Sins Out of School (11 page)

“And did you learn anything?”

“Alan, it was appalling! Terrifying, really. How do people get that way? Bitter and malicious and—oh, just hateful!”

Alan cocked his head to one side and looked at me. “Perhaps they start by thinking they're better than other people.”

“Ouch! All right, I deserved that, and I really will try to keep an open mind. But when a pastor throws you out of his church—”

“You were thrown out?”

“I was told, not at all politely, to go. I'm afraid I lost my temper then and told them off. I didn't leave any friends behind me there, I'm sure of that.”

“Then let's hope they're not quite as malicious as you suppose. And not to change the subject, but what were you thinking of doing about Sunday lunch?”

“A reprise of Thanksgiving dinner, unless you're sick to death of turkey by now.”

“I like turkey,” he said mildly.

We talked of other things over our meal. I don't think I could have eaten if I'd had to rehash details of the malevolence I'd faced that morning. But I couldn't get Miriam out of my mind. What a life that child must have led, facing her teachers by day and her father in the evenings and on weekends, all of them poisoned by that harsh, narrow creed. Doubtless her mother had tried to protect her, but Doyle had been a cruelly domineering tyrant.

I didn't believe, refused to believe, that Miriam had, in the end, taken the ultimate revenge against the tyrant. I believed that she was at bottom a sweet child. Look at the way she had behaved on Thanksgiving, when her world had been torn apart and she had been terrified for her mother. But she was too controlled, too quiet, too much under the influence of the pernicious doctrines her father had hammered into her. And her mother was, I thought, not the best person to cope with her, at least not just now. She, too, was under intolerable stress, not least because of her suspicions. It would be healthier for them both if Miriam could get away from the situation for a while, get to some haven where she would be treated with kindness and a dose of good, common sense. A favorite grandparent would be the ideal solution, but if Ruth Beecham was right, no such person existed.

That reminded me that I had never asked Jane about Amanda's family. As soon as the dishes were washed and the kitchen put to rights, I went next door while Alan settled down to read the Sunday papers.

“Don't know much about her,” was Jane's surprising answer to my question about Amanda's background. “Not from Belleshire. Hampshire, maybe? Just an idea. Don't know where I got it.”

“Then she'd have no family around here,” I said, disappointed.

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you know where she was married? I could check records if I knew where to look.”

“No idea. Ask her.”

“I'm not sure she'd tell me. She's never told her friend Ruth anything about her background; why would she tell me?”

“Why're you so keen to know? What's it matter, anyway?”

“It's Miriam. She's behaving very unnaturally, it seems to me. Too quiet. And Amanda is ready to snap. It would be good for both of them if Miriam could go away for a while, but if there's no family, where's she to go?”

“Hmm. Best ask. She can only refuse to talk, and you're no worse off. She'll say, if she has any sense about the child at all.”

“That's it, you see. I don't think she does have any sense about Miriam. She's been living under such strain for such a long time, trying to protect her daughter from her husband. I had no idea how bad it was until you told me all that about the people John Doyle had—had savaged. And then when I went to that church this morning and realized the kind of school Miriam's had to go to—well, I'm truly worried about the child's emotional health.”

Jane nodded. “I'd take the little mite in myself, in a minute, but I'm the wrong person. Too old, too many dogs, and not far enough away.”

“That's why Alan and I can't volunteer—barring the dogs. Alan is wonderful with his grandchildren, but they're a good deal older than Miriam. I, of course, have no more children than you, but like you I've taught a good many hundred. But that was years ago. I have to face it; I haven't the energy or the understanding to look after a troubled nine-year-old girl. And she needs to get away from here, out of this town with its unhappy memories.” I didn't tell Jane the other reason why I wanted Miriam out of Sherebury. I was trying hard not to think about that one.

“You talk to Amanda Doyle, Dorothy. Make her see sense.”

I doubted I could do that, and I doubted it even more that evening when I got a call from Ruth Beecham.

“Is anyone listening in?” she demanded when she had identified herself.

“Of course not!”

“You never know. Some husbands do, or there might be someone else in the house. My kids pick up the phone by accident sometimes, and I think they listen if there's anything interesting going on. They went out for pizza, though, so I'm safe here. Dorothy, I talked to Amanda today and it's no good, I'm afraid. She flatly refuses to let Miriam go anywhere, and she flatly refuses to discuss—what we think she thinks.”

“Would she tell you about her family?”

“Not a word. I asked her about the sister, and she wouldn't talk about her. I think that means there is a sister, though. One thing about Amanda. She can be maddeningly stubborn, but she never lies. If she doesn't want to tell the truth, she goes all silent. She said hardly a word to me today, about anything. I don't know if she's just built up a wall around herself, or if there's so much she dares not say, she's decided not to talk at all. Or just possibly she's …”

Ruth fell silent on the other end of the phone.

“She's what?” I gently prodded.

“I wonder if she's going right 'round the bend, she and Miriam both. They're getting odder and odder, Dorothy. They didn't go to chapel today at all, for one thing, and for years they've gone to both services, every Sunday, without fail.”

“I know. I mean I know they weren't there, because I was, in the morning at least. And with the way people were talking about them, I'm not surprised they didn't go. No sensible person would have, given any choice in the matter.”

Ruth sighed. “Yes, well, Amanda gave me the impression that the place was pretty bad. And of course Amanda and Miriam are both terribly upset; one can't wonder that they haven't established a new routine yet. But what bothered me was the way Miriam acted about it. She couldn't seem to decide whether to be afraid of what would happen to them—a lightning bolt, or some such, I gather—or pleased as Punch that they needn't go any longer. And Amanda wasn't much better. I'm truly afraid they both might be losing their grip.”

“I'm worried, too, especially about Miriam. Do you think it would do the slightest good for me to go and talk to them?”

“Honestly, I don't. I was walking on eggs myself, and I'm her best friend. I think she'd slam the door in your face.”

“Me, too. In that case I'll have to be devious about it. Isn't there someplace in London where you can look up basic information about people? Births, deaths, marriages? It used to be Somerset House, but I think they've moved.”

“Of course! Why didn't I think of that! Yes, those records have been moved more than once, I believe, and I'm not sure where they are now, but it's easier than that. I've heard there's a new commercial Web site that makes searches really easy. It's called—wait, it'll come to me—I think it's saintcatherines.com. That is—do you use a computer?”

“I do,” I said with dignity. Then I laughed. “Okay, to be honest, I'm not terribly good with them. But we have one, and I know a real expert who can check this for me in about thirty seconds flat. I'll give him a ring this minute; I don't think this can wait. I'll keep in touch.”

I disconnected, waited for another dial tone, and called Nigel Evans, my friendly computer guru. If the information was out there, Nigel would find it far faster than I could.

There was no answer. I tried again, thinking I'd dialed the wrong number, but still nothing.

“Drat!”

“What's the matter, love?”

“I'm trying to reach Nigel, to get him to look up something on the computer for me, and nobody's home.”

“Ah. Nobody?”

“No, and the answering machine isn't picking up. Which is very odd. Nigel's so attached to his gadgets, I wouldn't think he'd ever forget to turn it on.”

“Not,” said Alan with a grin, “unless he was extremely distracted.”

“Yes, and—oh! Do you think? How exciting!”

I called the Rose and Crown, our favorite pub, whose owners, Peter and Greta Endicott, are Inga's parents. An unfamiliar voice answered. “No, I'm afraid they're both out. I'm filling in. I'm not sure when they may be back.”

“Is it—this is Dorothy Martin, an old friend—is it Inga's baby?”

The owner of the voice sounded as if he were smiling. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Martin. This is Bill Bricknell. We've met. I serve at the bar sometimes?”

“Yes, of course, Bill. What's happening?”

“No word yet. It's only been about three hours, and of course first babies can take a long time, but Peter and Greta were off to the hospital like a rocket the moment Nigel rang up. We're all quite excited.”

“Of course you are. So are we. Please let me know the moment you hear anything, will you?” I gave him my phone number and hung up.

“You heard that,” I said to Alan. “I'm about to become a godmother!”

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “And you're going to have to do without your computer expert for a while.”

“Oh, dear, yes. For ages, probably. He'll be busy with Inga and the baby once they come home.”

“What did you want to look up, anyway? Can I help?”

“Ruth Beecham said that the records Somerset House used to keep are available on-line now. I'm trying to find Amanda's sister, but Amanda refuses to talk about her family at all.”

“Hmm. I've never done that kind of research on-line, but it oughtn't to take long.”

For Alan's writing, we had created a den out of a small room I had kept, before we were married, for the sewing machine I seldom used. He led me to his desk, sat me down at the keyboard, and gave me instructions. In no time I was looking at the Web site, a commercial one. I registered according to instructions, entered a credit-card number, and proceeded.

The first step was to establish Amanda's maiden name, and for that the logical place to look seemed to be the record of her marriage. The search could have taken forever, and probably would have, without the miracle of computers. I had only a man's name and a woman's first name, no location, and no exact date, though I could approximate one from Miriam's age. So I put in what little information I had, clicked the mouse, and waited anxiously.

I
T
took a while. We tried various months of various years until we finally came up with a marriage that seemed likely. “Eureka!” I cried. Alan, sitting behind me, gave a low whistle. “So she's a Blake, is she? And from Arborfield Common.”

He looked at me as if he expected recognition. I shook my head in mystification.

“You remember Arborfield Common, darling. Five miles or so from Bramshill?”

“Oh, of course. Now I do.” We had spent a few months at Bramshill when Alan took over the leadership of the Police Staff College there as a temporary assignment, the last of his police career. I'd whiled away quite a few idle hours exploring the countryside on foot, and Alan and I had taken longer excursions together when his schedule allowed. “It wasn't much of a place, as I recall, but there was something—oh, Blake—of course! The member of Parliament!”

“The rising MP then, and even more so, now. You really should keep a closer eye on the political scene, love. Scarcely a day goes by that one doesn't read about Anthony Blake making a speech in the Commons, Anthony Blake commenting on the failings of the current policy on something or other, Anthony Blake meeting with the shadow cabinet, Anthony Blake attending a Conservative meeting somewhere. He was on television just a few nights ago, standing in front of the House holding forth on whatever it was. I didn't actually listen to what he said. The man bores me. I must say he looked impressive, though, with that silver hair of his, and Big Ben, all lighted up and looking inspirational in the background. I think he's all pose and pretense, but there's a very real possibility that Anthony Blake might be prime minister next time the Tories get in. At the very least, he'll have a place in the cabinet.”

I stared at the screen, trying to wrest some answers from the bare facts before me. “But, Alan! With such a prominent father, why would she—no, wait. Maybe he isn't her father. Blake's quite a common name.”