Vertigo 42

by Martha Grimes

  “His name’s Stanley.”

  “—while making our way to here.” Diane pointed down at the floor of the Jack and Hammer.

  Mrs. Withersby, the pub’s char, had come slapping up in her carpet slippers with her mop to stand and listen. She had a cigarette she’d bummed off Marshall Trueblood behind her ear.

  “Tony,” said Trueblood. “You know that’s not bad. Yes, I’d say that rather fits him, but if we’re to have carte blanche with names, then, my God, it’ll take forever. If there are no limits. No, I think we should stick with the rules. It should begin with Ag.

  Said Mrs. Withersby, “Agony. How ’bout Agony. It’s what I feel whenever I run into you lot.”

  Jury laughed and called into the public bar to Dick Scroggs: “Dick, set Mrs. Withersby up with whatever she wants.”

  “Withers, you can spell!” said Trueblood.

  Dick called back she was “on duty,” to which no one paid any attention, mostly Mrs. Withersby herself. Dragging mop and pail behind her, she said “Ta” to Jury and set off for the public bar, the one on the other side of the arched doorway.

  Melrose recited:

  “ ‘The witch that came (the withered hag)

  To wash the steps with pail and rag

  Was once the beauty, Abishag.’ ”

  Diane looked at him admiringly. “That’s quite good, Melrose. You made that up just sitting here?”

  “No, Robert Frost made it up just sitting in New Hampshire.” He said to Jury, who was rising from his chair, “You’re not leaving, for God’s sake?”

  “To see if I can round up some information.”

  “Information? About what?”

  “Stanley, of course.” He looked down at the dog. It looked back at him with a Who are these people? expression, followed by And why are you not getting me out of this? Which begot not a change in expression but an intensifying of it.

  “Where are your animal control people?” asked Jury.

  “Not here,” said Joanna. “I expect there’s something in Northampton. A pound. Or a shelter.”

  None of which they’d put themselves to the trouble of contacting. Jury walked through the doorway to the public bar, where Mrs. Withersby raised her double whiskey, her expression (like the dog’s) difficult to interpret: Was she thanking him for the drink or asking for a refill?

  He held up his mobile, saw it was spent. “Battery down, Dick, may I use yours?”

  Dick Scroggs shoved the house phone toward him. “I hate them mobiles. Always got a glitch in it, mine does.”

  Jury pointed toward the directory by the row of bottles and Dick handed him that. Then Jury nodded toward Mrs. Withersby’s glass. “Another, Dick.”

  Dick went down the bar and collected her glass. Jury thought it great that he could treat his char as one of the customers.

  He had dialed and got the Crawley Animal Refuge somewhere in Northampton. He gave the woman who answered the information about the Staffordshire, where it had turned up, the name on the collar, the approximate time his friend had found the dog.

  “Does the dog have a chip?”

  What an idiotic question. If the dog had an ID, would he be asking about it? They weren’t the owners, for God’s sakes. “You mean something implanted under its skin for ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know, do I? I haven’t had the time to perform minor surgery to tell if he does or doesn’t.”

  Dick Scroggs snickered and proceeded to wipe glasses.

  “You needn’t take that tone.”

  “Apparently, I do, madam. Your first act was not to go and check on recent calls about a missing Staffordshire terrier, not to refer a question to your computer or somebody else, but instead to ask me for information I couldn’t possibly have, not being the dog’s owner. The dog has strayed into our presence. I’ve clearly given you all of the information I have: the dog’s apparent breed, its color and size, a description of the collar and the name on it. I’m a Scotland Yard detective superintendent. I don’t ordinarily have time magically up my sleeve, and what little time I do have, you’re wasting. Now, if you’re unable to give me an answer, one that strikes me as spectacularly simple, then I’ll come to the facility with my warrant card and two detectives and see how things are run there.”

  Not enough attention has been paid to the silence we call “dead.” A black hole opened down the line and apparently sucked her in.

  Mrs. Withersby cackled and slapped the bar.

  In a little while, a new voice came on. “Superintendent. I’m Bill Nevis. I’m the director here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Nevis.”

  “No one has reported a dog of that description missing. There are no rabies tags I take it.”

  “None. Only the name on the collar. It’s one of those little metal plates that’s screwed into the collar.”

  “Right. Here’s the thing. There’s a shelter in Sidbury that might have a scanner—just a minute—” He gave Jury the number. “Or if someone has the time to bring the dog here, we could scan for the chip. We’re actually on the outskirts of Northampton, toward Sidbury, so you wouldn’t have to fight traffic and could avoid the carriageway.” He gave Jury the directions. “In case you decide to come.”

  It made Jury smile. He pictured Bill Nevis as rather eager to take on the project of Stanley.

  Bill Nevis went on: “There are a number of other things that provide clues as to ownership—that is, that can narrow it down. I once found the owner of a superior-looking hound by canvassing the various hunts within a several-mile radius. Turned out to be much the easiest thing to do. Once I tracked a terrier by means of a collar that was made only by a small leather goods shop in Jermyn Street. Oh, yes, pets can be snobs too . . .”

  Jury laughed. “That’s ingenious.”

  “Always check the collar for clues. And if there’s a lead attached to the collar, that too . . . well, pardon me for giving you instruction; you’re with Scotland Yard, after all. But, see, I’ve started a database. By now it’s quite extensive and shows some surprising results. Do you know that I can tell what area of the country will produce the highest rate of lost animals, dogs and cats? Not Greater London, which I’d have guessed. No, it’s Slough.”

  “Slough? Good God. Slough’s always getting bad press, isn’t it?”

  Bill laughed. “I can’t say, at the moment, exactly why this is. Industrial parks? A lot of transients?”

  “Mr. Nevis, this is the most heartening conversation I’ve had with anyone all year. Do you realize you could revolutionize the entire pet-finding operation in this country?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know about that, but I’m certainly going to give it a go. I’m wondering, for instance, if identification could be helped by taking paw prints. Obviously, not conclusive, like fingerprints. But could it narrow things down a bit?”

  “Ever think of working for the police? Or with the police?”

  “With the police? I like that idea.”

  “We’ll be in touch. Thanks for your help. Stanley thanks you too.”

  Jury hung up and then rang the number Nevis had given him for the Sidbury place. He asked the woman who answered the phone if their office had a scanner that could read an implanted chip.

  “Has the dog got a chip, then?” she asked.

  Jury bit his tongue. Had all places given the job of telephone reception to those who could ask the stupidest questions? “That’s the point. I don’t know, do I, unless a scanner shows one.”

  “Oh. Just a tic.”

  Jury waited while the tic went into overdrive. Finally, she was back.

  “No, we don’t have one.”

  Silently Jury cursed and hung up. He started ordering a round of drinks for his table when he saw Theo Wrenn Brown crossing the road from his bookshop. “Sweeping” across would not b
e an exaggeration, his coat flapping back from his black sweater. It was another instance of Theo reinventing himself, as the last one didn’t smoke cigars or wear black turtlenecks.

  The outside doors of saloon and public bars faced each other across a small entryway. Jury walked through the inside connecting door of the two bars as Theo kicked a chair up to the round table in the window. He must have gotten word of the universe shutting down, so confident did he appear of his reception. Nothing short of that would get their attention, as none of them liked Theo.

  He had chucked his cigar in favor of a cigarette, which he lit with a match cupped between his hands for the sake of the shadow he thought it would cast across his face.

  Jury set down the three drinks he was carrying, Dick Scroggs to come with the rest. “Dick, a drink for Theo too.” Jury’s irritation at telephone answerers dissipated when he thought of his conversation with Bill Nevis. He flattened out the bit of paper on which he’d written the sparse directions, then put it in his pocket. He unwound the lead wrapped round the table leg and said, “Come along, Stanley.”

  Stanley seemed to like the idea. Got him out from under the feet of this lot, at least.

  Surprised, Diane gave Jury a hard look. “Where’re you going with him?”

  “To a shelter that can scan for a chip. See if there’s any ID.” Jury returned Diane’s flinty look with one of his own. “So while we’re away, you can carry on with your name competition.”

  Diane was about to protest.

  “Save it, Diane. Dick,” Jury called into the public bar. “Can I borrow your car?”

  “You could have mine,” said Theo, “only I’ve business in Sidbury.” He checked his watch. “Got to go. Cheers.” He polished off his drink and departed.

  Dick Scroggs came round from the bar into the saloon bar, fiddling some keys off a giant ring. “It’s not much more’n a heap of rusty parts, but you’re welcome to it.”

  “Thanks, Dick.” Jury picked up the keys and left.

  ____

  The Crawley Animal Refuge was just off the Northampton Road a mile or so south of the market town of Northampton. It was a long, low cinder block building, whitewashed. Its institutional look was softened by the clipped grass and hedgerow and nearby woods.

  Bill Nevis was waiting for him or, rather, waiting for Stanley. Upon seeing Bill, the dog woke up and looked expectant.

  They were in Bill’s small office furnished with a plain wood desk and chairs and three computers. “Let’s have a look first for a chip.” He picked up a small object about the size of a remote control and ran it over Stanley’s body. “Nope. Nothing here, unfortunately. Strange for a dog that seems to have had such good care.” He sighed, as if at the strange behavior of dog owners. “I want to find out what kind of training he’s had.” He turned to the dog, said, “Stanley, sit.”

  Stanley sat, so suddenly he might have been waiting half his life for this command.

  That was the only voice command. From then on, it was hand movements, some so slight and nuanced that Jury barely detected them. Movements or perhaps mind reading. The dog looked entranced.

  That stopped and Bill had Stanley lie down. “This dog is extremely well trained. Far beyond the average. It’s not something you pick up at Bark-Along.” He smiled at Jury. “That’s a pet shop that holds obedience classes. Look, I’ll do a bit of searching around. If I come up with any ideas, I’ll ring you, okay?”

  “It’s not necessary to leave Stanley here, is it?”

  Bill Nevis shook his head. “Well, you can do, if you want—”

  Stanley looked as if he’d much prefer to be left.

  ____

  As Jury was driving the Northampton Road, he was overtaken by a mob of Northampton police cars, headed in the direction of Sidbury, the larger town a few miles southwest of Long Piddleton.

  Back at the Jack and Hammer with Stanley in tow, Jury saw that the window table was still occupied, and he wondered if they ever left. Or did they leave and then leave cardboard cutouts of themselves in the window?

  “What was that all about?” he said, dropping into a chair.

  Stanley went under the table and sulked.

  “What was what?” asked Trueblood, lighting up one of his colorful Sobranie cigarettes.

  “Police. Half a dozen cars. Northants police nearly drove me off the road. You didn’t see them?”

  “Well, they didn’t drive through here, old bean.”

  Then Theo Wrenn Brown was back, bursting through the door of the saloon bar like a stripper coming out of a cake, thinking himself the surprise of the day.

  “What’s up, Theo?” said Jury.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Police are all over the Old Post Road. You know, just outside Sidbury. A body. They’ve found a body.”

  Theo had never looked happier.

  Old Post Road

  Tuesday, 4:00 P.M.

  5

  * * *

  The Old Post Road lay between the market town of Sidbury and Long Piddleton and fed into the Northampton Road. It was now little used. Jury pulled up across the road from the scene squared off now by yellow crime scene tape. There were several police cars, all Northamptonshire police. The cars were pulled up in front of Tower Cottage, or parked on what must have been an old dirt road that ran by the tower that sat some distance from the cottage. The road might have run into the Northampton Road, but more likely, dead-ended in the field. There was no ambulance as yet.

  As he got out of the car, he looked up at the tower, probably about fifty or sixty feet high. It looked to be structurally sound from this distance. He asked a constable to point out the person in charge and was directed to a tall, thin man who could have been forty or fifty.

  “Her license says she’s Belle Syms, lives—lived—in Clerkenwell.” Chief Inspector Ian Brierly was holding a small bag of the sort women referred to as a “clutch.” This one looked very expensive—gold, silver, and ebony. Its clasp was topped by a tiny gold skull. It was this bag he’d taken the license from. Brierly was a chief inspector with the Northamptonshire police; that Jury was part of the Metropolitan Police did not seem to dismay Brierly at all.

  The body of the young woman lay on a black body bag that had not yet been closed. The scene-of-crime officers were scattered about between body and tower doing their work. The victim was wearing a red silk dress, the entire top covered with red sequins and bits of marquisette outlining a deep-V of a neckline. Jury thought it was a stunning dress. He asked Brierly if he could check the label.

  “Sure. It’s Givenchy. Pretty haute couture for a shopgirl, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Why a shopgirl?”

  Brierly shrugged. “The nail artwork. Phony fingernails over the real, bitten ones.” Brierly kneeled and raised her hand. The hot-pink polished nails were dotted with crystals; one nail on each hand was covered with a metallic-looking silver. It was elaborate and quite beautiful. One of these enhanced nails had come off to show a down-to-the-quick nail. “Just doesn’t strike me as a Hooray Henrietta type.”

  Jury smiled. He’d always liked that “Hooray Henry” designation for the young upper class.

  Her shoes were strappy sandals in red patent leather with the designer’s name on the insole. One shoe was half off one foot and the other a short distance from the foot. Jimmy Choo. Jury was feeling almost at home, back in the world of Upper Sloane Street fashion. Givenchy and Jimmy Choo.

  The tower sat in the middle of a couple of acres, the old thatched cottage some hundred feet or so off to one side. There were no battlements, and as the door was set level with the ground, rather than high enough to need a ladder, Jury assumed it was never meant for defense. A bell tower, perhaps. There were actual windows, rather than mere slits for openings. The property was listed with an agent in Sidbury. Jury
wondered what price it would bring.

  “What was this built for?” asked Jury.

  “No idea. It seems to be a folly. Possibly someone thought they’d live in it; there are several floors. Question is, of course, why would this Syms woman visit it? It’s never been considered of much tourist interest, and the road’s hardly used.” They were walking closer to the tower as they talked, and now DCI Brierly pointed upward. “Fell right from the top, or rather, the level right under the top. Bell tower, I suppose. That was some dreadful fall.”

  “Yes. How can you be sure it wasn’t from farther down?”

  “Windows, for one thing. None of them open, except at the top. They’re not barred, but they’re shuttered, as you can see.”

  “So are you thinking accident? Suicide?”

  DCI Brierly shook his head. “Hard to say. She paid a visit to her aunt, Blanche Vesta, but was staying somewhere else. We haven’t got where yet. Right now the aunt’s with a WPC over there in the cottage and she’s pretty upset.” Brierly paused to look over at the body on the ground. “With what we know at this point, I find it hard to think ‘accident’ because why would she be up there in the first place? For the view? The way she was dressed? Not kitted out for a climb, that’s for sure. Red silk and designer shoes with four-inch heels.”

  “Wouldn’t she have taken them off if she’d jumped? They’d make the jump that much more difficult. And there was no sign of anyone else?”

  “We’re waiting to talk to the owner, who might be able to tell us if anything was disturbed. He’s an American antiques dealer. There’re antiques on several levels, old rugs, stuff. He’s in London, according to the estate agent.”

  “Antiques dealer in the U.S. Could be a friend of the dead woman, maybe? Maybe she stopped by—” He ran a thumb across his forehead, perplexed. “But that doesn’t explain going up there . . .” said Jury. “Have you got the time of death?”