went out to sit between Lee and Jon on the sofa, watching the
equally syrupy ending of the operetta.
TEN
When Francis came forth from his cave of vision,
he was wearing the same word "fool" as a feather
in his cap, as a crest or even a crown.
At under five and a half feet with shoes on, Kate was not often
given the chance to feel tall, except in a room full of kids. In fact,
when the door opened, she thought for a moment that she was faced with
a child. It was the impression of an instant's glance, though,
because no sooner had the door begun to open than it caught forcibly on
the chain and slammed shut in her face. The chain rattled, the door
opened again, more fully this time, and the person standing there,
colorful and gray-haired and of a height surely not far from dwarfism,
was not a child, but a woman of about sixty.
"Doctor Whitlaw?" Kate asked uncertainly.
"Professor, actually. You're Inspector Martinelli. Come in."
Kate stepped inside while the woman reached up to fasten the chain.
"I was told that I must always bolt and chain the doors in
this city. I live in a village, where a crime wave is the
neighbor's son stealing a handbag from the backseat of a car.
I'm forever forgetting that I've put the chain on,- I
nearly took my nose off the other day. Come in here and sit down, and
tell me what I can do for you. Will you take a cup of tea?"
She had a lovely voice. On the phone it had sounded gruff, but in
person it was only surprisingly deep, and the accent that had sounded
English became something other than the posh tones of most actors and
the occasional foreign correspondent on the news. Her accent had depth
rather than smoothness, flavor rather than sophistication, and made her
sound as if she could tell a sly joke, if the opportunity arose. Kate
couldn't remember the last time she'd drunk tea, but she
accepted.
They sat at a round, claw-foot, polished oak table, between a
cheerful pine kitchen and a living room bursting with gloriously happy
plants, tropical-print fabrics, and African sculpture. Professor
Whitlaw brought another cup from the kitchen (using a step stool to
reach the cupboard) and poured from a dark brown teapot so new that it
still had the price sticker on the handle. She added milk without
asking, put a sugar bowl, spoon, and plate of boring-looking cookies in
front of Kate, and sat back in her chair, her feet dangling.
"This is a very pleasant place," Kate offered.
"Do you think so? It belongs to friends of my niece, two
pediatricians who are away for the month, so I'm house-sitting.
Actually, I am beginning to find its unremitting cheerfulness
oppressive, particularly in the mornings. I come out in my dressing
gown and expect to hear parrots and monkeys. Fortunately, I don't
have to care for the jungle. They have a sort of indoor gardener who
comes twice a week to water and prune--a good thing, because if I
was responsible, they would come back to a desert. You wish to talk
about the Fools movement."
"Er, yes. Or about one particular fool, really." Kate
explained at length what she knew about Erasmus, his relationships with
the homeless and the seminary, and his apparent unwillingness or
inability to speak other than by way of quotations. She then gave a
very general picture of the murder and investigation, ending up with:
"So you see, the man must be treated as a suspect,- he has no
alibi, no identification, no past, no nothing. The only thing he has
said about himself that sounds in the least bit personal is that he
thinks of himself as a fool. Now, he could just be saying that, or he
may be referring to this organization or movement or whatever it is.
Dean Gardner thought there was a chance he might be, so he referred me
to you."
"You are catching at straws."
"I suppose so."
"And even if he is a remnant of the Fools movement, it may have nothing to do with the man's death."
"That's very possible."
"But you are hoping nonetheless to understand the differences
between the
equally syrupy ending of the operetta.
TEN
When Francis came forth from his cave of vision,
he was wearing the same word "fool" as a feather
in his cap, as a crest or even a crown.
At under five and a half feet with shoes on, Kate was not often
given the chance to feel tall, except in a room full of kids. In fact,
when the door opened, she thought for a moment that she was faced with
a child. It was the impression of an instant's glance, though,
because no sooner had the door begun to open than it caught forcibly on
the chain and slammed shut in her face. The chain rattled, the door
opened again, more fully this time, and the person standing there,
colorful and gray-haired and of a height surely not far from dwarfism,
was not a child, but a woman of about sixty.
"Doctor Whitlaw?" Kate asked uncertainly.
"Professor, actually. You're Inspector Martinelli. Come in."
Kate stepped inside while the woman reached up to fasten the chain.
"I was told that I must always bolt and chain the doors in
this city. I live in a village, where a crime wave is the
neighbor's son stealing a handbag from the backseat of a car.
I'm forever forgetting that I've put the chain on,- I
nearly took my nose off the other day. Come in here and sit down, and
tell me what I can do for you. Will you take a cup of tea?"
She had a lovely voice. On the phone it had sounded gruff, but in
person it was only surprisingly deep, and the accent that had sounded
English became something other than the posh tones of most actors and
the occasional foreign correspondent on the news. Her accent had depth
rather than smoothness, flavor rather than sophistication, and made her
sound as if she could tell a sly joke, if the opportunity arose. Kate
couldn't remember the last time she'd drunk tea, but she
accepted.
They sat at a round, claw-foot, polished oak table, between a
cheerful pine kitchen and a living room bursting with gloriously happy
plants, tropical-print fabrics, and African sculpture. Professor
Whitlaw brought another cup from the kitchen (using a step stool to
reach the cupboard) and poured from a dark brown teapot so new that it
still had the price sticker on the handle. She added milk without
asking, put a sugar bowl, spoon, and plate of boring-looking cookies in
front of Kate, and sat back in her chair, her feet dangling.
"This is a very pleasant place," Kate offered.
"Do you think so? It belongs to friends of my niece, two
pediatricians who are away for the month, so I'm house-sitting.
Actually, I am beginning to find its unremitting cheerfulness
oppressive, particularly in the mornings. I come out in my dressing
gown and expect to hear parrots and monkeys. Fortunately, I don't
have to care for the jungle. They have a sort of indoor gardener who
comes twice a week to water and prune--a good thing, because if I
was responsible, they would come back to a desert. You wish to talk
about the Fools movement."
"Er, yes. Or about one particular fool, really." Kate
explained at length what she knew about Erasmus, his relationships with
the homeless and the seminary, and his apparent unwillingness or
inability to speak other than by way of quotations. She then gave a
very general picture of the murder and investigation, ending up with:
"So you see, the man must be treated as a suspect,- he has no
alibi, no identification, no past, no nothing. The only thing he has
said about himself that sounds in the least bit personal is that he
thinks of himself as a fool. Now, he could just be saying that, or he
may be referring to this organization or movement or whatever it is.
Dean Gardner thought there was a chance he might be, so he referred me
to you."
"You are catching at straws."
"I suppose so."
"And even if he is a remnant of the Fools movement, it may have nothing to do with the man's death."
"That's very possible."
"But you are hoping nonetheless to understand the differences
between the
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