The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  Jury once again felt the weight of Declan Scott’s despair. The air was heavy with it, and Jury felt as if he must do something. Perhaps that was what Macalvie couldn’t tolerate. ‘I’m sorry’ was all he could think to say.

  Looking down, Declan shook his head and held out the palm of his hand as if resisting apologies or perhaps merely asking for time. Two seconds, three. ‘It’s all right. I guess I still can’t deal with it.’

  ‘Why should you be able to deal with it?’

  He smiled slightly but bitterly. ‘You’re right. Why should I?’ Declan nodded and once again reached for his wineglass. ‘But as for this woman, yes, I’m quite sure it was the same woman. And remember, Dora Stout saw her, too. Dora was cook here for many years.’

  ‘I know. We’ve met. I saw her in South Petherwin.’

  ‘Dora left because it’d become too much of a job for her; also, Rebecca Owen had come. She’d been with Mary for some time when Mary was married to Baumann. There’s no love lost there, I can tell you. Rebecca didn’t like him.’

  Jury thought about this. ‘Dora Stout didn’t get a very good look at her, but from what she said it could certainly have been the dead woman. You know the thing most memorable about her? Her extreme plainness. That’s a funny thing to remember; one would think it would be utterly forgettable. I don’t know why it isn’t. Did Dora resent Mrs. Owen coming?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Indeed, I think she was glad of it; she wouldn’t have wanted to leave Mary in the lurch.’ He stopped talking when Rebecca Owen came to clear the plates away. Jury told her it was delicious.

  She thanked him and said that ‘the pud’ would be up in a minute. Then she pushed through the swinging door.

  Declan laughed. ‘‘The pud.’ I love it.’

  She reappeared with tall, delicate glasses filled with custard, which she set before them, and then moved over to the sideboard to fuss with the accoutrements of coffee.

  ‘What is this English predeliction for custard, Superintendent? You ever noticed it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a detective, after all.’ Jury had taken a spoonful and added, ‘But this isn’t just any old custard.’

  Rebecca said, ‘It’s sabayon. I’m afraid I put in too much Marsala wine.’

  ‘Is there such a thing as too much wine?’ said Jury.

  She smiled and asked Declan, ‘Should I serve coffee now or will you wait?’

  ‘Oh, bring it on, Rebecca, please.’ He said to Jury, ‘Like some port?’

  Jury shook his head. ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t eat or drink one more thing.’

  ‘Then that’s all. We’re fine.’

  She poured coffee for them and went back again through the swinging door.

  Jury said, ‘It galls me to say it, but I’d better root out the chap who brought me here. Or someone in that incidents room planted on your land. They’ll collect me and drag me back to Launceston.’

  ‘Why do that? Stay here. As you can see we’re not overbooked for the night.’

  Jury was tired. And tomorrow was Friday and that meant getting back to London and then to Newcastle on Saturday.

  He did not spend too much time thinking about the professionalism (rather, the lack of it) of accepting the hospitality of a witness or suspect. He was dead tired. Or perhaps the tiredness was the weight of Declan Scott’s sadness that had come to rest on Jury’s shoulders like a yoke. In any event, he accepted the offer of a room for the night and thanked him. He would call Cody to pick him up at Angel Gate instead of the White Hart in Launceston.

  Jury looked out of the bedroom window at the night and thought Declan Scott did not discard the past easily. The countless reminders of what he had lost did not cripple him. Perhaps he was one of those people for whom reminiscence was an anodyne rather than anguish. He took comfort in having about him whatever she had touched or heard or worn or drunk from. Would someone think Scott of a morbid turn of mind, living in this house full of ghosts?

  Jury didn’t. If the past was pretty much all you had, why would you want to discard it? Jury tried to picture him with a new flat and new friends. For there, he thought, was the illusion: to believe that one could start all over again and build a new life on the ruins of the old one. No wonder he had fallen for the beautiful Georgina Fox. But what are you supposed to use for building materials when all you have is burned wood and broken plaster?

  The room had been cold, but the fire that had been laid and lit in the big fireplace soon drew the dampness and chill from the air. He thought of this later, in his room whose long window looked Out over the woods in front and the avenue or what used to be now vanishing beneath leaves, grasses, ferns and beleaguered hedges. He thought of the white crosses. He must ask Declan Scott what they meant.

  He was tired enough that he was sure he could fall into a black mine of sleep, but he didn’t. He lay for a long time with eyes shut, eyes open, letting scenes he had fashioned of the lives of Mary and Flora and Declan Scott unreel like a film in his mind.

  And the mystery woman. The reel stuck on the mystery woman, the dead woman lying on the stone bench. A statement, a message, perhaps even a warning. But he had no idea what that could mean and while he was trying to make sense of it, he slept.

  11

  The next morning they went out through French doors that opened onto the terrace and walked down the steps, not in the best repair, to the path and the bronze sculpture of the little boys. The path ran all the way from the stone steps to the rear of the garden.

  ‘Temperamentally, I suppose I’d rather leave things as they are.’

  ‘Then why change it? It’s a massive amount of work.’

  ‘Because Mary wanted the gardens restored.’ Declan answered, as if this should explain everything, not just a wild acre or two. ‘I’ve commissioned Warburton and the Macmillans - that’s the father down there’ - he gestured toward a short, squarish figure digging in one of the beds midway along - ‘to bring the place back to life, its old life. That’s what Mary wanted. Those steps we just went down -?’ Declan looked over his shoulder.

  ‘From the terraces, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. They’re a little mossy and slippery now. But those steps were once turf covered. It was cut to fit. They were covered with grass. Perhaps it’s ridiculous, but I’d like that.’

  Jury looked behind him at the steps, four of them on each terrace. ‘What you could do is just get some sod, couldn’t you? The kind builders use to cover up bare land around new houses?’

  ‘No, my landscape chap told me it takes a particular kind. I need someone with, as he put it, ‘an intimate knowledge of turf.’ You wouldn’t happen to have it? Or know someone who does? Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone with so esoteric a bent.’

  Jury smiled. ‘You seem to enjoy the refurbishment, though.’

  ‘Hm. Here we are,’ Declan said as they came upon a man in a gray coverall, flat leather cap and garden gloves so stiff they could have stood by themselves with the boots in some corner. ‘Mr. Macmillan, this is Mr. Jury, a friend of mine.’ He turned to Jury. ‘The Macmillans are the most sought-after gardeners in Cornwall. And Cornwall, being as it is full of gardens, that’s saying something.’

  Macmillan bathed in this compliment as if he’d expected no less a one. Waving his hand over the area immediately surrounding the fountain, four beds bisected by narrow paths, he said, ‘What we’re plannin’ on doin’ here, Mr. Scott, is take it all down to seed and - if you want me to follow the old plan to the letter - emphasis indicating he would rather do anything but, for he stopped long enough for Declan to allow him some freedom, which Declan didn’t - ‘we’ll put in the tulips, just as before, but ah would like t’ try t’ break out the breeder tulips, an’ ah can tell you the colors would be most astonish in’ an’ well worth the effort.’

  Declan said, quite seriously, ‘All right, Mr. Macmillan, I’ll follow your greater wisdom here.’

  Macmillan blinked his sandy lashes, and his tan eyes looked happi
er. ‘And as for the begonias, ah would strongly suggest Dragon Wing if we can get enough heat in your glass house; we could have flowers this year if that was the case.’

  Declan looked over at two small glass buildings at the side of the wall, strangely unobtrusive. ‘I don’t know; that is, I don’t know about the heat. We’ll talk about that later.’

  ‘But Millie was askin’ about the turf. You know what a perfectionist she is. And there’s the enameled mead thing, too. Ah don’t have much truck wi’ tartin’ up the place but -’ He shrugged aside the tartish notion of enameling.

  ‘Tell Millie not to worry. I’m sure someone will come along, like the winter solstice.’

  Macmillan didn’t appear to believe this and gave Jury a sour look as if he might be having a hand in the garden business. ‘Another thing, could ya’ please have old Abbot just stick t’ the front. He’s about here all the time, givin’ his advice.’

  Declan smiled. ‘No, Mr. Macmillan, I won’t tell Abbot that. He’s been here forever, long before any of us. These grounds were his once. So you’ll just have to bear up, won’t you?’

  Macmillan turned a shade of purple at being told off, then went back to his work.

  Declan and Jury continued on the path. ‘What did you mean by the winter solstice?’

  ‘Nothing. I thought it must have something to do with the alchemy of gardening. I like to say things like that to pretend I’m not a complete dud in this line.’

  Jury laughed. ‘I see you’re not.’

  ‘Then you’re blind. I am a complete dud.’

  They were nearing the end of the garden and the yellow crime scene tape and coming up on a young woman who Jury assumed must be the daughter. Same sandy eyes and eyelashes, same gingerish (not ginger, not brown) hair, same coverall. The resemblance was quite amazing.

  Declan introduced Jury again.

  Millie said, ‘Mr. Scott’ - looking away at the wall that surrounded the two acres of garden - ‘you’ll want the grapes back, I expect.’ Shading her eyes, she peered off into the distance as if the grapes had made their escape through the crumbled brick to freedom. ‘There’s the two vineries in perfectly good order, so that’s no problem.’ Then she set about scattering Latin terms and other references to her work, words that Jury was sure he knew when she started, but had no idea of when she’d finished.

  ‘That’s fine, Millie. When will the rest of the crew be here to help clear some of this stuff?’

  ‘They’ll be along,’ she said, telling him nothing, but merrily. He accepted this laissez-faire attitude and continued on with Jury.

  ‘It seems ominous, that tape, that smiling bright yellow,’ said Declan.

  Then, hearing his name called out, he turned.

  A man was standing on the terrace steps waving his arms to gain attention. He came down the steps toward them. Every so often, he raised his arm as he walked, as if he would prevent them turning away as long as he could keep himself in motion and in their sights. Or at least in Scott’s.

  ‘Marcus Warburton. He’s the landscape chap. Does a lot of gardens around here.’

  Jury was a little surprised there were enough gardens around here to do. Warburton was a tall fellow with sharp good looks, a face that was more angles than planes-thin, rather Grecian nose, a model’s cheekbones. And well dressed. The cut of the suit was of the ample Italian style-Armani, Fendi, Zegnaits material a shade somewhere between the silver and the brown of the birches. Clothes-wise Marc Warburton was not standing still, as was Declan Scott, whose tweed jacket was probably from a tailor on Jermyn Street or Savile Row, but tailored a decade ago.

  When Warburton heard that Jury was a Scotland Yard superintendent, Jury fully expected him to say, ‘Oh. Yes. You.’

  He smiled at Jury-the smile sharp as the rest of him-and said what Jury was sure brought him down here to the gardens, ‘It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it, Superintendent, that woman found there.’ He nodded in the direction of the stone alcove.

  Jury thought it was as if the body didn’t fit in with the landscaping plans, but Warburton was stuck with it.

  ‘It must be serious if the Devon and Cornwall police are calling you in’.

  Jury’s face was blank as he said, ‘Not really. I just happened along.’

  Abruptly, Warburton laughed. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’

  Jury smiled. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you? You knew Mrs. S cott, then?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Jury couldn’t determine if that settling in of a mournful look on Warburton’s face was real or feigned. Yet why would the man want to pretend? Mary Scott had been dead for over two years. Her husband might still mourn her, but the hired help could put off the trappings of woe, surely.

  Warburton began, ‘She was -’ But something in Jury’s face stopped him from saying what she was.

  Declan Scott had turned away.

  ‘I wonder if I could speak with you sometime,’ said Jury.

  Marc Warburton showed no particular discomfort at this request. He folded his arms and said, ‘Police already have. You might want to check with them.’

  Even Scott raised his eyebrows at this thick-headedness.

  Jury merely said, ‘I already have, Mr. Warburton, as it’s the Devon and Cornwall constabulary’s case. But details can go missing sometimes from one account to the next. Memory changes.’

  Warburton was all smiles, yet his face was neither open nor friendly. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Any time. Now, if you like.’

  Scott said, ‘No, not now. I’m showing the superintendent round the garden.’

  Warburton nodded. ‘Well, any time, then. I’m always available. Declan knows how to reach me.’ He turned and walked up the path.

  ‘Marc’s very good at what he does, but he wants to control everything - even you.’

  ‘Especially me.’ Jury laughed. ‘He didn’t like me talking to you. At least, not on your own.’

  They passed through a stand of birch trees, silver and pinkish-brown bark. ‘These were Mary’s favorite trees.’

  Together, they looked at the enclosure with its stone bench.

  Jury said, ‘This place could only be opportune if you live on this property.’

  Declan looked surprised and then laughed. ‘Then it’s down to me. I’m the only one living here.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it in that way. Anyone connected with the place, staff -’

  ‘Ah! Then it’s down to Rebecca Owen. That’s a pity. She’s such a good cook.’

  ‘Staff doesn’t include your gardeners? I’m talking about people who are well acquainted with Angel Gate.’

  Declan frowned. ‘That could be anyone here - well, it’s beyond belief.’

  ‘It’s even harder to believe that someone outside of Angel Gate would choose to meet the victim here. It’s hardly a convenient setup for a shooting. Which is what I said before: it’s not exactly opportune.’

  ‘I find that extremely difficult -’

  ‘To believe. Right. It’s always difficult, Mr. Scott.’

  They walked in silence toward the terrace until Jury said,

  ‘You’re not extending this project around to the front of the house, apparently.’

  ‘No. That’s Abbot’s country. But I guess the real reason is that the woods there have been like this as long as I can remember. Well, as I said’ - Declan shrugged - ‘I hate change.’

  ‘I was wondering about the white crosses. Then you don’t mean to take down those trees?’

  Declan stopped and looked at him. ‘That’s’ Flora’s handiwork.’

  He smiled. ‘There was an itinerant tree surgeon - or so he called himself-stopped at my door and asked if we wanted them cut down.’

  ‘Can a surgeon be itinerant?’ Jury laughed. ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said no, that wasn’t the meaning of the white crosses.’

  ‘What was Flora’s purpose in marking them?’

  ‘She said it was a way to keep from getting
lost. You just follow the white crosses.’

  ‘Getting lost on her own grounds?’ They’d continued walking.

  ‘Oh, I expect she thought you could get lost anywhere.’ When they reached the terrace steps, Declan stopped, hands behind his back, and looked down. ‘What, I’d like to know, constitutes an ‘intimate knowledge of turf’? I know there are different kinds of soil-acid and less acidic and so forth-but how could the subject be so extensive as to require a serious study all on its own?’

  Jury’s hands were behind his back, too. Thoughtfully, he said, ‘Oddly enough, I know someone who’s quite an expert in gardening arcana. I mean, he seems to have acquired an intimate knowledge of the oddities of medieval and eighteenth-century gardening. I think I’ve even heard him talk about -’

  At that moment, Rebecca Owen came out through the French doors to tell Jury that Sergeant Cody had come to pick him up. Jury said he’d be there straightaway. Then he turned back to Declan. ‘I think I’ve heard this person talk about enameling - is that it?’

  ‘Enameled or flowering mead, yes.’

  ‘So he might know about both that and the turf business.’

  ‘That would be very helpful. Give me his name and I’ll ring

  him.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll ring him.’ Jury smiled. ‘I’d be happy to.’

  12

  While Jury was walking in the garden with Declan Scott, Melrose Plant was sitting in his living room with Agatha, a different thing altogether.

  A new hermit had been installed, the previous one having taken a job with Theo Wrenn Browne. He had been hired in the hope that he would scare off Agatha, that or at least cut down on the number of her visits. It would have done, only Mr. Bramwell was so insufferable that Melrose had suggested he might be happier working with Theo Wrenn Browne (who was no stranger to insufferability) .