Vertigo 42

by Martha Grimes

  Colleen went on. “So it’s absurd talking about Kenneth’s carrying on the writing tradition. Poor Gilbert lives in a fantasy world, but then if you have Gilbert’s money, I suppose you can live anywhere you want.”

  Jury liked the way she put that. “Mr. Strachey is rich, is he?”

  “Very. Kenneth doesn’t know how lucky he is. It would be nice if Nicki could keep on seeing Kenneth—”

  “Mum! That’s nothing to do with this. Don’t parade my personal life in front of strangers.”

  It apparently didn’t occur to Veronica that she was doing the parading with that last comment. “ ‘Keep on seeing’? Then you’ve recently been together?”

  “Only once or twice—”

  Colleen said, “Oh, more than that, dear.”

  Jury welcomed the interruption this time. It confirmed what he’d already suspected: Kenneth and Veronica were, as Wiggins liked to say, “going at it.” Veronica was caught between not wanting it known she was seeing Strachey and wanting it known Kenneth found her desirable.

  She made another weak protest. “Hardly more than that, Mum.”

  “All right, dear, if that’s what you say.”

  “You and Kenneth, Nicki,” said Jury quite deliberately, “sound like an item.”

  New Scotland Yard

  Thursday, 7:00 P.M.

  50

  * * *

  Jury left in the aftermath of Veronica D’Sousa’s displeasure with both his comments and her mother’s about Kenneth Strachey. He assumed the intensity of that displeasure mirrored the intensity of her feelings for Strachey.

  A half an hour later, he was sitting in his office at New Scotland Yard with Wiggins, talking about Tess Williamson and that his search had turned up the final page of the letter she’d written to Tom.

  Wiggins said, “Kenneth Strachey was obviously devoted to her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think he’s still making the cake, guv.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just that. Literally.” Wiggins pulled the picture he’d taken out of his pocket and walked it over to Jury’s desk. “This cake was on the counter when I went there; chocolate cake with caramel icing and chocolate swirls all around it. Don’t you think they’re quite similar?”

  Jury looked at the two pictures and nodded. “In her testimony she said she’d been making a cake.”

  “Strachey is a first-rate cook, you know. Especially cakes and pastries, from what I can gather.”

  “I saw the kitchen. Both cakes appear to be similarly decorated, but it’s a little hard to tell from this old photo—”

  “It was enough to make me wonder, so I rang Elaine Davies. I thought she might remember. And she did remember, in part because she’d helped make the caramel icing.”

  “Well done, Wiggins. You’re right, that strikes me as pretty obsessive behavior. But what did he say about Arabella Hastings and Veronica D’Sousa?”

  Wiggins told him about the “casual” “occasional” coffees and lunches. “Obviously, he couldn’t just deny it, not with her probably telling us they were having a flaming love affair.”

  “But she did try to deny it; it was Mum who brought it out. Veronica was furious. So now they’ve both—Kenneth and Veronica—denied something, which makes it look all that much more suspicious.” Jury reflected, holding his teacup. “Would you say, Wiggins, that Veronica and Arabella are about the same size and shape?”

  “I’d say so, yes, sir, from the photos I’ve seen. I never actually saw Arabella Hastings.”

  “Same coloring too, except for the hair. Arabella’s was dark, almost black.”

  “Easy to do that with a wig. You’re thinking—”

  Jury nodded. “I can think of only one reason Kenneth Strachey would be seeing his old friend Nicki: he needed someone to stand in for Arabella, and somebody devoted enough she wouldn’t give all that much thought to the fix she’d be in if police ever settled on Kenneth as a suspect.”

  “And she’s a good actress too, I remember.”

  “I think that red dress would fit both women; anyway, Strachey could have sussed out their dress sizes, and shoes, for that matter—”

  “Speaking of shoes, Strachey went pale when I mentioned the ‘other pair’ of shoes, the low-heeled ones that Brierly’s SOCO team found prints of. Those prints couldn’t have been made at some other time, could they?”

  Jury shook his head. “They were fresh. I’d guess Belle brought more sensible shoes in case the sandals turned out to be too, well, strappy.” He smiled.

  “That’d be my guess too, only it doesn’t make sense, does it? Thing is, why didn’t she walk to the top of the tower in them?”

  “I can think of no reason at all. You’re right; it doesn’t make sense. On the other hand, if Belle was already dead and carried up to the top, it would explain the red sandals, but then, what about the other shoes?” Jury paused; then he said, “The stand-in, the woman who posed as Belle would have to be insanely in love with the perp because she’s giving him an alibi and leaving herself exposed. Dangerous for her.”

  “What was the motive, though?”

  “It must have been something Arabella knew that presented a danger to the killer. Something that went back to Laburnum.”

  “Possibly, except we know who shoved Hilda, so what’s left is Tess Williamson.”

  “Her death, you mean?”

  Wiggins nodded as he poured boiling water over tea bags in two cups. “Was Doctor McAllister any help?”

  “Not about that. He’s too taken up in his job to think about much of anything else.”

  “If he killed Hilda Palmer and was afraid Tess Williamson might tell the police—”

  “I don’t think so, Wiggins. Why would she? She was the one who protected him at great personal cost to herself. Why would she give him up five years later?”

  “You really think one of those kids killed Tess Williamson?”

  “Yes.”

  “But after five years? Why wait that long?”

  “Perhaps because the killer found out something he hadn’t known before.” Jury rose. “I’ve a dinner engagement; I’m late for it already. You should go home, Wiggins.”

  “Soon as I finish writing up my notes, sir.”

  This was said in a tone of such gravitas, Jury felt a mite ashamed he wasn’t writing up his own.

  “There’s an obvious candidate you’re ignoring: Madeline Brewster—”

  “No. Not Mundy.” Jury picked up one of the teacups and added milk from a pint bottle.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, sir—”

  “Any statement that begins that way always ends with the person minding.”

  Wiggins didn’t care; he went on. “Your emotions are getting in the way here. It’s the first time I’ve ever known you to discount witnesses because you didn’t want to believe they were guilty. In this case there are three of them: Tom Williamson, John McAllister, Madeline Brewster.”

  “Tom Williamson has an alibi. Just look at Macalvie’s notes. Tom was in London at Oswald Maples’s house. Doctor McAllister was in Kenya. Or Botswana.”

  “So he said. It wouldn’t be the first time someone managed to get in and out of a country with, say, a fake passport.”

  Jury nearly laughed. “I can’t picture that; sorry.”

  Wiggins frowned. “Anyway, I’m talking about the murder of Arabella Hastings. Where was everyone when that happened?”

  “But the same person did both, I’m almost certain. As to Mundy Brewster”—Jury shrugged—“she’s not involved.”

  Wiggins grunted. “We didn’t really investigate them. Especially Madeline Brewster. You think the killer had a female accomplice. Besides D’Sousa, she’s the only female left amongst the kids at Laburnum. You don’t even
know if she has an alibi.”

  “You’re right, Wiggins.”

  “Then do you want me to talk to her? I can call her right now—”

  “Check the alibi.”

  Boring’s, Mayfair

  Thursday, 8:00 P.M.

  51

  * * *

  Boring’s, Melrose Plant’s club, was located in Mayfair, not far from Brown’s, with which it had something in common: exclusivity. But here the testament to money and changelessness was mirrored not in chintz and tea, but in leather and whiskey.

  As they sat in the light and warmth of one of the Members’ Room’s several large fireplaces, Jury said, “Have you got the two dead dogs sorted yet?”

  “One dead dog. There was never more than one. That one is Stanley as you very well know and Stanley is quite alive.”

  “Glad to hear it. And did you find any dead dog, never mind the number?”

  “No. You might remember, though you’re pretending you don’t, I was never in favor of the dead-dog theory.” Melrose sat up a bit and looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Young Higgins?”

  “He appears to be the only porter in sight; he has to wait on everybody, as far as I can see.”

  Melrose slouched down again. “What’s he doing out of the dining room?”

  Jury shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, would I? I’m not a member.”

  “Don’t be so literal.”

  “All right. Now, where does the failure to find a dead dog point you in your search?”

  “Nowhere. Are you doing any better with your case?”

  “Probably. But I’m not looking for a dead dog.”

  “Funny,” said Melrose, glumly.

  “We know Belle Syms was really Arabella Hastings, one of the kids at Laburnum.”

  “Aha! That’s certainly progress. Hold on a tic. There’s Young Higgins.” Melrose raised an arm and swept the elderly porter to their chairs.

  “Yes, my lord.” Young Higgins bent toward them.

  “Another whiskey, Higgins.”

  Jury nodded. “The same. Thanks.”

  Higgins moved off with exceedingly great care so as not to break something—an arm, a leg, or a glass.

  “Does any of the staff ever retire here?”

  “No. They just die. Young Higgins has been here since I came here with my father. He must be into his nineties now.”

  Jury turned the talk back to the dead man in Wretch’s Row. “You’re no closer to solving that mystery, then?”

  Melrose frowned. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “That Stanley’s affinity for the murdered man bespoke a relationship of long-standing, not merely one between dog and handler, no matter how good the handler.”

  “Interesting. Continue.”

  “His alleged name, Roy Randall, wasn’t taken from any official document, such as a driver’s license.”

  “True.”

  “So how can Brierly be sure that was his name? He can’t. The victim had only an envelope addressed to a Roy Randall. The assumption is that’s who he is. But he isn’t. Or wasn’t.”

  “You say that as if you really knew.”

  “I do. It’s interesting.”

  Jury stared at Melrose. “Well, come on. Give.”

  It was at that moment when Young Higgins returned with their drinks and the announcement that their table was ready in the dining room whenever they were ready.

  “Thanks,” said Melrose, and to Jury, “come on. We’ll take our drinks through. I’m hungry and it’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding night.”

  Jury rose, saying, “Who the bloody hell is Roy Randall?”

  “Over dinner, Richard, over dinner.”

  ____

  Boring’s dining room was, as always, an expanse of white linen and dark wood and voices kept so low that it was more an island of silence in a sea of hush.

  Their waiter was a brash young ginger-haired fellow who addressed them as “gents.”

  “Evenin’ gents. We’ve a nice Stilton and leek soup, as well as a London particular tonight.”

  “Those soups are rather heavy with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, wouldn’t you say?”

  The young waiter had no fear of saying, “I like a good thick soup meself?”

  “Do you, now? What about the rest of the cast from Oliver?”

  The waiter’s eyebrows rose over eyes of denim-colored blue. “Sorry?”

  “Never mind. I’ll have the London particular.”

  Jury said, “The Stilton, since I don’t know what that mystery-soup is.”

  “Pea soup, ain’t it?” said the waiter. “You must’ve been round in the time o’ the ‘thick as pea soup fogs’ London useta ’ave. ‘Particular’ to London, they was. I take it you’ll both be ’avin’ the roast beef?”

  “As that’s the entrée of the evening, I expect so.”

  The waiter thanked them and took off for the kitchen.

  “Young Higgins would have a hernia,” said Melrose. “That one won’t last long.”

  “As long as he lasts through your story, that’s okay. Continue with Roy Randall.”

  Melrose said, “Right, as soon as I’ve settled the wine.”

  “Oh, come on, just get the house plonk.”

  “Boring’s does not serve a ‘plonk.’ Let’s see, let’s see . . .” He consulted the list. “What do you say to a Saint-Émilion?”

  “I’d say stop stalling.”

  “All right.” Melrose raised his hand and motioned the waiter over and ordered the wine.

  Jury said, “You’re just going to milk this information for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

  “That is correct.” Melrose moved his wineglass nearer to his water goblet. “Now, I heard there were a half-dozen receipts from a turf accountant in Mr. So-called Randall’s pocket, the envelope addressed to him in Snide Street, E6, and the label of a Savile Row tailor in his coat. A rather unusual combination, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure DCI Brierly had his men on that.”

  “He did and he didn’t.”

  “Would you mind not sounding so damned inscrutable.”

  “Inspector Brierly was working under the assumption the man’s name was Roy Randall, which would rather skew the result.”

  Jury waited. There wasn’t much use prompting.

  “They found Roy Randall, who took off like a bat out of hell when he spotted a cop on his doorstep.”

  “But how did you find—” Jury stopped when Melrose held up a hand like a crossing guard. Then they waited while soup was served and wine uncorked. Poured. Tasted.

  Jury put his hand to his head. “I take it Roy has form.”

  “All kinds, but largely petty thieving, including making off with garments from coatracks in cafés; and several citations for indecent exposure in public lavatories.” Melrose stopped and spooned up his soup. He buttered a roll and drank some wine.

  Jury was about to cuff him. But he restrained himself, saying, “And DCI Brierly gave up all this information to you, a mere citizen?”

  “Well, he didn’t, did he?” Silence, another swig of wine. “I did manage to get in to see him by telling him I had some information for him about Belle Syms.”

  “What information?”

  “What you told me.”

  “I also told him.”

  “Not before I did, though.”

  “Ta very much.”

  “That’s okay. Naturally, he got out the file on the case. And as people sometimes tend to do, even policemen, he read off the address as if he were speaking to himself.”

  “He was.”

  “As I told you—Snide Street, London E6. Ring a bell?”

  “Of course it doesn’t.”

&nbs
p; “Perhaps not. It did with me. I got out my London A to Zed. You know where Snide Street is?”

  Jury was silent.

  “Right around the corner from Catchcoach.”

  “Catchcoach Street? Isn’t that’s where the Crippses live?”

  “The same. That address, combined with petty thieving and public toilets, was enough to bring me to London. I spent a pleasant afternoon with Ash the Flash and White Ellie. Let me tell you about it.”

  Catchcoach Street

  Thursday, 4:00 P.M.

  52

  * * *

  Melrose told him about it.

  He always preferred coming on number 24 Catchcoach Street stealthily in order to apprise himself of the dangers—it was not too strong a term—that lay in wait, or that would do if the Cripps kids spotted him first. He had fortified himself with a half-dozen screws of candy to give out when it became necessary to save himself.

  He stopped by one of the few healthy trees in Catchcoach Street, hiding himself behind its trunk. He watched the loose ring of kiddies in the front garden—or rather the dirt—of number 24. As he hadn’t been here in a couple of years, there were one or two new ones among the gang of old and he wondered if the tot in the middle of the circle was actually the former baby, Robespierre, who had managed to survive for two and a half years and who could prove useful now, instead of just an object to be pushed around in his carriage and crib. The former baby was still a victim but now one with legs and hence more versatile. Each one of the Cripps kiddies had played that role in his or her turn.

  The same baby carriage stood outside the door, housing, Melrose supposed, a fresh baby. He counted six children in the ring, the one the others were dancing around making seven. He recognized two or three of them. Piddlin’ Pete was the one who had formerly occupied the center of the circle, but he now appeared to be the ringleader, which apparently offered him more opportunities to urinate on whatever struck his fancy, which at the moment was a stray cat wandering in from the road. The cat did not stay long.