Body in the Transept (22 page)

“Two-seven-eight-two-four-r-r.”

“Mr. Douglas? Thank God. I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but—oh, this is Dorothy Martin.”

“Yes. What is it?”

“It’s Emmy. She’s been drinking antifreeze, and I know it’s supposed to be terribly poisonous—”

“How long ago?” His voice had changed from irritation to sharp anxiety.

“Just now. I came home and caught her at it. And I don’t know how—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Get her here, now!”

N
OTHING IN SHEREBURY
is very far from anything else. That night the three-minute drive to the vet’s seemed to take an hour, Emmy howling in her carrier the whole way.

He met me at the door to his surgery. “I’m beginning to feel embarrassed about this, Mr. Douglas,” I said as I tried to entice Emmy out of the box. She was growling, hissing, and employing all the weapons at her command—in short, acting completely normal. “She seems perfectly all right. Maybe she didn’t get much, after all.”

“Symptoms develop slowly. It’s verra lucky ye saw her drinking it, ye ken; by the time the animal looks sick it’s too late to save it. Ye’re sure it was antifreeze?”

“I soaked it up with a sponge and brought it with me, just in case.”

“Right.”

That was the first faint sign of approval I’d gotten from him. I started to explain. “I can’t imagine how she got into it. I never—”

“She’s clever,” he said brusquely. “This isn’t going to be so verra pleasant. Perhaps ye’d best wait ootside.”

He set down the soaked sponge and wrapped a thick towel firmly around the furiously angry cat, managing somehow to avoid teeth and claws. “Noo, then, Esmeralda, ye’ll no’ care much for this, puir beastie.” His voice was soft and caressing and melodious with the lilt of northern hills. Neither of them noticed when I left the room.

Tired as I was, I sat listlessly turning the pages of ancient magazines in the waiting room. Neither the wails coming from the next room nor my thoughts were conducive to sleep. Emmy was the healthiest-sounding sick cat I’d ever heard. Gradually the shrieks diminished, however, and I gathered Mr. Douglas had given her a sedative. The sounds that followed indicated various distressing occurrences. Emmy was evidently being purged of the poison.

Think about something else. Think about how in the world this could have happened.

Mr. Douglas hadn’t let me talk about it. But then he didn’t like a lot of talk. He was a Scot, and as dour and bleak as his native heath when he was with people. With animals he was kind and gentle and infinitely patient, perhaps because they didn’t talk. Emmy loved him when they met socially, although at his office she felt she had to uphold the honor of her ancient race by vehement protests.

All the same, Mr. Douglas clearly thought my carelessness to blame for her present condition. The things he had so pointedly left unsaid were silent indictments. But the things I had tried to tell him exonerated me.

The point was, I didn’t
have
any antifreeze. My beat-up old VW had an air-cooled engine. That’s why the heater didn’t work worth a hoot, and I froze in winter, but I didn’t have to worry about the radiator doing the same. There wasn’t one.

And even if I had a water-cooled car, I wasn’t the mechanical type. I had my car serviced at a garage, where they fed it whatever mysterious fluids it required. Back home, Frank used to keep a little oil and antifreeze and whatever around the house to top things up, but I knew so little about the innards of a car that I never bothered.

Of course, my house was rented. Could there have been a can of antifreeze left in the garage, overlooked?

That occupied me for another half hour, as I tried to remember, and to shut out the sounds from the surgery, but finally I shook my head. The house and garage had been so clean when I moved in that I had been thoroughly intimidated, knowing I could never keep things up to that standard. I was quite sure there had been nothing at all in the garage except a few gardening tools, spotlessly clean and neatly hung from their proper hooks. No mess.

No antifreeze.

The surgery door opened, and Mr. Douglas beckoned.

“She’ll do now,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve got the stuff out of her and started her on an IV of ethanol.”

“An IV of what?”

“Ethyl alcohol. Dr-r-rink.” The rolled “r” made it sound like an exotic potation. I must have looked doubtful, for he launched into his lecturing mode, the only time he ever uttered more than a few words.

“Antifreeze, ye’ll understand, is ethylene glycol, a form of alcohol. The body turns it to formaldehyde, and it pickles the internal organs and kills the wee beast. So we cast it oot and give the patient charcoal to absorb the rest. But even a bit left in the system is dangerous, so we make the puir beastie drunk on ethanol. That drives oot the other, ye see, and keeps it from doing its damage. We’ll need to keep her here twa, three days, until it’s all oot of her system. She’ll have a fierce hangover at the end of it all, puir wee moggie. She’ll no’ like it, but she’ll do.”

He fixed me with a bleak gray eye. “Ye understand, do ye, she’d have died if ye’d no’ seen her drinking the stuff? It’s extremely dangerous, and I’ll ask ye to be more careful in future about leaving it about.”

I couldn’t let that pass. “Mr. Douglas, I’m more grateful than I can say. Emmy is terribly important to me, and I don’t know what I’d have done if . . . but you
must
understand. I didn’t leave antifreeze where she could get into it. There’s never been any at the house. I couldn’t think about anything else, the whole time you’ve been with Emmy. I’ve been over it and over it, and
there was no antifreeze in that garage
.”

“Yon sponge was full of it,” he retorted. “What are ye telling me, then?”

“I’m telling you someone put it there. You can think I’m crazy if you want to, but someone tried to poison Emmy.”

His eyes grew even chillier. “And why would they do that?” Was the menace underlying his voice directed at me or an ostensible poisoner?

“How should I know how a poisoner’s mind works?” I had an extremely good idea, but now was not the time to go into it. “Can I see Emmy now?”

“She’s unconscious, but ye can see her.”

She looked so small, stretched out on her side on the steel table. A section of her lovely thick fur had been shaved away for the IV needle, and the pale patch of skin looked cold. I stroked her head; there was no response.

“She—you’re sure she’ll be all right?” I swallowed and cleared my throat.

“Yon wee beastie’s a fighter,” he said, his accent broadening still further. “Ye’ll no’ need to worry. I’ve only had to sedate her because she wouldna let me treat her awake. Go home, noo. Rest. I’ll ring ye in the morning. Not too airly.” His voice had softened, and the hand on my shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and apology, told me he accepted my story. “And mind—I’d keep the door locked.”

I did as I was told.

T
HE PHONE ROUSED
me out of a deep but troubled sleep. I ran down the stairs, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. “Yes? Mr. Douglas?”

“Is that seven-three-two-double-four? Mrs. Dorothy Martin?”

I didn’t recognize the voice; it must be his nurse. “Yes, this is Mrs. Martin.”

“
One
moment, please, for Chief Constable Nesbitt.”

I let out the breath I had been holding, and Alan, who came on the line immediately, heard me. “Did I catch you at a bad time, Dorothy? Should I ring up later?”

“No, I just thought you were someone else. I’m glad you called; I was going to call you. What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty. I didn’t wake you, did I? I thought you’d just be home from church.”

“Oh, Lord, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? No, I didn’t make it. I had—rather a bad night. Alan, I need to talk to you. You surely don’t have meetings today, do you?”

“I’ll be there immediately.”

“Immediately” gave me just enough time to dress hastily and make a pot of coffee. Automatically I got out the cat food and looked around for Emmy. I was putting it back in the cupboard, with tears in my eyes, when the doorbell rang.

He noticed, of course; he’s a good, observant policeman. “Dorothy, what’s wrong?”

I gulped and tried to smile. “Nothing, really, I’m just being silly. She’s going to be fine, but, oh, Alan, last night someone tried to poison Emmy!” My voice got a bit tight and I had to turn my head. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it.”

He was understanding enough not to follow me into the kitchen, and by the time I got back with two cups I had myself under control.

“Right. Tell me about it.”

I told him, careful to keep to the facts, while he drank his coffee. “And they have to keep her full of the ethanol for a while, but she should be all right,” I concluded.

“Good.” He tented his fingers. “You’re quite sure you had no antifreeze about?”

“Quite sure.”

“And I gather you think you know who was responsible.”

“I’m practically sure it was George Chambers.” I laid down my line of reasoning about George and the canon once more. “I know it sounds awfully thin and iffy. But the fact is, I went to see George and caught him with a girl—and then Emmy was poisoned. Why would anybody do that, except to upset me and get me to shut up and quiet down for a while? George knows how much I love that cat; he’d know how devastated I would be if she died. He meant her to die, Alan. But the final touch is that anybody who knew about cars would know a VW Beetle doesn’t use antifreeze, and George isn’t mechanical. I think it makes sense.”

Alan was silent, tapping his fingertips together. When he spoke, it was decisively. “I agree. There’s no proof, but it deserves investigation. Did you touch the tin of antifreeze?”

“Yes, I picked it up. Sorry. A good thing you have my fingerprints.”

“Right. I’ll notify the DCI—sorry, detective chief inspector in charge of the case—and he’ll send someone to pick up the tin and check the garage. Don’t touch anything else, meanwhile. I’ll suggest an interview with both the Chamberses. I should have thought of this myself. And, Dorothy, I know you hate being told what to do, but will you please for once stay home with your doors locked? This time it was your cat. The next time it will be you.”

“I know. I’ll behave. I have to see Emmy, and I badly need to go to Evensong, but I’ll go straight there and back and not talk to anybody, I promise. I’m a little scared, I admit.” I was terrified, but I had my pride. “Funny. I never thought I could be afraid of poor old George.”

“It may not
be
Chambers, don’t forget. Will you really be all right? I haven’t a man to spare, or I’d give you some protection.”

The idea of a policeman at my side made me laugh a little. “No, I’ll be careful.”

“I must go. Ring up at once if you feel uneasy about anything. If you can’t reach me, ask them to send a constable.”

I promised, feeling distinctly less safe as his reassuring presence disappeared into the police car.

I called Mr. Douglas and got his starchy assistant.

“Esmeralda is doing as well as can be expected, Mrs. Martin,” she said with a sniff. “Mr. Douglas is monitoring her condition carefully. She is of course quite groggy. The treatment—”

“I know about the treatment,” I interrupted. “But she really is all right? He said he would call me, and I was afraid . . .”

“Mr. Douglas has another emergency this morning, and is of course rather tired after a late night. It
is
a Sunday, after all.” Her voice held volumes of resentment about working on her day of rest. “Your cat will be quite all right, but you
must
be more careful about antifreeze.”

He hadn’t told her, then. Good. I should have asked him to keep quiet about my suspicions, but evidently his own good sense had prevailed. It was better for the nurse to blame me, and I didn’t mind a scolding so long as Emmy was getting better. “Thank you,” I said meekly. “I’ll look in on her this afternoon.” I hung up before she could launch into how some people really shouldn’t be allowed to keep pets.

After a sketchy lunch and a brief, troubled nap, I gave the details and the antifreeze tin to the polite young sergeant who came around, and then set out by foot on my errands, looking over my shoulder the whole way. The clouds had moved back in, and it seemed to be getting colder and darker by the minute. Between cold and nerves, I was nearly running when I reached Mr. Douglas’s office.

I was eager to see Emmy, but she didn’t care at all about seeing me. She was conscious, but only just. Mr. Douglas had been accurate about her state of intoxication. Her eyes didn’t exactly focus; indeed they were slightly crossed. She tried to get to her feet, and then gave up and just sort of fell over, slowly. I’ve seen Skid Row bums who looked more respectable.

At least she seemed to be progressing nicely. The starchy nurse said something about monitoring her crystal output, and although I didn’t follow the details, the news seemed to be good. I meekly accepted the lecture she felt obliged to deliver and finally escaped, a bit comforted. At the rate things were going, I would have my friend back soon. With a terrible headache, true, but home.

Evensong was comforting, too. I sat by Jane. One of her greatest virtues is that she doesn’t talk when you need quiet. The hymns were all Christmas lullabies, the anthem Berlioz’s lovely “Thou Must Leave Thy Lowly Dwelling,” soft and lilting and gentle.

I sat listening and thinking about Jeremy Sayers up in his organ loft, playing magnificently and directing the choir with his head and an occasional wave of the hand. Could a man who produced such glorious music be a murderer? That was specious reasoning, I realized, but all the same I was glad Jeremy’s guilt seemed less and less likely. George, on the other hand, an old—well, acquaintance, at least—I didn’t like the idea of him as villain much better. Did that get me back to Mr. Pettifer, who was a prize ass, but . . .? I shifted uneasily. I didn’t want to think about suspects, or crime, or wickedness. Was there never to be an end to the ripples of disorder and misery and evil spreading from the act of murder?