The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

‘Dwarf?’

  ‘It’s a hybrid, isn’t it? I happened on it by chance. A chap I know who’s very much into hybridization–you wouldn’t believe his greenhouse! At any rate, I don’t expect he’s put the dwarfs on the market yet. I’ll send you a sample, shall I?’

  ‘I’d like that, yes. You’re really on the cutting edge, Mr. Plant. Ah! No pun intended!’ Warburton laughed.

  So did Melrose, just to stay on the good side of him. ‘One tries to keep abreast.’

  Warburton sucked on his pipe and mused.

  What, wondered Melrose, could he possibly be thinking about? The snowdrop situation? The murder? Given Warburton, who generally had his drawings with him. Warburton without his drawings could think of nothing, could advance no theory, could come to no conclusion. The comment about snowdrops—‘rather white, wouldn’t you say?’–had pretty much exhausted his conversation.

  Melrose wondered if Henry James’s Lord Warburton had been as shallow. No, he was sure James’s character was a man with some depth. Lord Warburton’s life had simply appeared to Isabel as lacking the freedom she craved and which she thought she had found in Osmond. Deluded girl! Good lord, had he taken to admonishing fictional characters ? Anyway, this Warburton was easily as shallow as the brass dish of the fountain nearby and in constant need of replenishment by the boys with the buckets. When the water was turned on, Melrose imagined that sculpture would be even more delightful. He could use a blast of cool water.

  But why in heaven’s name had Declan Scott engaged Warburton, then? Must be because the design was pretty damned good.

  Millie, however, clearly disagreed. For her, it was the man himself. Melrose had a little insight about her, too: Millie tended to brood, unlike her father. She mistook this broodiness for smoldering passion and mistook Warburton’s lack of conversation in the same way–a Heathcliff to her Cathy. His black eyes like coals put Melrose more in mind of a snowman than a Heathcliff. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised to have Warburton melt at his feet.

  Warburton was still standing there, contemplating Melrose’s work. Finally, he poked his pipe stem toward the tiny flower faces.

  ‘Oughtn’t that purple one sitting there be put in that line? It seems to need one more.’ This was the single plant that Lulu had removed and left sitting by the bed.

  Oh, who the bloody hell cares, man (he wanted to yell), with 280 wars and starvation and the world in tatters? Rarely did Melrose consider the tattered world and was now being forced to contemplate his own shallowness.

  You want the trivial, lad, well here it is. And God set about thrashing him with a snowdrop.

  Embarrassed, Melrose pursed his lips and studied the weight of the steely looking sky. You must be more forbearing about others, said one of his chorus of ever-remonstrating voices. Really? Why? said the voice sitting in the wing chair eating a biscuit.

  Really, why? was pretty much its entire repertoire and the voice was pleased as punch with that response. Good. Melrose was back on track.

  ‘Do you think symmetry is needed here?’ he asked Warburton.

  Pipe returned to mouth and a few puffs later, Warburton admitted probably not, and that he was always probing with his architect’s eye. ‘Can’t help myself.’

  ‘Tell me, Lord I mean, Mr. Warburton, what prompted this whole restoration project?’

  ‘Mary Scott, poor woman. Maybe under the influence of Heligan. That’s an enormous project.’ He knocked his pipe against the fountain to loosen the tobacco. ‘It certainly wasn’t Declan. I mean, Declan is always happy with the way things are, but he’s having this done as a kind of well, he’s doing it for her.’ Warburton seemed to like that reason. ‘Declan could go forever without changing things inside or out.’

  Melrose had gone down on one knee, resetting the deep purpleblue pansy in its former hole. ‘It was Lulu who messed the line about. She pulled this one up and set the others farther apart. I doubt she’d try that with Macmillan’s planting.’

  ‘Ha! Better not. Macmillan would have her hide. That child’s into everything. Bossy little thing. She’s always after an argument.’ An argument? Well, something.

  Melrose stood and gazed down at his pansy relocation. It looked no better than it had before, but neither had Lulu’s realignment looked better than before.

  Well, that was gardening for you. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them down beside the trowel. No wonder he didn’t do it.

  25

  Jury went through the wrought iron gate with the angel and back to the pond garden to sit on the same bench he had left not long ago. This garden within a garden was so private and secluded one wouldn’t know there was a lot of work proceeding elsewhere. On the other side of the high yew hedge he could hear the Macmillans’ voices.

  Flowers were beginning to bloom here, banks of blue flowers in front of the hedges—dark delphiniums, some silvery blue bush he couldn’t identify, cornflowers, feathery blue grasses. The pansies in Melrose Plant’s little square of grass looked startled as if this were neither the time nor place for their appearance.

  Not April yet, so a little early for restoration, rebirth, reclamation. If you believed that sort of thing. Jury passed his hand over his face and with the gesture had a sudden chill, thinking that was the way one closed the eyes of the dead. He wondered what it was he felt had left him for good. Was it a rough belief that things really did add up in the end? He felt less and less sure of that these days.

  From the other side of the hedge came the voices–words, laughter–as if a parallel world of sound were passing him by.

  He wanted to give up on the whole bloody mess; he was tired.

  But he supposed nearly dying would have anyone rearranging his list of priorities. Only he found he had no list. Everything that might have made it up seemed equal, equally important or unimportant.

  His mind was clouded, going nowhere. Come on, you’re a smart fellow, a good detective. You can work it out. The facts again: Three years ago, Flora Baumann disappeared from the Lost Gardens of Heligan. Six months afterward, Mary Scott dies. A year after that, Declan Scott meets Georgina Fox, aka Lena Banks, who is probably working in the interests of Viktor Baumann.

  Jury was leaning over, arms on legs, looking at the edge of the pond and some tiny flowers that were being lightly buffeted by the breeze. Leaning forward, head down, he felt rather than saw a presence on the other side of the lily pond. He thought: It’s either the killer with a gun pointed at me or some old Angel Gate ghost. It is certainly something that is not announcing its presence. He raised his head and looked. Neither. It was Roy. Roy sitting on a white bench, twin of Jury’s, now flailing the bench with his tail, whamwham. He did not bark; he had something in his mouth.

  Jury thought: Okay, Roy, bring it here–the key to the strongbox, the accusing letter, the monogrammed handkerchief, the wax seal, the glasses, the lipstick, the ring, the bit of chiffon torn from a dress that I will immediately recognize.

  He knew it was none of these things, though it should have been. Dogs were always dragging important things in from the woods or out of the drainpipe. He could make out even at this distance Roy had a blue flower, hardly surprising, given the whole range of blue flowers here, banks of them in front of the hedge, beds of them near the pond. He wasn’t sure what they were, being fairly flower blind. Cornflowers, blue grass, delphiniums.

  Come on, you dumb dog. Give us a clue, make yourself useful.

  At least a silver cigarette lighter or a lion-headed cane. Jury stopped. Cornflower. They weren’t always blue, but when they were blue they were very, very–

  He had said it, hadn’t he? Cody? When they’d been in the Little Chef. ‘Her eyes were the bluest I’ve ever seen. As blue as her dress.’

  Roy still sat there on the far bench, flower in mouth, head cocked. Righteous. Jury whistled. Roy jumped down from the brench, trot more of a swagger.

  Righteous. Devil may care.

  The dog followed Jury to the van, both of them sloggin
g through the wet grass, both feeling as if they’d finally got hold of something with meat on its bones.

  ‘Cody.’

  Surprised, Cody looked up from his cell phone, said, ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sign off.’

  Cody did so, hand still clutching the phone as if he might need help.

  Jury sat down in the same chair he’d inhabited earlier. He knew he could be wrong, and it would be easy enough to check, but he also knew he was most probably right. He leveled a look at Cody. ‘You said her eyes were the same shade as the dress she was wearing: cornflower blue.’

  Cody nodded. An expression of dread like a shadow moved over his face.

  ‘I’m wondering how you knew that.’

  The expression changed. He looked relieved and gave an abrupt laugh. ‘It was in the papers, wasn’t it? There had to be a description; how else would anyone recognize her if they saw her?’ A small triumph, his smile said.

  Jury shook his head. ‘Blue eyes, blue dress, yes. But then you must have seen her.’

  ‘I knew what color her eyes were, and I must’ve seen the dress, too. Or I’d never have said it.’

  ‘That’s the point. You couldn’t have seen the dress because it was new. She’d never worn it before is what Declan Scott said. So it was that day you saw it, Cody, the day she disappeared.’

  He was out of his chair. ‘You’re not saying I had anything to do with it!’

  ‘Not yet, I’m not. Sit down. Tell me how you came to see her.’ Cody sat back, said nothing.

  ‘You were following Mary and Flora, weren’t you? And probably not for the first time–’

  With a poor imitation of a laugh, Cody said, ‘A stalker, is that it? That’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, that isn’t it. A protector is more like it. You worried little Flora might come to harm. And the horrible irony is, she did, because for a moment you must’ve looked away. You didn’t see the person who took her because you would never in a million years have withheld that information. Just suddenly, Flora wasn’t there. Like your little sister. It must have been like reliving it; it must have been hell. You must have felt–and still feel–you failed yet again. You told me it worried you her parents didn’t keep a tight enough hold on her.’

  Cody nodded. ‘She’d be out in the front, wandering in the trees; she liked the little path between them. I drove in a couple of times and saw her. I mean, I know it’s private property, this, but anyone could get in. It just didn’t seem safe. Mary’–he paused, suggesting his feelings for Mary were more than he wanted to feel–’I can’t say I was an actual friend, of course, just more of a good acquaintance. After the break-in here I’d stop by once in a while. You know, just to see how things were.’ Involved with his story now, as if he’d only been waiting for someone to tell it to, someone who’d get it, who’d understand, Cody leaned forward, arms on desk, hands clasped. He went on: ‘Believe me I searched my mind afterward remembering exactly what I’d seen and I hadn’t seen a stranger. I searched the spot, the very spot that day when other police came. You’re right, I lost sight of her for a minute. I had binoculars–I hate how that makes me sound like a voyeur, but that’s what I was doing, how I was watching.

  ‘You see, Declan Scott just didn’t seem to do a good job of watching over her. He’s just too laissez-faire, you know, easy come easy go.’

  Jury broke into laughter. ‘That’s the last way I’d describe Declan Scott. Easygoing? The man’s a cauldron of intensity. You’re describing what you were yourself. You were only a kid, Cody; what happened wasn’t your fault. Your mum sometimes took your sister shopping. Do you imagine she had an eye on her every minute? Of course not.’

  There was a silence. Then Cody said, ‘Shall you be telling the boss?’ From under lowered lids he looked up darkly at Jury.

  ‘No. I shall not. That’s strictly up to you.’

  ‘He’ll have my badge.’

  Jury shook his head. ‘No. I think he’ll understand. Commander Macalvie has good reason to, believe me.’

  ‘He’ll understand I’m a head case.’

  ‘Because you want little kids taken care of, right? That makes you a nutter? No.’ Jury rose, gave Roy a little ‘get up’ boot with his toe. ‘Cody, you’re a regular Holden Caulfield.’

  Jury left, Roy quick by his side.

  Devil may care.

  36

  As Melrose was walking the pebble path, he saw Jury coming from the gardens. He waited for him in front of the cottage door, and when Jury drew abreast, he said, ‘Are you really going back to London or was all that just eyewash?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going back—’

  Melrose opened the door.

  ‘–making a special trip to get your Black Diamond secateurs.’

  ‘Oh, very amusing, ta very much,’ Melrose tossed his cap on the chair and Jury stepped inside. ‘You were a huge help back there.’

  ‘I thought your way of stonewalling was, actually, brilliant.’ Melrose was in the small kitchen, shaking the kettle. He stuck it under the cold tap. ‘Well, it wasn’t my quick thinking. It was Diane Demorney’s tutelage. Never, never, never back down from anything you’ve stated as fact. Diane’s worse than General MacArthur. ‘I shall return’ is bollocks to her; ‘I shall never leave’ is more like it.’

  Jury laughed. ‘The kettle’s boiling.’

  As he measured out the tea and poured the water over it, Melrose went on to recap the talk in the kitchen with Rebecca Owen.

  ‘It’s clear she loved Mary and Flora and hated Baumann. He sounds an awful chauvinist, and paranoid, to boot.’

  ‘Jealous, was he? That goes along with the paranoia.’

  ‘She was especially interested in what you thought. She asked me more than once.’

  Jury sat back and stretched out his legs. ‘That’s not too surprising, is it? She’d wonder what was so arresting about this murder that Scotland Yard could get into it.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so’ Melrose had sat down and was taking out his cigarettes when he ‘looked at Jury. ‘What?’

  Jury frowned.

  Melrose paid no attention and lit up.

  ‘What were you doing out there with your flowering mead and Warburton?’

  ‘He was advising me on the arrangement.’

  ‘Oh, that’s cool. Isn’t that tea up on its feet yet? Been steeping long enough.’

  Melrose went to the kitchen and clattered cups and saucers around. He went on about Warburton. ‘His advice about the number of pansies came after Lulu’s advice. They didn’t agree. These people who claimed to know nothing about enameled mead advising me... How many sugars ?’

  ‘One.’

  Melrose spooned in sugar, added milk and carried in the cups, sloshing a bit of liquid into Jury’s saucer.

  ‘Mugs are easier.’

  ‘I do not like mugs,’ said Melrose. ‘Indeed, I hate them. Mugs suggest drinking while you’re wandering around doing stuff; you should be sitting down over tea and certainly not doing anything else, except reading. But definitely sitting down. Like most other things,’ he added thoughtfully.

  Jury shook his head. ‘You’ve been too long in the Nitwits Club.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The Jack and Hammer branch of Bedlam. Our friends.’ Melrose mustered some phony indignation. ‘Are you aware that one of these nitwits–Diane–saved my life once? And don’t you recall that if it hadn’t been for that bloody Masaccio triptych Trueblood was on about, we might never have solved that case? And how about Trueblood’s brilliant defense in the chamber pot affair?’

  ‘Oh, well, the Nitwits have had their moments, yes. No one would deny that.’

  Melrose stirred his tea with the little spoon. The spoon made him think of Lulu. ‘Lulu’s rather sad, I think.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Melrose winced. ‘God, but it takes a lot to get you to trot out the sympathy.’

  ‘I don’t mean her situation isn’t sad. It is. I mean I don�
��t see any particular sadness in Lulu herself.’ He smiled. ‘She seems to be enjoying things.’

  ‘How could she not be sad? Losing both her parents at once?’

  ‘She was what? Four? Five? How much would she have understood?’

  This irritated Melrose no end. ‘Come on, Richard, you’re just being thick.’

  ‘Maybe. Did you ever read A Death in the Family?’

  ‘No. Who wrote it?’

  ‘James Agee. The father’s car skids off the road and he hits his forehead in an especially vulnerable point–it’s really a freak accident-and dies instantly. What I remember, though, is the reaction of the little kids, a boy and girl, probably five and seven. They’re not really all that upset and wonder if they should be.’

  ‘Denial.’

  Jury shrugged. ‘Possibly. But we all depend on that term overmuch. We’re confronted with an event that calls for a certain reaction, we think. We expect that a child would be inconsolable, heartbroken, weeping and lamenting if the parents die. And I suppose a lot of children are. But there’s this other possibility. Lulu’s pretty happy, it seems to me. You don’t think she’s enjoying a body being found on the grounds?’

  ‘Oh, well, that. But that’s different. It wasn’t her body or the body of anyone she cares about. It’s not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jury looked at the thin rain beyond the window.

  ‘Macalvie told me about the daughter of his lover and what happened. Can you imagine? What a weight to bear. That probably explains a lot about him: the mind-bending meticulousness. How careful he is, how demanding. My guess is he feels he could have saved her, this little girl, if he’d been careful, if he’d been more exacting. God, the things we expect of ourselves.’

  ‘There’s nothing on earth he could have done. The child was doomed from the moment they took her.’

  ‘But he’ll always blame himself for the kidnapping in the first place.’

  Melrose nodded. ‘It was utterly merciless.’

  Jury nodded and rose. ‘And this murder does remind him that the fate of Flora Baumann might be the same. He didn’t find Flora the first time around. He thinks of it as another failure, as failing all over again. Of leaving Flora’s mother in the lurch.’ Jury set down his cup. ‘I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the tea.’