Trouble in the Town Hall (14 page)

As he went on, gesturing broadly, it all materialized before my eyes. Gone were the weeds; in their place a perfect English cottage garden nodded drowsily in the soft breeze, birds sang, butterflies skipped from blossom to blossom . . . I blinked, and there were only weeds, with a little brown gnome standing in the middle of them, pointing.

“That there mint, you got to dig it all out. Take the place, mint will; put it in a pot if you 'ave to 'ave it.”

“How long will it take?” I asked abruptly.

Bob blinked. “To get that mint out? I'd say—”

“To do it all. What you said—hollyhocks and snapdragons—all that.”

“Given a free 'and, madam?”

“Absolutely.”

“Four, five years.” He saw the look on my face and went on reassuringly. “Gardens takes time to grow proper. But I can 'ave it lookin' tidy in a month or two, and get a start with bedding plants, then we can add on, like.”

“When can you start?”

The brown face split in a grin. The gnome spat on his hands and rubbed them together. “I'll get me spade and barrow.”

Three hours later my garden was transformed. Oh, it looked awful, but progress was being made. Great piles of dirt and weeds punctuated an expanse of mud that overflowed onto the grass, with only a few isolated plants surviving; I was well satisfied.

“I'll be 'ere first thing tomorrer,” he said as he climbed into his battered truck. “Cheerio!”

As I waved good-bye to my gnome I suddenly remembered we hadn't even discussed wages. Oh, well. Live dangerously. Whatever he charged, he was worth it.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
the doorbell roused me at what felt like dawn.

“'Ullo, madam, I 'ope as I 'aven't got you out of bed,” said Bob, studiously ignoring my slippered feet and robed figure. “'Ere's a list o' the flahs I thought we might put in, fer a start, like. Fer you to approve.”

It was a matter of form, of course. Bob was going to plant whatever he wanted, with my heartfelt blessing. But I took the list, gravely thanked him, and got started on my own day while he went whistling about his work.

I had a good deal to do, but while I was trying to organize tasks Samantha jumped into my lap. Of course, once a cat has honored you with her presence, you can't insult her by getting up. I reached for reading material, and my hand lit on the book I had brought home from the bookshop the day before:
The Architecture of Dissent
.

I was absorbed in two minutes. The book was full of references to passages and priest's holes and secret meeting rooms, many of them in famous buildings I'd visited. Most, of course, were in the great country houses or public buildings, where thick walls could easily accommodate a passageway, and elaborate paneling was convenient to hide an entrance. Some of the priest's holes, especially, were made from perfectly ordinary back stairs or cupboards that had fallen into disuse, a concealed door being all that was required to convert them for devious use.

Great Scott!

My sudden movement startled Sam awake; she jumped down in alarm, but I scarcely noticed. I'd had an IDEA.

What if there were some hidden place in the Town Hall?

It would explain such a lot. Maybe the dead man had discovered something he shouldn't, and that's why he was killed. And his body was moved because it was too close to the secret whatever. And if there was some kind of treasure hidden in the place, it would explain why Archie was so anxious to get hold of the Town Hall at whatever price!

Some people never grow up. Blissfully refusing to let common sense intervene, I sprang up, grabbed the first hat I laid hands on in the dark hall closet, and took the shortcut through the cathedral to the Town Hall.

I was so full of my wonderful idea when I set out that it never occurred to me to wonder how I was to get into the place—nor what I would do if I found Mr. Pettifer in sole occupation. If I'd stopped to think at all I suppose I'd have assumed the police seal was still on the doors. But Providence is said to look after fools. When I came to a breathless halt at the massive front doors, they stood wide open and I could see Mrs. Finch toiling her way up the stairs with a mop.

“Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Finch! May I come in?”

She turned and beamed at me. “Mornin', dearie. You're a sight for sore eyes—specially in that 'at.”

“What's the matter with my hat? I just—oh, dear.”

I pulled it off my head, looked back at Mrs. Finch, and succumbed to a fit of the giggles.

The hat I had clapped on my head without a glance revealed itself in all its glory as the patriotic tricorn I had decorated for the Fourth of July, complete with white ribbon and one rakish red ostrich feather.

“Well, that'll teach me to look in the mirror before I go out, anyway. Come to think of it, though,” I said in growing indignation, “Bob saw me when I left. He waved. Why on earth didn't he say something?”

“'Ee's nearsighted, dearie, an' 'ee never wears 'is glasses when 'ee's workin'. Men 'as no eye for a 'at, anyway.”

“He certainly has an eye for flowers, though. Yesterday he showed me a few things I had no idea were there—just puny little plants I would have pulled up as weeds. I'm so glad he's agreed to do my garden for me.”

“Hmmph!” Mrs. Finch snorted. Not for worlds would she have admitted she was proud of her son's talents. “Mind you keep 'im up to the mark, now. 'Ee takes a drop now and again, there's no denyin', but not when 'ee's workin' proper. 'Ee'll do a good job for you, but you 'as to keep 'im to it.”

There was an awkward little pause. Now that I was there, I felt a little shy about introducing my subject. In the face of Mrs. Finch's solid common sense, secret passages seemed awfully far-fetched.

“So you're back to work,” I finally said inanely.

She snorted again. “Come to give the place a good dustin' an' airin' out one more time. 'Ee's told me I needn't come back.” Her sniff left no doubt about who “'ee” was. “Until they makes up their minds what's to be done with the place, I've lost me job 'ere. Not but what it was only the two days a week, an' there's plenty as want me to work in their 'ouses, but it's a comedown, and no mistake.”

“Oh, I
am
sorry, Mrs. Finch. You're right, it's a slap in the face, after all you've done here over the years. But I'm glad you're here today, anyway, because—well—”

She looked at me inquiringly and I took the plunge.

“Well, it's probably silly of me, but I wondered if you'd ever heard any talk of any secret rooms or passages in the Town Hall, or—or anything like that,” I ended lamely.

To my great relief she took me seriously and scratched her head in thought.

“Not in the Town 'All,” she said finally, a thoughtful frown on her face. “There's the underground passages, under the streets, o' course—medieval, those are, for drains and the like. An' Lynley ‘All 'as a priest's 'ole or two, an' there's 'oo knows wot all over the cathedral—but I never 'eard tell of anything 'ere. Barrin' the room in the attic, that is to say.”

I scarcely dared breathe. “There's a secret room in the attic?”

“Don't know 'ow secret it is. It 'as a sort of 'idden door, but everybody knows about it. Everybody as knows the building, anyway. I can show you, if you likes.”

It was better than nothing. My balloon was deflating rapidly, but I trooped up the stairs behind Mrs. Finch, the two of us wheezing and puffing in a geriatric chorus.

“M
IND WHERE YOU
step, dearie,” said Mrs. Finch. “There ain't no real floor up 'ere, just them boards laid across the beams. One slip and you'd go straight through.”

We were in the biggest of the attics, the central one with the gable windows. There was quite enough light on that sun-drenched day to show me the perils of my footing. The light showed, too, just how serious the Town Hall's condition was. Huge oak roof timbers were riddled with beetle damage; the dust we kicked up as we picked our cautious way across the floor was more than half sawdust left behind by the busy destroyers. Cobwebs hung everywhere in great, dirty festoons, and the smell of dry rot was overpowering.

“Mind your 'ead!”

The warning came too late. Watching the floor, I'd ignored what was above me, and fetched up against a hammer beam—this one still sound and extremely solid. I yelped and put up one hand to steady myself, the other, cautiously, to examine the damage to my temple—and then stood staring, openmouthed.

In the wall facing me, a door was slowly creaking open.

“It's that there beam,” said Mrs. Finch stolidly. “You pushes on it to make the door open. Most people,” she added, “uses their 'ands.”

“I'll remember that next time,” I said just as dryly. “It's a good thing I was wearing this silly thing, or I'd be laid out on the floor.” I picked up the thick felt hat, brushed it off ineffectually, and, balancing on the unsteady floorboards, walked into the secret room.

It was a vast disappointment. There was nothing much there, just a small room with one dusty gable window and no door except the one by which we'd entered.

“Do they know what it was used for?” I asked my guide. I doubted it had been a priest's hole or anything so romantic.

“Papers,” she said briefly. “Important dockyments, as they didn't want to get lost. They cleared 'em out an' took 'em to that new buildin' when they moved, though wot they wants with papers 'undreds of years old, as is crumblin' to bits besides, is more than wot I can tell you.”

I took one more look around. Shelves lined the walls, empty except for thick dust and, in one corner, a forgotten piece of paper. I picked it up gingerly and shook off some of the fuzz; it seemed, so far as I could make out the faded, spidery handwriting, to be a tax roll of some kind for 1737, of interest possibly to historians but not to me.

Well, of such disappointments are the lives of superannuated girl detectives made. There was nothing in this room except decay. I tucked the paper into my purse to give to somebody who might want it and went back into the main attic, carefully avoiding the hammer beam. Mrs. Finch manipulated the beam to close the door, and we plodded back down the stairs in silence.

Perhaps, I thought dismally, the Pettifers of this world were right and this building needed a new purpose, a new life before it moldered to ruin. Signs of decay were all about me, now that I actually looked. Water-damaged plaster ceilings were stained and moldy; in places they had fallen. Paneling was beginning to crack and warp; floorboards were coming up; window frames were rotting. Only on the main floor had Mrs. Finch's efforts kept the wood shining and smooth, the ceilings and staircase intact.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Finch,” I said as we reached the front hall. “I thought we might find something important, but I suppose it was silly of me.”

“Do call me Ada, luv,” she said comfortably. “And don't you fret about nothin'. It'll all come out in the wash, you'll see. Wot was you goin' to do with that there paper?” she added. “On account of, it didn't ought to be taken away, like.”

“Oh. I'd forgotten about it. Take it to the Civic Centre, I suppose, where the rest of them are. Although I do hate to drive out there.”

“Or the museum, mebbe,” Mrs. Finch—Ada—proposed. “It's just round the corner, and they'd know what to do with it.”

“Good idea. Thanks again.”

I stood in the brilliant sunshine of the High Street, my dusty hat dangling from my hand. I couldn't put it back on; the bump on my head was swelling fast. Besides, it looked ridiculous, and while I usually don't mind looking ridiculous, today I wasn't in the mood.

I was, in fact, both depressed and cross. I had been so sure I'd had a brilliant idea, and not only had it been exposed for the silliness it was, but I'd finally realized the desperate state of the Town Hall. I would have enjoyed having a temper tantrum on the spot, out of sheer frustration, but the influence of civilization was too strong.

Oh, well, I might as well take the stupid paper to the stupid museum and have done with it. Then I could go home and kick the cat, or something equally unfair and unproductive.

I stumped crossly down the street.

Sherebury Museum, tucked away in a dark little building on a narrow side street, was a drab-looking place with a drab little curator, and very few exhibits of any real interest. The bell over the door tinkled as I entered.

“Good afternoon, madam. May I help you find something in particular, or would you just like to look about?”

His tone made it clear that he found either eventuality unlikely. He was a Mr. Chips type with the enthusiasm left out, a gray little man of about eighty in tired tweeds, who had obviously decided there was nothing in the museum worth looking at—or maintaining.

Oh, well, presumably he would know what to do with a stray piece of Sherebury history, and frankly, I didn't care much. I pulled the piece of paper out of my purse, trying not to tear off any more of the fragile edges.

“I happened to find this in the Town Hall just now. It's old and I thought the museum should have it. I don't suppose it's important, but anyway, here it is.”

Mr. Chips took the paper from me, frowning in bewilderment over the tops of his granny glasses, as the doorbell behind us tinkled. A red-letter day, indeed—two visitors at once.

“Good morning, Mr. Pym.”

The deep voice startled me, and I turned to see a large, looming form.

“Mrs. Martin.” He nodded slightly.

“Good morning, Mr. Farrell,” I said, and turned back to Mr. Chips—or Pym, I supposed.

“As I said, the paper may be of no importance, but it certainly doesn't belong to me, and I thought someone should have it who knows what to do with it. Do you suppose you could give me a receipt or whatever, just so there won't be any question?”