Free Trouble in the Town Hall by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

whole I thought I did rather well, though my knees were shaking as I got out of the car.
    They shook even more on the front step as I considered the awful possibility that Archie might be home, but I was in luck. The door opened promptly to my ring and there, sturdy and blessedly sane and normal, was Mrs. Finch.
    â€œâ€™Ere, now, ’ere’s a treat for you, luv,” she called in to the hall. “’Ere’s Mrs. Martin come to see you.”
    She stage-whispered at me behind her hand. “Wobbly on ’er pins still, she is, but comin’ along. Company’ll do ’er no end o’ good.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re still here, Mrs. Finch,” I whispered back as I followed her into the kitchen, marveling a little. Here was a woman who had found a body, ministering calmly to the vapors of one who had only heard about it. Truly the Cockney is a rare and precious breed.
    Clarice was looking better. What color she ever had was back in her cheeks and her soft, fair hair was neatly combed, if a bit discouraged-looking. She was sitting at the breakfast table in a becoming pink-flowered housecoat, with a teacup in front of her.
    â€œOh, Dorothy, I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice was almost back to normal, too. “Won’t you have some tea? Ada makes the most lovely tea, and frightfully good biscuits.”
    She sounded like a little girl inviting me to a dolls’ tea party. I sat, and Mrs. Finch happily assumed her role of nanny, seizing the tea tray and making for the stove.
    â€œI can’t imagine what you must be thinking of me, Dorothy,” Clarice went on shyly. “So silly of me to go to pieces like that.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. You had a shock.”
    â€œBut I do wish I were more like you. You never turn a hair at frightful things, and nor does Ada.”
    I thought of Mrs. Finch’s hysterics, but I didn’t want to mention the murder scene. “It’s easier for me. I’m still an outlander here, so terrible things aren’t so—immediate, I guess. Besides, I’ve gotten good at hiding my feelings. Don’t forget, I’ve got more than twenty years on you. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling more like yourself.”
    â€œYou’re very kind, Dorothy.” There was a tear on her cheek; she brushed it away and pulled herself together. “But I mustn’t be cosseted when I’m being foolish. I was afraid that Archie would be in trouble, you see, since it was the Town Hall. But the police have had the sense to realize he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, so it’s quite all right.”
    What a fragile bubble of hope! From what Alan had told me, neither Archie nor anyone else was out of the running at the moment. But let Clarice play with her pretty bubble while she could.
    Mrs. Finch set a tray in front of us and waited, hands on hips, for applause. She certainly deserved it. The tray was beautifully arranged with a lace cloth, flowered china, and a mouthwatering plateful of scones and homemade cookies. I took a bite of one and rolled my eyes skyward, grateful not only for the goodies but for a reason not to reply to Clarice.
    â€œThis is sublime, Mrs. Finch. Do you ever give people your recipes?”
    â€œWe-ell. That almond biscuit’s me granny’s own receipt, and I said I’d never part with it but to me own flesh and blood. But seein’ as ’ow me son ain’t got ’imself a wife no more, nor yet no children—”
    I caught my breath. “No children” was a phrase to be avoided around Clarice. One of our bonds was our childlessness, but whereas I’d learned over the years to deal with the pain, for Clarice it was fresh and new every single month, as her hopes were dashed again. I’ve seen her cry helplessly during a baptism at the cathedral.
    This morning, thank goodness, her thoughts were otherwise occupied.