Sins Out of School by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online

and sweat is dripping into your eyes.
    My house is the last on my street, right up against the wall of the Cathedral Close, and it’s by far the oldest in the neighborhood. It was built in the early 1600s, after the Cathedral (then the Abbey church) fell into private hands upon Henry VII’s dissolution of the monasteries. The house was meant to be a gatehouse for the manor house that had been built on the Abbey grounds. As the wheel of history turned and the Abbey property came back into the possession of the church, the new Close was laid out, the new wall built, and the house that centuries later was to be mine was divorced once and for all from the Cathedral. But it is the nearest house in all the town to the great church, and the bells, sounding overhead at frequent intervals, have become so much a part of my life that I scarcely hear them unless I’m listening for them.
    This day I listened. There was no mighty peal being rung, only the bells of the clock telling the hour, but there was comfort in the sound. The bells, some of them, have been there for longer than my house; the two oldest date from the fifteenth century. The chimes of the clock are nothing like that old, but somehow, when I hear them ring out, I hear also a hint of eternity. Age and tradition suggest continuity and permanence. In this uncertain, impermanent world, I find that a consolation.
    I was already feeling better as I entered the side door and walked past tombs and chantries and memorials in stone and bronze. Even these reminders of mortality didn’t depress me. They were, after all, reminders of immortality as well. I stopped in the little chapel set aside for private meditation and said a prayer for Mrs. Doyle and little Miriam, and a reluctant one for Mr. Doyle, and then went on to the gift shop.
    It turned out they didn’t need me there. It was a slow day. The manager, Mrs. Williamson, kindly let me putter around a bit, but it was busywork, and I soon tired of it. The Cathedral had done its work on my mood, anyway. I’d go home and get at those weeds.
    I was on my knees and thoroughly grubby when my husband came to a stopping place in his work and strolled out to survey my progress. “Nearly time for a turkey sandwich, wouldn’t you say, love?”
    â€œRight. I’m starving. But I want to finish this corner first.”
    â€œThen I’ll make the sandwiches. Oh, by the way, Derek called while you were out. They’ve let Mrs. Doyle go home.”
    â€œSomebody bailed her out?” I crawled forward another foot, careful not to crush any chrysanthemums.
    â€œPosted bond, my dear. No, as a matter of fact. They found some evidence that cast considerable doubt on her guilt.”
    I sat back (to the ruination of several plants) and looked up at him. “Really! What evidence?”
    â€œDon’t get excited. It’s nothing conclusive, and it won’t be until the autopsy is completed, but it turns out that there was a good deal less blood on Mr. Doyle’s clothing than one would have expected. So little, in fact, that they are now not sure the stabbing was the cause of death. That upsets the whole scenario, of course. So they’re letting Mrs. Doyle go home, for the time being, at least. I imagine they’ll put pressure on the medical examiner’s office, try to get the autopsy rushed through.”
    I pulled another weed or two and thought about that. “It doesn’t really help much, does it? Because even if she didn’t stab him, she might have killed him some other way. Though why she would then stab him …”
    â€œPrecisely. She might have done. People will do almost anything. If I learned anything in nearly fifty years of police work, it was that. If she hated him enough, she might have wanted to make assurance doubly sure. But it seems a little unlikely.”
    â€œSo she’s home with Miriam?”
    â€œFor now. The forensics people have