Jury was surprised by this. “It was a stroke, I thought.”
“Perhaps.” Racer was trying to look inscrutable, not succeeding. “And this old kraut who wanted you on the case. You’ve seen her?”
“Sergeant Wiggins is there now.”
“Wiggins? It was you she wanted.”
“I intend to see her. You forget, I’m on leave.”
“You just had leave. A policeman’s life isn’t one long holiday, Jury.”
A tap at the door and Fiona stuck her head in. “There’s Mr. Plant on the line; wants to know when you’ll be by for him.”
Jury turned round. “Tell him in an hour—no, make that two. I have to go home and pick up some stuff.”
“Right-o.”
“Miss Cling-more!”
But Miss Clingmore had shut the door, and just hard enough to cause a stirring of fur above the well of the ceiling molding.
39
“I don’t know what she’s done with it, old sweat.” Marshall Trueblood’s whisper was fierce. “I coaxed her with money; I bribed her with gin. Oh, of course, she took both—don’t think she didn’t take both—and then she denied ever seeing it: ‘Ah don’t know what y’mean, dearie. Ah niver seen nothin’ like that, I niver.’ ” Marshall did a fair rasping imitation of Mrs. Withersby’s gin-slurred voice.
The subject of this discourse between Trueblood and Melrose Plant was now sitting across the saloon bar in front of the fireplace, occasionally lifting the small hearth broom to sweep back the ashes, availing herself of whatever Cinderella possibilities she found in her position. Prince Charming (in the person of Melrose Plant) had already brought her a double gin and moved her cleaning bucket to the other side of the fireplace.
“Go on,” urged Marshall Trueblood, “have another look.” He gave Melrose a little shove to send him on his way.
Melrose rocked back into his sitting position and returned the whisper with an equally fierce one of his own. “Look: all I know is, it was in the bloody bucket! I could hardly rummage through it, could I?”
“What,” asked Richard Jury, setting the three pints on the table, “are you two on about?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Marshall, draping his Armani-clad arm along the windowed alcove behind them.
“Oh, nothing,” echoed Melrose, returning to the Times crossword he’d propped against the dusty plastic peony meant to decorate the table.
Jury looked from one to the other. “Uh-huh. I’ll be back with the sausages.”
“What sausages?” they both asked of his departing back.
Said Plant, returning to the point, “You didn’t search properly. I’ve been gone for almost a week; you must have had an opportunity to look through that bucket. By now she’s slopped it out. The damned notebook’s floating down the Piddle!”
“Don’t blame moi.” Trueblood clapped both of his palms against his seafoam-green shirt. “You’re the one that stuck it in the bucket. And she doesn’t slop it out because she damned well doesn’t use it. Withers doesn’t work, for God’s sake.”
They both looked, both fuming, in the direction of the slatternly subject of this argument. Her bucket was presently stashed beneath the fireplace chair opposite, as far from herself as she could get it. She was fondling an empty glass and smoking the cigarette she’d filched from Marshall Trueblood.
“I’m not buying her another drink. That’s what she’s waiting for. Blackmail, that’s what it is. Fortunately, she can’t read. . . . What’s he doing?” Trueblood was watching Jury.
He was handing Mrs. Withersby what looked like a water tumbler full of gin. Now he was actually offering her a plate of sausages, stabbed with toothpicks. Dick Scroggs had lately decided to lay on some “happy hour” food. Holding the plate, he sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Withersby. They chatted merrily away for some few minutes.
Disgruntled, Trueblood lifted his pint, said a vague “Cheers,” and then said, “The superintendent would talk to the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square.”
“And it would answer,” said Melrose.
“All that work,” said Marshall. “It was so good. How can we ever duplicate it?” He tossed the pen he’d been scribbling with down on the paper and sighed.
“Still arguing?” asked Jury, who set the plate of sausages on the table and sat down.
“We’re not arguing.”
“We’re not arguing.”
“Writing something?”
“No.”
“No.”
They both shook their heads.
“Thought maybe I’d take a walk and look in on Vivian,” said Jury. “Before she leaves for Italy. Again. The whole thing’s ridiculous.” He looked at Melrose. “She could be persuaded to stay here, I’m sure.”
Said Melrose, “Haven’t we been trying to for years?”
“Well, you’ve never given her a good enough reason to break off this silly engagement, have you?”
Mrs. Withersby, having had a taste of the good life in the shape of gin and sausages, was shuffling up to the bar where the plates had been laid out, Dick Scroggs having left it temporarily to replenish happy hour provisions.
Melrose Plant watched her wavering progress across the room for a moment, and then excused himself.
Although Jury was talking to him, Marshall Trueblood was more interested in Melrose Plant’s lingering before the hearth. Pretty soon, Melrose sat down in the chair vacated by Jury and appeared to be tying his shoelaces.
Mrs. Withersby left the bar, paper plate full of sausages and puff pastry, and returned to her chair, detouring long enough to launch a verbal attack across the room at (Jury thought for a moment) him and Marshall. But he discovered in the next moment the invective was directed at the face in the window behind Trueblood, outlined in the winter vines of the rosebush—the face of Lady Ardry. The face disappeared. Agatha was no longer popular with Mrs. Withersby, for she was once again writing letters to the editor of the Bald Eagle and working up a sweat in front of the town council in her attempt to “erase the blight” (as she put it) of the row of cottages, once almshouses, along the farther bank of the Piddle River. These cottages housed the Withersby clan. The Withersby clan, Melrose had often said, was large enough and ancient enough to have its own tartan.
Mrs. Withersby had switched affection from Her Ladyship (the instigator of this plan) to His Lordship, Melrose, who believed in championing the underdog, largely with strong drink.
Agatha came through the doorway in a dust of snow and made quite a show of ignoring Mrs. Withersby before she demanded a schooner of sherry from Dick Scroggs, who started putting the plates of food under the counter when he saw her.
In the meantime, Melrose had come back to the table looking pleased with himself and giving a nod to Trueblood, and Agatha was delighted with her news.
“They’re moving into Watermeadows!” she announced.
Jury asked who “they” were.
“Oh, God,” said Marshall Trueblood. “The WEMs.”
Jury frowned. Who the hell were they?
“Week-End Man. Didn’t Melrose tell you they’d leased the Man with a Load of Mischief? I’d so much rather see it fall into ruin and disrepair. How do you know, Agatha? About Watermeadows?”
“Mr. Tutwith himself told me. The estate agent. They’re taking Watermeadows instead of the pub.”
“I don’t think so, aunt,” said Melrose. “I definitely heard they were planning to restore the pub.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
That settled that, and Jury asked, “What happened to Lady Summerston?” He had liked the old lady who owned Watermeadows. Looking away, out of the window, he thought of that summer; he wondered if there were an age when memories were a solace rather than a torment.
“Oh, she still owns the place. They’re only to be tenants.”
“I can’t see anyone leasing a place like Watermeadows as a weekend retreat,” said Melrose.
“My dear old fellow, you do not un
derstand the WEM psychology. That’s just the sort of place they adore. Come down from London on the Friday; on the Saturday you pull on your wellies, get the dogs, and take the snaps in front of the Range Rover; then you run up to London on the Sunday and there you are! Show your friends the pictures and turn them green with envy.”
Agatha said, “She wants a large dining hall and he wants to garden—”
“Bluhhh,” said Trueblood, simulating sickness. “God, but I loathe men who like to garden. They’re always wandering around in their oilskins and thick shoes going on about compost and spouting the Latin names of flowers.”
“I can think of sillier pastimes,” said Jury, with a level look at Trueblood, who raised a sculpted eyebrow. “You didn’t at all mind Lady Summerston and Hannah Lean. Indeed, I seem to remember you made quite a little money off your wares.”
“You don’t seem to understand. They were not weekend people. It’s a whole different sort of thing. Don’t you know the WEMs are invading the provinces? Taking over whole villages—”
“You make it sound like Long Piddleton’s going to have a Night of the Living Dead.” Jury noticed that Plant had called Trueblood’s attention to something beneath the table. He rose. “Well, I’m taking a little walk. Look in on Vivian, maybe.”
Agatha, who had risen to make her way to the bar, said, “They’ve taken a six months’ lease. To see if it suits.”
Both Trueblood and Plant looked at Agatha. And then at each other. They smiled.
“What are you two grinning about?” asked Jury.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
• • •
A little snow was falling now, slowly, tiny flakes, far apart. Outside the Jack and Hammer, Jury stopped by the window in the embrasure of which they had been sitting.
“. . . couldn’t have missed it,” Trueblood was saying.
“Well, you did. It was right there.”
“Put it away,” whispered Trueblood. “Here comes Agatha back.”
Jury shook his head in wonder and looked down the High Street to see the local postman trundling along on his bicycle, stopping first at Jurvis the butcher’s, then at Miss Ada Crisp’s across the street.
The elderly postman Jury had run into once or twice—run into almost literally, since the man could hardly see. Abner Quick was old as the hills, deaf as a post, and blind as a bat. People were always getting the post wrong, getting other people’s and having to take it round to the addressees themselves. Agatha, of course, had made it her mission to rid Long Pidd of Abner Quick, but she hadn’t been successful. Actually, receiving another’s letter and therefore having to go round to that person’s cottage was more an occasion for an extra cup of tea than for complaint. And if one didn’t care for a cup with the addressee, one had only to wait for Mr. Quick to come round later or drop it off at the sub-post office and let the postmistress deal with the problem.
At the moment, Miss Ada Crisp was standing by her door reading one of the envelopes Abner Quick had chosen for her hand to receive and looking terribly upset by it. She looked up, saw Jury directly across the street, and waved him over.
“Hullo, Miss Crisp.” She looked horribly worried. “Can I do something for you?”
“It’s that Mr. Browne who owns the Wrenn’s Nest.” She looked off down the pavement to the corner. Then her pale eyes looked up at Jury, miserably. “Says he’s going to send me a summons.”
“Summons? Why on earth would he do that?”
“Wants me out, that’s why. Wants my shop.”
She stood there with her biscuit-colored eyes and hair into which the gray melted like the new-falling snow and wrung the end of her coverall apron. “I’ve been here forty years, Mr. Jury. That person only came three years ago and thinks he owns the village. All he does is make trouble. He keeps saying he wants to ‘expand’ his business. Now, I ask you—whatever does a little village like this need with a huge bookshop?”
Jury read over the document, which was indeed a legal summons. He was sure complaints about Miss Crisp’s premises (“public nuisance”) were without foundation, but, of course, the idea was undoubtedly to attack her nerves, not her reason. It was infuriating. It was also unfortunately the provenance of the law to find a basis for baseless allegations, so that any fool, anyone seeking redress or revenge, could bring a lawsuit. Jury looked off down the street for a moment and smiled.
The smile seemed visibly to shore her up, to lift a weighty burden from her thin shoulders.
“Not to worry, Miss Crisp. Perhaps I’ll just stop and have a word with Mr. Browne.”
“Oh, would you? I’d be ever so grateful.”
Jury turned, as he walked away, and called back, “Remember the pig, Miss Crisp.” This was a reference to the lawsuit Agatha had brought against the butcher, Jurvis—or, rather, against Jurvis’s plaster-of-Paris pig.
Miss Crisp laughed and waved.
Inside the Wrenn’s Nest bookshop, three people stood in line while Theo Wrenn Browne stamped a book and admonished the first of the three, a little girl, who waited in silent humiliation on the opposite side of the counter. She had left chocolate fingerprints on one of his rental books, and he was threatening to keep the deposit. The two adults behind her tried to look away. She ran out with her book.
The Current Books for Rental shelves had been started largely as competition for Long Piddleton’s tiny but adequate library. It was unusual for a village the size of this one to have a library at all, and the villagers had been just proud until Theo Wrenn Browne had determined to demonstrate its needlessness. He himself supplied the latest crop of bestsellers, thereby putting a considerable dent in the library’s patronage. For the library had to wait for its books, whereas Theo Wrenn Browne could get his immediately, weeks before they were even reviewed. It wasn’t money but misery—other people’s—that motivated him.
While words like hard coin fell on the next borrower’s head, Jury read the sign setting out the lending rules. Deposits were required, and there were different rates for different days and for different books. An accountant would have a hard time juggling this information, but when a person wanted a new book, a bestseller, or one by his favorite writer, well, he’d put up with a lot of nonsense, even the excoriating comments of Theo Wrenn Browne.
When the last borrower had left, his book stamped (his days numbered), Theo Wrenn Browne called out an enthusiastic greeting.
Jury smiled his hello and said, “I see you’ve started up a new line of business here.”
“Ah, yes. Public service, you know.” He enjoyed a martyred sigh. “Our library is so behindhand, Mr. Jury. I keep telling the council that.”
“Didn’t know there was a council.”
“Oh, yes. Long Piddleton’s got a lot of problems. What I’m pushing for now is for us to compete in the Prettiest Village in England competition. I don’t see why it always has to be the Cotswolds—Bibury and Broadway and those places—do you? Northants doesn’t have to be always thought of as industrial. I’m trying to change our image. What we need is good PR. Attract more tourists, that sort of thing. I think, you know, we’re beginning to attract Londoners.”
“Too bad. I was wondering, Mr. Browne, if you might have a copy of Bleak House.”
“Dickens? I’m sure I do. Come along back here.”
Jury thought, as he followed through the shelved books, it was a shame that the Wrenn’s Nest had to suffer the waspish presence of Theo Wrenn Browne. It was a lovely shop: black beams, polished floors, cushioned window seats, nooks and crannies. And an extensive collection of antiquarian books along with the recent ones.
“Here we are. You like Dickens, do you? Well, one does. Honestly, the tripe that people come in and buy. I have to stock it, you know. Dreadful thrillers, idiot mysteries. Genre stuff. God. Well, I’m in business, aren’t I? I can hardly set myself up as the arbiter of taste and refuse to sell Danielle Steel. Finally, I had to stock Joanna the Mad’s books. My customers were
going to Sidbury and even all the way to Northampton to get hold of them. Rubbishy romances.” He shuddered pleasantly and handed down the copy of Bleak House. “But at least I’m glad to see you’re reading Dickens.”
“The Dickens isn’t for me; it’s for an acquaintance who’s thinking of bringing a suit. I thought he should get a taste of what the law’s like.” Jury riffled the pages. “I’ve had a lot of dealings with civil suits, and I can tell you, I wouldn’t, for love nor money, ever get involved in one.”
Theo Wrenn Browne brought his neat little hand to his mouth. “Oh?”
“Last person I knew did it lost everything—bank account, job. . . .” Jury shook his head and sighed. “This is fine. I’ll have this.”
Theo Wrenn Browne coughed nervously. “But surely, if one is justified . . .”
Jury gave a short, astonished bark of laughter. “Justified? What difference does that make? Most recent case I know of was a prominent shopkeeper in Piccadilly. He’d got people living over him, woman and her brood of six kiddies, that made his life a misery. Not only was there screaming and shouting the whole day long, but the kiddies managed to get into his shop at night and take things, mess things up, create havoc. The poor fellow tried to get them off the premises and went to court. He was at it for three years, had to pay out so much money to the solicitors and so forth he lost his business, finally. Now he’s on the dole. Terrible.”
Both of them had been looking up at the ceiling, and Jury shook his head sadly, as if the kiddies who figured in this tale of woe had materialized in the elegant private apartments above, where Theo Wrenn Browne read the latest rubbishy romances.
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Browne,” said Jury as he paid for his book and left Theo Wrenn Browne a wiser, if paler, man.
• • •
Across the wine-brown stone bridge, the cottages, sub-post office, and Betty Ball’s bakery clustered on three sides of the green. Although Vivian’s house was far too large to be a cottage, that was how she referred to it. According to the note Sellotaped to the door, she would return shortly.
The Horse You Came in On Page 30
