He rose, brushed the dead leaves from his coat, turned and stirred the detritus of leaves and twigs up in the urn. “Stand on the highest pavement of the stair / Lean on a garden urn . . .” As if. The forensic net would certainly have swept up small journals buried in garden urns.
Where would Tom be likely to find a note, but not someone else?
Suddenly he remembered the ships-in-bottles. Jury left the patio, took the stairs two at a time, and got to the door of the study, which he opened with the second key the housekeeper had left. Inside, he looked at each of the bottles. The tightly rolled pieces of paper were contained in five of them. He took down the schooner from a top shelf, but couldn’t get at the paper with his finger. On Tom’s desk he found a letter opener that he was able to shove into the neck of the bottle, pin down the paper, and coax it through the neck until he could just wedge his little finger in and pull out the paper, which he unrolled. It contained nothing but the short history of the boat. He rerolled it tightly and reinserted it. He performed this on two others, but could not catch onto the paper in the last two and gave up. No note from Tess.
And then he realized that Tom would have found it long ago, perhaps straightaway, since Tom wouldn’t have put it in the bottle himself.
Jury left the study and went back down the stairs to the library, where he sat down for five minutes, feeling deflated. He got up and went to the bookshelves, looking for Thomas Hardy. Tess of the D’Urbervilles, her favorite. Jury pulled it out, quickly riffled the pages, shook it. Nothing fell out. Stupid idea, anyway. He shoved the book back in line. Poor fictional Tess, doomed and damned and all because the confession she had written out to Angel Clare had gone under—
Jury took the stairs again.
The floor in Tom’s study was covered not with carpet but with a big rug, consequently, it was not tacked down. He ran his fingers carefully beneath that section of the rug that met the sill of the door. He found nothing. He went into the room. He was able to roll that part nearest the door back a couple of feet. He found it: an envelope addressed TOM. It wasn’t sealed. He opened it to find three pages of ordinary white stationery covered with a neat handwriting with a fountain pen.
My dear Tom,
You’ll wonder why after five years I’ve decided to tell you what happened that awful day Hilda Palmer died. I was in the kitchen by the window when I saw Hilda standing by the edge of the pool. I assumed she’d come round from the front. Then Mackey came running around and saw her and stopped. They were talking, or, rather, Hilda was talking, no doubt heaping abuse on him the way she liked to do. Mackey looked as if he were trapped between rage and tears. I went outside and was starting down the steps when I saw him pick up a rake Sturgis had left behind and swing it at Hilda with all of his very small might. He knocked her over and she fell into the empty pool. I ran down to where he stood, staring at her body and I thought she was dead. Straightaway I grabbed Mackey and told him to run into the grove and climb a tree. “This didn’t happen. You had nothing to do with it, Mackey. You weren’t here. Now, run.” He ran.
Mackey, the love of my life, with that patched-up backpack, those inappropriate black-framed glasses, the light in his hair—
The dash ended it. That was the last sheet and nothing was written on the back of the page.
Jury got up and pulled the rug farther back, moving from one side of the room to the other. He yanked it back as far as he could before it was trapped by Tom’s desk and the heavy cabinet that held the boats in bottles. There was nothing else underneath. He knew it was unlikely there would be another page, since the pages he’d just read had been folded into an envelope.
And yet there had to be, he thought. How could she have just left it there?
He put the letter in an inside pocket, pulled the rug to its original position, locked the door, and went downstairs.
M5 and Northampton
Monday, 3:00 P.M.
40
* * *
I’ll be bloody damned,” said Brian Macalvie.
Jury had called Macalvie on his mobile to let him know he’d left the keys in the planter where he’d found them. He told him about the fictional Tess and the letter to Angel Clare. “I think Tess Williamson was ambivalent about telling her husband the real story. And the letter-under-the-door was a mark of that ambivalence. It wasn’t deliberately shoved under the rug, but she might have hoped he’d never find it.”
“You’re thinking it’s a suicide note?”
“No, I’m not thinking that. It doesn’t read that way; she certainly thinks she’ll see him again.”
“Yeah, well, I think that’s a kind of overinvolved explanation.” Macalvie was silent for a moment, then said, “And now you’ve got this bizarre murder of Arabella Hastings, who was at Laburnum when the girl Hilda was killed. Connection? Someone who knew something? But what?”
“Enough to get her killed.”
____
From Exeter, Jury was on the M5 to London when he decided to get off and take the A417 to Northampton. It would take him three hours, but he was betting DCI Brierly would still be in his office.
He was considering stopping for a coffee at the next Little Chef when his mobile bleated. It was Wiggins.
“I took the photo to four different places, the Givenchy salon on Sloane Street, Harvey Nicks, Selfridge’s, and Harrods. None of them carried that particular dress. I can’t find any other shop that sells Givenchy.”
“Fortnum’s? Liberty’s?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m going to try to see Brierly. I’ll ask him if he had any luck.”
____
Three hours later he was sitting in the Northampton station.
“No joy, there,” said Brierly when Jury asked him about the red dress.
“My sergeant has tried all of the usual department stores and the Givenchy place.”
“I’ll just keep looking.”
When Jury told him about his talk with Dr. Keener, Brierly said,“The dog? You’re kidding.”
“No. Dr. Keener made a good point. How could the shooter have missed the target twice, if the target was Randall himself. Why were the shots aimed so low to the ground? You’ve got a forensic report. It tells you the trajectory of the bullets.”
Brierly nodded. “It does, of course. We were puzzled by that. Nobody thought of the dog. After all . . .” His voice trailed off and then returned with “Why?”
“I don’t know. This PetLoco outfit. That’s an online pet clearing house, you could say. It’s a site that should be shut down. I expect the owner is into dogfighting.”
“And it’s your opinion the shooter was afraid Stanley would be traced back to this PetLoco outfit?”
“I don’t think it was that. No, there’d be other ways of finding out the dog’s history.” Jury paused. “How about Randall, the victim? Any more on him?”
“Only what I told you. I still don’t understand, if the shooter was trying to kill the dog, what in hell was his motive?”
Jury shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Then this poor guy Randall was just collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Wrong dog,” said Jury.
Islington, London
Monday, 10:00 P.M.
41
* * *
If it had to do with clothes psychology, Jury knew where to look. And he was looking at her right now in his flat in Islington.
“Only a man would make that mistake,” said Carole-anne Palutski, sitting on Jury’s old and rather tattered sofa purchased some years before at Heal’s. Carole-anne was applying a nail varnish called Hotsie-Totsie, a shade in the deep pink family of colors.
Jury had been on his way to the kitchen for more tea when she said that, and it stopped him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that color red with that skin
—it just runs riot. That red completely blots the poor girl out.” Carole-anne had been looking over a photo spread supplied partly by the Sunday Telegraph; partly by the sexiest of the tabloids; and partly Jury himself: the picture taken by Blanche Vesta when her niece had visited her.
Jury returned to the sofa, tea-less, and said, “I didn’t think the red swamped her own coloring.”
“Of course not, you being a man.” She ran a tiny trail of Hotsie-Totsie over her little finger.
“Well, if it’s so wrong, the color, I mean, then why is she wearing it? Why did she buy it?”
Carole-anne gave him a long, pitying look. The look you’d give a simpleton. “Don’t be daft. She didn’t buy it. Some gentleman-friend probably bought it. And that’s why she’s wearing it. And with those shoes.” She blew on her nails.
“What’s wrong with the shoes? I think they’re quite smart.”
“You being a man.” She had her head bent over her nails, applying another little smear of polish.
“Me being a man, I ask you: What’s wrong with them? They’re Jimmy Choo.” Jury was quite proud of his shoe knowledge. He’d gotten the name of the designer from the insole, of course; still, he enjoyed tossing the names about.
“Yeah, and I can tell you this: Jimmy didn’t design that shoe to go with that dress. They’re beautiful shoes, red patent leather and what—four-inch heels?—but not with that dress.”
“Why not? They match.”
“ ‘Match’?” She clapped her hand to her forehead in utter disbelief. “That’s the point! They shouldn’t match. One or the other, one at a time, but not both. The shoes, the dress, are each one screaming for attention. Then add that little gold bag with the skull clasp? That’s Alexander McQueen. Somebody paid a fistful for that getup, but it wasn’t her.”
Jury thought this generalization about men’s lack of taste very annoying. He said, “You think I’d be incapable of walking into Harrods and walking out with a dress and shoes and bag for you that you wouldn’t wear?”
“I’d wear them all right, but that’s because you went to the trouble and expense—notice I’m not holding my breath—of getting them for me. Which is what she did.” Carole-anne pointed a hot-pink nail at the array of pictures, then held out her hands, fingers spread to look at the total Hotsie-Totsie effect. “And nor would she be wearing that pink nail polish either.”
“Don’t tell me he bought the nail polish too? That’s a bit much!”
“No. She had her nails done before she knew what dress she’d be wearing. There was probably another dress. That artwork on the nails is something. But the color’s more like this.” She held up her fingers so he could have a good look. “Hotsie-Totsie.”
“Should be red, you mean.”
“Of course.”
Jury thought about this. He got up, went to the phone, and called Wiggins.
“What’s up?” Wiggins’s voice sounded drowsy.
“Were you asleep? It’s only ten. You’re going to see Kenneth Strachey tomorrow, right? Ask him more questions about Arabella Hastings. We’re going to want a warrant.”
Harley Street and Clerkenwell
Tuesday, 9:00 A.M.
42
* * *
Dr. Robert Smiley, OB-GYN specialist was still practicing from his office in Harley Street.
When Jury walked into the ground floor of the building in which his surgery was located, the receptionist pointed out that he didn’t have an appointment and that the doctor was booked straight through until four, when the office closed.
Jury produced his ID. “I have a few questions, that’s all. It won’t take more than ten minutes.”
“Oh, my. Police. If you would just care to have a seat in the waiting room. That’s on the first floor.” She pointed to the staircase on her right leading upward. “I’ll see what I can do.”
This minor commitment was weighted with importance. Jury took the stairs.
There was no one in the waiting room, which rather undermined evidence of the doctor’s fully booked day. In about five minutes, a nurse appeared at the door to the office and ushered out a patient, an unhappy-looking middle-aged woman. The nurse beckoned to Jury; he rose and followed her into the office, almost as well appointed as a library in a stately home.
Dr. Smiley entered through another door, one that connected this consulting room to the surgery. “Superintendent Jury, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about a former patient.”
Dr. Smiley sat down behind his desk, signing for Jury to sit in the chair opposite. “As long as it doesn’t breech confidentiality—”
“I’m sure it does, but I don’t think the answers will compromise you. The patient is a Tess Williamson, and she died seventeen years ago—”
“Ah, yes! That was tragic. I don’t remember her medical history—Had she some sort of condition?”
“Vertigo. But I don’t think that accounted for the fall. Her death isn’t what I wanted to see you about, though. You ran some tests on her and her husband, Tom Williamson, trying to work out why they’d been unsuccessful in having a child. I’m interested in the test results.”
Dr. Smiley raised his eyebrows, saying, “This is where you get into the confidentiality problem, Superintendent. I can’t answer that question.”
“Even though she’s been dead for seventeen years?”
“Yes, but there’s still her husband.”
Jury had forgotten that part of the “confidentiality” issue. “True, sorry. The thing is, I’m investigating three suspicious deaths, and this information would help.” Jury sat back, then forward again. “May I make a guess?”
Dr. Smiley said nothing.
Jury said, “Tess Williamson wanted to save her husband’s feelings, so she asked you to tell him that the trouble was hers, not his.”
Dr. Smiley still said nothing.
The two men just looked at one another for moments, then Dr. Smiley broke the silence and said, “She was an exceptional woman. I got the impression she always put her husband first. Her death must have been devastating for him.” The doctor looked away.
“It was, Dr. Smiley. Thank you for your time.” Jury rose, and so did the doctor. They shook hands, as if sealing a pact.
____
In the cab taking him to Clerkenwell, Jury thought he could answer the question now as to why Tess had told the gossipy Elaine Davies of this visit to Dr. Smiley. She wanted someone else to know, because that would reinforce her story that the problem lay with her, not with her husband.
The taxi stopped along the Clerkenwell Road and Jury got out and paid the driver, who sped off.
Clerkenwell was another London borough that had fast become a hot spot for young professionals and artistic types. It was going the way of many London neighborhoods. The old places like Docklands that had been spiffed up enough that the owners of these rentable properties could ask for high rents and higher sales figures. Converted warehouses were prominent in these overhauls. What once had been big drawbacks, like exposed pipes, were being turned into assets. Painted in hot colors, the pipes were now part of the warehouse conversion aesthetic. Anybody not making close to six figures was being squeezed out of Central London these days. Jury might have taken a couple of hikes in rent for his one-bedroom in Islington, but he’d also taken a couple of hikes in rank and pay.
Arabella Hastings had lived by herself, her marriage to Zack Syms having lasted less than a year. He left the ex-husband to DCI Brierly, also the people at her workplace, concluding he himself would get nothing new. He would be told she was quiet and shy and probably a good worker.
The building, one of the block of new flats in which she had lived, stood at the confluence of Clerkenwell Road and a street so narrow one would have taken it for a walkway. The place was so spanking new it looked
as if it would have no attraction for any life form—mouse, roach, spider, or human.
Wiggins had arranged with the building super to open the door to Arabella’s flat. The flat was on the first floor, so he took the stairs.
Hardly larger than a bedsit, Belle Syms’s rooms gave away almost nothing about their owner. Sherlock Holmes would have taken one sweeping look round and nailed her, the essential Belle. But Jury was a long way from Sherlock.
The little flat consisted of a very small sitting room, a larger bedroom, a galley kitchen, and a bath. Jury bet the first room had been part of the bedroom and then been sectioned off, raising it a step above the bedsit category and, consequently, raising the rent by half.
The furniture was mostly that blond, streamlined stuff often called Scandinavian. The only color was supplied by the rug, and that faded. The only thing Jury was interested in was the cupboard in the bedroom that held Arabella’s clothes. He found shirts, skirts, and slacks in a spectrum of shades that ranged from fawn to beige to dark brown. No spectrum at all. The most riotous shade in the closet was a sort of copper, a suit that would have served her for job interviews. There were no dresses at all except for the inevitable black, sleeveless linen. That was pretty much Belle’s venture into femininity. There was certainly no other dress that matched in quality and color to the Givenchy. In this cupboard it was Marks and Sparks, Army-Navy. The most expensive item was a cashmere sweater from Selfridges.
The shoes were no more adventurous than the clothes. A couple of low-heeled taupe ones; a brown pair of one-inch heels; a pair of black pumps with a bow; and one pair of oatmeal-colored fuzzy slippers. No other designer dress, no designer shoes. All that Belle had seen of color and designer fashion were the clothes she stood up in. This taste of glamour and the high life she’d barely had a chance to sport around Sidbury.
Vertigo 42 Page 23
