The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [52]
“No,” she said in a strangled voice. “It’s weird. All of it.”
“She’s weird,” said Michael, jerking a thumb toward Jacqueline. “What a mind…All right, now that I’ve given you a motive for Ted, what about Andy?”
“I’m still working on him,” Jacqueline said. “And on you.”
“All this is the wildest speculation,” Jean insisted. “You haven’t proved a thing.”
“One thing,” said Jacqueline. “The futility of this kind of theorizing. I was just trying to convince you, and myself, that motives could be found. But we’re going at this the wrong way around. All these motives are conceivable, but unless we have some other kind of evidence they are unprovable. No. We’ll have to go at it another way.”
“Count me in,” Michael said firmly.
“Naturally,” Jacqueline said. She avoided Jean’s eye; and Jean knew what she was thinking. Michael’s touching concern for her safety, his exposure of Ted—none of these absolved him from suspicion. Quite the contrary. They were moves a clever man might make in order to win the confidence of his next victim.
7
WHEN THE PHONE RANG NEXT MORNING, JEAN ANSWERED it. Jacqueline was still asleep; Jean had the impression that she had been up most of the night, walking and muttering, or simply sitting and staring at the wall while she smoked one cigarette after another.
It was Andy. His greeting made Jean groan.
“Oh, no, Andy. I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t. I’m not in the mood for any more subterranean rambles.”
“That’s silly. Look, Angel, I set this appointment up a month ago. You have to have connections to see this place.”
“I don’t think I can stand anyone as cheerful as you are this morning,” Jean grumbled. “I take it you finished your résumé?”
“Yes. Dropped it off this morning. Come on, babe, I’m celebrating. Jake is coming, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know. She’s still—”
Jean glanced up. Jacqueline stood weaving in the doorway, her face puffed with sleep and her eyes peering blearily through a fine cloud of copper hair. She made violent gestures, and Jean said,
“Wait a second, Andy,” and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
“What’s he want?”
“We’re supposed to go out to San Sebastiano today, to see some more damned catacombs.”
“Oh.” Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed still further. “Is that where some scholars say Saints Peter and Paul were buried?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Once a librarian, always a librarian. I read.” Jacqueline gestured at the telephone, which was emitting frustrated squawks. “Okay, tell him we’ll come.”
After Jean had hung up, she looked reproachfully at her friend.
“What is this, detective fever or just general curiosity? I don’t particularly want to go.”
“A little of both,” Jacqueline said, ignoring her complaint. “I’m an inveterate sightseer, and this business of saints is obsessing me. It keeps cropping up….”
“You don’t think you’re going to solve Albert’s murder by locating the relics of Saint Peter, do you?”
“There is something,” Jacqueline muttered. “Something…I’ve been trying to think.”
“So I see.” Jean fanned the air ostentatiously. It was still thick with stale smoke; they had taken to locking the place up tightly at night. “I feel like Watson. Remember Holmes’s habit of sitting up all night smoking his awful pipes?”
“You’d better let me be Watson, I don’t seem to be doing very well as Holmes. Maybe I’m more the Miss Marple type.”
“With a figure like yours?”
“My figure is sagging, and so are my brains. After a few more days of this, they’ll be running like butter…. Where are we meeting the others?”
“At the Colosseum. The Via Appia bus leaves from there.”
They took a taxi, since Jacqueline refused to drive in the old city. By the time they reached their destination Jean was beginning to sympathize with Jacqueline’s daughter; Jacqueline sang most of the way. Her voice was pleasant and not too loud, and the taxi driver didn’t seem to