Vertigo 42

by Martha Grimes

  “Devon police didn’t think the presence of some other unidentified person was possible?”

  “It seemed logistically impossible.”

  “Who was the other adult?”

  “Elaine Davies. Tess’s friend. She’s divorced and looking for number two.”

  “Tom Williamson?”

  “I’m sure of it. He isn’t interested. He isn’t interested in any woman but Tess. I doubt he ever will be.”

  Jack and Hammer

  Saturday, 11:30 A.M.

  26

  * * *

  Stanley was missing.

  Jury and Plant walked into the Jack and Hammer just before noon to find a woebegone Diane being uncomforted by a chipper Theo Wrenn Brown, who was spinning his theory of the double-recent visit of a stranger to the Blue Parrot. “Man walks into a pub. Then again. Calling attention to himself—”

  “Put a sock in it, Theo,” said Melrose. “What happened, Diane?”

  “I went to Sidbury early this morning to that new pet store that just opened along the main street. I wanted to pick up something for Stanley to wear when he gets cold at night. Of course, I took him with me. We were in the shop, looking at the sweaters, and Stanley was sitting right at my feet. All of a sudden, the shop assistant calls out, ‘Madam, your dog!’ I looked at her, then looked down, and saw Stanley was gone. Then she said, ‘He nipped right out onto the pavement.’ I ran out of the shop and looked in the direction she’d pointed and didn’t see a sign of him. I hurried along the street; there were a lot of people; it seemed everyone in Sidbury had decided to shop that day. When I got to the corner I looked and looked and still didn’t see him. So I ran back and got my car and drove up and down and around for half an hour. No sign of him.” Diane stopped as if she’d suddenly hit a wall.

  No one seemed to know what to say. A silence fell.

  Irritated that he’d been cut off simply to hear this story all over again, Theo picked up his theory-spinning where he’d left off. “As I was saying, this man walked into the pub, did it twice to call attention to himself in order to set up his alibi.”

  “Alibi for what?” asked Vivian, who was sensibly drinking coffee.

  “We don’t know yet, do we? That’s to come.”

  Vivian insisted, “It’s been four days. If anything were to come, it would be here by now.”

  Jury, who had sat down next to Vivian, said, “I’m really sorry, Diane. But why didn’t you call us so we could help you search?”

  “I did call Melrose. He wasn’t home, or at least Ruthven couldn’t find him. You were in Northampton. I got hold of Marshall, though, and the two of us drove over what seemed like half of Northamptonshire and saw nothing, no sign of Stanley at all.”

  Another sad silence ensued with another attempt by Theo to pick up the story of the stranger in the Blue Parrot.

  Jury cut him off this time. “Theo, the man must have anterograde amnesia.” He and Melrose had discussed this possibility.

  “What’s that?” asked Vivian.

  “An inability to make new memories.”

  How Melrose wished he had it when the door of the saloon bar suddenly opened to admit Agatha and Lambert Strether. Leaving Strether to fend as he might (which he did by sidling up to the bar), Agatha wedged her way onto the window seat by Jury. “Your deliberations won’t get very far, as you’re not aware of what’s happened.” She smirked and removed a strange beaded cap, which she placed on the table. Then she fluffed her hair, which was all a big dust ball anyway, and paused dramatically. “You know where those smart little shops have opened just outside of Sidbury?”

  Strether had shambled over to the table and placed a glass of sherry before Agatha. “Police all over, cars all anyhow. Quite a mess. Something’s afoot! Aha!” Strether stood and drank his beer.

  Jury waited. Nothing. “Exactly what’s ‘afoot’?”

  Agatha sipped and set down her sherry. “It looks quite serious, people spilling out of doorways, all along Reacher’s Road . . .”

  “Wretch’s Row!” Melrose sat up straight as a die, staring. “Who? Where?”

  “There’s been a shooting of some sort in the alley behind the shops, apparently. That antiques shop. Or, no, I think it might be that dusty little bookshop on the end.”

  Melrose and Trueblood exchanged a startled look. They said the name together: “Enderby?”

  “Where’s your car?” said Melrose to Trueblood as he scraped back his chair.

  “Same place as always,” said Trueblood, pushing out of his own chair. His antiques shop was right next to the pub.

  “You won’t see anything!” Agatha exclaimed, afraid they would where she hadn’t. “You won’t get past the police.”

  “He will.” Melrose jerked his head toward Jury.

  Jury was about to say something when his mobile started chirping. He rose and walked a few feet away from them. It was Wiggins.

  “John McAllister, guv. I’ve found him.”

  “Good, where?” Jury took a seat at the bar. Scroggs was drying glasses.

  “Lives in Hackney. He’s an M.D., as you already know. Also a post-doctoral in Natural Sciences. Both degrees from Cambridge.”

  “What in hell is a doctor with two Cambridge degrees doing in Hackney? The whole borough’s a veritable crime scene.”

  Wiggins chortled. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s just got a high population of immigrants, mostly Bangladeshi.”

  “It’s also got Newham as a neighbor. I’m not talking about immigrants. Newham’s and Hackney’s jobless rates are worse than Alabama’s.”

  “You mean the U.S.?”

  Jury assumed that was a rhetorical question and didn’t comment. He heard papers being shuffled against a background of traffic noise.

  “Sorry,” Wiggins said. “I’m in the street.”

  “Okay. See if Dr. McAllister’s available anytime today. I can leave here right now.”

  “Right.”

  Jury shut the mobile and went back to the table. Responding to Plant’s “He will,” he said, “Actually, he won’t. I’m going.” He pushed into his coat.

  Melrose and Trueblood were astonished. Melrose said, “It could be a murder, for God’s sake!”

  “But it’s not my murder.”

  “Then where are you going?”

  “London. Can you drop me at the end of your driveway on the way to your murder?”

  ____

  Half an hour later, Jury was in his car, heading for London on the Northampton Road when his mobile jittered again.

  It was Melrose Plant. “I wish you’d get over here, Richard.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “That chap’s been murdered.”

  “Who? You say it as if we know him.”

  “Well, we do, in a sense. I mean it’s Trevor Sly’s chap.”

  Jury put his foot on the brake. Fortunately, this particular stretch of road was not heavily traveled. No one was going either way. He pulled over to the edge; the engine idled. “Are you saying they’ve got Trevor over there I.D.ing the victim?”

  “No. It’s more like Stanley is.”

  Jury’s mind went blank, as if it had suddenly collided with anterograde amnesia. Stanley. “You mean the dog?”

  “Right. The dog. Diane’s in a swivet.”

  The engine still idled. So did Jury’s mind, for a moment. “What in bloody hell’s the dog doing there?”

  “He’s in the alley with the victim. We’re standing about here in a clump. We tried to talk to them—police, I mean—but can’t get them to listen. Look, stop asking questions and just get over here. Where are you now?”

  Jury told him.

  “Well, you’re only two miles away from the Old Post Road. Just drive on a bit, you’ll see the sign at the next crossroad. We’re in the
alley behind Reacher’s Road. It’s right off Old Post.”

  “Why isn’t Trevor Sly there, then? If you think it’s the same man, Trevor’s the one who saw him, not us.”

  “Trueblood and I tried to tell this inspector in charge but we can’t get anybody to listen. The only one who’s gotten up close is Stanley. Diane’s having a fit. They’ll listen to you.”

  “Why are you so sure—?”

  “We’re not sure, except it’s certainly possible. This victim more or less fits the description—but it’s mostly Stanley.”

  Jury said all right, snapped the mobile shut, threw it on the seat, and headed for the next intersection and the Old Post Road.

  Wretch’s Row

  Saturday, 1:00 P.M.

  27

  * * *

  The body lay in a narrow alley that ran behind the shops in Reacher’s Road. A tall brick wall ran along the other side of the alley, separating it from an old garage and a row of lock-ups. The body had not been removed by the time Jury arrived. The delay had been caused by the wait for the doctor, who had been out with the Fanshawe hunt, meeting at some swank estate a dozen miles from Sidbury.

  It was Detective Chief Inspector Brierly who had come again. He looked to Jury as if he’d aged between finding a woman gone off a tower and this body in an alley. He had deep dents between his brows, as if his worries had been multiplying for decades. He was accompanied by a sanguine and sandy-haired, gum-chewing detective sergeant named Crumley. Crumley did not look a bit worried, as if he always expected to find dead bodies in the alleyways of Northamptonshire villages.

  Jury had gotten through the police cordon at the end of the alley by explaining who he was and that he wanted a word with the CID man in charge.

  DCI Brierly was more than happy to listen to Jury, since he was getting little enlightenment from anyone else. Not a clue. “No ID,” said Brierly. “No wallet, no keys, no cards.” He looked down. “Just a dog.”

  It was Stanley. He lay as still as stone and looking ten times heavier, his head on the dead man’s arm. Stanley looked as if he had decided to lie down and die himself.

  Diane Demorney, at the end of the alley with Melrose and Trueblood and a clump of curious onlookers, looked as mournful as Stanley.

  The dead man, who lay half in the alley, half on the back doorstep of Mr. Enderby’s bookshop, looked poignantly young, thought Jury. He was dark and good-looking, or had been before life had drained from his face.

  Although the doctor, whose name was Keener, had lately been with the Fanshawe hunt, he did not seem to Jury to belong to that particular social class. Dr. Keener seemed quite small-townish, careful, and smart. He chewed on the corner of his mouth, thoughtfully, as he hunkered down beside the body. He was wearing a suit and tie and a fedora. Jury found that almost quaint. Dr. Keener pushed the hat back and said to DCI Brierly, “I’d say he’s been dead anywhere from three to six hours. Rigor is firmly established, but that only helps to a certain extent. Say fairly early this morning.” The doctor looked at the back of the shops. “Since these shops don’t open until noon on Saturday, no one saw him until shortly after. So that doesn’t help much, either. You found bullet casings, you said.”

  Crumley nodded. “Three of them. A .38, looks like. Revolver. One bullet went into his back. Two others hit the road. Lousy shooter.”

  “Strange,” said Dr. Keener, thoughtfully. Then he rose, giving Stanley a pat on his way up. “What about the dog?”

  Crumley stopped chewing his gum. “Could be anybody’s.”

  Dr. Keener chewed his lip and gave Crumley a chilly look. “Do you really think so, Detective?”

  ____

  Trevor Sly was stepping out of a police car as Dr. Keener was stepping into his old Morris Minor. Trevor, the center of attention for once, and not wanting to be (for once), was brought up the alley, his head down, as if the shooter might still be around and waiting.

  Chief Inspector Brierly spoke to him, and Trevor nodded and looked down at the dead man. He shuffled his feet and mumbled something that sounded to Jury like “that’s ’im.” So Trevor Sly was the only person DCI Brierly knew of at the moment who had the slightest knowledge of the dead man before he appeared in this alley facedown.

  Poor Trevor, thought Jury. They would have him going over every detail of the victim’s appearance in the Blue Parrot; police would have Trevor at the station all the rest of the day trying to sort it.

  That left Stanley. Jury gazed down sadly at the dog, whose eyes were following every movement of the crime scene officers. The whimpering sound he made lasted as long as had the zipping of the zipper that closed the victim in its dark blue body bag.

  One of the men had tried to move Stanley out.

  “Let him be,” DCI Brierly had said.

  “He’s a dog, guv; he doesn’t care this is a bloody crime scene. He’ll muck it up.”

  Brierly said it again: “Let him be.”

  And they had.

  Stanley sat, raising one paw, then the other, again and again, helpless to keep the body from being stowed in the mortuary van, and the van from driving off. He sat and watched it until the red blink of its turning signal disappeared into the Old Post Road.

  Then Jury picked up the leash, gave Stanley’s back a good rub, and said, “Come on.” Stanley followed him obediently.

  The huddled onlookers at the end of the alley were still held at bay by a police constable.

  Diane Demorney’s eyes were ordinarily as smooth and black as onyx. Now they were clouded. She had set down the bowl she carried around and was pouring water into it from her thermos.

  Questions were coming at Jury from all directions: “Who—?” “What—?” “Who was he?”

  Jury said nothing, and nor did Melrose or Trueblood. They stood watching Stanley lap up water.

  “I’m sorry, Stanley,” said Diane, giving his head a rub.

  Jury thought that for all of Stanley’s misfortunes, it had at least got them to call Stanley, Stanley.

  ____

  A few months before, Trueblood had dragged Melrose to (as they called it) Wretch’s Row because he’d heard one of the shops, St. Germaine, carried some fabulous French Empire antiques. This had turned out to be an inexact description, as the place was crammed with cheap reproductions. The tall, spindly armed proprietor, a Cuthbert Egg, could have been Trevor Sly’s brother, with his long-faced, cunning look. He’d only to say “Ah, gentlemen, pleased, so pleased . . .” The slight lisp, the hands sanding each other, the trace of a limp, and the thin smile, made Melrose think he was back in the Blue Parrot.

  There was a Mrs. Gooding, a grandmotherly type who dealt in antique quilts of satiny, velvety little squares and diamond shapes that hung all over her walls. The quilts had become quite fashionable in Sidbury, where they hung on any number of residents’ walls, sweating out stuffing, unsuitable for anything but wall hangings.

  There were the Feasters, husband and wife who both wore large dark glasses for some reason, hers outlined in bits of shimmer that could have been either marcasite or shreds of foil. They called their shop All Requests Considered and sold “luxury,” in the form of their services as event planners—births, weddings, funerals, and holidays. Melrose especially liked the funeral-consultancy.

  Then there was a little cookery shop that sold overpriced tableware, pots and pans, table linens, and every sort of kitchen gadget. Did people really need battery-operated cheese graters?

  The only shop they both liked was at the end of the row, a tiny bookstore called BookEnds, owned by Mr. Enderby, a mouse of a man who could have sat comfortably on a thimble, but who was usually sitting on a ladder-back chair behind his counter doing his “accounts.” He wore round frameless glasses and a green eyeshade, although the shop was full of shadows and lit only by a few metal-shrouded incandescent bulbs. Mr. Enderby was unfailingly polite and
soft-spoken and very honest in his pricing.

  “Much too modest,” Trueblood would say as he plunked down one thing after another from the floor above, where Mr. Enderby displayed a wonderful collection of Minton blue china, Wedgewood, and pressed glass; and unusual objects such as a marble egg with a strange, suffused inner glow for which Trueblood had offered a hundred pounds. Mr. Enderby objected. “Oh, my, no, that’s much too much.”

  “Mr. Enderby, I deal in antiques. I know what things are worth.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t want to cheat my customers.”

  A laugh from Trueblood. “Then you’re running with the wrong crowd, Enderby.” Here a nod toward the shops up the street.

  As Trueblood loved the first floor, Melrose loved the downstairs, where he would sit on a stool and leaf through featherweight pages of an old Robert Louis Stevenson volume, or a fifty-pence paperback of Raymond Chandler. But he especially liked the long table back by leaded glass windows on which sat boxes of photographs and a stereopticon.

  While Melrose slid brown and cream photos into this museum piece (wondering whose little dog this was and by what sea these arm-linked young women stood in bathing costumes), Trueblood floated about upstairs like a bat looking for God knew what but always finding something rather remarkable which he would bring down and argue up the price. A miniature dollhouse (if dollhouses could be said to be miniaturized) complete with tiny bits of furniture and family, including a black dog not much bigger than a cinder; or a child’s delicate tea service of very thin china that Trueblood thought was Belleek, ancient. When he paid 500 for the dollhouse and 150 for the tea set, Mr. Enderby pointed out once again that the provenance was uncertain. The china was unstamped and undated.

  “You put too low a price on things, Enderby,” argued Trueblood, who would never agree that he was overpaying, not even to Melrose.