Sins Out of School (25 page)

“Madam, I assure you there are other competent officers who—”

“My name, as I have told you and you certainly knew already, is Mrs. Martin. I dislike being called madam. You doubtless also know that my husband's name is Alan Nesbitt. I am reasonably familiar with the workings of the Sherebury police force. I am also at least twice your age, and I prefer to do things my own way. Good afternoon.”

I swept away before I could lose my nerve and start apologizing. If rude and dictatorial worked for Miss Simmons, why not for me?

I fumed all the way home and started talking the moment I got in the door. “Alan, I've found out who the woman in London is, and I tried to tell Derek, but he's out and the idiots wouldn't tell me where he is, so I lost my temper and did some name-dropping. Alan, where are you? Alan?”

The note was on the kitchen table. “I've gone to the barber. Derek called. You were right about the chapel books. The Rookwoods are being detained for questioning. Derek has a promising lead on the Doyles in Reading and has gone to check on it. Looks as though they may have headed for the family after all. I have some errands to run, but home for tea.”

I sank down into my chair. Of all the luck! I had real news and there was no one to tell, no one to do anything about it. Alan wouldn't be home for hours. “Tea” at our house could mean anything from an austere cup of tea and a biscuit at four-thirty or so, to high tea, what I always called supper in Indiana, at somewhere around six. The later it got, the more substantial the meal. And Alan always takes forever running errands. He knows at least half the population of Sherebury, and they all want to stop and talk.

Meanwhile, Vanessa Thompson, busily efficient in London, might be walking around with valuable information.

I looked at the kitchen clock. Two-thirty. The next train to London left in fifteen minutes. If Alan hadn't taken the car …

He hadn't. I checked to make sure.

It was ridiculous for me to go running off to London in search of a well-known solicitor. I wouldn't get there until nearly four o'clock. Even if I could find her, she wouldn't see me. She wouldn't answer my questions anyway. Lawyers, except for dear old-fashioned ones like Mr. Carstairs, are close-mouthed. The whole thing was out of the question.

I picked up a pencil and scribbled on Alan's note, “Gone to London. Back around eight.”

Then I picked up the keys and sprinted for the car.

If the train had been on time, I wouldn't have made it. However, trains are notoriously late in the UK, even more so since British Rail was broken up into privately owned regional lines. I've stopped listening to the excuses offered over the tinny PA systems in the stations. This time it was only five minutes late, and I was three minutes late getting to the station, so we meshed nicely.

It was a fool's errand, I thought as I settled into my seat. All right, that was established. Now, forget about it and decide what to do.

The first thing, obviously, was to find Ms. Thompson. I checked the supply of change in my purse. I had plenty; good. That meant I could spend all the time I wanted on a pay phone in Victoria Station. Of course, there was the cell phone in my purse, but my thrifty Hoosier soul can't get used to the idea of using it for anything but an emergency. I seldom even turn it on. However, in case Alan wanted to reach me, perhaps I'd better turn it on now.

That done, I took another look at what folding money I had. Not much, and taxi fares can eat up a lot of cash quickly. I'd have to stop at an ATM, which the English call cash points, but the area around Victoria is thick with them. Not a problem.

Now. What story was I going to tell the person who guarded Ms. Thompson's phone, no doubt with terrifying competence? Let's see. The lady's interests were constitutional law, finance, and politics.

Putting together something reasonable that touched on those interests occupied me the rest of the way in to town.

I found a pay phone in a reasonably quiet corner and got a number from Directory Enquiries. That part was easy. I took a deep breath, picked up the phone again, and punched in the number I had been given.

The phone was answered almost immediately with a rapid-fire list of names in an accent so “refained” as to be unintelligible. I didn't care. The name of Ms. Thompson's law firm was of no interest to me.

“This is Susie Smithfield, of the
Atlanta Daily Herald
, and I'd like to speak to Vanessa Thompson, please.”

“Ms. Thompson is not available at this time.
Whom
did you say was calling?”

No, dear. It's “who,” and you'd better not let Vanessa catch you making a mistake in English. Good Tory secretaries talk proper. “Susie Smithfield, from Atlanta, Georgia,” I said sweetly, trying my best to sound as southern as all get out. “I'm a reporter with the
Atlanta Herald
, and they sent me all the way to England to do a feature article on Ms. Thompson. We're all just so impressed with her and the
wonderful
things she's done, 'specially with Mr. Blake's causes. We think Mr. Blake is just
marvelous
. You know, family values are very, very important to us in America, and Mr. Blake has really put his finger on some big problems. You-all must just be so proud of him!”

“Eoh. Quayte.” There was a slightly stunned silence.

“And what's your name, honey?”

Another little silence. “Er—Hart. Elizabeth Hart.”

“Well, Ms. Hart, what I was wondering was, if I could just see Ms. Thompson for just a tiny little minute this afternoon. I just got here this morning, y'see, and I had to take a nap the
minute
I got to the hotel. That jet lag is just
awful
, isn't it? But as soon as I woke up I thought, I'll just call her up and see if we can get together right away. Just to set up something for later?”

“Yes. Well, Ay'm not quayte sure—”

“I've heard,” I said in a confidential tone, “that you-all might be havin' another election over here pretty soon, and that Mr. Blake might just be the next prime minister. That's so
excitin'!
We'd want to feature that in the article, if it's true.”

“Ay kennot confirm any such rumor. However …” She hesitated again and then made up her mind. “Ms. Thompson is at the House this efternoon. You mayte tray to reach her there.”

“At home?”

The secretary was condescendingly amused, as I'd hoped. “No, no. The House. Parliament, you know.” She gave me a phone number.

I thanked her effusively, hung up, and raised my fist in solitary salute. Yes! I'd done it. The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis was up, and I was ready to storm the castle just as soon as I made sure there would be no boiling oil. I called the number and dropped the phoney accent.

“My name is Dorothy Martin. I was told by Ms. Hart that I might reach Ms. Thompson here. I'd like to see her for a moment this afternoon, if I may. It's about a man she knows slightly named John Doyle.”

“Just a moment, please.” This one was far less concerned with her image, and probably more formidable. I might have to embroider my story here, too.

I was thinking about how to do that when another voice came on the line. “This is Vanessa Thompson. You're inquiring about a Mr. Doyle?”

Ah. “I am, and you can't imagine how glad I am to talk to you. You're very well protected.”

“I need to be. I'm a very busy person. What is this about, Ms. Martin?”

“I realize you're busy, and I'm sorry to impose, but I'm looking into John Doyle's death, and I would very much like to see you for five minutes. I'm at Victoria Station, and I can be with you in twenty minutes. Well, perhaps fifteen if I take the tube. Traffic's probably pretty awful this time of day.”

“Yes. Very well, Ms. Martin. I doubt I can be of any use to you, but I can see you, very briefly, in about half an hour. Do you know your way about Parliament Square?”

“More or less.”

“There's a pub in Little George Street, the Grenadier. It's tiny, but pleasant. Suppose I meet you there. How will I know you?”

“I'm wearing a black hat with a red rose, but I'll know you.” That should keep her guessing. “Thank you so much. I can't tell you what this means to me. I'll see you in—”

But she had already hung up.

I had time for the taxi, and I indulged myself. A London taxi is one of my favorite little luxuries. They're big enough that an arthritic lady of a certain age can get in and out. They're comfortable, sit high enough that you can see everything, and have drivers that are often chatty. They've come in colors for some time, which I don't approve of, and I certainly don't like the ones painted like newspapers, but I managed to snag a good old black one from the taxi rank at the station, and sat back with a sigh. “Parliament, and you don't have to hurry. I don't have to be there for almost half an hour.”

“It'll take that, nearly, this time o' day. Traffic's somethin' shockin', innit?”

“It seems to get worse every time I come to town.”

“Canadian, are ya then?”

“American, but I've lived in England for a few years now. Sherebury, down in Belleshire.”

“Oh, well, then, 'ave to mind me
ps
'n'
qs
, won't I? Can't get by wi' the tales I tell the or'nary tourists.”

I grinned. This was the kind of Londoner I loved.

I also love the Houses of Parliament. The driver would have taken me straight to the pub in Little George Street, just off Parliament Square, but I told him to let me down next to Big Ben. I had time, and I wanted to feast my eyes once more on that huge building. Critics can say what they want about pseudo-Gothicism and Victorian excess, but I think it's beautiful. I also love the concept that gave birth to the building and the ones that preceded it. This, for me, this set of buildings, always represents the cradle of our own American democracy, and I never fail to get teary eyed when I see it.

All right, so I'm sentimental.

I
FOUND
the pub without any trouble and Ms. Thompson with no more. I think my mind had subconsciously clothed her in something clinging and diaphanous, but even in a well-cut black suit she was unmistakable. Oh, she was slimmer than the model Botticelli had used. The ideal of feminine beauty then was a good deal more realistic than it is now.

But her hair, worn without artifice, was of that same indescribable color, neither brown nor auburn, but vibrantly alive. It waved softly around a face that any artist, of any century, would have found perfect. If you've seen the painting, you know what I mean. If not, I can only say that Vanessa Thompson was a classic beauty, timeless, changeless. The tiny lines that age was beginning to add to her face only enhanced her beauty. This was a woman who was doubtless enchanting as a child and ravishing at twenty, but she would still be the most beautiful woman in England when she was eighty.

It was in fact the first thing I said to her. “I had been told you were beautiful. It was an understatement.”

She smiled somewhat wearily. I suppose when your beauty is as remarkable as hers, compliments cease to become a delight and become instead almost a burden. “That's very kind of you, but you didn't come here to see what I looked like.”

Her voice was as lovely as her face and figure, warm and soft but at the moment very businesslike. I became businesslike as well. “No. I came to ask you a few questions, very brief, I promise you. I know John Doyle came to see you a little over a week ago, shortly before he died. I suspect he came to discuss irregularities in the accounts of the chapel he attended. May I ask you to verify that, if true, and tell me anything else you may know about his movements that day?”

She regarded me coolly. “I presume you are not connected with the police, Mrs. Martin, or you would have presented me with some identification. What, then, is your interest in John Doyle?”

Observant, wasn't she? She'd noted my wedding ring, put it together with my age and general appearance, and changed “Ms.” to “Mrs.” One could see why she was good in politics. I'd have to watch my step with her. No lies, I decided, not even teeny white ones. “I'm worried about Mr. Doyle's widow and daughter. I live in Sherebury and have become acquainted with them, and I very much fear Mrs. Doyle may be detained in connection with her husband's murder. I am convinced of her innocence, but the police, I believe, are not quite so convinced. I suppose you could call me a private detective, but not in any professional sense. I'm simply looking into the case in the interests of justice.”

“May I ask how you learned of Mr. Doyle's visit to me?”

“Through a series of conversations that I could detail for you, if you wish, but it would take some time. Does it matter?”

“Perhaps not. You understand that he consulted me professionally, although we do have an acquaintance that dates back several years. He paid me for my time, and I am not at liberty to reveal what we discussed, except to legitimate authority with the proper court orders.”