Free Sins Out of School by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

dinner.”
    â€œThat’s one I’ll never challenge. Shall I change into something nicer?”
    â€œNot if a pub meal will do.”
    â€œLead me to it.”
    We had a pleasant meal, but I was conscious, all the time, of an underlying feeling of guilt. Alan was being so nice about this, and all the time I was being devious with him.
    And with splendid inconsistency, I also wondered, in between snatches of conversation, if there was any way Miriam Doyle could have known about the toxic properties of digitalis.

9
    T HE next morning I decided it was time to enlist some help, and there was only one person I could go to. I looked up Ruth Beecham’s phone number and gave her a ring.
    â€œMrs. Beecham? This is Dorothy Martin. Look, I know I’ve been something of a pest lately, but there’s something I need to talk to you about. Yes, about the Doyles. I’m sure you’re frantically busy on weekends, I always was when I was teaching, but if you can spare me half an hour or so, I’d be grateful. Well, right now if that’ll work.”
    Alan was busy with his book. I kissed the top of his head and told him to expect me when he saw me. He grunted something.
    When I got to Mrs. Beecham’s, she was alone, her husband and the kids out on various pursuits. “I hope you don’t mind if I carry on with my shopping list,” she said as she seated me, somewhat reluctantly, at the kitchen table.
    I took the hint and got straight to the point.
    â€œMrs. Beecham, we don’t really know each other, but I’m going to trust you with something important. As far as I can see, you really are the only friend Mrs. Doyle has. I hope you’ll believe that I want to be her friend, too. And I hope you’ll understand my motives when I ask you if you’ve noticed something very odd about her attitude toward Miriam.”
    Mrs. Beecham, who had been fidgeting with pad and pencil, became suddenly still. “Odd how?”
    â€œSo you
have
seen it. You think, don’t you, that she suspects Miriam of killing Mr. Doyle?”
    After a pause she said, “You’re very—direct, aren’t you?”
    â€œWhen polite fictions are inappropriate, yes, I am. I believe you’re the same.”
    â€œSometimes.” She stood up suddenly. “Would you like some tea? I’ve just given up cigarettes, and I’m dying for one. Tea would help.”
    Seated again with a pot steeping on the table, she opened up. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know how you saw it, not knowing Amanda, but I could tell right away that something was wrong, and when I saw the way she looked at Miriam—”
    â€œThat’s it, you see. The look. I wouldn’t have noticed anything if it hadn’t been for that look. Of course it came after Miriam had said some extraordinary things about her father, how wicked he was, and that he had deserved to be killed.”
    â€œShe didn’t do it!”
    â€œWe don’t know that, do we? Even her mother thinks she did, or might have.”
    Mrs. Beecham put down her teacup and looked at me, hard, for about five seconds—which is a long time to be under scrutiny. “I’ve been talking to people about you,” she said slowly. “You’ve rather made murder your hobby, haven’t you? And you’re Alan Nesbitt’s wife.”
    â€œA few crimes have come my way, yes,” I said in a voice I had to work hard to keep steady. “And yes, I am married to a retired policeman. I don’t know that I would call murder my hobby, precisely. And you might be interested to know that I have told neither my husband nor anyone else what I believe Mrs. Doyle suspects. I came here hoping we could talk about what’s best to do for both Mrs. Doyle and Miriam. If you don’t want to trust me, I’ll go away and we’ll both forget this conversation ever took place. But I’d much rather have