson.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
“‘You want to hear a good confession, Mac?’ Chatworth leaned against the armrest breathing a stream of friendly booze.”
— Wilfrid Sheed, Transatlantic Blues
11:20 AM
“What do you supposed that was all about?” Nora asked Simon after Janet hurried Val away.
“Couldn’t say, but I expect we’ll hear soon enough.” Simon finished his crumpet. “What should we do now—did Val leave your to-do list?”
Nora evenly lined up the sugar packets in their ceramic holder as she considered how to reply. Since his morning declaration, Simon had been in an expansive mood, one she hesitated to destroy.
“Simon, what would you say if I wanted to talk to just one last person? You can come with me. That way I couldn’t be in any possible danger—do you think you could handle that?” She kept her eyes on the tablecloth. “It would be just this one person before we leave Oxford, to see if I can tie up loose ends. After that I promise to leave the detecting to Declan Barnes and Company.” Nora turned to him with an earnest expression, holding up her hand in a pledge. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” At Simon’s pronounced wince, she added, “Sorry, unfortunate American oath, but you get the idea.”
“Who do you want to speak to?” Simon queried.
Nora knew he was hooked. “Ted Wheeler.”
*
Simon parked the station wagon on Broad Street, directly across from the main Blackwell bookshop.
“Just what is our approach to be?” Simon asked Nora as she debated over bringing her bag. Then she remembered the call she anticipated and slung the quilted bag over her shoulder.
“Our approach? Close to the truth, I suppose. We’re getting ready to leave Oxford, just wanted to see him again before we did.”
“But why would we want to see him again?” Simon asked. “Anyway, why are we seeing him again?”
“I told you.” Nora was patient. “He was in one of my circles.”
“Yes, you did tell me, but I thought that was only the first part. When do we get to the part that makes sense?” Simon guided her across Turl Street and around several bicycles stacked against the wall by Exeter’s entrance. “How do we know he’s here?”
“You can wait on the street if you’re going to have that negative attitude, Mr. Ramsey,” Nora said.
“I believe we have an agreement regarding that, Miss Tierney,” he responded, holding the door open for her.
“Let me do the talking,” she whispered to him as the porter looked up. “Just me, Wilson, recovered from yesterday. This is my husband. We’ve come to see how my uncle is holding up.”
The man assumed a sorrowful expression and came out from behind his desk.
Simon hissed, “Uncle? Husband?”
“So sad,” Wilson said, shaking hands. “Your uncle is quiet today, to be expected I should think. You’ll find him in the Fellows’ Garden.” He waved them through and turned to answer a question from a group of tourists crowding the doorsill.
Simon followed Nora around the quad. “I won’t pretend to have a problem posing as your husband, but how did Ted Wheeler suddenly become your uncle?”
Nora blushed deeply. Simon shook his head. “That’s how you got in here yesterday.” “You never cease to amaze me, Nora Tierney.”
“That sounds like a good thing to me.”
They turned off the quadrangle past the library and into the Fellows’ Garden. Variegated hostas drooping bulbous, pale lavender blooms lined the pathway next to the library’s mullioned windows. A craggy rock garden spilled vinca vine and mosses, and shiny green shrubs lined the opposite wall. But dominating the space was the ancient chestnut at the garden’s far end, arching long, kinked branches over the stone wall and reaching across the road.
At first Nora thought the garden was empty. Then she saw the don seated on a bench at the tree’s base. His attention was directed at a small leather-bound volume he held in his narrow hands. As they approached, Wheeler noticed them and stood, closing the book after marking his place with a red ribbon attached to the spine. Nora murmured, “He doesn’t know the uncle bit.” She held her hand out, introducing Simon.
“We wanted to come by and see how you were feeling today. You had a terrible shock yesterday,” Nora said, adding, “Just for the record, I’ve decided not to do that article on Bryn Wallace.”
“I think that’s best all around. It couldn’t have been too nice for you either, Miss Tierney. Please sit down.” He made room for them on the bench. “Edward’s wife asked me to find an appropriate verse for his funeral. I was just looking at some Yeats he admired … ” His voice trailed off, and Nora studied the don’s face.
Wheeler looked tired, his skin blanched, dark circles rimming his eyes. She decided to stick to honesty for a change. “Dr. Wheeler, I’m trying to find an explanation for someone wanting to kill both you and Bryn Wallace. The only connection I see is that she worked for Miles Belcher, and you used him for your daughter’s wedding. Do you think there’s a connection?”
There was a long pause. Nora heard a bird in the upper branches chirping.
“I’m afraid there is, Miss Tierney. You see—” Wheeler faltered. He swallowed hard, then looked up into the branches as though he would find guidance there.
Nora sat up straighter, watching the man struggle, anticipating a confession. Her fingers crept beside her to find Simon, who grasped her hand, both of them feeling the emotional charge of the moment.
“Do either of you know the history of this tree?” As they shook their heads he continued. “It’s known as Bishop Heber’s chestnut, and each year the boat club watches it bloom with great attention and a considerable number of wagers. Legend says if the foliage of these branches succeeds in touching Brasenose College opposite, Exeter will beat its neighbor in the Bumping Races.”
There must be a point to this. Nora waited patiently, jumping when Wheeler’s voice rose.
“It
’s about tradition! Traditions handed down through the years, a way of doing things that time cannot erode. As much as these rituals are scoffed at, there are many who envy being a part of it, some who would do anything to belong—” He broke off, considering her. “I’ve already decided to go to the police. I might as well tell you.”
Simon tightened his hold on Nora’s fingers. A passing prattle from a group of students on their way to the Bodleian Library came from the lane behind them. Nora hoped the don would not be distracted.
Wheeler licked his lips and spoke quickly. “Belcher knew I headed the college’s search committee for a photographer, and he wanted a hold over me to get Exeter’s contract. He was desperate to be a bigger part of all of this.” Wheeler’s widespread arms indicated his surroundings. “Bryn flattered me the first time we met. The plan was for her to seduce me, get me in a compromising position and snap! Something Belcher could use as bait. ‘Exeter Don Caught With Pants Down’ was the kind of headline that would end my career. He’d promised her a good bonus. Instead, she had the compassion and grace to warn me about him. Her moment of morality would have cost her that job—Belcher wouldn’t have kept her after that.”
“We had no idea,” Nora breathed.
“Here is this lovely girl warning me about this appalling scheme. She actually told me she was off men, had a female partner from The Artists’ Co-operative. On top of that, she started to cry and asked me if I was her father—I was properly gob smacked!”