The Anodyne Necklace

by Martha Grimes

  Had he found some pocket of Dickensian England here in Littlebourne where children worked at bottle-blacking and chimney-sweeping and gin-milling? “I really don’t think you should be doing that,” he said, sounding unctuous, even to himself.

  “I do it all the time.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Very well, then. I’ll have a Cockburn’s, dry.”

  She turned to the optics behind her and measured off the sherry. “That’ll be seventy-five p, please,” she said, setting it before him.

  “Seventy-five? Dear heavens. Inflation has hit Littlebourne.”

  “Want some crisps?”

  “No, thank you.” He put a pound on the table. She stood there, sucking in her cheeks again, making the popping sounds.

  “Don’t do that. You’ll ruin the alignment of your jaws and throw off your bite. Your teeth will fall out, too,” he added, for good measure.

  “They did do, anyway.” She pulled back her upper lip and displayed two gaps.

  “I told you.”

  “Sure you don’t want any crisps? Bovril’s good.”

  “I don’t like crisps. But if we must—” Melrose fished in his pocket for more change.

  She climbed up on a bar stool and unhooked a packet of crisps from a circular rack. Tearing open the packet she frowningly ate them. “Want one?” She was prepared to be generous.

  “No. Have you a police station in this village?”

  “Across the Green.” She was sitting on the window seat and hitched her thumb toward the window at her back, sliding down lower in the seat. “Are you part of the police?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “There’s one here from Scotland Yard.”

  Despite his reluctance to question anyone this small, Melrose asked, “Do you happen to know where he is?”

  It was rather nerve-wracking, this way she had of beating her heels against the window seat. “Back in London. He had to leave. I guess he came here for the murder.”

  Over the rims of his glasses, Melrose could see she was waiting for him to be affected. “Murder? What happened?”

  She had finished the crisps already and was now folding the greasy little packet into small squares. “I don’t know. Want some more crisps?”

  “I didn’t want those. What about this murder?”

  She shrugged. Now the heels were drumming more quickly against the wood.

  “Well, who was murdered?” As he watched her noncommittal face, he decided he’d sooner open oysters with a matchstick.

  She had made a kind of paper plane from the crisp packet and was soaring it through the air. “Mum doesn’t want me to talk about it.”

  He was certain she’d made this up on the spot. Melrose plunked another fifty pence on the table and said, “Let’s have some more crisps.”

  She was up, over and back in a flash with another packet. “It was horrid, the murder.”

  “Murder usually is. What was this one’s special horridness?”

  She held up one small, translucent hand, the nails pearly in the dusty light of late afternoon. “They cut off her fingers.”

  Melrose had to agree. That was horrid.

  “No one knows why she was in the woods. It was nobody from the village, so they think maybe she was from London. People don’t go walking in the woods, except the birdwatchers and they’re stupid. I go there sometimes to ride Shandy. Do you like horses?”

  “No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Probably.”

  “You ought to. Horses are better than people.” She was looking him up and down as if she knew at least one person horses were better than.

  “This policeman from Scotland Yard. Have you seen him?”

  “No.” She had slid practically all the way under the table, and all he could see was the crown of yellow hair and the arm with another crisp-bag airplane. “I’m thirsty. It must be all the salt.”

  “What would you like, a Guinness?”

  “Lemon squash.”

  More money changed hands. She did a little sidestep dance to the bar and then started making a racket behind it, clanging bottles and glasses.

  “I might have seen him,” she said, when she had sidestep-danced back to the table. “They’re staying here, I think. Him and the other detective.” Carefully, she poured her squash into a glass. They could have lived here for days, he thought, eating crisps and drinking Cockburn’s Very Dry and lemon squash without anyone’s knowing. He looked out of the mullioned window, where a breeze blew the browned petals of roses. There were no signs of life.

  “Maybe he’ll be able to find out who wrote those letters.” She was opening up the window seat, rooting for something inside.

  “What letters?”

  “Nasty letters,” her voice said, coming from inside the seat.

  This gave Melrose a start. Jury had told him none of the particulars. “Good heavens, but your village is a lively old place.”

  Settling down at the table again with a coloring book and a box of Crayolas, she said, “I asked Mum what was in them but she told me not to talk about them.” She sucked up the last of her squash, making gurgling sounds in the bottom of her glass. “They were all in colors.” She opened up her book to what appeared to be a woodland scene and began to color a deer blue.

  “Are you saying these, uh, nasty letters were done in color?” She nodded. “That’s awfully strange.” Again, she nodded, filling in the one deer and going on to the next blue deer. He felt vaguely irritated with this flying in the face of convention. “And you don’t know anything else about them?”

  “What?”

  “The letters.” She shook her head. Having finished with the two deer, she took a red crayon and drew a thick and crooked line across the forest floor. She looked at it, then held it up for Melrose’s inspection. “Does that look like a river?”

  “No. It’s red.”

  “It could be a River of Blood, couldn’t it?”

  “Blood? What a dreadful thought.” She was looking down at it now, her pointed chin squeezed between her fists. “What put that into your mind?”

  “They said the water was all bloody where they found her. Do you know any secrets?”

  He thought he could have planted rows of beans in the furrows of her brow. “Secrets? Well, ah, yes, I suppose so.” Was that the right answer?

  Sternly she watched him. “Would you tell them?”

  Oh, dear, a moral dilemma. He’d have to tread carefully. Playing for time, he lit a cigarette, studied its bright, burning end, and said, “Depends, I suppose.” She had slid down in her seat again, and only the eyes regarded him now over the table rim. He could not think of what it should depend on. “If it would do someone a harm to keep it, I’d tell.”

  She frowned. Wrong answer. Suddenly, she was up and tossing book and Crayolas back in the window seat. “I’ve got to go now. But I could show you round the village if you like.”

  Well, so much for secrets. Then he remembered why he was supposed to be here. “Have you an estate agent here?”

  “Someone that sells houses? Yes, but that’s a stupid thing to do.”

  “To you, I suppose. I myself am thinking of buying property hereabouts.”

  That she was going to have Melrose as a permanent ornament did not seem to excite her interest. “There’s Mr. Mainwaring. I can show you where his office is. It’s just along the High next to the sweet shop. There are other shops too. The post office stores, but that’s boring. And the Ginger Nut. They sell clothes. The Magic Muffin is nice. And there’s Conckles. That’s the sweet shop.”

  As she marched him through the saloon bar, he said, “I suppose this Mrs. O’Brien does meals?”

  “Yes. She made tea today for the policeman. Oxtail soup.”

  “You certainly do keep abreast of the goings on.”

  “They’re coming back tonight, I heard Mary say. You must be his friend.”

  Melrose stopped at the door and stared. Would none of his ruses work on her? “Not exact
ly, I just happen to have heard he—”

  But she was already doing her sidestep dance down the pavement. He passed the execrable Willow Cottage, which was indeed little more than whitewashed rubble with a lattice of blown roses. Melrose called out to her, three doors down, “Just you mind, we’re going to the estate agent!”

  But it did no good as she’d already danced her way through the door of the bowfronted shop carrying the legend: CONCKLES—SWEETS AND TOBACCOS.

  “And you’re wrong,” said Melrose, from the doorway of Conckles, “If you think you’re going to stick me up for sweets!”

  No, she wasn’t.

  III

  Freddie Mainwaring sat comfortably slouched in his leather swivel chair, appearing to regard it as a grand joke that he, of all people, should be caught selling real estate. His manner changed a bit when Melrose mentioned just what piece of real estate he was interested in.

  “Stonington?” The swivel chair stopped in mid-turn, and Mainwaring began flipping through a card file. “She’ll probably come down in price; she needs the money.”

  The comment struck Melrose as unprofessional. Who was the man supposed to be representing? Mainwaring set his teeth on edge; he had smooth good looks and a manner silky enough to make women want to touch the goods. The picture on his desk Melrose supposed to be the wife, a woman with a caramelized look: patina of makeup, curls upswept and lacquered. There were no pictures of children.

  “It was Lord Kennington’s place. He died several months ago, so his widow has been living there by herself with only one or two servants. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds is the asking price.”

  The dismissive wave of Melrose’s hand announced he was beyond money. “I need a largish place.” While Mainwaring went on about parlors and public rooms and parquet; about kitchens and bathrooms en suite; paddocks and outbuildings; boundaries and walls—Melrose tried to think of a way to work the conversation around to murder. “Yes, that all sounds fine. I need to be closer to London, and Northants is so far. Business dealings . . . ” He wasn’t sure how to expand on this. The last actual business dealing he had had was a few years back when he’d exchanged his Jaguar for a Bentley. That reminded him: he’d left his Rolls near the Bodenheim property.

  “I could call Lady Kennington now and set up an appointment—” Mainwaring was reaching for the telephone. “When would you like to view?”

  Melrose almost said now before he remembered he had absolutely no interest in any property, and if he weren’t careful, he’d end up buying Stonington and Willow Cottage both. “Let’s see. I’m rather busy today. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and . . . no, not tomorrow. What about Monday?”

  “Well, I go up to London on Monday . . . I don’t know if that would be the best day—”

  “Not to worry. Tuesday would do admirably.” Jury would surely have things sorted out by then. “The, ah, village seems quite charming.”

  “It’s a popular place. So close to London and still country, so there’s a real demand for property.”

  Melrose steeled himself for the bulletin from the Chamber of Commerce. He was surprised when Mainwaring stopped there, giving no further report on Littlebourne’s bucolic charms. “Sort of place where nothing ever happens.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Mainwaring sat back, smiling. “I’m surprised you’ve been here ten minutes and not heard about the woman found in the woods. Murdered.”

  “Good God! That’s what the police car was doing along the road from . . . what’s the next town?”

  “Horndean. It was the Horndean wood where she was found. Well, we call it that. It’s mostly in Littlebourne. I’m not sure which of us gets her.”

  A sardonic way of looking at murder, Melrose thought.

  “I’m surprised Emily Louise didn’t tell you all about it.”

  “Emily Louise?”

  “Little girl who dropped you by here. Emily Perk.” Mainwaring seemed to be eyeing him rather more warily. Melrose hoped the man wasn’t going to turn out to be awfully clever. After half an hour with Emily Perk, he did not feel up to cleverness.

  “Oh, she did babble on about something. But I don’t pay much attention to a child’s prattle. Imagine she’s a trial to her mum—ah, mother.”

  “All eyes and ears. Seems to pop up everywhere.” A shadow passed over Mainwaring’s face, as if Emily had popped up at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

  Melrose was about to enlarge upon the subject of murder, when the door was quite literally flung open and two women entered. One was thin and mouse-colored; the other was large, square, gray-haired, and, obviously, spokeswoman.

  “Ah! There you are, Freddie . . . oh, you’re busy.” Here followed a vague apology, unfelt. “I just wanted to give you this and make sure you were coming out Monday week.” From the bunch in her arms, the woman extracted a paper and put it on Mainwaring’s desk. Was she political? wondered Melrose. “And Betsy, too, if she’s back. Now don’t say you’re not able to as I’ve paired you up with Miles and I want two on each route. That way we should canvass the whole wood.” Not political, but some sort of canvasser. Melrose looked at the paper, some kind of diagram of colored lines. “We’re to meet at Spoke Rock and then break up into groups. Wear your Wellingtons or, better yet, your waders, because you know how swampy the wood is this time of year and that rain we had might have raised the stream a bit. The Crackle is very cagey and elusive so I’ve fixed it up so’s we cover the whole if we stick to our proper groups and go the correct route.” There was a distinct warning in her tone, as if groups and routes had got mucked up before through carelessness. “You and Miles are to follow the Yellow Route. It goes from Spoke Rock up over Windy Hill and round the marsh. See, there.” She planted a stubby finger on the paper. “We meet at five, and I want everybody there, spot on.” Melrose was very much afraid she meant A.M., as no one would be chasing Crackles during the cocktail hour. The woman was tiresomely hearty, voice booming from inexhaustible lungs. The same charge could not be made of her companion who, sunk in timorousness, plied the end of her belt as if she might suddenly hang herself with it. The thin woman’s gaze shifted here and there round the room, landed on Melrose, then darted off, guilt-surprised.

  “What makes you think the police won’t have the whole wood cordoned off, Ernestine?” asked Mainwaring.

  “Oh, pooh. They’ll all be out in a few days. They can’t hang about forever.”

  “They can do what they damned well please,” said Mainwaring, not sounding too happy about it.

  “Don’t be tiresome, Freddie. The Speckled Crackle won’t wait round forever, murder or no murder. Spot on five, then. Should be a bang-up morning. If we all keep to our routes.” She waved the papers in Melrose’s face. “It’s not often one has the opportunity of taking on a Great Speckled Crackle.” It sounded as if she and the bird were matched in the welterweight championship of the world.

  “It certainly isn’t,” said Melrose, removing his spectacles and polishing them with his pocket handkerchief. “I’ve seen it only once myself.”

  Stunned silence. Then she said, “But you couldn’t have done. It’s been sighted only three times in the last ten years. In the Orkneys, the Hebrides, and Torquay. Where do you think you saw it? Are you sure it was the Crackle?”

  Melrose could not have been profligate with news of the bird had he wanted to. “Salcombe.”

  “Salcombe! That’s impossible!” Torquay was one thing. Salcombe was sheer caprice.

  “Well, they’re not far apart, you must admit.”

  Mainwaring interceded with introductions. Mr. Plant was made known to the Misses Craigie, Ernestine and Augusta.

  Sisters, were they? Odd. But he supposed there was some small resemblance, some shadow-stamp the parents had left on the face of each. He inclined his head politely as he rose to take the hand Ernestine had shot out, like a spanner. It pumped Melrose’s own.

  “Are you staying here? Visiting? You must join us. You could go the Gree
n Route.” She consulted her paper. “Here we are. You’d be with Sylvia and Augusta. Lucky for you, they’re seasoned birdwatchers.”

  Sylvia Bodenheim at five A.M. Serve him right.

  “Ernestine, Mr. Plant has simply come to Littlebourne to inspect some property. He’ll probably be gone before we meet.”

  “It’s kind of you to invite me. What sort of binoculars do you use?” They were swinging on a strap across her bosom. He thought he recognized them as particularly good ones. There had been a dark patch in his life when he’d entertained himself for a season at Newmarket races. He’d gone the whole binocular spectrum.

  “These? Oh, they’re Zeiss. Instant focus.” Handing Melrose a copy of her map, she said, “Have one in case you’re here. We’d soon put you in the picture. Good-bye Freddie!” They departed in a swirl of papers.

  “Birdwatching seems quite a serious affair around here if it can supplant murder as a point of interest.”

  Mainwaring smiled. “Ernestine’s got enough enthusiasm for all of us. I doubt there’s a quarter-inch of wood she doesn’t know. It’s no wonder she found the body. She’s always out there.”

  “Did she?” Melrose turned to look at the door through which she had just left. “It didn’t take her long to get over the shock.”

  Through the window, he saw a dark-haired woman pass by, wave in at Mainwaring, pause as if deciding whether to enter, and then turn away. She appeared to be studying the tree outside the door.

  “I must be going,” said Melrose.

  “You’ll be in touch?”

  “Oh, certainly. Stonington sounds just the ticket.”

  But as he walked out the door, he was not thinking of Stonington. He was thinking of the Craigie woman. Given her wood-haunting predilections, he wondered that it didn’t make her nervous to be walking about with those binoculars for all the world to see.

  IV

  The dark-haired woman was still inspecting the fruit tree.

  “I dislike pollarded trees, don’t you?” asked Melrose.

  “Umm? Oh—” Her surprise that such a person as he existed was clearly feigned. “Yes. I was thinking it’s got some sort of disease.”