Jury noticed that Marion Winslow was watching, tracking the movement of frame from table to chair and back again. “That was my daughter, Phoebe.” Her voice was pleasantly low, but as flat and calm and cold as the wintry landscape he had passed through on the road from Exeter.
“I heard about the accident. I’m sorry.”
She gave a slight nod; her brother had risen to replenish his glass and now stood, hand in pocket of jacket, looking down abstractedly at the fire. Then he turned, as if to say something, but it was Edward who spoke: “I was very fond of Phoebe.” He sighed. “Well, we all were.” He moved closer to his mother’s chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. She seemed to be looking off at blankness.
Jury wondered about the black dress. The child had died over two years ago, not, certainly, a long time. Like yesterday as far as grieving was concerned; but for the clothes of mourning, a little long. Though Jury doubted that Marion Winslow meant anything like this by the simple, elegantly cut black gown.
“Look, the family album is fascinating,” said David, reclaiming his seat on the sofa, “but have you turned up anything that’ll let me off the hook?”
Jury felt rather sorry for Marr despite the callous comment about the family album. Put aside the circumstantial and there was no evidence to say he had killed Ivy Childess. But there was the circumstantial, nonetheless. “I’m afraid nothing conclusive, Mr. Marr.”
“Hell, let’s settle for something inconclusive.”
Jury smiled, but shook his head. He was glad that the subject had been introduced by one of them. “It would be helpful if I could talk with you alone, Mr. Marr. As a matter of fact—”
This was interrupted by Marr’s saying, “You’ve already talked with me alone, Superintendent.”
“I was just saying, I’d really like to talk with each of you alone. If that wouldn’t be too inconvenient.”
He was a little surprised when Marion Winslow laughed. “Somehow I think we’ll find the time, Mr. Jury.” She rose from her chair and with Edward, left the room.
• • •
“This is getting to be the highlight of my day,” said David, splashing more whiskey into his glass, then holding up the decanter and looking at Jury.
Jury shook his head. “I’m glad we’re not boring you.”
“Not at all, not at all. How many ways are there to inquire into a telephone call. At least now, you can ask my sister in person.”
“I was wondering, Mr. Marr, if you’ve ever been in Exeter?”
David Marr looked up from his drink, surprised. “Well! Here’s a new approach.” He leaned his head against the back of the sofa. “Exeter, Exeter, Exeter. Yes, a long time ago. Took a turn round the cathedral. Then round the pubs.”
“How long a time ago?”
David shrugged. “Ten years, perhaps.” He looked at Jury. “I can see a whole new line of questioning’s opened up. What happened in Exeter?”
“Sheila Broome. You didn’t happen to know —?”
“Never heard of her.” His answer was quick, tangling with the end of Jury’s question. “And that ‘didn’t’ suggests something’s happened to her.” He turned his gaze ceilingward again. “Good God.” He sighed. “I do hope the next question isn’t going to be ‘Where were you on the night of —?’ ”
Jury smiled. “Twenty-nine February.”
Marr turned quickly to look at him. “That’s ten months ago, Superintendent.”
“I know.”
“Although the dates of my tumultuous affairs with young ladies are seared into my brain, I honestly cannot remember that particular one. Sheila, you say?”
“Broome. That’s too bad. When you’ve a bit of spare time, try.”
David groaned. “Are you going to tell me, Superintendent, that another woman has had her life snuffed out? Snuffed, you apparently think, by me?” He slipped farther down into the sofa and rolled the cool glass across his forehead.
“No, I wasn’t going to tell you that.” Jury sat forward. “David, for someone in your position, don’t you think you’re being a little glib?”
“Thank you. But my position happens to be that I hadn’t one damned thing to do with the death of Ivy. Or anyone else.” He drank off his whiskey and stared morosely at the fire.
“Okay. I’d like to talk with Edward.”
David turned, surprised. “You mean that’s all, Superintendent? I was certain you were going to grind me to powder. Well, I’d be gleeful about this, but it bodes ill: you haven’t even come up with something or someone more interesting than I. And I doubt I’m much fun anymore.”
“I’ll keep trying.”
• • •
No painting or photograph could really do Edward Winslow credit. The snapshot Jury had just returned to David Marr only hinted at his nephew’s good looks, probably because a camera couldn’t capture the grace with which he moved. Yet, Jury thought that the portraitist had taken the aristocratic bones and bearing too seriously, for though Edward was both handsome and elegant he was also offhand, as if his manner, unlike his clothes, had been pulled off the rack. A designer of men’s couture would love to see him in ascot or reefer; Edward himself preferred the wool sweater and collar open at the neck.
He walked into the room with a sort of shamble and an uncertain smile. Then he settled into the corner of the sofa that David had just vacated, and propped his head against his hand. “If you don’t mind my saying so, this is all rather strange — I mean, that Scotland Yard would come to Somers Abbas. Oh, sorry . . .” Edward colored a bit, as if thinking that inquiry into Scotland Yard’s own inquiry were poor form.
Did they all, thought Jury, think of it as a game? Cricket? “You divide your time between Somers Abbas and London, is that right?” asked Jury. When he nodded, Jury asked, “Any particular reason you live here rather than there?”
Edward laughed. “You sound like Mother. Mother says she doesn’t want me hanging about, propping her up.”
“Your mother doesn’t seem in much need of propping, Mr. Winslow.”
Edward got up, as David had done, and fixed himself a whiskey, but a very small one. “She does.” He drank it off, neat. “Though she hides it pretty well, she does. Since my sister died, mother’s been pretty — withdrawn. She — Phoebe — was hit by a car; she dashed right in front of the car; he didn’t see her until he was nearly on top of her. Or so he said. It wasn’t technically a hit-and-run, since the chap apparently stopped at a call box three blocks away and called police.” He looked sadly at Jury. “But I found Phoebe; Hugh was in the house.” He paused. “He ran out later.”
Jury nodded but said nothing, as he watched Ned Winslow walk about, stopping at the spruce to retrieve the spun-glass angel that winked in the light as he repositioned it on its top branch. Since Ned Winslow had been there — How did she look? What was she wearing? Did she speak at all?— he was perhaps doomed to carry the burden, like a tribal memory.
“I’m sorry,” said Jury. “Your uncle mentioned you were a poet, a published one, at that. You must be very good.”
He laughed. “Well, I suppose you’re right — I mean about publication being coincidental with one’s worth. And writing poetry certainly doesn’t seem like much to be doing, especially to someone on the dole.”
“I was wondering,” said Jury, “why you go to the expense of keeping a flat in Belgravia when you’ve the house in Knightsbridge.”
“That’s simple. My father lives there.” He looked at Jury. “I don’t get on with him.” Ned leaned forward to poke at the fire. A log split and crumbled and a saw-edge of bluish flame spurted up, casting a web of shadow across his face. The color of his eyes, when he looked over at Jury, shifted like cornelian from brown to gold.
“When your uncle called on Monday night, were you here?” Jury watched Ned Winslow, who did not answer immediately.
“No.”
“But your mother told you about the call.”
“Oh, certainly. After all, it’
s about the only thing keeping David out of the dock, isn’t it?”
• • •
Marion Winslow did not take her eyes from Jury as she went to the high-backed armchair.
Neither did Jury move; he kept to the chair beside the center table nearly ten feet away, across the expanse of Kirman carpet.
Her hands rested on the ends of the mahogany armrests; her legs were crossed, a wave of black velvet over the tips of her shoes. She wore no jewelry and little if any makeup. She did not seem to go in for ornaments.
“There’s really nothing I can add to what I’ve already told you, Superintendent. Though I certainly don’t mind telling you again.” She smiled coolly. “It’s the telephone call I imagine you’re most interested in?”
“One of the things, yes.”
“David rang up, I’d say, close to eleven on the Monday night.”
“And you can’t fix the time more precisely?”
“No. I’m sorry. Sometimes my husband’s answering machine picks up calls and it asks the time. If I’m out of earshot and the servants aren’t around, I set it. But that night, I was in the library, reading.” She thought for a moment. “I’d say between ten forty-five and eleven or a few minutes past.”
“A bit late to call.”
She laughed. “Not for David. Not here.”
“What did he expect of you?”
With a little smile, she said, “Money. And I suppose a shoulder to cry on. I told you: he’d just walked out on Ivy Childess; he got weary of her nagging about marrying.”
“Hadn’t he ever intended to marry her?”
“I doubt it very seriously.”
“Your brother just doesn’t fancy marriage in general?”
She shook her head. “No, in particular. Particularly, Ivy Childess.”
“You knew her?”
Her eyebrows arched in mild surprise. “No. I’d met her. There’s a difference. It was at our house in London. We had some friends round for drinks. My son and brother were there. And David brought Ivy.” She shrugged and added: “And Lucinda St. Clair, I remember.”
“St. Clair.”
“Yes. They live at the north edge of Somers Abbas. A rather rococo house which they’ve named ‘The Steeples.’ Lucinda is the older daughter, and we’ve known her for a long time.” Marion rested her head against the tall back of the chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Actually, I think you might want to talk with Lucinda; she’s extremely fond of David.” She reached out and plucked up a small notebook and gold pencil and wrote rapidly. “Understand, I’m not suggesting Lucinda will give you an unbiased account. Here’s the telephone number and address. Though anyone in the village can tell you where the St. Clairs live.” She tore out the page and placed it on the table. They were too far apart for reaching.
Marion Winslow was a purposeful woman, thought Jury. No words wasted, no movement embellished. She was, he thought, rather like a fisherman. Everything weighed and measured before thought became act. She gently pulled in the line, took up the slack. “By ‘extremely fond’ do you mean she’s in love with him?”
She nodded. “Yes, and it’s too bad. David doesn’t return the feeling.” Looking again at the fire-shadows on the ceiling, she added, but as if it were of no consequence, “I like Lucinda.”
“You’re pretty much your brother’s confidante, then?”
Again, she nodded. “That’s why I wasn’t at all surprised when he called late Monday.”
“You said you talked for about twenty minutes. Can you be more exact?”
“No. Twenty minutes to half an hour.”
That would put Marr in his apartment from approximately ten-fifty to eleven-ten or -twenty, if he left the pub just on quarter to eleven, and if it took him Wiggins’s estimate of ten minutes to walk to Shepherd Market. The better part of the time allowed for Ivy Childess’s murder. No airtight alibi, but better than nothing. He could certainly have walked back to the Running Footman, strangled her, and returned to Shepherd Market within the twenty minutes between the pub’s closing and the woman’s passing with her dog. Twenty minutes, difficult. Thirty, easy. That extra ten minutes could make all the difference. But there would, in that case, remain the problem of why Ivy would have hung about Hays Mews for twenty minutes.
“Your husband spends most of his time in London, does he?” asked Jury mildly.
Marion flinched. “Yes, he does.”
“But you yourself don’t go to London often?”
“No.”
“Mr. Winslow keeps a sort of office here, does he?”
“Yes. He’s a financial consultant; I imagine he needs to keep in touch.”
Jury thought that “imagine” defined the Winslows’ relationship. Marion and Hugh were certainly not one another’s confidant. But he asked, anyway, “And did your husband dislike Ivy Childess?”
“I don’t remember his ever saying anything about her. One way or another.” She shrugged.
“Your husband spends most of his time in London, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Though he comes here seldom, does he come — well, regularly?”
“No. Irregularly.”
“And you, do you stay at your house there?”
She seemed to be thinking. “Rarely. More often at Claridge’s. I wouldn’t go at all except to see Ned and David. I don’t want always to be dragging them down here.”
Jury smiled. “If ever two men didn’t look as if they’d been ‘dragged’ I’d say it was David and Ned.”
“Thank you. That sounded like a compliment.” She seemed to be studying her hands. “You see — and I’m sure you can understand — I dislike the house in Knightsbridge intensely.” She looked up. “Phoebe died there.” Her glance shifted from Jury to the table beside him holding the framed photographs.
“I can understand, yes.” His look followed her own, straying to the center table. There was a photo in an old-fashioned walnut frame of a small girl, smiling, strands of light hair blowing across her face. Jury studied it. “I noticed there’s a painting, a portrait on the landing upstairs. Is it of her?”
“Yes. Phoebe and Rose.” She looked away. “Rose was Edward’s wife. She left. I wish he’d marry again; perhaps he’d have better luck. How anyone could marry Ned for money is beyond me. But she did; she managed to clean out the account before she left without a word. Yet it’s David, not Ned, who hates that portrait. He keeps telling me to take it down. But it’s the only one we have of Phoebe, and one doesn’t go cutting people out of portraits, does one?”
But one does cut people out of wills, he thought. “You said your brother wanted money. A lot?”
She laughed. “He always does. David’s frightfully spendthrift. How he could go through the money he has in the last few years, I can’t imagine.”
“What about the family fortune? Who inherits what?”
“It’s divided evenly, among the three of us. It’s about, oh, five million, I expect.” She shrugged it off as if it were five pounds. “There is a codicil, though: David inherits when he marries. Our father thought he would run through his share in a year if he hadn’t a wife to talk some sense into him.” There was a glint of victory in her eyes. “So he’d have every reason to keep Ivy Childess alive, wouldn’t he?”
His eye was caught by another photo that looked like an enlargement of the same snapshot he had borrowed from Marr’s flat. David and Edward caught suddenly in a moment of laughter. They were wearing tennis sweaters, and Ned’s hand held tightly to the handle of a racquet that disappeared over his shoulder. From the position of both Jury guessed they must have had their arms about one another’s shoulders. One had won, one had lost, both were happy.
“Edward is very fond of David, isn’t he?”
“Extremely. And, believe it or not, so is David of Edward.”
Jury replaced the photo. “Why ‘believe it or not?”
“Only because David so loves to adopt that cynical air. Don’t you believe
it.”
“I don’t.”
“Because he’s got a passionate enough nature to do murder?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
Jury replaced the photograph; she picked up the bit of notebook paper; a silence fell. He felt somehow awkward, sitting here drinking the dregs of his whiskey — he felt a chump, actually, but didn’t know why. He looked from his glass to the silky surface of a Belgian tapestry that seemed to ripple in the light from the high windows like the crests of incoming waves. Through the twilit panes he saw the snow had stopped. The beeches stood in a dark column, but now they were ash-brown. Screened by snow they had looked black. The surface of things could be deceptive.
“Mr. Jury?”
Jury looked up. She had gone to the window to fasten the catch and pull the heavy curtains together, almost as if she hadn’t wanted him to see this metamorphosis at dusk. Her head was tilted slightly as if she were trying to see his eyes. “Sorry. I suppose I was woolgathering.”
She smiled. “Don’t apologize. I do it all the time.”
Her attempt to seem at ease was very studied, he thought.
“I’m not trying to get away from you. But I just thought perhaps you had no more questions.”
“You’re right, none.” Standing before the window, her hands lightly laced before her and with her very dark hair and pale complexion, Marion Winslow gave the impression of one whom great misfortune had made very quiet but very sure. Capable, perhaps, of nearly anything. Lying would come easily to her to protect someone, because the old rules no longer applied, the moral element had shifted like sand. He had risen too, of course, and said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Winslow. I would like to have a look round, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded. “I’ll send Ned along to show you whatever you want to see.”
He returned the nod. As she walked in those clothes of mourning, her back straight, across to the door, he thought that Marion Winslow was a woman upon whom society could no longer intrude. She had locked the windows, drawn the curtains, shut the door.
I Am the Only Running Footman Page 10
