Poges shouted, "This isn't one of your telly bloodbaths. This is reallife!"
Given his mother, Jury imagined Malcolm's confrontations with real life were somewhat limited.
The Princess said, "Oh really, George. Stop sputtering at him. The poor child doesn't know anything."
"That so?" Malcolm vroooomed his metal plane downward. "I know enough to know you're lying." Silence. "Not you," he said, directing his gaze at the startled face of the Princess. "Him. The Major." Then he started making figure eights with the airplane.
Not even his mother could make a sound at this an-nouncement, work her mouth as she would. They all sat about looking waxen, except for Plant, who was smiling and lighting one of his small cigars.
"What in God's name is going on here?" George Poges started to rise from his chair. "We're not going to believe the rantings of a malicious boy-"
Malice took precedence over murder in Ramona Braine's cards, clearly. "Don't you go calling Malcolm names, you nasty old bug--"
"Please!" said the Princess, touching her temples.
Vrooooming his plane up and down and having a fine old time sending everyone into a state of nerves, Malcolm was holding on to whatever attention he could get and seemed delighted by whatever names might be called.
Jury reached over and caught his wrist and eased the plane from his fist, ignoring Malcolm's banshee protests. "I'm just parking this for a minute." Jury took a brass box with a tiny drawer from the side table and slid the Spitfire inside. "In the hangar."
Although Malcolm scowled mightily, he took the box-hangar and fiddled with it, but was clearly enjoying this new man's being in on his game. Jury thought that in Malcolm's young life, probably, he'd never actually realized his potential for power over adults other than the crass kiddies' methods of making noise, kicking furniture, and sending cats up trees. Malcolm pointed at the Major as if the boy were a witness in a courtroom drama. "You never told police the truth. I was standing outside that window-" and here he pointed to the sill whereupon the gray cat snoozed.
"Spying!" said Major Poges, rising from his chair with steely eyes.
"I seen you early this morning go out the back with that floppy hat on and your galoshes and your… gun." Malcolm slid down, looking a bit frightened.
That slight pause before he mentioned the gun made Jury wonder if this was a chancy embellishment.
"Where were you, Malcolm, when you saw this?"
"Malcolm! I forbid you to say one more word!"
"Why? I didn't do nothin'," said her son, reasonably. "I was up in my room. I got a perfect view of that moor back there." He made it sound like the kitchen garden. Gravely, he pulled down his T-shirt and sat back, adding, for good measure, "Prob'ly on the way to the gun butts."
Major Poges opened and then closed his mouth.
"Absurd," said the Princess. "Absolutely absurd! Major Poges would not-"
But he interrupted her with a weak smile. "It's all right, Rose." He said to them all, "The boy's telling the truth. Nothing sinister in it, though. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd just have a tramp across the moor to see if I could bag a grouse."
"You were headed for the shooting butts, then?" asked Plant, looking at Jury.
"No, no. Need a driver to put the birds over you for that. No. I was for Keighley reservoir. It was dead dark-this was about four-thirty, five, and I planned walking into the light. I reckon I was there an hour or so. A snipe or two settled, but no pheasant or grouse. I'm not that much of a shooter, anyway; I probably would have missed the damned birds, or tried to." He smiled wanly. "It was just exercise with a sense of purpose behind it. After an hour I turned back." He took a swallow of his sherry. "It was a little after seven, as Master Malcolm can no doubt verify." Now, there was more humor than bitterness in his tone.
And Master Malcolm seemed to have lost interest in the Major's predicament, as the boy was more concerned with moving his Spitfire in and out of its new airplane hangar.
"You should have told that to Superintendent Sanderson," said Melrose.
Poges looked a bit ashen. "First thing that flashed through my mind was that I might have been in the vicinity where Ann Denholme was killed and here was I, carrying a shotgun. All right, I must admit I fibbed."
Said the Princess, waving her cigarette holder: "Naturally. Who wouldn't?" She held the holder in the direction of Melrose, who moved to light it.
Ramona Braine's eyes came up as her hands stopped sweeping above the cards. "How did you know she was shot? When that policeman questioned me, he didn't mention that." She smiled meanly.
The Princess's smile was even meaner. "The man told me, darling. And I passed it on to Poges, here." She sighed and swabbed her silky, silvery hair up with her hand. "I managed to worm it out of him, somehow." Then she offered Jury a smile as dewy as her pearlescent holder, which was arched toward the ceiling as she put her elbow on her knee and swung a slim and slippered foot.
"Rose is only trying to protect me. I'm touched." His tone was quite sincere.
Ramona, earrings wobbling, had suddenly lifted her eyes heavenward and intoned: "Danger is all about us-"
The Princess looked at her, bored. "Must you flush out the spirit world to pick up that little nugget?" Ramona Braine gave her a furious look, put aside her lap desk, and pulled Malcolm from the sofa. Malcolm was less than eager to follow his mother from the room.
She turned her lowered lids on Jury. "George is always taking walks. He has indulged more than once in beastly early-morning ones. I know because once I went with him." She shuddered slightly. "Six A.M. We saw some sheep. I wasn't aware that living creatures were up at that hour-"
"Rose." George Poges gave her a look and went on: "I expect that because I knew she'd been murdered out there and because my mind was on guns…" He shrugged and added wryly, "Though I do hope Superintendent Sanderson won't take that association too far."
"Aside from Malcolm, no one saw you?" asked Melrose.
The Princess was about to speak, but quickly shut her mouth.
"Not that I know of."
Jury leaned forward to replace his teacup.
"Perhaps someone saw you. That might help you."
Poges shook his head. "Out there on the moor 'at that hour' if Mr. Sanderson is to be believed." George Poges smiled grimly. "My route-that ordnance map of yours, Mr. Plant. Let me see it for a moment." Melrose took it from his pocket and handed it over. The Major sketched in a few lines. "Here's the way I walked." As if he were looking to Melrose to champion his cause, he handed it back. Jury glanced at the dog-legged penciled line.
"Stand of pine, shooting butts. There's the wall and up farther the reservoir. It's my usual route. Ask Abby."
The Princess's hand flew to her mouth. Then she said, "Abby. The poor child. Has anyone given her so much as a thought?"
"I have," said Melrose Plant, sadly.
Mrs. Braithwaite had come in teary-eyed to clear the tea things away and was surprised to see a new guest in their midst. Or in the wake of the Princess's exit and announcement that she must have her nap. She was followed by Major Poges.
"You should have told me, sir, there's a friend of yours come to tea. Well, I must make some fresh." Ever the good servant, though she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.
"Never mind, Mrs. Braithwaite," said Jury, quickly commandeering the tea tray. "I'll just carry this for you."
"You didn't," called Melrose, as Jury left the room, "happen to run into a motorbiker?"
***
Jury fared better in the kitchen with his hand clamped round a very hot mug of coffee and a small coal fire burning in the chimneyplace. On either side were two chairs losing their stuffing, covered with faded India cotton throws. The aromatic coffee mixed with freshly baked bread rolls diffused through the room like the steam coming from the kettles and clouding the windows. It was five o'clock and nearly dark.
"And what I said to her was, 'I got enough to do without the evening meal…' "
"… gone all keggly-like and jubberin'." Mrs. Braithwaite snorted her disgust at such persons who couldn't rise to an occasion."'That lot's still got t'be fed, don't they?' I says to 'er. Got me own grief, I do, but not to make things worse, I go on, I says."
"It must be a trial to you, Mrs. Braithwaite," said Jury. "Some people simply fold up in a crisis." The housekeeper was a round sort of person with short thick arms. Steady and stout as a fireplug and always ready to do her job. The arms hadn't stopped reaching and waving and opening cabinets and cupboards in the ten minutes Jury had been letting her bash about the kitchen. She had already had her private cry over the owner's death; the tissues ballooning the pocket of her apron and the reddened eyes testified to that.
"Yes, indeed 'tis. All of them police about, and up in the mistress's room, crawlin' all over." She lifted the lid of a heavy kettle and the escaping steam clouded over the acorn windows.
"I appreciate the coffee, Mrs. Braithwaite. Sorry to put you to more trouble."
She wiped her hands on her apron, protesting it was no trouble, not for a friend of Mr. Plant who was a "fine, dacent gentleman" and wasn't it dreadful Mr. Jury'd come for a visit and found all of this?
Jury thanked her, smiling inwardly that she didn't seem to find it odd Mr. Plant's friend had stationed himself here before the fire in one of the heavily cushioned chairs, inviting her, as if he were host, to join him.
"Why don't you have a coffee, yourself? Let the lot of them send out for fish and chips." He rose. "Come on; sit down." And he took her arm and led her to the chair opposite. She sank into it with a look of relief, fanning her flat, round face with her hand. "I'll get the coffee." He took a companion mug from the sink, poured the coffee, and asked, "Got anything to put in this?"
"Bottom shelf, cupboard near the door," she answered, her eyes on the burning coals.
Jury brought over her brandy-laced coffee and sat down. "How long have you been working here, then?"
"Nearly twelve years. Just bring over the bottle, will you? I could do with a proper drink. And there's glasses on that shelf, too," she called to his departing back.
Jury poured the drinks into little balloon glasses and set the bottle down. "I'm sorry about what you must be going through."
The seriousness of his tone threatened to provoke more tears. But she wedged her hand over her mouth and held them back. Under control again, she said, "Whyever the poor girl bought this place is a puzzle. Had it for a dozen years. She must have got it on the cheap. The Denholmes are London people; why'd she want to live out here in the wilds? There's many a time I've thought of going back to Harrogate-ever so lovely it is-but I'd've felt I was letting her down. I don't think Miss Ann had all that much business sense."
Jury thought for a moment, and said, "What about her niece?"
Mrs. Braithwaite looked up, slightly surprised that the conversation had taken this turn and said, "Abigail? We call her Abby." She looked up at a few snapshots stuck round an old mirror in need of resilvering and said, "That's her, with her Aunt Ann."
Jury got up and looked at the snapshot. Small as it was even with the light silhouetting her outline, he could still see the strong resemblance between the little girl and the aunt.
"Why did Abby come here? What about her own mother and father?"
Warming to the fire, the brandy, and the turn of the conversation (something to keep her mind off the death of Ann Denholme), Mrs. Braithwaite leaned forward and said, "That'd be Ann's sister, Iris. And right strange that were. Poor girl, she'd had two miscarriages already and her doctor wanted to see she got proper nursing." Her manner grew even more conspiratorial as she went on:"'Twasn't the husband who could do it; he had his job, after all. That Iris was a pale, thin little woman; sometimes I thought I could put my hand through her. Ann went off for six or seven months to take care of her. And three years later, after poor Iris died, Ann took on Abby. Trevor came here-Trevor Cable, Abby's Da. I'll have another little sup of that brandy, thanks. He didn't want her, or felt he couldn't do for her, apparently. He seemed to think Abby needed a woman about."
"And was Ann Denholme fond of her niece?" Jury asked as he poured a little more into her glass.
"Fond? Well-I expect so." She seemed alarmed at the notion that such a question would arise. "Ann was a broody type. All those long walks on the moors…" she ended uncertainly. Then Mrs. Braithwaite sniffed. "It's not because she's been turned out, if that's wha' yer thinkin'."
"Why would I think that?"
The question went unanswered.
From the cooker came the abrasive sound of a clattering lid. As Mrs. Braithwaite grumbled and struggled from her chair, Jury said, "Never mind, I'll see to it."
"Oh, would you now? It's that soup. If you'd just give it a stir and turn down the gas."
"What do you expect will happen to her now?" Jury asked, his back to her as he stirred the thick stew. "Back to the father? Or will Social Services step in?"
As he returned to his chair, he saw her face hot with anger. "Not back to that man, not if I've a breath left. Oh, no." Vehemently, she shook her head. "He doesn't want her, anyways, is what Ann said."
Jury waited awhile, made some small talk about the countryside then said, "You've certainly had your share of bad news in these parts. There was that killing at the Old Silent Inn-"
"Yes. Terrible, that is, about Mrs. Healey. Mr. Citrine was over here just this noon to pay his respects. Brought over a brace of pheasant."
Jury looked at her, but her head was down. "Charles Citrine was a particular friend?"
"I wouldn't say 'particular.' Ann knew the family; and Mrs. Healey would come over here with…" Her hand wedged over her mouth again as she squinted down at the coals, spitting, turning to gray ash. "That poor little boy, Billy."
"Billy?"
With her forearm she wiped away tears, ignoring the ball of tissues in her pocket. "I niver did understand it, sir. Such a niceman was Mr. Healey. He fairly doted on that son of his. It must've nearly killed him-" She stopped suddenly as if she'd realized a truth inherent in this, though not what the truth was.
"I would imagine the same could be said for the mother-" Jury checked himself.
"Oh, yes, yes," she said quickly. "But she wasn't the realmother, was she? I mean, I know she was that fond of the boy. But she couldn't have a real mother's feelings."
Jury felt himself grow cold. He leaned over to freshen her drink; brandy didn't seem to affect her that much. "I've taken up too much of your time." Jury rose.
But from the way she held on to the hand he offered, apparently she didn't agree. "Would you just give that stew another bit of a stir?"
25
A black and white collie sat just outside the double door to the barn, using its nose to track the weather. It looked curiously at Jury, but did nothing, except to turn and follow him in, keeping close to Jury's heel.
The sun was nearly down; light cast squares upon the ground that stretched across the center of the barn. The large doors at the other side were tightly closed, cracks stuffed with cloth. To his left, in the rear and in the shadows, was the byre from which came rustles and the lowing sound of a cow. Part of a stone wall held a fireplace, and in front of it were a table and mismatched chairs. There was an old sink beneath another small window.
At the end of the barn opposite the byre was a cot, layered in quilts. Beside this bed an upturned crate served as a case for books and a few records and beside it was a record player, older even than his own. On a low stool at the foot of the bed was the outline of a box beneath a black drapery. It appeared to be a little larger than a shoe box. A small table lamp stood on the crate, the light fanning out through the open circle of the shade over the bottom part of a big framed pr
int of a house amidst dark trees. It was no more out of place in a barn, he thought, than the faded travel pictures of Venezio (which reminded him, for God's sakes, to call Vivian) and a view of the Cornwall coast, the frilled waves lashing the cliffside. Between them was an empty space with blobs of gum, as if another picture had hung there. Venice and Cornwall were faded, but the one of Elvis in his younger days appeared in mint condition.
The little girl came out of the shadows of the byre, rolling up a poster that she held against her stomach. She was making a long and solemn job of it. Although she did not acknowledge the presence of a stranger in her barn, her down-turned eyes so firmly engaged with her task, he felt she knew he was there.
"Hello," Jury said.
She didn't answer; instead she concentrated on her rolling-job, stopping now and then to shove in the ends. Then she said, "I'm taking down Ricky Nelson."
"The singer, you mean."
The dark head nodded, still downturned. "He's dead." There was in her tone a finality that would have silenced any sentimental remark about finding comfort in mementos. She looked over to the hearth where lay the new poster pinned down by a hammer-weight on top and the sleeping dog on the bottom. The corners at the top curled inward. "I'm putting them up in his place."
"They" were the members of the Sirocco band and, however they measured up to Ricky Nelson, they were, at least, alive. That seemed to be her estimate of the affair. It was the poster he'd seen further enlarged in the window of the record shop in Piccadilly. It was a rather austere and studied pose, Charlie Raine leaning against a leafless tree, which was the focal point, and the four others, looking off in other directions in an otherwise blasted landscape.
Ricky Nelson had died some years ago, but perhaps in what looked to Jury like Abby's very patchwork past, events stitched together from piecework left behind by others-she had only recently come to realize that something else was gone from it. The mismatched clothes she wore fit the image, too: the somewhat muddy white shawl that reached down her back to her ankles, the zigzag-striped jumper and brown wool skirt, its hem covering the tops of old boots.
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