The Blue Virgin (24 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“Arthur, who had a masterly way with meetings, was gathering this one together for a conclusion.”

—
Robertson Davies,
The Lyre of Orpheus

5:15 PM

Simon was pleased he’d decided to accompany Val and Lottie to the Planning Board meeting. Hanson, the gallery owner, had been happily surprised to see him, indicating to the other members that the association of “one from my fine artists’ stable” with the project had clearly elevated its status, in his opinion.

  Their pitch had gone well, and Simon described the floor plan and traffic flow he had devised for the renovation. As Lottie detailed the types of artisans who would benefit from the co-operative and how their presence would enrich Oxford, her snappy performance and outgoing personality gained everyone’s attention. Val finished up by explaining the actual construction process they intended. All original architectural features would be left intact and highlighted with painted detailing. A plaque explaining the history of the building would be installed by the till.

  The board appeared impressed and thanked them for the presentation, indicating a final decision would be made by the following Monday. 

  “Simon, thank you so much!” Lottie bubbled over. “Did you see Hanson wink as we left, Val? I think it’s in the bag.”

  “Yes, Simon, many thanks to you. Having a man as part of our presentation was a true advantage. It took away any look of us being militant male haters. And not just any man,” she hastened to assure him.

  “I think it would’ve gone just as well without me, but I’m glad you think it helped,” Simon said graciously as they piled into the Volvo. “It didn’t take nearly as long as I’d expected.”

  “Let’s celebrate,” Lottie said. “Drinks and food on The Artists’ Co-operative!”

  “Yes, let’s, Simon, before I have to go get Janet,” Val agreed. “We can swing by and pick up Nora.”

  But when they stopped at the flat, Nora was still out. They left her a note telling her they would be back in an hour and sped away to grab pub food at The Bear and raise a few glasses to toast their outing.

Chapter Sixty

“Just before noon, there was a little bang and, weeping, the man fell dead.”

—
Fanny Howe,
In the Middle of Nowhere

5:30 PM

The last thing on Nora’s mind was food. She sat on the top step of Ted Wheeler’s landing, waiting for the police.

  “We shouldn’t disturb things,” she told him gently. She had just finished backing him out of the room and used her cell phone to call the Oxford police. Nora wanted to ask the don polite questions about the dead man but didn’t know how to do that without sounding intrusive. She felt empty of purpose or meaningful conversation. That would come soon enough, she knew, when the crew from St. Aldate’s arrived. She looked at Wheeler, concerned by his pale face, and saw his hands had started to shake.

  Wheeler had insisted on standing watch near his colleague and leaned on the windowsill, gazing out over the lush, green quad as though he were searching it for answers. “I don’t understand … it can’t be,” he mumbled. He looked at his hands and thrust them into his pockets.

  Nora rose to breathe in the fresh air at the window. They stood there side by side, not speaking, hearing the sirens before they saw the flashing blue lights bouncing off the outer walls.

  There was movement near the porter’s lodge, and soon Wilson was leading two men toward them through the gathering crowd. Even at this time of heightened tensions, they avoided the grass quadrangle.

  Nora thought one of the men looked familiar. As they came into view up the stairs, she recognized Sergeant Watkins, accompanied by a uniformed constable.

  When he pegged her and recognition set in, Watkins shook his head in disbelief, greeting her with a grim scowl. “Wait till the guv hears this.”

Chapter Sixty-One

“Death leapt upon the Rev. Charles Cardinal, Rector of St. Dreots in South Glebshire, at the moment that he bent down towards the second long drawer of his washing-stand
…
”

—
Hugh Walpole,
The Captives

6:15 PM

Declan had spent a tedious hour with Davey Haskitt, finally leaving him in the interrogation room under the watchful eye of a constable to change his formal statement on finding Bryn Wallace. The detective made a note to let Charlie Borden know he had confirmation that the body had been arranged.

  Davey’s statement about the necklace Bryn wore suggested the murderer had tried to take it off but had stopped when it caught on Bryn’s hair. Declan had the Luckenbooth charm and its legend researched. It was a traditional betrothal gift, and he was not surprised when he went back over Janet Wallace’s statement to learn it had been a gift from Val Rogan.

  If Davey had interfered with the body only, Declan still was left with the task of finding Bryn’s murderer. The report on Val Rogan’s blouse had shown that the brown dots were nothing but fabric dye. At the moment he had no evidence to arrest her, although he wouldn’t be calling her up today and telling her that. And there was still Tommy Clay’s murderer to pursue. His instincts told him there were two separate killers in Oxford, and he had to decide when to inform the Super.

  Declan felt as if he were in a vortex, picking up speed as the details of the two murders on his desk continued to change and build. Some kind of end point was tantalizingly just out of reach. Kneading the back of his neck, he tried to ease the tension headache that had been brewing all afternoon.

  After a quick knock, the door opened and a constable entered with a message he held out to the detective. “Guv, if you think you have a headache now … ”

Chapter Sixty-Two

“‘You look familiar,’ said the interviewer as he flexed a rubber band between his thumb and forefinger.”

—
Cindy Packard,
The Mother Load

6:30 PM

Nora sat in the faculty lounge at Exeter, gloomily sipping her tea, knowing she was going to be found out by both Declan Barnes and Simon Ramsey in the same day. She did not relish the rebukes that would undoubtedly come from both of them, even if they were richly deserved. She certainly wouldn’t win any awards for Impending Single Mother of the Year. What did her actions say about her judgment? When she’d tripped over the body in Wheeler’s room, she’d grabbed the desk as she pitched forward to keep from landing on her stomach. She could have hurt the baby! She laid her hand on her belly; the baby responded, waving its fragile arm or leg. Nora cried softly into her tea.

  It was all too much. Losing Bryn, worrying about Val and then Louisa as the deaths continued. And now this … Nora’s tears flowed in abundance. She took off her glasses.

  The female constable saw her distress and came over with a box of tissues. She sat next to Nora and sympathetically patted her back. “There now, you have a good cry and get it all out. Not a nice thing to stumble over a body, is it?”

  “No, not at all,” Nora sobbed. The woman didn’t know the half of it. She made an effort to control herself, wiping her face and blowing her nose noisily. “Thank you,” she said, looking across the room to see how Ted Wheeler was holding up.

  Watkins had cleared the faculty lounge, leaving it empty except for a slew of mismatched tables and chairs, strewn with today’s newspapers. When he’d left the two of them there, he’d given them strict instructions not to talk to each other, so Wheeler had taken a seat on the far side of the room.

  The don looked wretched, his face blanched up to his bald pate. His head was hanging down, his eyes flickering from under hooded brows, darting around the room as he clenched and unclenched his hands. He muttered to himself, bewildered. She wasn’t surprised; he’d known the dead man and would be in shock. But she sensed something furtive in his behavior. Her contemplation was interrupted by the door opening and Declan Barnes entering.

  Here we go. Nora slid down in her seat, hoping Declan would notice Wheeler first. But he had obviously been told of her presence and scanned the room until his eyes fell on her. His face was suffused with fury. He glanced over at the don, who sat up stiffly at Declan’s entrance.

  “Detective Inspector Barnes, as you both have occasion to know,” he said formally. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Dr. Wheeler.” Declan took long strides until he stood in front of Nora. She looked up at him, remaining in her seat, hoping the blotchiness of her face from crying might soften his temper.

  “I don’t even want to know how you got in here, but I do know why. I thought I made myself quite clear to you about getting involved in police business. There should be laws about people like you interfering—as a matter of fact, there are. Do you know I could have you arrested for Breach of Peace, if nothing else?” He was not shouting; his low, terse voice was even more intimidating.

  Nora had the good sense to remain quiet and nod in capitulation.

  “You will wait here,” he said, brooking no argument. Declan turned to the don, withdrawing his notebook. Pulling out a chair, he sat across from Wheeler with his back to Nora.

  “I understand the dead man is your colleague, Dr. Edward Vance?”

  Wheeler nodded, croaking out of dry lips: “Mid-nineteenth-century classics.”

  “And do you have any idea how he got into your rooms?”

  Another nod, another croak. “Gave him the key myself.” The woman constable brought Declan a cup of tea and gently took Wheeler’s to refill it.

  “When was that, sir?” Declan asked.

  On her side of the room, Nora closed her eyes in exhaustion. Declan had been enraged sixty seconds ago and now dropped into his professional detective persona. He knew he was dealing with a fragile witness and needed information before the man fell apart. One part of Nora marveled at his self-control, while another pondered the identity of a man who was able to change his disposition to suit the moment. How would you ever know the real Declan? Could a woman get used to his chameleon style? And then she realized she was exactly like him: charming one minute, a con woman the next. She opened her eyes.

  Ted Wheeler took a long sip of the fresh tea before answering. “I saw him on my way to the Bodleian, after my tutoring session. He had left a book home and wanted to check a quotation in one of mine.”

  “So you loaned him your key to get this book?”

  “Yes, he was to leave it on top of my desk with the door unlocked so I could get in.”

  “Was the book Dickens’
David Copperfield
?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It was found open on your desk, as though he had been leafing through it when he was stabbed.”

  Wheeler nodded in comprehension. “Stabbed—I thought it might be something like that. At first I thought he’d had a heart attack, but when I knelt down to check his pulse, I saw … the puddle underneath.”

  Nora was devoutly grateful she’d avoided these details and would carry into her nightmares only a sketchy image of the man lying at her feet.

  “Do you usually go the library in the afternoon, Dr. Wheeler?” Barnes asked.

  “It varies, but normally I’m in my rooms at that time of day.” There was a pause, then he uttered the same thought that had just occurred to Nora on the other side of the room. “Do you suppose—I mean, we’re about the same height, from behind—” He stammered, unable to deliver the question.

  Declan had no such confusion and confirmed Nora’s thought. “I’d say it’s a definite possibility you were the intended victim, Dr. Wheeler. And we need to know why.”

*

Declan questioned Ted Wheeler for ten more minutes. The don insisted he knew no reason why anyone would want to murder either himself or Edward Vance. Wheeler’s wife had arrived and was waiting outside, and Nora watched him hurry out of the building, accompanied by the constable, leaving Nora and Declan momentarily alone.

  She tried to gauge his mood as he approached her. Before she could adequately assess it, she found herself blurting out: “He’s lying, you know.”

  Declan sat down in the chair next to her, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “And you are obviously a great judge of liars.”

  “It’s obvious he was frightened, beyond the shock of finding a
dead man in his rooms. When we found Vance, he kept muttering that he ‘didn’t understand it, it couldn’t be.’”

  “It couldn’t be what?”

  “You’re the detective,” she told him tartly. “I can only help you so far.”

  After a long pause, he shook his head in weary resignation. “You really are something else, Nora Tierney. You don’t let up for a minute, do you? I should have you thrown in a cell right now
…
” His voice trailed off, and Nora met his probing eyes. He seemed to be searching her face for something.

  She held his gaze steadfastly until he stood up. “But instead I’m taking you home.”

*

Despite everything, Nora found herself enjoying the ride in the MGB, wishing she lived even farther out of town to prolong her return. They didn’t speak once the car started. It was too noisy, and she didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t make matters worse.

  As Declan pulled the MGB up in front of her building, she hoped the presentation had run long, or Simon was still out with Lottie. But when they walked around back, she saw lights on in her flat. Reluctantly she led the detective upstairs. Simon heard her key in the lock and came out of the bedroom, talking before he saw them.

  “I was just starting to think of searching the streets for you. Laden down with shopping bags are you?” He stopped when he saw Nora was not alone.

  “Not quite, I’m afraid, Mr. Ramsey.” The detective was blunt. “Our Miss Tierney has been out assisting the police once again.”

  Nora stood there, staring at a spot on the rug, as Declan explained the situation.

  “I see,” Simon said.

  “I’m glad
you
do because I’m tipped if
I
do,” Declan answered.

  Nora’s face burned. For one moment the two men’s eyes met, and she thought she saw a flash of understanding pass between them.

  They sat down, and Nora gave Declan a brief statement of her actions that afternoon. Simon winced when he heard how she’d found the dead man and literally tripped over the body.

  Closing his notebook with a snap, Declan stood. “I’ll see you both at the inquest tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for bringing Nora home,” Simon said as he showed the detective out.

  Nora stayed in her chair, mute, as Simon closed the door, then returned to stare at her. What could she possibly say or do now?

  “Have you eaten?” he finally asked tersely.

  She shook her head. He left her sitting there and went into the kitchen. Suddenly she remembered they’d taken the sofa to storage. Great—tonight was the one night they were supposed to sleep together in her bed. A minute later the microwave dinged, and she heard him jerk the door open. He grabbed a knife and fork and set a steaming plate in front of her.

  “Eat this,” he instructed coldly. “I’m taking a shower.” He stomped off to the bathroom, just managing not to slamthe door.