Trouble in the Town Hall (2 page)

“It's magnificent,” I said sincerely. “It's such a pity—”

“That's wot I says,” Mrs. Finch broke in eagerly. “Terrible shame it'll be if that Mr. Pettifer and them pull it all about and turn it into one of them malls. I don't 'old with shoppin' malls. Give me proper shops, where you could 'ave a talk with the butcher, or greengrocer as it might be, friendly-like, and maybe get a nice little piece of liver for the cat, or a wilted lettuce, and do 'im a favor next time out.

“Ah, well, them days is gone forever; you've got to move with the times or get left behind. Speakin' o' time—” Mrs. Finch looked at the man's wristwatch shoved far up on her left arm. “I always 'as me a cuppa just about now. Would you like one, Mrs.—?”

“Martin, Dorothy Martin,” I said hastily. “I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. And thank you, but I'm supposed to be meeting someone; I really have to—”

“You're American, ain't you?” she said as she clumped to a closet behind the stairs. “I've 'eard as 'ow they don't drink tea. Dunno 'ow they get through the day. Time was when I could 'ave a nice cuppa with me mates, the rest o' the cleaners, sit in comfort in a room they give us, put me feet up and 'ave a bit of a gossip. Now I keeps me tea things in the broom cupboard and 'as to make do with sittin' on the stairs by me lonesome, but still, tea's tea.”

She opened the door as she spoke and took one step into the tiny room before she caught her breath in a sharp gasp and screamed.

S
O IT WAS
that, for the second time in six months, I found myself staring into the eyes of a dead man. The first experience, in Sherebury Cathedral on Christmas Eve, was something I didn't care to remember; I'd made a nuisance of myself to all concerned, including my new acquaintance Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt. But perhaps familiarity softens these blows. More likely, I was too taken up with Mrs. Finch's hysterics to have time for any of my own.

After the first frozen moment of shock, poor Mrs. Finch collapsed against the paneled wall of the hallway, gasping and whimpering, and I could get a good look.

On the whole, I wished I hadn't. The man was young, no more than a boy, really. His eyes, horribly, were wide open. I'd seen only that much when we were interrupted.

“Mrs. Finch! What is it?” The voice from somewhere behind us was loud, peremptory, and male, and I yelped. When I turned, heart pounding, and he came closer to our gloomy corner, I recognized him. Oh, marvelous. Archibald Pettifer, city councilman, real estate developer, and self-appointed minder of everyone's business. Just what we needed.

“Mrs. Finch! Mrs.—er—madam! What is the trouble?”

His stentorian bellow finally got through to the cleaning lady, who hiccuped and wobbled away to the stairs, sniffling into her apron. Mr. Pettifer stood for a moment looking down at the body on the closet floor. Then he shook his head like a bull ready to charge and took over.

“Now, then, what is all this?”.

His shaking voice and dirty-ivory face belied his pompous attitude, and I nearly giggled. I've met Pettifer on only a couple of occasions, which was enough; he irritates me simply by existing. He must have noticed that I wasn't impressed, because he glared at me and cleared his throat.

“Madam, I am Archibald Pettifer, and I asked a question. What—”

I drew myself up. “I heard you, Mr. Pettifer, and we've met. Dorothy Martin, since you don't seem to remember. I didn't answer because I have no more idea than you. Mrs. Finch opened the door and found that man lying on the floor. He is apparently dead. I don't know who he is or what he's doing here.” Two could play the pompous game.

He seized on my last words. “Ah! And what are
you
doing here, may one ask?”

I caught my temper by the tail just as it was about to lash out, claws fully extended. “I saw Mrs. Finch in here, through the window, and came in to make sure there was no problem. And may I point out, sir, that we should be taking care of Mrs. Finch and calling the police instead of questioning each other? I haven't asked why
you
are here, or how you got in.”

His look this time ought to have turned me to stone, but he did offer an explanation of sorts. “I—er—heard a scream and came in the side door, which Mrs. Finch had no business to leave unlocked. Furthermore,
I
have legitimate business here. And I was about to suggest that, if Mrs. Finch insists on having hysterics, you take her to some place where she can sit down properly—” he looked about as if expecting a chair to materialize in the hallway “—and then summon the police. Unfortunately, no telephones remain in the building, and someone must stay here with the—to—er—must stand guard.”

I seized at the idea of escape. There was a public phone at Debenham's, the big chain department store across the street, which also had a tearoom. I thought I'd have trouble moving Mrs. Finch, but once she took in the word “tea” she forged ahead like a horse nearing its stable.

When I had her settled at the one free table with a pot of tea and some biscuits, I slipped away to the phone. After the emergency 999 call I asked for Alan—an entirely separate office, since his job is purely administrative—and was told he was out to lunch.

Oh, good grief, of course he was—he was waiting for me. That call took a little longer.

“Alan, thank God I found you!” I babbled in relief. “I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant, so I had to talk to your secretary, and she had to call for the number, and—”

“Dorothy.” His voice was sharp, official. “Tell me.”

“There's been a murder, Alan! At least I think so. It's at the Town Hall, and I was there when—”

“I'll be there.”

He hung up and I went back to Mrs. Finch, who had finished one cup of tea and recovered her volubility.

“And wot I'd like to know,” she said with a sniff, pouring another cup of repellent black brew and copiously adding milk, “is, 'oo is 'ee, and 'ow did 'ee come to be in
my
cupboard?” Her chins quivered with outraged dignity and her voice rose. “'Ooever 'ee is, 'ee'd no call to come and die 'ere! Look at the trouble 'ee'll cause! And no more than a layabout, to look at 'im.”

“You got a close look?” I asked, lowering my voice in the hope that she would do the same, though the lunchtime crowd probably drowned us out.

“Well—not to say
look.
But 'is clothes and all . . .”

I understood. Mrs. Finch had barely glanced at the body before dissolving into hysterics, but she found comfort in the thought that the human being who had once inhabited that body was a stranger and a useless sort of person.

I was not so easily comforted. No matter who the dead man was or what his life had been, his end was pitiable. Mrs. Finch was certainly right about one thing, though: There was a great deal of trouble ahead for everyone concerned.

“Have you finished your tea? Do you think you're well enough to go talk to the police?”

“Go 'ome and 'ave meself a drop o' gin, is wot I'd like to do,” she said wistfully. “Wot a 'ope! They'll be asking their questions till the cows come 'ome. Well, no 'elp for it.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Thanks for me tea. Went down a treat; I'm meself again. Sure you won't 'ave any? There's a cup left in the pot.”

I shuddered. I probably needed sustenance, and my nice lunch with Alan wasn't going to happen, but I was a little more upset than I liked to admit, and my stomach was in no state to deal with stewed tea. “I'm fine. Shall we go get it over with?”

The police had arrived in the few minutes since I had phoned. A crowd had gathered, but Mrs. Finch sturdily shouldered aside all would-be obstacles. When the constable at the Town Hall door barred our way, she stared him down, hands on formidable hips.

“'Ere, ducks, I'm the one wot found the body, and they want to talk to me. And this 'ere is Mrs. Martin, and she was with me. So just you get out of the doorway an' let us pass.” Fortified by tea, she was beginning to enjoy her importance.

The scene of crime team was already busy inside the building, and just inside the front door Pettifer was arguing with a uniformed policeman. He apparently wanted to talk to the officer in charge, whose whole attention was taken up with directing his men.

Our constable escorted us to the officer in question and murmured something to him.

“Yes?” He looked us over. “I'm Inspector Morrison. I understand one of you ladies discovered the body?”

He was a man of about fifty, inconspicuous-looking save for a very sharp eye and a quick manner that stopped just short of impatience. He gestured us toward the stairs, the only place to sit, and was following when Pettifer accosted him.

“Look here, sir! Am I to be kept waiting about all day? I've told my story twice, what there was to tell, and I've pressing business to attend to. That ass over there said you wanted to talk to me. Well, here I am!” His face was red and his hands were clenched and shaking; I had a fleeting moment of worry about his blood pressure. I may dislike Archibald Pettifer and all his works, but I didn't want him to have a heart attack on the spot.

“Presently, sir. Rest assured we'll not keep you any longer than necessary. If you'd care to wait over there?” The inspector pointed to a spot well out of earshot. Pettifer scowled at all of us and stomped off.

“Now then, ladies?”

We sat down on the hard oak steps, and the inspector turned his attention to me. “You are . . .?”

“Dorothy Martin. My address is Monks well Lodge.”

His attitude sharpened slightly. “Ah, yes, the American lady. Involved in the cathedral murders, weren't you?”

“Involved is not exactly the word I would choose.”

He smothered a smile. “No, perhaps not. Now, what can you tell me about this incident?” The uniformed man by his side began to take notes.

“Very little, I'm afraid. It's Mrs. Finch's story, really.” I related how I happened to be in the building and what I'd seen, trying to remember exact times and failing, and feeling very silly about the whole thing, and then it was Mrs. Finch's turn.

She was asked in excruciating detail about every movement she had made since arriving at the Town Hall, and she was pleased to oblige, proudly describing her dusting and polishing of almost every surface that might have been expected to yield evidence. If the inspector winced he tried not to show it; the woman was simply doing her job and couldn't be expected to know what was lurking in the broom closet. It wasn't until she began to add anecdotes about how she had felt in her bones all morning that something was wrong that his fingers began to drum very quietly on the beautifully polished banister.

“Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Finch. I think that'll be all—or, no, just one more thing. How did you get into the building this morning?”

She bristled at that. “With me key, 'ow do you think?”

“Of course,” Morrison said soothingly. “I actually meant, by which door?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Finch colored, ducked her head, and gave him a sideways grin. “Sorry, luv. I'm
that
upset—you mustn't take no notice. Come in the side door, same as always. Off Cat Lane?”

The inspector nodded. “And was the door locked?” he went on.

Mrs. Finch looked at him with pity in her blue eyes, her head to one side like an elderly robin's. “Naow. I always wastes me time unlockin' doors as is unlocked already. O' course it was locked!”

“And when you leave—you lock it up again with the key?”

That did it. Mrs. Finch stood up and transfixed the inspector with a look that might have cut through the solid oak paneling. “I'll 'ave you know, Mr. Fancy P'liceman, as Ada Finch 'as never gone off and left a door open in this 'ere ancient monument! Time was I 'ad the keys to every door in this place, leavin' out the big front door, as is barred. And all the keys was different, and big as 'orses. Now the pore old place is left to itself I only 'as the one, and I guards it with me life! 'Ere, see for yourself!”

She fished in her pocket, brought forth a large old-fashioned key all by itself on a ring with a big brass hotel-style tag, and waved it an inch in front of his face. “I put that tag on so's I'd 'ear it fall if I dropped it, and I could find it easy. An' I locks the door every time I leaves, or I'll eat me key, tag an' all, with 'orseradish sauce!”

She folded her arms, her lower lip protruding ominously, and while the inspector soothed and placated and assured her he didn't doubt her word, I pondered the point about the key. If the place was securely locked up, how had the dead man gotten in? And more to the point, how had the murderer gotten out, leaving a dead bolt locked behind him? Someone inside, presumably the murderer, could have unbarred the ancient front door to let the victim in, but you can't leave by a barred door.

The inspector was winding up with the disgruntled Mrs. Finch. “You've been very helpful, and I'm truly sorry to have kept you here so long. We'll have your statement typed and ask you to come down to the station to sign it, but there is just one more point. Did you, in the course of your work, see or move anything out of the ordinary?”

“Dirt an' rubbish was wot I moved,” she snapped. “Look in the dustbin if you like.”

I had no doubt he or his men would do just that. I had every doubt they'd find anything of interest.

“I know you must be longing for a bit of rest, Mrs. Finch. We'll let you know when you can resume your work here—soon, of course,” he added hastily, seeing her face grow even grimmer. “We must seal the building as a crime scene for now, and I shall have to keep your key for a day or two.” He tried a conciliatory smile.

Mrs. Finch was having none of his peacemaking; her honor had been impugned. “And 'oo's goin' to clean up the place, then?” she demanded, hands on hips. “Dustin' for fingerprints, they calls it; I calls it makin' a ruddy great mess! As if I didn't 'ave enough to do, trying to keep this place from goin' to rack and ruin while the muckety-mucks decide what's to be done with it, pore old place, left all any'ow so as they could go and 'ave their fine new offices in that fine new pile o' concrete as'll fall down about their ears in a year or so, I shouldn't wonder, and serve 'em right, too, makin' us common folks traipse out miles from anywhere to fill out their ruddy forms an' all, and bus fares bein' wot they are, too . . .” She grumbled her way out the door, heading for her drop of gin and a glorious gossip with the neighbors.