“Not necessarily. I think you were there; I’d like to know why. Were you lovers?”
The priest did laugh now. “No. I’m not gay. Neither was Billy, as far as I know.”
“But that’s the point. How far would that be? You were obviously connected to him in some way other than just priest and penitent.”
Father Martin sighed deeply. “Very well. I was there and, no, I didn’t shoot Billy. I’d talked to him earlier, on the phone, and he sounded very down. I thought I’d just stop in and see him, see how he was. Yes, I did see him. Blood had pooled under him. My reaction—I can’t describe—” He stopped and ran his hand across his forehead and breathed deeply.
“I checked to make sure there was no sign of life—listened for a heartbeat, checked his pulse, even—well, this sounds ridiculous…”
“I can’t imagine anything relating to this that would.”
“There was a small mirror on a shelf there. I held it to his lips. You know, like Lear did with Cordelia. I knew he was dead the moment I saw him, yet I still did these things.”
Jury thought he sounded immensely sad. “So he was expecting you?”
“What? No, he wasn’t.”
“He was expecting someone at ten.”
“Well, I wasn’t the one. I’d just gone there on impulse. I left the room and went down in the elevator. I didn’t rush out. I didn’t even leave. Instead, I went to the desk and asked if the restaurant was still open. The young woman there nodded, said they’d be closing in a bit. I was shown to a table and ordered and that was all, until I did leave and ran into you. But I wasn’t literally running, Superintendent. I was walking pretty fast, I grant you.”
Jury was looking at him and shaking his head. “And you didn’t call the management, the police, someone.”
“No. I’m not proud of my behavior.”
“I would think not. Yet you stick fast to principle when it comes to the confessional. How bloody strange. Well, since you won’t tell me what was going on with Billy that made him want to confess, I’ll tell you.”
Father Martin smiled. “That would be a relief.” He indicated a pew. “Care to sit down?”
“Not really. What really irritates me is that it wasn’t really ‘confession,’ was it? I mean, not in the strict sense of the term?”
“It did take place in the confessional.”
“So either Billy or you suggested that. I don’t care which. Billy told you about his grandfather, the real one, the one by blood, the Nazi officer. He told you about the paintings, didn’t he?” The priest hesitated. Then he nodded. “He did, yes. Billy apparently had the sort of conscience that few people have: guilt over what someone else has done.”
“I agree with you; that sort of thing is quite rare.”
“For Billy, it was close to obsession. Would you agree with that?”
“I would. I might say ‘consumed’ by it. I worried about him, you see. That’s why I went to the Zetter. He called earlier and was talking about all of this.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t expecting you at ten.”
“He wasn’t, no. I offered to come, but he said, no, he was going to bed early, he needed to sleep.”
“So you weren’t the one.”
“No.”
Jury sighed. “I don’t know if something like Billy’s state of mind can be caused by depression. He appears to have been manic-depressive. Or if it’s by way of being—strange to say—a kind of spiritual gift.”
Father Martin looked at him. “Nor do I, Mr. Jury.”
Jury looked up at the statue of Mary, looked up at the Brunelleschi-like ceiling. “I wish I’d known him.”
“What makes you think you don’t?”
“Don’t give me another conundrum, Father. I’m sick of mystery.”
Father Martin laughed.
FORTY-ONE
What Melrose couldn’t understand about the Ververs was, one: how much they knew, and, two: whether Henry James meant us to see that Maggie Verver was guilty in the worst of ways of being a manipulator.
He was reading The Golden Bowl, among others. There were five books lying splayed on the arms of sofas and chairs in this sitting room and one on the dining room table. He would pick up one, read a few pages, then another. No wonder he was confused.
Nevertheless, it was difficult maneuvering around James’s territory; one could so easily lose one’s moorings and find oneself in a small boat in choppy waters, unsure as to where land absolutely lay. (Was he beginning to sound even in his thoughts like a Jamesian character?)
But that was it, wasn’t it? That’s how Charlotte and Amerigo must have felt, trying to steer their little boat in the wake of Maggie and Adam Verver’s colossal yacht.
He rose and walked into the dining room. He peered out of the window at the beautiful garden and the fine day. He picked up a collection of short stories that lay on the buffet and continued reading “The Jolly Corner.” It was a little irritating that Jury remembered it so well.
“Mrs. Jessup!” He called this toward the kitchen.
Smiling, Mrs. Jessup came through the swing door, looking very cooklike in an apron so white it sparkled. “Sir?”
“Could I have a cup of coffee? Just that, thanks. You needn’t bring all the paraphernalia.”
“Why, yes, sir.” She turned and pushed back through the door.
Melrose went back to “The Jolly Corner,” reading it standing, on the spot, as he did much of the time. He stood this way for ten minutes and until Mrs. Jessup was back with the cup and all the paraphernalia: coffeepot, jug of hot milk, sugar, biscuits.
He wondered if the word “biscuit” had been drummed into the mind of every man, woman, and child in Britain at birth. It seemed so entrenched that it was simply impossible to serve a cup of tea or coffee without biscuits.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jessup…No, I’ll pour. Remember, there are people coming to see the house at four, so afternoon tea will be a little late.” Melrose loved his afternoon tea now that Agatha wasn’t there to share it.
The visit had been set up by a National Trust representative, who apologized profusely for the inconvenience. “This is what is usually done by our tenants—showing visitors through the downstairs rooms—but as you’re just filling in as a favor to the Trust, well, we can’t expect you to do the whole dog and pony show.” She laughed.
Melrose took the receiver from his ear and stared at it. Dog and pony show? At Lamb House? Really!
“I do appreciate your letting them come, Lord Ardry, as they’re great supporters of the Trust and have to go back to King’s Lynn this evening and this is their only chance—” On she went, ending with, “You needn’t feel obliged to say a word. They can just look.”
Again, Melrose glared at the receiver. Not say anything? Was the woman mad? Here he was with Lamb House on his watch, as they say, with Henry James himself under his stewardship, with many of the Master’s goods and chattels to protect.
Not say anything? Just thinking on this had him making that dismissive blubbery sound with his lips. Of course, he’d say!
Here they were now on the Lamb House doorstep. Melrose had been told by the Trust person there would be three in the party, a couple and their daughter. The couple appeared in the doorway on time, with their daughter, unfortunately, of a sullen aspect and, worse, the aspect of a child of only seven, possibly eight. Why had the couple brought the girl to see Lamb House? Obviously because they had no place to park her, so here she was.
There were few children in James’s books except for the famous duo of The Turn of the Screw, and even there they struck the reader as so preternaturally smart they seemed like stunted versions of the adults. Henry apparently did not find children useful, and no wonder. This one, with her bobbed brown hair cut straight as a razor all round was licking a lollipop of swirling, neon-bright colors. The child seemed to regard this mission—investigating strange people’s houses—as a means to torture her into being good on the way back to
King’s Lynn. It was clear from the way she regarded Melrose over the top of her psychedelic lolly that it wouldn’t work.
He smiled thinly. “I’m so awfully sorry, but I don’t think lollipops are a good idea for going round the many books and portraits and so forth in the rooms.”
The mother was quite adamant. “Don’t worry about Minnie. Minnie’s a careful girl. We explained everything to her.”
The father, Mr. Babcock, looked on darkly, as if unconvinced anything good could come of this visit.
Mrs. Babcock looked round the entrance hall and claimed it to be quite tasteful, quite pleasant. Melrose held out his arm to herd them into the little parlor on the right and began explaining to them the various photos, illustrations, caricatures hanging on the walls. He did this while keeping an eye on Minnie, who had slipped the noose and was inspecting on her own. She hung, as did the lolly, over the open notebook on the desk, turning over a page, then peering closer, turning over another, all the while the lollipop missing the pages by a hair.
“Child!” said Melrose, in his best Victorian manner. “I’m afraid I must ask you not to handle the notebook. It’s of great value.”
“Oh, Minnie won’t hurt it; she’s always so careful; isn’t that right, Minnie?”
That was so far from being right, even Minnie knew it. The look she turned on Melrose was not so much triumphant as coercive. You best stick with me, poor sod. She turned back to the book.
Said Mr. Babcock: “What’s all this, then?” He was looking at the caricature of Henry James done by Cruikshank.
“It’s rather good, isn’t it?” Mr. Babcock sounded much more Tyne and Wear than King’s Lynn. He was leaning toward the glass, close enough to fog it. “Tell me,” said Melrose, “what is your particular interest in Henry James?”
Mr. Babcock leaned back. “Me? Oh, not me; it’s the wife here wanted to come. Mildred’s got some idea she has to see all the stately homes, all the famous people’s homes; all the monuments; all the portraits; all the statues, bronze, wax, or wood; all the flowers in the Chelsea Flower Show; and is keeping a record. Well, you get the idea.”
Did Melrose ever get the idea! “I’m exhausted just listening to that agenda,” he said.
Mr. Babcock’s laugh was a roar, truncated, fortunately.
“Really, Bob,” said Mrs. Babcock. She had a tight little ferret face and used wretchedly precise diction, mouth and words meeting like a row of snaps on a taut bodice. “And did Mr. James live out his final days here?”
“No,” said Melrose, rather taken aback to begin with the author’s death. “No. He died in London, at his house in Cheyne Walk.”
“Was he as popular as Mr. Dickens?”
Not only his death, but his competition. “Oh, no. Charles Dickens was the most popular writer of his day. The most popular writer in the world, actually.”
“That explains why he’s been on the telly.”
“Oh,” said Melrose with a generous gesture of his arm, taking in the room, “so has Mr. James!”
Again, the narrowed look was fixed on him. “What was it, which book was on the telly? A miniseries, was it?”
“Why”—it had to be so—“The Turn of the Screw.” When she gave him an uncomprehending look, he said, “Surely, you recall that, featuring the two awful children.” He would make that clear, but in the course of it he realized Minnie wasn’t there to hear it. “Where’s your daughter?”
Minnie had vanished. How long had she been gone?
But Mrs. Babcock didn’t care, apparently; she was ruminating over television.
Mr. Babcock looked a little alarmed. “Now where’s that girl got to?”
The answer came as if from God in a thunderclap. The sound of an avalanche of pots and pans and plates clattering away.
“The kitchen!” exclaimed Melrose, who led the way, Minnie’s father on his heels.
Mrs. Jessup’s face was so suffused with blood and rage Melrose was afraid she’d have a stroke. What had been overturned was a pastry table that had held cake pans, cookie sheets, bowls, and plates, all once full and all on the floor. Minnie’s mouth was covered with cake crumbs and chocolate frosting.
“Why I never saw anything like it! Wasn’t I only trying to take her off your hands with tea and cake, and she turns round and does this?” The sweep of her arm took in the wreckage. “All my nice cakes and tarts on the floor! Shoved them straight off the table, she did, and then upset the table itself!”
“Oh, lud,” said Minnie’s father.
But Minnie herself did not seem in the least disturbed.
Mr. Babcock went to her, yanked her arm, and quick stepped her out of the kitchen, making profuse apologies to the cook for his daughter’s execrable behavior.
Melrose righted the table while Mrs. Jessup shook and shook her head. “She’s a devil, Lord Ardry, that’s all there is to it.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Melrose and left the kitchen for the front of the house. There he heard from Mrs. Babcock: “…oughtn’t to’ve been feeding the child cake, not with her blood sugar crazy as it is…well, it’s no wonder, is it?”
Melrose came up behind her. “Blood sugar?”
Mrs. Babcock swerved and regarded him with steely eyes. “Her system’s just short of being diabetic!”
“Oh? Is that why you’re buying her lollipops?”
Mrs. Babcock stiffened and bristled even more. Melrose could have buffed his boots with her. “Every child’s got to have a treat now and then.”
“Well, don’t worry about her blood sugar. I’m sure Dracula would be delighted to give her another transfusion.” He smiled a death’s head smile.
Her mouth dropped open. She sputtered a little and then brought out, “Well, I never! Don’t think I won’t report this to the Trust! You’ll see!”
“Madam, I am under no obligation to the National Trust. I’m doing them a favor by being here. Now, I suggest you do them an equal favor and get out.” He strode to the door and flung it—he made sure it flung—open dramatically.
Mr. Babcock muttered an apology as they went through it.
Minnie treated Melrose to a sticky, stuck-out tongue.
FORTY-TWO
Mrs. Jessup was trying to salvage her day’s baking as best she could, picking up her tarts and cakes, when Melrose returned to the kitchen.
“Well, that’s the last of the Babcocks,” he said. “Let me help you.” He knelt to shovel some cookies back onto a cookie sheet.
“You’d just as well throw those out.” She was collecting cutlery and talking at fever-pitch about the way children were being raised these days. “Why, if any of us when we was kids would’ve acted like that, we’d not be able to sit down for a week! We’d’ve got a proper thrashing. Well, I can’t really imagine it because it’d never have happened. You’ll pardon me, sir, but I just can’t get over the sight of her pushing my tarts and cakes onto the floor!”
From his kneeling position, Melrose looked up at her. “Why don’t you just sit down for a while, Mrs. Jessup?”
She paid no attention to this, but started busying herself at the big kitchen sink, while Melrose salvaged a lemon tart and tried to steer the subject away from Minnie. “So you had a large family, did you?”
“Did have, yes, sir, fairly big. There were three of us girls, Dora, the eldest, and a brother, Bertie.”
“That’s quite a nice number of siblings.” He inspected a ruined seed cake, not for the first time wishing he hadn’t been an only child. “Do they live near you?”
“Two of them’s dead, two sisters. Drowned, both of them.”
“How awful. That must have been a black day for your parents as well as yourself.” Melrose seemed to recall Wiggins’s saying something about this. “Were you at the beach?”
“No, sir. Happened during the war. A ship was evacuating us kids—I mean a lot of us—to Canada and it went down. The doomed voyage is what they called it.”
“I’m so sorry.” He frowned.<
br />
She shrugged. “It was a long long time ago. I only thought of all that because of that dreadful child.” She plunked a pot into the sink. “They’ll be sorry, her mum and dad, when the girl grows up to be a selfish, cold-blooded, joy-riding specimen.”
Mrs. Jessup was on a rant, a woman of a much more fiery aspect than Melrose had seen before. “Look, why don’t you rest for a while? Put your feet up. Go home if you like. The cakes and tarts can wait until tomorrow.”
Hardly before the first of this was spoken, Mrs. Jessup was shaking her head and kept on shaking it. “No, sir, thank you anyway. Today’s my baking day, and I do want it done.” Her small-muscled arms were busy with a flour sack, some of which she was measuring out into a basin. “I expect I’m a creature of habit, but I’ll tell you this, sir”—she was returning the flour to the nether regions of a big old wardrobe—“habit, force o’ habit is what saves us in the end. If you always do what you promised yourself you’d do, well, you’ll be all right.”
Melrose couldn’t imagine anything less likely. He preferred to train others up in the art of habit, at least when it came to attending to him. His cook, Martha, for example, was to make a habit of putting only store-bought fairy cakes on the tea tray for his aunt. His hermit, Mr. Blodgett, was to make a habit of appearing at the drawing room windows when Agatha was there. Melrose’s goat, Aghast, and his horse, Aggrieved, were to make a habit of awaiting his appearance with carrots.
And his little circle of friends—ah, yes, they were to gather, habitually, at 11:00 and 6:00 in the Jack and Hammer.
Theo Wrenn Browne was to make a habit of being an idiot.
The list went on and on. He hadn’t realized until the good Mrs. Jessup had made a point of it how habit played so large a part in his life. Yes, habitualness was a virtue, as long as it wasn’t his virtue. “You’re quite right, Mrs. Jessup, never a truer word, et cetera.”
She smiled for the first time since the onerous child had sent her Banbury tarts and Eccles cakes and Maids of Honor flying.
Dust Page 23
