“This is just what I would have expected of you, Plant. No sympathy whatever.”
“Then why did you come clumping into the Jack and Hammer on your cane, if you already knew?” Trying to change the subject from gout to books and thinking that Agatha might be interested (by some weird crossover of the stars) in American writers, as she herself was American, Melrose said, “Now, just look at this —”
• • •
Look at this might better have been said of the man coming through the Jack and Hammer’s door — Long Piddleton’s antiques dealer, Marshall Trueblood. Trueblood always managed to appear on any scene like a voyager on the deck of a departing ocean liner, all confetti and colored streamers. Nothing so much resembled one as the purple crepe scarf loosely knotted at his neck and trembling in the same wind that stirred the cape of his cashmere inverness.
Dick Scroggs, the publican, looked up from his paper, spread out on the bar, and with that welcome reserved for regulars said, “Close the bleedin’ door, mate.” He then returned to his paper.
“My dear Scroggs. How can you be so churlish when trade is this good? There are at least three — well two and a half” (he corrected himself, looking at Mrs. Withersby) “— customers. Plant, Agatha.” He unwhirled his handsome coat and took a seat as close to Lady Ardry’s lame foot as would allow for a little bit of pain.
She said ouch and glared at Trueblood, whom she loathed only slightly less than Mrs. Withersby. Trueblood, after all, had money. Not as much as her nephew, but money nonetheless.
Trueblood called to the publican for drinks all around, and included Mrs. Withersby with a helping of gin-and-it. He offered his Balkan Sobranies, lit up a lavender one (in tune with his scarf), and brushed a mite of cigarette coal from his sea-green shirt. Trueblood was the jewel in the crown of Long Piddleton, a dazzling little collection of cottages and shops in the hills of Northamptonshire. Scroggs brought the drinks and Trueblood asked Plant what he was so deep into reading about.
“Book reviews.”
“How lovely. Anything useful?”
Trueblood, though certainly no tightwad, couldn’t help but think of everything in terms of usury.
“I was going to read this review to Agatha, since she’s American —”
“I do wish you would stop referring to me in that way, Plant.” Tenderly she touched the bandage like a newborn baby’s cheek. “You always seem to forget that I married your uncle, and that —”
She was always shaking relatives from his family tree, as if Melrose couldn’t remember them on his own. He ignored her. “Listen. ‘This tone of easy superiority can sometimes be grating, primarily because it is symptomatic of a culture in its imperial phase —’ ”
“Who are they reviewing?” asked Trueblood. “Gunga Din?”
“No. It’s this collection of essays by John Updike. But what in hell does it mean? Even leaving off the ‘imperial phase’ stuff — I mean the U.S. And just what is Updike’s ‘easy superiority’?”
“It’s probably what Withers has.” Trueblood called over to Cinders-by-the-ashes. “Withers, old trout! Another gin-and-it?”
Mrs. Withersby spat in the fire at the same time she hobbled over to the bar for a refill.
Trueblood went on. “No, I’d say easy superiority is what Franco Giopinno has. Vivian’s slippery Italian.”
Vivian Rivington, a long-standing and (in some minds) beautiful friend, was off in Italy visiting her “slippery Italian.”
“Ah, yes. That’s it precisely,” continued Trueblood, marveling yet once again at himself. “Do you suppose she’s gone to Venice to break it off or put it on — oh, sorry, old trout —” He turned to Agatha with innocent eyes. “That did sound a bit off-color.”
“You needn’t apologize to me, Mr. Trueblood! I’m sure I can put it on with the best of them.”
Trueblood and Melrose exchanged glances.
“But if she thinks herself a woman of such superiority —”
“Uh-uh. Easy superiority,” Trueblood said. “It’s like easy virtue. What do you think, Melrose? I know how fond you are of Viv-viv.”
It was deliberate. It always was with Trueblood when Lady Ardry was around. Melrose knew she would gladly have given Trueblood a crack with her cane, had it not been more important to divert Plant’s attention away from Vivian into other and less attractive quarters.
“I find the review extremely un-American.”
“Well, it’s certainly anti-Updike,” said Melrose. “ ‘An American confidence which can treat the whole world as a suitable province for its judgments.’ ” He could only shake his head. “For the British to talk imperialism . . . Cheap shot.”
The only cheap shot Agatha was concerned about was where her next shooting sherry was coming from.
“And here’s another American writer being gunned down. She’s described as writing a book ‘ladylike in an American way.’ That only makes me want to meet American ladies, to find out in what way they’re so differently ladylike.” Melrose looked at Trueblood, but doubted he’d have much to offer on that point.
“As far as I am concerned,” said Agatha, “I mean to stay right here in dear old England.” She patted her upraised ankle. “You will never get me back to the United States.”
That was a good reason for a mass exodus, thought Melrose. But, then, why should she go back to the States? She had everything here she could ever want. Unfortunately for her, all of it was up at Ardry End — the crystal, the Queen Anne furniture, the servants, grounds and jewels. . . . Well, perhaps not all of the jewels, for Melrose noticed that riding on her bosom this afternoon was a delicately chased silver brooch he had last seen in his mother’s possession. The Countess of Caverness had been dead for a number of years; his aunt seemed set on slipping into her shoes, even though Agatha was not, properly speaking, a Lady in any sense of the term. She had been married to Melrose’s uncle — the Honorable Robert Ardry. Agatha had decided to let the dead bury the dead, but not the title, and had long since wedded herself instead to the cake stand and the shooting sherry.
“I cannot imagine,” said Melrose, “one’s giving up America to come live in a country of amateurs.”
Trueblood raised an eyebrow at that. “And do you include retreaders of furniture in that category?” His description of himself and his antiques was hardly accurate.
Agatha sighed loudly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Plant.”
She seldom did. It inspired Melrose to dip into further shallows of conversation, even if it was like wasting a good fly on a dead fish. “I am referring to amateur shopkeepers, amateur publicans, amateur politicians, amateur butchers —”
Lady Ardry sat up a bit too sharply and winced with pain. It was all right for Melrose to toy with prime ministers, but certainly not with the source of her daily chop. “Amateur butchers! You’d insult Mr. Greeley — after that magnificent joint we had just last evening —?”
“I’m not insulting Mr. Greeley’s joints. But he’s back there with hatchets and cleavers and saws, for all I know.” Perhaps it was this reference in the paper to the release of a prisoner from Dartmoor who had been dubbed the “ax-murderer” that had allowed him to see Mr. Greeley in that light.
“Melrose! You’re putting me off my sherry.”
Melrose continued reading. It was possible to talk to Agatha and read simultaneously. “What I’m talking about is this: I bet you don’t find American butchers greeting their customers while wearing blood-smeared aprons with knives in their hands. Everytime I see your Mr. Greeley I’m reminded of the Texas Chain Saw Murders or whatever that execrable film was we saw on ITV. And there’s another category, too — amateur criminals. You’ve got — meaning America has, or had — Al Capone and Scarface and the Godfather and Richard Nixon. All we’ve got is Brixton and the IRA.”
“I must say, old bean,” said Marshall Trueblood, “that’s hardly a compliment to the U.S.A.”
“Not meant to be. I’m merely saying th
at when the Americans do something — at least the professional criminals, it’s a bang-up job. Not slapdash, like most of ours.”
“You’re mad as a hatter, Melrose. Right round the twist. I’d like another drink, if you would be so kind.” Agatha was not in the habit of inspecting her bread closely to see on which side it was buttered.
Melrose continued with his thesis. “Don’t you remember John McVicar, who escaped from Durham? That’s a high-security lockup, just like Dartmoor. No one had done it before —”
“Which merely disproves your point, old chap.” Trueblood rose to get the drinks, and Mrs. Withersby snapped to attention.
“No, it doesn’t. Two of them got out. One broke his ankle going over the wall or something and the plan for the pickup had to be dished. Well, there goes John into the Wear or the Tyne — whichever river — and he swims for it. But now he’s got the problem of making contact with his friends on the outside. Guess how he does it?”
Agatha sighed even more loudly because Melrose was keeping Trueblood away from the bar. “Can’t imagine,” said Trueblood.
“Goes into a public call box. I mean, for God’s sakes, can you imagine Capone or Scarface in a phone booth searching for a ten-p piece —?”
Scroggs interrupted by calling from the bar, “Phone for you, M’lord.” Dick Scroggs had never been able to work his mind round to Melrose Plant’s having given up his title.
“A call?” said Agatha. “Here? Who would be calling you at the Jack and Hammer? I find that odd. . . .” She kept on casting about for reasons all the time Melrose was making his way to the phone on the other side of the bar.
It was Ruthven, his butler. Melrose was so mystified by the message that Ruthven had to convince him that, Yes, those were Superintendent Jury’s directions. He would very much appreciate Lord Ardry’s motoring to Dartmoor in his Silver Ghost — “He was very specific on that point, My Lord.” Superintendent Jury had left clear instructions as to what he would like Lord Ardry to do.
“Yes, all right,” said Melrose. “Yes, yes, yes, Ruthven. Thank you.” Melrose hung up.
His friend Jury might have asked for some odd things over the years of their acquaintance, but why would he want an earl with a Silver Ghost?
VI
The End of the Tunnel
SIXTEEN
JESSICA stood in the doorway of the drawing room that morning, refusing to put her foot over the sill, as if she hoped that might spirit away the person to whom she was being introduced. She wouldn’t look up and she wouldn’t come forward despite her uncle’s growing impatience. It was because she knew what she’d see.
The Amiable Amy.
In that wonderful catchall tone that Uncle Rob could use when he was cross with her, yet understood her dilemma (a common occurrence in the household), he said, “Miss Millar will think you are determined always to address her from the other side of the room, Jess.”
With daggers in her eyes, she looked at her uncle, and then quickly down again lest the eyes might meet Miss Millar’s.
Now it was Miss Millar’s voice — amiable as could be — saying, “I can remember once having to meet a new teacher. I can remember being very shy of her.”
Shy? Shy? Jessica Mary Allan-Ashcroft? Never in her life — or, at least, in the life she had led after Uncle Robert had come along — had Jessie been called “shy.” Her face colored with rage, which only made her more furious because now it would be taken as proof of her being shy.
“Come on, Jess,” said her uncle. Seldom could she remember his sounding as if Jessie’s behavior were an embarrassment to him. Now, that’s just how he sounded.
Henry, hearing the Come on, drifted out of his light doze, even though he was on his feet.
“Not you,” she murmured, giving him a little kick.
The amiable voice continued: “Well, then, perhaps we can talk at luncheon. Or dinner.” Now there was amusement in the voice. “Breakfast? Though I might not last that long. . . .”
That was smart of the new governess. It was as if she were trying to make light of what even Jessie knew to be perfectly odious behavior on her own part. Of course, the Amiable Amy would have to have a sense of humor. Because Uncle Rob had a smashing sense of humor, and Jessie knew humor would make up for all other sorts of defects. Except, perhaps, absolute ugliness. If Amy looked like an ogre or gnome . . . Jessie hazarded a quick glance upward. The case was hopeless. The Amiable Amy was almost pretty. Hopeless. She also had patience. Patience on a monument, she was. Jessie knew a lot of Shakespeare because the Mad Margaret had shoveled it — play after play of it — down her throat, Margaret acting out scenes and bawling soliloquies. Margaret had always wanted to be an actress. She was good at Lady Macbeth.
“Jess.” There was Uncle Rob again, being beastly. “What are you doing, standing there like a statue and wringing your hands?”
Eyes closed, Jessie said, “Not wringing. I’m washing them. I must wash my hands. Nothing will make them come clean. They’re incar ——” She couldn’t remember that word. It was something like carburetor.
Uncle Robert was actually beginning to sound concerned. “Jessie. Are you ill? What’s the matter?” He laughed uncertainly. “You seem to have gone a little mad.”
Quite. She smiled to herself and turned and ran from the room.
Since the exit included no Come on, Henry, Henry continued to doze in the doorway.
SEVENTEEN
“SO here’s what happened,” said Macalvie. They were sitting in the mobile unit in Wynchcoombe, Macalvie having cleared the place of the sergeant manning the telecom system, three constables going in and out, and TDC Coogan. The only person (besides Jury and Wiggins) who had held his ground was Detective Inspector Neal, calmly observing Macalvie over the rim of his coffee cup.
“You’ve solved it, Macalvie?” Neal’s tone was wry. “I sure as hell hope so. Because I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Our chief constable is a little upset. He keeps getting these calls from frightened parents.”
Macalvie leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. He gave Neal his laser-look. “That’s too bad. Give Dorset my blessing and ask your chief if he’ll grant me another twenty-four hours.”
Neal smiled and dumped the rest of his coffee in the sink. “I’ll do it straightaway. In the meantime, I better go back and look for the Riley boy’s killer. Don’t you think?”
Solemnly, Macalvie nodded. “It’d be a great kindness to Dorset police.”
Neal left, shaking his head.
Macalvie started talking as if it hadn’t been Neal, but Neal’s wraith that had just floated out the door, part of a spirit-world set to drive him mad, since the forces of the real world couldn’t dent him.
“Take the name of the pub where this string of killings started, the Five Alls: the sign is usually divided so you see these five figures representing authority. ‘I pray for all’— that’d be a priest or other symbol of the church; ‘I plead for all’ — barrister or solicitor; ‘I fight for all’ — military, right? ‘I rule all’ — a lot of positions fit that; and ‘I take all.’ Interesting, that figure. Sometimes the Five Alls sign says, ‘I pay for all,’ meaning king, queen, and country. Other times the fifth figure is John Bull, who ‘pays for all.’ But in our Dorchester Five Alls, the fifth figure is the Devil, who ‘takes all.’ Like lives. Now, we’ve got George-bloody-Thorne, solicitor; we’ve got Davey White’s granddad, vicar —”
Wiggins interrupted. “But you’re forgetting Simon Riley’s father is only a butcher.”
Macalvie smiled slightly. “True, but his wife’s got some family connection with a Q.C. who’s running for Parliament — ‘I rule for all,’ in other words. That’s two figures left: the soldier and the Devil. The Devil’s the killer. So that leaves one more murder.” He looked at Jury. “Your expression tells me you don’t like my theory. Disaster.” Macalvie held out his hand to Wiggins, who rolled a lozenge into it.
“I’m sure you noticed the portr
ait of Jessica Ashcroft’s father.”
“Of course. He was a Grenadier. Military.” Macalvie opened the top drawer of a desk and took out a pint of whiskey and a smudged glass. “I’m going to quit this lousy job, I swear to God. Go to America. The booze is cheaper.” He looked up at the ceiling as if the geography of the United States were etched there, uncapped the bottle, took a drink, and handed the glass to Wiggins.
“We might have come to the same conclusion by different routes,” said Jury. “That is, if you’re thinking of Jessica Ashcroft.”
“Yeah. I’m also thinking of Sam Waterhouse. He sat in a cell for nearly nineteen years, knowing he was railroaded.” Macalvie shook his head. “I still say he’s not the type. He wasn’t once and he still isn’t. Are you reading your fortune in the bottom of that glass, Wiggins, or are you going to pass it along?”
“Waterhouse would be a dead cert, given your reasoning. Hatred of authority. And he got out just before these murders were committed.”
Macalvie lapped his hands round the glass and studied the ceiling. “I still don’t think it’s Sam.”
“What about Robert Ashcroft?”
Macalvie stopped looking at the ceiling and took his feet off his desk. “Meaning?”
“Four million pounds. And being gone just over the days of the murders. No one in the present Ashcroft household had ever seen him before he returned from Australia. I’m going up to London to talk to the Ashcroft solicitor. But even if Ashcroft is the real brother, there’s still —”
Macalvie interrupted. “The Campbell Soup Kid’s money. Right?”
Jury nodded.
“Then why the other killings? A blind?”
Jury nodded again.
Macalvie shook his head as if he were trying to clear it, poured some more whiskey in the glass and handed it to Jury. “What’s his story about taking BritRail to London?”
“That he thought he’d be buying a Roller advertised in the Times.”
Help the Poor Struggler Page 10
