Body in the Transept by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

comfort.
    Ensconced in an overstuffed chair while Alice went to cope with tea, I studied the room, redecorated since I had seen it last. I remembered the rumors that Alice had money. Somebody certainly had; George’s job couldn’t support them in this style. It looked straight out of
Architectural Digest
and made me profoundly uneasy, especially the white furniture, though blissfully comfortable. In this house stray cat hairs would not be looked upon with favor, and my dark slacks were, as usual, covered with gray fuzz.
    Before I could tear apart the rest of the room, Alice and the cake entered to a silent fanfare of trumpets, followed by George with a heavily laden tea tray. His rather pink nose seemed to twitch slightly, and suddenly his graying fair hair, neat military mustache, and little academic potbelly reminded me irresistibly of the White Rabbit.
    “Now that’s what I like to see, a nice smile! Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. Delighted you could come. But would you rather have a drop of something, eh? Mulled wine, whiskey?”
    “No, no, tea is just right on a day like this, thank you.” That sounded as if George
was
in charge of this meeting. Curiouser and curiouser. I furtively pulled an extra-large gray clump from the chair cushion and settled myself with my cup of tea and a sandwich or two.
    “Now then, my dear, cheers, and the very best wishes of the season!” He lifted his teacup in salute. “And what on earth is all this nonsense about murder, eh?”
    So that was it. Not compassion, curiosity. He wanted to hear all the gory details. Well, he was going to be disappointed. My resolve to be practical and positive about this murder didn’t mean I had to wallow in gore for George’s entertainment.
    Alice was obviously horrified at George’s idea of teatime conversation. She gave him a kick on the ankle that I wasn’t supposed to see and changed the subject.
    “I do hope you had a lovely Christmas, Dorothy. We’re not doing you very well in the way of weather, are we? This foggy frost is so frightfully depressing, I always think.”
    Not very original, but I was happy to go along. “Oh, it is. Just like
A Christmas Carol
, at the beginning, you know, the part about ‘foggier still, and colder.’ I feel definitely cheated about snow. But yes, Christmas was very agreeable, thank you. I had people over for dinner, the Andersons, you remember them, don’t you? And Jane Langland.” I was prepared to regale them with a full description of the dinner menu, or anything else so long as it didn’t have to do with bodies, but George was not to be diverted.
    “Ah, yes, how did dear old Jane take it? The murder, I mean.”
    “Really, George!” But Alice sighed and picked up her teacup, recognizing defeat. When George climbs on a subject, I remembered from the old days, he rides it to death, and the quickest way to get it over with is to go along for the ride.
    He was waiting for an answer. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I responded shortly. “I haven’t see her since I heard that it
was
murder. She didn’t seem particularly devastated by his death, if that’s what you mean. But why on earth should Jane ‘take it’ in any particular way? I didn’t get the impression she was a particular friend of the canon.”
    “No, no, but I should have thought—that is, what with all those students hanging about—at least—”
    “What
are
you talking about, George?” asked Alice, very crisply indeed. One well-shod toe beat a tattoo against the carpet.
    The White Rabbit’s nose twitched again, and he cleared his throat self-importantly. “Jane’s protégés, that’s what. Surely it’s occurred to you that Nigel Evans is one of the prime suspects, if Billings really was murdered?”
    He sat back and sipped his tea, watching smugly for our reactions. Mine must have disappointed him: blank incomprehension.
    “George, Nigel is only a name to me, and I don’t have a clue as to what you mean. And