The Dirty Duck

by Martha Grimes

  At first, he had not minded, but now he was bored. He was tired of the same room—a little one way up high like a garret. His food was delivered on a tray slipped through an oblong that had been cut into the door. Probably he was in a tower, although there were no rats. There was a cat, though. It had determinedly squeezed through the opening in the door. It probably wanted to see what it was like, being kidnapped. The cat, a gray one with white paws, had curled up on the foot of the iron cot and gone to sleep. James Carlton shared his food with it.

  The food was all right, but he would have preferred bread and water, at least for a couple of days. He didn’t think it quite fitting that he be served Jell-O (or whatever they called it in England) out of a little tin mold with a rose design on top. He himself hated Jell-O, but the gray cat loved it and licked it all up. The rest of the food was not bad, even if its method of delivery was a little unconventional. Not at all like his old nurse bringing a tray to his room back home, bringing things like runny boiled egg and dry toast. Boy, was he glad to be rid of her.

  James Carlton had read every book ever written (he supposed) on kidnappings of one sort or another. People stuck up in towers, or carted away to Devil’s Island, or thrown in dungeons, or captured by Zulu tribes, or lowered into viper pits, or stuffed into trunks of cars. He was obsessed with kidnapping because he was pretty sure that was what had happened to him and Penny years ago. And he wasn’t even sure that it was J. C. Farraday who had done it. Actually, he thought not. J.C. did not seem to be the sort. Amelia Blue, now, she’d take anything not nailed down, and that included babies, only Amelia Blue wasn’t around then. Probably he had looked so cute lying in his carriage outside the Sav-Mor, someone had just snatched him up and run off. He thought it pretty stupid of Penny—who was usually very smart—to believe that story about their mom having died of that strange disease. She hadn’t, of course.

  The police were still looking for him (and Penny too, he supposed) after all these years, though they had certainly kept it quiet. His real mother and father would never give up looking for him, he knew. One thing that had made it so hard for him to be found was because Amelia Blue and J.C. made him wear these big eyeglasses. When he was a baby the kidnappers must have dyed his hair. For he had seen the picture of his mother, and she had light brown hair like Penny.

  James Carlton had been going along with all this in a good-humored way for years. He had never said a word about being kidnapped, or asked why they didn’t let him go home. But now he was getting mad. To be kidnapped once was bad enough. Twice, and somebody better have a pretty good reason.

  The gray cat was napping on his chest and he exhaled deeply. Inhaling and exhaling could make it go up and down. Finally, the cat got disgusted and jumped down.

  Beyond thinking of ways to escape, there was nothing to do. Naturally, there were no pencils or pens in the room because of the danger of his writing notes and sending them out of the window for passersby to find and report to the police that there was a boy in the tower.

  But James Carlton always carried the stub of a pencil in his sock, because he knew how important it was to have a writing implement. More important than a weapon, really. It was necessary for sending out SOS’s to the police, or for leaving messages behind when people moved their captives from place to place.

  He had often toyed with the idea that if he did not decide to become a baseball player when he got older (his father, he was sure, was a baseball player), he would probably become a writer. A foreign correspondent. And writing was also something to do to keep your mind busy when you were bored.

  Around the walls a number of pictures had been hung, all of them quite stupid, of Irish setters or cows in meadows. He took down one of the pictures of cows and a shepherd and lay on the bed with the picture overturned, resting on his knees. From his sock he took his pencil and continued his diary. It wasn’t very interesting writing this, but it had to be done in case his kidnappers moved him and the police came looking for him. With painstaking care he had already managed to work a clue into the picture itself by carefully removing the backing paper and the picture and tearing out the heads of the shepherd and the cow and exchanging them. It had been very difficult and meticulous work and had taken him upwards of two hours, as he had no glue and had to position the heads carefully. They kept sliding around beneath the glass. Finally, he had used spit for glue and was pleased with the result. No one who lived here would notice because no one ever looked at their own pictures. But Scotland Yard would see it and know that it was some sort of clue and look at the back of the picture.

  At the top of the backing paper, which he had restuck round the frame, he had written

  James Carlton Farraday

  in as fancy a script as he could. He went on now with his diary:

  7:13 Brekfs’t Egg, bacon, cereal

  He printed this in small neat letters, under last night’s dinner, which had been served him at 6:22 exactly. They had not taken away his watch.

  Now he went on to his escape plans, listed in the order in which he would probably try them:

  1. Pretend sick—when food comes, moan and groan

  2. Grab his/her wrist through door slot when tray sits down

  3. Figure out way to get out of window. Lower cat?????????

  James Carlton replaced the picture on the wall and did some deep knee bends. It was important to try and keep fit. After that, he shadow-boxed around the room and over to the bed. He threw a few punches at the cat, all the while doing his fancy footwork. The gray cat rolled over on its back, made a few desultory swipes at his fist, got bored and rolled over on its side. James Carlton shadow-boxed off.

  He stopped when he heard the footsteps. At the sound of the tray clattering down on the floor, James Carlton put plan number one into action. He lay down on the floor and began to moan and groan horribly.

  8

  The Dirty Duck’s dining room—that somewhat more luxurious part of the pub called the Black Swan—was crowded with diners who were getting in drinks and dinner before the seven-thirty curtain. The terrace spilled customers onto its steps; in the saloon bar of the Duck there was barely room to lift a glass.

  Melrose interrupted his discourse on the Schoenberg theory to taste the wine their dark-haired waitress had just poured. When he nodded, she filled their glasses and whisked off.

  “That’s the stupidest theory I’ve ever heard. Pass the mustard,” said Jury.

  “I haven’t finished. Then he says that maybe Shakespeare had to kill Marlowe, because if he didn’t, Marlowe would kill Shakespeare.” Melrose shoved the mustard pot toward Jury, who dotted his steak-and-kidney pie all over with it. “And then he keeps bringing up Shakespeare’s sonnets on this Ishi—”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “His computer.”

  “You mean he’s carrying a computer around Stratford?”

  Melrose cut into his roast beef. “Of course. He couldn’t have a conversation without it. He says there are already computers that you can talk to. Just talk to. Maybe I could get one for Agatha. It could sit with her when she comes over to Ardry End for tea.”

  Jury smiled. “We haven’t met in three years.”

  “You’ll keep it that way if you’re smart. She’ll track you down, never fear. When she can spare time from the Randolph Biggets.”

  “Who’re they?” Jury held out his glass for a refill.

  “Our American cousins. Hordes of them. Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid them. I’ve taken rooms at the Falstaff and left dear Agatha and the Biggets to the Hathaway. Americans go for it; mock-Tudor and mud-and-wattle.”

  Jury smiled. “Not quite. Very expensive place. ‘Rooms at the Falstaff’? How many did you take?”

  “All of them.” At Jury’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Well, I had to, didn’t I? Otherwise, there’d be Biggets spilling out of all the windows. I simply told Agatha I’d got the last room. Which I had, in a manner of speaking. There’re only eight or nine, any
way. Are you going to do anything else about this boy who’s gone missing?”

  “There’s not much else I can do at the moment. I went with his sister, Penny, to Shakespeare’s birthplace. He was supposedly on his way there when he disappeared—but no one remembered seeing him. Anyway, it’s Lasko’s case.”

  They ate in silence for a while. Jury’s mind turned from missing boys to other matters. “You never met Lady Kennington, did you?” He doubted his overly casual tone would fool Melrose Plant.

  “No. I only saw her that one time, you remember. Attractive woman.”

  “I suppose so. She’s living in Stratford.”

  “Oh? You know, she reminded me of Vivian Rivington.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Jury, but Plant was right. There was a resemblance between the two women. Plant was looking at him rather too closely; Jury looked away. The thought of Vivian Rivington still nettled. “Have you heard from her? Is she still in Italy?”

  “I get some sort of postcard of a gondola now and again. She said something about returning to England.”

  There was a short silence. “Pass the bread,” said Jury.

  “How romantic. I mention Vivian and you say, ‘Pass the bread.’ ” Melrose shoved the basket across to him.

  “Oh, God,” said Jury, looking toward the door.

  Melrose followed the direction of Jury’s gaze. The dining room was thinning out, as one table after another left for the theatre. Standing in the doorway was a rather corpulent, sad man who was looking their way. He said something to the hostess and threaded his way through the departing diners.

  “Speak of the devil—” Jury tossed down his napkin.

  • • •

  Detective Sergeant Sammy Lasko stood there looking, Jury thought, insincerely apologetic. “Trouble, Richard.”

  “Sit down and have some wine or coffee. You look beat.”

  Lasko shook his head. “No time. Looks good though,” he added, peering longingly at their plates.

  “It was until you walked in. Something else about the Farraday kid?”

  Sad shake of the head as Lasko turned his bowler hat in his hands. “ ’Fraid not. It’s a little worse.”

  Plant and Jury exchanged looks. “I daresay I’ll be attending the theatre by myself this evening,” said Melrose, glumly.

  “Look, Sammy . . .” Jury sighed, giving in. “What is it this time?”

  “Murder,” said Lasko, still eyeing the cut of beef.

  They both stared at Lasko, and then at one another. Finally, Jury said, as he got up. “Give me my ticket and meet me in the bar during intermission.”

  Sam Lasko looked at Jury reproachfully. “I don’t think we’ll have the answers by the middle of Hamlet.”

  “Neither did Hamlet. Come on, let’s go.”

  • • •

  “Gwendolyn Bracegirdle,” said Lasko, looking down at the spot in the ladies’ toilet where the body had recently lain. He handed the pictures taken by the police photographer to Jury, together with Gwendolyn Bracegirdle’s billfold. “It was a mess.”

  In the bulb’s white glow, the face of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle wore an expression of clownish surprise. When Jury opened the billfold, a little waterfall of credit cards spilled down in a long plastic sleeve: Diner’s Club, Visa, American Express, one for petrol. And there was quite a bit of money, at least two hundred pounds.

  “Not robbery,” said Lasko, eyes in the back of his head. He was scrubbing at the dirt in the walk with the toe of his boot. “Why would she have been walking out here by the public toilets at night?”

  “When did you find her?” asked Jury, looking down at one of the photos, at that awful expression on the murdered woman’s face—as if she had been almost laughing when the first cut came. Awful, given that the head was nearly severed from the body. As if slicing her from ear to ear wouldn’t have done the trick, there was another deep cut beginning below the breast and running in a vertical line to the pubic bone. The blood must have gushed; in the photos, it looked as if it had dried, as on an artist’s canvas, so thickly it might have been put on with a palette knife.

  “A couple of hours ago. Been dead, according to the doctor, since late last night. All this”—Lasko gestured with his outstretched arm at the blood-painted world—“happened around midnight, or close to.”

  “And someone just found her? The church is overrun with tourists in July.”

  “Not using the toilets. There was an Out of Order sign outside.” At Jury’s look, he shrugged. “They really were out of order, apparently.”

  “All that blood. The killer must have been covered in it—”

  “Sure was. We found an old raincoat tossed in a dustbin. We’re checking it for prints, but its one of those slick ones. Also, cheap. Kind you could get anywhere. Hell to trace.” Lasko stuck a toothpick in his mouth, and held up a small, white card, illuminated by his torch. “How about going along with me to the Diamond Hill Guest House? Have a word with the landlady?”

  “I told you before, Sam, this isn’t my—”

  Lasko cut Jury off by asking, “What do you think of this?”

  It was a copy of a theatre program for As You Like It. Across the bottom, two lines of poetry were carefully printed:

  Beauty is but a flower

  That wrinkles will devour.

  “So what do you think, Richard? We’re checking the original for prints. But for openers: think she wrote that?”

  “No.”

  “Me either. Looks more like a message to us.”

  Resolutely, Jury handed back the copy. “You, Sammy. To you. I’ve got to go back to London, remember?”

  But Sam Lasko still had his pièce de résistance to offer. “I think you’d better come along.”

  “Sammy, no one’s asked for our help.”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure Honeysuckle Tours maybe could use it.” Lasko rolled the toothpick around in his mouth. “You know, the tour the Farraday kid was on.” Lasko put the theatre program back in its envelope. “So was Gwendolyn Bracegirdle.”

  • • •

  Sam Lasko let Jury stand there for a while and digest this information before the sergeant took out his notebook and flipped through the pages: “It’s a terrific name, isn’t it? Just makes you think of the Old South and Tara and all that stuff. You been to America, Jury?” The question was rhetorical; Lasko didn’t wait for an answer before going on with his list.

  “This guy runs it, Honeycutt—probably that’s where they got the name—we’ve been looking for him ever since we found her. He’s been bouncing around all over Stratford. Anyway, we got the Farradays on this tour and, according to J.C., who’s only just barely speaking, there were four others, leave out them and Honeycutt: a Lady Dew and her niece, Cyclamen—talk about names!—George Cholmondeley, he deals in precious stones; and Harvey L. Schoenberg—”

  “Schoenberg?”

  “You know him?”

  “No. But the chap I was having dinner with does.”

  “That so?” Lasko put his notebook away, and attempted to steer Jury down the path and—presumably—toward the Diamond Hill Guest House. “What I was thinking was, maybe after we get finished with this Diamond Hill—”

  “We?” But Jury knew he’d go along.

  So did Sam Lasko. He didn’t even bother answering. “—I thought maybe you could go along and have a look into the Arden—that’s Honeycutt’s hotel—and have a word with him or find out where the hell he is—”

  Jury turned in the dark walk. “Sammy, I told you before—”

  Sam Lasko shook and shook his head, holding out his arms almost heavenward. “Richard. Look at that mess back there. You think I don’t have enough to do—?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  They were walking up the alley that made a shortcut from the theatre through old Stratford to the streets skirting the town, lined with B-and-B’s like avenues of beeches.

  “Casablanca. Now there was a film. You’ve seen it, haven’t you
?”

  Jury stopped, lit a cigarette, and said, “Don’t get the idea this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship, Louie.”

  9

  Mrs. Mayberry, who ran the Diamond Hill Guest House, did nothing to correct Jury’s impression of women who ran Bed-and-Breakfast establishments.

  “I don’t know, do I? She was on one of those tours. Had the room right at the top—small, but cozy. Hot-and-cold and bath down the hall. Seven pound a night it cost her, and full English breakfast, VAT inclusive.” The police might have been there for no other purpose than to rent Mrs. Mayberry’s rooms.

  Jury knew what the full English breakfast would be: tinned orange juice, cornflakes, one egg, bit of bacon if you were lucky, watery “grilled” tomato. Only Oliver Twist would have the nerve to ask for seconds.

  “The last time you saw her, Mrs. Mayberry?” asked Lasko in his sleepy voice.

  “Six-ish, I guess it was. Come back to the house for a wash before dinner. They usually do.” They were climbing the stairs now, preceded by the landlady with her ring of keys. The police photographer and fingerprint man brought up the rear. “Here we are, then.” Mrs. Mayberry stood aside and pushed open the door. “Shocking, it is.” Jury assumed she was commenting on the murder and not the state of the room, which was small and rather barren. “Terrible thing to happen.” But the comment seemed to be aimed less at Gwendolyn Bracegirdle’s death than it was at the nerve of a Diamond Hill Guest House lodger giving the place a bad name.

  The room was on the top floor and the tiny dormer window seemed designed to keep out the summer breezes rather than to let them in. A bed—really more of a cot—with a chenille spread flanked one wall. A washbasin sprouted from the other. Besides this there were only a chintz-covered slipper chair and an old oak bureau. On the top of the bureau, Miss Bracegirdle’s things were neatly arranged: a couple of jars of cream, a comb and brush, a small picture in a silver frame. Jury was standing in the doorway so as to keep out of the way of Lasko’s team, and thus couldn’t see the face in the picture. But it struck him as sad, this attempt to carry some small part of home around with her. The rooms of a murder victim always struck Jury in this way: perhaps because he had been trained to observe objects so closely, they became sentient to him: the bed ready to receive the weight of a body, the looking glass to see the face, the comb to touch the hair. The presence of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle clung to these things like scent, even though she’d been in this room for only a few days.