Trouble in the Town Hall (10 page)

But the moment had passed. “Oh, old Farrell has a hot temper. I reckon he cooled off soon enough. He really wouldn't harm a fly.”

“It's an interesting coincidence, though, that someone actually did die that night, and in the Town Hall, too. I suppose Mr. Farrell has a key?”

I had no reason to suppose anything of the sort, but Mavis took the bait.

“Well, as a matter of fact, he does. I happen to know. It was his wife's. She worked there, you know, when I did, years ago. She's been gone now for over a year, but he kept the key. I know, because he told me so. Wondered who he should give it back to, now that the building's closed up.”

“Oh, his wife—er—left him?”

Mavis stared at me. “You could say that. She died.”

“Oh, dear. Did you know her well?”

She shrugged. “Not bl—not likely. I was just a typist, she was in the Planning Office. Of course, I was never meant to work in an office—too stifling. It wasn't until I got a job at a gift shop that I discovered my real mission in life. Not that it was as nice as this one.” Her eyes swiveled, surveying her domain lovingly, possessively.

“You do have some lovely things. You must be very proud of your achievement.”

“Yes.” Her mind was firmly back to business. “Now, about that cottage. Or would you prefer this one? It's a bit more expensive, but it's Anne Hathaway's, you see.”

I bought the smaller cottage in the interests of continued goodwill; maybe I knew someone who'd like it for Christmas. I was on my way out of the shop, the bell tinkling over my head, when I stopped and turned as if I'd had a sudden idea.

“Oh, by the way, I don't suppose you still have your key to the Town Hall? I dropped an earring when—well, the last time I was in there, and I don't like to bother the police about such a little thing.”

The thick makeup couldn't conceal the hard lines that suddenly set in Mavis's face. “No. No, I don't. I turned it in when I left my job. I'd report that earring to the police if I was you, or they might think—I mean, you finding the body and all—”

She left the thought unfinished, but it was clear enough.

“Actually, Mrs. Finch found the body, but I see what you mean. Thank you so much—good afternoon.”

Snooping was expensive, I thought indignantly, plodding down the street. Sixty pounds, and what did I have to show for it?

Well, I knew a little more about keys. Farrell had one and Mavis didn't. Or at least that was Mavis's version. Come to think of it, why had a mere typist had one in the first place? But if Farrell really did still have a key—he had a terrible temper—he left the meeting wanting to kill somebody.

That was the second time somebody had used that expression about Farrell. But the somebody he wanted to kill was Pettifer, and Pettifer was still alive.

No, at the price, my information was no bargain. Onward, Dorothy.

T
HORPE AND SMYTHE
occupied an ugly, modern building on the High Street, next to the Tudor black-and-white that housed a number of offices, including William Farrell's. In my hurry to get past the ogre's den, I nearly missed the estate agency; the only noticeable thing about it was the window display of house pictures with descriptions and breathtaking prices. I opened the door, a bored clerk pointed me in the direction of Thorpe's office, and I knocked and went in.

John Thorpe was a stocky man who looked a lot like Michael Caine, and talked like him, too, his nasal accent grating on the ear. His suit, though impeccably cut and obviously expensive, was just a shade too blue; so were his eyes. I tried not to wince when he shook my hand with a bone-crushing grip. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Martin. And how may I be of service to your good self?”

“Well—” I launched into the almost true story about my waning lease and the planning permission delays. “And I thought it would be just as well to look at some other houses, because I really don't know when the Planning Committee's going to get its mind off the Town Hall long enough to consider my house.”

If I hoped that would give me a lead-in to my real agenda, I was wrong. John Thorpe hadn't gotten to be a highly successful businessman by going off on tangents. “Quite right, madam. I can see you're as astute as you are charming!” A good many very white teeth flashed in a very sincere smile. “Now, I happen to have an especially fine property on my books at the moment, made for you, I assure you. Only two years old, in perfect condition, no need to worry about any repairs for years to come—and no fuss with the regulations when repairs do enter the picture!”

He showed me a picture of the ghastly place, all pebble-dashed concrete and shiny new brick, and followed with several others almost as awful. I finally stemmed the flow.

“These are all lovely, Mr. Thorpe, but I really prefer old houses. I know they're a lot of trouble, but—oh, what I really want is to stay where I am. After the meeting last night, do you have any idea when the Town Hall question might be settled?”

“Well, as to that, we all thought it was settled, didn't we, until—however. If you were at the meeting, you do understand I can take no sides, no sides at all. John Farrell has a good case, a very good case indeed.”

“He seemed to be an angry sort of man. Someone told me he had a fight with Mr. Pettifer?”

Thorpe spread his hands deprecatingly. “Bit of a slanging match, that's all. Farrell has a temper, right enough, but no stomach for a good fight. Oh, there were words, words I couldn't repeat to a lady, I don't mind saying. But Farrell's got no stamina for the long pull, y'see. Got to be ready to get your teeth in and hold on, in this business.” He laughed heartily at his mixed metaphors, his own excellent teeth showing to full advantage.

“Oh, my, it sounds—exhausting.”

“No, no, just business. A lady like you wouldn't understand, of course. And no need!” He patted my shoulder.

I hoped he didn't hear my teeth gritting. When I could unclench my jaw, I opened it to ask more questions, but Thorpe suddenly realized we had strayed far from my ostensible purpose. “But enough of unpleasantness. Now, about your house—”

My supply of insincerities exhausted, I stood. “Unfortunately I have an appointment, Mr. Thorpe. I wish you'd keep me in mind, though, if a nice old house in good condition comes on the market.” I gave him my address and telephone number, and turned to go. “Oh, there is one thing you might be able to do for me.”

“Anything at all, of course.” He expanded visibly.

Mavis Underwood had been suspicious, and Thorpe certainly knew just as well as she did when I'd last been in the Town Hall, but it was worth a try. “You see, what with the—unpleasantness—the other day, I managed to lose an earring in the Town Hall. I haven't liked to ask the police about it—such a little thing—anyway, would it be too much trouble for you to lend me your key so I could look for it? It's a pair I particularly like.” I smiled winningly, my head to one side in a nauseating Shirley Temple imitation.

Which didn't work. Thorpe's smile froze into place.

“Ah, well now, what a pity. I regard that key as a solemn trust, Mrs. Martin. I never let it out of my possession. Never. Of course, I shall be more than happy to search for your earring the next time I am in the building. Though I should have thought the police would have found it. I'd report it if I were you.” He shook my hand, and showed me out the door with more enthusiasm over my departure than he had displayed a few moments before.

Excellent advice, I thought as I walked slowly down the street, if my ridiculous story were true. Not that either Mavis or John Thorpe had believed a word of it. Oh, well. At least I'd confirmed that Thorpe had a key, too. Or said he still had it. And that he doubted Farrell had enough backbone to murder anyone. And he had, I was afraid, begun to develop some suspicions about me.

Did that matter? Perhaps not, unless he was the murderer. Then it might matter very much indeed. Alan would not be pleased if I got myself into a dangerous situation he then had to get me out of.

I shook my head impatiently. I could take care of myself. I'd just have to be a little more subtle from now on, that was all. At any rate Thorpe obviously thought me a “lady,” and therefore negligible. Much as his attitude grated, it was useful under the circumstances. Dismissing him and Alan from my mind, I went on to the next thing.

It was time I met Mr. Farrell.

By this time I had walked to the end of the High Street. I stopped and stood for a few minutes staring sightlessly into a window displaying orthopedic appliances. There was plenty of afternoon left, and it had turned into a beautiful day. There wasn't the slightest reason why I shouldn't call on Farrell.

Except that I was scared.

And why? I demanded of myself. Just because he looks like every movie monster you've ever seen? Be your age.

I sighed rebelliously. Why does being one's age always involve doing things one doesn't want to do? Surely I'd earned the right to be irrationally scared if I wanted to. And why was I involving myself in something that was none of my business anyway? I could go have a lovely cup of tea and some sinful pastries somewhere and forget all about murders.

And call myself a coward for the rest of my life.

I turned around and walked back to the gorgeous black-and-white.

It was one of Sherebury's finest buildings, pure Elizabethan, with both beams and plaster carved wherever decoration could be applied. I'd wanted to see the inside of it for a long time.

WILLIAM FARRELL, BUILDER
, was listed with a room number on a sign by the massive front door. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open with a dentist's-office feeling in my stomach.

The English don't use a standardized numbering system by floor, the way American buildings do, so room seven could be anywhere. As I stood in the dim hallway, delaying, I drank in the linenfold paneling, the heavily carved plaster rose on the ceiling with its accompanying crystal chandelier—much later period, that, but it fit—the gorgeous brass hardware on the heavy oak doors—

“May I help you, madam?”

I turned so suddenly I nearly lost my balance. He'd approached silently, on rubber-soled shoes, and stood towering over me, looking annoyed and bored.

Boris Karloff, in person.

I gulped and tried to get my breathing back in order. “No, thank you—well, actually—yes, I was looking for you.”

“Yes?”

Never had the monosyllable been more intimidating. I took a deep breath, and some guardian angel supplied my barren brain with an idea. “Yes,” I said firmly. “To talk to you about my house. Do you suppose we could go to your office? I'm getting a crick in my neck, looking up at you.”

The atmosphere lightened a little. The jutting jaws moved slightly in what might have been meant for a smile as he gestured wordlessly toward the door to the right.

He seated me in the visitor's chair, sat down himself, and raised formidable eyebrows. I took a moment to study him and collect myself.

I hadn't been mistaken about the Frankenstein's monster face: cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, with great hollows underneath, incredible shoulders, great awkward red hands dangling from too short coat sleeves. A man of about forty, he wasn't ugly, really, just craggy and very, very determined-looking.

He cleared his throat, but I didn't let him remind me what a busy man he was.

“Mr. Farrell, what was this building originally?” I wanted to get him talking.

To my great surprise, when he relaxed his face fell into lines more reminiscent of Gregory Peck—still craggy, but without the menace. “It was built to be a wool merchant's house, in 1562. His name was Thomas Lynley, and he was probably the wealthiest man in Sherebury at the time. There are records that the house cost one thousand pounds, which was an enormous sum then; the average workman earned about six shillings a week, if he was lucky.”

He leaned forward as he spoke, his huge, ugly hands waving with enthusiasm.

“Was that the Lynley who endowed the hospital?”

“His son. You know some local history, then? You are Mrs. Martin, aren't you—the American lady?”

“Oh, dear, I'm always forgetting to introduce myself. Yes, I'm Dorothy Martin, and no, I don't know much Sherebury history, really, but Lynley's Hospital is one of the sights. You certainly have it all down pat; are you a Sherebury native?”

“No, I've settled here only in the past year, but there's been the odd job in the area now and again, and architectural history interests me. A hospital back then, you know, was an almshouse, a place of shelter, for the old or needy rather than the sick. Lynley's Hospital was endowed to provide a place for twenty old, indigent men to live out their days in comfort and decency. Their clothing was provided, as well as food and a daily ration of ale, and even a tiny income, enough to give them some self-respect.”

“And it's still functioning, isn't it?”

“Not only functioning, but thriving—and on the original endowment, at that! That money has grown to a trust so formidable that additional charities have had to be added in order to try to fulfill the donor's original intent. A corresponding institution for old women was built in the eighteenth century, and early in the nineteen hundreds the whole lot were modernized, electricity and plumbing and so on.”

“Oh, dear! They haven't spoiled it, I hope?”

“My dear madam,” he said impatiently, “if ancient buildings are to be used, they must be made to meet modern needs—if it can be done. This building, admittedly lovely, is badly suited for offices.”

“I admit I was surprised to see you in this setting. From what you said at the meeting the other night, I'd have thought you'd prefer something starkly modern.”

“I should, if something suitable were available.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Now, Mrs. Martin, what can I do for you?”