Malice in Miniature (8 page)

Meanwhile, there were plenty of things to keep me busy. Friday was November fifth: Guy Fawkes Day, that odd English celebration of the occasion, in 1605, when Fawkes and a group of rebellious Roman Catholics almost succeeded in blowing up Parliament. I'd never taken part in the festivities before; Frank and I had never happened to be in England on the day, and last year, my first as an English resident but also as a widow, I hadn't felt much like crowds and fireworks. This year, however, Alan and I entered amiably into the spirit of things.

The atmosphere felt a good deal like Halloween back home, with children coming to the door and demanding, “A penny for the Guy.” In the evening the Guy—an effigy of Guy Fawkes—was to be burned in the park down by the river, and a modest display of fireworks would be set off.

It was a mild night, for November, and dry for a change. Since we'd both be doing some drinking, Alan had his driver take us to our favorite riverside pub, the King's Head.

“Sorry you drew the duty on a festive night, Carter,” said Alan to his driver as we got out.

“It's all right, sir,” he said, smiling. “I'd as soon be driving you as patrolling the park and the streets. There'll be a good deal of rowdying tonight; I'm teetotal, and happier away from it. I'm sorry I can't get you closer, but the traffic—”

“This is splendid. You needn't hang about; we'll not be going home till the fireworks are over.”

“Right.” He touched his cap. “Enjoy your evening, sir—madam.”

We strolled arm in arm through the crowds already thronging the riverbank. Cries still resounded of “A penny for the Guy!” Now and then an illicit firecracker went off with a pop, though seldom near us. Most Sherebury residents know their chief constable by sight.

One group of children was chanting, “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!”

“Such a strange little rhyme,” I murmured. “One would think they—you—would want to forget the incident The Gunpowder Plot wasn't exactly England's finest hour—on either side. We Americans don't celebrate our traitors.”

“We celebrate the fact that the plot was foiled,” Alan retorted. “Anyway, you Americans have no sense of history, probably because you have no history to speak of. What's two hundred-odd years—look, there's a friend of yours.”

It was Meg Cunningham, standing on the strip of grassy riverbank. She was next to a car, her arm around the shoulders of a little girl, and hovering over them was the unspeakable Claude.

I stopped dead and clutched his arm. “But, Alan, that's Claude! And I don't think—can't you—”

“I can't interfere with a man who's doing nothing but talking,” he said reasonably. “I can, however, watch.”

He leaned against a convenient tree. We weren't far away, but the tree shadowed us from street lamps and bonfires and the light streaming from the pub. I kept my hold on his arm and strained to hear.

There was a good deal of background noise, and the occasional firecracker. But Claude's voice was elevated by alcohol. “. . . wouldn't like to give me a lift home later on, would you, sweetheart? Shouldn't be on me bike, should I, with a skinful?”

“I'm leaving now.” Meg spoke quietly, but with a steely clarity. “I must get Jemima to bed.”

Jemima, who looked to be about seven, paid no attention to this outrageous remark. Her eyes were on the sparklers being waved by nearby children.

“Not staying for the fireworks? Pity, that'd be, wouldn't it, Jemima?”

He reached out a hand to Jemima's head; the little girl jumped and shrank from his touch. Even from where we stood, I could see Meg's expression. “Don't you touch her!” she breathed furiously. Pulling Jemima close, she reached for the car door, and Claude put a hand on her arm.

Alan moved smoothly and very fast. He disengaged himself from my grasp and joined the little group; I trailed belatedly in his wake.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cunningham. How nice to see you again. Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and of course you remember my wife, Mrs. Martin. And this must be your little girl?”

Claude simply evaporated. I didn't see him go, but when I glanced around, he wasn't there. Meg, shaking with fear or fury, or both, said something unintelligible and bundled Jemima into the car, the child protesting in a high, keening wail that made me give her a sharp glance. Alan, with a gesture, summoned one of the strolling constables to deal with the traffic; the car pulled away and disappeared, and Alan offered his arm again.

“Shall we have a drink?”

“I could use one, after that.”

The King's Head was crowded, but Alan is an Important Person. A tiny table was made available for us, and Alan eventually returned from the bar with abstemious half-pints of our favorite ale.

“You are remarkable, you know?” I touched my glass to his. “You didn't even have to
do
anything. Just being there—and of course, throwing your title around.”

“I've blown your cover, as they would say on your side of the Atlantic.”

“They haven't said that for years, and this is my side of the Atlantic now,” I said softly. Our eyes met, and for a moment the rest of the room didn't exist.

“Ooh, sorry, luv!” A drop or two of beer landed on my sleeve, and a quickly produced handkerchief dabbed at it. “'Ere, let me scrub that orf you—ever so sorry, dear, it were that clumsy lout of a son of mine—”

“Never mind, Ada, it'll wash out, and we'll all smell like beer before the night's over, I expect. How are you, Bob?”

I eyed him judiciously, but he seemed cheerful and reasonably sober. His cheeks were red, but not his nose— yet.

He tipped an imaginary hat at me and winked. “Me mum's keepin' me on the straight and narrow. A fine thing, w'en a man carn't 'ave 'isself a drop or two wivout 'is womenfolk carryin' on—”

“Excuse me,
may
I be allowed to pass?”

The icy tones were all too familiar. Mrs. Lathrop stood, haughty amidst offending elbows, with little Sir Mordred beside her, looking miserable and holding two glasses. I was reminded of a battleship and its attendant tugboat.

Bob obligingly moved aside an inch or two—all that the space allowed—but Ada stood her ground, her face upturned pugnaciously to Mrs. Lathrop's.

“'Ullo, Emma. 'Ave a drink wiv us? You an' yer boss, that is to say, if 'ee likes?”

Mrs. Lathrop pursed her mouth and looked at a point on the far wall. “How do you do, Ada. We have other plans.”

She sailed majestically past, pulling Sir Mordred after her, and Ada chuckled roguishly. “She don't like to be reminded we was girls together,” she confided. “Fancies 'erself too good for the likes of us now. But she don't want to make a scene in front of 'im, neither.”

“An' bad luck to 'er.
And
'im.” Bob raised his glass in a sour toast.

I didn't want to see the burning of the Guy. The religious prejudice inherent in the history of the practice grated on me; much as I love English tradition, parts of it can be distasteful. So we found a couple of chairs for the Finches and Alan bought another round while the crowd thinned out. I saw Richard Adam enter the pub, look around, and leave.

“Lookin' for Meg Cunningham,” was Bob's comment. “'Ee's sweet on 'er.”

“I'd noticed that,” I replied. “I would have thought they'd have been together tonight, but we saw her earlier, and she was alone with her daughter.” I didn't need Alan's kick under the table to limit the story; I gave him an indignant look, and he grinned and buried his face in his beer. “Anyway, he won't find her here tonight; she took Jemima home.”

“Ar,” said Bob in a profound male comment on the inexplicability of female conduct, and we finished our beer amiably and went out to watch the fireworks.

T
he next Monday evening Alan came home with news. We were drinking our after-dinner coffee when he dropped his little bombshell on the kitchen table.

“The reports came in today.”

I didn't have to ask which reports he meant. “And?”

“I don't know whether you'll be disappointed, or the reverse. I'm not sure how I feel about it, either, except that I seem to have made rather a fool of myself.” He ran a hand down the back of his neck in a familiar gesture. “The insurance report was negative.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, confused.

“It means that they came up with nothing at all. Sir Mordred has made no claim against any insurance policy he holds on the museum. None.”

“But . . .”

We looked at each other.

“Maybe,” I said, feeling for an idea, “maybe he just hasn't gotten around to it yet. Maybe he's been hiding away a few little things just to pave the way for something big that he plans to blame on Bob.”

“Possibly. If so, we've put a spoke in his wheel. Our people are very discreet, but the fact we've been asking means the insurers will be very careful indeed about any claim Sir Mordred should happen to make in future. And no doubt word of our inquiries will filter back to him. If he
was
planning to pull off a major theft, he's not likely to now.”

“That makes me feel better. I think. Or maybe we were entirely wrong, and the Bob incident was just some sort of mistake. A tempest in a tea set, as it were.”

Alan groaned dutifully. “Maybe.” He shook his head. “And as for Claude . . .”

“Oh, yes, dear little Claude.”

“Not so dear. He's even nastier than I'd supposed. He's never actually been convicted of anything—too clever by half—but he has an impressive pedigree of charges. Vicious little crimes, all of them. His favorite weapons are intimidation and a flick-knife; his victims women and the elderly. And of course that's an actionable statement, since he's officially innocent.” He paused.

“And—is there anything in this roster of noncrimes that involves Meg Cunningham?” I prompted, a little afraid of what I might hear.

“Attempted rape.”

I stared at him, appalled. “Oh, Alan, how terrifying— and the little girl—”

He covered my hand comfortingly with his huge, warm one.

“Nothing like as bad as it might have been. It happened about a year ago, at the Hall. Apparently Claude was living with Mum—she lives in, you know—and caught Mrs. Cunningham alone somewhere in the maze of corridors. The notes on the case are somewhat formally written, but I got the impression Richard Adam charged onto the scene like a roaring bull and scared the liver and lights out of young Claude. My sources say he hasn't been seen about the Hall since, until last week. He's been living in various squats in London, and he was apparently there on the Monday. I couldn't, of course, ask for a full investigation; the Metropolitan Police are as shorthanded as we are, and no crime has actually been committed.”

“Well, no wonder Meg is scared of Claude. He shouldn't be allowed to hang around terrifying that poor woman. Can't anything be done to make him go back to London?”

“My dear, you know the answer to that. I've done what I could—ordered a sporaaic patrol of the Hall, one constable making himself very conspicuous at irregular intervals, in the hopes of discouraging friend Claude. There's nothing more we can do, legally, even if we had the resources—which we do not.”

Alan shook his head in a dismissal of the subject, stood, and said, “Can I help wash up?”

It was over the dishpan that he sprang his other little surprise. “Dorothy, I hadn't wanted to tell you until I was sure, but I'm going to have to be away for a few days, starting on Wednesday.”

I looked up in dismay from the pot I was scrubbing.

“They want me to go to Bramshill for a briefing. You remember, I was to take over there in September, before those hitches developed. Now they're talking about it again, and I need to take a detailed look at the situation before I make up my mind. My own position has changed, of course.”

The Police Staff College at Bramshill is a beautiful estate in Hampshire where senior officers are sent for special courses. Alan had, the previous summer, been offered the job of commandant, a very great honor even on the temporary basis they proposed. Then various matters arose that meant the old commandant had to stay on for a while, and then, of course, Alan and I married and settled down in my house. I had managed until now to avoid thinking about moving to a house which, while about the same age as my Jacobean cottage, was a world apart. I wasn't at all sure I was prepared to live in a country manor with peacocks on the terrace, a famous herd of white deer in the park, and at least one notable ghost.

Alan looked at me a little anxiously, his hands frozen on the dish towel and wet plate. (I don't know why men can never talk and work at the same time.) “I shan't be gone long, my dear, probably a week, two at most. You'd be welcome to come with me, of course, but I'm having to make do with a student room. I gather the commandant's quarters are being cleaned and renovated, and aren't yet ready for new occupants. The last chap was a bachelor, so . . .”

“Yes, I understand. That isn't what's bothering me.” I rinsed the pot and started on another. “I'll miss you, of course, but there's always the telephone. No, it's just that I'd almost forgotten about Bramshill. I suppose we have to go, but I'm not terribly happy about it, to tell the truth. Moving, just as we've gotten settled here, and—oh, having to play the official hostess and all that . . .”

“Getting cold feet, are you?” His tone was light on the surface, but I could hear the worry underneath.

We had never talked about the problems inherent in a marriage like ours, an unknown American marrying a well-respected Englishman with an extremely responsible and sensitive job. We had both known trouble might crop up. English society still regards many professional jobs as requiring the wife to be the second, unpaid member of the team, and she is expected to be diplomatic, selfless, ready to drop her own agenda at a moment's notice, and highly skilled in protocol. I possess none of those qualities. I am stubborn, blundering, and very involved in my own affairs, and though I could easily handle large dinner parties at home in Indiana, I know nothing whatever about the finer points of social behavior in a foreign country.