Body in the Transept (8 page)

“Everyone’ll think he did it. Convenient. Poor, not a local, no waves if he’s the one.” She sighed again. “He’s not, though. I know Inga Endicott. Wouldn’t have anything to do with him if he were that sort. She’s talked to me about him.”

Of course. “Well, if you’re right, he’s in no danger. This is England. Your police—”

She snorted. “Are wonderful. That what you were going to say?”

“Well, compared to the ones in American small towns,” I began to reply, defensively.

Jane actually chuckled. “Point taken. Not accusing you of being naive. Police are capable. Also overworked, understaffed,
and
. . . they want a conviction, soon. Canon is an important person, can’t mess about with his murder. Have to hope they use sense. Talk to the chief constable.”

I was startled. “You want me to talk to Mr. Nesbitt? I’d be glad to, but . . .”

“No, no, sorry, meant
I
must talk to him.”

Her telegraphic style had confused me. The rest of her comment went unspoken, but it hung there clearly in the air. What good, after all, could I do? No one would listen to me, the stranger, the nonentity. For all practical purposes, as far as Sherebury was concerned, I didn’t exist.

Jane saw the look in my eye, interpreted it correctly, and changed the subject abruptly. “Dorothy, when are you going to find something to do?”

“To do? About the murder, you mean?”

She gestured impatiently. “About yourself. Need to stop brooding, feeling sorry for yourself. Don’t mean to interfere, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. I mean, yes, of course you’re right. I came to the same conclusion this morning. But what is there to do? I can’t work, at least I don’t think I can, without a permit or something. And who’d hire someone my age, and a foreigner at that?”

“Volunteer. Can’t stop you doing that, can they?”

I was in a difficult mood, ready to refuse any constructive suggestions. “Volunteer where? I’m hopeless with flowers, and anyway the cathedral flower guild would freeze me out. They’ve all lived here since the Ark. I’ve never done altar guild work, there’s no volunteer choir, I don’t know anything about the local charities . . .”

“Kids.”

“. . . I’m no good at collecting money . . . what?”

“You were a teacher. You know how to work with kids. Lots to do, at the cathedral, the university.”

“Oh. Well. But they’re English kids.”

“Kids are kids. And they’re not all English. Quite a lot of Americans, Asians, Africans, God knows what.” Jane saw the unspoken rebellion in my face. “Now look here. You need a shape to your life. Choose what you want to do yourself, if you don’t like my ideas, but do something. Can’t just let things close in.”

I was startled by the precision of her understanding. One of the unexpected things about widowhood was the way one’s world contracted, lost both size and shape. I hadn’t helped matters, of course, by moving away from all that was familiar. My life, as Jane had seen, was frighteningly aimless. And hadn’t I been telling myself all day that I needed to be more positive?

“I’ll think about it, Jane,” I hedged. “Meanwhile, do you really believe Nigel is in danger?”

“Don’t know. Was hoping he’d come to me for help.”

So that was why she was ready for a knock at the door.

“Do what I can, anyway. Probably the only real friend he’s got in Sherebury. Except for the Endicotts, if they count. Inga thinks he’s all right but irresponsible, parents aren’t sure they want their daughter taking up with a young hothead. But I’m too close to it. Police’ll question anything I say as partisan.” She dismissed it and picked up the bottle. “One more?”

We had one more, and a sandwich, and by that time my clothes had stopped dripping and I could go home to my doubtless furious cat.

As I cut across my back lawn, I nearly had a heart attack when a shadow materialized out of the fog.

“Mrs. Martin.” It was a familiar voice. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, if it’s not too much trouble.”

I got my breathing back in order and sighed. “Of course, Chief Constable. Come in.”

“I
DIDN’T MEAN
to frighten you,” said Mr. Nesbitt, once we’d come through the back door into the kitchen.

“Scared me out of seven years’ growth,” I said, switching on lights. “May I take your coat? I warn you, though, it’s freezing everywhere but in here.”

“Thank you, I’ll leave it on a chair. I’m sorry about lurking in that melodramatic fashion, but I thought you might not want a police car at your front door, so my driver dropped me off round the corner and I came up the back lane.”

“Why, would my neighbors think I was being arrested?” Emmy yowled; I had stepped on her paw as she rubbed my ankle, lobbying about dinner. “Sorry, cat, but it’s your own fault. I’m not, am I? Being arrested, I mean? I haven’t broken a traffic law in a week or two at least.”

He only smiled, and there was an awkward little silence.

“Would you care for a drink?” I said finally in my brightest tone of voice. “I don’t know your rules.
Stop
it, Emmy.”

“I’m not strictly on duty,” he said gravely, “and I have a driver waiting for me. I’d like a drink, thank you. Whatever you’re having.”

“I’m having coffee. Jane’s been plying me with liquor and coercion. But pour yourself whatever you like, if you don’t mind. It’s in that cupboard, and the glasses are next to it. I’ve got to get out of these wet clothes. Emmy, you’re just going to have to wait a minute!”

I took a little time over changing, not being at all sure what Nesbitt meant by “not
strictly
on duty.” Whatever was coming, I wanted to be prepared. So I dried my hair, hung up all the damp things in the bathroom, got out my favorite red sweater and a pair of slacks that de-emphasized all the reasons I shouldn’t wear slacks, and put on fresh makeup. Might as well go in with flags flying.

When I got downstairs Mr. Nesbitt had taken charge. Emmy was purring over a dish of minced turkey, the smell of fresh coffee perfumed the house, and a wood fire crackling on the hearth made my parlor cozy and friendly.

“I hope you don’t mind. You did make me free of your kitchen.”

“Mind! I’m delighted. Have you eaten, by the way?”

“Yes, thanks, but if you . . .”

“No, Jane fed me. Oh, this coffee is wonderful.” I looked at his small glass of what looked liked scotch. “Do you always have to have a chauffeur?”

“Always. I must often take a social drink on various official occasions, and the law—you do know about our drinking and driving laws?”

I nodded. They were extremely strict; I approved even though they cramped my style now that I was alone.

We sipped for a moment in silence. Then I put my cup down and looked at my guest thoughtfully. “Mr. Nesbitt, I don’t know a lot about English police procedure, but I do read, and I had the idea chief constables didn’t ordinarily go around interrogating witnesses themselves.”

“Quite right. Nor do we, ordinarily.”

“Well, then? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but . . .”

“But you’d like to know what the hell I’m doing here, making myself at home?”

I laughed, as he had intended. “Something like that.”

He put his hands together and studied them for a moment, fingers spread and tips touching in a gesture that made him look more like Alistair Cooke than ever. “I did say I wasn’t exactly on duty. This isn’t an ordinary case, Mrs. Martin.”

“I wish you’d call me Dorothy,” I interrupted. “I feel silly sitting here with a man who’s just made up my fire and fed my cat, and being all British and formal.”

“I
am
British,” he pointed out, smiling, “and usually somewhat formal. But I’m delighted. My name is Alan.”

“I remember.” Did that sound coquettish? Oh, dear. I wanted to be friendly, but not . . . I hurried on. “You were saying?”

“It’s not every case, as I’m sure you will realize, in which the chief constable is a witness to the discovery of the body. By rights I suppose I ought to turn the whole thing over to the bloke in the next county and wash my hands of it, except as a minor witness.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck. “But it also is not every case in which a high church dignitary is murdered. Sherebury has two poles of influence, as I’m sure you know: the university and the cathedral. Canon Billings was involved in both, as a noted scholar and a clergyman. He was also a very—er—well-known member of the community, sitting on any number of committees and the Borough Council, and so on. If I called this an important murder I’m sure you would misunderstand me. All murders are equally important, but . . .”

“But some are more equal than others. Yes, all right, Emmy, we know you’re one of the most equal cats.” She settled herself in my lap, motor revving and paws working. “So you’ve put yourself in charge of this case?”

“Certainly not.” He looked almost shocked. “My best detective chief inspector is in charge, and I may say that I am running the risk of annoying him considerably by butting in. He’s an extremely able man, but he has a tendency to be quite intimidating. That’s as it should be, of course, but I felt you might be more comfortable talking to someone you knew, at least slightly. Even though my job now is purely administrative, as you’ve already been over the ground once with me, you won’t have to repeat yourself quite so much.”

“And if I turn out to be stubborn and uncooperative in a strictly unofficial talk, you can sic him on me.”

“Indeed,” he said with a small nod.

“Very well.” I scratched Emmy’s head, and the purr grew even louder. “My will is in order and my prayers are said. Fire away.”

There wasn’t much to it, after all. He took me through Christmas Eve in agonizing detail, but asked nothing really new. The worst part, describing the appearance of the body, didn’t bother me as much as I had expected. Thinking and talking about it had made it seem more and more like something I’d imagined.

“Well, that’s that,” he said finally. “Nothing terribly helpful, I’m afraid. I’d hoped you might remember noticing something unusual, but I didn’t really expect it; it was very dark. There is just one tiny point.” He tented his fingers again. “I had the oddest impression at the time that when you realized what you had stumbled over—a body—you were actually relieved. That seemed so peculiar I thought I must be imagining things. But I got the same notion just now when you went through it again.”

“Oh.” I felt the heat rise to the roots of my hair. “Oh, dear. No, you’re not imagining things. But I was.”

“Yes?” His eyebrows rose.

“It’s going to sound extremely silly,” I warned him. “But it was
awfully
dark in there, as you just said. And very quiet, for some reason. Mrs. Allenby said something about the acoustics later. Anyway, it’s the oldest part of the church, and—well, I remembered that old story about the ghost. The monk, you know.” I stole a glance at him, but his face was politely impassive. “And I got scared,” I went on, defiantly. “So I thought I’d open the door, because there’s a light outside. Come to think of it, I suppose that one’s out from the rewiring, too, but I didn’t think of that then. I just wanted some light, so I walked over to the door. And when I stumbled over that bunch of cloth, just for one horrid moment I thought it was a habit, and—” I studied Emmy’s back fixedly, fiddling with her ears.

“I’m not going to laugh at you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Alan calmly.

“You’re not?” I looked up. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know that I believe in them. I’m not sure what the phrase means. But I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the monk, for that matter. He’s not terribly alarming, really.” He finished his drink and set down the glass.

I shook my head, to try to clear it. “You’re—not at all the way I imagined an English policeman would be.”

“Why? Because I trust my own senses? I’d be a poor policeman indeed if I couldn’t. At any rate I think I understand your reactions now. A genuine twentieth-century man, even if dead, must have seemed better than a sixteenth-century ghost. More coffee?”

He came back from the kitchen with the pot and another cup and poured some for both of us. “You’re feeling a trifle better about it now, aren’t you?”

“Is that why you came?” I demanded. “To make sure I wasn’t going to have nightmares?”

“One reason,” he agreed equably.

“Well, I must say!” I exclaimed indignantly. “I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, you know.”

“Of course you are. I’m sure you also look after your friends when they need a bit of help. Why should you resent it when your friends do the same for you?”

“Well—when you put it that way—” I sipped my coffee. “I suppose Jane sent you.”

“Do you expect me to answer that?”

“Probably not. Will you answer something else?”

“Depends what it is.”

“All right, you’ve been asking me questions. It’s my turn. What makes the police so sure it was murder? I thought it was an accident, that he somehow managed to drop that candlestick on his head, or something. And you did, too, that night.”

“Let’s say”—he got up to stir the fire—”let’s say I reserved judgment. Even then, there were some things that weren’t quite consistent. As to our suspicions—you’re not by any conceivable stretch of the imagination a suspect, so I suppose there’s no real reason you shouldn’t know, if I can trust you not to tell anyone. Anyone, you understand.”

I nodded.

“There are two things.” He stood by the mantel and ticked them off on his large hands. “First, Canon Billings did not die where he was found. There are various indications—”

“Marks on the body, hypostasis—is that how you pronounce it, when the blood pools in the part of the body that was lowest?”

His expression was really rather funny. If he had been any less polite, it would have been an openmouthed stare.

“Don’t look at me like that. I told you I read. Mysteries. Lots of them. What was the other thing?”

He sat down again. “Since you’re such an expert, supposing you tell me.”

“Sarcasm is the tool of the devil, one of my friends used to say. I expect you’re worried about the weapon. Not the candlestick. Wrong shape, doesn’t fit the wound. Right?”