The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  Trueblood supplied Jury’s answer: ‘The sentence has to begin ‘Man walked into a pub.’ Those words must appear in your sentence. The only variant allowed would be ‘the’ put in place of ‘a,’ as in ‘Man walked into the pub,’ instead of ‘Man walked into a pub.’ Want to put up a quid? Winner takes the pot.’

  Diane shook her head. ‘Winner takes most of it; runner-up gets the fifty p pieces.’

  Jury was about to improve on his earlier sarcasm, when Mrs. Withersby (‘girl of the moment,’ Melrose said), waving a bit of paper, yelled, ‘I got it; mine’s done.’

  Mrs. Withersby (Dick’s char) cleared her throat, which was no mean feat, considering her two-pack-a-day habit. She raised her voice and recited: ‘Man walked into a pub and pissed hisself before he got to the bar.’ She chortled, thinking that wonderfully funny.

  Jury did, too. He looked at the people around the table as they looked at Mrs. Withersby, as if they were considering her entry.

  Trueblood said, ‘Just leave it on the table for the vote.’

  ‘No you don’t, me flamin’ friend. I holds on to it. Someone could nick it right out of the pot.’

  ‘I assure you, Withersby, old trout–’

  People did not ‘assure’ the Withersbys of the world of anything involving money or drink. She wanted it where she could see it.

  ‘It stays with me!’

  Diane asked a question that was spot-on. ‘How could anyone steal something you’ve already read aloud?’

  Withersby just gave her a dismissive backhand wave and walked off.

  ‘Who else?’ asked Trueblood.

  Vivian raised her hand like a timid school girl. ‘I have one.’

  ‘Fire away!’

  ‘A man walked into the pub, who, upon first glance appeared, with his open countenance, forthright, but whose interlocutor found him to be holding a prodigious quality in abeyance.’

  ‘Wow! Brilliant,’ said Melrose. What does it mean, though?’

  ‘It means the man first appeared to be aboveboard and honest, but he wasn’t. He was holding something back.’

  ‘Then why,’ asked Diane, ‘didn’t you just say that?’ Trueblood heaved a sigh. ‘Diane, that’s probably what they kept saying to Henry James. His own brother even said that to him. I’m sure it was Henry James’s contention that he did say it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Diane took another sip.

  Trueblood informed the latecomers, Melrose and Jury, that this was another part of the competition: you had to be able to explain what you wrote.

  ‘I don’t see why. Henry James never did. I mean if you’re so dumb or daft you don’t understand what he’s saying, well, he’s not going to translate.’

  Jury came in at this point. ‘You see your initial problem? Henry James would never say ‘A man walked into a pub,’ or ‘the’ pub. Did Henry James actually ever use the verb ‘walked’? To say nothing of the noun ‘pub ?’’

  Joanna got a little testy. ‘You’re not even competing. I don’t think you should be giving an opinion. I’ve got mine done.’ She rattled the single sheet of paper as if shaking it alive.

  ‘Ah!’ said Trueblood. ‘Let’s hear it!’

  ‘‘A man walked into the pub,’ said Woodmount, and before we could even begin to contemplate his purpose, showed it in a beguiling light.’

  They looked at her. ‘Interesting,’ said Trueblood.

  Vivian said, ‘So you’re using ‘man walked into the pub’ as something being said by your character?’

  ‘Yes. Thought that was rather clever.’ She smiled.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Diane. She read: ‘A man walked into the pub and ordered, in the tone of one who was used to having his wishes translated into charming action, a vodka martini.’

  Trueblood tossed down his pencil, and there was general argument over this. ‘There weren’t martinis, then, were there? I don’t think there were martinis around until the 1920s or even 30s. Much less were there vodka martinis.’

  Diane gave a little laugh. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  Theo Wrenn Browne said, prissily, ‘Life doesn’t proceed on your wishful thinking.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Diane, raising her martini. ‘It proceeds on this.’

  Melrose said, ‘Martinis have been around since at least the 1880s. I’m sure Henry James must have drunk his share.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Diane, ‘or he wouldn’t have put his characters–to say nothing of his readers–through that boring tea on the lawn scene.’

  In the midst of this fracas, the inspiration for their game walked in—or, rather, carried himself in. Lambert Strether. He approached the bar and ordered a drink.

  ‘How pleasant,’ said Strether, cruising with his drink to their table and waiting for an invitation to sit down, which wasn’t forthcoming. ‘I took your advice, Lord Ardry–’

  As if, thought Melrose, they were chums.

  ‘–and am seriously considering making an investment in your pub.’

  ‘The Man with a Load of Mischief?’ asked Vivian, alarmed that her past might come back and snap at her heels.

  ‘That’s the one! I’ve been in touch with the estate agent already.’ Joanna, who’d been penciling something into her sentence said, without even looking up, ‘Then you’ll be disappointed.’ For a writer of genre fiction, Joanna’s mind moved with remarkable swiftness. ‘Because my offer’s already on the table.’

  Strether was quite visibly angered by this, but he checked himself. ‘They didn’t tell me that. Why didn’t they?’

  ‘Who did you talk to?’

  Strether searched his mind. ‘Abigail someone.’

  ‘Oh, that one. No, it’s another agent who’s handling the sale.’ Around the table, all eyes stared at Joanna for this trick. Admiring the rabbit she’d just pulled out of the hat. Whatever Strether was up to, Joanna was taking point, game, match.

  Strether said, ‘Well, that rather leaves me out, doesn’t it?’

  She had not actually looked at him, but now she did. ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘I daresay there must be other property to invest in. A pub struck me though as especially, well, convivial.’

  Trueblood snapped his fingers and said, ‘You know, I think I’ve got just the place for you. It’s about two miles out, just off the Sidbury Road. Little pub called the Blue Parrot. Now, the thing is, it’s not formally on the market; the agent got an exclusive listing. As for the proprietor, he’s a bit of an odd old thing, bit of a wide lad, if you ask me. Might have another little business on the side.’ Trueblood winked and lay his finger against his nose.

  Melrose Plant rolled his eyes. Did people outside of P. G. Wodehouse actually make that sort of gesture?

  ‘His name’s Trevor Sly–good name, I’d say. He’s being peculiar about the sale. He doesn’t want people to know he’s selling up. Ridiculous, what? Wants to sell the place but wants it kept secret. If it’s a pub you want, nothing’s better than the Blue Parrot. Why, we could drive you over if you like and you could have a look round.’ He gave Strether an amiable smile.

  ‘That’s decent of you,’ said Strether, but he looked a tad uncertain.

  Jury assumed the uncertainty came from having his real estate dealings taken out of his control. ‘You know, you’d best be careful, Mr. Strether.’

  ‘You’re Mr. Jury? Is that right?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Do you live in this charming village yourself?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I live in not-so-charming London. I’m with New Scotland Yard.’

  Talk about a sudden step backward! Strether’s foot was almost out the door.

  So Jury put it on a little thicker. ‘A superintendent–’

  Another step back.

  ‘–with the fraud squad.’

  There were smiles and nods all round the table. Strether was making a show of looking at his watch, and got out, ‘Is it that late ? I’ve got to–’

  But Jury wasn’t about to let him off so e
asily. ‘I’m here because of a report of real estate swindles in the area.’

  ‘It’s bad,’ said Trueblood. ‘This Mrs. Oliphant, poor woman, put down fifty thousand pounds on a cottage in Sidbury and wound up with a deed to nothing. The so-called seller of the property didn’t own it in the first place.’

  ‘Shocking,’ said Joanna. ‘And there was–what is her name? The woman who thought she was buying half a bed-and-breakfast that didn’t exist?’

  Diane, who’d been looking across the street, said, ‘Oh, you mean Ada Crisp.’ She worked a cigarette into an onyx holder.

  ‘We all can be so gullible, can’t we?’

  Lambert Strether mumbled his good-byes and was off like a shot.

  They all looked at one another, pleased as punch.

  Jury said, ‘Who needs Henry James?’

  50

  Jury felt a need to walk, as if any walls would be too confining. He was in the City again, on Ludgate Hill. He passed few people, odd, since this would be rush hour, when all of these buildings dumped their employees into the street, a fate which it actually amused him to think he might be sharing, perhaps on a permanent basis.

  The whole incursion into the ignominious Hester Street house wouldn’t have amounted to much had Cody not clipped the old girl on the jaw. But then Jury had hardly been a model of behavior.

  He was perfectly aware of the wisdom–or lack of it–of getting Cody into a situation like that.

  So he was up for a reprimand, which was probably all he was up for, despite Racer’s lavishing so much attention on Jury’s being hung out to dry.

  Jury wondered sometimes what kept him going. Sarah would have said that, wouldn’t she? He felt his dead cousin like a shadow along the pavement, stretched to a point beyond recognition. Yes, that was what Sarah would say and had said on more than one occasion: I really don’t see what keeps me going. He could hear her as clearly as if she had been walking beside him.

  He walked down Ludgate Hill into Cheapside–he always seemed to gravitate toward the City in these past months and post-mortem moods. The hospital, the Grave Maurice, Mickey Haggerty-he told himself not to go there–Vernon Rice. He wouldn’t mind having a drink with Vernon, dinner even. He thought this was a constructive idea, something to keep him from glooming away. The people he passed had their cell phones stuck to their heads like a third ear. He took his out and realized he didn’t have Vernon’s number and information was no good as he was ex-directory. Still he was encouraged by this small shift in his outlook, this more positive behavior. He put the cell phone away and turned into Martin Lane and then into the first pub he came to.

  It was a pleasant pub, with a lot of dark paneling and the light from the overhead chandelier playing off the black beams. The few customers gave Jury the impression of being regulars, probably because they looked so comfortable, sitting together or even alone.

  He took one of the stools at the bar and ordered whatever was on tap. When he got his drink a man sitting a couple of seats away raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ Jury nodded and raised his own glass. He was just as glad that the man hadn’t intended his salute as a prelude to conversation. While he would have welcomed conversation with a friend, he wasn’t eager to engage in small talk with a stranger. The half dozen customers at the bar drank in silence, except for the one talking to the bartender. There would be, he supposed, a more boisterous crowd as the night wore on.

  It took him half an hour to drink two pints and to order a third, after which he felt his mood lightening. All it would take to make the transition from maudlin to relatively tranquil would be a cigarette. Everyone else was smoking away.

  His mind went back to Declan Scott, who had explained to Jury, over the telephone, his going along with this dissembling.

  ‘Did Flora know you knew?’

  ‘You mean Lulu?’ He laughed. ‘No, of course not. You see, she needed it. Flora had come to need the masquerade. She needed to believe she was fooling everybody, she needed to feel safe. And she felt safer as somebody else. That was crystal clear to me.’

  Remembering this, Jury just shook his head. Talk about a man of Jamesian sensibility!

  Down the bar, the barman laughed. The sound was almost raucous in the comparative stillness. It seemed a disruption. The few customers looked up or over at the barman. Jury yawned. Two pints had surely been enough for him; he hadn’t needed this third, had he? It was going to put him to sleep. He felt drugged. This made him smile, the idea of it. Here he was, totally anonymous, and with no police business to take care of. Everything had wound down, except for his future, which didn’t really bother him.

  As he sat staring at his third pint, another customer walked in, and, looking as if he was used to the place, took the stool beside Jury, giving him a brief nod before holding up two fingers as a request to the barman, who nodded.

  This man was very well dressed in a black cashmere coat and scarf and a suit definitely not off the rack. There were also gold cufflinks. The stranger’s whiskey arrived, but he did not look too happy about it. Jury decided it wasn’t the fault of the whiskey (given the man knocked it back with no trouble), but the fault of something more deeply ingrained.

  The barman came along with the bottle–expensive stuff-and refilled the man’s glass as he asked, ‘How’re you keeping, Mr. Johnson?’ He asked this with a touch of deference, or perhaps simply care.

  ‘Fine, thanks Trev.’

  The barman, Trev, refilled the glass, smiled and went back down the bar.

  Jury would have preferred no names, as they intruded upon this little island of anonymity he had been enjoying.

  Mr. Johnson brought out a silver cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, tapped it on the case and lit it with a silver lighter. Jury watched this maneuver with envy.

  Johnson apparently saw this and interpreted it correctly. ‘Care for one? You look all out.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all out all right. Have been for over two years.’

  The man smiled. ‘You quit, did you?’

  Jury nodded.

  ‘If this bothers you too much, I can put it out.’

  Jury was surprised by such consideration. ‘Nice of you, but I enjoy vicarious smoking.’

  Johnson laughed. ‘I’ve tried to quit but can’t seem to manage it.’

  ‘Understandable. The thing is you never get used to it. At least I don’t.’ Jury drank his beer.

  ‘It helps, along with this’–Johnson raised his glass–’to get you through the day.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if the whole purpose of life is simply getting through it.’

  Johnson laughed again, let the laugh lapse into silence. After a minute of this he said, ‘Whatever the purpose, I don’t think we have much control over it.’

  Jury frowned. ‘I don’t know if I agree with that or not. Let me think.’

  Johnson smiled a little and let him think.

  Jury said, ‘But do you mean we’re controlled by external forces?’

  ‘Some. But I think it’s more internal forces. The unconscious. I don’t think we know why we’re doing what we’re doing most of the time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jury was only partially aware he’d been studying his empty glass, wondering when he had drunk it all, until Johnson said, ‘Let’s have another.’ He signaled to the barman, Trev.

  Jury sat up. ‘I think I’ve had enough, actually.’

  Johnson laughed again. ‘No you haven’t.’ When he caught Trev’s eye, he made circles in the air over the empty glasses.

  When the fresh drinks arrived, Jury said, ‘I still don’t know. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers. Fair enough.’ Then he extended his hand. ‘Incidentally, I’m Harry Johnson.’

  ‘Richard Jury.’ Jury shook his hand. ‘At times, I think we’re waiting for a story.’

  ‘A story?’

  ‘You know, the way we used to when we were kids. Not just at bedtime, but anytime, wanting a narrative to take us out of things. Even if we make it all u
p as we go along. That’s what some sleep experts say we do with dreams.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Well, some say dreams are meaningless, that they’re just mental detritus, or debris left over from that particular day’s wreck. But the question this raises is this: if the dream’s actually meaningless, just the day’s leavings, then what about the narrative? Why are dreams stories? No matter that the images are strange or exotic or unreal why is there a story, why do events follow one upon the other?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘So the dream experts answer it by saying, oh, well, the dreamer supplies the narrative. The dreamer makes up the story himself.’

  Harry Johnson thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘But doesn’t it come to the same thing? The dream still means something because it’s the dreamer himself who’s linking the images together, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Harry Johnson said, ‘If you want a story, I’ll tell you a story–though I can’t explain it, or tell you the end; there isn’t any end.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Oh, it’s intriguing, all right.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It happened to a friend of mine. This person, who was the luckiest person I’ve ever known–you could almost say was hounded by good luck–lost everything overnight.’

  ‘Bloody hell. You mean in a market crash, something like that?’

  ‘No, no. Not money. I mean he lost everything. He woke up one morning and found himself sans wife, son, even his dog. He did not know what had happened, and of course no one would believe him and he had no idea what to do. He considered going to the police, but what in hell would he say? They wouldn’t believe him, I mean wouldn’t believe the wife, the son, the dog had simply disappeared; well, you know how bloody-minded police can be–’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Jury smiled in a crazy kind of way.

  ‘Right. Families don’t all of a sudden disappear–I mean, unless some psychopath walks in and murders them all. He told me he felt he was living in a parallel universe, that his wife and son were in one and he was in another.’