Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent

by Martha Grimes

  "You don't play with your fingers and sing with your chords, that's what the clones don't seem to understand. Van Halen's been cloned to kingdom come. Excuse me, that's literally Jimmy Page. When Kingdom Come's lead guitarist slipped out and raised that bow I nearly fell off the bed. Any halfway decent axeman could imitate Van Halen or Yngwie or any other technical wizard. What these clones don't see is that they're not the ones they're ripping off. An obvious point. They'd have to change their whole genetic system to sound like Page or Knopfler or any of the others. It's this gunslinger mentality. For one thing, most people got a tin ear and just because you got two guitarists who are heavily into baroque, heavily classical, and one of them does some thrashing around with arpeggio runs and the other does Bach progressions, the tin ear can't tell the difference. Me, I don't knock technical wizardry." He leaned forward as if to drive home this point. "Here's the thing: they're so good at it, guys like Van Halen and Malsteen, that you're damned right the technique stands out; it's so clear it sounds like it's separated from the guys playing it. But it ain't. And that's the reason you get some pissant sitting around doing two-handed tapping and thinking he's Joe Pass, but he's not, so it's nothing.

  "You wanna be Riley B. King, then you get your ass out of those studio sessions and do the chitlin' circuit just like all the others, the real blues men. If what you really want is just to gliss across the stage at the Grammy awards and go mul-tiplatinum, okay, do it, but you can't ride on anybody's coattails. You're not going to be Clapton, or B. B. King, or Hubert Sumlin or Gatemouth Brown—"

  Since Duckworth showed no signs of letting up, slowing down, or discussing anything so mordant as a murder investigation, Jury said quickly, "How do you rate Stan Keeler, then? I understand you know him."

  "I rate him the best R-and-B guy they've got over here.

  All you have to do is go to the Nine-One-Nine to see what I mean. Stan can do anything: rock, jazz, fusion, blues. Blues, blues, anarchic blues. Black Orchid, on a good day, could blow Sirocco away. But Sirocco's good. I'd like to see a triple-axe threat with Raine, Jiminez, and Keeler. The Odeon would orbit. Stan doesn't do concerts. Part of it's the way he is; part of it's he knows the way it is: it is underground. Fans over here are different; it's very personal. He'll go on forever. Hell, his dog's more famous than Fergie's kid. The bands in the States, they think England's the Pearly Gates because you can rocket to fame over here. What they don't know is that when you go down you go down dead. It's High Noon time. The press over here's a killer. In one column I could demolish some poor metal band that hasn't got the fans yet. It doesn't work that way in the States."

  "So why was Roger Healey into your territory?"

  "Because the creep was dying to trash Keeler is my guess."

  "You didn't like Healey?" asked Wiggins.

  Duckworth just shaved them a look.

  " Why did this man have such a solid-gold reputation with everyone else we've talked to? Including Martin Smart?" said Jury. "He's no fool."

  "He's also no musician. He gets these rags out and he's good at it. Healey—okay, I give him credit for knowing his Bach and Paganini—probably not as much as some guitarists I know. Healey was a musician, not precisely a killer pianist from what I've heard, and I think it drove him fucking crazy. You had to look close, reading his reviews, to see some of those lines were etched in acid. He was a weirdo. You been talking to our Mavie? So he was screwing her."

  "Anyone else you know of?"

  Morpeth Duckworth shrugged. "No one I know. He was obviously more discreet than that."

  "Where's this club Keeler plays?"

  "Mostly the Nine-One-Nine. Quint Street off Shephards Bush Road. It's a walkdown. You won't even see it unless you fall on the steps. There's no sign, just the street number."

  Jury rose; Wiggins pocketed his pen.

  "Thanks for the help."

  Duckworth pulled the chairs back over, stuck his feet up again. "No problem."

  As they were walking out, Jury turned and asked, "Who's Trane?"

  Wiggins stared at Jury; Duckworth's feet hit the floor. "Trane."

  "I heard someone refer to Trane the other day. Just wondered."

  Dead silence.

  "John Coltrane." Duckworth looked at him as if the superintendent had lost his mind.

  "Oh."

  "He played sax," said Duckworth.

  "Oh."

  "Twenty years ago."

  "Something wrong?" asked Jury, as Wiggins slammed the passenger door. "You look like you could use a tourniquet; an artery's going to burst."

  Wiggins unglued his thin white hand from his mouth and said grimly, "John Coltrane. John Coltrane just happened to be possibly the greatest saxophone player ever. Why didn't you ask me? It's absolutely embarrass———" Wiggins looked down at the seat where Jury was fiddling with a small machine. "What's that?"

  "Sony Walkman." Jury dropped in a tape and some of the sweetest sax music this side of heaven started up. "Research."

  As the car tore away from the curb, the sound that came from Wiggins was like a death-rattle and Jury was having his first real laugh in a week.

  32

  Abby was furious.

  If someone thought she was going to die out here on the moor, they were crazy.

  Snow had got down into her boots and was soaking her socks, but she'd rather have her toes freeze than risk giving herself away by making a lot of squelchy noises trying to yank them off. Anyway, with only the low wall of the shooting butt to hide her, she didn't want to do too much moving about.

  It surprised her that Tim was managing to be so silent, lying here beside her. Of course, Tim was used to lying about the barn, but he seemed alert, the way he kept looking first to one side, then to the other, then to her.

  Abby knew nothing about guns, nothing at all except for the few times she'd come out to these grouse butts with the Major and watched him as he scrambled up, swung his gun quickly to his shoulder, took aim, and missed an entire skein of grouse flying about two feet from his cap. The Gun: that's what the Princess called him.

  Until this evening, that had been her only experience with guns. But she'd never forget the crack of the shot that had barely missed her and ricocheted off the wall. How long ago had it been? Probably only a few minutes because the sky had begun to darken as she'd been climbing the stile. The shot had come as she'd got to the top and she'd fallen back to the ground, sorting out her choices: either a dash to the stand of trees or to the line of grouse butts. Knowing what she did about her aunt's death, it didn't take long to drop the stand of pines as an alternative.

  They thought she didn't know her aunt was shot. Didn't they ever stop to wonder if children listened outside doors and windows? She had an idea that the Scotland Yard policeman did because he seemed to know everything else about her. Abby had his card in her jumper pocket. She pulled it out and read it again, though it was getting too dark to read.

  Where was Stranger? Where? She knew he wasn't shot because there'd only been the one.

  Abby pulled at her damp hair, grabbed two fistfuls, and yanked it down like a lid to keep her thoughts from leaping up like flames out of control, as if she were a fiery furnace, which was what she felt like. She had been mad all her life and she didn't see any reason to stop now.

  She reached out carefully from the grouse butt, scooped up snow, and rubbed it all over her face to keep the blood going. The Major liked to talk to her about "survival in the wilds" because she loved to tramp the moors. He wasn't in any danger of not surviving, she thought. He always made sure he had three sandwiches and a little flask of whiskey before he even put a foot out of the front door.

  There was no sound, nothing now but a whisper of wind in the bog rush and bracken.

  Her waterproof was yellow. Yellow. Mrs. Braithwaite had made sure she wore a bright waterproof when she walked to school so if a car came round a bend it would see her. She'd argued the roads were too narrow for any car to go fast and she'd rather have
a black waterproof. This one was like those reflecting lights on Ethel's bicycle. The moon was like a spotlight, and in this bright yellow she'd be like a shooting star if she tried to dart from the butt to the wall. She looked down at Tim. A yellow slicker, a full moon, and a white dog. God hated her.

  One of the reasons she'd liked Jane Eyre at first was be-cause she'd thought God hated her, too; but then when Jane went to work for Mr. Rochester, Abby knew what was coming and decided God didn't hate Jane at all; he was just "trying" her.

  Like Job. Her aunt made her go to church school where Abby had to sit and listen to the minister talk about Job and his three Comforters with crazy names. She'd just sat there thinking about Job, wondering why he didn't get off his dung heap and beat the Comforters up. After she'd said this and a few other things in church school, her aunt had told her she didn't have to go back.

  Abby lowered her head, thinking about Aunt Ann, trying to feel bad about her. But she couldn't, and her mind wandered off to Stranger again. Stranger had been trailing her and Tim, straggling after them, exploring what was left of the snowbank against the far wall over there, and had got way behind.

  He was out there, somewhere.

  And here she was with a crazy person with a gun, the Gun, the same Gun that had killed her aunt, she was sure.

  And here she was with nothing. Only her crook, which she would gladly beat the Gun to death with, smash his brains all over the moor; Ethel's dog, a heeler that she would gladly signal to rip the heels of the Gun to shreds, and then all the rest of him. But her head drooped, her fisted hands pressed her temples, and she knew neither of those weapons could get close enough to save her.

  Something glimmered in her mind and she slowly raised her head and tented her hand over her eyes, squinting way off across the moor.

  Sheep.

  Where in heaven's name were they all?

  The Hall was virtually deserted except for Melrose and the staff, and with the exception of Ruby, they were in their rooms, Mrs. Braithwaite having decided she could be as ill as Cook, as long as she had the poor drudge Ruby Cuff to see to getting a platter of cold chicken and cheese and salad on the luncheon table.

  And following luncheon, the guests had scattered like buckshot; Mrs. Braithwaite's cooking and murder had that effect on one, Melrose supposed. It made no difference that Superintendent Sanderson had given instructions that they were all to keep themselves available for questioning. The constable who had been left behind (in his orphaned, custodial position by the door) had been removed in the morning —with some help from Ellen and her BMW. The Weavers Hall inmates seemed to breathe easier.

  Dinner the previous evening had consisted of some sort of stewed chicken and mushy peas and overboiled potatoes. Today's lunch had been a drier version of the dinner.

  Major Poges had tossed in the towel—or the napkin—and announced that he refused to eat another meal until Cook was up and about and said he would dine at the White Lion, would anyone care to join him? Not even the Princess cared to; she had a vicious migraine and retired to her "rooms." She always made her part of Weavers Hall sound like a floor of some splendid, if decaying, Venetian palace whose facade Melrose could imagine reflected in the night-lit shimmering waters of the Grand Canal. Vivian was always gondolaing by in these fantasies. He could see Vivian's latest creation from some couture house as clearly as he could imagine the Princess's room strewn about with silk and bombazine, printed velvets and brocades.

  Ramona Braine, throughout the meal, had remained rig-idly silent, checking her turquoise watch every ten minutes, thinking, from her expression, of their ruined holiday to Cumbria and her meeting with the Emperor Hadrian— dashed now because his specter had already been hanging about there (it being well past noon), come and gone as specters do. Melrose's attempt to solace her with the suggestion that "perhaps next year" was met with a furious glance that removed him completely from the provenance of the spirit world.

  Only Malcolm was making the most of things. He had exhausted the topic of the murder of "the landlady" and been chillingly silenced by George Poges. Thus what he saw as the bloody corpse was transplanted by a long description of the bloody chickens he had watched Ruby throttle and then chain-saw to death (to hear him talk). The remnants now lay coldly on the platter before them; Malcolm described this slaughter with all of the relish of Agamemnon's father, Atreus, serving up the fatal pie to his brother that contained Thyestes' children. What was impressive about the Greeks was that they never forgot anything, never let a slur pass, never let a gauntlet drop without reprisals. For family feeling, they could teach the Mafia a thing or two. The Greeks reminded him of Commander Macalvie.

  Melrose pushed the pale chicken piece about his plate and took a bite of cold potato and thought of Agamemnon murdered by Aegisthus and Clytemnestra. Next generation: Orestes and Electra. Yes, it went on forever. Revenge really turned their cranks (as Ellen would probably say).

  He was thinking of this as he stared out of the window at dusk. He frowned. Where in hell was Ellen, anyway? After breakfast she and her bike had skittered down the drive, spitting up shale and rocks on her way to some Bronte-research revel, this time in Wycoller. That had been nearly twelve hours ago.

  He walked over to the fireplace, kicked at the barely burning log, looked at his reflection in the gilt mirror and found it less than inspiring. And where was Abby? He'd been checking his watch as often as had Ramona Braine and was looking through the window as if the specter might appear in its shredded graveclothes and beckon him to the pile of rocks.

  Abby had been in the barn after breakfast and he hadn't seen her since. His appearance hadn't resulted in anything but her playing her Elvis record louder and stomping round the byre to medicate her cow.

  He had decided to ask Ruby to fix Abby's tea, and been told, when he wandered into the kitchen that it'd do no good; Abby always did her own tea just the way she liked it.

  "But she must at least come to the main house for supplies. " Even Admiral Byrd had to get those, though Melrose had forgotten how.

  "She be all right, sir; we never worry about the lass."

  He thought this so peculiar that in his abstraction he picked up a tea towel and began to wipe a platter. Ruby was doing the washing-up from their earlier meal and wasn't happy about the extra work. Her thick brows were working toward the center like burrowing moles. Clearly, she felt put upon, what with both Cook and Mrs. Braithwaite having fled the scene.

  She told Melrose he needn't do the drying, but she was obviously pleased that a guest was doing scullery work and taking the load off her narrow shoulders.

  Indeed, no one (including himself) had paid any more attention to Ruby Cuff than one would a lamp or a chair. He put the platter by and chose something smaller—a teacup. Police had asked Ruby a few rudimentary questions, but perhaps because Mrs. Braithwaite was clearly the head of the staff and had been there the longest, Ruby had been given short shrift. Ruby had that straight-up-and-down, tightly laced and buttonhooked look that made it hard to tell if she were twenty or forty. Had she been a beauty—like the Princess—this ageless limbo would have served her well.

  "Ruby, how long have you been employed by Miss Denholme?"

  "Near ten year, sir." This seemed to please her. "You needn't dry this," she said, holding up a big roasting pan.

  Melrose had no intention of doing so as he watched her place it on the rack.

  "But then you must have known Miss Denholme quite well."

  She looked less pleased at having to admit she didn't. "You needn't try getting that bit of stain out of the egg cup. The Princess stuffed out a cigarette in it. It's the Major's."

  "I take it that's why she did it." The egg cup had stubby legs and blue-dotted shoes. He frowned at it.

  The smile did nothing to light up her plain features. "Cats and dogs they are."

  "I expect police asked you about your relationship with Miss Denholme?" He redried the egg cup by way of avoiding the cutlery and espe
cially the heavy skillet.

  "Well, they asked how long I been here and did I know anyone'd got anything against her."

  "Of course, there wouldn't be: I mean, no one you knew of?"

  Since he'd appeared to have answered his own question, she saw no reason to answer it again and just kept on running a rag around a dented kettle.

  Melrose sighed and picked up another egg cup. It had shoes, too, yellow ones. He had a vision of egg cups, hundreds of them, marching down Oxford Street. Blinking it away, he wondered how Jury got them to talk—the suspects, the witnesses, the children, dogs, cats. Grass, trees . . . Don't be absurd; you're just jealous. "Did Miss Taylor happen to mention when she'd be back?" Melrose hadn't meant to give voice to this speculation; it would throw him off target.

  "No, sir." Ruby wiped a strand of hair back from her forehead. "She's a strange one, ain't she? Do they all dress like that in New York City?"

  "Yes." He certainly had better not get into defending Ellen Taylor or her clothes or he'd never get anything out of Ruby. He gave the shoes another shine and watched Ruby bailing the water out of the plastic tub. Then, after she'd plucked another tea towel from a drawer and reached for the skillet, he beat her to it. That's what Jury would do. He'd have done all the washing up. "No, Ruby, you've been working too hard. Just have a rest." The skillet seemed to weigh a ton. Had he been in charge of a kitchen he'd have thrown all the heavy stuff straight out and used those plastic disposable things.

  Ruby beamed—if the expression could be called that on her pudding face—and let out a martyred sigh and announced as how she needed a sit-down.

  She made herself a mug of tea from the low-boiling kettle on the hob and took a rocking chair by the fire where she sipped and was silent.

  "Well, I certainly admire you, Ruby. You" (a slight emphasis here) "don't crumble in a crisis." No response but a self-satisfied little smile and a few more sighs. Martyrdom sat well on the maid. "A horrible thing to happen," Melrose went on. "Horrible. And on the moor. One wouldn't expect something like that out there."