Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
Killing Cassidy
Table of Contents
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries
THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT
TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL
HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES
MALICE IN MINIATURE
THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION
KILLING CASSIDY
TO PERISH IN PENZANCE
SINS OUT OF SCHOOL
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES'S
MURDER AT THE CASTLE
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
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First published in the United States of America in 2000
by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.
eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 2000 by Jeanne M. Dams
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0093-8 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
This book is dedicated to Luci Zahray, whose encyclopedic knowledge of toxicology has helped me with many plots, and who worked this one out virtually single-handedly. She is an avid Sherlockian and a mystery fan without parallel, and I consider myself fortunate to call her my friend.
Most of this book is set near Madison, Indiana, a beautiful little town on the Ohio River. My husband and I love Madison and have visited there frequently. I've rearranged its geography slightly, but I've tried to preserve its unique flavor.
I've erected the town of Hillsburg and Randolph University a few miles northwest of Madison. Neither town nor university bears any resemblance to Hanover or Hanover College, which are real places just west of Madison.
The Tour of Homes is a real Madison event, held every other October and every Christmas. I've altered some details of the October tour to suit my purposes, and moved at least one house so as to fit nicely into the tour, but every house I mention really exists. So far as I am aware, no murderers have ever tried to elude their pursuers during the tourâbut of course one never knows.
Beanblossom, Indiana, is a real place, but in a different part of the state. It has no church even remotely like the Full Gospel Church of the Redeeming Spirit, nor have I ever encountered, anywhere, any church like the Church of the All-Consuming Fireâthank goodness.
A
LAN, look at this!”
I waved the letter I held in my hand. One of the nice little benefits of living in England is the mail. It arrives early enough in the morning to be consumed with breakfast, and with a predictable regularity that is unknown in America. Or at least it's nice when there's something more interesting than bills, as there certainly was this morning.
Alan lowered the
Times
and took the letter, while I poured myself a second cup of tea and spread marmalade on my toast. We were breakfasting in our kitchen, the coziest room in the Jacobean cottage we both love so much. The sun shone through leaded glass windows and sparkled on the geraniums on the windowsill. Esmeralda and Samantha, our two cats, were outside napping in the sun and trying to ignore the raucous cries of the magpies. The cats hate the magpies, and I have to admit myself that they're messy, noisy, thieving rascals, but I can't help liking them; they're so handsome in their black-and-white livery, and so very English.
Alan read my letter aloud. “âDear Mrs. Nesbitt.'” He paused for a moment to smile at me. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”
I grinned back idiotically. We'd been married nearly two years now, but we still weren't quite used to it. One might think that a pair of widowed sixty-somethings would react to marriage with more decorum than is usually exhibited by sweet young things. One might be wrong. I don't actually use my husband's name, feeling more comfortable with the name I used for over forty years, but people often make the natural mistake, and Alan was right. It sounded good.
He went on. “âIt is my sad duty to report to you the death of Dr. Kevin Cassidy, who was, I understand, a very old friend of you and your late husband.'”
“In both senses,” I replied to his quirked eyebrow. “Frank and I had known him forever, and he was in his nineties. The chairman of biology at Randolph when Frank first went to teach there, and one of our dearest friends. He retired ages ago, of course. He was very kind when Frank died, but when I moved over here Iâoh, I don't know, I didn't write very often, and neither did he, and after a while we lost touch, except for Christmas cards. I suppose it's been over a year. ⦔ I sighed. Why do we forget about our friends' mortality? Why do we assume we can always make up for lost time? Another sigh. “Go on, get to the next part.”
“â⦠pneumonia ⦠not unexpected ⦠merciful release ⦠rather an unusual clause in his will.' Ah, we're getting to it. âBequeathed to you the sum of five thousand dollars, tax free, with the stipulation that you must return to Hillsburg to collect it. Should you fail to comply with this stipulation, the money is to go to the Full Gospel Church of the Redeeming Spirit in Beanblossom.' What in the name of all that's holy is that?”
I made a face, “I'm not sure holiness has anything to do with it. They do various odd things with snakes, I'm told, if indeed the church is still in existence. Beanblossom is a tiny town not far from Hillsburg. More of a wide spot in the road, actually. Nothing thrives in Beanblossom, or not for long. But the point is that dear old Kevin and I used to have a sort of standing joke about the place and its remarkable theology. It was rather rude of us, I suppose, but he knew quite well that one way to make sure I accepted his bequest was to threaten to give the money to them. I wonder what they'd do with it? Buy bigger and better snakes?”
Alan grinned and went back to the letter. “âânot a large sum of money, of course, but Dr. Cassidy also stipulated that your travel expenses were to be paid by his estate, should you choose to accept his conditions.' This fellow ought to be writing television scripts.”
“Woman. Look at the signature.”
“Ah, yes. Michelle Carmichael. To continue: âIn order to comply with these conditions, you must make arrangements to arrive in Hillsburg within one month of his death, which took place yesterday.' But the letter's dated ninth Decemberâ”
“No, it isn't. American-style dating. The month comes first. Nine twelve means September twelfth. Four days ago. So the poor old dear died last Monday. Alan, I'm so sorry I'll never see him again. I owe him a lot.”
I took a sip of my cold coffee and leaned my elbows on the table, remembering. “We never had children, Frank and I. You know that. But I did have aâI was never sure what to call it. A false pregnancy or a miscarriage or something. For nearly three months I had all the symptoms of pregnancy, and we were wildly happy. I was over forty and we had just about given up hope. I'd been to the doctor and had the test, and it had come back negative, but the tests are sometimes wrong, and I was so sure. And thenâwell, then the dream fell apart. I had what almost amounted to a hemorrhage, and my body went back to normal again.”
I sipped some more coffee. Alan moved his hand to cover mine. “My body went back to normal, but not my mind. I couldn't stop crying. I would go to school in the morning, dreading a day of teaching, and I would see all those lovely, healthy children, and I couldn't stand it. After a month or so I was in such a state I had to take a leave of absence, but then I was alone all day with nothing to do but mourn. I couldn't talk to Frank about it. He was unhappy, too, but he buried himself in his work, the way a man will.
“I really think I would have collapsed completely if it hadn't been for Kevin. He saw Frank every day, of course, and he knew something was wrong. So he came and made me tell him what it was. And then he listened. Dear man, I cried all over him, and he hated to see women cry, but he just handed me Kleenex until I was finally all cried out. Then he made me take something for the raging headache I had after all that crying, and
then
he gave me a good old-fashioned talking-to. Told me it wasn't the end of the world, that I had a job I loved and a husband who adored me and a beautiful world to live in, and I should count my blessings. I was in no mood to listen to good advice, but he did something more practical. He went and got the liveliest, naughtiest kitten he could find and gave it to me.”
Alan chuckled.
“A kitten refuses to be ignored. If I was tempted to spend the morning in bed feeling sorry for myself, the little demon would come and pounce on my toes with those razor-sharp claws. Or she'd climb the curtains or knock things off the dresser orâoh, you know all the kinds of trouble kittens can find to get into. So I'd
have
to get out of bed, and I'd have to get dressed, too. Jezebel's claws would go right through a bathrobe.”
“Jezebel?”
“Because she was so wicked and so beguiling. Once she had my undivided attention, she'd climb into my lap and lick my hand and be
such
a sweet kitty. Then she'd purr herself to sleep and nap until she was refreshed and ready to torment me again. She wore me out, chasing after her and cleaning up when she created some disasterâwhich was frequentlyâand I began to sleep again nights. And when Frank came home, we'd have Jezebel's antics to laugh about, instead of spending the evening in painful silence avoiding the topic we couldn't discuss. After a couple of weeks I was more than ready to get back to the classroom and thirty-seven children who could not, between them, create anything like as much chaos as three pounds of frisky feline.
“So you see, Kevin saved my sanity. He was an invaluable friend. And unless he failed badly in the last year or so, that part about âa merciful release' is hogwash. His memory was better than mine's been for years, and he still lived alone. Managed very well, too.”
“I suppose his neighbors helped.”
“Hah! He was the one who helped them. Not that he had many close neighbors; he lived out in the country. But he still drove, the last I knew, and he'd go in to town for groceries and bring some back for the woman next door if she was too busy to go for herselfâthat kind of thing. It's just like him to give me a last, nice little surprise, and I feel guilty as anything for not having kept in closer touch with him.”
