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

“Ada’s been telling me about the meeting last night,” she said. “Do sit down and go on, Ada.”
    I breathed again. “Oh, were you there, Mrs. Finch? I didn’t see you.”
    â€œI didn’t like to leave ’ere, but me son went, an’ come an’ told me about it after. I was just sayin’ as ’ow it don’t look too good for Mr. Pettifer bein’ allowed to build ’is mall.”
    â€œYes, but Ada,” Clarice said eagerly, “last night was only a public discussion. Archie will talk them round, the Council and the people who matter. He’s such a powerful speaker. And the important thing is that no one said a word about him being accused—involved in the—accident. I’m sure it was an accident, it must have been. Don’t you think so, Dorothy?”
    I was very glad I had a mouthful of biscuit, even if I nearly choked. “Certainly the police haven’t made up their minds yet about the circumstances,” I said after I’d taken as long as possible to chew and swallow. “At least according to the little I know. Could I have a little more tea? And Clarice, not to change the subject, but when do you think you might be able to get back to work? Mrs. Williamson really needs you.”
    It was rude, but it worked; Clarice is easily led. We talked about the bookshop for a few minutes, and then Clarice excused herself. “I’m having my hair done,” she confided. “Ada thought it would brace me up.”
    â€œGood for you. Make sure they really pamper you.”
    I lingered in the hall after she had gone upstairs to dress. “What did your son really think of the meeting? I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Clarice.”
    Mrs. Finch snickered. “’Ee said it were a tea party compared to the one on Sunday.”
    â€œYou mean the Lord Mayor’s meeting?” I was all ears. “How does he know about that?”
    â€œâ€™Ee didn’t. I told ’im.”
    She looked at me, a cheeky grin on her weather-beaten face.
    â€œAll right, all right! How did you know, then? You know perfectly well I’m dying to hear all about it.”
    She sat down on the elegant Directoire chaise longue in the hall, an incongruous figure in a too tight nylon housedress, work boots, and white socks, and told me.
    â€œSee, the meetin’, it was at the private room in the Feathers, seein’ as ’ow the Mayor’s Parlor is bein’ done up. You know the Feathers?”
    I nodded. It was the biggest pub in the High Street, a good place for food and drink.
    â€œWell, Tom ’Arris, ’im as keeps the Feathers, is by way o’ bein’ a friend of mine.” She looked up coyly, and I nodded and obliged with the wink that seemed to be expected. “So when we was ’avin’ a friendly drop o’ gin, like, ’ee told me all about it. There was just the six of ’em: ’is Worship, an’ Mr. Pettifer, ’an Mrs. Dean as runs everything, an’ then them as spoke at the big meetin’. That John Thorpe—” She sniffed disdainfully. “An’ Mr. Farrell and Mavis Underwood, ’oo ’as got entirely above ’erself. An’ the mayor thought ’ee could keep it all civilized, like.” She affected a genteel accent. “‘See if we carn’t all come to a meetin’ of minds,’ ’ee said. Wanted to see which way the cat would jump, if you arsk me, so’s ’ee’d know which side to come down on ’imself.
    â€œSo for a bit it was all la-di-da and properlike. Then after dinner, when they’d all ’ad one or two, Mr. Pettifer started in. Talkin’ big, like it was all settled, and lordin’ it over Mr. Farrell.
    â€œWell, Mr. Farrell, ’ee just blew up. The
language
, Tom said—such as you wouldn’t ’ardly believe. A right down shindy, it were! An’ Tom