Trouble in the Town Hall (20 page)

“Few months. To tell the truth, I've been too busy to look for a place of my own, and the Hawkinses do me very well here.” He waved the matter away and went straight to the issue I wanted to avoid. “How're you getting on with your roof?”

My soup was served just then, which gave me an excuse for a brief reply. “Well, the tarp keeps the house more or less dry, and I have hopes the grant applications may be approved soon.”

“Ah, well.” He made a large gesture. “You'd have done better to leave it to me, you know. But—” He waved his right hand airily again and one of his rings slipped from his finger, clattering to the table. He put it back on and continued without missing a beat. “No harm done, and no offense taken, I'm sure. No need for you to worry about that!”

What chutzpah! He'd neatly turned his irresponsibility into my transgression—and then forgiven me for it! Torn between irritation and admiration, I concentrated on my soup.

“I'm afraid I won't have the time to take on those windows we talked about,” he went on.

Well, thank goodness for that, anyway. Clearly I was no match for this man. If he'd decided he wanted to oversee the rest of my renovations, I'd not only have ended up with plastic windows, but been convinced they were what I wanted.

“I'm on to quite a good thing, actually,” he went on. “Set to build those new blocks of flats for Pettifer. You've heard about them, I'm sure, going to pull down the old Victorian terraces near the university, not that they'll need much pulling down, ready to fall down by themselves, and put up nice new flats, modern, convenient . . .”

Ugly, I thought. But, looked at with the dispassionate eye I was trying to cultivate, the old ones weren't all that beautiful, either. Old and quaint, but dilapidated. Perhaps Pettifer was right, and they should be replaced. At any rate, Benson, with his love of modernity, was probably more safely employed on new buildings. However . . .

“Oh, yes? I'm surprised you're involved in that project, Mr. Benson.” It was catty, but I felt I had the right to a lick or two. “Somehow I got the impression you and Mr. Pettifer were—not on very good terms. And surely his own men don't have enough to do right now. Why would he hire someone else to take over the job for him?”

My soup bowl was replaced by a plate of sausage, lamb chop, steak, bacon, liver, mushrooms, tomato—loaded with fat and cholesterol, and smelling wonderful.

“Oh, Archie and I are good friends, you know,” Benson said, finishing his gin. “Here, waiter, I'll have the mixed grill as well, and we'll share a bottle of Australian claret, eh, Mrs. Martin?” He beamed at me. “No, we may quarrel from time to time, as old friends do, but when we can see it in our way to do the other a favor, we do it. There's too much between us for us not to be friends, you see.”

The last remark made me look up sharply. There was more than a hint of a nudge-and-wink in Benson's voice, and an unmistakable leer on his face.

“What
do
you mean?”

My tone would have frozen an unruly fourth-grader back in my teaching days, but Benson was beginning to feel his gin, and took no notice.

“Ah, well, no need to spell it out to a clever lady like yourself, is there? We've all got our little secrets, haven't we? I daresay Archie has one or two things up his sleeve that he'd just as soon didn't get known, eh? An indiscretion or two in his past? That boy in the Town Hall, now. I fancied he had quite a look of—but least said soonest mended, eh? Here, now, you're not drinking your wine!”

“I don't care very much for red wine,” I lied. Actually I didn't care very much for Benson's increasing inebriation, nor for his innuendos.

“What a pity—you ought to've told me. Would you prefer white? Or a nice glass of beer, or—”

“No, thank you.” Probably he meant well, I thought, trying to be charitable. “It's very kind of you, but I really don't want anything more to drink. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, and I don't like to drink much when I'm driving anyway. The English laws—” I stopped. Why was I explaining so elaborately?

Benson leaned forward earnestly. “Ah, now, y'see, that's your trouble. You let the law intimidate you. Planning laws, traffic laws. The way I look at it is, see, the law's your servant. Who had the idea of laws to protect us in the first place? The common people, that's who. Magna Carta and all that, the common people against the king. It's even called common law, isn't it? But now they have their laws here and their laws there and they're all to put you under, keep you in your place. If a man's to look out for himself, he has to find the way to get round them, thass all.” He burped. “'Scuse me.”

Taking out a cigarette, he put it between his lips, struck a match, and paused, fractionally. “Don't mind if I smoke, do you?”

“Yes, I do mind, as a matter of fact.”

He had already taken a long drag. He looked at me in astonishment and choked on the lungful of smoke that was seeping out of his open mouth. I looked pointedly at the cigarette; he extinguished it, carefully, and slipped it back into the packet in his shirt pocket.

“Always happy t'oblige a lady,” he said cheerfully, and I was hard put not to roll my eyes to the ceiling. Just once I would like to catch the man out, put him in the wrong so firmly that he would be forced to apologize, but he seemed unable even to recognize his own sins, much less repent them. I hoped his shirt caught fire.

“You're sure you won't have a li'l wine?”

“I'm sure.” I was crisp. It had no effect whatever.

“Making a mistake, you know. S'nothing like a nice glass of wine, and this stuff's very nice indeed.”

He poured the rest of the bottle into his glass and his left hand caressed it, fat little fingers looking like sausages with rings tightly embedded in the flesh. His sibilants were beginning to hiss a trifle more than he intended.

“'S'matter of fact, this was what I was drinking the night—the night of that meeting, you know. Good old Derek's got quite a lot of it laid down, 's good stuff . . . .”

He was more than a little tight, and I didn't like the way he was leaning toward me. “That would have been the night of the murder, wouldn't it?” I said hurriedly. “When Mr. Pettifer was with you, after the meeting?”

He looked at me with owlish solemnity. “Couldn' deceive a lady, now could I? Don't like to let down a pal, but mush—mussen lie to a lady. Lie to the police. Don' like the poleesh. Laws, intid—timin—out to get you.” He finished his wine in one large gulp and began to sing. “All alone—I'm so all alone—” He broke off. “Can't remember resh of wordsh. Alone. All alone. 'Scuse me.”

He got up with careful dignity and walked in the direction of the stairway, wavering only slightly, but causing raised eyebrows as he passed. Mrs. Hawkins, drawn by the singing, came over to me, flustered.

“Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Martin! I've never seen the poor man like that before. I suppose he was being convivial and lost count. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, thank you. It's certainly not your fault. It's been a long day, though, and I'm ready to drop. Are my clothes dry, do you think?”

“I'm afraid they're still quite damp. Why don't you just wear that dress home? It's too tight for me, you know, so I shan't be wanting it till I can slim a bit.” She sighed, running her hands down her hips. “But our cook is so good—did you enjoy your dinner? You'll have your sweet, won't you, and some coffee to buck you up? It's still raining.”

I was too tired to resist, even if I'd wanted to. I did as she suggested, left when the rain finally stopped, and managed to find my way home before sleep caught up with me and blotted everything out.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
the world was soft and foggy, with sounds and sights muffled and misty, a perfect day to roll over and go back to sleep. I wasn't allowed to, of course. Last night I'd heartlessly closed the bedroom door against my four-legged alarm clocks, but the instant they heard me move they'd bounded up the stairs to my door and stayed, creating various sound effects designed to speed up breakfast. Esmeralda has perfected a door-pounding method, standing on her hind legs and battering very quickly with alternate front paws. It's similar to a scratching-post routine except with retracted claws, and with her considerable weight behind those powerful legs, it's extremely effective on the loose-fitting old door.
Bam bam bam bam bam
. . . endlessly.

Samantha, of course, has her Siamese wail.

I endured half an hour of it before dragging myself out of bed in martyrly fashion, afflicted with a headache and what my grandmother used to call “the rheumatics,” my reward for getting soaked to the skin the day before.

My brain wasn't working very well either, I realized as I brooded over a cup of coffee. A confused mass of ideas thrashed about, refusing to form a coherent whole or even settle down long enough to be looked at intelligently. Sheffield, Barbara Dean, William Farrell, Archie Pettifer, the Town Hall, Clarice, Benson's nasty hints—I reached for a pad and put it down again drearily. I didn't have the energy to make a list.

What I needed was to talk to someone who knew all the details of the murder and could help me sort it out, see if some pattern would emerge.

What I needed was Alan.

I looked at the phone, and then looked away. I'd gotten over my temper, but common sense told me there was no point in trying to reach the chief constable three days before a royal visit. Even if he was in, he was likely to be barricaded behind a wall of secretaries, and in no mood to talk. I might be able to reach him this evening, talk him into a late dessert, but that was hours from now.

So, failing Alan, I was on my own. Even Jane hadn't been all that sympathetic; she clearly thought I should mind my own business.

Three aspirin and two cups of coffee later I reached for the phone. As my headache faded (replaced by heartburn), I'd remembered I wanted to talk to Barbara Dean. This time I intended to be direct. I couldn't spend the rest of my life in terrified awe of the woman, and I needed some answers. Why did she think Sheffield was at the heart of a Sherebury murder? Did it have anything to do with the Sheffield building scandal? I was sorry if she didn't want to talk about it, but I was tired of playing games by other people's rules. I intended to ask about Pettifer's past, too. Much as I hated to put any stock in Benson's hints, they might be relevant.

I punched in the number briskly and let the phone ring at least twenty times before I dropped the receiver back on the cradle.

So that, too, would have to wait. Frustrated, but doggedly stubborn, I reached again for the pad and pencil.

A half hour of intense concentration produced only a brief list of not very brilliant questions in no particular order.

T
HINGS I WANT TO FIND OUT

1. What, if anything, does Sheffield have to do with our murder?

2. Who were the preservationists in that battle?

3. Why doesn't Barbara want to talk about it?

4. What on earth is the matter with Clarice?

5. Is there anything to Benson's hint about Jack Jenkins being Archie's son?

6. Was Benson really with Archie the night of the murder?

And I couldn't think of a single answer.

After trying Barbara again, I gave it up and headed next door, praying Jane would be home. If she didn't want to talk, she might at least have some idea where I could find Barbara. (I was beginning to be able to think of her by her first name, I congratulated myself. Another year or two and I might get comfortable with it.)

I negotiated Jane's slippery back path, but before I could knock, a confusion of dogs leapt out the door, whining and barking and turning themselves inside out in their eagerness for a walk. They approached me for a ritual snuffle, but immediately turned their attention back to Jane, following with three leashes in hand.

“Uh-oh!” I shouted over the commotion. “Bad timing! I was coming to see you, but I don't dare delay the troops, do I?”

“Come along with us,” Jane roared. “QUIET, dogs!” The clamor decreased by a decibel or two and she shrugged. “They'll shut up once we're on our way.”

We made for a vacant lot a few streets away, covered with rank grass and weeds, and much favored by dog owners. There Jane turned the dogs loose to run as they wished, and we sank onto a wooden bench whose surface was beaded with water.

“Jane, I must confess I have an agenda. Do you have any idea where I might reach Barbara Dean? I really need to talk to her, and she doesn't seem to be home.”

She sat up a little straighter and looked at me. “Second person today to ask me that. Don't know why everyone thinks I'm the information bureau.” But it was said without rancor. She knew perfectly well why, really; she almost always had the answers.

“Mayor rang up this morning,” she went on. “Or his secretary did. Dean missed a meeting last night. Preservation Society. Didn't send word. Mayor was speaking, everyone upset she wasn't there.”

My eyes widened. “But, Jane, she's chairman of the Preservation Society!”

“Mmm.” Her eyes turned back to the dogs.

“And she wasn't home yesterday, either, at least early in the evening, because I knocked on her door about—oh, six, probably. I thought she'd gone out to dinner. I could have been mistaken about the house, but I don't think I was. And I've been calling all morning, on the phone, I mean, and there's been no answer. Do you think we should check on her? She—I suppose she could have fallen . . . or something . . .” My voice trailed away doubtfully. Somehow, the vision of Barbara Dean as the helpless victim of an accident wasn't easy to conjure up; she was so totally competent, so utterly in control.

But Jane was frowning. “Not like her to be irresponsible. Never missed a meeting that I know of.”