Sins Out of School by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

slowly picked my way through the maze of streets, heading uphill whenever I had a choice, until I came to an overlook where I could see the city spread out at my feet. Then it was easy enough to use the Cathedral spire as a homing beacon.
    I didn’t go home, though. Not just yet. I drove down the hill, found a space in a car park near the Cathedral, and walked across the Close. I needed more time to think, and I can think better in the Cathedral than anyplace else.
    The chimes in the tower struck a quarter to three as I entered the church by the south door. The late November afternoon was wearing on, and clouds were gathering. The more remote areas of the Cathedral were dim, though the choir stalls were lit; Evensong was about to begin. I heard a murmur of voices as the choir and clergy assembled. I didn’t join them. Just now I wanted to deal with my anxiety in my own way. I dropped into a pew toward the back of the nave, behind a pillar where the vergers wouldn’t easily spot me, and thought it out.
    I had three options, I realized when my emotions had calmed enough that my reason could operate. I could do nothing at all. I could take my suspicions to the police and let them deal with the horrible possibilities. Or I could keep quiet and look into the matter myself.
    I hated all three options.
    How could I leave it alone? That clichéd idea about evil prevailing when “good men do nothing”—well, it got to be a cliché because it’s so true. I’ve never been the “I don’t want to get involved” sort.
    The police. If I talked to them, they would take me seriously. I was, after all, the wife of the former chief constable. They would talk to Miriam, perhaps bring her in for questioning. They would take her fingerprints and ask her if she wanted legal representation. They would do it all with exquisite courtesy and the utmost regard for her tender age, and it would all be pure hell for her.
    And if they found likelihood of her guilt, there would be a hearing and a trial and then—then, what? What did they do with juvenile murderers in England? Prison of some sort? An “approved school”?
    And if she were not guilty, what then? What of the suspicion that would cling forever? What of the nightmare memories?
    How could I set in motion such a juggernaut train of action?
    Up beyond the choir screen, the boys’ voices soared in that angelic sound that is the epitome of English church music. I couldn’t hear the words and didn’t know the tune. They were just children singing.
    Did Miriam sing? Would she ever sing again?
    I often found peace in the Cathedral, but this time it eluded me. I slipped out before Evensong was over and made my way drearily back to my car with a sense of duty hanging heavy over my head.
    Almost four o’clock. Ruth Beecham would probably have left school. She might be at home, unless she had gone over to comfort the Doyles. Of course I didn’t have her address. I drove to St. Stephen’s, caught the secretary just as she was leaving, and persuaded her to go back inside and get me Mrs. Beecham’s address. She was snippy about it, as she had every right to be. This seemed to be my day for offending people.
    This time I found the house with no trouble. Mrs. Beecham lived at one end of the High Street in a charming Georgian house. She, too, was just coming out the door when I pulled up in front.
    â€œOh! It’s you. I’m sorry, I’m just going to pop over to Amanda’s and see what I can do for her.”
    â€œI just left there. Well, a little while ago. She told me she didn’t need any help, but of course she doesn’t know me.”
    â€œNo, and she values her privacy. I’m sure you can understand, especially at a time like this.”
    â€œYes, and I’m afraid I was a little pushy. I can’t blame her for being annoyed with me. But I do know she needs milk, and her neighbors